Everglades National Park Canoe Trails

  West Lake - Alligator Creek

When the Park ranger at the main gate had called the main park office to give them our information for the Back Country camping permit, he was told the site at Alligator Creek, our destination, was awash. The Park office advised us not to plan on camping there due to incredibly high tides. They had not issued any permits for over a week. Lunar and solar alignment had caused serious wet weather problems as far north as the Carolina coast recently, but the high tides had receded in the last couple of days and the rainy weather that spoiled everyone's Orange Bowl parade had finally broken.

I was under the impression Alligator Creek was a primitive campsite with a chickee, a chickee being nothing more than a raised platform with a thatched roof cover. I didn't expect high water to be a problem. It was Friday, January 2nd, and the next bad weather wasn't due until Sunday. It was go now, or wait until my next time off in April. I convinced the Ranger we could arrive at the campsite and have time to return to the facility at West Lake if indeed the site proved uncampable. Everyone liked that idea and we were given the permit with the ominous warning, "WARNED OF HIGH WATER AT CAMPSITE" printed across the space for destination.

As we took our first breather and coasted up to the PVC pipe used to mark the trail at the end of West Lake, we noticed the old wooden marker was still in place. We had canoed West Lake before and knew the marker was the beginning of a short, twisty creek through the mangroves that leads to Long Lake. This was to be our first time across Long Lake.

Heading into the shade of the mangrove canopy means break out the industrial strength bug repellant. This is one routine we have down pat. We always wear long sleeve shirts, light cotton ones as much for the sun as for the bugs. We cover everything plastic we ever want to use again, from plastic sunglass lenses to watch crystals, because the insect repellant will destroy certain plastics. Then we spray each other down, buddy style. It doesn't pay to have your buddy upset with you or he or she may leave insidious gaps in your chemical armor. Today, however we are pleased by the comparative lack of mosquitos. We have been here in the summertime, called the "off season", and paid dearly for it. Not just with mosquitos but also horse flies and what we used to call deer flies. I'm sure they have a different name down here. Probably alligator flies.

Taking it easy through the first creek I checked the time. It was 10:35 a.m. We had shoved off shortly after 9:00 o'clock and had worked hard the last hour. We paddled the creek slowly, waiting for the hordes of insects we knew were searching for us. We broke out into the northwest corner of Long Lake and searched down the lake with our binoculars for the next marker. The marker sits ominously in the middle of the next section of the trail. We picked up the pace again and watched a lone egret off against the western shore of the lake. Not much else out. We were between being quiet for the sake of seeing wildlife and the need to be as quick as possible with a full canoe.

As we passed to the right of the first mangrove island we were startled by a Great Blue Heron that had held his breath until we were on top of it. It made one of those great squawks as it jumped and turned inches from our port bow.  That was the end of the action for the next hour as we worked our way down an appropriately named lake. The mangrove islands make it a little more interesting than the first lake. I took a Geological Survey map from the West Lake quadrangle, (West Lake, Fl N2507.5-W8045/7.5) although I didn't need it. I rely on a book I have come to trust, "FLORIDA BY PADDLE AND PACK" by Mike and Pat Toner. The National Park Service has done a well thought out job and there is no need to take any maps, as long as you follow the trail markers. Anyone could canoe this trail without any serious detours into never never land. They might complain about the endless mangroves, perhaps, and maybe about the lack of convenience stores for beer or softdrinks. They would most certainly complain about their bladders. There is no solid ground on this 8 and a 1/2 mile trail and endurance here is a necessity. We carry bottled water, staying away from soft drinks especially in the sun.

As we approached the end of Long Lake we were startled by the sudden and dramatic change of water color. It has turned dark red. Not clay red but blood red. Monica suggested it was from 'gator feeding. The color is from decaying red mangrove leaves and plants. It is still startling, none the less. Oddly enough, it is the only place on the trail that is that color.

After a short, wide creek comes a sharp left that skirts the edge of a wide pond that is actually Long Lake. The turn takes you into a mangrove canopy that is thick and if it weren't for an occasional tree limb obviously cut with a saw you would think you had made a wrong turn at the last pond. We startled a small green heron into flight. It flies down the creek with nowhere else to go but along the creek. The overhead foliage does not belie the presence of the shallow, wandering trail.

We took this breather a little more seriously, and in the silence we are startled by voices. As we emerged out into the next lake, called the Lungs, we surprised two men fishing from a blue canoe tied to the trail marker. They appeared as startled as we were. We exchanged small talk. While we were talking one caught a salt water catfish. The other held up a stringer of what appeared to be good sized drum. When we told them we were going to Alligator Creek campsite they told us it was muddy, but useable. I was relieved to hear we would be able to pitch our tent but I was still concerned about conditions. Monica made another crack about a pirate's life for her and we started across the last long stretch of open water. There are three markers in the Lungs, one at each end to mark the creeks, and one where the trail bends to the west about halfway across the lake. The wind was at our backs for the first time since we started. We talked about the return trip and decided this would be the hardest part of the return trip if the wind didn't clock around on us. We started the next creek surprised by how much wider it was than the earlier ones. The foliage changed, too. Buttonwoods and hardwoods covered the banks as we realized this was more than just mangroves. We startled flocks of tri-color herons and egrets of all sizes as we worked slowly into the creek. As the noisy herons settled down it got quieter and quieter. Not even our paddles softly pushing us further and further into the overhang made any sound. We glided silently along the creek, neither of us paddling.

There are times in your life when you forget what quiet is. When you experience it again you are amazed by the impact of silence, a feeling of almost deafness. Quiet is when your ears ring, straining for any sound to relieve the anxiety of the stillness. It is an awesome experience to have the incredible stillness explode when a large alligator crashes through the creek overgrowth inches from the bow of your canoe and crash heavily into the water close enough to get you wet from the spray of the splash. We sat motionless for a few moments as the entire experience slowly evaporated back to the silence that allowed us to hear our own heartbeats.

Monica still had her paddle clutched across her chest as she finally exhaled, watching the trail of bubbles that marked the alligator's path through the murky brown water. After a few moments we paddled on, neither saying a word. I noticed Monica wasn't taking a full bite with her paddle. The gator was at the bottom, below us somewhere, waiting for us to leave. We have startled alligators completely out of the water with our paddles before, and having seen the size of this one I didn't blame her. This was our first 'gator on the trip but not our last. We had gone a couple of hundred yards when we scared three more off the bank. They hit the water like dive bombers peeling off for an attack. It was like someone throwing refrigerators in the water. I have been around alligators since I caught my first one in a shrimp net when I was twelve. I don't fear them but I certainly don't get careless either. They can be dangerous, very dangerous. I hadn't envisioned a startled gator accidentally crashing into the canoe, or worse yet, in it. We thought we had been observant. Now, we were observant! I was curious though about the size of these guys. Usually we see small ones in greater numbers than the big ones, but not here. we have seen only fairly big ones. None under ten feet.

The largest of the three surfaced not six feet off Monica's shoulder. Monica started to raise her paddle and the 'gator slipped quickly beneath the surface. I told her he was looking for a peanut butter sandwich. I'm sure that as remote as this seems, the trail is very popular and it has been fed before. Sort of an odd comparison to the bears out in the western parks I suppose, but the effect of free food can cause problems with any creature. We start around the very next bend, and because we are nervous, we make a mistake. We run up on one of the submerged logs that are plentiful in this one section of the creek. We paddled backwards to no avail. Without speaking we stopped trying to free ourselves. We sat quietly watching the tidal flow. Watching the tidal flow for bubbles. We finally spoke to each other and decided to backstroke hard on the left side. One! Two! Three! and we were free. Traveling backwards, shooting into the overgrowth on the creek bank. After a few quick references to my canoeing ability, Monica leaned forward and started her Mark Twain act and called the few logs and limbs we encountered as we continued on the trail. We scared one more alligator off the bank before we broke into a wide pond. Here we took a real break. All the ones before were for sore arms and tired backs. This break will rank in the Guiness Book of Records for total relief. I checked my watch. It was almost one o'clock. If we can't stay at the campsite, we would have to be back at West Lake by sunset at 5:45pm. We were positive we were close to the campsite. We decided to press on.

As we started across the pond, I noticed a blotch of pink in a buttonwood tree at the far end. I talked Monica into a short detour. I got several shots with my inadequate zoom lens before, having given the appropriate noisy protests, the most beautifully plumaged bird I have ever seen in the wild, flies off. It is a Roseate Spoonbill in full courting colors. It circles the pond several times, and as we leave the pond, it returns to the branch it had rested on. They are beautifully plumaged birds with an incredibly ironic twist: Nature gave them heads that would make a buzzard wince.

We pass a small island and start into the second half of Alligator creek. It is narrower than the first part but still wide enough for two canoes. We come across another large 'gator on the bank but this one doesn't move. We watch it at eye level as we glide past not six feet away. The lower branches of the overgrowth have eelgrass hanging from them. The water was really high here, and recently, as the grass had only started to dry out. We pass a clearing on the north bank. Camp site? No, no markers. We had just passed the remnants of an old wooden bridge, left over from the cotton days back at the turn of the century. It is at the end of the hiking trail that follows the old road. The camp site lays just a little west. It is not a primitive campsite, it is a wilderness campsite. There is no chickee. There is no platform. You can see the bay from the landing. You can also see the alligator lying not ten feet from the landing. This campsite has a Macho Factor of 10.

Obviously, there is no decision to be made. We will be back at West Lake as soon as possible. We will walk out carrying the canoe, if necessary. We may even walk out without it at all! Monica states firmly that she does not like being watched while she eats. We had to land the canoe. I had to stand up and walk around. We landed the canoe and cautiously stepped out into the wet grey marl that looks amazingly like someone backed up a dump truck and unloaded several tons of modeler's clay. Everything was wet. There was nothing to use as firewood. The twelve footer had slowly turned itself for a better view of the newcomers to what is without a doubt, his domain. We knew we were being watched as we checked out what is really a great campsite.

We checked the time. It was twenty minutes after one p.m. We gave ourselves ten minutes to stretch and eat. The eating didn't take long as Monica never took her eyes off our host. The thought of sleeping in the wet mud with no fire, separated from the inhabitants of Alligator Creek by only the thickness of tent fabric was not particularly appealing. I could have stayed home and watched Penn State and the University of Miami go at it in the Fiesta Bowl. It was time to go.

Monica knew the return trip would not be fun. We have been canoeing for several years and know when to switch sides, strokes, and even when to swap insults. She starts singing jokingly but we are soon saving our energy for the hard part. We are tired but not yet sore. The spoonbill watched cautiously, but since we didn't come close this time, decided not to fly off. I was sternly warned of logs in the second half of the creek and we avoided any problems. We scared only one 'gator off the bank. Just before we broke out into the Lungs we met another canoe going toward the campsite. They were young male German tourists, wearing only shorts, in a rented canoe. They asked us politely if we had seen any alligators. They were unimpressed with our information as they hadn't seen any. Not one! We smiled and pressed on. I didn't know what their plans were but ours included paddling hard for the next four hours.

Our worst fears were confirmed when we broke out into the Lungs. We were dead on the wind. It wasn't quite a mile but we couldn't pause even slightly as the wind was causing us more grief than expected. The blessed relief of the next creek, the overgrown one, was an opportunity to catch our breath. The fishermen were gone. We had our second wind as we started Long Lake, No jokes about the water color. No jokes about how the lake got it's name. Just plain, hard work. The wind was off our starboard quarter and while not helping any, it wasn't as bad as the Lungs. We pulled up into the lee of one of the small mangrove islands and broke out the drinking water. Our planned ten minute stay lasted only a couple and we were again under way. Monica had settled into the repetitious state similar to long distance swimming. Stroke after stroke after stroke. As we passed the last marker leading to the last creek before West Lake, we sighed with relief. Just through the crooked path was West Lake and finally, the ramp. Just three more miles to the ramp! We had been paddling hard for two solid hours, but the knowledge of only one last challenge, I believe the motivational books call it, brought back the humor and the feeling of accomplishment. We headed into the lake with the wind still from the north and still brisk. We stayed closer to the north shore and avoided the problem we suffered when caught in the middle of the lake earlier in the day. The pain had set in long, long ago, but if we kept up a constant pace we would be back at the ramp well before dark. We were in the lake for an hour and ten minutes.

Making the final turn into the short channel to the ramp and dock facility was quiet satisfaction. We silently coasted toward a group of tourists standing on the modern dock, intently watching a medium size alligator at the boat ramp. He too, is looking for a handout. The startled tourists watched us we tied up and unloaded at the dock. I am immensely proud of my daughter. She hasn't complained once. Nor has she quit. Monica put in a full day's work. And still she smiles, helping tie down the canoe and pack the gear. By 5:00pm we were headed for the campground at Flamingo. The last time we camped here we suffered one of Florida's coldest, windy nights to watch Halley's comet at 4:00 a.m. But that is a different story.

The Coleman stove and lantern worked just fine. The tent was pitched and no sooner was dinner finished and the gear washed than we were both in the tent. Dry and somewhat warmer, we got a portable radio tuned to the station that would carry the game. It didn't matter. By halftime we were both sound asleep.

© 1996  George Mindling