Wings on a Withlacoochee Morn

The thermometer read 40 degrees, and the Withlacoochee River flowed in serene silence. My phone buzzed early and often with paddlers eager to know if the trip was a "go." But it was Abby-the-camper’s call from Hog Island that grabbed me: "Kurt, it’s 34 degrees here... are you coming?" My chapped lips stretched into a grin as I assured her we were on our way.
The bumpy road to Iron Bridge Recreational Area was etched with deer tracks and blissfully free of traffic. My heart skipped when four deer darted across the path—a fleeting wildlife moment that always rekindles my love for the outdoors.
At the put-in, twelve kayakers emerged from their cars like butterflies from cocoons, stretching, yawning, and smiling. The sun glinted off the tannin-stained waters, casting slivers of light through the swamp. Cypress knees rose like wise wizards, their faces, hats, and gowns carved by nature’s hand.
We posed for a photo, then launched, our kayaks painting the river in vibrant pink, orange, red, and gold. Paddles dipped like wings, sending ripples toward shores lined with fist-sized snail shells. Freshly turned earth from feral hogs hinted at intrusion, but Bob, picking trash from a tangled branch, reminded me of Paul Ehrlich’s words: "The fluttering of a butterfly’s wings can affect climate changes on the other side of the planet." Small, steady efforts—one paddle stroke at a time—make the difference.
In the back, new friends whispered as the river narrowed. Ahead, paddlers resorted to a walk-drag technique through the shallows, prompting my grin. "Follow the flow to the outside bend; it’s deeper there," I called. The wizardly cypress knees seemed to nod, guiding the way.
A limpkin, a hawk, and a flock of white ibis were our only companions on the three-mile journey downstream. Not a boat, canoe, or soul in sight—just us and the river. As we neared Hog Island, colorful paddles shimmered in the sunlight, landing softly on the sandy shore where lunch snacks appeared amid more stretches, yawns, and smiles.
We pushed back into the flow, colors stretching around the next bend. Sunlight warmed my face as we navigated shallows, sand, and deeper, darker waters. Every shadow looked like a gator—until we spotted a real one! Seeing our destination eased the soul, and the kayaks drifted lazily toward it.
As Chuang Tzu mused, “I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man.” Until next time, we paddle on.


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