River’s End
Field Notes
The drive to Welaka, Florida is the kind that makes your stomach hurt. Not literally, although I was getting over a stomach bug, but in a way only a photographer might understand. It’s the kind of drive where every building, every person, every nook along the way contains a photo to be taken, a story to be told. An endless conveyor belt of interesting subjects.
Lining the highway are old towns, some having aged well with a quiet, historic charm. Others look more desperate, their buildings speckled with plywood-covered windows and doors, hopes and dreams. In some places, churches seem to outnumber the residents, and you can’t help but wonder how they fight over the same few souls.
But as quickly as they come, they go. The highway presses you forward, leaving only an image in your mind and a hint of regret in your stomach. Once in a while you stop and turn back, only to find that the moment you noticed from behind the window has already passed.
I’ve spent the last seven months exploring the 74-mile-long Ocklawaha River, but I hadn’t yet visited its end, the point where it spills into the St. Johns River. So I spent the early morning of Father’s Day driving to Welaka, a small town nestled on the eastern edge of the St. Johns, directly across from where the two rivers meet.
The name Welaka is a Seminole-Creek word meaning “river of lakes,” which is what the Indigenous Peoples called the St. Johns River before European settlement. The town is the only viable point I could find from which to photograph this section of the river, which passes through the remote Little Lake George Wilderness on the west side of the St. Johns.
Welaka is central to one of the arguments for removing the aging Rodman Dam. If the dam were to fail, the town could be in the path of destruction. A recent article by the Ocala StarBanner states that Welaka is at “ground zero,” adding, “If there were a breach of that dam unexpectedly, they would have to vacate within an hour and a half or two, with no centralized system to warn the residents."
The Ocklawaha River, the largest tributary to the St. Johns, begins in Central Florida at the north end of Lake Griffin and flows northeast, eventually dumping hundreds of millions of gallons of freshwater into the St. Johns River every day. But the Rodman Dam restricts its flow, and the reduced volume is contributing to increased saltwater intrusion into the St. Johns.
I’m encouraged by the recent coverage and advocacy surrounding the Ocklawaha River and other rivers around the country. A New York Times article reported on a group of Indigenous youth taking a historic 300-mile kayak journey down the Klamath River following the removal of four major dams. I can’t help but wonder how far we are from a connected 74-mile journey down the Ocklawaha.
As part of the 2025-26 fiscal year budget, $6.25 million was approved for the partial removal of Rodman Dam. But it still awaits a signature from Gov. Ron DeSantis.
This post is the first in what I’m calling “Field Notes,” where I briefly discuss recent adventures and share articles and news related to the restoration of the Ocklawaha River. They aren’t full stories, just fragments worth sharing.
It was nice to finally visit the confluence of the Ocklawaha and St. Johns rivers after months of viewing it from Google Earth. But it sort of felt like one of those the-more-you-know-the-more-you-realize-how-much-you-don’t-know moments.
The thing about following a river is that it never really ends. One river leads to another, which leads to another, which eventually leads to an ocean. And with each step, you realize how hopelessly connected everything is. The destruction of one leads to the destruction of another. The restoration of one leads to the restoration of another. And you can’t really tell the story of one without telling the stories of the others.
I think I’m realizing the St. Johns might become a larger part of this project than I originally anticipated.
