"We're only talking about 30 miles. And we've got three days to do it," said Cardenas. "How hard can it be?"

All the information suggested that January-dry and cool and relatively bug-free-was the perfect month for trekking the first leg of the Florida Scenic Trail, a 1,300-mile-long network that starts in Collier County's eastern outback and winds its way up through the Panhandle to the Alabama border. Since it lies entirely within swampland, this southernmost section is far and away the least traveled portion of the trail, which made it all the more alluring. We had packed hammocks, lots of food, gallons of water, a quart of good bourbon, plenty of dry clothes. Bring it on.

I'd like to think we weren't motivated purely by testosterone, but then aren't all of us victims of our hormones? Put it this way: Our wives thought we were nuts. They did, however, drive us to the trailhead just off U.S. 41 near the Big Cypress National Preserve Visitors Center, kiss us goodbye and send us off on our walk north to Alligator Alley. An hour later, while they were sitting at The Dock at Crayton Cove, drinking Bloody Marys and munching on conch fritters, we were up to our knees in swamp water, had already spotted our first water moccasin, and were debating whether we could endure the humiliation of turning around and calling it quits.

Stupid males. We walked on. And on.

Swampophiles will tell you that their beloved soggy domain is a place of subtle and enchanting beauty. They will tell you that the swamp should be approached metaphorically, all the better for us to learn its most precious lessons.

I came to the swamp wanting to partake of its wonders, really I did. I wanted to revel in the fragile glory of a ghost orchid, immerse myself in the natural cathedral that is a cypress dome. Instead, I spent most of my time retrieving my boots after they were sucked off my feet by the honeycomb rock in the swamp floor. Waterlogged, our backpacks became hundred-pound burdens. The first night, we burned all our extra clothes rather than lug them out. The second night, our hammocks ripped apart and sent both Cardenas and me crashing to the hard limestone floor of a palmetto hammock. There was not enough bourbon to ease the pain. Nor stave off the mosquitoes.

Cardenas had brought along his German shepherd, a good and noble creature named Burr. But by the third day, Burr had begun to whimper and whine, something he had never done before.

"Here's the thing about dogs," said Cardenas. "They cannot extract themselves from the present. They live purely in the here and now. Burr is walking through the swamp and he is miserable and he thinks this is the way it is going to be for the rest of his life. Dogs do not have the capacity for abstract thought. They cannot project the future. Burr doesn't know that we will get out of here and everything will be good again."

Somewhere in there lurked a metaphor, but I was too exhausted to unravel it.

"Exactly when do you think we will get out of here?" I asked Cardenas.

"Oh, I'd guess another five or six miles," he said.

That's when I began to whimper and whine.

There was a happy ending. We made it out. We hopped in the car that we had left alongside Alligator Alley three days earlier, drove into Naples, and stopped at the first barbecue restaurant we came to. We ate too much pork and drank too much beer and shared the leftovers with Burr. And I reflected on what the swamp had taught me: Just because the trail exists doesn't mean you have to follow it. Some paths are less taken for damn good reason.