Tate’s Hell State Park

I might suggest it would have been impossible for me not to at least think about stopping in a place named Hell. In the event what was Hell to Tate was actually extraordinarily delightful to me. 

At one point in the drive we were but twenty miles from Tallahassee the state capital. At another the highway ran right along the shore of the Gulf of Mexico. 

I had made a reservation for two nights at what I hoped would be a good spot to get away from traffic and noise. For $30 I was far away from the madding crowd. Oddly I was not that far from Carrabelle across the New River but it was a long drive from there to here as it were. The instructions were to drive through Carrabelle on Highway 98 then turn north on County Road 379 until the pavement ran out. 

The instructions from a contributor on iOverlander were very precise but seemed impossible to follow. Were they trustworthy? This could really end up being hell. 

So I set off through Carrabelle unsure how to get to the spot. It certainly sounded worthwhile…

I was pretty sure in the off season I would be alone and so it was for two glorious days! But getting there was going to require careful measurement. I first turned on County Road 379 and followed the pavement past suburban subdivisions. 

And yes Florida has its own brand of bears too. 

Soon enough the gravel road started and there came the point where I either followed Google’s blue line or the precise instructions of the total stranger on iOverlander. I saw the bridge and said screw it and turned off the blue line of Google maps. 

I prepared to nudge past the car when the driver flagged me down. He offered me advice on how to get to what he described as the best wilderness campsite in the entire vast state park. Joe drives down from Central Georgia to enjoy this area as often as he can and I was glad to take his advice. He said people frequently brush him off. Not me. Happily he confirmed iOverlander for me and impressed on me to stick to the turns and ignore Google.  Take the second right he implored me, you’ll get stuck on the first turn off! Nice man. 

On the bridge I had set my mileometer to zero and at exactly 1.8 miles as written on iOverlander the right turn appeared. I gained more confidence in the instructions carefully laid down by the original contributor “busbusbus” on the information page.  

It didn’t look much like a freeway but there were no rocks hiding in the grass and the ditches were well set back from the wheel marks. I pressed on at about ten miles an hour in first gear. 

“Turn right at the red campground mark” the instructions said and there it was…

Another road leading deeper and deeper into the wilderness. 

With a couple more turns left and right I got there much to my surprise, no back tracking required. Now I had to hope I could remember the reverse route to get out on Saturday morning…

Rusty had a quick look around while I maneuvered GANNET2 into position to fend off the north wind while getting a nice river view. He licked my face copiously as he does when he is pleased with me. I guess this was a good spot! 

I marked the route I followed with a thin red line: 

The views were excellent. 

So where did the name Tate’s Hell come from? Some poor unfortunate in 1875 it turns out: 

I had no intention of falling victim to a similar fate. Rusty wasn’t into long walks so we hung around our campsite and he sunbathed while I did my household chores. We ate well and enjoyed perfect cold front weather with crisp blue skies and cool air. Nights were cold, into the thirties, but we were snug aboard GANNET2. 

Window covers in for warmth. They help a lot to prevent heat seeping out. I run the engine for 15 minutes with the heat on and two hours later I feel enough of a chill to get snug in bed. Rusty hates being covered and he doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all. 

I promised to bring Layne here as she likes the pictures I’ve sent her. I hoped wed be back after Thanksgiving but this spot is fully booked till February by which time we want to be in Mexico.  

Aucilla Boat Ramp

People will tell you it’s hard to find wild camping in Florida and there is no doubt general gun hunting season is a nuisance. Ocala and Osceola National Forests shut down dispersed camping from November through January roughly to allow hunters free rein. Apalachicola National Forest on the panhandle starts hunting season a bit later but still, the entirety of the cooler months are closed to wild camping and the organized campgrounds are mostly taken by keen hunters. I wish general gun season could be broken up a bit, extended at each end say but opened up in the middle for campers to enjoy the forests in mid winter, so failing that compromise I look elsewhere. 

One place I like  is the boat ramp on the Aucilla River in the Big Bend of Florida. You get three nights free but I only took one this trip. I had a date in Hell so I drove in and stopped basically to sleep, no reservations, no fees, no fuss. 

They charge boaters five bucks to launch and while the cash box is an honor system I did see a Wildlife Officer come by in the evening to check the single parked truck and trailer. 

Google will guide you directly to the grassy parking lot down the usual white gravel road from US Highway 98. 

The trash cans were bursting when I got there so it was good I had dumped mine when I got expensive gas -$3:60 for regular- on the way. 

I picked my grassy spot leaving room for Rusty to lounge in the grass while I had the door open and that was that. Free legal and undisturbed for the night. 

A man cane by and parked his SUV at the boat ramp. He read the  wildlife information notices with deep interest and took a walk. I waved as he zipped past saying as he went “I guess you could sleep in that?” nodding his chin at my home, GANNET2. “I do sleep in that,” I replied but he was gone back to his car and his normal life.  

Later the boat attached to the truck came back to the dock and they drove off. I was alone in the pitch dark. It was silent and lovely and slightly brisk. 

I had lean cuisine and some yoghurt wondering what Layne  might be having in California and I watched Ruby in Paradise, a slip of a film set in the Florida panhandle of fond memory and then settled down with my Kindle reading a Geoffrey Household thriller. Rusty was snoring on his bed on my bed. 

A very loud truck came down the road in the dark. I looked out and saw lots of clearance lamps and wondered how big the boat was and were they going to launch now? It turns out it was a German overlanding truck. Vast and cumbersome and supremely capable. Rather them than me. 

In the morning Rusty took me on a brisk walk round the field. The Germans never appeared. 

I was wrapping up my exercise tape (tai chi for elderly westerners I call  The Body Project on YouTube) when they started their huge deep rumbly engine and took off around 9:30 never having descended to earth while staying there. He waved as he drove by and blocked out the daylight. Pity the truck and trailer that meets him on the dirt single lane: 

An hour later we were on Highway 98 bound for Tate’s  Hell. 

Abandon hope all ye who enter….