The Danger of Strangers

To get to Juniper Springs, I went via highways from hell, as I attempted a route along the ocean. I took the ocean-side route because as a Midwesterner, you don’t get to see oceans near home, so you think you’d like to drive alongside one. Maybe all the roads in Florida are this crowded. Most of the ones I drove were crowded. Coming from a small city, I was having sensory overload from my first encounter with the amount of traffic slowing down every vehicle everywhere. The whole state had the kind of traffic I am only used to encountering in the Minneapolis/St. Paul metropolitan area at rush hour.

I got lost a couple of times because I couldn’t find any route signs. I crossed a waterway by ferry which seemed to be the thing to do but was immediately lost once again. I turned away from the ocean and headed west so that I would cross a major highway. When I found one, I took it to the easiest, most direct route I could decipher in my road atlas, which happened to take me past Ravine Gardens State Park. I took a short break there, walking with The Dude through some large formal and wild gardens. For some reason dogs were allowed on these paths. The park was also popular with joggers pounding the pedestrian road that circled the gardens. It was a pleasant break; unfortunately I was too late in the garden season to see my favorites, the rhododendrons and azaleas, in bloom. After our short bout of greenery and twisting paths, it was back in the Escaper, heading for Ocala National Forest.

I didn’t know what to expect from a national forest in Florida, except maybe some sort of jungle. At home we have lots of national forests and they are, for the time being, predominantly made up of spruce, pine, cedar, aspen, maple, and birch. (Oaks and other zone 5 species are moving into our previously zone four climate.) Visiting a dozen Florida State Parks, I learned that there were all kinds of tree ecosystems in Florida besides “jungle.” However Juniper Springs was the jungle I was hoping for.

Park info says the name Ocala probably is a Timucan Indian word for fair land or big hammock. What springs to my mind is a hammock strung between two huge palm trees, but of course the term is also used to describe a low mound or ridge of earth. The landscape was very much a series of mounds of earth and vegetation amid a series of pools and streams. The forest has a sand pine scrub ecosystem, with lush vegetation (I believe that is the de rigueur phrase for Florida) made up of palms, sand pines, cypress and live oaks as the biggest residents. Live oak is the common name for a large species of warm climate oak. It is different from the oaks I know in southern and mid-Minnesota. It branches out lower and is frequently much bigger than the oaks at home. The undergrowth was thick with smaller palm-like trees, yucca, holly, crepe myrtle and other lower growing plants that provide a million shades of green against the blue waters of Juniper Creek and it’s fresh spring-water pools.

At the Fern Hammock Springs not far from our campsite, the incredible shades of blue in the ponds fascinated me. I was lucky enough to have sunny days, so I was really able to appreciate the colors. I took close to 100 pictures. How to adequately describe the shallow ponds ringed by green vegetation and the occasional flowering plant? Trees lean far out over the water and vines hang down reaching for their reflections in the blue shallows. Trees that had fallen in and sunk create branched underwater landscapes colored black and blue against the white bottom sands.

Some of the ponds are just a few inches deep. Their sandy bottoms appear white with chalky bubbling clouds where the springs flow up. In some of these places the sandy bottom was bare of vegetation; sometimes there was green algae dotting the sand. In other ponds the water was deeper, with clear blue shades dotted by white sands where the springs bubbled up. Standing on a bridge over the water, I could see fish swimming and turtles cruising past just under the surface. I enjoy my photos of four turtles sunning themselves on a log over the water and of shadowy fish in the blue green ponds with golden leaves fallen and floating.

This national forest has black bears! I didn’t expect bears in Florida. Must be jungle bears. I didn’t see any, but it made the place seem more like a forest to me. We have plenty of them at home in the Superior National Forest and in other places around the state. I wonder how they get along with the alligators? Mostly ignore each other unless a gator grabs a baby bear perhaps?

Animals are not the most dangerous creatures in the wild. In years of living and camping in the north woods, I’ve never had serious trouble with bears or moose, but humans have robbed or threatened me a couple times. Located just north of Orlando, Ocala is one of the most heavily used of the national forests in the U.S. according to the park service. Looking for information on Ocala National Forest on the web, I stumbled upon a couple of news stories spotlighting crime in the area. Although I never encountered worse than yelling beer drinkers, criminal activity is on the rise in our national wild areas and I was right to be cautious in my travels. I liked having my camper in one unit so I could get to the driver’s seat and take off if necessary. Here’s fuel for that conceit from the web site for WESH TV in Winter Park, Florida. They have links to several stories including a list of crimes committed in the Ocala National Forest between January 2005 and January 2006. It includes seven meth labs found, one of which blew up in a developed campground. Another article claimed over 20 labs had been found. No meth lab reported at Juniper Springs, but there was a reported suicide attempt and a double murder. And I thought it was paradise.

Apparently squatters are also a problem. From the story, I imagined the naked bicycle-riding man who has been hiding out in the woods for four years, is probably not much of a threat. But in 2006, a man with a knife threatened a troupe of Boy Scouts, so an entire area of the forest was shut down. Other areas are home to what the reporters call gangs of squatters. Some of them work in nearby towns while others are associated with the meth dealers. One previous squatter said she had abandoned her camp after witnessing beatings, rapes and stabbings by other squatters. The park service now has only four rangers for patrolling the whole 400,000 acres of forest, having recently doubled that from two. Tells me I was right about Florida. You can’t get away from people or their troubles where there are so many of both.

The Juniper Springs Pool seems to be the headwaters for Juniper Creek. I would love to take a canoe down the 7 miles of slow flowing water that makes up the Juniper Creek Canoe Trail. Parts of it are as narrow as six feet, winding through the tropical foliage, while other parts widen out for an even slower ride if you just want to coast. With any luck, one could make it to the take out point without running into alligators or meth dealers. But at the time, I was enjoying my illusion of paradise with no problems at all, unless you count not being able to take a canoe down river.

For my two nights in early May of 2004, there were few campers. When I stopped in, the visitor center was empty but for a clerk selling snacks and gifts, while a video about the park looped on a TV in front of folding chairs. She told me the spring keeps a swimable temperature all year round. Of course I didn’t write that figure down and can’t find the info on the web, so let’s just say it was too cold for me to do more than wade, with air temperatures in the high 60s. I am a wimp though. A small group of other folks were swimming that day.

The pool is itself spring fed, but it was not like the spring pools I’ve described so far – left to their natural boundaries. A low rock wall curves to create a vaguely circular pool about 30 feet across. Don’t hold me to that figure. I didn’t measure it. The floor of the pool is white sand with underwater greenery over about half of the area. Does that greenery withstand the pressure of swimmers all year round I wonder? It looked like it might be nice to walk through. But the part of me that cut my six-year-old feet on glass at a public beach sends out warning thoughts of rocks, or biting fish, or the dreaded broken pop bottle.

I spent two nights at Juniper Springs, visiting relatives in the nearby city of Ocala by day. My favorite aunt Virginia and my uncle Milt had retired there years before. In my childhood, our two families spent many summer vacations together. Growing up and living our lives spread us around the country, so I had not been in touch with my four Johnson cousins for many years. It was a treat to reunite for a couple of days with Diane and Patty who also live in Ocala. I guess the family pretty much has gravitated to warm climates, except for Nancy, my cold climate cousin from Minneapolis. Julie, was livng in Hawaii. Patty and I enjoyed reminiscing about our childhoods and the little theatre shows we would put on for our parents. My oldest cousin, Diane has a Scottish Terrier named Mac. Mac was not happy about the new guy, and The Dude did not like this male mirror image. Well, not quite mirror image. The Dude does not go to the groomer as often as some dogs, so he does not have the flowing locks that Scotties are known for. The Dude is more of a rough and tumble kinda guy with short curls that don’t catch the burrs and seeds an adventurous fellow is bound to collect. Mac seemed quite happy with himself in his traditional skirt of flowing black hair.

After my visit with them, I planned to take Highway 27 south and east toward the Keys. The road atlas I was using had a dotted line designating a scenic highway along that stretch. Thus came my lesson in not believing everything you read in an atlas. Though leaving late in the afternoon, I figured it would be an easy jump to one of the many state parks on the way. This “highway” taught me to beware of thinking any highway was a reasonable choice for getting somewhere without stop and go, stop and go, the whole way. I spent an hour or more going from stop light to stop light, surrounded by Malwarts and Mac shops until I decided this was a never-ending city. Amazingly, after a couple of hours of mostly business district driving, I found a state park oasis in that maze of residential and business areas.

It was a relief to pull into the relatively small campground at Lake Griffin State Park (40 sites). The park’s major bragging feature was one of the largest Live Oaks in the state. It would take three or four people joining hands to reach around the circumference of the huge old guy who was several hundred years old. At about six feet, huge branches rose and arched out to a fairly sparse canopy high above the other plants and trees. It would make a great backyard climbing tree. Too creaky to be tempted myself, and anyway the rules forbid it, I did not climb on this one. The Dude checked out whatever messages had been left for him around the base of the tree. I tried to figure out how to get a picture that gives some idea of the hugeness of such a tree.

The campsites there are fairly open to each other, but some have a measure of privacy from the next camper. Mine was sheltered on two sides by thick vegetation, and a large motor home created a wall on the south. The driveway formed the fourth wall of my cubicle. Each site had a little brick patio with a picnic table and a fire ring next to the concrete parking pad.

All I wanted to do was sit in the shade in my folding chair and not stir for anything. Just do nothing. It was hot. May seventh and it felt like weather we don’t see up north until July or August. Obviously, the people who reside down here were having no trouble enjoying the weather. Eighty degrees is probably quite comfy when you live with much higher temps at other times of the year. I am a northerner born and bred, used to surviving the other end of the heat spectrum. Hot summer days in the 80s and 90s make me want to take a siesta all day. It saps my energy. Over the few weeks I spent in the southern states, I seemed to get used to it and now really miss living in tee shirts and shorts rather than long underwear and sweaters. In the south, I could just walk out the door like it’s summer most of the time. Up north we only get a couple of months of that before we have to start putting on the layers.

The Dude, of course, was ready for a walk, but it was not forthcoming any time soon. He had found a stick, but playing tug of war with it entertained him for about a minute. I sat with my notebook writing about doing nothing and about heat. Since writing is in fact doing something, this conclusive scientific test proves that I am incapable of doing nothing. (Bad Buddhist!)

Cicadas or their Florida sound-alike were making a racket in the trees. Other bugs were singing their own relentless tunes. They reminded me of the mating flying insects that had flown between my aunt and me while we were outside talking. “Ha!” she said. “They’re having a good time!” She laughed the way I remembered her always laughing, vigorous and maybe a little embarrassed. I hated to think that I might never see her again since she is elderly and doesn’t travel any more, and I don’t usually travel as far as Florida.

My reflection was interrupted by a small voice, “Look Daddy! That dog has a big head!” Walking by our campsite hand in hand with her dad, an observant young lady pointed to The Dude. She’s right. The Dude, like all Scotties, has a rather large head for his short stature. Out of proportion head size had never occurred to me in all my years of admiring Scotties before I joined up with The Dude. But many friends are moved to remark on the enormous proportions of his noble noggin. The Dude never comments on these things. I’m sure his head is just fine thank you very much. I continued to just sit for half an hour before taking The Dude for a short hike around the campground, making dinner, and collapsing in bed with a good book.

The next day, after lazing around a bit and taking a hike with The Dude, I decided to hook up with the Florida Turnpike, a toll road that could take me by express to the Atlantic Ocean again and a good bit further south towards the Keys. The 150-mile jump cost me $9.25 in tolls and took me to Jonathan Dickenson State Park.

A Saturday, the campground was nearly full. I got my least favorite kind of site in the middle of a grassy open area by some overflow parking. The campground has 90 sites at the Pine Grove area near the highway and another 35 down at the River area near a boat ramp on the Loxahatchee River. I settled in to site #90, making dinner, doing dishes, feeding The Dude, then running down to the bathhouse in hopes that dinnertime was a slow shower time, and there wouldn’t be a line. I was in luck, so before long The Dude and I were walking the campground, taking note of the attributes and advantages of various sites. There were some on the other side of the grounds that had big pines shading and screening them from some of the neighbor sites.

The park’s popularity is well deserved. One of the largest of Florida’s state parks, it has everything a park should have. Hiking trails galore, with info on the vegetation, birds and area history available from the park office. You can rent a cabin, a campsite, a kayak, a canoe, a motorboat, or bring your horse or bicycle to use on some trails. The Loxahatchee River has been a National Wild and Scenic River since 1985. One of few remaining wild rivers in the US, the Loxahatchee was home to Trapper Nelson, whose homestead and wildlife zoo are now an exhibit accessible by a park service boat, The Loxahatchee Queen. Did I experience any of these great features? Other than a short hike, no.

The next morning, Sunday, the campgrounds began to clear out. I joined the exodus and headed north up the shore a few miles to check out the Hobe Sound National Wildlife Refuge. I had read about it in some lit found at the park station and it sounded pleasant. It was not just pleasant; it was to die for. A beautiful, uncrowded beach in Florida! The white sand beach scantily inhabited by other beach goers stretched out for miles in one direction and took a curve out to a small peninsula in the other. It was a gorgeous sunny day in the 80s, perfect for wading and lolling in my folding chair under the shady shoreline foliage. Mangrove and rhododendron line the shore along with palms and wildflowers. I adored the masses of Sea Grape (coccoloba uvifera) that form thickets along the beach. As big as my spread out hand, the green leathery leaves gave me shade. Later in the summer, the plant produces an edible grape-like fruit, but I was too early to enjoy that treat.

The only thing that keeps the spot from appearing to be an isolated tropical paradise is the presence of mansions lining the shore of Jupiter Island opposite. Green lawns stretch from the oversized houses to a narrow sandy beach. No doubt their gardeners spread herbicides and pesticides on those lawns, which leaches into the water of the Sound. Why is it so difficult for people to see the connection between putting poison on lawns and poison ending up in our water?

I preferred to ignore thinking about such things for the moment and allowed myself another paradisiacal day enjoying the breeze and the shade and the blue, blue waters. Now The Dude enjoyed himself digging in the sand, burying bits of sticks and chasing bits of flotsam in the gentle waves. He adores sticks, rarely tiring of having them thrown, retrieved, thrown, retrieved, thrown, retrieved. I had been leery of bringing him down to the beach, since so many parks in Florida banned dogs. In the parking lot I had asked a woman about it. She said on weekdays a visitor center was open, but on weekends, people came to fish. And dogs? “You’re supposed to leash them, but we don’t,” she said as she followed her wobbling basset hound to her car.

I kept Dude on his leash most of that day, but let him off when the beach was almost unpopulated later. He had seemed to mainly avoid salt water until that day. He got thoroughly wet and then sandy from rolling on the beach. When he had first encountered salt water, he had seemed disgusted with the taste and opposed to wading in it. He was used to running into and drinking the fresh water of Lake Superior, so the heavy salt was odd for him.

It had been a pretty good week in Florida. Finding the fabulous Fort Clinch State Park on the first night had been a stroke of luck, as was finding this beach. And in between had been the paradisiacal Jupiter Springs. Not bad. Though I had planned to make my way closer to the Keys this day, I decided to stay on the beach all afternoon and into the evening before returning to nearby Jonathon Dickenson.

That night, the grounds were nearly empty so I chose site 54 on an outside corner of the park. Weeping cypress trees formed a natural roof over the site and there were no immediate neighbors. The Dude and I strolled the camp roads again and picked up more trash left by the weekend occupants. Under some piled up boughs in one site, I found a whole bag of Styrofoam airplanes, the little flat ones that kids put together and fling into the air. Someone had forgotten them there. I took them and handed them out to kids I met at various campgrounds on the rest of the trip.

The only thing I didn’t like about this park was the price – a whopping $23.76 per night. As a cheapskate, I preferred the free and cheaper stays I had found in states along the way. My favorite, Cumberland Gap National Historic Park, had only cost $12 a night, including a shower. For another $5 per night, I could have had hookups to water and electricity. In Florida, the least expensive parks I stayed at were Stephen Foster Folk Culture State Park for $17 and Collier-Seminole State Park for $18. All the others were $20 or more per night. Still not an outrageous fee, but $20 per night rather than $10 made the state cost twice as much for camping as I was used to. Spending 19 nights in Florida, you can see how about $200 for camping at around $10 per night, would instead come to around $400. But if I thought the state parks were expensive, I had no idea what I was in store for on the Keys, where none of the state parks had campgrounds that allowed dogs and all the private campgrounds cost at least $75 a night.

I guess if I had done more driving and less lolly gagging along the way, I would have covered more territory and gotten out of Florida’s expensive camping sooner, but I prefer to lolly gag. I like hiking trails, watching alligators and herons, reading on the beach or writing into the wee hours in my camper. I like sleeping late, sometimes until 11:00 a.m. or later, a veritable slug-a-bed.

That Monday morning at Jonathan Dickenson, I was awakened by a scratching noise above my head, where a screened vent was open to the air. Looking up, I saw a little grey squirrel looking down on me. “Hello,” I greeted her. “I suppose you thought you had found the entrance to a treasure trove of people food.” The little face disappeared and the sound of skittering claws on the fiberglass roof took her away to the safety of the overhanging trees. The Dude, asleep in the cab, missed his chance to show his outrage at such an intrusion by a tree rat. As a Scottie, he was bred to get excited about any small animal. His predilection extends to large animals of course. Frequent sightings of deer in our hometown result in jumping and squeals of joy (and not from me!).

After a leisurely morning, I again detoured north to Hobe Sound so I could check out the visitor center. I spoke to the two women staffing it and they introduced me to an injured hawk that was sitting on a perch in the back of their office. I got some questions answered about the vegetation and the preserve and then forgot it all as usual. Oh well, there was so much to see and learn, and I couldn’t keep track of all of it. Leaving the preserve, I found the freeway and took the rest of the day driving to Homestead, Florida. There we found a comfortable two-night stay, while I explored the northern tip of the Keys and the wonderful Coral Castle.