Hontoon Island: A Much Needed Adventure

Laying in my sleeping bag, staring at the canvas ceiling of my tent, I listened to the night noises of the forest. I know it was irrational, especially in a small state park like Hontoon Island, but I listened for the pads of a bear, the huffs of it rooting through our stuff. An occasional barred owl hooted in the trees, sometimes echoing far away, other times like through a loudspeaker right above me.

I had tossed and turned for the past hour, deciding if I had to go right now or if I could make it till morning. Peeing at night while camping was always the worst, and I had drank three beers (a lot for me) around the campfire, so it felt like the entire Atlantic was in my bladder. Something about leaving the relative safety of the tent and venturing out into the dark unknown only to pull down my pants and so my business (undeniably one of the most vulnerable things a human can do) always left me in primal fear. If you want to feel like prey, the heightened awareness, the nervous energy, go pee in the woods at night.

I thought, maybe, I could wait until morning, when the sun was shining and other campers were out and about, until I knew I couldn’t. I would have to brave whatever the darkness held for me.

Unzipping the door, I looked out on a murky campsite. My hammock hung between two pines. There were some loose embers dazzling in the firepit. It was now or never, I thought. The longer I kept the door open, the more mosquitoes I would have to deal with later.

Tonight was cool, down in the mid 50s, and no wind rustled the trees. Only the chirp-chirp of crickets, as I hurried out behind the tent and began returning nutrients to the sandy soil from whence they came.

Suddenly I heard noises and knew I was going to die. It sounded like howler monkeys fighting, hyping each other up to where their throaty-O calls devolved into long AAAAAs, like someone yelling. I pictured my primate brothers descending on me, their unsuspecting sibling, tearing into my flesh. It’s safe to say my pee was cut short by the raucous. I would have fully-body dove into the tent if my girlfriend had not been asleep. But I did zip up the tent behind me like I was slamming the door on sasquatch.

My girlfriend rolled over. I could tell she was looking at me through squinted lids.

“I went outside. . . to pee,” I said. “I made it back alive.”

“Congratulations.” She rolled back over and went to sleep.

Earlier that day, we were on our way to Blue Springs State Park. My girlfriend had heard about the manatee congregation there so we thought we’d check it out while we were in the area. I had had my doubts. Being a new transplant from Wisconsin, the most manatees I’d seen was kayaking a month prior at Turkey Creek in Malabar, where I had only seen three adults and one baby.

On our drive in, the park station had a daily count of how many sea cows were currently in the spring. It read 174. I had to double-take to make sure I had read it correctly. Indeed, it said 174. Man were we in for a treat, and by no means were we the only ones.

We’d gotten there around 10 a.m., and already the parking lot was nearly full. People walked around in sweatshirts, some light jackets. I moved to Florida in April of 2021 so I’m still amazed by the climate here. Walking around in T-shirts and sweatshirts in November seems crazy to me.

Let me just say, the number of manatees, some type of gar too, floating lazily in the crystal clear spring was amazing. I would recommend checking out Blue Springs State Park if you’re in the area.

After some time at Blue Springs, we got a call from a park ranger at Hontoon Island State Park, where we planned to camp that night. He let us know that the ferry to the island stopped running at five and he gave us directions to the park.

This almost gave my girlfriend an anxiety attack. When we booked the campsite, nothing was said about it being on an actual island, nor a ferry. Immediate questions were brought to mind. Was the ferry big enough for our car? How would we transport all the gear to our campsite? Where would we leave our car? Is the island large or are we going to be sleeping near the alligator-infested water? My girlfriend and I are anxious people, so when we heard this a thousand red flags were raised. We decided to drive there a little before our check-in time to scope it out to soothe our anxiety.

Once we got there, instantly we felt better. The island was, in fact, quite large. There are 12 tent campsites, a few cabins, plenty of boat parking, and 8 miles of trails covering the island. The ferry, really just a normal pontoon, runs on-demand from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Parking on the far side of the St. Johns river, we loaded our gear into wheelbarrows and loaded those onto the ferry. Once over to the other side, we bought some wood from the super friendly volunteer staff and put all our stuff into a utility van. The ride to our campsite, bumping down a dirt road through a lush sub-tropical ecosystem, felt like I was taking a tour through Jurassic Park. I was just waiting for velociraptors to claw at the sides of the van.

The rest of the day we spent hiking through the hammocks and the eerie flatwood, before settling down around the fire to enjoy a beer.