It is Spring 1993 and Dave and I are impatient to continue our adventures on the Appalachian Trail. To relieve the itch we have joined two friends for a leisurely paddle down the Suwannee River, from Georgia and into North Florida. It must be that adventure seeks us out, whether or not we look for it. This is a story of the so-called "Storm of the Century."

 Do Like They Do In Georgia. About The Weather,That Is...

             What “Do” they do about rain in Georgia? Why, they let it RAIN, of course ! The same can hold true for wind or flooding or drought, I suppose. Good advice from that purveyor of wisdom: my dad—back in the days when “hurricane” was a household Florida word, and everyone kept a supply of Sterno for cooking and the term “hurricane lamp” had real meaning. Bathtubs were Cloroxed and filled and “entrenching tools” were the commonest form of plumbing devices that worked. Everyone hoped that the roof wouldn’t blow off, but sometimes it did. Then, everything got wet. There really wasn’t much anyone could do about it except “do like they do in Georgia…”

            Last week we were getting ready to bed down on a sand bar alongside the Suwannee River. The soft river breeze was enough to discourage the mosquitoes. The sun set gently behind wispy clouds. As the brilliant blue sky darkened into purple, the stars peeked through the curtain, winking at us. Soon the entire area was washed with the brilliant white light of the full moon. It wasn’t hot and it wasn’t cold. The sleeping bag was cozy but not confining. It was, in the fullest sense of the word: glorious! Mornings dawned cool but not damp. Within an hour we were peeling our wind pants off to risk a pinkening skin.

            The river was high and the current brisk. It was, most of the time, a lazy paddle downstream from Fargo, Georgia to Suwannee River State Park near Lake City, Florida—eighty nine or so miles. One day was nicer than the other and the evenings were the nicest I’ve ever spent out of doors ANYPLACE—EVER! “Why haven’t we done this before?” In five days on the river we saw a total of six people (until we approached the state park)—only two of those were in a boat on the river! What a River! It twists and turns, bubbles and rushes; it meanders among swamp and scrub; is bordered by limestone caverns; is overhung by massive oaks and cypress. Bluffs this time of year are pastel wonders: pink-gold of new maple growth, gray green of cedar, chartreuse of new oak, rough saw teeth of palmetto. Almost every inside curve is outlined with the white sugar sand associated with the upper Gulf Coast—broad expanses of beach, fringed with oak-woods. The water is tawny-colored with the tannin from tree roots—looking all the world like a rich dark clear tea. Our canoes cut silent swaths as we imagined ourselves anytime back in time, far from the madding crowd.

            Our companion—long time friends—are experienced outdoors-people but are more used to organized hunting parties and treks with professional guides. Dave and I have different experiences and had heard the “nasty rumors” that the weather was “going to change…” Wouldn’t it be “sad” if we fooled Mother Nature and didn’t have to use our Gore-tex rain suits?....let that heavy woolen sweater stay in the stuff sack?

            We hauled the canoes out at Suwannee River State Park Friday afternoon. The temperature hovered around 85. My sunburn itched. We lashed the canoes to the top of the truck and headed back to Georgia to retrieve our companions’ car from the parking lot of the Gator Motel. We ate ice cream and said our farewells-—still exclaiming over the obscenely delicious (or was it deliciously obscene?) weather we’d had all week.

            “Do you want to go home just now?” “Let's go play around Valdosta—tomorrow is Garage Sale Day.”

            It was clear by 5:30 AM next morning, as we awoke in our motel room, that either Valdosta was having an earthquake, tornado, hurricane or that we had been having simultaneous nightmares. As we started for home we heard that “trucks were all over 1-75” and in the light of our canoe on top we opted for the less traveled US 41. Five miles out of Valdosta turned us around. Pine trees littered the road. Big Georgia Pines! I navigated us across the state line—no electricity in South Georgia or North Florida. The river that was so peaceful just the day before was now roiling. We stopped at the Telford Hotel in White Springs: “Are you serving breakfast?” “Yes.” “Do you have electricity?” “No” The big dining room was lit with gas lamps. They couldn't make toast but the ham and eggs were just fine. Apologizing for the lack of cash register, the waitress just rounded our bill off to the nearest dollar—ignoring things like sales tax. Every time someone opened the outside door, oak leaves blew in and settled on the table-in our coffee—on our plates. (This was just like camping!)

            We got as far as Chiefland before we realized what destruction this freak storm had caused right in our own backyard. Swarms of people were belly up to the registers at Wal-Mart and Winn-Dixie. Funny, on a Saturday afternoon we saw not one person from Cedar Key in that store! (That should have told us something!) Bottled water, Coleman Stoves and Lanterns, kerosene were hot selling items. We were well equipped at home to do without electricity or water. What we weren’t prepared for was being told “you can’t go home! Cedar Key is closed!” In situations like this where there just isn’t anything we can do about it—we just “think about it tomorrow.”

            Tomorrow came and we were allowed to return home. What we saw in Cedar Key was a blow—no pun intended. It could have been worse: much worse! This is no solace to those friends who lost their homes or to those people who are faced with looking for their boats or yard furniture or pieces of new docks or roofs. It's no comfort to all the people who worked all day Sunday mopping out stores or trying to preserve food without electric power. It's no comfort to the terrified pets.

            Today we are thanking God that it WASN’T worse: the sun is shining, and neighbor is helping neighbor. There’s a spirit here in Cedar Key that can’t be denied. Nerves are frayed and folks are tired.

            We can’t really do much about the weather, but we can keep our own counsel: “Do like they do in Georgia…”