For a half hour, we were celebrities. Cameras clicked. Dignitaries spoke. Crowds cheered. Television cameras pointed to the seven of us in matching shirts posing in front of our flotilla of kayaks. We got aboard and paddled around the first bend of the creek. The send-off crowd at the creekside resort disappeared behind us, and we were enveloped by cypress trees that lined the narrow waterway. Great blue herons, snowy egrets and little blue herons poked along mats of waterweeds. Alligators slid quietly beneath the glassy surface. Ospreys cried overhead. We were surprised at how quickly Florida can flip-flop from a busy resort to a quiet wilderness. Just south of Orlando—home of Disney World—this band of red-brown swamp water that is Shingle Creek would carry us to the world’s most famous wetlands—the Everglades.

Shingle Creek in the southern part of Orlando—headwaters of the Everglades.
The Kissimmee Chain of Lakes has one of the highest concentrations of nonmigratory bald eagles in the continental U.S.
A pair of black-necked stilts along the restored section of the Kissimmee River. These birds disappeared from the river in the early 1970s after it was channelized and only returned five to six years ago after the first restoration phase was complete.
Students, teachers and media greet the expedition at Hunter’s Creek Middle School along Shingle Creek on the first day.
Map illustration by Christopher Hoyt

I became involved with Expedition Headwaters as part of my job with the Florida Department of Environmental Protection’s Office of Greenways and Trails. My duties focused on establishing the Florida Circumnavigational Saltwater Paddling Trail—a sea kayak trail around the entire state. When word got out in January of 2007 that a coalition of public, private and nonprofit organizations were organizing a 12-day paddling/hiking expedition from Orlando to Lake Okeechobee to publicize the plight of the upper Everglades, I was asked to participate. It didn’t take much arm twisting. The idea of paddling 140 miles through the Kissimmee Chain of Lakes and Kissimmee River without the customary sting of salt water in my eyes was appealing. After two months of coordinating gear, food, overnight stops and maps for our planned route, our team of seven was ready to begin.

Our paddling route was not a new one. For the Seminoles of the early 1800s, it was a well-traveled waterway—but to our knowledge, we would be the first in more than a century to paddle the entire length in one shot. Much of it would be through a surprisingly remote region, and we hoped for good weather. Late March can be a windy time of year in south-central Florida, and there’s always a chance of severe storms and days of continuous rain. On the plus side, temperatures are normally moderate and the hurricane season has not yet begun.

I was to take GPS readings at important locations so our route could be used as a future paddling trail, complementing the existing Florida Trail footpath along the Kissimmee River. Other team members would fulfill different roles. Dale Allen and Doug Hattaway of the Trust for Public Land would split time on the trip, gauging the need for more public land purchases along the route that could be used for campsites and land trail corridors. Beth Kelso and Ian Brown of the Florida Trail Association would evaluate hiking potentials. Bob Mindick and Julia Recker of the Osceola County Parks and Recreation Department, along with several folks from the South Florida Water Management District, would provide local expertise and support. Mike Jones, a retired navy man, would come along as a private citizen who loved the outdoors.

Starting Down the Chain
A strong headwind blasted us by the time we had followed Shingle Creek to its terminus at Lake Tohopekaliga that afternoon. At nearly 19,000 acres, the lake has an oceanlike feel. We struggled against wind and choppy waves to reach the 132-acre Makinson Island, one of many large islands that dot the Kissimmee Chain of Lakes. We landed on a sandy beach area near a dock and pitched tents in a grassy meadow behind old-growth live oaks that ringed much of the island. The sun shone brightly, warming the air enough for us to be comfortable in short pants, and the constant breeze kept the mosquitoes at bay.

Once slated for a resort hotel and time-share development and now publicly owned, Makinson Island, we quickly discovered, was a place with nesting bald eagles, swooping snail kites and numerous wading birds and sandhill cranes. The island was once home to Seminole Indians. Some suggest the Seminole name for the island was the same as the lake—Tohopekaliga or “fort site.” During the Second Seminole War (1835–1842), thick trees provided the Seminoles with cover, and canoes were kept on both ends of the island, so escape from federal soldiers was always possible.

We fell asleep under the stars to the sound of screech owls, grunting wild pigs, scrounging raccoons and the didgeridoo croaking of pig frogs. At the first light of dawn, we woke to the motorized scream of dozens of tournament bass-fishing boats, racing to their secret spots. Lake Tohopekaliga is a bass-fishing mecca as evidenced by the numerous tracks cut through the weeds by boat propellers. Songbirds, ducks and sandhill cranes took to the air as the high-powered boats raced by. It was time to break camp and continue.

We paddled from Makinson across Tohopekaliga continuing down the chain to Cypress Lake and lakes Hatchineha and Kissimmee. Long ago, winding creeks and cypress swamps connected the lakes, with passage suitable for dugout canoes. But 19th-century steamships were a different matter, so beginning in the early 1880s, canals were dredged between the lakes and, eventually locks were built for flood control. The canals had a dual purpose: they also drained adjacent swamps and floodplains so more land could be used for ranching.

In the past few years, the South Florida Water Management District has purchased vast tracts of former floodplain along the entire watershed—more than 100,000 acres in all at an average cost of $3,000 per acre—so the Chain of Lakes and Kissimmee River can once again pulse with the ebb and flow of wet and dry seasons, thus enhancing the health of wetlands along the lakes and river. The state of Florida and local governments have been buying additional tracts for recreation and wildlife protection. However, complete restoration of the Chain of Lakes basin would not be possible unless entire communities were moved. The canals connecting the lakes and associated locks and dams will remain in operation to maintain enough water for boat traffic and to prevent severe flooding of nearby towns and cities, such as Kissimmee. The locks will be used to create a controlled degree of flooding that will prevent property damage yet mimic natural cycles that are essential to the ecology of the wilderness areas.

While the locks will play an important role in restoring the wetlands, the canals are the least interesting stretches of paddling. Unlike a winding tree-canopied stream, the straight canals take away the mystery of wondering what’s around the bend—you can see a mile or more downstream. The undulating of natural lake and stream shorelines, with their waterweeds and abundant birdlife, was a welcome relief from the alleyways of the canals. If nothing else, the canals were reliably navigable. On one occasion, we paddled the Dead River—natural connector between Cypress Lake and Lake Hatchineha—but we ended up dragging our boats in several sections due to low -water.

We camped at several fish camps along the route. These generally consisted of docks and a ramp, numerous boats, lots of pickup trucks and camper trailers, a small store and rustic outbuildings nestled under arching live oak trees. At Camp Mack, perched on the edge of a side canal in between lakes Hatchineha and Kissimmee, fishermen and hunters sat around a smoldering fire in front of the camp store day and night. The campers there had never seen kayakers along the Chain of Lakes. Airboats and other motorized crafts were the more common modes of water travel. “You gotta be careful with that blue canoe,” said one old-timer to team-member Beth Kelso, nodding to her kayak. “It’s gator mating season, and they’ll think that’s a female gator!”

Jerry Renney serenaded us with song at Camp Mack. Jerry was an early activist with the Kissimmee River Valley Sportsman’s Association, fighting for public access to area waters and trying to clean up and restore the river system. His songs were passionate, nostalgic and heartwarming, sometimes about “when Florida could make you feel small.” It can still make visitors feel small, especially in parts of the Kissimmee valley. Many of the sovereign rights conflicts of the 1980s—mostly with ranchers who were blocking access to some of the lakes—were resolved when the South Florida Water Management District simply bought the land or acquired easements instead of fighting in lengthy and expensive court battles. Jerry concluded, “What’s happened here in my home, the Kissimmee River valley, has made it a whole lot better than it used to be.”

Camp Mack marked the spot where half the group began hiking to Lake Okeechobee—scouting a potential footpath that would link up to the Florida Trail—while the other half of us continued kayaking. We were to meet the hikers each night at a prearranged campsite.