As we paddle the backwaters out of San Carlos, we pass the hulk of a partially submerged boat, then an abandoned trimaran, and then another sailboat. At one curve, we can see three Ghost boats. Apparently once a boat has past a certain level of disrepair, it has negative value and people haul them into the backwaters and abandon them. The Florida state is now trying to locate the owners to get them properly disposed of.
We paddle a little extra mileage to view an archeological site on a mound island. The Calusa natives, over a period of centuries, built mounds from discarded shells. Today these are often the highest points of land for miles. We hoped to learn more, and see some of the archeological artifacts.
However the island does not have anything for visitors. We take a short walk and see the butterflies, dragonflies, and flowers. But the mounds and the Calusa people remain a mystery.
Navigation today is by yet another means. We simply set a course between the day beacons, numbered posts that designate the Intercoastal and other waterways. We consult the chart and tides to plot out a route, and then just follow bearings to the day beacons. It seems a bit like driving down a highway.
The Bowtie Island primitive campsite is a future promise. A spot has been cleared and burned by Florida Paddling Trails Association volunteers. But there is little else. The landing is rough, with a tough carry through muck. The campsite is ash and charcoal, which quickly gets on everything we unload.
Pat asks if this is the worst campsite we have had. I paused, unsure, surprised, because to me this campsite seems fine and we haven't really had any bad ones before either. The tents will be well protected, the boats are up out of the water and the campsite is dry. It is easy to see how nice this will be once a proper landing beach is made. It hadn't occurred to me that this was a bad campsite.
I ponder the question overnight, and bit by bit do remember some challenging sites: landing in current, muck and mangroves and trying to unpack and pack boats hanging on the roots; having such limited space that the high tide came within inches of the tent; moist areas where the tent was wet inside and out; talc-fine sand that penetrated everything; the stinking rotten dead fish beach during red tide. Somehow I tend to forget about those, and instead remember the sunsets, the dolphins, the nice people, and great paddling.
It is very handy to have a bad memory in that way, and makes long distance traveling much more enjoyable. Some of the traits handy for long distance hiking are tenacity and tolerance. Maybe I should add a selective memory to that list.
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