Floating the Backcountry

Still remarkably untouched, the swift-water creeks and rivers of north Florida offer the perfect paddling adventure. And not too many alligators.

by Todd Keith
photography by Beth Maynor Young

Sweet Tea Journal (Spring/Summer 2006) – There aren’t many places in the southeastern United States where you can fall off a map entirely. I’d driven down to the pinelands of Northwest Florida for one purpose: to kayak three backwater treasures far from the coast. My intent? To get lost, or at least get as lost as one can in these days of GPS, Wi-Fi, and MapQuest. What I wanted more than isolation was authenticity—a bit of sand in my sandals and nothing around but dense forests, clear artesian springs, the occasional American kestrel or red-shouldered hawk, and backcountry roads that lead to rivers and creeks like nowhere else on Earth.

A few miles east of the tiny hamlet of Berrydale in Santa Rosa County, I found it—what was to be the beginning of my adventure. The great longleaf pine woods of the Blackwater River State Forest beckoned, but not just for the remote woods and the chance to see one of the last remaining expanses of these magnificent trees. Coldwater Creek flows into the dark, haunting, tannin-infused waters of the Blackwater River, where I hoped to get reasonably close to some alligators—if I was lucky enough.

The plan was to run both waters over three days, followed by a short jaunt to Bay and Washington counties to overnight at one of Florida’s thirty-three first-magnitude springs along the acclaimed Econfina Creek. I’d arranged for some friends to join me for two nights of camping on the water after I first paddled Coldwater Creek alone.

And just as I’d hoped, the trip was the retreat I sought. Floating all three creeks and rivers—a total of thirty-seven miles of water—I passed only one canoe the entire time.

Energy—Coldwater Creek
On a beautiful morning driving through a remote stretch, Jacob Smith, my young driver, introduces the eighteen miles of creek I’m about to kayak. “Man, you are in for a pretty trip,” he says. The clear waters of Coldwater Creek flow through the undeveloped lands of the Blackwater River State Forest, Florida’s largest. At the put-in under the State Road 4 bridge, the creek’s color is reminiscent of a briefly steeped herbal tea. It’s swift-moving water, delightfully cool to the touch. As I lower myself into the kayak, Jacob informs me that there’s pretty much no cellular telephone service in the area. Offering words of reassurance, he adds, “Um, okay, if you have a problem … good luck.”

Shoving off into the water, I’m surprised by the current that rushes my boat into the narrow stream. These shallow depths are a bit deceptive, and I immediately misread the shimmering gravel bottom, loudly dragging my new kayak across the shallow bed like sandpaper scratching across a new car’s paint job.

Make no mistake, the lower reaches of Coldwater Creek—as remote as the lands it twists and winds through—are a popular weekend float for canoeists, kayakers, and those hardy souls who inflate an inner tube and enjoy the water’s cool temperatures. The untouched “sugar sand” sandbars seem to stretch forth around every other bend, posing as inviting stops conveniently located at regular intervals. But I’m here during the week when a paddler is more likely to see hawks and herons than another person. A small wooden bridge leading to the state park’s equestrian center is about the only real intrusion the outside world offers.

The Coldwater is the westernmost stream of the Blackwater system—as well as the swiftest. Dropping off at 3 feet per mile, the creek is surprisingly fast. Even with Florida’s highest “summit,” the 345-foot Britton Hill just 40 miles away near Lakewood, it’s hardly the kind of topography one associates with a quick-moving creek. The flat, shallow creek bottom varies from a fine sand to a gravel mix. In fact, could you remove the water entirely, the surface is so flat from narrow shore to shore that, in many places, it would look like a perfectly graded road.

Breaking the surface just ahead, an obstinate fish repeatedly nibbles at a cicada swirling in the current. On sandy beaches, a proliferation of monarch and small yellow butterflies are caught up in their mating play. Lonely cypress trees dot small sandbars jutting out into the creek, their knobby knees announcing a firm intent to linger in the currents. And every so often, the remarkably clear springs that feed Coldwater Creek blend in with its tannin-touched waters until all difference of color is lost.

The day is warm, and after searching for the perfect white sandbar, I stop for lunch under the shade of a large cedar tree. I’m near the halfway mark, and the creek is still barely twenty feet wide. The golden water shimmers in the sun, and I immediately regret not bringing a tent to overnight here. I wade into water so transparent that the ripples caused by the current along the bottom almost look like the reflections of clouds—though there’s not a puff of white in the clear blue sky today.

Back in my kayak, I find myself paddling less and less, trying to prolong the inevitable. As I reach the end of my run (eighteen miles downriver at County Road 191), the creek broadens, now fed by the fattening waters of  West Fork Big Coldwater Creek. Saw grasses appear on the banks, and just as the intimate confines of the narrow creek are gone, so appear the only other people I see on the water that day: a couple in a canoe lost in their own private adventure on this amazing little creek.

Mystery—Blackwater River
Putting in on the Blackwater River at Cotton Bridge above the town of Holt, it’s twelve miles downriver to the take-out at Bryant Bridge in Okaloosa County. Some friends—Stephen Hudson, Beth, and her son, Bill—have joined me for three days’ paddling. The Blackwater River slithers along the eastern side of the Blackwater River State Forest before emptying into the Blackwater Bay in the historic town of Milton. Longleaf pines tower majestically above this river, lending an almost regal bearing to the water’s broad turns and cuts. White cedars, loblolly magnolias, and maples fill out this open landscape of upland forest, and at times the breaks in the trees make it appear that climbing the steep banks would give you a view for miles.

If Coldwater Creek is a light herbal infusion, the magical Blackwater River it feeds is a hearty English breakfast tea, tannin rich and steeped to perfection. It is obvious why the Creek Indians called the river “Oka Lusa,” or literally “water black.” One of the most pristine rivers in the United States, the Blackwater reflects the passing trees and foliage like a mirror encased in shadows. But its dark color is deceptive: like its tributary, Coldwater Creek, this river is clean and clear, a transparent amber liquid when cupped in your hands.

We haven’t been on the river ten minutes, when someone gives in to the urge to swim. “I’ve got to get in this water,” Stephen says. That’s all it takes, and soon everyone is splashing around, awkwardly trying to maintain footing in the sandy bottom that shifts and oozes under our weight. Because of the moving sand, very little vegetation finds any purchase, and all the fish thrive in adjacent oxbow lakes where the water is still. And that’s where the alligators are, too. Mostly.

I certainly didn’t tell my wife this before leaving, but for me one of the biggest draws of this trip was the possibility of seeing this prehistoric creature in the wild. Nearly hunted to extinction during the past century, the American alligator has, in my mind, a mythic status not unlike what the wolf symbolizes to the West, albeit of a cold-blooded variety. I suppose my curiosity is just that primordial fascination humans have around predators—the realization that we are not always standing confidently atop the food chain.

Well, not a mile into our trip, we surprise a five- or six-footer lounging on a sandbar. He’s gone in an instant, a flash of leathery brown followed by a splash. The movement is so fast it’s as if the whole experience never happened. Somewhere in the murky waters below us, this creature is looking up as our boats drift past. As the others paddle on, I linger a moment on the shore where he was sunning, hoping to catch a pair of reptilian eyes rising to the surface. Nevertheless, I appreciate the crux of this river’s mystery: not knowing what lies around the curve of each bend.

Getting its start in the woods of Conecuh National Forest in Alabama, the Blackwater flows into Florida and the state park that bears its name. In the wire grass beneath stately longleaf pines, rare and endangered creatures such as the gopher tortoise, flatwoods salamander, Eastern indigo snake, and others find refuge. Here and elsewhere, these longleafs are the last holdout for the federally endangered red-cockaded woodpecker.

Though it takes more than one hundred years for a longleaf pine to reach maturity—and some can live to be three hundred years old—an aggressive restoration process is under way in the southeastern Coastal Plain. As a result, the next generation may see a return in far greater numbers of these majestic trees—and the animals they shelter—to the Florida landscape.

Later that evening, we spot the perfect campsite atop a sandbar about four miles above Bryant Bridge, our take-out. After eating dinner, we sit around the fire and watch the stars come out while listening to a startlingly loud barred owl announce the beginning of night with its signature call: “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”

Early the next day, quail call from the banks, regrouping in the wire grass understory after a long night. Soon we shove off into the river for the final few miles of our run, the mist thick on the water. “All these rivers [are] looking to get to the Gulf,” Beth observes as we cast off, “and each one with a different way to find it.” The sun rises fast and bright, and the forest comes alive. We enjoy the last stretch, each in our own quiet reverie.

After leaving the Blackwater, my original plan was to return to two of that river’s more scenic feeder streams, Sweetwater and Juniper creeks. But when the Blackwater is as perfect as it is now, the creeks are too low. And when Sweetwater’s and Juniper’s levels are just right, the Blackwater can be dangerously high and unnavigable. However, this opens up an opportunity to paddle the crystal-clear springs feeding Econfina Creek in Bay and Washington counties.

Clarity—Econfina Creek
A native Muskogean word thought to mean “natural bridge,” the Econfina apparently flowed underground or beneath such a bridge near where State Road 20 crosses the creek today. Not to be confused with the Econfina River some one hundred miles east that shares the same name, the last two syllables of this Econfina rhyme with “Carolina.” It is a small, intimate run flowing under a thick canopy of trees. The first four miles of the creek below Scott’s Bridge can be quite challenging as they flow through a narrow, enclosed stretch of creek where the banks are around six feet high and the width of the water often is not much wider than many boats. However, the bulk of the creek’s eleven spring groups is concentrated within about a mile north of  Walsingham Bridge to a half-mile south of the State Road 20 bridge—an area perfect for recreational paddling.

With one spring at Gainer Spring classified as first magnitude (meaning it discharges more than sixty-four million gallons of water per day), plus four more second-magnitude springs, the sheer amount of crystal-clear water that is pumping into the Econfina is nothing short of miraculous—in fact, close to eighty percent of the creek’s total flow comes from its springs. The volume is such that, only a few hundred yards downstream from where we put in at the Econfina Creek Canoe Livery, we can leave the creek and paddle up many of the small spring-fed tributaries pouring into the main channel.

Williford Spring, for instance, is a second-magnitude spring forming a clear bowl cut almost fifteen feet deep out of fine, white sand. Where it enters Econfina, the water is so transparent you can see every grain of sand. Without hesitation, we all paddle some eight hundred feet up the winding channel to the spring’s mouth, where we jump into the chilly water to explore. Bringing a snorkel is a necessity. The fissure vents discharge the upwelling water so violently and with so much energy that the surface water seems to be boiling. “It’s kind of eerie down there with the shortness of breath from the cold and the pressure of the spring throwing you back up,” offers Stephen after snorkeling for a long time down into the spring’s mouth.

With a total of thirty-three first-magnitude springs, Florida has more than any other state—and more than any other nation in the world. The gem of the Econfina’s springs, the Gainer Springs group, joins the Econfina about a half mile downriver from the State Road 20 bridge on both sides of the creek and creates a pool about 300 feet long and 150 feet at its widest point in the western channel. Kicking up sediment in a swirling fashion, one of the larger springs in the group stays in a constant state of underwater explosions and gyrations. In the bright sunshine, the waters have a greenish tint and seem to magnify the sandy bottoms. Shy turtles creep under fallen leaves to hide, while small minnows and fish quickly dart away. In an almost indecent fashion, the roots and knees of cypress and palmettos are exposed by the water’s looking-glass quality.

The Northwest Florida Water Management District had granted us permission to camp along the creek a short way downstream from Gainer Springs that night. As the final day of the trip dawns, we marvel not only at the hummingbirds buzzing around our tents at 6 a.m. like kamikaze pilots, but also at the sight of the river in the early-morning light. Springs pour forth on both the east and west banks of the Econfina with such abandon that for several hundred yards downstream, a thin strip of springwater on both banks runs clear while the center portion of the creek retains its light tannin tint until the waters finally mingle and become one again. Like the coyote I briefly spy ghosting away on the shore later that morning, it’s a melancholy reminder that this last day of paddling is nearing its end.

During the last few miles of our venture down the Econfina, we pass beyond the water management district’s boundary that protects the creek’s many springs—and the waters that eventually flow to the Deer Point Lake Reservoir, Bay County’s water supply—and start to encounter the occasional river camp or cabin along the beautiful banks. Having met only one canoe on the river after more than forty miles of kayaking, I make the slightly disconcerting transition back to civilization. And while I note (with some disappointment) that we saw just one alligator during the entire trip on these three spectacular creeks and rivers, I take some consolation from an anecdote found in a guidebook about paddling Florida’s inland waterways. It’s not too late for me: apparently, the nearby Yellow River is positively infested with alligators.