Cheryl's Beauty

“Desmond, have I got an adventure for us,” Cheryl blurted after work. She was bubbling. I couldn’t resist gazing into those wide green eyes and admiring long auburn hair that flowed over her large bosom. Around Cheryl, I was a testosterone-filled graduate student again, not a paunchy professor approaching middle age.

“Great, what is it?” I tried to sound enthusiastic, but I usually hated Cheryl’s adventures. I was still scratching mosquito and no-see-um bites from the previous weekend’s hiking trip through the God-forsaken lowlands of the St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge— “North Florida’s finest coastal prairies,” was how Cheryl described it. A week before that fiasco, I found not one but three blood-filled ticks on my groin from our “Florida Highlands adventure” along bluffs of the Apalachicola River. And our sailing trip over spring break— “leaping dolphin extravaganza along the Forgotten Coast”— had caused chronic sea sickness and sun poisoning. I became queasy just thinking about it.

“This will be a completely different environment than what we’ve been to,” Cheryl said, obviously not wanting to give out too many details to ruin the surprise. “It will involve a canoe and maybe some walking and wading.”

“What about culture?”

“Well, you never know, but I doubt if we’ll see another soul, unless we come across some lost outpost of civilization.”

For “cultural” or “anthropological” experiences, Cheryl had dragged me to backwoods fishing and hunting camps where she reveled in meeting old timers with bad teeth who lived in decrepit motor homes or trailers and whose idea of a gourmet meal was Vienna Sausage out of a can. Even worse was the “Rainbow Gathering” in the Ocala National Forest in Central Florida. When we arrived, hundreds of naked and half-naked hippies and pseudo hippies were grooving out on drums, dope and hormones. Food was served in a makeshift kitchen by members of Hare Krishna, and it was considered “uncool” to eat off a real plate. Instead, people used bags, jar lids, crushed milk cartons, and their palms. My diarrhea started on the second day and didn’t quit until mid-week of my return, despite remedies from their “herb doctor.” What could possibly top that?

Despite Cheryl’s wacky ideas, I could not refuse her. She was excitement, vitality and sensuality all wrapped in a five-foot-six frame. North Florida’s woods and waters were her training ground for reaching her aspiration as a rain forest field biologist and/or anthropologist. Professionally, I had been content with working in the lab and teaching two courses a semester in Microbiology. Cheryl changed all that ever since she arrived as a newly minted associate professor in field biology nine months before.

After tying down Cheryl’s canoe onto my shiny Toyota Camry, we drove forty jarring miles on slippery dirt roads to the southwest corner of North Florida’s Apalachicola National Forest. Cheryl had the map and guided my every turn. After passing a million or so pine trees, we stopped at a narrow black water creek overgrown with vines and vegetation. “There it is, the beginning of our adventure,” Cheryl announced.

“Oh, that’s barely a trickle. What is it called?”

“Cat Branch. It flows into a place called Mud Swamp, which is part of the larger Tate’s Hell Swamp. Legend has it that a man named Cebe Tate wandered lost through the swamp for almost a week in the late 1800s. When he finally stumbled upon civilization, he muttered, ‘I’m Tate, and I’ve just been through Hell!’ We’re going to explore the last remnant of Tate’s Hell Swamp that hasn’t been screwed up by people.”

“Okay, so where do we end up?”

Cheryl explained that we would canoe down Cat Branch to the heart of the Mud Swamp Wilderness Area and join up with the larger New River. From there, the river would return us to heavenly civilization, a dirt road. “From where we end up, it’s only a three mile walk back to the car,” she said. “Then, we can drive back and pick up the canoe. So that’s not too bad, is it?”

Somehow, it didn’t seem that easy. “So, how come we don’t just canoe the whole way on the New River? Wouldn’t that be wider than this little creek?”

Cheryl pursed her lips. “Because the ranger told me the New River disappears into a big swamp, Silly. That’s why it’s called Mud Swamp. This creek should run into the New River after it emerges from the swamp, at least, that’s my hunch. The map shows it that way.”

“What about Google Earth. What does it show?”

“There’s too many trees to really follow the creek accurately.”

“Then what did the ranger say about Cat Branch?” I was starting to get that “what have I got myself into” feeling again. Previous to meeting Cheryl, my definition of “wild” was viewing a unique form of algae under magnification.

“The ranger didn’t know. He had only followed the New River until it disappeared into the swamp, which wasn’t very far, according to him. This is a protected wilderness area, you know.”

Protected from what? I thought. What would anyone want with this place? “So, we’re kind of going to be explorers of new territory,” I offered.

Cheryl brightened with my comment. “Exactly!” she said. “This may be the wildest place left in all of North Florida. The ranger called it impenetrable, and that just made me want to come here all the more. There aren’t any marked trails anywhere in the 8,000 acres.”

Oh boy, I thought. “So, I guess we’d better get started then!”

“Did you bring the compass and GPS?” she asked, becoming serious.

“Check.”

“Mosquito repellent?”

“Check.”

“Sunscreen?”

“Check.”

“Rain gear?”

“Check.”

“Plenty of water and snacks?”

“Check.”

Through trial and error, we had added essential items after each of our adventures.

“How about a snake bite kit?”

“Snake bite kit? I thought you said they were still dormant this time of year?”

“That was during our last adventure, Silly. Can’t you tell how much warmer it is today?”

We untied Cheryl’s yellow fiberglass canoe and lifted it off the car. My end dropped down hard on the ground. It was heavier than I thought.

“Damn, Desmond, I just bought this canoe. I want this thing to hold together so we can canoe all the time.”

“Sorry.”

Cheryl studied my face. “You need to get out of the lab more. You still have that pasty look from being inside too much and messing with all those chemicals.”

“You’re probably right. Let’s get started.” Or better yet, get it over with, I thought.

Canoeing the first section of the creek, I was relieved to see signs of civilization. Fishermen had left trot lines dangling from overhead branches. Obligatory beer cans were trapped in swirling eddies, and I spotted a couple blue plastic worm containers along a narrow shoreline trail.

“Can you believe this?” Cheryl complained. “Trash in a wilderness area! These people have no respect.” To Cheryl, places like Mud Swamp were outdoor churches and temples to be revered, and such things as trash, off road vehicle ruts and the illegal cutting of trees were desecrations.

To Cheryl’s relief, signs of civilization vanished after we pulled the boat over the first two log jams. Increasingly, the creek took on hellish qualities with thorny vines, insects, and newly sprouting poison ivy! And then there was a damp, mildewy odor from rotting vegetation. Cheryl thought it was sweet smelling, but it gave me the feeling that a giant fungus would eat us at any moment.

“This is more like it,” Cheryl announced.

Overhanging vines and branches were thick. Since I couldn’t steer a canoe, I was in the bow and caught the brunt of the obstructions, along with sticky spider webs, and spiders. I began swinging at the branches with my canoe paddle to clear the way. A new exciting sensation gripped me. I was Hernando DeSoto hacking my way through primitive Florida. I expected hostile Apalachee Indians to attack at any moment.

“Can’t you swing that thing a little quieter?” Cheryl asked. “We won’t see any wildlife this way. Mud swamp is supposed to be a haven for black bears.” Oh great, now we could be eaten by bears! I tried to quietly push the branches aside. I didn’t want to rile Cheryl. A main reason I joined her on these adventures was because they obviously stirred a passion in Cheryl I found exciting, and so they stirred a passion in me I hadn’t felt in years, since way before my divorce. Falling in love with Cheryl had pushed my boundaries way beyond previous self-imposed limits. If had to, I would probably follow her into the heart of the Amazon and brave piranhas, Malaria, and dart-shooting natives.

I scanned our surroundings. The creek banks were nothing more than circular bases of cypress and gum trees surrounded by water and damp sphagnum moss. And the canoe was becoming covered with sticks and crawling spiders. I began to feel like old Cebe Tate for whom the broader swamp was named.

Suddenly, a big red snake plopped into the boat from a branch. “Oh shit!” I cried. “Hit him!”

Cheryl frowned. “Now, what would you do that for? Honestly, sometimes you men are big babies. This is just a red-bellied mud snake.” She grabbed the slithery serpent directly behind the head, held it up so I could see, and slipped it into dark water.

“Sorry, it just startled me, that’s all. They really are handsome creatures.” I hated snakes. My father hated snakes and his father hated snakes. It was a family thing. The only time I liked snakes was when they were pickled in a jar of formaldehyde. Spiders and mosquitoes were not high on my list of favorite creatures, either, and there were scores of them. I kept sweating off the bug repellent and our pump spray bottle

was becoming dangerously low. God, the things I would do for love.

When we encountered the ninth or tenth downed tree, I thought Cheryl would have had enough. But she seemed even more determined to penetrate the swamp. She stepped out of the canoe, stood knee-deep in water, squinted her eyes, and peered ahead as if she were a Western sheriff in pursuit of a dangerous hombre. I had never met anyone like her. I stepped out, too, and grabbed her slim waist and tried to pull her close to me. She would have none of it.

“Oh you, we’ve got a swamp to explore.” She cocked her head to one side. “Listen—a pileated woodpecker, no, two of them. Wouldn’t it be something if we spotted an ivory-billed woodpecker in here? The Holy Grail of possibly extinct birds. It would rattle the bird world!”

Somehow, it struck me: what did she see in me anyway? Was I just a lackey to help paddle a boat or carry gear on my back? Maybe I was like a male spider—to be used by the female and then eaten? Perhaps I represented a challenge. If I could be made into a willing convert to her temple of the wilderness, there would be hope for humanity. Whatever, all of the insect bites, sunburn and poison ivy were worth it if it meant making Cheryl happy. 

Thankfully, the creek opened up into a small pond. Huge cypress, cedar and slash pine surrounded it. “Wow,” Cheryl exclaimed. “It must have been years since anyone has been to this place. Look at the size of those trees. Thank God the loggers won’t be allowed in here!” I had to admit, the scene was impressive, partly because we had emerged from that hellish creek. Cheryl continued, “Maybe this is where the New River comes out of the swamp. Let’s see where it goes from here.” She guided the canoe to the pond’s south end and we soon found a narrow outlet that had a current. 

“This is it!” Cheryl shouted, “The New River!” She acted as though we had just found the source of the Nile.

The New River seemed new all right. It was only slightly wider than Cat Branch and it had its share of snags. At one spot, the cypress knees were so thick that we had to hoist the canoe over them for forty feet or more. I was tempted to drop the canoe on one of the pointed knees, thus ending the exploration, but the thought of wading out to the car on foot was even less appealing. I estimated that in three hours we had canoed four well-earned miles. I guessed that the lower bridge was only two or so miles away. At least we wouldn’t have to go back the same way we had come, I surmised.

After a couple more challenging portages around and over cypress knees and log jams, the river suddenly fanned out in several directions. Each channel was too narrow for the canoe, only a foot or so wide and a couple of inches deep. It formed a virtual maze around cypress and gum trees. The canoe could go no further. We sloshed around on foot to see if the larger channel re-formed, with no luck. What an awful God forsaken swamp, I thought. Cheryl’s face, on the other hand, glowed. “Just look at this,” she said. “It’s like a place where time began or something.”

More like the end of the world. However, it was easy to admire the beauty in Cheryl’s face. It reflected that which her eyes saw, transforming seemingly hellish and chaotic surroundings into something immensely attractive and orderly. I could never tame her, I realized. Hers was a beauty that fed on wild places. I could only touch a piece of it, and was grateful for that touch. Cheryl had shown me that I was more than a lab geek. I was an animal, a primate, with passions and feelings, even if those qualities emerged only sporadically. She would have me on her terms, in her secret places, and I could only follow, like a child.

She reached out to touch me.