Heck, you have to figure that if in the 1800s they used to run steamboats on this river that leads to the St. John's River - Florida's largest - you would assume that an 18-footer piloted by a talented driver should be able to finesse it. OK, so maybe more than a century is a bit old for a scouting report. But so far, nothing has been easy; even finding a chart of the river proves to be quite a challenge. In Jacksonville, where the crew lives, they manage to locate six charts of different sections of the 75-mile river, but they're actually topographical maps of the Ocala National Forest that show little detail of the river itself (plus costing $12 apiece), so instead they settle for a Florida atlas and the promise of a map that Joe says he has at the Outpost.

The closest "city" to where they launch is Eureka (no doubt named by those who actually manage to find it). After stopping at Linn's Bait Shop to scoop a couple of dozen very expensive, eight-inch-long shiners, they pull in at the Ocklawaha Canoe Outpost, where Joe allows them to launch at his private ramp (there's also a public one nearby) and park their trucks and trailers for the three days they'll be gone. At least one of their boats passes Joe's scrutiny: the blue Gheenoe Classic, which is a modified canoe that has a flat transom allowing it to be powered by Tohatsu's new 9.8-hp 4-stroke lightweight.

As the pair of river cruisers idle south, which is upstream, the beauty of the river transforms one's mind into a Zen-like trance. After crossing under the Highway 316 bridge, there are no signs of human development. The tall live oak trees dripping with garlands of Spanish moss canopy the river's banks. Curiously, the moss is actually a relative of the pineapple and is actually edible, though not particularly flavorful. Speaking of Spanish, history records the first known white visitor to the Ocklawaha as Hernando DeSoto, who had a little face-off with the boys in the woods here in 1539. DeSoto was reportedly seeking to provision his troops by plundering the natives' stores; a standard maneuver for conquistadores. What he found instead was a large contingent of fierce Acuera Indians who faced him on the other side of the river and answered his hail with a hail of their own: arrows. Whether he intended to intimidate them or beguile them, DeSoto sent one of his hunting dogs swimming across the Ocklawaha, which so impressed the Acuera, they riddled it with arrows. Doggone. DeSoto decided to try elsewhere. The sight of the newcomers was so disturbing to the chief of the Acuera, that he put a bounty on any Spaniard, thereby granting hiss tribe 100 years of Euro-free pleasure.

In 1814, a group of American patriots/vigilantes from up north built a fort in these woods in the heart of then Spanish-controlled Florida. They were summarily dispatched by Seminole Indians, who weren't an indigenous tribe, but rather a confederation of Native Americans who only came to Florida in the 1700s after being ousted from other states. After the Tahoe's prop busting, it seems as though the Ocklawaha is still a little hard on outsiders. Along the way they've been scouting campsites, 15 of which are marked on Joe's map, which more closely resembles a placemat at a diner, rather than a real chart. Planning where you're going to camp ahead of time is difficult because they're all primitive sites (no facilities of any kind), so you can't call anyone up and make reservations, and besides, you never know what conditions will be like until you get there, or if it's occupied. So far they've seen only one that looks pretty good, and they mentally mark that one as a possibility. Shortly after, the prop incident happens and they have no alternative other than to back up and check out the bypassed site - hence the phrase, backup plan.

The greeting party proves to be a "panic" of mosquitoes, so the first order of business is to whip out and activate a pair of ThermaCells repellent devices, which look like oversized TV remote controls and cook a small wafer with a butane flame. Aaah … relief comes in about 10 minutes, and the crew goes to work setting up camp. At first, the site seems kind of gloomy in the shady clearing surrounded by scrubby oaks interspersed with towering pines. The recent rains have left things a bit damp in low-lying areas, which accounts for the "mossy" population, but after the tents get set up and the sofa is inflated (yes, you heard that right), things start looking a bit homier. Fire, must have fire, so the menfolk head down a trail that seemingly goes on forever. Eventually, they find what they're looking for and drag various assortments of fallen branches and logs back to camp. They're careful to check for critters, especially after a fire ant encounter of the worst kind. They also move briskly to keep from getting swarmed on since they're out of the "dome of skeeter protection."

Just like being in a bar 'round closing time, it's amazing how pretty the campsite has become on this gorgeous stretch of river once everything is set up and they can kick back and imbibe some stout rum and cokes. As dusk loses its battle to night, the crackling fire and string of lights hanging between two trees provides the perfect dining ambiance as they begin to savage inch-thick Delmonico steaks and quaff Gallo Sonoma cabernet (don't sneer until you try it).

It's perfect snoozing weather with temperatures in the mid-60s, and the sleeper in the solo tent is able to tune out the Hornes in the other tent, who are grumbling about their leaky air mattress that has them bottomed out on the lumpy terrain. Thank goodness for headphones. One of the three campers wakes refreshed, and after a breakfast of pancakes and leftover steak, Robert goes to work changing out the broken composite blades on the Tahoe with the fresh replacements he brought along. Unfortunately, he's missing the Allen wrench that's needed to complete the task … not that he's considering taking another crack at the "death log" anyway. The Tahoe was mainly to help ferry the mountain of gear (such as a sofa) to the campsite.

So all three board the Gheenoe, which handles them easily with its passenger/gear capacity of 675 pounds, and they set off to explore. The 15-foot- 6-inch Classic proves to be the ideal river cruiser on this stretch of the Ocklawaha. In many places for the next 15 miles, the only way through is to shoot the narrow gap in the really bad tangles of downed trees. The technique is to get a little momentum going, shift the Tohatsu into neutral and tilt it up, and glide through before the relentless current kills your forward momentum, a maneuver they dub, "the Ocklawaha hop." Needless to say, it takes a little practice to get the maneuver down smoothly. The first few attempts are about as graceful as a native Floridian ice-skating for the first time. Ironically, this is the only part of the 75-mile-plus river that isn't OK for conventional motorboats. But the Gheenoe is anything but. To look at it, it appears to be just another tippy canoe, but at its widest it has a 4-foot-7-inch beam with extra flotation that makes it incredibly stable. Several people can even stand up in it without wobbling.

The trees along the bank of the river are mostly live oak, named because they retain their leaves through winter, and although there's the notation "high bluffs" on Joe's map, it's startling to see the 50-foot-high sandy walls, looking like a miniature White Cliffs of Dover. There's a steep trail leading up to the top, and they climb up using exposed roots for traction. At the top, the view is breathtaking, and there are even hiking trails up here, which they use to stretch their legs.

Along the way you see clearings that have old seawalls that were no doubt landings for the Hart Line steamboats that hauled goods and ferried tourists up and back from the St. John's River. Nowadays, to go from one to the other requires you to lock through the Buckman Lock, which is located a couple of miles away from Rodman Dam, which is at the epicenter of one of the most contentious ecological battles in the state.

It all began when Congress authorized the Cross Florida Barge Canal in 1942, which would give shipping interests a shortcut from the Gulf of Mexico to the Atlantic. As part of that project, in 1968 the Army Corps of Engineers constructed the Buckman Lock and Rodman Dam, which flooded 9,600 acres of floodplain forest. Richard Nixon ordered a halt to the project in 1971, citing environmental reasons, and although work was effectively halted, it wasn't until 1990 that the canal was officially de-authorized due to numerous court challenges by canal backers. Many factions want the dam torn down and the natural flow of the Ocklawaha restored.

But here's the problem: In the almost 40 years that the Rodman Reservoir has been in existence, it's developed into one of the best bass fishing destinations in the country, with bass as large as 17 pounds being taken. Occasionally, the water level is dropped to reverse the growth of aquatic plants, which at times dominate the reservoir. During these times when fish are concentrated, the fishing is awesome. Spokesmen for the "Save the Rodman Reservoir" group say that Rodman contributes $6 million to $7 million a year in local economic benefits and that it has more visitors than all but 12 state parks in Florida. How the fight will end nobody knows, because both sides have some clout behind them. It's definitely a situation where you can see both perspectives.

As you continue south, the river becomes more hospitable to boats, and nearing the Silver River cutoff - the destination today - you start to see boats like pontoons and bass boats. Farther upriver, things widen and eventually you reach Lake Griffin, home to some of the biggest gators in the state, which makes the waterskiing very interesting (speaking from personal experience). Eventually you reach the Ocklawaha's headwaters in the Harris Chain of Lakes and, ultimately, the Green Swamp, which is also where several other of Florida's major rivers begin: the Withlacoochie, Peace, Hillsborough and Kissimmee. Hanging a right, the Gheenoe enters the Silver River, which pumps 550 million gallons of 74-degree water a day into the Ocklawaha. Upriver you can see all sorts of fish in the pools, but you aren't allowed to catch them. One of the biggest draws of Silver Springs is the troop of rhesus monkeys that are descended from those seen in Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller that were filmed in the 1930s. Recent rains have muddled the usually crystal-clear water a bit, but the crew has bigger problems than that: They're starving. For one thing, the river's obstacles have made it slower going than they expected, and then the "restaurant on the river" they planned on dining at not far from here is closed on Tuesdays - what a coincidence. The entire river is a no-wake zone, and heading upriver is slow going, but they're determined to reach the headwaters. But after 45 minutes of grinding up current, the driver makes a command decision and turns about … monkeys be damned, we're hungry!

The trip back to the campsite to eat is lots faster thanks to being down current, and in open sections the Tohatsu 9.8 pushes the trio to a top speed of 17 mph, which feels blazing fast in a canoe. The only surprise is that upon arriving, they actually cook the chicken first before eating it.