Why I’m Skipping the 40-Mile Big Bend Road Hike

I already wrote about its length, but depending on who you ask, the Florida National Scenic Trail stretches between 1,000 and 1,500 miles. The wide variety can largely be attributed to the trail’s multiple segments (e.g., east and west trails through central Florida and around Lake Okeechobee). However, what I haven’t talked about yet is how many of those miles are considered “road walks.”

For the purposes of the Florida Trail, it is easy to define a “road ride” as any trail that shares its space with electric vehicles (e.g., cars, electric bikes). This includes cycle paths, forestry roads, highways, greenways, dikes, dikes and sidewalks.

Paved bike path around Lake Okeechobee

Part of the path that the Florida Trail travels is scattered and appears at random. Some of the road walking features are simply for getting around private property. The road hike can be as short as 0.1 mile or as long as 50 miles.

Bike Path Bridge between Lake Butler and Palatka, also my first greenway on the trail

A notable road along the southern end of the trail extends from Christmas to Bull Creek WMA. This 31-mile road hike is widely known by hikers for its absolute brutality. Due to its length, it will take most hikers 2-3 days to complete. There are few reliable water sources in the 31 miles, there are no sidewalks parallel to the road, and there are no officially designated campsites.

Paved pedestrian bridge at Lake Mary

While spending the night at Fort Christmas Baptist Church, I met three NOBO hikers who had just completed this hike. They complained about their tired feet, complained about speeding traffic, and talked about the difficulties of having to camp stealthily along the highway where camping is technically prohibited.

A sandy forest road in the Ocala National Forest

When I started my hike, I had already decided to avoid this 30 mile hike. Hearing the experiences of these hikers only strengthened my decision. I shared my plans to skip this section of the trail and received mixed responses.

«You’re smart. I wish I’d skipped it. That’s the right thing to do.»

«I mean, it wasn’t that bad. But I don’t want to do it anymore.»

«If you’re going to skip the road hikes, why bother hiking the Florida Trail? The Florida Trail is just a bunch of day hikes connected by roads.»

This last comment hurt him. So much for “doing your own hike.”

Why bother hiking the Florida Trail if I skip the road hikes? The question echoed in my mind for the rest of my walk south. Each terrible step along the canals, levees and levees of South Florida drove the question deeper into the recesses of my mind.

My 400th mile on the Lake Okeechobee Scenic Trail, a bike path

Turning north and also battling a foot injury, I knew there were at least two long road hikes I wanted to skip: the hike through rural Big Bend counties and the hike between Blountstown and Econfina. With the other hiker’s words still echoing in my mind, I decided to wait to request a shuttle and hike the first 14 miles of the Big Bend Highway to a hotel. I thought those first 14 miles of road hiking would give me an idea of ​​the remaining 36+ miles.

My first road hike on the first day of my hike, a short stretch of asphalt in the Osceola National Forest

As I approached my hotel, I posted on the Florida Trail Trail Angels Facebook group requesting that they rent a shuttle to take me to Aucilla WMA.

I have many valid reasons for skipping any highway walk: a litany of Confederate flags hanging from picket fences; 1944 still unresolved murder by Willie James Howard; the continuous existence of Cayman Alcatraz; alert on FarOut that “the Madison and Taylor County hike passes through small rural communities, many of which are off the beaten path,” urging hikers to “be respectful of private property, as people here don’t like trespassing.” Florida has a sordid history and present of being unwelcoming to people of color. And as a Black woman hiking alone in the state of Florida, I have every reason to be concerned about my safety when hiking anywhere in Florida.

The practical reasons for skipping the Big Bend Highway hike stem from the fact that you’re not actually camping. In 2022, a hiker commented on a waypoint marker on the Big Bend Highway hike, referring to this section as “the Florida Trail Baptist Church Hike,” and he couldn’t be more correct. In lieu of primitive and/or established campsites along this nearly 50-mile stretch of trail, the Florida Trail Association (FTA) has reached agreements with nearly half a dozen Baptist churches. At these churches, hikers can request permission to stop to rest on church grounds. Some churches offer outlets for recharging devices, trash cans for disposing of waste, faucets for collecting water, and designated spaces for setting up tents and hammocks.

These are, indeed, generous offerings. Comments on church landmarks on FarOut report many positive experiences. And I commend the churches for creating safe spaces for hikers to rest. However, many religions and the churches that purport to represent them have controversial histories plagued by violence and intolerance toward those considered Others. For the hiker who does not physically or spiritually fit the «Christian» mold that means WASPy, this section of the trail is difficult to navigate from a logistical standpoint. And for the cynical or logical hiker, it’s easy to ask: If the community at large, according to NAFTA, is intolerant of outsiders, why should the community’s churches be tolerant?

The Big Bend Highway hike is arguably easier to navigate for some hikers than others. For example, white men experience a certain degree of privilege in the United States (and possibly around the world). This is not to say that your privilege is something to be ashamed of or something to apologize for. It is simply a fact of their experiences, in the same way that race and gender shape each individual’s experiences. Simply put, a white man walking down a rural Florida residential street is much less likely to go unnoticed than, say, a woman or person of color.

Statistically speaking, the typical hiker identifies as white and male. (This is a generalization based on years of hiker surveys conducted and reported by reputable agencies and organizations like The Trek and researchers at academic institutions.) And my journey so far matches these statistics. While I have met several women through hikers, I have met far fewer people of color. I have yet to meet a hiker on the trail who looks like me: a black woman.

It’s sad that many women and people of color agree that we are safer when we are hidden among pine trees than when we walk down a residential street in rural Florida. (After all, there are many reasons why so many women would rather confront a bear in the woods than a man.) And if skipping a road walk doesn’t make me a «hiker,» frankly, I don’t give a damn. Ultimately, any hike involves the hiker making decisions about their safety.

Of course, a more important question here is «who is it?» responsible For the safety of a hiker? Blaming the FTA for creating a trail that traverses more than 50 miles through a rural residential area, forcing hikers to sleep in churches along the way, is too easy. The FTA relies heavily on unpaid volunteer labor to operate, and ignoring that there are many residents along the way who support and tolerate all kinds of non-negotiable differences is not fair. Park rangers may have a certain degree of responsibility when hiking in national and state parks. But when hiking backcountry trails, who are non-white, non-male hikers supposed to turn to for help? Community leaders who don’t look like them? If so, tough pass.

As adults, we have the right to protect ourselves. Ultimately, my security is my responsibility. Therefore, my decision to skip 40+ miles of hiking for personal safety reasons is justified. These are facts that, as a black woman, I must deal with when hiking. These are realities that, as a Black woman, influence my decision to skip or walk down a bike path, levee, highway, street, or other multi-use path. And if I have a fear, whether others consider it a legitimate threat or not, my safety comes first. And if I fear for my safety on a road hike, I have the right to skip those miles without having to explain to others why I would bother hiking the trail if I’m skipping some road hikes.