Hiking? What’s That?

And so we return to the Everglades!

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November 9th, 2024 - Florida Day 4

When we travel, we do so thoroughly. As a matter of principle, a national park visit for us requires at least a full day of experiences. Most of the time, we dedicate several days to a national park to fully absorb its essence. The Everglades were hardly an exception to our rule. When we adventured in an Everglades airboat and swamp buggy a few days before, we were just scratching the surface of the park. Now, on a sunny Saturday in November, we intended to experience the park in its fullness.

Our itinerary was full of hikes. We woke early and crammed our backpacks with snacks, water, and everything else we usually lug along on our trails. This routine was performed mindlessly, a repetition of at least a hundred hikes prior. Our pre-hike movements have become mechanical. Our routines are well-cemented. We pack our bags, set the GPS, and set our minds to conquering whatever difficulties lie ahead. It is the mental preparation that is often the most crucial to a good hike. If you aren’t ready for a tough trail, it will ultimately be your demise. So, that morning in Florida, we made sure to check every box. We were packed. We were ready. It was time to hike.

On our first trail, we discovered we had not anticipated a crucial element of Florida hiking. It caught us completely by surprise. In fact, we would later look back on this trip and wonder how exactly we hadn’t anticipated it sooner. Hiking in Florida is easy! For the first time ever, we were at an elevation below our 1,066-ft hometown. The air was rich and plentiful. The trails were flat and meandering. Heck, there weren’t even tree roots to trip over. We were cruising! Our feet clodded down a boardwalk that elevated us above a wetland. We spotted an alligator in the reeds and watched a purple gallinule tiptoe over lily pads. A brown thrasher hopped down the trail in front of us as we wound through a marshy forest. Soft sand trickled from our shoes as we hiked on a coastal trail at the Guy Bradley Visitor Center. The Visitor Center was notable in itself. Unlike most visitor centers that attempt to blend in to their surroundings, this building was a burst of color against the blue sea. It was painted flamingo pink!

We found that the greatest challenge of the Everglades trails was the mosquitoes. And yes, even in November, there were a lot of them! This brought me great dismay. I am the lucky owner of Type O blood, which means that mosquitoes LOVE me. We quickly learned to favor breezy areas where their small wings couldn’t overpower the coastal wind. We also quickly learned that you must never, never stop for a water break in a Florida forest. The mosquito armies will descend quickly as you attempt to rehydrate. Before you even realize your fate, your rehydration has become useless in the face of sudden blood loss!

As I scratched mindlessly at a mosquito bite on my leg (yes, they can bite through pants), I found myself curious about the indigenous people in Florida. How on earth did they do it? How did they make a home in such a wet, mosquito-ridden region? Well, it turns out that the first indigenous people in Florida may not have encountered mosquitoes. The first humans in North America would have arrived by crossing Beringia, the land bridge that connects North America and Asia. Oceanic levels were much lower then, allowing for animals and humans to cross freely between continents. When they made their way to Florida, they found a landmass twice the size of its modern counterpart. Ancient Florida was cool and dry, with savannahs and pine forests replacing the swamps and rivers we see today. Much of the fresh water was limited to limestone pockets that formed watering holes. The watering holes, in turn, became oases for the plants and mammals dependent on the precious resource. Woolly mammoths, Pleistocene horses, prehistoric bison, saber-toothed cats, and giant sloths would have gathered near these watering holes. Paleo-indians followed them there. Researchers have discovered many indications of their presence, such as a stone arrow point embedded in the skull of an extinct bison species. 

As the Floridian climate warmed, it became more conducive to village lifestyles instead of the nomadic patterns of the Paleo-indians. Tequesta, Creek, and Seminole people built homes on sandy islands and on the seashore. They held religious ceremonies, hosted social events, and developed a vibrant culture. They skillfully made pottery and grew crops. They became skillful navigators of the water, harvesting fish and shellfish alike. Some regions of Florida can still testify to the size of thriving indigenous villages. Some waste piles of bones, discarded pottery, and clam shells were so massive that they have survived to modern day. Shell Mound, located in northwestern Florida, is the largest indigenous midden on the central Gulf coast. Comprised of clam and oyster shells, it covers five acres and stands a staggering 28 feet above sea level! 

This makes me smile every time I think about it. Many traces of indigenous life in Florida have been covered by rising sea levels and the constant intrusion of modern life. Researchers often have to employ dive teams to parse out the vibrant history of generations past. Yet not everything can be covered. Rising above the roar of traffic is a quiet, unassuming mound of shells. It has been there for hundreds of years. It will remain long after we are gone. The landfill of the natives stands as a testament to their presence in the region we have named Florida. This summons a bit of contemplation, doesn’t it? In the future, researchers may investigate the remains of our own lives. They may have renamed our home state. They may look back at our age with quaint nostalgia. What traces will we leave behind for historians to find? Will our trash mounds be an indicator of our presence? Will our era be defined by our landfills?

What traces are you leaving behind?