Cold water. Seems like about 7:30 in the morning. Stripped down to swimming trunks and a bandana for a hat, cradled in an inner tube, the river was spring-fed cold, morning cold, wake-you-up cold, even on a humid summer Sunday.

The Ichetucknee River.

Thirty years ago or so.

Not sure what the process is now but then Ichetucknee Springs State Park officials allowed only so many people to tube on the river per day. They had a count. If you got there too late, you were too late: No river for you.

So, we left Valdosta early. The wee morning hours when most people still consider it night out. It was especially early for us. We were mostly bar folks – people who worked in bars. This was back in the days in the 1990s when I worked at the newspaper during the day then moonlighted as a bar back a few nights a week. Back when I was young. When we were all young.

One trip, I recall working past closing time Saturday night into Sunday, until about four in the morning then having a couple of beers, reading a bit of Jack London’s “The Sea Wolf” until time to leave Valdosta then climbing into the bed of a pickup truck, hunkering down to sleep the hour-plus distance to the river.

I recall waking a few times during the bumps, rumbles, whistling winds of momentum along the interstate to see the sun rise from the back of the truck before rolling over for a few more winks.

We arrived amidst a buzz of people renting inner tubes hoping to hit the river before the cut off which experience had taught could happen a lot earlier than expected.

Officials limited the number of people to keep the Ichetucknee as pristine as possible for the sake of the river, its wildlife and other folks wanting to enjoy its waters. That meant people were also prohibited from bringing almost anything other than themselves, swimsuits, a hat and their tubes on the tubing trip.

That meant no food or drink back then, and probably still does. Though rumor is people would sneak drinks in their swim suits.

For example, according to gossip, some folks hid plastic film canisters filled with shots of liquor, and once empty, the canisters were tucked back into whatever hiding places as before; no canisters were to be left behind.

This, back in the days when people used film and took photos with cameras instead of their phones. There were no cell phones – smart or otherwise – back in the day of our trips down the Ichetucknee.

Though someone apparently had a camera, which must have been allowed then, since I have a few photos from at least one trip. Which means someone must have been carrying a film canister or 12 … for camera purposes only, of course.

The Ichetucknee River runs about six miles, is mostly about 20 feet wide and at its deepest is about five feet down. It runs at a leisurely pace and tubers can make the full length in about three hours or so.

A beautiful morning with friends on the river makes for lifelong memories.

Otters, wood storks, egrets, turtles, herons, deer and other animals live along the river. Bream, bluegill, large-mouth bass and other fish swim the Ichetucknee.

One’s skin experiences a memorable contrast of hot sun and cool spring water while lounging in the warming inner tube.

The river is fed by springs. The Ichetucknee has a group of nine springs. Spring-fed means the water is clear and cool – consistently about 72 degrees whether it’s summer or winter.

Cold water but warm memories of friends, some lost to time and distance. Memories of youth when so little sleep seemed needed and energy was inexhaustible. When not even cold waters and a nap on the corrugated metal floor of a fast-moving truck could chill enthusiasm.

When a shot of liquor from a plastic film canister could fortify one body and soul … but that’s only rumor, of course.

Dean Poling is a former editor with The Valdosta Daily Times and The Tifton Gazette.