F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Vincent Bini
As you may or may not know, I am quite fond of the Everglades. Some might call it an obsession—I’m good with either. Ever since I first laid eyes on it, there’s rarely a day I don’t think about being back out there.
Spending a day in the Glades is always great, but camping at a primitive site? That’s next level.
I should warn you, though—it’s not for the faint of heart.
Over the years, I’ve camped everywhere from beaches to staking up in a remote creek and sleeping in the boat. After weighing the pros and cons, my buddies decided on a land site. We picked Watson’s Place, an old homestead on the Chatham River.
With the decision made, we gathered our gear, loaded two boats, and set off for adventure.
We launched out of Chokoloskee Island in early spring. The temperatures were still cool, and the bugs were blissfully minimal—a rare luxury.
We made our way up the Lopez River, weaving through the backcountry until we reached our destination. After docking the boats and setting up camp, we headed back out for the real reason we came—fishing.
We fished together for a while before splitting up, agreeing to meet back at camp before dusk. I took my crew deeper into the backcountry, hoping to find snook and maybe a redfish for dinner. We hit a creek with a perfect oyster bar at the mouth—usually a prime redfish spot this time of year.
As luck would have it, they were there. As luck would also have it, they were all either too big or too small. Oh, the humanity.
We caught plenty of fish and managed to coax a few decent-sized mangrove snapper into the cooler. By the time we had what we needed, it was time to head back, clean the fish, and prepare dinner. The other boat beat us back and had already lit the fire and started pouring drinks.
The rum was flowing.
After a few pre-dinner libations, we sat around swapping stories and horsing around. Watson’s Place sits on some of the highest ground in the Glades—once a thriving farm, now a thick jungle of overgrowth. After dinner and a few more drinks, we got the brilliant idea to explore.
Not during the day, of course. We went in the dead of night.
Now, let’s not forget: the Everglades are still 100-percent wild. We were wandering through prime territory for black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, and enough venomous snakes to make Indiana Jones call it quits. Flashlights in hand, we followed game trails and long-forgotten paths, messing with a couple of guys who were visibly uncomfortable.
After a good laugh at their expense, we headed back to camp for more beverages and campfire stories. Conversations covered every topic imaginable—and some that absolutely shouldn’t have been discussed.
That’s when I noticed something moving out of the corner of my eye. At first, it was just a single raccoon. No big deal. Then my buddy yelled, “Hey! That raccoon is drinking my drink!”
We turned to see another raccoon sitting behind the cooler, sipping a Captain and Coke. Apparently, he’d knocked some potato chips into it and developed a taste for rum.
The drink seemed to give him some liquid courage, because the next thing we knew, he climbed onto the picnic table and stared at us—glass-eyed and swaying slightly, like a drunk guy at last call.
We lost it.
Laughing so hard I could barely breathe, we made sure he didn’t get any more alcohol. Eventually, we called it a night, secured the coolers, put out the fire, and crawled into our tents.
I don’t know if it was the cool weather, the long day, or the rum, but I was out cold—until I was awakened by the sound of bottles clanging together.
I lay there for a second, trying to process it. A bear? No—the noise was too gentle.
I nudged my buddy awake.
“Something’s out there.”
Half-asleep, he muttered, “It’s probably one of the guys.”
I wasn’t convinced.
I grabbed my flashlight, unzipped the tent, and slowly peeled back the flap. Then, in one quick motion, I flicked on the light.
What I saw looked straight out of a cartoon.
A full-blown raccoon mafia was rummaging through our cooler.
One held the lid open while two others dug through the contents, and about 10 more stood around like a well-organized heist crew.
When the light hit them, they froze. A dozen glossy raccoon eyes stared back at me mid-crime.
My buddy whispered, “What’s out there?”
“Trash pandas,” I whispered back.
“What are they doing?”
“They’re trashing the place.”
By then, our friends in the other tent were awake, and a full-blown chase ensued. We ran them off, secured the cooler inside the tents, and finally got some sleep.
The next morning, as we packed up, we couldn’t stop laughing about the Drunken Raccoon Heist of Watson’s Place. We still talk about it to this day.
And honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my head.
Maybe I should commission a painting of it. It would really tie the room together.
The post Partying with Trash Pandas appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
As you may or may not know, I am quite fond of the Everglades. Some might call it an obsession—I’m good with either. Ever since I first laid eyes on it, there’s rarely a day I don’t think about being back out there.
Spending a day in the Glades is always great, but camping at a primitive site? That’s next level.
I should warn you, though—it’s not for the faint of heart.
Over the years, I’ve camped everywhere from beaches to staking up in a remote creek and sleeping in the boat. After weighing the pros and cons, my buddies decided on a land site. We picked Watson’s Place, an old homestead on the Chatham River.
With the decision made, we gathered our gear, loaded two boats, and set off for adventure.
We launched out of Chokoloskee Island in early spring. The temperatures were still cool, and the bugs were blissfully minimal—a rare luxury.
We made our way up the Lopez River, weaving through the backcountry until we reached our destination. After docking the boats and setting up camp, we headed back out for the real reason we came—fishing.
Backcountry, Backwater Adventure
We fished together for a while before splitting up, agreeing to meet back at camp before dusk. I took my crew deeper into the backcountry, hoping to find snook and maybe a redfish for dinner. We hit a creek with a perfect oyster bar at the mouth—usually a prime redfish spot this time of year.
As luck would have it, they were there. As luck would also have it, they were all either too big or too small. Oh, the humanity.
We caught plenty of fish and managed to coax a few decent-sized mangrove snapper into the cooler. By the time we had what we needed, it was time to head back, clean the fish, and prepare dinner. The other boat beat us back and had already lit the fire and started pouring drinks.
The rum was flowing.
After a few pre-dinner libations, we sat around swapping stories and horsing around. Watson’s Place sits on some of the highest ground in the Glades—once a thriving farm, now a thick jungle of overgrowth. After dinner and a few more drinks, we got the brilliant idea to explore.
Not during the day, of course. We went in the dead of night.
Now, let’s not forget: the Everglades are still 100-percent wild. We were wandering through prime territory for black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, and enough venomous snakes to make Indiana Jones call it quits. Flashlights in hand, we followed game trails and long-forgotten paths, messing with a couple of guys who were visibly uncomfortable.
After a good laugh at their expense, we headed back to camp for more beverages and campfire stories. Conversations covered every topic imaginable—and some that absolutely shouldn’t have been discussed.
That’s when I noticed something moving out of the corner of my eye. At first, it was just a single raccoon. No big deal. Then my buddy yelled, “Hey! That raccoon is drinking my drink!”
Trash Panda Party Crasher
We turned to see another raccoon sitting behind the cooler, sipping a Captain and Coke. Apparently, he’d knocked some potato chips into it and developed a taste for rum.
The drink seemed to give him some liquid courage, because the next thing we knew, he climbed onto the picnic table and stared at us—glass-eyed and swaying slightly, like a drunk guy at last call.
We lost it.
Laughing so hard I could barely breathe, we made sure he didn’t get any more alcohol. Eventually, we called it a night, secured the coolers, put out the fire, and crawled into our tents.
I don’t know if it was the cool weather, the long day, or the rum, but I was out cold—until I was awakened by the sound of bottles clanging together.
I lay there for a second, trying to process it. A bear? No—the noise was too gentle.
I nudged my buddy awake.
“Something’s out there.”
Half-asleep, he muttered, “It’s probably one of the guys.”
I wasn’t convinced.
I grabbed my flashlight, unzipped the tent, and slowly peeled back the flap. Then, in one quick motion, I flicked on the light.
What I saw looked straight out of a cartoon.
A full-blown raccoon mafia was rummaging through our cooler.
A Trash Panda Party
One held the lid open while two others dug through the contents, and about 10 more stood around like a well-organized heist crew.
When the light hit them, they froze. A dozen glossy raccoon eyes stared back at me mid-crime.
My buddy whispered, “What’s out there?”
“Trash pandas,” I whispered back.
“What are they doing?”
“They’re trashing the place.”
By then, our friends in the other tent were awake, and a full-blown chase ensued. We ran them off, secured the cooler inside the tents, and finally got some sleep.
The next morning, as we packed up, we couldn’t stop laughing about the Drunken Raccoon Heist of Watson’s Place. We still talk about it to this day.
And honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my head.
Maybe I should commission a painting of it. It would really tie the room together.
The post Partying with Trash Pandas appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...