Days of Wind and Roads

March 6, 1999
Wakulla Springs State Park, Florida

We wanted to bike without delay but drove nearly 300 miles from Brunswick, Georgia having faith that the Tallahassee area would be worth the extra miles. The clear skies we awoke to soon turned gray, and by the time we got to Tallahassee a gentle rain was falling. We stopped for lunch, considered a motel and decided to continue with our plans. We pulled into Wakulla Springs State Park. The friendly lady at the ranger’s station charged us $3.25 to enter the park. That seemed like a lot as we would park our car and immediately leave. On the other hand, it was a small price to pay for a legal and relatively safe place to leave the car. She knew about the bike route we intended to follow but said no one had done it yet. She offered me a copy of the map and directions. I didn’t want to take it because I had gotten mine from the state office only a few days ago. She kind of insisted, and it turned out that hers was more up to date. She referred us to the lady at the lodge for parking. In no time we had loaded the bikes and headed down the road finally getting started at 2 p.m. The rain had stopped, and we began the ride on delightful country roads with almost no traffic this particular Saturday afternoon.

The first stretch of road passed through an area mostly of woods. The presence of only a few dwellings gave it the feel that we had entered some lonely rural area. Then we passed a gargantuan school complex that must have served kids in a fifty mile radius. I only remember one agricultural field the entire day. We visited a roadside fruit stand in tiny Medart and bought some grapes. Twenty-six miles into our journey we stopped for a drink and rest stop at Sopchoppy, a small, plain little town that seemed to fit the name. At the IGA we bought food for dinner.

A few more miles took us to the state park where we got a campsite surrounded by other campsites full of people. We set up our tent, took showers and went for a walk along the Ochlockonee River. We saw signs warning of alligators but none of the creatures.
 
 March 7, 1999
St. George Island State Park

Last night we fell asleep unaffected by the sound of conversations all around us. When we awoke a few hours later silence filled the air, and we walked to the bathroom under abundant stars. The next morning we got up early, packed our gear, loaded our bikes and headed off into the countryside seeking breakfast. After a few miles we merged onto highway 98 and caught our first view of the Gulf of Mexico. We pedaled along this highway with a few houses on the water at our left and forestland on the right. About the time we started to get hungry we rode into Carabelle, Florida and spied Harry’s restaurant. We got to the "Pearl of the Panhandle" at nine a.m. with 18 miles on the odometer. This area is also called Big Bend Gulf and the restaurant featured a large map locating the artificial reefs in the gulf.

After bacon and eggs we pedaled over the enormous bridge over the Carrabelle River and continued down the coast. Soon we could see our destination, St. George Island across the sound. At one point Paula pointed out a tall bridge at the horizon. It seemed hard to believe that we could pedal that far and then go way out in the water. First, we stopped in Eastpoint for cold drinks and bananas from Register’s supermarket. This little town abounds in oyster boats each with a long-handled rake in it. A few weather-beaten buildings housed fish markets with an appealing, if shabby, ambiance. Formations of pelicans and groups of comerants plied the waters.

We then turned south and pedaled a five-mile bridge out to St. George island. By now we had the sunscreen out and the extra clothes packed away and found the ride glorious. We no longer rode along the Gulf but in it. The bridge with its narrow lanes and no shoulder would have been uncomfortable on a busier day but not many cars passed us. Those that did approached with a rapid clunk, clunk clunk caused by the spaces in the concrete. We too crossed those but it went clunk, long pause, clunk. We found ourselves laughing at the contrast. We had arrived at a paradise of sun, sand and surf everywhere we turned. We passed a huge tent that had housed a chili cook-off the previous day. Then we bought some postcards and went to lunch at B.J.’s pizza and wrote out the cards. After lunch we bought dinner (canned chili, Beefaroni and Fig Newtons) and pedaled six miles to the park and then four more miles to our campsite. This time we had a private one number 60 out of 60. One fellow told Paula we got the last one and that they had reservations through April. That made us worry retroactively and caused us concern the next day. We settled in to a nice open spot with a view of the dunes and close enough to hear the surf beyond.

March 8, 1999
St. Joseph Peninsula State Park

We went to bed early last night and fell right to sleep. Perhaps two hours later the flapping of the tent fly awakened us as a ferocious wind came up. It became increasing fierce as the night went on. A time or two part of the tent blew down and the rest of the time I kept trying to adjust the fly to prevent the loud flapping that kept us awake. Amidst this process of getting up and adjusting the tent we noticed the brilliant stars that later faded under a bright moon. The wind kept up a relentless howl all night. At last I took advantage of the clear skies to remove the flap leaving nothing but netting between the stars and us. That stopped the flapping and we finally got some sleep. When we woke up at seven the sun was coming up over the palms trees and pine trees that covered the dunes. The wind had not abated at all, and the tent now stood only partially erect. Temperatures in the fifties helped but we still felt cold as we climbed out of sleeping bags into the breeze. It was easier to get up knowing the wind was blowing toward our day’s destination. Laundry lay scattered in the bushes, but we noticed no other problems.

We had eaten every bit of food the night before so had to pedal nine miles to breakfast. With a brisk tailwind that ride down the flat slip of land went quickly. We rolled up to the Paradise Restaurant where we saw a few patrons smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee in the bar but no one in the dining room. They assured us that the place offered breakfast and indicated that the restaurant portion was the no smoking section. Paula said "But we don’t want to eat alone" which drew us a friendly invitation to sit with them. We opted for the smoke-free area and got company about the time our eggs showed up. To learn about the weather we bought the Tallahassee Democrat, an interesting name for a paper in a conservative state. It offered a reasonably optimistic forecast for the next few days. We chatted briefly with some of the people in the restaurant and then headed back across the five-mile bridge to the mainland.

Arduous and scary describes that ride. The wind crossed the bridge at right angles and threatened to topple our heavily laden bikes. Water the color of coffee with cream roiled violently against the causeway and bridge abutments. As it came through the guardrails in alternately pushed and pushed harder. My hands grew tired from gripping the handlebars so tightly. At one point as I wondered whether I could keep the fool bike upright I heard Paula excitedly pointing out the acrobatics of a pelican. I couldn’t even take a hand off the bike to wipe my nose and she was sightseeing. We felt particularly uncomfortable as cars passed and appreciated the light traffic. In several spots the water splashed up on the road but we managed to stay dry. Two very relieved bikers finally reached the far end where we took a break in the shelter of welcome trees.

Having caught our breaths we then rode down a pretty shortcut through an area of big trees and glimpses of the gulf. Then we got back on the highway and headed west on a three-mile bridge into Apalachicola. This time the wind blew from directly behind us and we cruised across the bridge. To our right, in the rough water, we saw flock after flock of little ducks with white heads riding out the storm in groups of thirty or more. The wide paved shoulder made for great travel though a steady stream of broken beer bottles took away some of the fun. Still we made it across without a flat. The last portion involved a steep climb that gave us a great view of the historic little town of Apalachicola and the edge of the river and bay of the same name.

The merciless wind made the day feel cold and the ride difficult. Thus, we decided to take another break. We wandered into a place claiming to be an old fashioned soda fountain. When I asked the clerk if she had hot chocolate she responded by all but ordering us across the street to a place that had coffee, hot chocolate and food. "They make everything there and they have good prices." We didn’t know exactly where she meant but found our way to Dolores’ Sweet Shoppe. We had originally just planned on a beverage, but when we saw the selection of cinnamon rolls, blueberry and apple turnovers, Danish pastries, carrot cake and banana nut bread, we experienced hunger. "Do you want just one?" the lady asked as we ordered banana nut bread. "We’ll share" I responded. Tired and cold we happily headed with our hot beverages and bread to one of the round tables covered with green check table clothes. We sat on ice cream chairs looking out a huge window at the flag flapping madly in the breeze. In a few minutes we went back for more banana nut bread. Paula marveled at the three women busily baking, chopping and mixing things. It all looked so good that we ordered sub sandwiches to go.

Then we pedaled west past elegant historical buildings from the town’s day as an important port. The wind continued to help us as we entered a long, straight stretch almost entirely wooded. Traffic remained light despite the warnings from our map that it could be heavy. Eventually we turned off onto county road 30 and left even those few vehicles behind us. We could comfortably ride side by side and talk, an all together too rare event. We started to think about stopping for a picnic lunch, but our glimpses of the beach showed high waves and blowing sand. We turned onto Cape San Blas, a narrow strip of land that offered water front lots on both sides of the road. There we found a relatively sheltered picnic area where we hungrily devoured sandwiches and Fig Newtons. We then turned right with the wind still behind us and headed up St. Joseph Peninsula to the state park of the same name. We stopped along the way at Scallop Cove, a small store, where we picked out dinner from the very limited selection. Bike trips build up a big appetite, which makes us less fussy. That is good as we have no cooking gear and the state parks are too far from restaurants to eat out.

A sturdy young woman who seemed to belong in a ranger’s uniform supervised a rather helpless new employee checking people in. The younger woman had no intention of showing any initiative, and we could almost feel the older one’s frustration. If she didn’t teach this one to do it she’d have no help, but in the short run, it would be so much easier to do it herself. The quiet young fellow in front of us had many scars on his face, but spoke nicely to us and seemed to appreciate the beauty of the park. He was getting a refund for a couple of unused nights in primitive camping. "Reason for leaving" asked the older woman. "Just say we didn’t get along." he responded. Even the tough ranger seemed to feel compassion for that unrehearsed answer. After we set up the tent, I developed the day’s photos and wrote some notes about the ride just finished. We ate roast beef sandwiches from a can and fruit cocktail. After a walk on the beach we watched the sun set and built a fire.
 
 

March 9, 1999
Port St. Joe, Florida

The wind blew all night but dunes and trees protected our camp site. Ensconced in our tent and tired from a day’s ride we slept long and deep. Though rested, we still found it hard to get up and face the strong wind. Still blowing from the south it now had a westerly rather than easterly accent. That boded well for us in the long haul but the first 13 miles would be down a narrow strip of land with no significant plant life and straight into the wind. As we left the park we spotted several egrets in the marshes and saw six deer. Pedaling into the wind we barely maintained 9 miles per hour and then it picked up and reduced us to eight and then 7 and a half mph. Despite the slow forward speed we worked hard and everything got tired. Normal riding allows for some let up from time to time giving legs, arms, back and seat a break, but no such break exists when riding into such a wind. The wind also blew away our words making conversation impractical. So we just knuckled down and ground it out. This part of Florida has the whitest sand I’ve ever seen and the plowed driveways and drifting sand kept reminding me of Maine this time of year. In time we finally arrived at the little park where we lunched the day before. By now a light rain had begun so we stopped and put on polypropylene long underwear tops and leggings. They wouldn’t keep us dry but would help with the cold. So we finally turned back north with the wind and even the ever increasing rain couldn’t take away the sense of relief from the wind.

Lighting accompanied by distant thunder had been with us all morning and it seemed increasingly unlikely that the rain would let up. Finally 22 miles into our ride we rolled into Port St. Joe soaked to the skin. A man at a gas station directed us to Linda’s as not only the best but the only place to get breakfast. We walked in there literally dripping. It’s always embarrassing to enter a public place looking like refugees, but you take the good with the bad. It made the breakfast chased by hot coffee and hot chocolate especially appealing. We bought the Panama City News Herald, which told us that Joe Dimagio had died and gave no reason to hope the weather would improve. In fact, it called for "strong thunderstorms clearing tonight." I asked a waitress if there was a motel in town. She said it wasn’t much, but cheerfully offered me the phone and phone book to call.

Not many people could see any good in the Motel St. Joe. Surrounded by for sale signs it looks like a place that had its glory days—probably quite modest at that—years ago. Still, for sodden cyclists facing miles of back roads with a campsite at the far end, it looked like heaven. The clerk gave us the single rate of $35, far more appropriate with the modest accommodations than the posted double rate of $45. For that we got a drab little room with a tiny electric heater. It had no bath tub for Paula to soak in but the shower put out all the hot water we wanted. The large, empty lobby provided a good spot to store the bikes near the room. In no time we had warmed up and put on dry clothes.

There we sat warm and dry with full stomachs and happy hearts. Surrounded by an amazing mound of wet clothes I set to work on this narrative. Paula picked up a Self magazine in the lobby. It featured an ad for the Phillips Nino with the tag line: "I was really bummed I couldn’t join my friends on their bike trip especially when they sent me an e-mail every 20 miles." The happy faces and perfect hair of the models in the ad presented quite a contrast to the windy, wet reality we had just experienced.

About noon it cleared outside and we went out to play. We took our mound of wet clothes to the Laundromat and ate at J. Patricks, a large cheerful place that opens just for lunch. For $3.75 we got a plate full of ham with two vegetables and toast. Two friendly waitresses served us including one perhaps over 70. We had noticed how busy and chipper she seemed and enjoyed getting a chance to talk with her. She observed my note taking and said that she likes to keep a diary on her vacations. We talked about our biking adventures with the wind that morning and the rain that led to our unexpected sojourn in Port St. Joe.

After lunch we walked along the waterfront where a sea wall led out to a gazebo. By now the sun had come out and we felt a short-lived twinge of guilt about cutting short the day’s ride. We walked and pedaled around town learning about the huge paper mill that had recently closed taking the town’s economy with it. At one point we decided to buy a book for Paula. We walked in several stores that we thought might have one. The first said "coloring books", the second had a few romance novels and in the third, a Rexall drug , three people stared at us as if they had heard everything now. It’s one thing for people to come in asking for condoms or syringes but books? A girl in the back piped up "Piggly Wiggly has them." So we walked over to that supermarket where we picked out some delicious apples but saw no books. We asked one harried looking fellow in a manager’s uniform who told us they did not have books. Independently, we decided we didn’t believe him. Fortunately, we asked a check-out person who, without hesitating, gave us precise directions down by the milk. There we found a good selection of current and recent best sellers. Paula passed over the John Grisham and Michael Crichton I recommended for An Independent Woman by Howard Fast. She reads it now as I type under the pines.

To celebrate our successful hunt we walked down to the Sweet Shop. This tiny little ice cream store could hardly have been more inviting. We got our low fat treats and grabbed a table by the window looking out on the main street. Paula guessed correctly that the pleasant lady was co-owner. She had just moved back from Charleston and owned it with her sister. She told us about a good place to eat breakfast on our way north. She even called one place to see if they would be open. As we left someone blew a horn and waved enthusiastically. We assumed the person was waving to someone else, and were slow to respond. It turned out to be the chipper septuagenarian from lunch.
 
 March 10, 1999
Dead Lakes State Recreation Area
Wewahitchka, Florida

We left the motel about 7:30 and pedaled north along the coast. Because it was about 52 degrees we put some extra clothes on and kept them on due to a modest head wind. Right out of Port St. Joe we climbed a huge bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. It afforded a grand view of shrimp boats tied up on the right and one coming in from the gulf on our left. We pedaled right along the shore for eleven miles. Most of the time the beach was entirely undeveloped. Traffic came in spurts and seemed to coincide with the absence of a shoulder. It wasn’t all that bad but a few impatient folks made us glad we would soon be turning off highway 98. We got to Mexico Beach and found Sharon’s Café right where the lady from the Sweet Shop described it. As we walked in a good looking young man in a baseball hat said " I passed you on Dead Man’s curve on my way to work. You made good time I’ve only been here about twenty minutes." They had blueberry pancakes on the menu and we both ordered that. Paula hasn’t stopped talking about them since. The waitress was one of the friendliest yet and our pancakes came with a smiley face of orange slices and blueberry eyes. An older gentleman with an eccentric frog hat sat down to visit with us a minute. We had seen him the day before at J. Patrick’s. He told of a church group that had pedaled here from Indiana staying with fellow Methodists along the way.

When we left I met a friendly fellow named Rick Williams, a licensed athletic trainer who had worked with the British Olympic cycling team and an annual Master’s bike race held near Tallahassee. He gave me his card and said to call if we had any trouble. He also gave a different take on the closing of the St. Joe paper mill. To him it was a blessing. He said that the town could now move beyond a blue color existence. eHe

He felt that, while the mill supported the area, it also held it back. He envisions St. Joe Paper, which owns 1.8 million acres of forestland now becoming a quality developer and moving out of the paper business. While I was talking with him Paula had another chat with the friendly young man. He asked where we were going and where we had been. When she said we were headed to Wewahitchka he said, "Wewa isn’t far." She replied that she thought it was Wewahitchka and he said "yeah, but when you get tired of saying all that you call it Wewa." She responded "After all that effort we went to learning how to say it." Later she told him we had camped at Ochlockonee but that he’d probably call that Oakla.

The twenty-three miles to Wewahitchka consisted of a straight road with only a rare curve. Planted pines, mostly owned by St. Joe, lined the road and the only real break was a bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway. Though we were headed east at that point we moved into the Central Time zone for the first time. The lack of traffic more than compensated for the monotony of the road. We rolled in to Wewahitchka, which our map claimed had two convenience stores. We might have to get lunch and dinner there. It turned out that they have lots more than that with a large IGA and Big B’s, a restaurant with an all-you-can-eat buffet. To us it was almost lunchtime but to them it was 10:45. A friendly lady gave us a pitcher of ice tea and said we could start with the salad bar while we waited for the buffet. When I am on a bike trip I get my money’s worth from a buffet. When I sat down with my second plate Paula said, "Oh, I see you’re eating lunch and dinner." A cheerful man asked all about our trip and highly recommended the town’s state park. He also said it had rained very hard the day before which we believed as we had passed flooded clear cuts and ditches all day.

After lunch we pedaled three miles north to this quiet spot in the woods. Tall trees surround the little clearing that holds the bathhouse and two dozen campsites. It’s been silent since we got here. Two tents and one camper, all empty of people, provide our only company.

We rode back into town and followed a dead end road around the bottom of the Dead Lakes who get their name from a natural phenomenon. High water on the Apalachicola River caused the Chipola River to back up and flood a bunch of trees killing them and giving the area its name. The road took us through fabulous swamps of tall tupelo trees and mysterious dark channels off into the swamp. The swamps and this bridge over the Dead Lakes rceived lots of footage in the movie Ulee's Gold filmed in Wewahitchka, Aplalichola, Carrabelle and Port St. Joe.

Later one more camper arrived and the ranger pedaled up on an ancient bicycle followed by two dogs with three-inch legs. I was in the shower and had all the money so he told Paula she’d have to wash dishes for the rest. He told us of a restaurant five miles up the road and gave precise directions.

March 11, 1999
Torryea State Park

The next morning we carefully followed those directions to a restaurant that was not open. That left us with 25 miles to the nearest breakfast place. We grabbed some orange juice and cookies at The Junction, a small store with an inventory including hardware, liquor, fishing and hunting supplies, and batteries in addition to the usual food, beverages and cigarettes. The clerk spent most of her time running lottery tickets through a computer. She did tell us that the Indian name Wewahitchka meant lake eyes. Two small lakes in the area looked like eyes to those early dwellers.

It was 46° when we started and a modest head wind and clouds held the temperature down all day. That first leg took us through more flat land with countless planted pine forests. Traffic was light most of the time, but we did see a bunch of lumber trucks. When we finally got to Blountstown we asked two men at a gas station about a good place to eat. One told us to go west on route 20 and we’d find McDonald’s, Burger King and that ilk. The other must have sensed our disappointment and recommended a "family style restaurant with a good country breakfast." We followed his directions taking a left by Piggly Wiggly and heading down a street that seemed like a mistake. Paula seemed quite sure that we had made a wrong turn. We found Parramore’s Too (the original is in Sneads wherever that is) just before we gave up the search. It turned out to be just as described and we enjoyed a much-needed repast with good food served by a friendly, competent waitress. The large dining room sat empty when we arrived but each table held a large pitcher of iced tea in anticipation of a big lunch crowd. We’d have been too late for breakfast across the river in Bristol but here it was still central time. I figured that by the time we finished breakfast we could pedal across the Apalachicola and have lunch.

On our way our of town a friendly lady in an old, red Dodge pick-up gave us a extra hearty "good morning and keep up the good work." We stopped briefly at a store run by some Amish. They aimed about half the inventory at tourists with arts and crafts bearing a country charm. Some seemed gaudy like the sign that said "I’ve gone shopping at Wal-Mart," but some of the furniture would have looked great at my house in Maine. Practical items like farm tools and seeds made up the other half of the inventory. From there we passed the old Calhoun County courthouse and a historical marker explaining the origin of Blountstown. An Indian leader named John Blunt pronounced Blount gave the village his name around the time that whites forced most of the Indians to Oklahoma. We than crossed the Apalachicola River over a huge new bridge built by the Corps of Engineers as part of the Intracoastal Waterway system. Unlike most bridges this one accommodated cyclists with a paved shoulder and hikers with a sidewalk. We took the latter and enjoyed the extra space between us and the trucks that thundered by as we passed 100-150 feet above the river. We stopped at the top to enjoy the view and take off some extra clothes.

We rolled into Liberty county and the small town of Bristol, the last stores or restaurants we would see that day. We couldn’t quite eat yet so pedaled a few miles south to the Mystic Lake Grocery where we bought some rations for dinner. We had a hard time squeezing them into our bulging panniers but managed eventually. We then had lunch at the Apalachee restaurant specializing in catfish and very popular. The parking lot remained full as it had when we first entered town. We both got our money’s worth out of the buffet but felt slightly cheated when they ran out of cake before we could force a piece down. From Bristol we headed off into to a very undeveloped area. The Nature Conservancy has purchased much of the land and seeks to restore the native vegetation. I’m sure that is a good thing but found it a bit sad that they post their land just as assiduously and fence it even more thoroughly than the lumber companies that own most of that part of Florida. Every inch of land appears posted much the way it was in Québec last summer. Still we enjoyed the ride through mostly undeveloped land. After days of flat land, where the only climb was a bridge, we began to encounter gorges and hills. At first the road stayed level while all around us the land tilted one way or the other. Then, as we passed 50 miles for the day, we began to hit some arduous climbs. They made the last few miles seem much further though admittedly more attractive.

We found the campground sitting amongst towering trees on a 150 feet bluff looking over miles of forestland. We passed a bunch of small tents on our way in but found a lovely site with a view and lots of privacy. An especially friendly young ranger took our money. He said that the little tents belonged to college kids on spring break who had decided to volunteer in the park and conservancy rather than take part in the usual Bacchanalian ritual at Daytona Beach. Though really beat from the long ride we didn’t want to waste the last of the daylight so set up our tent, took showers and went on a short hike. By then the kids had gone somewhere for dinner and we had the park to ourselves. We found a trail called Weeping Ridge, which led to a waterfall that gave it the name. The water appeared from a spring dropped six feet and then disappeared into an underground stream. The trail took us on wonderful steep slopes and through ravines more typical of mountain parks. Clear skies and perfect temperatures made for a delightful outing. I developed some pictures, wrote on this narrative and then "cooked" dinner. Preparing dinner mostly involved opening cans and boxes. Paula gathered wood for a fire on our last night. Before bed we took advantage of a kind of meeting room with lights and chairs, which made a pleasant place to read, thus lengthening the day. Most nights saw us tucked into our sleeping bags shortly after dark.

March 12, 1999
Wakulla Springs State Park

This last day of our ride posed some challenges. It would be the longest yet and not on fresh legs, and it involved many turns and back roads with only a partial map. Finally a dearth of stores and restaurants made planning for meals much more difficult. Those thoughts made it a hard to climb out of bed into the crisp morning air. We had no breakfast as a raccoon had gotten into the fig bars while read in the pavilion. Leaving the park, we pedaled our way through mostly uninhabited land but the homes we did see told of a dismal poverty. We approached what the directions called a "small farming community," which I found ironic as we had seen maybe two plowed fields the entire trip. Everything that wasn’t developed was either beach or pine trees. Sure enough we began to see fields and pastures. Just before Greensboro, the only reported food stop on the first 60 miles of our ride, we encountered enormous fields of something, perhaps strawberries, that required a lot of labor. Neat rows formed into mounds and wrapped in plastic stretched hundreds of yards back to the woods on both sides of the highway. An adjacent mansion suggested that somebody profited from all this work.

The town itself had four little stores but no restaurant. The first two sold gas and the usual snack food, beverages and cigarettes. At one I asked if we could buy breakfast in town. The man I asked became interested in our route and spent a long time guessing incorrectly how we would get from Greensboro to Wakulla Springs. Eventually he listened enough to figure out our plan and thought it quite ingenious. In the process he provided a couple of clues that helped later. The third store carried hardware and seedlings while the fourth said something about groceries.

We received quite a surprise when we walked in. Everyone but the Coke salesman looked Hispanic. They had bins of red peppers, corn husks and other items used for Mexican cooking. A friendly young man with not much English handled pans of fresh baked bread. Now that got our attention. We bought some pastries for breakfast and bread and canned meat for lunch. The Coke man remembered meeting Paula at the Lake Mystic Grocery the day before. He told me of a BP station just after our turn at about the 40-mile mark. That made me more confident that we’d be able to get water or rations if needed. I didn’t like the idea of having to go all the way to the 60-mile mark without the potential for a refill. So we headed south on route 12 back toward Bristol, but soon turned left onto 65D followed by right onto 65A and then right onto 65 and finally left on the 65B—not all marked. We passed more farmland including a couple of huge nurseries growing potted plants. It warmed into the 70’s and we began to hit some substantial hills near Lake Talquin.

At 41 miles we came upon a nice little store that even had a lunch counter. Neither our directions nor the Coke man had mentioned it. Since we had our own food and beverage we had a picnic in a grassy area along the roadside. Sandwiches made from that fresh-baked bread tasted great and it was too pretty to eat inside anyway. We did fill water bottles before heading out on a 20-mile stretch through the Apalachicola National Forest. We would see nary a dwelling or paved road along that ruler-straight, flat strip of tarmac through the pines. I did find it refreshing that the dirt roads off into the woods had not been posted. We began to drag a bit, especially when we hit the 50-mile mark and still had more than 15 miles to go. The gorgeous blue sky, light breeze and warm temperatures helped and we soon rolled triumphant back into Wakulla Springs, a week, 300 miles and a plethora of memories after starting out.

To celebrate we decided to splurge and stay in one of the elegant rooms in the venerable lodge at the state park. Built in the 30’s it features high ceilings with giant arched windows and a ceiling of ornately painted cypress. We ate in the dining room with linen table cloths and crystal. The luxurious accommodations and sophisticated meal provided a dramatic contrast to the humble fare and simple campsites we’d enjoyed to date. At dinner while we resisted a pleasant fatigue that wanted to lead us to sleep we thought back on the satisfying trip. We’d had enough cold, wind, rain, hills, heat and long stretches to make it a challenge and allow us the good feeling of meeting the challenge. At the same time, good times predominated and we have pleasant associations with these places we had never seen or even heard of before this vacation.