The Middle
Going Back
The old roads stretched on in the darkness and it seemed they might never end. The dark has a way of doing that—making things feel longer than they are.
I leaned my head toward the windshield and looked up. The boats on the roof shook with each bump, but they were secure.
It had been three years since Jenny and I camped along the river. That was before the river really meant anything to me. Now we were going back, and I was excited to see how my new understanding would affect the experience.
The drive to the Outpost was familiar. I’d traveled these roads countless times before, and it was a welcome change from my previous two months exploring the Upper Ocklawaha. We arrived a half hour before sunrise and Lance shuttled us to Silver Springs.
The Ocklawaha River
Water Levels
Water levels generally aren’t something you pay attention to—unless, of course, you live on the water.
This was our second time meeting Lance. During the drive to Silver Springs I asked him about the Rodman Dam and the postponed drawdown. He’s only lived on the Ocklawaha River for six years—he and his wife, Theresa, bought the business shortly after moving from Nebraska. But I figured he’d have an opinion to share.
Without choosing sides, he told us he’s the kind of person who prefers to keep nature the way it was intended. I knew what he meant.
Lance didn’t know when the next drawdown would be, but he told us water levels were so high following the 2024 hurricanes that the Outpost sign, which normally hangs four feet above the river, was completely submerged. This seems to support the rationale behind the delayed 2024/2025 drawdown—water levels in the St. Johns River basin were too high.
So far it doesn’t seem like anybody knows when the next drawdown will be. I’m still hoping for later this year.
When we got to Silver Springs we unloaded our boats and gear and I could see the sun catching the rising fog like hovering spirits over the water. I was eager to get on the river. We said goodbye to Lance and set off.
Jenny on the Silver River
The Middle
Blindfolded and dropped into the Silver River, you might think you were in the Amazon. The experience is worlds apart from the theme parks and white sandy beaches typically associated with Florida.
In my previous post I traced the Upper Ocklawaha from the headwaters at Lake Griffin north to its confluence with the Silver River. This trip picked up where that one left off, starting at Silver Springs and traveling east into the Ocklawaha River before turning north toward Fort McCoy.
This wild 25-mile stretch, appropriately called the Middle Ocklawaha, was once a major tourist attraction for visitors riding ferry boats back and forth between Silver Springs and Palatka. Most of the Cross Florida Barge Canal construction ended at the Eureka Lock and Dam just north of here, leaving this stretch undisturbed.
On our journey down the Silver River we saw alligators, migratory wood ducks, and manatees that glided beside our boats as if guiding us. We also saw the famous Silver Springs monkeys, a population of rhesus macaques that were released in the state park in the early 20th century to further increase its appeal as a major tourist attraction.
We stopped for lunch and coffee a couple miles after reaching the Ocklawaha River. Then we jumped back on the river before soon arriving at High Bluffs, our campsite for the night.
River map provided by the Outpost
This manatee swam beside my boat for 10 minutes, staying close to the surface the entire time.
A rhesus macaque monkey naps in a tree along the Silver River.
A male wood duck perches on a downed tree.
Our campsite at High Bluffs
Muddy River
The name Ocklawaha is derived from the Creek Indian “ak-lowahe,” which means “muddy.” Jenny and I waded in at dusk and, true to its name, felt the slimy bottom ooze beneath our feet.
The river was still, quiet. Peaceful. Only a couple boats passed us that evening. We stripped to our underwear and bathed in the cold water before returning to the tent.
We were clean and dry and closing the zipper to the tent when a dog ran to us and started sniffing around. Then a man appeared.
I stood.
“Sorry,” he shouted. “I didn’t realize anyone was down here.”
I didn’t get his name, but he was friendly and we talked for a few minutes. He told us he lives up the road and walks his dogs near the river in the evenings. He told us the high bluff site where we were camping—now part of the Cross Florida Greenway—was once owned by a rich lawyer in the 1960s who regularly threw parties lasting all night. He said that not far down the river in another high bluff area is a pathway leading to the original corn field of Osceola, an influential leader of the Seminole Tribe.
That night I wondered if the river—if rivers had the capacity to feel such things—found it strange to be in the middle of so much change. From the Seminole Wars and slavery to psychedelic parties, the Cross Florida Barge Canal, and now Jenny and I sleeping along its bank. From all it had seen before and to all it will see after. The river, forever muddied by the weight of human existence.
The Middle Ocklawaha winds north.
Jenny in our tent at dusk
Surrender
We rose with the sun and Jenny cooked while I made a small fire. After breakfast, we took a dip in the river, then slowly packed our things and moved on. We had only planned for a single night, which meant we’d have to make the remaining 13 miles back to the Outpost by 4:30 that afternoon.
Paddling the Ocklawaha is an exercise in surrender. Every bend in the river is quickly followed by another, an endless twisting rhythm. Paddle too hard and you’ll overshoot, crashing into the cypress knees. Hug the inside too closely and the current whips you into the lily pads. Trees and other debris require proactive attention. And then there is the occasional airboat spitting wind and churning waves in your direction. But get it right—embrace its rhythm, conform to its pace, anticipate its obstacles—and time melts.
Our boats scraped the bottom of the Outpost ramp around 3:30 p.m.
I thought again about what it meant to be in the middle—not just here, on this stretch of water, but in everything. Always between past and future. Always between what was and what will be. The Ocklawaha had carried generations before. Now it carried me, too.
We stepped out and pulled our boats up the ramp. Our journey was over, but the river behind us kept moving. It always would.
Morning dip in the river
Jenny and me