An Everglades Escape
The dock around Flamingo Marina was busy with tourists of all stripes. Some were merely getting a glimpse of the ocean, while others were looking for crocodiles, which were known to hang around the area. Still others were renting canoes or reserving trips on some of the guided tour boats that plied Florida Bay and nearby Buttonwood Canal.
We were sheepish about starting our trip in front of such a large and curious audience. Of course, we loaded confidently, as if we knew what we were doing. At the marina store I bought the all-important nautical charts to go along with my compass. A map and compass are absolute necessities for traveling the Everglades. So is a radio for getting weather reports. The next few days were predicted to be calm and clear.
Our canoe brimmed with gear. A major part of our weight was water. Backcountry paddlers must carry all their drinking water, one gallon per person per day. We left the marina and Florida Bay opened before our eyes. Our course led westward. Sunlit waves, brought forth by a light north wind, sparkled ahead of us. We had already slathered on plenty of sunscreen, another Everglades necessity. The paddling began in earnest.
We stayed close to the mangroves on the shoreline, fascinated by the network of interconnected prop roots growing from the water that came together to form trunks. From the trunks sprung limbs that held the small leaves of the Everglades most ubiquitous tree. Mangroves thrive here, with just the right mix of salt and fresh water, like nowhere else on the planet. The leathery leaves can stand up to the excessive, harsh sun. The prop roots lend stability in the shallow waters.
Our first stop was East Clubhouse Beach, a small sandy break in the mangrove shoreline. We stroked it to the shore and debarked, stretching our legs. Behind the beach was a prairie. This prairie was covered with sea purslane and pickleweed, which thrive in the salty mud. We continued a westward course, passing Slagle Ditch, one of many efforts at draining the Everglades for development. We came to our first night's camp at Clubhouse Beach, eight miles from Flamingo. The clubhouse, once part of a land development, gave the area its name. This development, like most others in the Everglades, was a dismal failure. All that remains is the name.
Salt tinged smoke from our driftwood fire wafted over the seaside camp as night fell. Just as certain as the grains of sand that got on our grilled steaks, the mosquitoes came forth at dusk. We were ready for the swamp angels: Regi had already set up the tent to which we retired. A quality tent with fine screen netting is yet another necessity here.
Details mentioned in this article were accurate at the time of publication