Tate’s Hell

After about of a week of perfect sunshine and a nice little routine that went something like beach-nap-beach, the wind kicked up one evening and blew in a dark line of storm clouds that would hang around all morning for the next few days. The afternoons were still plenty sunny, but we started exploring other things in the morning.

One morning I convinced everyone we should go take a look at the Apalachicola River and see some of the marsh area. I’d read about a nice boardwalk where the kids could see the marsh and river without too much of a hike. It’s also supposed to be a good spot to see some birds, especially with the storm blowing in who knows what from the tropics.

We never actually made it to the Apalachicola River overlook though. We got sidetracked by a place called Tate’s Hell.

Tate’s Hell has an arresting name. It pretty much demands that you learn more. We’d seen the signs for it over the years we’ve been coming down here, and it’s hard to miss the vast expanse of green on the map that makes up the present day state park, but we’d never ventured in. I mean, it’s called Tate’s Hell. Doesn’t really make you want to go in.

Here’s a synopsis of the legend behind the name:

Local legend has it that a farmer by the name of Cebe Tate, armed with only a shotgun and accompanied by his hunting dogs, journeyed into the swamp in search of a panther that was killing his livestock. Although there are several versions of this story, the most common describes Tate as being lost in the swamp for seven days and nights, bitten by a snake, and drinking from the murky waters to curb his thirst. Finally he came to a clearing near Carrabelle, living only long enough to murmur the words, “My name is Cebe Tate, and I just came from Hell!”

If you’re like me you’re not going to take this legend very seriously. You’re going to think, pshaw, swamps are fun, how bad can this one be? And about this Tate, what kind of pansy can’t handle a swamp?

This is where I clear my throat and add that now that I’ve actually been in Tate’s Hell for a grand total of about 30 minutes, uh, well, turn out, it can be bad. Really bad in fact.

It would be an exaggeration to say we were lost, but I do, in hindsight, find it interesting that Tate’s Hell managed to get us off course, sidetracked in search of dwarf cypress, before we’d even really entered it. There might be something to that legend.

Whatever the case, after four miles of increasingly bad dirt/sand roads in a minivan under overcast skies — with me absently wondering what would sort of impassible mud swamp the road would turn into should the deluge open up — we made it to the lengthily-named Ralph G. Kendrick Dwarf Cypress Boardwalk Overlook which had inspired us to abandon our original plans of peaceful marshes and rivers.

This is where it gets really interesting. This is where we “get out of the damned contraptions and walk.” Sort of anyway. From parking lot to end of the boardwalk overlook was about a quarter of a mile. Maybe a half mile tops. Yet in that short distance we encountered one very small alligator, one very large (albeit harmless) black water snake, swarms of mosquitoes, a fire ant mound and hordes of a vicious little yellow flies that packed a nasty bite.

And that was just half of mile of not really even entering the swamp. Lilah seems to find it all some sort of grand adventure. Olivia got bit by a yellow fly at about the same moment I discovered I was standing on a fire ant mound. She’s screaming and tugging on my shirt for me to pick her up and I’m trying to strip off my Chacos and smash ants as fast as I can. I’m sure if there were video it would have been hilarious. In hindsight.

Eventually we made it to the actual boardwalk and headed out over the dwarf cypress, which were fascinating if only because no one has ever been able to explain them. Despite being, in many cases, over 150 years old, they’re no higher than 15 feet. The same cypress at other places in the park grow to normal height, but here, for some reason, they stay short.

We got a slight break from the unrelenting insect onslaught when it started to rain while we were out on the platform. The rain queued up a chorus of frogs that went silent a few minutes later when the rain stopped. Olivia might have even smiled.

Sufficiently traumatized by swamp, we headed back to the car and, after spending a few minutes killing all the biting flies that had followed us in the door, we managed to get out of Tate’s Hell. On the way home Olivia fell asleep in the car so I ended up back on the road to the marsh area, which soon had us down more dirt roads. We didn’t get out to walk the boardwalk but we did run into a few locals on ATVs who assured us it was lovely and that we should return at some point to check it out.

While they were talking I could help noticing that, aside from their faces, not one of them had a bit of exposed skin, pants were tucked in to boots, long sleeves into gloves. Tate’s Hell is only hell if you wonder in doubting that it’s hell. Come prepared and it’s like anywhere else — beautiful.

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