It’s Raining in the Ocala National Forest

It’s eight o’clock in the morning, and my breakfast has been interrupted by a deluge.

I’ve just spent my first night in the Ocala National Forest beside the Florida Trail, in a clearing about nine miles south of the 88 Store on the Florida Trail’s Western Corridor.

Having anticipated a thunderstorm while I slept that was supposed to end before sunrise, I emerged from my tent as the last sprinkles faded, intent on brewing my morning cup of instant coffee and the water for my oatmeal now hanging in my bear bag.

I prepared yesterday by spending the last 40 minutes of daylight rigging a poor man’s cooking shelter with my poncho, which remains rolled and lashed to the prettiest pine at my campsite.

My tent beside a tall pine

Just as I’m unwrapping it and can begin imagining the warmth of the incoming caffeine transfusion, the sky opens and unleashes.

To my credit, I left my boots and socks in the tent and am already wearing the raincoat that doubles as my trail parka.

But as the gusts intensify, I’m afforded little protection from the monsoon. I weigh my options as the poncho flaps uselessly like a storm flag at the beach.

I could bolt to my tent, but opening it in such conditions is foolish, as its contents would be soaked in seconds.

The cooking shelter barely worked during the sprinkles last night, so it would be pointless to erect it now—particularly since one corner is tied to the large sappy lightning rod beside me.

No, prudence dictates that I suffer the price for my poor judgment with dignity. I untie the poncho from the pine, throw it over my raincoat, set my titanium crockery beside the tree, step safely into the clearing away from my pine, and ride the storm out like a crouching totem pole in my camp sandals. The worst of it lasts 20 minutes.

This was not the way I expected my eighteenth one-night solo backpacking trip to go. But that doesn’t make it any less fun.

Drying off after the rain

I rediscovered backpacking twelve months ago after losing weight and being unable to resist purchasing a small tent that beckoned from the shelf of a local sporting goods store, having not camped since my Boy Scout days.

After reading a few trail guides and their chapters providing tips for novices, I began backpacking at local state parks after practicing in my backyard. The pleasure I felt sleeping beneath the stars while serenaded by owls grabbed hold of me and still won’t let go.

I eventually found the Florida Trail and spent nights last spring in the Green Swamp, Withlacoochee State Forest, and Osceola National Forest. But I waited until this season to discover the Ocala National Forest.

One week ago, I day hiked from the 88 Store to Lake Delancy and back through the Riverside Island, and I had been surprised that my legs held up so well on the 12.5 miles through hills with my overloaded cooler pack.

Perhaps ambition got the better of me when I decided to return the following weekend to spend a night 9 miles south and west from the same point of departure, aiming for a clearing beside the trail just north of the intersection with County Road 314, identified only by distance in The Florida Trail Guide.

The Big Scrub

I also apparently ignored the fact that this adventure demanded I hike several miles more than I’d yet attempted with a full pack on my first day.

Or that I’d be camping for the first time with anticipated inclement weather. What can I say, the little boy wanted to test his limits.

My fatigued legs twitched with residual cramping in the tent last night, but the ecstasy of being sewn into my sleeping bag like a silkworm helped me forget.

Man taking selfie with bending pines in background and backpack on

Can’t help but be happy while hiking

Because the expected rain required me to use my tent’s rain cover, I could not stargaze from bed as I usually do, but the clouds cleared enough after dinner last night to allow me to enjoy a few stars and Mars in the early eastern sky.

I prudently selected a campsite lifted by grass above the sandy ground, so the floor of my tent was softer than a Sealy Posturepedic. My freeze-dried dinner tasted just as delicious as it had after similar sweaty, shoulder-sore hikes.

So sure, every stitch of clothing I’m wearing is soaked, despite the two layers of waterproof nylon covering them.

My toes are numb, and my glasses are fogging. I’m hungry and tired and can’t wait to return to my tent to munch on trail mix.

Drying out my raincoat

But the storm makes me feel like a real backpacker. Suffering in the elements, adapting to the unplanned, like the thru hikers I admire—if only for one weekend night at a time.

Eventually the rain subsides. I hang my shorts and raincoat from a pine bough, dry off, and have breakfast before packing.

The overcast weather has made the trail look mystical during my hike home.

Misty trail

The rain returns one hour into my sprint back, after my cell phone dies and I begin sweating again as temperatures climb above 70 degrees.

No longer caring to stay dry, I dilute my electrolyte water by extending its open bottle into the falling rain as I hike, pouring drops from palm fronds into the mix.

Eventually I begin counting minutes as I slog back, hoping I make it to my car before my quads tighten like suspension bridge cables.

The motherland of the Florida Trail is not treating me gently. But I am savoring my time in Eden all the same.

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Rob Rogers

Rob Rogers is a writer and attorney from Winter Garden. His first book, Finding My Way Home: Fighting Depression Backpacking in Central Florida won the Bronze Medal for Autobiography/Memoir at the 2025 FAPA President’s Book Awards. His essays have been published in Ponder Review, Empyrean, and Under the Gum Tree. He blogs at Central Florida Backpacking Desk Jockey