Mark and Dana are safe in New York, resting and downloading after the first leg of their travels. To wrap up this trip down, they made a brief stop at Gulf Shores State Park in Alabama...

... and then they proceeded along a wild safari on Bartram's Canoe Trail through the Alabama swamps. Here's Mark's version of what happened:

"Thus far we were finding it rather challenging to encounter wild places. Many of the Atlantic coastal areas seem subsumed by the canker of new development, while the coastal park swamps of Louisiana and Mississippi remain largely closed due to recent catastrophic events, and the Gulf Shores State Park is a mere postage stamp. Thus we had high hopes for Alabama's Bartram Canoe Trail and the river delta did not disappoint in providing high adventure.

"We met out traveling companion, the artist Christy Gast, in Pensacola. After I lectured at the University of West Florida and we feasted on local oysters we were ready for a hearty canoe trip. Generous friends of Christy's lent us a spacious and pristine red canoe, and by 10 a.m. we had already set off for a day paddle and overnight sleeping platform somewhere. Having consulted the glossy bold fold out brochure and slick web site we felt confident of a relaxing trip. The only indication that we would have some difficulty came from an elder waterman who claimed that no one had gotten through the creek we planned to paddle since the hurricane.

"With no further indication that things might get hairy we set off with a full canoe in high spirits and followed the canoe trails prominent yellow diamond signs. The day bright and temperate, we had a good paddle ahead of us but it did not seem beyond our means. Soon however the reliable signs gave out and we began to see the havoc hurricanes had dealt the Delta. Our coordinates came into doubt as the trail signs petered out. At our first vital crossroad we had to choose between an impossible tangle of fallen trees and debris from what must have been a walkway or bridge on our left and a creek mouth blocked by a single massive tree fallen across the creek on our right. Submerged below the amber water we could faintly detect a trail marker with an arrow pointed down to unplumbed depths. We took the left fork, which meant portaging all our gear and canoe around the tree. This took so much time and muscle that we immediately devoured our fried chicken lunch as soon as the task was accomplished. We then perceived that the creek dead-ended into a road not 20 yards beyond. We reverse portaged and took the other fork, which entailed clearing the flotsam and jetsam and hauling the loaded canoe over a log that blocked our path. This creek also seemed utterly blocked and dead ended. At this point in dire need to consult the map we came to the realization that the state game lands map we possessed was of a scale too small to be useful for it showed everything in microscopic detail without differentiation as to the size of the waterways, while the glossy Bartram canoe map sat comfortably a mile away on the car seat. Very bad.

"We retraced out route back to another fork and followed what we now know to have been Major's Creek. This creek, with its high clay banks and sandy bottom, snaked back and forth for some time before we reached our first seriously obstructed section. Before us, stretching across the creek like massive pick-up-sticks were trees of various sizes fixed in every possible angle. For miles on end we had to haul the canoe over logs standing mid-stream, perched on mud and slime covered trunks, pulling the fat, red boat over the prone trees. At other times we would have to do a spine-bending limbo dance as we glided under low-hanging trees, or we would have to hack our way around root wads with only the leatherman saw blade to aid us. The car was full of tools to aid in such an endeavor - there were camp axes, bow saws and pruners, but we had anticipated an easy canoe trip. A cakewalk, not something hardcore where we would have to portage or haul the canoe every ten yards. Already soaked we waded through the creek dragging the canoe along over six inch deep water through sandbars and then again over three foot high fallen trees, all the while conscious of time - we began to imagine having to pitch camp.

"After hours at this arduous pace the river began to widen. Our map was soaked and in tatters. We had become so disoriented that it mattered little. Down this new, generous waterway we vigorously paddled certain that at any moment some vital clue would reveal our whereabouts. The large river abruptly ended at an elevated sandbar and we followed a narrow channel, which opened to our right. This shallow, twelve foot wide stream bisected the sandbar and palmetto bordered forest. After bottoming out several times the channel opened into an expansive river. Was this the Tensaw at last?

"The sun sets early and swiftly this time of year in southern Alabama and the blue of nightfall with its quiet was firmly establishing itself on the big river as we entered. Far in the distance Dana spied a small bass boat with two anglers. We had been paddling for eight hours interrupted only by the more physically challenging task of freeing the canoe and yet we put in steam and rushed toward the fishermen. They were probing the overhanging roots and cypress buttresses with skill and approached us as we zeroed in to them like hungry ducks on the slope. Our first question to them was "where are we?" Their first question to us was "where are you from?"

"No, we were not on the Tensaw River. We had gone far northwest and were now on the Alabama River. Bad news. They towed us back the half mile we had come to meet them to the sandbar. The anglers seemed shocked by the mess we had gotten ourselves into - just minutes before nightfall, utterly lost and seemingly unprepared. However, we impressed them by mentioning our t-bone steak, green beans, tortellini, coffee, red wine and single malt scotch. They were charming gentlemen, hospitable and kind. They offered to tow us out and help us, but we were determined to stay. They left us with the highest possible esteem for the sportsmen of this fine state. As their running light disappeared around the bend we discovered that I had mistakenly not packed the tent. Me, experienced expedition camper, had left the tent and the map. Perhaps, I should cut back on the booze.

"We built a significant fire and prepared to sleep under the stars. We ate a simple meal, which could not have tasted better. After dinner we set a 17 hook night line baited with stinky orange chicken livers. This turned out to be a waste of time. Throughout the night our sleep was interrupted by the most outrageous wild sound. The mad screams of the great blue heron, owl hoots, critters rambling in the dry leaves and alligator calls. The morning came gray and gloomy and revealed strewn about us the tidings of every slob who had ever camped here. Scattered Busch beer cans, broken lawn chairs, entire full black plastic trash bags punctuated the landscape. Nevertheless the dawn chorus was glorious and fish rose from the river as an otter swam by. Christy caught a good size fish on a daredevil lure, and Dana caught a microscopic bass. I caught nothing. We ate fish, eggs and grits and were reluctant to leave our peaceful campsite. We loaded into the canoe and began to follow the instructions of our angler friends down river, past the cow stile, below the high tension wires and under the bridge. We hauled the boat over five exceptionally large trees and portaged the entire boat and contents once. During the portage I walked face first into an impressive yellow spider web with a three inch long beast in its center. She now dwells in a bottle of alcohol.

"It seemed we were on track and even our horrible little map assisted us until it blew overboard, becoming as flimsy as a wet napkin. Then something went wrong, we could not figure out where we were. Four times we passed by ancient hollow cypress, but could not find a passage through this creek. We paddled misdirected for hours and never saw another face. It rained cold heavy drops on our unprepared heads. Now the larger river we were on narrowed to sandy sweet grass channels and the old Bartram canoe trial signs reappeared in unlikely places. Often behind curtains of Spanish moss. We probed the narrow sweet grass channel, which turned into a high banked creek littered with fallen wood. Mist gathered and daylight evaporated as we were forced into creative and highly physical maneuvering through the water. We had now gained a bit of skill in hauling over logs or gathering momentum to break through debris dams. As we unpacked our flashlights the creek entered a big water river. What to do now? It was night and we could see little ahead. We were wet from head to toe as the night chill was setting in. I wanted to go ashore and construct a lean to and fire, while Christy wanted to push ahead, all night if needed. Once again, we had no idea where we were, but we paddled down river half a mile and saw a light. It was the only light, for even the stars were masked. We raced toward it and met, yet again, two sportsmen, hunters this time, all bedecked in camo. They informed us that we were on the Tensaw, but not the right Tensaw. We had pushed much too far west and were now on the western Tensaw River. Bad news. These fine gentlemen were returning from a weekend of duck hunting and they offered us to sleep in their houseboat. They had even left a fire. We thanked them and they headed off while we paddled to their rustic retreat. Our impression of the outdoor enthusiasts of Alabama continued to favorably expand. We built up the dying embers of their fire while drying our clothes and eating bags of chips. The cabin, though amply populated with mosquitoes, provided a welcome sanctuary from the nights winds and rains.

"Each of us experienced stress dreams and mosquito bites during the course of the night. In the early hours before dawn the wind raged outside and we realized that if the wind continued at this velocity and if it was at our face we would not be able to canoe out of here.

"Fortunately the wind was at our backs and so after heaping bowls of apple flavored grits we piled into the canoe, opening Dana's parasol for an extra push in the sharp breeze. We located our position on the map and concluded that we were probably more than a day's paddle from the landing, but we remained uncertain of our precise position. A mile down river we spotted a small cabin with a boat tied to the dock. Christy rushed up to the cabin with our blob of a map to confirm our position. For some time she did not return, and Dana and I were convinced that she had stumbled upon two hunters in a loving embrace and they had been forced to kill her. However, in fact, she had woken up a pair of hard drinking sportsmen who proved to be courteous, generous and remarkably helpful. Buddy and Cris, two outdoor-loving, native Alabamians, confirmed our fears that we remained more than a day away from Hubbard's Landing. However, they were packing out and would happily tow us back to their landing site and Cris offered to drive us back to our awaiting cars. They popped a beer, vacuumed the floor, cleaned the dishes and loaded the boat while we shivered around the kerosene heater. Here was our rescue team. These guys saved our asses and Christy's job, and shared their good stories. As I rode in the towed canoe our friends chain smoked, guzzled beer and entertained Christy and Dana with their very best snake and alligator tales. We owe a hearty thanks to three pairs of Alabama's finest outdoor sportsmen."

- M

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