Having set up camp in the dark, I crawl out of the tent with a mixture of excitement at the prospect of exploring and innate terror of swampy environments.
Rich and Matt go about prepping coffee and breakfast while I wander away from camp to face my fears. Slowly, I enter the cover of the trees and look around, certain there must be creepy, crawly, slithering things ready to do me in around every corner. Seeing none I continue cautiously towards the water’s edge. Scanning the glassy surface, I’m pleasantly surprised at how clear and clean the water appears. Crouching down, I stick my hands in the mildly cool waters. Close my eyes and bring cupped hands to my face. Blinking water out of my eyes, I breathe a sigh of relief. I haven’t yet been eaten by a gator, strangled by a snake or bit by a spider. Mallory 1, Swamp 0.
Returning to the camp clearing, I hear Matt call for Baylor, Come on coon, get out of there.
What’s he up to? I ask.
I thought pouring the bacon grease in the water would be the one place the dogs wouldn’t get it, but he just swam out there with his mouth open like some sort of bacon filtering baleine whale.
I giggle, shake my head. He’s incorrigible.
Having bonded at the overland expo as a trio of dog-obsessed singles, we rearrange gear in the truck and FJ. Ensure that all three dogs have a comfy place to ride as we head out for some off-road exploring.
Hopping into the truck, I luxuriate in the passenger life. Rufio safely parked in Dothan, Baylor happily riding with his newfound furry friends, Matt and Rich navigating the muddy backroads, I’m momentarily free of all responsibilities. I crank down the window, stick my arm out and let it roller coaster through the warm afternoon air as we fly down the abandoned dirt road. Looking ahead I quickly pull it in as we plow through a puddle. Giggling I turn to watch the FJ plunge into the muddy water behind us.
Seeing a faint off-shoot from the main road we veer right. Bump down the narrow path of a road. Cruise through muddy, swampy holes. Weave through chicken tracks to bypass others. I grill Matt about the reasoning behind each decision. To me they all look like mud puddles, but to him they have unique characteristics. I’ve been stuck in the mud often enough – seems about time I learn the difference.
Rolling through a particularly deep and muddy hole, we barely scrape over a hidden high spot. Pause on the other side to see how the lower-clearance FJ fairs. Tow straps in hand, the guys get into place. Make use of the walkie talkies. Work together to get both rigs to the other side. We carry on until we can’t go any further, turn around, back track. Look for a new bumpy, muddy road and do it all again.
There’s no point really. If I had to explain it to an alien life-form, I’m not sure I could do it justice. We’re not trying to expertly map anything, there’s no prize given upon completion, no tangible outcome at day’s end. And yet it’s strangely satisfying. To weasel our way into rarely visited locales. To discover nooks and crannies of Apalachicola that aren’t heavily used. To fulfill some deeply ingrained desire to explore, discover and conquer. To go into the wilds and come out the other end. Dirty, happy, victorious.
Fire crackling, I tuck Baylor into the tent for the night. Switching on my headlamp, I head into the trees to gather firewood. Dropping a pile next to the fire, I turn to gather more.
You don’t have to keep getting wood, Rich tells me.
Oh, I’m happy to, I tell him. Baylor hates fire, so I never have one. And if we were out here alone the heebie jeebies would get the best of me and I’d be too scared to go into woods anyways.
Wood accumulated, I throw a few more sticks on for good measure. Point dirty bare feet towards the fire and tip my head back. Look up at the inky star-filled night sky and give thanks. For strangers-turned-friends. For fun times in wild places. For beating the swamp and getting yet another crack at this adventure called life.
176 days down. Many to come.
