Hi, I’m melissa a Florida hiker and sailor who loves adventure, and simple outdoor activities, I have started this blog to help beginners feel confident exploring nature, one easy step at a time. you will find trail tips, snapshots and just fun times with me and a few wonderful friends and most of all my best friend yote, who happens to be a German shepherd.
The air in Alachua County didn’t just hang; it leaned. It was a wet, heavy weight, thick with the scent of damp earth and the cloying sweetness of rotting citrus .
Silas stood beneath the great magnolia, his spade biting into the black Florida soil. Above him, the tree’s waxy leaves acted as a drum, catching the first rhythmic thrum of a summer thunderstorm.
He wasn’t supposed to be here, and he certainly wasn’t supposed to be digging. But the fever had no respect for lineage or the fine lace of the manor house.
Behind him, the girl he loved—the one whose name was a secret whispered only to the creek—lay wrapped in nothing but a linen sheet.
No lead-lined casket. No stone monument to defy the sky.”I’ll leave you to the roots,” he whispered, his voice cracking against the thunder.
“And the roots will find you. You’ll be the bloom next spring, and the shade the year after. You won’t be gone; you’ll just be everywhere.
“He didn’t mark the spot with a cross. He marked it with a promise. As the rain turned the dirt to ink, the magnolia stood sentinel—a silent witness to a burial that the law would call a crime, but the earth would call a gift.
A Survival GuideWell, it finally happened. Hell has officially frozen over, and apparently, it took the Florida Intercoastal with it.I woke up this morning, stepped onto the lanai with my usual “it’s probably 75 degrees” optimism, and was met with a sight that shouldn’t exist in a state where the official bird is a mosquito: Icicles. On a boat. In Florida.Based on the photos I just took (and the fact that my flip-flops are currently fused to the dock), here is the state of the union:1. The Boats are Now Artisanal Glass SculpturesLook at that first photo. That’s not a nautical rope anymore; it’s a giant, salty Swarovski crystal.
I’m pretty sure that boat is legally a popsicle now. If you try to untie that line, it’s not going to coil—it’s going to shatter like a villain in a 90s action movie.2. The “Stalactite” Dock AestheticCheck out the second shot. My dock has developed a “Cave of Wonders” vibe that nobody asked for. These icicles look like they’re waiting for a wandering manatee to swim by so they can give it a very cold, very confused surprise.3. The Floridian Survival ScaleFor those of you in Minnesota laughing at us: Stop. You have “infrastructure” and “heavy coats.” We have a single hoodie from a 2014 5K run and a deep-seated belief that anything below 60 degrees is a personal insult from the universe.Our Current Reality:The Iguana Watch: It’s raining lizards. If you’re walking under a palm tree, wear a helmet. A frozen Green Iguana is basically a scaly brick falling from the sky.The Fashion Crisis: I saw a man today wearing socks with his Crocs, a puffer vest over a Hawaiian shirt, and a beanie. It wasn’t a fashion statement; it was a cry for help.The Pool Situation: My neighbor’s pool heater is currently making a sound like a jet engine trying to take off. At this rate, the gas bill will cost more than the house.Is This the End?Probably not. By Tuesday, it’ll be 82 degrees again, the humidity will return to a crisp 110%, and we’ll all go back to complaining about the heat. But for today? I’m staying inside, drinking hot cocoa out of a coconut shell, and waiting for my boat to defrost.Stay warm out there, Florida. And remember: if it’s frozen, don’t lick it. Not even if it’s a boat rope.
There’s a specific silence that only exists at dawn on the St. Johns River. It’s not a void of sound, but a muffling—a heavy, velvet layer of fog that settles over the blackwater, turning the world into a grayscale watercolor painting.
On mornings like this, when the Florida “chill” actually has some teeth, the ritual is always the same.
The First Sip
The mug is almost too hot to hold, a sharp contrast to the damp air pressing against my skin. As the steam from my coffee rises to meet the mist rolling off the river, it’s hard to tell where my drink ends and the atmosphere begins.
In physics, they call this sea smoke or evaporation fog. It happens when that relatively warm river water hits the cold morning air. But sitting here? It just feels like the river is exhaling.
Why We Wake Up EarlyWe live in a world that demands we “hit the ground running.” But the river doesn’t run; it flows. And on cold mornings, it lingers. Taking twenty minutes to just sit, pulse-to-pulse with the slow movement of the water, changes the trajectory of the entire day.The coffee eventually cools, the sun eventually burns the mist away, and the “real world” starts its noise. But for a few moments, it’s just me, the steam, and the St. Johns.
For a long time, I moved through the world under a bit of a disguise. I’ve been the reliable friend, the hard worker, and the person who “just gets things done.” But there is a version of me that most people have never met—the version that lives in the quiet hours of the morning and the margins of my notebooks.I realized recently that nobody actually knows the real me. They know the surface, but they don’t know the fire. They don’t know about the five years’ worth of voice notes and scribbled thoughts I’ve been hoarding like buried treasure.The Secret Archive for half a decade, I’ve been documenting my life, my theories, and my dreams.The Voice Notes: Raw, unfiltered thoughts recorded while driving or walking, capturing emotions before they could be polished away.The Notes: Scraps of paper and digital files filled with dialogue, metaphors, and truths I wasn’t ready to say out loud.I used to tell myself that since this passion might not “make money,” it wasn’t worth sharing. I treated my writing like a hobby I had to apologize for. But I’ve come to realize that value isn’t always measured in currency. The value is in the release. The value is in being seen.Stepping Into the Light the comfort zone is a beautiful place, but nothing ever grows there. Keeping my writing to myself was safe—if I never publish, I can never be criticized. But if I never publish, I’ll also never be known.I am officially done waiting for “the right time” or for someone to give me permission. I have five years of my soul saved in my phone, and it’s time to turn those fragments into a book.”True belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world.”This Is the Start this isn’t about a paycheck or a bestseller list. This is about me finally introducing the real version of myself to the world. I’m stepping out of the shadows, opening up those files, and finally putting pen to paper.It’s scary, it’s vulnerable, and it’s the most “me” thing I’ve ever done.
The Great Unveiling: Why I’m Finally Writing the Book
If the shop feels a little extra “alive” this morning, it’s probably just my caffeine levels hitting a new high. After a wonderful week off spent recharging with the family, I’m officially back at the helm.
While the peace and quiet of family time was exactly what the doctor ordered, I’ll admit—I kept catching myself looking at the tide charts out of habit. You can take the person out of the bait shop, but you can’t take the “where are they biting?” out of the person.
Staying Warm (And Catching Fish)
The forecast is looking a bit “spirited” this week, and by that, I mean we’re all going to be reaching for our heavy flannels.
I’m thrilled to be back behind the counter, even if I have to wear three layers to do it. Let’s see what this cold front brings in!
The Big Squeeze: As water temperatures drop, crappie transition from scattered summer patterns to tight, massive schools. If you find one, you’ve likely found fifty.
A Big Thank You
A huge thanks to the crew for keeping the ship upright while I was out. It’s good to be back in the rhythm of the shop, seeing familiar faces, and hearing the morning chatter.
Into the Wild: Our Raccoon-Themed Trek at Myakka River State Park,
If you’re going to explore one of Florida’s oldest and largest state parks, you might as well do it with some serious style. Today, we traded the prairie life for the canopy, and let’s just say we brought the “trash panda” energy with us!
🐾 Dressed for the Occasion Forget high-tech moisture-wicking gear—we went full forest-chic. Armed with our raccoon hats (ears and all!) and matching shirts, we hit the trails ready for whatever the Florida wilderness had to throw at us. We might have gotten a few double-takes from the local wildlife, but we felt right at home.
🌿 The Myakka Experience Myakka River State Park is a gorgeous backdrop for a hike. Between the massive oak hammocks, the sweeping vistas of the river, and the diverse wildlife, there’s always something to see. The Canopy Walk: We took our raccoon vibes to new heights (literally). The Trails: Every turn was a new photo op for our matching gear. The Vibe: Pure joy, plenty of laughs, and a lot of Florida sunshine
📸 Highlights of the Day The best part of the day wasn’t just the scenery; it was the company and the sheer fun of being silly together. There’s something about wearing a furry hat with ears that makes every mile of the hike feel like a party. “We didn’t just hike the park; we became part of the pack.”
Jacob was a young soldier from Florida who served during World War I. His life and service reflect a bittersweet chapter of American history where many soldiers were lost not just to combat, but to the harsh conditions of military training camps.
Military Service and Life Rank: Corporal Unit: Company K, 124th Infantry Regiment (part of the “Dixie Division”) Birth: October 22, 1896 Death: April 17, 1918
Jacob was born in Florida and was a member of the Florida National Guard before it was federalized for the Great War. Records indicate he was a dedicated soldier; just weeks before his death, he had been back home in Florida on recruiting duty, helping to build the forces that would eventually head to Europe. A Tragic Loss at Camp Wheeler Jacob did not die on a foreign battlefield, but at Camp Wheeler in Macon, Georgia. During 1917 and 1918, military camps were hit hard by outbreaks of disease. Cause of Death: He passed away from cerebrospinal meningitis.
A Family Presence: In a touching detail, historical accounts mention that his father, Jacob Stonebraker Sr., was at his bedside when he passed. Brother in Arms: He served in the same company as his brother, George Thomas Stonebraker, who held the rank of Sergeant. The Headstone’s Message The inscriptions on his monument in Oak Ridge Cemetery (Arcadia, Florida) paint a picture of a deeply loved young man: “He was my pard and pal — Dad”: This informal, heartfelt note at the bottom of the stone is particularly rare for the era, suggesting a very close bond between father and son.
“He died for his country, was called to a higher service”: This reflects the community’s view of his sacrifice, acknowledging that his service at home was just as vital as service abroad. Biblical Reference: The quote “In my Father’s house are many mansions…” is from John 14:2, a traditional verse of comfort. Jacob’s portrait, preserved on the stone, shows him in his “doughboy” uniform—a sharp contrast to the tragic reality of his early death at just 21 years old.
A Florida boy in doughboy brown, Before the ships were Europe-bound. No trench, no wire, no foreign shore, But still a casualty of war. “He was my pard,” the granite cries, Where Jacob Franklin Stonebraker lies. A father’s grief, a silent camp, A life snuffed out like a guttered lamp.
No thunder of guns or whistles of shells, Just a fever that rose where the shadows fell. In the crowded tents where the “doughboys” lay, A silent invader stole Jacob away. It crept through the camp on a winter’s breath, A sudden, sharp sickness that hurried toward death. Before he could sail for the fields of France, The fever had ended his soldier’s advance.
A Note on the Disease Cerebrospinal meningitis was a terrifying reality in WWI training camps. Because thousands of young men were brought together from different regions into crowded barracks, their immune systems were exposed to new bacteria all at once. It moved so quickly that a soldier could be healthy at breakfast and in critical condition by sunset.
As the winter wind whistles through the bare branches of the oaks, a different kind of tree stands perfectly still in the cemetery. It has no leaves to lose and no sap to freeze. It is made of marble and granite, yet it tells a story more vibrant than the living forest.
Meet the Woodmen of the World: a brotherhood of pioneers who turned the tools of the forest—the axe, the wedge, and the maul—into symbols of protection for the common man.Discover the hidden history of the “Woodcraft” monuments. In the quiet, frosted landscapes of our oldest cemeteries, unique stone tree stumps stand as a testament to a forgotten era of American fraternity. This post explores the rich history of the Woodmen of the World, an organization founded on the principle that “no member shall rest in an unmarked grave.”The Tree Trunk: Represents the “Tree of Life” and the frailty of existence.The Log Seal: Features the three essential tools of the Woodman (Axe, Wedge, Maul).The Dove: Often seen perched on a branch, symbolizing peace and the Holy Spirit.Ivy or Ferns: Frequently carved around the base to represent immortality and remembrance.
The Woodmen weren’t just about insurance; they were about fraternity. In the winter of 1915, when Thomas L. Barker passed away, his local “Camp” (the term for a local chapter) would have gathered to conduct a funeral ritual, likely involving their symbolic axes, ensuring their “neighbor” was laid to rest with the honor he had earned.
Symbol Meaning tree Stump A life ended (cut down).Severed Branches A life cut short or family members who passed away.Axe & Maul Tools of the “woodcraft” trade; symbolize industry and labor.Wedge Represents the power to split through life’s difficulties.Dove with Olive Branch Peace and the promise of a better world.Dum Tacet Clamat Latin for “Though silent, he speaks”—the Woodman’s legacy.
The tree-stump headstones, like the one for Thos. L. Barker, were a standard benefit of membership. The Guarantee: Root famously stated that “no Woodman shall rest in an unmarked grave.” The Production: Originally, these stones were provided free of charge as part of the insurance policy. Between 1900 and 1920, the cost of stone-carving rose so much that members had to purchase a $100 “monument rider” to get one. The End of an Era: By the late 1920s, the program was discontinued because the elaborate hand-carving became too expensive for the organization to maintain.
In the late 1800s, Joseph Cullen Root heard a sermon about pioneer woodmen clearing away the forest to build homes and provide for their families. He was inspired by this metaphor and decided to apply it to financial security. The Concept: Root founded the Modern Woodmen of America (MWA) in 1883 and later Woodmen of the World (WOW) in 1890. The Mission: He wanted to “clear away the problems of financial security” for his members. In an era before modern social safety nets, these fraternal societies acted as a primitive form of insurance. If a member died, the organization ensured their family wasn’t left destitute.
There is a specific stillness to a cemetery on a January evening. As the sun dips low (much like the golden light in the photo above), the rough-hewn texture of the “bark” on the monument catches the long shadows. It’s a time for reflection—honoring those like Barker who lived through the turn of the century and left behind a legacy that literally stands the test of time and tide.
I’ve reached the point where my fear for my health has finally outweighed the grip of the habit.I’m being honest with myself today: I have tried the “normal” ways. I’ve done the doctors, the prescriptions, and the half-hearted promises. None of it stuck because my daily life is too full of exits. It’s too easy to walk to the corner store; it’s too easy to give in when things get stressed.I’ve always said I’d need to be air-dropped onto a deserted island or a mountain trail for six months to finally beat this—somewhere where “buying a pack” isn’t even an option.
On a trail, you don’t have a choice—you just keep walking because you have to survive. I am “stranding” myself away from the stores, the lighters, and the routines that are killing me.I am scared of what this habit is doing to my body. That fear is no longer a shadow; it’s a compass. It’s telling me that if I don’t find my “clean air” now, I might run out of time to find it at all.
The hardest part of waking up isn’t the alarm; it’s the weight. That heavy, tight feeling in my chest that tells me I’m losing ground. I’m tired of carrying it.
I’ve made a decision, and it’s one that scares me more than any medical diagnosis ever has.Later this year, I’m disappearing. I’m taking a hike into the wilderness for a month or two. No stores, no “quick runs” for a pack, no excuses. Just the trail and my own lungs.But here is the truth that’s keeping me up at night: I am terrified to leave my family.
The thought of being away from them for weeks feels like a different kind of weight on my chest. I worry about the moments I’ll miss, the dinners I won’t be at, and the silence of being alone on that trail. But when I look at them, I realize something even scarier: If I don’t do this—if I stay here and keep losing this battle with cigarettes—I might leave them forever, way sooner than I’m supposed to.I’m choosing a temporary absence to avoid a permanent one.
I think this hike is the only solution left. I’ve tried to quit while being Mom and “Wife” and “Worker,” but the triggers of my daily life are too loud. I need the silence of the woods to drown out the noise of the addiction.I’m scared to go. I’m scared to be alone. But I’m more scared of waking up another year from now with that same heavy feeling in my chest, knowing I didn’t have the guts to do what it took to stay alive for them.I’m not leaving them. I’m leaving the habit so I can finally come back as the women they deserve.
That is the hardest, simplest truth there is. I can plan, I can blog, and I can map out every mile of that trail—but eventually, the talking stops and the walking starts.It comes down to that one moment where you look at the pack of cigarettes, look at your family, and decide which one gets to keep you.. There is no magic pill or secret island. There is just you, the mountain, and the decision to take the first step.
There’s a certain “quiet power” in realizing that the hike you took this morning or the laughter over a family meal has more weight than the fickle opinions of the outside world.
You aren’t just lowering expectations of others; you are refocusing your attention on the things that actually have a high “Return on Investment” for your soul.
I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking that happiness was something I had to go out and “get” from people. I thought it was a trophy handed to me for being liked, or a gift given to me for meeting someone else’s standards.But lately, I’ve realized that the most sustainable peace isn’t found in the hands of others. It’s found in the dirt on my boots and the people sitting across from me at the kitchen table.
The Wisdom of the Trail
When I’m out on a hike, the mother nature doesn’t care about my “expectations.” It doesn’t adjust its incline for me, and the weather doesn’t check my schedule. There is a deep, quiet freedom in that. On the trail, my happiness comes from:The rhythmic sound of my own breath.The way the light hits the trees at 4:00 PM.The simple physical victory of reaching the top.That joy is mine. No one can give it to me, and more importantly, no one can take it away.
The Safety of the Inner Circle we often put the most pressure on our family, expecting them to be perfect because we love them. But I’ve found that the “small things” with family—the inside jokes, the shared silence, the messy everyday moments—are where the real fuel is.When you stop expecting your family to be a source of constant validation and start seeing them as a space for connection, the pressure vanishes. You stop needing them to “make” you happy and start enjoying the happiness you’re already bringing to the table.
For me, that means:Nature is my battery: I don’t wait for a “good job” at work to feel energized; I go to the woods.Family is my anchor: They don’t have to perform for me; they just have to be there.I am the source: If my day is going to be good, it’s because I noticed the small things, not because someone else noticed me.
“Presence over performance.”Reminds you that just being together is the “small thing” that matters most—no one needs to “do” anything to be enough.
Gentle Trails journal 