APOPKA, Fla. --You might think it's a long way from off-road motorcycle racing champion to flatwater kayak guide. But not for Kenny Boyd of Eustis.
About three years ago, Boyd quit racing and working in a motorcycle shop and, with wife Jenny, formed Central Florida Nature Adventures. Trading the roar of a two-cycle engine for the gurgle of a spring-fed stream was not a difficult transition, Boyd said.
"I got burned out on it," he said. "It was time to do something else. I'd much rather go paddling than go to work."
Boyd didn't make it seem like work when he guided Pat Askren and Kate Lefler and myself on a five-hour paddle along central Florida's Rock Springs Run to the Wekiva River. Instead, he was eager to make sure we spotted all the flora and fauna along this lush waterway that he could point out.
"We try to make it more of an eco-type tour," he said. "Like a fishing guide service without fishing."
As the four of us paddled downstream in sit-on-top kayaks, Boyd explained that our put-in at King's Landing is about a mile downstream from Rock Springs Run's headwaters, a bubbling spring where tubing and snorkeling--but no paddling--is allowed. The current from the spring, he said, would allow us to float much of the way along its 8-mile run, using our paddles mainly for steerage.
After we passed a couple of private homes, the banks filled in with dense woods that grew tall enough to create a very shady canopy. And after about 10 minutes of paddling, it seemed like we had left the rest of the world behind--no traffic noise, no other paddlers.
Boyd said the reason for the tranquility is that the land on the right bank is Wekiwa Springs State Park, and the left bank is the Rock Springs Run Preserve. He noted that Wekiwah is a Creek Indian word meaning "spring of water" or "bubbling water," and "Wekiva"--the river--is the Creek term for "flowing water."
I always had wondered about the discrepancy between the names of the two connected water bodies as seen on maps; now I understand why.
The more we paddled, the denser the woods--enshrouding us in a cool oasis of cypress, palm and oak. Boyd pointed out a limpkin--a mottled brown bird with a long beak--that he said was searching for snails to eat on the bank. But he warned us to avoid brushing up against overhanging palm trees--a favorite site for wasp nests. Passing a couple of the papery nests, we gave them a very wide berth.
The spring run was carpeted with lily pads and hyacinth, but other blooms--tall lance-leaf arrowhead and delicate spider lilies--sprang up here and there. Some oaks were draped with bromeliads, and rich, dark-green leather ferns decorated the water's edge.
We all noted the run was partially blocked in several locations by fallen trees uprooted by recent heavy rains. But we never had any trouble paddling around them.
Boyd said those tip-ups, or exposed roots, sometimes reveal artifacts from the Timucuans, who once inhabited the area.
Toward midday, we approached a campsite in the state park where we stopped for lunch.
"There's a big alligator that lives around here," Boyd said. "So don't freak out if you see him."
We saw him all right--just before our lunch stop. The large gator lounged in the shallows, its eyes wide open as we paddled past.
I pulled over to snap a photo, which the gator obliged, but when I started to paddle away, my stern nearly brushed the animal's tail, startling it out of its torpor. It lunged away from me, splattering my kayak with mud. Oh well, I deserved that.
And as if that weren't enough of a wildlife sighting, we spied a great egret standing on the edge of the woods next to a doe. Surprisingly, the deer didn't scamper away as we floated past, but that was probably because we were far enough away.
It wasn't until we stopped at Big Buck Camp to eat that we encountered a small group of paddlers. We had pretty much gotten used to having the water to ourselves for the past several hours.
After lunch, continuing downstream, the run grew wider and more meadow-like. It also became more populated. We encountered some more limpkin, a little blue heron, some ibis and egret before numerous canoeists showed up from downstream.
A couple with apparently little paddling experience kept us entertained with their frequent ramming into the bank, coupled with an unintended rollover. Apparently, they were so preoccupied with swatting insects that they were unable to control their canoe.
Boyd just smiled and waved to them.
In early afternoon, we arrived at our takeout, Wekiva Marina--a bustling beehive of diners, drinkers, sunbathers and disembarking paddlers. The eco-tour clearly was over. But for a few hours there, it had seemed like we had slipped to back in the day of Old Florida, an unsettled paradise where rivers--not interstate highways--were the primary arteries of commerce and centers of social life.
Said Boyd: "We're so close to Orlando, but you really feel like you're 30-40 miles out in the swamp."
Nirvana, if only for a little while.
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