Mark Benson Finds the source in a residential drainage ditch, where he catches the farthest upstream bass in teh Everglades.

Back on shore, Mark heard a vehicle suddenly take off up on the highway. When I reached my car, it was missing its front indicators, bulbs, lenses and all. It began to look like you can take the creek out of the city but you just can’t take the city out of the creek; I did wish it had been Mark’s car.

Later, we returned to the stretch downstream from the Beeline to Tohopekeliga, the lake that absorbs Shingle Creek’s identity. From there south, it flows secretly in the Kissimmee River, ameliorated by a grander enterprise. This time we brought Mark’s Go-Devil-driven Gheenoe.

Well, I didn’t start calling him the Swamp Fox for his looks. Mark knows this area like the front of his back and he found us a canal to launch into. Brought to it blindfolded, I’d have guessed the location to be a sewage lift station. Or Shingle Creek. The surface of this off-white water was being constantly dimpled and splashed.

“Judging by the odor, I’d expect to find a lot of crappie in here,” Mark discerned.

I nodded gravely. We were frustrated in our attempts to obtain a strike from one of these brave inhabitants, trying both Beetle Spin and Mylar minnow. A Guyanese castnetter lifted the veil from our eyes when he dumped a load of South American armored catfish on the St. Augustine grass. If they continue forging upstream, these hardy delicacies may someday swim in our bathrooms, a ready dinner solution when you don’t feel like driving to the store. Let’s hope they can’t walk.

When the actual creek came finally into view, it was a balm for our eyes. The swirled whitewash of the canal stopped at the edge of the flowing tannic water as if Shingle Creek were fighting it off. We happily turned downstream, the pleasure of breathing returned, and this testament to Mother Nature’s tenacity started growing on me.

It happened with the abruptness of sitting on your downtown porch with a garbage truck idling in front of your house, your next door neighbor running his blower and the mayor striding up the walk to get your soul. Retreating inside, you turn on the Discovery Channel and suddenly you’re motoring down a blackwater creek in dappled sunlight shafting through a cypress cathedral. Looking ahead, you can’t believe it, but you’re seeing a deer swim across. Fish are feeding everywhere and they’re native largemouth bass and you find yourself yelling at Mark Benson to stop so you can start fishing.

It was just after the hurricane season to end all hurricane seasons and trees regularly blocked the creek so we frequently had to stop and fish before figuring out a way to move on. It was brimming with predators, so much feeding going on, we expected a strike every cast. That’s the way Shingle Creek was until it hit the big lake: a beautiful, skinny ribbon of wild Florida. I could see at last why Mark loved it. I like it myself, now. From here on, when I think of Shingle Creek, the real part is what I’ll picture, this repentant sinner who finally manages to get it right in the end.

FS