CNTR16_1997-11-16

On the homepage

Vita.mn

Out There

Vikings

Favre's stats put him in MVP picture

Pardon Board

Everglades trip is more than paddling

By Connie Nelson, Star Tribune

Last update: November 15, 1997 - 10:00 PM

It was the postcard that got me. Pale green water stretching up to a searing blue sky with nothing but a tiny mangrove island in between. On the back, it read: Florida Everglades.

It didn't look like what I remembered of the Everglades -- all marsh and muck, crawling with alligators -- but I hadn't been there since I was a kid. I brought the postcard to work and propped it up on my desk. That was last November.

By February, I was there. I spent the better part of a week in those postcard Everglades, canoeing with Wilderness Inquiry, a unique outfitter that caters to people of all abilities, including those with disabilities.

The water was pale green, and, for most of the week, the sky was that searing blue. And there were places where nothing but a tiny mangrove island and our flotilla of canoes came between the two.

But it was a hard day's paddle through the marshy Everglades of my memories to get to those picturesque islands, and an even harder day's paddle back.

The postcard is still on my desk, but now it's flanked by a picture I took of the murky water and the narrow, muddy banks of the Blackwater River, which led us into and out of our advertised paradise.

The postcard and the picture show the polarity of the geography we traveled. And they serve as parentheses -- encircling, shielding the personal part of the journey. That part isn't over yet.

That journey is still sorting itself out -- continuing in the letters and calls I exchange with the fast friends I made, reframing itself in the pictures I receive from people with whom I traveled, echoing in my continuing struggle to deal with ability, disability and differences between them.

I'm not sure that journey has an end.

Who we were

Our group consisted of 12 "participants" and three guides. (As trip leader Jay Cuthbert pointed out, "You're not considered a customer when you come on a Wilderness Inquiry trip -- "you're a participant.") A truly diverse group, we represented a wide range of age, experience and ability. About one-third of us had some physical limitation, ranging from a minor back injury that ruled out heavy lifting to advanced multiple sclerosis. A few had never been in a canoe, while others, able-bodied and disabled alike, were experienced in the outdoors.

"I've never paddled," admitted Azra, as we stood on the beach that first morning, moving our paddles through the air in clumsy practice strokes. Azra had come from California to learn how to canoe in a concentrated -- but not competitive -- fashion, she said.

Next to her was Sarah, an experienced paddler who was about to graduate from Bates College with a degree in outdoor education, who was looking for a much deserved break before finals. Peter Corriston, a New York City graphic designer, just wanted to get away from it all.

Karen Edwards had been to the Everglades twice before. Though an arthritic inflammatory disease limits her mobility, she said she was driven to make the effort to get into the outdoors.

"I've always wanted to do more, know more, to be there," she said. "I always will. But I have to come to grips with the fact that I'm not going to be able to walk. Being on a trip with people who handle it so gracefully is a good lesson for me."

I didn't think I was looking for a lesson. I'd been on a weekend trip with Wilderness Inquiry before and thought I knew all I needed to about dealing with disability.

I just wanted to spend a week of winter paddling at a reasonable pace in a subtropical locale. But, like Karen, I found my teachers. Liebe Gray was one of them.

In the mornings, I would see Liebe crawl from her tent and climb slowly into her wheelchair. For the first part of the trip, I'd watch, marvel at the strength of her will as it battled the weakness of her body, and waver between an urge to lift her into her wheelchair and an urge to look the other way. By the trip's end, I had learned how to hold the wheelchair so Liebe could brace herself against it and slide in.

But for Liebe, a librarian and storyteller with multiple sclerosis, the trip wasn't about teaching -- it was about telling. Paddling in the Everglades was an adventure that she could weave into a story and tell around the campfire on yet another adventure.

Exotic wilderness

Despite our diversity, what we had in common, I decided, was a hankering for a safe yet exotic outdoor experience. Our trip to the Everglades provided both.

After an on-shore lesson in canoe-handling and safety, we donned our life vests and pushed our heavily loaded boats into the ominous-sounding Blackwater River at the marina in Collier Seminole State Park.

The muddy Blackwater is actually a freshwater river, one of many that feed into the area of the Everglades known as the Ten Thousand Islands. Hugging the Gulf Coast side of the Florida shoreline, the Ten Thousand Islands are a smattering of uninhabited islets made mostly of oyster shells held together by the knotty roots of mangrove trees.

Half in, half out of Everglades National Park, the islands serve as a transition zone between the fresh water sloughs of the Everglades and the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico. A subtropical destination for boaters -- motorized as well as self-propelled -- the islands offer uninterrupted sand beaches, excellent wildlife watching and slow, spectacular sunsets.

Under signs warning boaters to beware of alligators and to be on the lookout for manatees, our mixed group got underway. Slowed by a persistent wind, an incoming tide and a wariness that gradually gave way to awe, we paddled the twisting, narrow waterway, breathing the heavy coastal air, slicing our paddles through the thick, turbid water.

As we relaxed into paddling, into each other's company and into the dark secretive river itself, the Blackwater loosened into lazy loops. It became easier to keep a consistent pace and stay together as a group.

No longer forced to concentrate on our paddling, we started to search the edges of the tangled mangrove banks for the exotic birds, calling out their strange-sounding names -- "ibis," "roseate spoonbill," "anhinga" -- as if they were the capitals of foreign countries we'd longed to visit.

I took a liking to that shadowy river. Still, I was waiting to see the river widen in anticipation of its meeting with the Gulf of Mexico.

By the time we took lunch on a mud flat, our first day on the water already had been a long one.

As a veteran of many a group trip, I'd grown accustomed to how a group -- like some huge, disconnected animal -- gropes toward decisions and moves at a tortoise-like pace. Even so, I was unprepared for the amount of time it took us to get up and going.

Packing and loading the boats took hours -- literally. The amount of gear we needed created mountains in the middle of our canoes. And once the boats were loaded, loading people into them was no easy chore. Every stop -- whether it was to change positions or take a potty break -- involved planning and group participation.

Quickly, almost naturally, we developed a ready-response approach, an instant division of labor that I came to think of as Marxism in action: from each person according to his abilities, to each person according to his needs.

And we learned, almost as quickly, that "everybody has an ability," as Karen said. "Everyone has something to contribute."

Even with our tag-team approach, we remained ungainly on ground. But once we were on the water, we became a different animal. We moved with surprising grace and speed.

The river did finally open up to the gulf. And we were struck by the briny beauty of the mangrove islands scattered in the pale green water. But we also were struck by a strong wind.

On a map, the Gulf of Mexico looks like a protected pool of water and the Ten Thousand Islands like a school of frightened fish, still clinging to the edges of the shore. But from the vantage point of a wind-blown canoe, the gulf seems as big as the open ocean, and the far-flung islands seem to offer little relief.

Though we were safely ensconced in sturdy 17-foot canoes, I felt a twinge of fear as the river gave way to the gulf. But my fear was quickly countered by a feeling of familiarity:

For the first time since we hit the water, I saw something I recognized. There was nothing I knew in the dank Blackwater River. It hadn't reminded me of any northern rivers, not even those that are dark with iron. But once that muddy river opened into the gulf, I couldn't help thinking of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness.

Maybe it was the numerous, indistinguishable islands covered with green, the windswept water and, as we would discover later, the swarms of mosquitoes. But as our flotilla of canoes carved a careful route between the islands, I felt the same, silly way I feel paddling in the Boundary Waters.

In boats stacked high with oversized waterproof packing sacks, wheelchairs, folding tables, and a porta-potty, I felt as if I were one in a long line of explorers bringing the exotic equipment of our complicated lives to a strange new world.

We paddled from island to island, hoping to avoid taking the winds head-on, before deciding to stop short of our original destination. The sun was setting, and we had boats to unpack, tents to set up, dinner to make and bugs to fend off.

Feet vs. sharp shells

Any likeness to the Boundary Waters disappeared as soon as we landed. Although the beach was sandy, the exposed oyster shells at the water's edge could easily slice bare feet. The invisible no-see-ums had a bite that rivaled their more pedestrian counterpart, the mosquito.

Despite these subtropical dangers, our first night in the islands was sweet and brief. We shared a short campfire and went to sleep on Gullivan Key, from which we could see the lights of Marco Island, about 20 miles off.

We woke early, packed up again (accompanied by the groans of a minority who wanted to stay put) and paddled the final half-hour to White Horse Key, which was shielded from the city lights and had a stiff breeze that offered better mosquito protection.

For the next three days, we were free to laze on the beach or take day trips to nearby keys. We fell into a vacation routine, where time was punctuated by meals.

Mornings were slow and often spent on the island, walking the silk-sand beaches, exploring the teeming tide pools, watching the pair of nesting ospreys or gathering seashells. After a day trip to another island, we'd return to dinner, which was followed by a gala show: the slow, spectacular sunsets.

When the sun had fallen, we sat and watched the twilight colors replay themselves in the receding water of the tide. We even played a game of makeshift golf, with clubs made of driftwood, holes from the shells of horseshoe crabs and balls from avocado pits.

At home in community

Though we were surrounded by wilderness, it never felt like a "wilderness experience." I never had that often frightening feeling that can come over you when you realize you're a three-day hike or paddle from help. The well-trained guides were equipped with a cell phone and radio, but even these weren't necessary to make me feel safe.

While we saw only a few other canoeists or kayakers, motorboats (usually loud and fast-moving) constantly reminded us of civilization.

It was, however, a communal experience. Meals were shared, chores were shared and adventures were shared. Though it was possible to make private time for a walk or a nap, most activities were done in tandem, if not en masse. In a couple days of that concentrated community, we learned a lot -- about island life, about paddling and about one another.

We learned how to keep sand out of the tents and where the scorpions were likely to hide. We figured out who was good in the stern and how to help the people who needed it in and out of a canoe. We got a taste of navigation and just how hard it is to push a wheelchair in deep sand. And, in doing so, we learned a lot about ourselves.

I found myself volunteering to do whatever needed to be done partly because I wanted to be helpful and partly because I wanted to get going. But when I took the handles of Liebe's wheelchair or supported Karen as she climbed into a canoe, my impatience was overwhelmed by empathy and a keen, surprisingly personal sense of connection.

Our first day on White Horse Key, a few of us made the trek to an oyster-shell-free beach on the other side of the key. Deep sand and the rutty mangrove roots made the journey difficult, and the trip was long, hot and buggy. We were all ready for a swim by the time we reached the sandy beach. Especially Liebe. Heat makes the symptoms of her multiple sclerosis worse, but in cool water, her tortured muscles could relax.

Liebe needed help getting from her wheelchair into the water, and I offered to help. Following her instructions, I supported her as she lifted herself from her chair, then held her on my lap in the shallow water. Though I was hesitant, I let go of her when she told me to, and slowly, with the aid of her life jacket, Liebe floated on her own. And she did swim, making short strokes and laughing at her water-borne independence.

Encountering a manatee

Around the campfire that night, Liebe told a story, not about her solo swim that day but about another swim she and her partner took with a manatee -- a rare, walrus-like mammal. They had spotted some manatees while diving, and one of the big, gentle creatures swam up to Liebe, watched her for a minute, then gently took her head in its flippers in a soft, short embrace.

Liebe's story of such an intimate encounter with a magical animal filled me with wonder and made me wince with envy. I wanted to see one. Just once.

All along our trip, I had been scanning the water for manatees. So far, we'd seen plenty of playful, fearless dolphins, including some that swam within feet of our canoes. But there was no sign of a manatee.

One day, we took a short paddle to aptly named Dismal Key, a small, disenchanting island where a hermit once set up housekeeping. The most interesting artifact on our short tour of the island -- which included the ruins of the house and the cistern -- was the dilapidated boathouse, which was roofed in conch shells rather than shingles.

We were just finishing lunch down by the boats when we heard a short, loud noise, like the snort of a horse. I turned to see the brown head, the tiny elliptical eyes, then the huge, hairy body of a manatee as it came up out of the water.

It rolled over like a lazy bear lolling in a field of tall grass and then disappeared back into the water less than 5 feet from where we stood.

For a second, there was a stunned silence, then we started shouting -- "What was that?" "A manatee!" "Did you see it?" -- pointing and digging in our dry sacks for cameras. Camera-armed, we stood silent again, watching the unmoving water, waiting for a second coming of that genial, endangered beast. We watched until a motorboat came speeding by, and its occupants' wave reminded us how silly we must have looked, standing frozen, staring at the water.

Gifts from the wilderness

I guess it wasn't much, as manatee meetings go, but it was enough for me. I felt a rush of exhilaration from the brief visit by that curious creature.

On the way back, we were offered another treat. A pair of dolphins were dancing in the water. As if on cue, they danced on their tails as we passed, holding their sleek bodies above the surface of the water in what seemed to be choreography of undiluted joy.

Homeward bound

Back at camp, someone told me that a dancing dolphin was a sign that a storm was brewing. And later that night, the wind picked up, and it did rain. But I think those dolphins might have been warning us -- not about the weather -- but about our trip back up the river the following day.

We packed under a cloudy sky, racing against the incoming tide. Even after a week's worth of practice in packing, we barely beat the tide, which threatened to set our half-packed boats afloat without us.

Things got worse once we hit the water. Despite five days of increasing our paddling strength, we were buffeted by the winds and crawled our way back to the mouth of the Blackwater, our group scattered.

We worked hard to get to that now-familiar waterway, sure that the narrow banks would shield us. But once we reached the river, we found that the tide was once again against us, and the wind seemed to gather speed as it shot down between the twisting banks.

Despite the dark beauty of the Blackwater, I found myself counting mile markers as we slowly made our way. Assigned to a fast canoe with a strong stern paddler, I felt a guilty pleasure in moving as one boat rather than many.

My feeling of freedom seemed to breach an unspoken oath of community, and I chided myself, wondering if I'd learned anything from my week of living mutually.

The 12-mile paddle took much longer than we had planned, and we arrived back at the park late and at our hotel even later.

Our plans for a celebratory meal were abandoned. Instead, we ate fast food and went to our separate rooms for much-needed showers and sleep.

That was in February. I've taken a half-dozen trips since then -- some equally exotic, others not -- but the memories of the Florida Everglades have stayed with me. I think of that trip when Sarah Hallowell calls or when I meet Pat Stewartfor dinner. I think of it sometimes at work, when my eyes land on the postcard or the picture next to it.

I think of our long hauls on the murky Blackwater and the vacation days on that ocean island in between. I think of the pale green water, the uninhabited mangrove islands, the curious manatee and our concentrated community.

I think, too, of Liebe's fireside stories and her body in the cool water, floating free.

Recent Travel stories

Frugal, savvy travelers use creativity to see the sights - November 15, 1997

Frugal, savvy travelers use creativity to see the sights - When the Spauldings of Minneapolis won $42,000 dressed like lumberjacks on “Family Feud,” they spent it on travel. More