Surviving the Wilds of Florida by Reid F. Tillery ... Collingwood Publications

To many, Florida may seem an unlikely place for the focus of a book on wilderness survival. The images often associated with the Sunshine State are of extravagant theme parks, palm-lined boulevards, trendy South Beach, wealthy Palm Beach, manicured neighborhoods, and crowded sandy beaches. While these images are accurate, there is also another Florida—a wild Florida, a place of untamed beauty, at least some of which hasn’t changed since that spring day in 1513 when Juan Ponce de Leon first imprinted his Iberian foot in the sands of this great peninsula. Although an increasing population and its accompanying development have eroded much of wild Florida, extensive tracts of it remain.

Take the Everglades, for instance, a river of grass, as superbly described by Marjorie Stoneman Douglas. Its vast, wet plains stretch to the horizon and seem to go on forever. Surrounded by miles of never-ending sawgrass, a solitary human being in this wide, sunlit expanse seems reduced to a mere speck. As far as the eye can see are shallow grassy waters, dappled here and there with clumps of mostly bay, magnolia, and holly trees called bayheads and occasional hardwood tree islands called hammocks, long favored as shady, high-ground refuges by the indigenous inhabitants of this region.

Then there’s the Big Cypress Swamp, which lies north and west of the Everglades sawgrass regions. Big Cypress is named not for the size of its trees, but for the size of the swamp itself. A drive along the stretch of Interstate 75 called Alligator Alley or along U.S. Highway 41 between Naples and Miami offers some idea of the vastness of this great wilderness. More than 2,400 square miles in size, Big Cypress is lowlying and wet. Within its boundaries are wide and soggy sunlit prairies, forests of slash pine and palmetto, great clusters of cypress trees arranged in circular domes or in lengthy strands, and here and there a hardwood hammock that provides welcomed dryness underfoot and perhaps a suitable place to bed down for the night. The prairies, pinelands, and cypress on the flounder-flat terrain have a way of looking monotonously similar. Without constant and vigilant regard for cardinal directions, it’s ridiculously easy to get lost in here. A backcountry traveler might wander only a few hundred yards from a well-equipped campsite, get turned around, and not be able to find it again. Even though shelter and supplies of water and food are only a short distance away, the hapless traveler is effectively separated from them. In some instances, he may have to fend for himself for days with only the clothing and provisions he has on his person.

To the far west, lying mostly along the Gulf Coast but extending also around the southern tip of the peninsula and into the Atlantic region, is a huge tangle of magnificent mangrove swamps, through which numerous bays and channels form a complex maze of waterways which can at times confound even the most experienced navigator. This huge coastal wilderness is largely a rich estuarine environment, consisting mostly of saltwater or brackish water areas. Winds and tides are a large part of life here. Boaters, fishers, kayakers, and canoeists are all attracted to these mangrove regions for the many recreational opportunities available. Here, one can easily venture away from the crowd and be totally alone, especially in the summertime when the abundance of annoying mosquitoes and sand flies tends to keep people away. Without some means to communicate—cell phone and VHF marine radio coverage can be very spotty in these parts—something so simple as a stalled motor or a lost paddle can mean you’ll be on your own until someone reports you missing, which could be several days, maybe longer.

The northern extension of the mangrove wilderness, situated just off the coast of Everglades City, is an area known as the Ten Thousand Islands. They say someone once tried to count these many islands but after considerable frustration simply gave up, concluding rather offhandedly that “There must be 10,000 of them.” Actually, they number in the hundreds and, like the mangrove wilderness to the south, are interspersed with a web of bays, creeks, and channels in which it is all too easy to lose your way.

North of the Big Cypress Swamp is Lake Okeechobee. A huge, shallow, freshwater sea, Okeechobee is some 35 miles long and 30 miles wide, with an average depth of 9 feet. Wind action greatly affects this shallow body of water, and small craft are well advised to head close to shore when bad weather approaches. An afternoon thunderstorm, so common in this region, can awaken this lake from a dead calm and, in only a few minutes, churn it into a gray sea of treacherous white caps.

Other areas of wild Florida include over 1 million acres of national forests, 373,000 acres of national wildlife refuges, 134 state wildlife management areas, up to 150 state park areas, 31 state forests, undeveloped tracts of private land, numerous lakes, and miles and miles of some of the most beautiful rivers anywhere. Still other bits of wild Florida can be found in isolated smaller sections. Round any bend in the state and you may come face to face with wild Florida. You see, wild Florida doesn’t have to be the great Everglades or some other huge, undeveloped territory. It can be your favorite picnic spot during a lightning storm; it can be 10 feet from the trailhead, where that cow-killing-size diamondback lurks; or it can be in the rough surf just a few yards from the beach. The way I see it, wild Florida is any place in this state where you must know how to provide for your continued existence in spite of winds and tides, heat and cold, rain and sun; any place where you’re not necessarily at the top of the food chain, like when you find yourself in the domain of big, scaly reptiles or razor-toothed ocean fish; any place where your survival might depend on your specific knowledge of one or more of a variety of animals which walk, crawl, fly, slither, or swim; any place you must recognize those plants you can eat and those you dare not touch.

Just as boaters are better off knowing how to swim, those who go into the wilds are better off knowing how to care for themselves and survive unexpected mishaps. So, what types of mishaps am I talking about? Well, experience tells me, for example, that you can be:

Lost in a Panhandle forest on a cold, wet January evening with no raingear and only a light jacket
Caught in a rip current and only 100 yards from the beach Shipwrecked on Cape Sable, the wildest spot in the state
Severely stung by a Portuguese man-of-war while SCUBA diving off Palm Beach
Stranded at dusk on a key in the Ten Thousand Islands after your poorly secured kayak loaded with all your gear drifted off when the tide came in
Snake-bitten and alone and 10 miles inside the Big Cypress Swamp
Without freshwater in the mangrove wilderness of Everglades National Park after raccoons chewed a hole through your only water jug

Any of these situations is potentially deadly, and the list could go on. To safely enjoy any wilderness setting, you must know how to provide for your own well-being as well as that of your companions. You must know how to find your way through unfamiliar territory. Finally, you must be able to summon rescuers should the need arise.

Florida is a beautiful state with wild areas that beckon to be explored. The purpose of this book is to provide you with information you can use to fend for yourself and your companions, under both normal and adverse circumstances, in the wilds of Florida. My sincere wish is that any knowledge you gain from these pages leads to greater enjoyment of your wild adventures and helps bring you safely home every time.