It's not a fancy camera, but it does allow me to take a very close (if not entirely focused) close-up. It's often a surprise when I put the images onto my laptop to see just what turns up in these photos.  

This sweet green plant is a wild garlic (aka "ramp"). I was interested in how the droplet of water holds itself together within the fold of the leaves.
 

Forget Paris, we'll always have midden.

​The Would-Be Farm has at least two separate dump piles full of jetsam. We cleared out a trailor-load this spring, hauling away one and a half broken pot-bellied wood stoves, a white enameled cooking stove (such an eyesore!), miles of metal and wire scrap, and cubic yard after cubic yard of disintegrating plastic junk.

The next layer down revealed a surprising number of unbroken glass items, including this prescient cough medicine bottle.  

​The former inhabitants of the Would-Be farm were brand loyal to Pepsi and Jim Beam, for long enough for the Pepsi bottles to evolve from one shape to another to another.  I suppose they also had diabetes.  

It's known as mud season; moving even the 4-wheel-drive mule across a field is a slippery clay adventure in the spring. As each shoe grows its own brick of mud, a person develops a sort of "Big Lick" walking gait. It's part of the inspiration for my rock stepping stones.
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Still, looking up, the season also has its crystal-clean moments.

 

I guess so.

It's the Spring 2022 collection! Can you hear to pop-pop-popping of the cameras? Live from the Would-Be Farm, I give you...a fashion show of sorts.

They prowl the stage.

They have cheekbones to die for.

Some trot. 

Or caper.

Others preen and strut.

Some amble, even.

Many –– so many! –– are ready for their close-up, Mr. deMille. 

​Please disregard the off dates on these game-camera photos. The tiny chip's worth of brains that power the camera occasionally lose track.  Reminding me, uselessly, of the first rule of time travel: ascertain your temporal location.

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Over the years, we slept like neatly stacked logs in our small bed in Base Camp. We drank innumerable cups of scalding hot tea and watched the weather come up the valley from a drafty inside. We berthed houseguests under the dining banquet. We saw deer and coyotes and turkeys wander by.  

Base camp grew more porous, though while mice found portals, raccoons did not.

Then came the morning when the thermometer outside read 28° F.  The inside thermometer, likewise, read 28 big degrees Fahrenheit. From my cozy nest of wool and goosedown, I said to my favorite skipper, "I don't know what else it's going to be, but the cabin starts with a wood stove."

We finished the interior of the cabin during that first plague summer of 2020, channeling anxiety into planks and nails and paint.

We first tugged and then pushed with the tractor and astonishingly enough, Base Camp submitted to being heaved onto the driveway.

The next morning, hitching the truck up, we relived the koan:  what if the hubs seize up or an axel gives out? what if the trailer's back breaks or the hitch lets go and Base Camp goes sailing into a ditch?

"It's just as easy to call for a tow truck from the side of the road as it is to get them to find us here," we consoled ourselves. 

Our better helmsman took the wheel and, sticking to backroads and driving 45 (sorry speedy little car! sorry guy! sorry big pickup! sorry beat-up Suburu! sorry to you too!) we winced over potholes and gritted our teeth when the suspension rattled. And in about 30 minutes, the truck eased Base Camp into the muddy parking lot of the one salvage yard that scraps campers.

I felt a pang, seeing Base Camp among the wrecks, but that big wheel of dharma will keep turning.

So let us charge our glasses and offer a toast to Base Camp: the best $800 house of all time. This may –– or may not –– be your final resting ground. I suspect you have another season of shelter for humans as well as small rodents in your diminutive chassis. Hail Base Camp! Fair winds to ye! 

As for the shed, we have plans to transform it into a barn over the summer. A red one, as befits a farm.

Every spot on this sweet blue globe of ours has its miracles:  bioluminescent dolphins speeding under a sailboat on a calm night in the Gulf of Mexico like constellations on the move, the sound of peepers demanding the return of Persephone from the underworld, the scent of actual chestnuts roasting on an open fire. They happen all the time, but we only sometimes notice.

For several years, neighbors at the Would-Be Farm regale us with the walleye run. Early in the spring, the story goes, northern walleye gather to spawn.  The walleye –– Sander virtreus –– is a nice little freshwater fish, delicious and sporting to catch, a beefy cousin in the perch family.

"You look for their big googley eyes at night," we heard. It's a natural wonder.  
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It usually happens too early in the season for Mr. Linton and me. We miss maple season. We miss ice fishing, and generally, we miss the walleye.

But not this year. Spring is dawdling, despite the peepers' chorus. We are here early. Our first nightfall, we bee-lined from the Would-Be Farm to the rapids of the Indian River.

Flashlights revealed ambiguous tan shapes for a moment until our eyes reconciled the truth: those are fish, and those are indeed big glowing googley eyes, as promised. But in such astonishing volume.

SO many fish. 

At the flash of my camera, each googley eye showed as a spangle –– a spark –– a star –– in the madly rushing water.

There's no flinging about like salmon, no crazy aggression, just this seething vision of piscatorial mass. 

We stood by the roar of the river (the waterfalls are just out of frame in these photos, cold and brutal in the dark) for a long while, meeting their googley gazes under the cloudless starry night.  Then, shivering, we chased the beams of our flashlights back to the truck.  

On the far edge of the parking area, the game warden eyed us but didn't bother getting out of the truck.

The locals have been known to fill their wading boots with walleye and then squelch right past the officer, equal parts insouciant and insolent. But Mr. Linton and I might have been wearing big mouse ears. Obviously tourists. Just here to see the sights and move on.

They pressed the "okay" button on their SPOT locator at 3:19 pm Sunday, March 20, fifteen days and 9 hours after pushing off from shore and accepted the hero's welcome from a gang of family, friends, and supporters at the Fort DeSoto boat ramp.

The final 27 hours of their circumnavigation of Florida took them down the Suwannee and finally –– finally! –– back to the Gulf of Mexico aboard Spawn. Mother Nature, who, by the way, ALWAYS wins, gave them a few additional affectionate swats during this last 84 miles.
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At the mouth of the Suwannee, after a long day of tacking down the river, the team thought they'd anchor and have a meal and wait for the westerly to fill in. Alas this put them in the lee of a pestilential island at sunset. Swarmed by gnats, which managed to find a way to bite, even around a dry-suit. The margin between cuff and glove is particularly vulnerable.

Still, the wind came along, and the team headed to their Cedar Key checkpoint, knowing that some weather –– oh, yes, another cold front! –– was due.  The cold front, they hoped, would give them northerly winds to scoot them down the coast to Fort DeSoto.

Around midnight, as they tried to check in to Cedar Key, the promised weather arrived,  They had shortened sail already as they counted Mississippis between lightning and thunder. Even with radar coverage on the coms, "You just never know how it's going to be." TwoBeers said. "It started piddling, and then it was like Ut-OH, even though it didn't look so bad on screen." 

Spawn grew restive, so they rolled up the jib, and as the wind built and built, they took the main down as well.  They found themselves making 8.5 knots under bare poles –– in about 8 inches of water. 

When the second line of squalls came along, the guys were anchored and snuggled under their boat-tent, ready for it, they thought. But in the teeth of the squall, it became obvious that the anchor was dragging.  If it wasn't onto a lee shore, it was a decidedly shallow lee area. 

Moresailesed let the centerboard down, TwoBeers found enough steerage to head into the breeze, and the anchor caught again. The two went back to sleep, and let the storm blow itself out.

Later, still in the predawn hours, they put up a headsail until the boat started planing. Two weeks into the challenge, less than 100 miles to go –– prudence is the virtue you want to court. Reduce sail again.
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They sailed this last leg conservatively (as Moresailesed has been known to say, "To finish first, first you must finish."), giving the conditions their fatigued best attention.  No doubt they knew that the record of 17 days was well within their grasp –– as long as they didn't have to, say, ROW all the way from Clearwater.

And suddenly, there they were –– a sliver of black sail on the horizon, flanked by an honor guard powerboat (the SPOT did some good after all!).  Sailing under jib alone, the team made a stately entrance, docking at the same Fort DeSoto ramp where they had put in weeks before.

​Champagne was popped, cheers sounded, and at least one person heaved a mighty sigh of relief.

Will they do it again next year? Thank goodness the event runs only every OTHER year. 

Will they do it again in two years? I heard them say, "Well, that's one thing off the list." and "We don't have to do THAT again." but also, "If we had a little better weather..."

​But I rather think not.

  

It's been a whirlwind 35 hours since the previous blog. Our manly paddlers –– my sweet spouse TwoBeers and his friend Jahn "Moresailesed" Tihansky –– have now completed Stage 4 of The Ultimate Florida Challenge.  One more to go!

When last we left them, the guys were taking a break at Blue Springs state park. They grabbed as much shut-eye as they could before midnight on Thursday, and then took back to the river.

The moon was nearly full in a clear sky, and as we know from our pal Lucky Jack Aubrey, "There is not a moment to lose!"  

So they paddled 70 miles down the river without much break until Friday afternoon.  

Meanwhile back on shore, several restless Watertribespeople and some impatient fans started to converge on the lower Suwannee, at south side of the route 19 bridge in Fanning, Florida. 

After drinking his sundowner beer, TwoBeers had clearly made up his mind; after gathering intel and contemplating the state of his person, Moresailesed concurred: it was time to put a fork into Stage 4.

So they decanted gear from the Miss Patsie, accepted additional beverages from adoring fans, and loaded all into the waiting van.  

Mike Walbolt, Cindy and Chali Clifton, and the gang of three Spawnsters hit the nightlife of Fanning hardcore for the 45 minutes it took to order, receive, and snarf our dinners at the Suwannee Belle Landing.

Thanks, Rappin' Rodney for the dining recommendation and weather thoughts!

Thereafter, we retired to the modest property that somebody pronounced a roach motel (I saw clean shower, bleached white sheets, and –– in my room, anyhow –– any untoward creatures kept their teeny heads down), where the Sandman lambasted us all before 8:30 pm... ​​
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Saturday morning found us deciding against a leisurely big breakfast. Thanks Cindy and Chali for bringing breakfast sammies for the sailors so they could rig and launch with as much alacrity as they could muster.

Spawn designer and occasional Spawnster, OH "Ninjee" Rodgers showed up to provide moral support with and his nearly-anonymous buddy Ray. Both were happy to also offer the odd bit of heckling and Ray, who is a bit of an electronics wizard, addressed the wayward SPOT with little hope that even he could manage to make it behave any better. 

For me, the takeaway lesson of the morning: do NOT –– as you love life –– do NOT take an experimental sniff of any item of clothing found in the van.

At around 11:30, we wished Spawn a bon voyage and watched them dodge speedboats as the current swept them rapidly around the bend.

According to one local, the boat-traffic was nothing special, "No, not a race. Some of us is just havin' a river run."  

When a 40-foot Scarab blows by on a stretch of river only a couple of hundred feet wide, I can tell you who's going to run.

​The Challenges are various and vast.

Cindy and Chali leapfrogged Spawn from overlook to overlook and reported at 2 pm, the guys were maxi-tacking down the river, making excellent progress.

At his 6:30 pm phone call, TwoBeers reported that according to Moresailesed, their team is the first and only (including natives in their dugout canoes, et cetera.) to ever, in the whole history of time, ever, EVER sail upwind down the river the whole dang way.

Spawn was at anchor while the boys awaited the promised westerly, ate some dinner, and got suited up for the possibly snorty/sporty weather expected tonight.  

Home stretch! Knock wood!

The idea of Florida being home to Class III white-water seems, even to native Floridians, somehow absurd.  

There's so little altitude (just ask anyone with actual mountains! Hi Granite State!) it's hard to imagine how the rapids could develop. 

But they do.  And I was so happy to receive photographic proof that our tough adventure fellas took the smart way around the Shoals. 

The Ultimate Florida Challenge started Saturday a week ago, which makes this (quick finger-calculation) Day 13.

So yesterday afternoon, our intrepid adventurers, Moresailesed and TwoBeers portaged around Big Shoals.  Buoyed by the experience, my favorite skipper told me by phone that they planned to take a break, and then paddle some more using a two hours on/two hours off system.  It was hard to resist the lure of the positive current.

Late last night, he called again. He started with, "I don't know how we didn't biff."

These are words that do not soothe.

What happened, I asked, keeping a level and cheerful tone.  "Well, we were going along pretty good –– you know, we never even saw Little Shoals? It just wasn't even there," he paused to paddle and then continued, "So we were going and then we broke the mast. We never saw the limb."

I take a moment to process the moment: dark, flowing river, abrupt stop in a canoe that neither flipped nor swamped.

"The moon is amazing!" my favorite skipper added. Splash, splash of the paddle. Then, "The watch thing isn't really working. Airplane seat naps –– we'll try to camp later. I'll send a picture."

And then I tried to get back to sleep.

The SPOT tracker continued to disappoint overnight, so that I found myself doubting the late-night phone call.

As it turned out, the Miss Patsie continued downriver with only a short camping break. The ground was too hard and sandy for comfort, so the boys took Jarhead's wise dictum to heart: If you don't fall asleep, you're not tired enough.

Late the next morning, the SPOT was revived by a second new set of batteries...Just in time to document another long day of paddling.

Their 4 o'clock call (Circadian rhythm disruption?) sounded as if they were hitting the metaphorical wall.

TwoBeers is a never-say-die guy, but he said there might be tears today.
They were discouraged; they'd hoped to get to Branford for a hot meal.
They were worried about Moresailesed getting back in time for work (there's a flight reservation, about which I've maintained a strict need-not-to-know).
Headwinds––and it's still a <expletitive + intensifier> 100 miles more of this. 

As the Chief and Paula Paddledancer say: get some food, get some sleep, and it will look better in the morning.

I told my favorite skipper my version of that same thing. Their location has not changed for nearly five hours. I bet they could sleep another 10, but I suspect they'll be paddling under the stars by midnight...   

Our intrepid adventure racers started Day 12 by rising fresh as daisies from their bowers at the Suwannee Outfitters Lodge (alas the storied Gator Motel is no more!) and leaping energetically into their Miss Patsie at the crack of dawn.

Okay, that might be all poetic license. Nevertheless, I'd bet any amount of money that they were fresh, and I can tell by SPOT that they set off down the Suwannee River at a civilized 8:00 am.

How far Moresailesed and TwoBeers get and when they can be expected to arrive at the end of the Suwannee? That's an excellent question. I do not have an answer, though I am actually pretty interested in that topic.

It's 82 miles as the crow flies from Fargo to the end of the Suwannee. The event rules suggest that the distance on the water is 220 miles. When I try plotting points on the SPOT map ruler, nobody is going to be surprised when the ruler taps out before I get to the I-10 bridge.

When I spoke to himself at around 3 pm today, Wednesday, TwoBeers reported that they were making good progress. The rainwater flushing down to the Gulf was giving them sometimes 2 knots of push. Altogether more comfortable than walking.
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We are delighted to hear that the reptilian residents of the river are keeping their snouts down. The weather today was around 75 and bright sunshine.  Maybe not quite warm enough to liven up the cold-blooded locals.

The Miss Patsters hope to navigate Big Shoals before dark -- it's a short portage around the Class III rapids –– and have supper.  Then Little Shoals, and after that, if they can do so, they plan to start their watch system (one person is awake for two hours, while the other sleeps) as they float down the river.

​Perhaps not an ideal method to navigate a river after rain has dumped, but it's the method they are going to try. 

Knocking wood some more. 

I wake several times in the night these days, click on the SPOT map (annoying as it can be), and now that my racers are in range, check the "Find My" app to locate my favorite skipper.  Today, the second Tuesday of the Ultimate Florida Challenge I woke groggy at 8:30. Granted, it was 7:30 only a few days ago, but still, lazybones.

Waking the laptop, I found the team of Moresailesed and TwoBeers was still –– actually still –– in the middle of the planned 40-mile portage.  It's the likeliest spot to camp: at the base of a power tower, on a patch of mowed grass, a long stone's throw from the highway.   I double-checked my data and sent a quick text to my team: Your last SPOT ping was blah blah blah, please press okay, it's 8:30 on Tuesday.

Crickets.

An hour later, I send another text: Your last SPOT ping was blah blah, please press okay, it's 9:30 Tuesday.

I hit refresh a few times, and voilá! movement.  Thank you, I text them. 

Were there tears? I said.  

No, not really, not me, he said. The shoulder was okay, the feet, the back, everything was okay. The calves were pretty sore. I didn't cry. He raised his voice, But JT might still cry, and they both laughed.

Yes, they had slept longer than they planned that morning. At 8, I said his name once, TwoBeers said, but he didn't even stir. He needed the sleep.

It had been a decent day, really: all the passing cars were considerate in sharing the road.  No wildlife sightings, but the Chief stopped by! 

The Fargo buffet was closed because it's Tuesday, and the long-anticipated steam trays of savory  goodness in the convenience mart were nearly empty, but there was a ham-and-cheese sandwich waiting for him when he finished the beer. 

Go! Eat! I said. Send pictures!

I don't know if they will dash into the canoe at first light, but I suspect a long shower, a long snooze, and a big greasy-spoon breakfast will set them up for whatever tomorrow brings.