Clubhouse Beach - Dec 13, 2013

Growing up as a boy scout in South Florida, I had ample opportunity to explore Everglades National Park, from Ordeals in Camp Everglades, a small Boy Scout campground within the bounds of the park; to a four day canoe trek to Cape Sable, the southernmost point of continental Florida; to several excursions out to Clubhouse Beach.

Clubhouse beach is a small strip of sand with a lone mangrove tree about seven miles from the Western edge of the Flamingo Campground. It is short, but also considered one of the seven hardest hikes in the National Park System due to its remote location, harsh climate, and swamp angels who have no problem sucking dry your blood supply. In any case, Our scout group had hiked to the beach in previous years as a day hike and was looking to sink its boots into the mud once again in preparation for the historic Barefoot Mailman Hike that was only a month away. Being December, South Florida had yet to get a single cold front, and temperatures were still in the mid 80's with high relative humidity. 

A friend and I had set forth early that Friday morning, hoping to beat the masses to the Ranger Station in Flamingo and get the back-country permit required to camp at Clubhouse. To our surprise, no one had requested a permit to the remote beach. In fact, the Rangers hadn't been out to the beach or even on the trail in two seasons, and we were tasked with reporting conditions to them on our return. 

Permit in hand, we began to set up in the Flamingo campground and wait for the other seven hikers who'd be joining us. It wasn't until well after dark that we had the full contingent set up and around the campfire, going over the hike on which we'd embark in the morning. While the bugs in the campground were worse than at our homes further north, we figured that we would fare well with the daytime sea breeze that blew across the flats. 

We were wrong. 

"Everglades                                                                                                       Dec. 13-15, 2013

At some point, we decided to try to hike to Clubhouse Beach. We made it, but at no small cost. The trail -though not as muddy as previously thought- was absolutely infested with mosquitoes. Of the nine, only four made the whole seven-mile journey. Just towards the end, we had to cross a flooded plain with crocodiles swimming within sight. We set up immediately on the beach, only to have our tents swallowed by high tide in the night."

The image of our crew, swathed in heavy clothing saturated with bugspray, being swarmed by clouds of mosquitoes burns like DEET in my memory: faces wrapped with t-shirts, the devils would crawl under our sunglasses and bite at our eyes as we attempted to wipe the sweat from our brows. Through the drier hammocks, we jogged with full packs hoping to outrun the mosquitoes until we reached the open mudflats where the breeze and sun kept them to a minimum of a few dozen. I remember as the first three hikers turned back a mile in. Smart decision. At four miles, I was in the middle of the pack, suffering alone in a dry hammock when I heard the crashing of boots through the malevolent underbrush that had all but reclaimed the trail. Two others had decided that they were finished. I slowed only a little as they flashed by, yelling "we're done with this!". We still had three miles to go. 

Within a quarter mile of the beach, the trail makes a harsh left turn due south across one last obstacle: a flooded marsh complete with knee-high mud, waist-high water, and crocodiles slithering within throwing distance. I can't throw that far. 

But we made it. Low tide had left us an ankle deep mudflat that stretched far out to the gulf along with a beach a few yards deep backed by a few sea-oats and beach succulents. The sea breeze blasted the mosquitoes off of our backs as we pitched our tents and lazily ate our dinners. As the sun set, we lit a small fire: victory. It burned quickly and quietly, and soon we were nestled on our sleeping bags mosquito-free and tired. Sleep.

I awoke to splashing. My first thought was that I was being woken up by my tent mate, but as I turned and peered out of the tent, I came to the realization that my crocs were in fact floating away from their previous position at the foot of our tent. I yelled "HIGH TIDE" and within seconds we had dragged our tents past the remaining sand onto the plants. By this time, the breeze had gone, and the mosquitoes were again on us - this time half naked with our tents wide open. In those brief seconds where we shifted our tents, dozens had decided to join us for the night. To this day, those two tents are stained with blood from the following massacre. 

I'm not sure how fast we hiked out, but I'm sure that it was the quickest seven miles I've ever done. If the Rangers at Flamingo ever deny you a permit to Clubhouse Beach, its most likely because we told them to. In all honesty though, go. Bugs or no bugs, tide or no tide, it was one of the greatest and trying hikes I've ever done. I'll be back.