Chapter 11
After a restful night on the wooden platform, the crew awoke to the gentle murmur of the river and the inviting aroma of breakfast prepared by Remy. Supplies were running low, so the remaining oatmeal and granola bars were served.
“We’re eatin’ light this morning, but we’ll have fresh supplies in a couple of hours,” Remy informed them.
The crew gathered around the makeshift dining area, exchanging thoughts about the journey ahead. Everett unfolded the map to discuss the day’s plan.
“Today, we’ve got a 7-mile paddle to reach Whitey’s Fish Camp. The current is definitely in our favor, so we should make it in just under two hours. Once there, we can catch up on supplies, check out the manatees in Osceola Springs, and enjoy a good meal,” Everett announced.
For Everett, Whitey was more than just a fish camp owner; he was a longtime friend from the days of Whitey establishing his homestead on Sweetwater Creek. As a river guide, Riley also got to know Whitey over the years from her many stops for supplies during her tours on the river.
The Fish Camp, nestled on Osceola Spring, remained hidden from the river’s view. A discreet wooden sign nailed to a tree pointed up the narrow spring run, a quarter mile off the Sentinel Cypress River. The run, 30 feet wide and surrounded by lush ferns and cypress knees, led to Osceola Spring—a second magnitude spring with an oval pool measuring 230 by 135 feet and a depth of 18 feet.
As the crew approached Whitey’s, the merging of clear spring water with the darker tannin water of the Sentinel Cypress River signaled the entrance to Osceola Spring. They guided their canoes to a designated docking area, where Whitey ‘Alligator’ Yates stood—a wiry figure with a long white ponytail, a full beard, and a weathered face. A straw river hat perched atop his head completed the ensemble.
“Welcome, my river friends!” Whitey exclaimed, extending a firm handshake to Everett. “It’s been a long time, Ev. You doing well?”
“No complaints, Whitey…you remember Sarah,” Everett said, motioning to her.
“Could never forget this lovely lady. In fact, I still have the remnants of several medicinal tinctures she fixed me up with before my journey out here,” Whitey said, sharing a fond hug with Sarah.
Whitey, recognizing Riley, extended a warm handshake. “‘Cap,’ you bringing these folks way out here on another of your deep wilderness tours?”
Riley smiled as she shook Whitey’s hand. “Not quite this time. We’re here on a special mission and we’ll tell you all about it.”
After further introductions, Whitey asked, “How was navigating Indian Bend Shoals? Quite the feat! Now, what can I do for y’all today?”
Everett replied, “The shoals were a piece of cake. A great shot of adrenaline, to be sure! We’re in need of supplies, a bit of catching up, and definitely a good meal.”
“Let me get you guys some lunch and we’ll talk. I’m quite interested in what brings y’all out this way,” Whitey offered.
The fish camp was a rustic place, with barnboard siding and a rusting tin roof, adorned with weathered signs advertising fresh bait and cold sodas. There was no electricity. Whitey was proficient in living off the grid, using natural gas and solar panels as his means of power. A tall, makeshift windmill helped pump water from the spring in his backyard.
A clearing behind the fish camp, alongside the spring, was Whitey’s garden. As was the case with his original property on Sweetwater Creek, Whitey implemented the principles of permaculture to achieve a well-integrated and sustainable environment for growing food, raising chickens, and producing his own energy, outside of the natural gas.
The crew wandered the property, admiring Whitey’s resourcefulness and ingenuity, then made their way over to the spring. Peering down, they saw a pod of three manatees in the clear turquoise water and white sandy bottom. A massive male, a smaller female, and a playful calf nudged its mother.
“Impressive,” Maggie remarked.
Everett chuckled. “Indeed. That little one is always a delight.”
The aroma of sizzling fish and frying onions wafted through the air. Their brief moment of admiration was interrupted by a loud clang from the kitchen. Whitey emerged, grinning.
“Alright, slackers! Food’s ready. Let’s eat!”
The crew moved to a large picnic table under a well-worn canopy providing shade. Whitey brought over plates of freshly fried catfish, onion rings, hush puppies, and crisp coleslaw.
“There’s plenty, so help yourself,” he smiled as he served up the hefty plates of food. “Caught those catfish just this morning!”
“Everything is just great, Whitey…awesome!” said Everett as he popped another hush puppy in his mouth. There was mostly silence as everyone focused on the delicious meal.
Whitey broke the silence. “So what brings y’all out here in the middle of nowhere? I am assuming it isn’t just a casual paddle.”
Everett looked over at Sarah and nodded, offering her the opportunity to share her story. Whitey listened intently as Sarah described finding the journal and map at her Aunt Fran’s after Hurricane Maya blew through and their determination to uncover answers to questions surrounding her grandfather’s disappearance in Renegade Bayou many years ago.
Whitey exclaimed, “Wow, that’s fascinating. I’ve been out here for quite a while and off and on word comes about, in pieces, about your grandfather’s disappearance, but nothing really tangible.”
“You guys have your work cut out for you!” he said, then added, “Two dudes stopped by for some supplies just two days ago and left me with the weirdest feeling. I asked them what they were doing out here, and their answers sounded fishier than my catfish stew.”
Everett exchanged glances with the crew. Riley leaned in. “What did they want?”
Whitey shook his head. “Claimed they worked for the museum and were exploring the river for old Timucua mounds to document, but they didn’t look official at all. Even their Jon boat had no markings on it, and it raised an eyebrow of suspicion.”
Riley listened intently. Something about this information lit a spark in her mind to be further investigated.
“That was some good fixins,” Maggie told Whitey as she took a last sip of her sweet tea.
“Dittos here,” Remy agreed.
They all thanked Whitey for such a fulfilling meal and proceeded to get to the task of resupply.
Inside the camp store, shelves lined with provisions awaited them. The crew divided tasks—Riley and Maggie took charge of resupplying food and essentials, Remy explored the cooking supplies, and Everett and Sarah gathered information on weather updates.
“Looks like we’ve got some rain heading our way,” Whitey remarked. “You’re gonna want to make sure your gear is well-covered. I’ve got extra visqueen for y’all.” Whitey then turned on the VHF Radio for weather updates. Everett and Sarah listened in.
“It doesn’t sound good,” Everett said as Whitey asked, “Do y’all want to stay here ’til it passes?”
“Thanks, Whitey, but we’ll press on…we’ve been in worse and need to get to the next campsite before dark.”
With provisions loaded and secured, the crew thanked Whitey for his hospitality and began loading into their canoes. Everett shook Whitey’s hand firmly and said, “You take care, my friend. It was great seeing you again!”
Whitey returned a smile. “Safe travels, Ev!”
With that, the Paddle Posse resumed their journey with full bellies, needing to cover eight more miles to their next campsite.
A mile down the river, a light rain began to fall. The crew put on their parkas. A low rumble echoed in the distance, and white puffs of clouds gathered into a menacing gray mass. A flash of lightning illuminated the darkening sky, followed by a menacing crash of thunder.
“Eight miles to go…batten down the hatches, it doesn’t look good,” Everett warned.
~ Chapter 10 : Indian Bend Shoals ~ Chapter 12 : The Storm’s Embrace ~