According to their website, The Withlacoochee State Forest has been declared "one of the ten coolest places in North America" by the World Wildlife Fund.
Really?
Well OK, it's about a jillion acres of state forest which, in itself, is very cool.
Cooler yet, the Croom Tract of 20,000 acres contains, by my quick (possibly imprecise) addition, around 24 miles of hiking trail, and 34 miles of equestrian trail.
For those of us riding a poor man's pony, Croom offers up 60 miles of off road bicycle trail, plus access to the longest rail trail in Florida, the Withlacoochee State Trail: 46 miles of shady, paved riding each way.
More quick addition.
That means anyone with a mountain bike has access to 152 miles of riding, straight out of the campground. 152 shady tree lined miles, all without encountering a single car.
The campgrounds too, are a surprise. Huge, and mostly empty. Shaded by oaks, lined with cypress, and dripping with moss.
Another surprise. First come, first serve. Honor system. Drop your money in the iron ranger. Go pitch your tent.
In that tent, a hundred feet from Silver Lake, those who can, sleep soundly to the croaking of baby gators all night long.
Except when nature calls for a step outside.
The croaking stops.
Silence.
Disturbing silence.
I stand perfectly still, listening hard. Moss dribbles listlessly overhead.
How many hundreds of the little croakers can a Florida lake hold? Not to mention more mommas and daddies than I care to think about.
Every one of them goes instantly silent when I step from the tent, doing their own listening.
They know I am here.
Top ten coolest places? Maybe.
Top ten spookiest? For sure.
Saturday morning. What light there is, is gray. Woods and trees. Dead leaves blowing. Just enough moss, scattered green palmettos, sand, and sinkhole terrain, to remind you that no, it really isn't a gloomy November day in Maine.
But the Croom 50 is a good long chunk of singletrack. It doesn't repeat much, if any. That alone is reason enough to suck it up and ride in the off-again/on-again, rain.
A little rain here is a good thing. Packs down the sand. This is our best weather yet.
No thunderstorms. No tornados. No icicles in my pony tail.
Riders gather at Parking Area #3 for a civilized 8 to 9 AM start.
I think I saw this same tandem at San Felasco. Not so many tight turns here, but enough to make you wonder how they do it!
One of my favorite things about this ride is that, unlike Felasco, they actually give you a map. A wonderful paper map. Low-tech reassurance.
I like knowing where I am in the grand scheme of things.
Croom is a well marked ride.
In the end, I never once consult the map. But you never know. If it's cold enough, or you've just plain had enough, you may feel a need to find your own bailout.
As we drive in to register, Popeye catches a glimpse of Blownfuse and Tranny riding into the trailhead. Cap'n Bligh and Mudcutter Jim got their start at the crack of eight as well.
On our own, Popeye valiantly keeps me company for the first few miles, but around mile nine, after he pulls over to wait yet again, we agree that it's time for him to get going and have some faster fun. After one last check of my brakes, he flies off the front, out of sight in a New York minute.
I am not alone for long. Cap'n Bligh and Mudcutter Jim flag me as I ride right by them, weaving through the press of dismounted riders at the mile 12 SAG.
I stop only long enough to see who it is, and say back over my shoulder, "Now you'll have to catch me!"
One of the other perks of the well-marked Croom 50 is that there are arrows indicating optional routes. Red for hard, yellow for easy.
By mile 15, I get that wild hair. I am just bored enough with the gentle sandy climbs and the twisting woodsy flats, to take the next red-arrow trail.
(Later, Cap'n Bligh tells me I rode The Drunken Monkey.)
The Drunken Monkey is fun! Up and down, around and through, a long, washed out gully, and then a big sinkhole.
No. A huge sinkhole.
Lower half, center: Rider in white descending into the sinkhole.
Center photo, just right of the tree:
The same rider (white dot) climbing out.
A vast sinkhole.
Red trails - wow! Certainly not boring.
But red trails take effort. More effort than I ought to expend with a dismal history of leg cramps and 30 plus miles to go. Two weekends at Grahams Swamp may have retrained my flatlander perspective on sandy climbs, but it's no substitute for real hill training.
Once back on the main trail, I chasten myself, "Don't be doing that again."
Mile 19. I say, "You OK?" to a rider picking his bike up out of the dirt to my left.
The rider turns around. It is Cap'n Bligh.
The derailleur of his new Santa Cruz Tallboy is bent hard left, and jammed fast into the spokes.
More help arrives. Between two anonymous SWAMP club members and the two Mudcutters (Cap'n B, and Jim, who rolls up a few minutes after me) they manage to disengage the derailleur from the spokes, but the hangar snaps off on the first attempt to bend it back to a workable angle. Oops.
Single speed conversion commences.
2 SWAMP, 2 Mudcutters
Single Speed Conversion While U Wait!
I feel bad not waiting around, but somewhere around twenty minutes, and on the second go-round of chain shortening, I decide I had better get going before I cool off too much. I am no mechanic, for sure, and have no tools to contribute that they don't already have themselves. I also assume - wrongly, as it turns out - that Cap'n Bligh will bail from the ride at mile 24, the next SAG.
After passing up the final bail-out point at mile 35, company on trail becomes scarce. The rain sets in for real. After the final SAG (where, correct me if I am mistaken, they are doing shots?), I ride all the way to the end seeing exactly one other rider.
My Gloom Fifty is done.
Cruising the parking area, looking for Popeye, I get distracted by a tiny teardrop camper with a huge attached canopy. Popeye finds me straddled over the bike, quizzing the owners, and patting their dog.
That camper got a lot of attention. I swear, it was so compact, I could pull it with Killer. Later, we sit down to lunch next to two women who were also taken with it. I never thought to take a picture, but I found it online later.
Popeye has waited for me before digging in to the lunch. Turns out he finished his 50 by riding in at the same time as Cap'n Bligh, who stayed the course til the last bailout and ended with 35 miles. Mudcutter Jim rolls in from his 50 by the time I have gotten into dry clothes, and Sailor is there asking how it all went.
I stand dripping, taking stock, already knowing what to say. No cramps, no fatigue, no blood, no shaking or quaking...
All good!
Good to be done.
And really good to be done, feeling like doing a little more.
That night at the campfire, with the wind picking up and more rain on the way, the discussion of campers resumes.
Cap'n Bligh and Sailor spend months camping every year. They have a neat and tidy (and enviably dry) "Cassita", which they tow behind a Honda minivan. I marvel at how they always seem to have everything they need close at hand, whether it's a hatchet, bike tools, or a jar of jam.
Of course, I'm not sure if that's due to having a camper instead of an Elephant full of plastic boxes and Publix grocery bags, or just Sailor being ultra organized.
I suspect it's a bit of both.
But with a tent on the ground and rain in the air, I might yet be convinced.
Sunday morning. The predicted sunshine does not show. Cap'n Bligh's bike is broken. Jim has already packed and headed out to find himself a plate of bacon and eggs along his drive home.
We give up on the idea of riding the rail trail, and join the others in packing up.
Take one last look around...
Pose for one last photo...
And call it a weekend.
Well, almost.
There is the matter of re-packing, once everything dries out.
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