This article is from the 2026 summer edition of Mobile Baykeeper’s print quarterly, CURRENTS. The magazine is mailed to active members who have given more than $50 in the past year. To get on the magazine’s mailing list, donate here.
By Cori Yonge | Photos by Caine O'Rear and Cori Yonge
After the flurry of loading the canoes — squeezing black Pelican boxes and ice chests between thwarts, stuffing dry bags under seats, and beaching the boats at the water’s edge — my husband, Lynn Yonge, motions us over. “Welcome to Rice Creek,” he announces as he steps into the shade at the gravel boat launch, instructs his students to gather close, and traces his finger along a map of the Mobile-Tensaw Delta. I lean in with the others as he points out the broad blue curve of the Tensaw River, its narrow tributaries, and oxbow lakes that will be our wilderness classroom for the next five days.
The expedition is the culmination of a month of training for fourth-year medical students who have chosen to learn the fundamentals of wilderness medicine. Lynn is a family physician and Director of Wilderness Medicine for the University of South Alabama’s Department of Emergency Medicine. Each spring, he and his colleagues, USA emergency physicians Raymond McGuire and Walker Plash, train two classes of students to respond to natural disasters, humanitarian crises, and search and rescue. It’s a lot to learn in a short period of time. In part, because, for a majority of students, primitive camping is a novel experience.
In the weeks before their Delta expedition, the students meet at a private lodge in Washington County. Off the grid they spend one weekend learning how to set up a tent, build a fire, paddle a canoe, and dig a latrine. Twelve years as a Girl Scout leader means I have the joy of teaching them how to cook on a camp stove and over a fire. The following weekend, a generator powers technology as the future doctors crowd into a makeshift classroom listening to lectures on how to practice medicine without modern conveniences. Lessons include how to apply a tourniquet, splint a broken bone, sterilize water, and irrigate wounds in the wilderness.
“The focus for me is to teach them how to survive in austere conditions so they can be the ones to respond to a catastrophe, not the ones who evacuate from it,” Lynn says.
In south Alabama, there’s no better place to practice austere conditions than the swamps and bottomlands of the Delta. Now in its fifteenth year, the course is one of the only water-based wilderness medicine programs in the United States. “It’s our wilderness, it’s accessible,” Lynn explains. “We may not have altitude but we have alligators. And we have our own weather-related challenges. It may not be a blizzard, but it could be a flood.”
To be sure, no two trips in the Delta are ever the same. I know this firsthand from previous excursions on the Bartram Canoe Trail where we paddled against the wind and tide, white caps breaking over the bow of our canoe. Despite the threat of fickle tides and blustery spring conditions, I decide to tag along with this expedition, figuring the tranquility of limited cell service would override any bad weather. The weather was beautiful. The mud not so much.
In the week leading up to the expedition, Lynn studied tide tables and water levels. The worst drought in almost 20 years challenged the previous month’s class. Putting in at Rice Creek, he says, was gambling on a three-day fall, hoping we would have enough water elevation to defeat the incoming tide.
The students were in high spirits as we pushed off into the shallow water. They marveled at the banks of towering bald cypress and took note of the alligator silently crossing our path. They made camp that night on a patch of high ground, proud of the day’s accomplishments. “I had never paddled a loaded boat before. I was in the bow so I can’t complain, but it was still hard,” Sonia Patel tells me as we relax near the campfire.
The expedition’s most taxing lessons would come in the morning. Waking to the baritone hoots of a barred owl amplified in the misty air, we quickly discovered low water and a mat of thick mud and cypress knees between us and the lake. The students would need to load and launch the canoes one at a time, being careful not to slip or lose their boots in the unforgiving muck. Raymond McGuire, Assistant Professor of Emergency Medicine and a long time outdoor guide, says it’s the stuff that makes the Delta a great classroom: teaching the students teamwork, communication, and respect for one another. Skills necessary in both hospital and austere medical settings. “It makes you not just a better doctor, but changes your life for the better,” McGuire explains. “It gives them a boost of real-life confidence where they see themselves doing things they never thought would be possible.”
And if conquering the mud wasn’t enough to boost their confidence, a fallen cypress tree blocking the entrance to a creek did the job later that morning. It lay on its side, in low water, exposed roots high in the air. The students could wait two hours for the water to rise or figure it out. The most experienced campers went first. With their help, we followed one by one. Shedding our boots and socks, we scrambled onto the slippery tree, pulled our boat over the log, and climbed back into the canoe. It was the kind of problem solving that inspires Connor White, who says he signed up for the class because he likes the idea of doing the most with what little you’ve got. “The biggest thing, and I think we did it really well, was when we encountered an obstacle, everybody stopped. We made a plan, executed a plan, and we were safe about it.”
While the expedition wasn’t a vacation, it wasn’t all work. On the third afternoon, the group had a chance to take it easy. Some chose to bask in the sun while others sat in the shade reading or whittling sticks. Everyone took a bucket bath or a dip in the water, reveling in the feeling of clean skin and a fresh set of clothes. Associate Professor of Emergency Medicine Walker Plash says this kind of downtime and outdoor exposure is important for physicians. “Wellness is huge in the medical education space, whether residency education or medical student education. Maintaining wellness, preventing burnout, and resiliency are important. And I think there’s a big tie-in with wilderness medicine.” The students agreed, sending up a chorus of “no’s” when I asked if they would trade their time in the wilderness for the office.
By the final morning, the med students have boat loading down to a science. Plash gives them instructions on what to expect once we reach the take-out at Cloverleaf Landing. Then we’re off, paddling south on the slick waters of the Tensaw River. We circle up to share our high points and low points. It’s clear everyone will take away both knowledge and a new appreciation for the ups-and-downs of a challenging environment. “It taught me to be humble,” says Melissa Ziprick. “You can think you’re really prepared but, until you’ve done it, you don’t know. It was good for me.”
As three osprey soar overhead, scolding our convoy of canoes, McGuire reminds the group the trip is coming to an end. “Then life becomes intrusive,” he says. “Just enjoy the last four miles.” Once again, the Delta has done its job as a classroom.
