The first step went into water. Brash gusts of wind forced their way south blowing my wide brimmed hat around as I forced my way north. The wet pathway extended through sawgrass, bordered with bald cypress trees. Minnows darted in the crystalline water before my moving feet, which negotiated submerged white potholes of rock. The loud wind competed with the sloshing of my feet for audio supremacy. I pushed forward over what was once known as Old Sawmill Road, a long abandoned plank lined track, now left to hikers such as myself. I was making my way on the Florida Trail, from its modest, inauspicious, and hard-to-find beginning in the Big Cypress National Preserve, a 750,000 acre swath of wildland in the heart of Florida's southern peninsula.

I thought back on how good luck had already befallen me. I was a 44-year-old 196-pound, man upon which rested a 42-pound pack, determined to follow the Florida Trail to its conclusion in the Florida Panhandle. After arriving at the trailhead, I rushed to start the hike, having thought about this project -- hiking the Florida Trail -- for years, and having come to fruition, I was weary of thinking about it, weary of talking about, weary of planning for it and was simply ready to hike. My two Minnesota friends, John and Barb Haapala, were sending me off and taking the care of my Jeep while I was gone. We were snapping pictures at the remote trailhead and up drive some tourists from Wisconsin. They pulled over and got out in the fashion that tourists do, stopping to see what someone else has stopped to see, even though they might not know what the first group stopped to see. I was tying and retying my shoes, trying to get it right. A slender older woman walks up, and asks, "Did someone drop this?" I look up and she has my wallet in her hand! It was full of money and other necessities to execute a long distance hike, stuff I needed to undertake the 1100 mile journey.

I put the wallet away and John said in his Minnesota accent, "I hope you don’t drop anything else along the way." I thanked John and Barb for dropping me off then fell into the rhythmic alternating footfalls, pushing one foot in front of the other through the water, swamp slogging. Suddenly -- movement at my feet. A snake in the water! I danced forward, legs contorting in fast motion, successfully avoiding the equally shocked serpent, which slithered into the sawgrass. How ironic! The most common comment from well wishers upon hearing about my Florida Trail (FT) hike was "Watch out for the snakes and alligators." Maybe they were right. Ha! The first surprise of the trip. I was ready for anything, even a slithering snake in the trail. My adopted motto for this adventure was "Let it rip!" I had planned extensively for the hike until I was planned out.

The second surprise was already in motion, though not as rapid as the snake. The powering winds blowing in my ears were the leading edge of a cold front, pushing frosty air into the southernmost reaches of Florida. Tonight was gonna be a cold one. But I didn't care about heat or cold, I was too excited to be underway. Today was three weeks removed from the winter solstice and the hours of visible light -- already longer than back home in East Tennessee, were getting longer.

The Big Cypress scenery was such as portrayed in the pictures of famous South Florida photographer Clyde Butcher. Tall stands of cypress, known as domes, and also pine stands, where the ground was somewhat higher and drier, broke an expansive sawgrass plain. The domes and stands resembled hills of brown and green over which floated puffy white clouds. Along the FT, dwarf pond cypress rose from the sawgrass and stretched their contorted stiff limbs like props for a scary movie.

By 1:45 I had completed my first mile. Only 1,099 more to go. Mud splayed onto my legs with each step, reflecting the terrain, which was not quite land and not quite water, but quite certainly the Big Cypress. But I was getting used to it. Like others of my kind, we humans are the most adaptable creature on the planet, whether the stimuli be pleasure or pain, whether we are living a billionaire’s life or a prisoner’s life serving life. We simply get used to it.

I began to imagine my destination as the pine islands in the distance, Frog Hammock. Of course, Frog Hammock was a little farther than I thought. An axiom of self-propelled wilderness travel is you rarely have gone as far as you think you have. Eventually, also known as three miles, the Florida Trail led into the thick woods of Frog Hammock. The increased elevation here was scarcely a foot, but it was high and dry enough for a thru-hiking backpacker to throw down camp. In wet years, Frog Hammock would be fit only for a frog.

I walked to the center of the woodland and dropped my pack against a tree. A fire ring, made of broken cinder blocks, marked the spot. A pump well, now just a corroded edifice, stood in the distance. Frog Hammock had seen busier days. Other rusty relics revealed the area to be a one time hunt camp of some sort. An old stove, a tank, and creaky box springs hinted at days gone by.

The gusty wind pounded at the dense woods, occasionally penetrating my little island in the sea of sawgrass. The broken pump well necessitated a short search for water, which I found in a limestone solution hole nearby. A solution hole is a pocket where water gathered in limestone rock that underlay South Florida, an ever so tilted sloping bedrock that allowed water to flow southward from Central Florida through the Big Cypress and onward through the Everglades.

The water in the solution hole was alive with swimming critters, and I took it as a good sign for poisonous water would harbor no aquatic life. Of course, to drink it you had to not mind drinking a few of the critters along with the sating water.

Back at camp, I started a campfire to make a little coffee. Unloading the pack to find coffee makings, I found an extra toothbrush, and no coffee filters. The best laid plans ... Part of letting it rip was to roll with the punches, though the inconvenience was a mere glance on the chin. I simply made camp coffee, letting the grounds steep in my aluminum pot, which was used to heat water over the fire. The spare toothbrush would be discarded later.

A creeping cold came with the inevitable dark, settling like fog. I dried my socks on some sticks propped before the flames, it was going to take two pairs to keep my feet warm tonight, a two-sock night, if you will. Unfortunately, I burned a hole in one sock during the drying process. A pale, pocked full moon rose over the adjacent pines. I scooted a little closer to the fire, following the progress of the white orb as it crossed the sky, obscuring all but the brightest of stars.

In the distance an owl hooted. It was just like I imagined it to be. The Florida Trail thru-hike was on.

Excerpted with Permission of the Author from Hiking the Florida Trail: 1,100 Miles, 78 Days, Two pairs of Boots and One Heck of an Adventure.