I am no stranger to camping in the South. A Girl Scout since the age of eight, I can pitch a tent in blinding rain and know enough about sleeping in the southern woods to shake out my shoes each morning. But the day my husband Lynn announced he wanted to take me on the ultimate local adventure, a canoe trip down the (sometimes navigable) upper branch of Alabama’s Escatawpa River, he was asking me to step far outside the comfort zone of my campfire circle. Little did I realize, the trip would launch a love of the outdoors as a way to connect not just with nature, but with family and friends as well.

I had listened to Lynn, an accomplished outdoorsman, talk about this canoe trip for the better part of two years. He had been dreaming of it for the last thirty. As the crow flies, we would be traveling less than twenty miles from the closest town. Despite the proximity to civilization, this was real Alabama wilderness. Not a cell phone tower in sight. Questioning the river’s hospitality, I peppered Lynn with a barrage of “what ifs” before reluctantly agreeing to paddle in the bow of the canoe. “What if something happens to you and I’m left alone on the river?” “What if we encounter a wild pig, a water moccasin, or an unfriendly gator?” My biggest fear, though, was fueled by clichés of dueling banjos and thoughts of a run-in with locals who claimed the river as their own.

Lynn spent weeks planning every detail of the trip. I greeted the UPS man daily as he delivered yet another vital piece of camping equipment. A water filter, collapsible table, backpackers stove, and the invaluable GPS lined the floor of the tiny studio behind our house.

We chose the last weekend in July for our adventure. Our two daughters and my father-in-law accompanied us to the put-in point, an abandoned wooden bridge where the sepia toned river appeared to be little more than a narrow ditch. With temperatures climbing into the 90’s we packed the canoe. The girls, ages six and eight, looked on wistfully, wishing they could stake a spot in our bright red boat. They had watched the camping equipment pile up and knew a memorable journey was in the works.

My father-in-law, on the other hand, milled around, wiping his face with a handkerchief, adding to my unease by reminding me what a brave and good wife I was. “Wish ya’all would start at the Beverly Jeffries,” he repeated over and over, referring to the bridge ten miles south where he knew the Escatawpa widened to a navigable width.

Not to be deterred, Lynn and I waved to our send off party, vowed to check in (when and if we could), then dipped our paddles in the water and launched forth into the current. Loaded with gear, our canoe felt sluggish in the shallow water and we let out a collective groan as we hit our first snag two hundred yards down stream. A large oak lay across the river, its lumbering form blocking our path. We ducked low, paddled hard and maneuvered our canoe through the tree’s highest branches. For the next five miles, the river offered up much of the same. Downed trees and thickets of cypress knees stretched from bank to bank. Small islands with high, eroding sides split the river in two, forcing us to choose, not always correctly, a direction. I became the navigator, following the current’s white foam, listening for rushing water, and opting for the most passable route.

My campfire circle was expanding. We met no one on that solitary stretch of river. Mother nature, not dangerous reptiles or human intrusion, became our biggest challenge. That’s not to say we didn’t encounter any wildlife. Once, after lunch, in a lazy post-prandial pace, we rounded a wide curve and spotted a large alligator sunning on the banks. “What do we do now,” I asked, my heart pounding with adrenaline. “It’s like passing an 18-wheeler,” Lynn answered. “Put your paddle in the water and move.” In hindsight, it’s difficult to say who was more surprised, though the gator slipped noiselessly into the water.

We camped that evening on a pristine beach. Feeling triumphant we offered each other a silly high-five and posed for a camera I had set up to take our photo. As night fell, a full moon ascended over the Escatawpa. In our tent, we listened to the low, guttural hoot of an owl and to the thrum of passing cars on asphalt, a telling sign that we were close to the next bridge.

Lynn and I awoke to a blanket of mist and the full knowledge that the next two days were certain to bring contact with people recreating on the wider and more popular length of the river. We made an early start and realized we had camped less than a mile from the Beverly Jeffries Bridge. I knew then what we would have missed if we had taken my father-in-law’s advice and “started one bridge south.”