Written and Photographed by Addy Rundqwist
When I think of adventure, I think of the delicate balance between pushing beyond my comfort zone and finding comfort in the wild. For the past two years, I’ve carved out a new Thanksgiving tradition— trading the typical turkey and table settings for mud, water, and the kind of exhaustion that makes you feel truly alive.
I plan, I dream, and I find ways to make the most of the sliver of free time I’m given as a full-time college student. Living in Southern Florida, there is no shortage of nature to explore. During our Thanksgiving break from school, I planned a backpacking trip through Big Cypress National Preserve. Thirty miles of swamp, three days, and four friends— myself, Leo, Reggi, and Gaby (my backpacking pal for life). It was Reggi and Leo’s first time backpacking, and they put an alarming amount of trust in me.
We chose the southernmost stretch of the Florida Trail, a segment often called "the toughest stretch of hiking in the United States." Unlike most long-distance trails, this one is more of a concept than a reality— the path disappears into the water, with orange blazes the only reassurance that you’re still headed the right way.
Most hikers attempt this trail in January, when the dry season makes it slightly more forgiving, but we went in late November, making us some of the first to see the trail that year. It was far wetter than it would be for most who attempt it later, meaning we had to endure some of the most grueling conditions the swamp had to offer.
Day One: Water and Wonder
The first ten miles were magic. The trail led us through sun-dappled cypress domes, where ancient trees towered over clear water, their roots gripping the earth like old fingers. At one point, we waded thigh-deep through glassy water, fish darting past, snakes moving like silent ripples beneath the surface. The world felt alive, breathing. I half-expected Kermit the Frog to emerge and start singing Rainbow Connection.
By the time we reached Ten Mile Camp, our feet were pale and pruned, shoes soaked through, but our spirits high. We strung our ENO DoubleNest Hammocks between the flatwood pines in a perfect square, facing each other. The second the sun dipped below the trees, the mosquitos swarmed, and we retreated to our bug net cocoons, safe in our suspended nests. The wind rustled through the branches, and somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
Hammock camping is the move in the Everglades— the ground is soggy and wet, not ideal for tents. There’s a reason the Seminole people built their traditional camps on stilts. The swamp doesn’t offer dry land easily. Suspended between the trees, we stayed dry, out of reach of the relentless dampness that clung to everything below.
Day Two: Mud, Gators, and the Longest Walk
Morning came gently, but none of us wanted to leave the comfort of our hammocks. Eventually, we peeled ourselves out, packed up, and prepared for another ten miles— except, to our surprise, our next campsite was actually thirteen miles away. We sighed, shouldered our packs, and set off.
The day was relentless. We trudged through shin-deep mud, the prairie sun beating down, our steps slow and heavy. Then, the trail disappeared beneath an alligator. A full-grown American alligator, right in our path. We didn’t argue; we simply bushwhacked around her, keeping a respectful distance.
By sunset, we were still miles from our campsite, the air thick with bugs, our feet aching. But we had hammocks, and that meant we had options. We found a water source, set up camp among the trees, and collapsed into our hanging havens. That night, the forest hummed around us, wind swaying the branches, while we swayed with them.
Day Three: The Swamp That Would Not End
Dawn came too soon, but we moved fast, hoping to make up for lost time. And then— two and a half miles of swamp. Knee-deep, root-riddled, endless. It became clear that the land would not give us reprieve. For twelve miles, the water never left our ankles, our knees, our thighs. We moved through a cypress desert, dodging spiderwebs, counting snakes until we lost track.
When we finally spotted a tiny patch of dry land, we practically worshipped it. It was called “Thank God Island.” (I swear I’m not making that up.)
With three miles to go, the sun melted into the horizon, and exhaustion set in. We trudged forward, silent, drained. When the road finally appeared a mile away, tears welled up. We had made it. Civilization greeted us with the most beautiful sight of all— ice-cold Coca-Cola.
This trip pushed us past our limits, and while my friends may never let me plan an adventure again, I know one thing for certain— we couldn’t have done it without our ENO hammocks. I’ve had mine since I was 14, and never have I relied on a piece of gear more. It cradled me when my body ached, shielded me when the bugs descended, and gave me the only dry, safe place to rest after the hardest days I’ve ever hiked.
So, if you ever find yourself waist-deep in the Florida swamp, feet aching, clothes damp, wondering what on earth you’ve gotten yourself into— just know that as long as you have an ENO, you’ll be alright.
Author Bio
Addy Rundqwist is a senior at the University of South Florida, studying environmental science with a minor in biology. As a nature photographer and outdoor guide, she's passionate about capturing the quiet beauty of wild places and the fleeting moments that make them special. Whether exploring Florida’s coasts or photographing glaciers in Alaska, Addy finds stories in every landscape—one frame at a time.
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