Lost in the Glades

Tuesday Morning

the trail is an assortment of dry earth, spongy muck, creek, lagoon, bay and submerged unknown. It rises out of the swamp intermittently to a rocky floor of irregularly shaped flat slabs and potholes. I fall more than a few times, leaving painful cuts and lumps.

From early Tuesday morning to late afternoon, I slog through water up to my crotch. I believe I am going the right way, south, based upon my previous night of star and moon gazing. The Florida Trail has turned quickly from path to creek and is now a seemingly endless link of orchid-filled cypress lagoons. Each lagoon is more enchanting and mysterious than the previous one. Orchids and other airborne plants hang from the trees. I gaze deep into distant sunlit cypress grottoes, primeval and sacred looking. The bright flowers in the trees, however, look so much like blazes that they complicate staying on course.

Tuesday Afternoon

the sun is hot and my water is gone. Knowing that coliform-laden swamp water isn't a great beverage, I avoid it as long as possible. Eventually, I scoop it up by the handful to refresh my mouth. I begin to recognize the signs of exposure and dehydration: a feeling of lightheadedness, with hair rising on the spine. Though surrounded and immersed in water, I am starving for fluids.

In those endless and holy cypress bayous, I look down to see wildflowers reaching up through the swamp water. I begin to pluck and eat them. The purple and blue are tasty, and the white. The yellow ones taste chalky and bitter. Swamp fast food, for the busy lost hiker. I tell myself that whenever I need something, God provides it. In the heat was the cool swamp water. For rest, flat cypress knees rise from the murk. For food, there were flowers.

Ahead I see a sign for Oak Hill Camp in a dense palmetto-pine stand. It looks too uncomfortable for a rest. I don't recall from the map a third campsite on the loop. I do remember a tent symbol halfway north between the loop and Alligator Alley. Am I heading north? For the first time I admit the obvious. I am lost. I am not on the loop heading south back to the Tamiami Trail.

Instead of stopping in the camp, I wade on. Not too far ahead a relatively dry, shady place appears. The body collapses onto its back. It sleeps. It rests. It awakens-refreshed but confused. It says, "Where is that old guy you were walking with? He can't make it alone. Get up! Walk on ahead! He can't be far. He's limping."

"Back to reality, buddy," I yell from my brain's survival-control center. "What are you saying? You are out here alone. You haven't seen anyone for nearly two days. You are that old man."

Later the surface of the Florida Trail changes. Tufts of swamp grass start appearing-less slippery and easier on my sore knee. Sometimes the grass hides a nasty, submerged cypress knee to trip me up. From overhead, a fork-tailed Florida kite swoops down to pluck snails from the water.

As dusk approaches, my right knee gets too sore to drag. Taking a chance, I turn on my cell phone and dial the operator. Finally, a voice! I say: "Operator, can you connect me to Everglades National Park Headquarters on Tamiami Trail?"

Operator: "There is no listing on Tamiami Trail. How about Everglades City?"

"Sure."

Someone: "Hello, Everglades National Park."

"Can you help me out? I'm lost on the Florida Trail, north of the Tamiami Trail visitor center. I'm out of water and have injured my leg."

Someone: "This is Everglades City."

"Can you call them?"

Someone: "What is your phone number."

I give it.

"OK, we'll call the visitor center."

Yes! Thank you, Lord! I'm out of here! They have my cell number. They will track me to the microwave tower, send out a chopper and swoop me up.

According to the incident record, the Big Cypress Preserve received a call from Everglades City at about 3:15 p.m. A search party assembled and made unanswered calls to my cell phone. The calls were coming in, but I didn't have enough signal and battery to answer. A ranger was dispatched to the visitor center to investigate. No one had signed in, and he didn't find the abandoned automobile. Without any evidence of anyone missing, with no answer on the cell, the ranger in charge called off the search.

Tuesday Night

too exhausted to go on, i pick a cypress tree to lean against. With my walking stick and some branches, I make a foundation on the wet ground. I set my shoes and butt on this frame in an attempt to stay dry. Fat chance! I quickly sink into the muck. Tonight I will be sleeping in water.

The muck comes alive. Crawdads, insects and fish are actively foraging, building, planting, harvesting and scurrying busily around. They remind me that I am really hiking a river and lake. I think about doing this same trip by kayak. I settle in again for another night. First, I dry all my clothes in the evening sun and breeze. But after I get my clothes back on, I am too tired to keep standing and must inevitably resort to sitting in the water. The moon rises full again and the sunset makes the western sky radiant. I look at my trail blazes and realize I've still been heading north, ever deeper into the park rather than returning to my car on Tamiami Trail. I thank God for providing me stamina, cypress-knee lounge chairs, flowers and that cell call. Let the night begin.

I've seen some big cat tracks. A snake has raced ahead of me through a cypress bay. Alligator trails weave through the swamp grass. From not too far away, a bull 'gator bellows into the night, but nothing treacherous comes near. Nothing but mosquitoes.

Small, mosquito-eating fish nibble at my ankles and thighs. Noisy little frogs slither in the muck around me, jumping around my legs. I spend the first part of the night standing and leaning against the tree, expecting to be rescued any minute by an infrared, heat-seeking, satellite-connected chopper. Eventually, my determination to remain upright so I can hail a low-flying aircraft is replaced by episodes of prolonged shaking as the night temperature falls. I drop into the muck and warm myself by breathing inside my shirt. I notice spells of rapid breathing and my pulse seems to race.

My thirst is enormous. Throughout the day, with all my water gone, I had begun collecting my urine. All those survivor stories recommend it. But I just can't stand to drink it. I decide that, bacteria or not, in the morning I am going to collect my urine and cut it with swamp water.

I nod into a fitful sleep. As the moon drops, the sound of distant vehicles wafts in. The diffuse sounds of acceleration and changing gears become audible.

Wednesday

even before there's adequate morning light, I wander out into ankle-deep water looking for trail blazes. Maybe park headquarters in Everglades City didn't get the correct cell number and I am still on my own. In the deeper pools, I submerge my hydration pack to dilute the urine I'm counting on for minerals and electrolytes. My pulse is still racing and I'm too thirsty to care about disease. I quench my thirst at the bottom of a swamp pool. Bacteria never tasted so good.

A night's rest has brought my right knee little benefit. My gait is slow, clumsy and leading left while dragging the right leg along. The terrain changes back to palms and pines, hardly any cypress. The highway noise gets louder.

The trail turns unexpectedly away from the welcome sounds of civilization and my better judgment. I pace up and down the paths visiting and revisiting the tree with the double blazes, signs of a direction change. I think about my experience over the last three days. The trail signs, the old blazes barely visible, the high, distant blazes like harbor lights and beacons. "Look how far you have come. Trust the custodians of the trail," I tell myself.

Trusting pays off. The path turns into a service and buggy road. In another few miles it turns into Alligator Alley. Barely able to limp now, I drag into the rest area. My first stop is the water cooler, but I can't force myself to drink. Guess it doesn't have enough bacteria in it for my taste. After a few pay-phone calls, I arrange a ride. For the next hour, I stay mostly in the men's room warming my body and drying my clothes under the hand dryer.

My boss, Dr. Joel Moll, picks me up in his sports car. I plan to work my scheduled shift in the E.R. The staff sent a blanket and a sandwich, but I can't eat.