Of all the close encounters I’ve had over the years, without a doubt the most frightening of all occurred while hiking at Blackwater River State Park in Florida. Even though it happened over four years ago, the memory of that day remains embedded in my mind as though it happened yesterday.
They say lightening never strikes in the same place twice, but, incredibly, an equally scary experience occurred on the very same stretch of trail two years later, except this time it was my brother-in-law, Jim, who very nearly “crossed over to the other side”. Every time I think of what happened to Jim, I praise the good Lord we are both still here to talk about it.
I don’t often repeat stories, but I’ve been asked about these experiences so often I thought I would share them with you again. I confess to having an ulterior motive in doing so. A few naysayers have suggested that these stories seem almost unbelievable. I hope sharing them with you again, exactly as I remember the events occurring, will put an end to such doubts.
The morning of January 3, 2010 was cool but sunny in Florida’s western panhandle. It was a perfect day for a hike, and my destination was a first time visit to Blackwater River State Park, located about 25 miles west of my sister-in-law’s home in Crestview.
When I arrived the sun had cleared the tree line and was melting the misty haze that hung over the surface of the water. The view was mesmerizing but I managed to break my gaze to retrieve my walking stick and backpack from the SUV.
I had selected the river trail because it was the longest and, according to the brochure, the most scenic. The map showed the trail following the river upstream for several miles, then turning away from the river. From there it would loop around the campground and pass through a pine forest before returning to the parking area.
You have to see the Blackwater River to fully appreciate its natural and remarkable beauty. Wax myrtle, water tupelo, scrubby birch, and other flora native to northern Florida line the trail and overhang the water’s edge. For the most part the river is shallow, making it ideal for kayaking and canoeing. Wide sandbars extend from bends of the river, and the white sand sparkles in sharp contrast to the black water. The color of the water is caused by tannin that seeps into the river from the long leaf pines that dominate the landscape, thus giving the river its name.
Far too quickly I reached the bend in the river where the trail turns toward the campground. Reluctant to leave the river, I walked out onto a sandbar to rest and enjoy the river for a few more minutes.
A large piece of driftwood served as a back rest. After drinking a bottle of water, I pulled the binoculars from my backpack to scan the river in search of waterfowl. I spotted a pair of egrets, a blue heron, and thought I saw a juvenile bald eagle, although it was a considerable distance away and may have been an osprey.
As I scanned the shoreline directly across the river from the sandbar I noticed an opening in the trees and what appeared to be an overgrown trail. It occurred to me I could wade across this shallow stretch of the river and, possibly, make my way back down stream to the parking area. It wouldn’t hurt to at least wade across the river to have a look.
In a matter of minutes I was seated on the opposite shore putting my shoes and socks back on. The opening I’d seen through the trees wasn’t exactly a trail but little effort was required to create my own trail and head down stream. The going was surprisingly easy and I was feeling pretty good about my decision when I came upon a swampy inlet extending about 75 yards from the river into the woods.
I studied the situation for a couple of minutes and concluded I had three choices. I could retrace my steps, cross the river at the shallows, and pick up the marked trail, but I ruled this out as taking far too long, plus I’m not one to turn back if I can help it.
The second option was to bushwhack my way around the inlet. This appeared doable, but I decided on the third option, which was to make my way straight across the swampy inlet by leaping from log to log. I figured the worst that could happen would be to slip from a log and get wet, in which case I would just have to wade the rest of the way across.
I slipped my backpack off and held it in one hand and my walking stick in the other to balance myself. Then, timidly, I ventured onto the first log. It was firmer than I’d expected so I quickly stepped from log to log until I was about two thirds of the way across. At this point I had to pause because reaching the next log would require leaping a distance of about 4 feet. I placed my walking stick in front of me for support then leaped and landed on the partially submerged log, but instead of holding me the log shifted and reared out of the water as I tumbled in. The partially submerged log wasn’t a log at all but a bull alligator that must have measured at least 10 feet long.
As I stood up in the knee deep water, the alligator swung his tail around, hitting my legs and knocking me backwards into the water. I spit out a mouth full of swamp water and scrambled back to my feet, realizing it was either me or the gator. I started swinging my walking stick at him, but instead of swimming away the gator grabbed the walking stick in his jaws and bit it in two like it was a toothpick.
Suddenly, he backed about 6 feet away. I thought he’d decided to leave me alone, but apparently he was just positioning himself for the kill. I watched in horror as he reared his head out of the water and lunged toward me, with his big eyes flashing and his jaws opened wide. I stumbled backward to avoid his crushing jaws, and as I fell I flung my backpack at him.
As quickly as I hit the water I scrambled back to my feet and saw that, miraculously, instead of my leg in the gator’s mouth, he was chomping on my backpack as though I’d thrown him a live chicken.
I didn’t wait to see what his next move would be. The mud sucked my shoes off my feet as I half ran and half swam to the edge of the inlet and pulled myself out of the water. When I turned around the gator was nowhere to be seen so I shook myself off and, still trembling, made my way to the parking lot. Thankfully, I had put my keys in my pants pocket instead of a pocket of my backpack.
And so ended my first adventure at Blackwater River State Park. As promised, I’ll share the second chapter of this story with you next week.
George Brown is a freelance writer. He and his wife, Yvonne, live in Jackson Township.