Florida’s Big Bend Saltwater Trail gets shallow--even for canoes and kayaks--when the tide's out

Marty Cooperman, Cleveland Heights, Ohio

We were paddling quickly but carefully in the early morning light. Each turn in the creek had us switching paddle strokes, squinting into the sharp light and trying to make out obstructions. Obstructions, in the case, were oyster bars. They’re solid as granite and the shells are extremely sharp. I’d already hit a number of them, one, hard enough to put a small shatter mark on the gelcoat of my canoe. Innumerable scrapes had preceded this and a damaged rudder mount was to follow. But this morning, our main concern wasn’t oyster beds, but the tide. It was dropping.

Heike and I had been out only 2 days on our 7 day trip along Florida’s Big Bend Saltwater Trail on the Gulf Coast. You know where Florida starts turning from east to south? That’s it. That’s us. As you can gather from the discussion about oyster beds, this trail’s not been all that well paved.

The shore in this part of Florida is mostly marsh, the bottom, mud. There are a few sandy patches, but not many. Which is why this whole coast is almost free from any development, so prevalent in the more sandy areas further south. The State owns much of it, as does the Nature Conservancy. The trail follows the shore mostly. And as we paddle north to south (and that’s how you have to do it according to their rules) to your right is open water clear to Mexico. Starting to feel a little queasy? Open water clear to Mexico would mean huge waves in a southerly gale. But for one thing. The water is very shallow. The main consequence of a capsize would likely be getting your hands muddy as they hit the bottom. This trail is safe. Unless you forget the tides.

That nice, safe, shallow mud bottom is lurking there waiting for you. It’s waiting for your boat too. Should you neglect the tides, you might find your boat comfortably aground on that mud. And you, should you step out to remediate the situation, might find yourself, well, pretty muddy. And maybe stuck.

Heike and I had woken early at our Spring Warrior Creek campsite, several miles up the creek from the Gulf, on a falling tide. It was cold. 34 degrees that night. And windy, maybe 15 knots from the north. We’d eschewed breakfast, hastily struck camp and dashed for the boats, the river mouth and freedom before the tide dropped too far. Heike was all for waiting it out at the campsite. It was a pretty place looking a bit like a Tarzan movie site. I was for rushing things and making a run for it.

And it looked like I was right. We’d cleared most of the creek’s obstacles and were coming into the mouth, as it broadened to the Gulf. In the distance we could see channel markers perhaps a quarter, or were they a half mile off? We were heading for them, fast as could be, when my canoe slowed, then stopped. I pushed off backwards with the paddle and slowed to a halt again. I pushed sideways, then the other way, and then realized I was aground.