Bigbend Area Paddlers' Network

02/10/02 Wacissa, New River, Shifting Creek FL

Commandos: Larry Zwagil, Liz Zwagil, Michael Lampman, Susan Lampman. Trip Coordinator, Report Writer, and Photographer: Bill Murdick We took off at the Wacissa Spring put-in at about 12:30 for a gentle few hours on the Wacissa. But we turned left soon after departing in order to explore the New River (see photo). We maneuvered through a narrow center channel between aquatic plants for about 100 yards, then returned to the Wacissa. On our way to the Blue Spring turn off, a big cormorant soared low over the water, and shortly afterward we paused to observe a fat brown-and-white speckled Ibis absorbed in plucking things out of the water (see photo). The run to Blue Spring was beautiful, as always, even in winter. Once at the spring, Michael pointed out a small creek off the southeast corner of the pool which he said he had followed once. He said it circled around and re-entered the main run back to the Wacissa. Since the water level was high, and the creek looked wide and inviting at the opening, we set out (see photo). Susan went back the normal way, so that if we disappeared into the jungle, she could call the authorities. This tour of Shifting Creek, as I am calling it, turned into a small adventure. The waterway soon narrowed and became shallow, forcing us to slide over sunken logs. Eventually we came to a place where we could go left or right. We went right and into a lush, sunny tropical opening that looked like Alligator Heaven. Then we turned into section like the New River, channels twisting through water plants and tall clusters of water grass, and finally we emerged; not into the tributary from Blue Spring to the Wacissa, but, by some shift in nature, into the Wacissa itself, fifty yards down stream from the spring run! Where would we have come out if we had taken that left turn instead? If the road to the right went to Alligator Heaven, did the one to the left go to Alligator Hell? (And what would that look like?) Ah, if the poet Frost had been a paddler, maybe he would have written of The Creek Not Taken. As we slowly headed back toward the put-in, a bird started screeching loudly in the forest to the left. It continued its maniacal, blood-curdling, piercing cry for quite some time, until an owl lost its patience and hooted just as loudly. That shut up the screecher. About this time a couple floated past in a small canoe. Between them sat their Great Dane puppy, a head taller than either of them. I had to give my leg a rest, so I cruised into the put-in. The others veered off to the left and went up the human-inhabited, short channel going north, hoping to find an airboat parked at a dock, so they could sink it. Bill Murdick wmmurdick@home.com

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