Gulf Coast Putzing

The Everglades is not my favorite national park, although it is one of our nation’s biggest at over a million-and-a-half acres and one of our most important because of the fresh water reserves. First of all, in the evening the mosquitoes are so thick you can’t breathe without inhaling them. I don’t find it to be a particularly scenic park, though the flora and fauna are incredibly diverse. For a swamp, it‘s quite beautiful. But our parks and reserves at all levels are valuable to some creature or plant, whether or not I find them beautiful or useful.

Just a couple hundred years ago, the Everglades was a shallow river running about 120 miles from Lake Okeechobee to the tip of the peninsula, averaging 50 miles wide and usually less than a foot deep. Due to human draining, diverting, and controlling water flows, the river has shrunk to less than half its original size in the last hundred years. One example of the effect this change has had on wildlife is the fact that wading bird populations have shrunk by 90% in the last 20 years alone. That’s a lot of birds gone in just a small portion of my lifetime. I doubt if Steinbeck had any inkling of such changes that would devastate our environment in the few years to follow his 1970s travels. The national park covers only one-fifth of the historic area of the Everglades. We’ve taken up the rest for everything people can think of to take up space for. Too many people wanting to be in Florida is the problem.

The National Resources Defense Council outlines a number of threats to the Everglades ecosystems that are due to poor human management. They blame the US Army Corps of Engineers and the South Florida Water Management District who have created canal and levee systems that shunt rainwater away for agricultural and residential use. The diversion creates unusual conditions in the Everglades where plants and animals were historically adapted to alternating wet and dry seasons. The water control structures disregard the ecosystem needs for human needs. Sometimes we prevent water flowing into the wild areas. Other times, we inundate the wetlands, disrupting cycles of feeding and nesting conditions. No one set out to decimate the wildlife population of the Everglades but that is the result. The National Park Service is working with the Corps and other institutions to adapt better ways to manipulate water flows.

Human actions create other threats. Agricultural runoff, primarily from sugar cane farming, pollutes the water with excess nitrogen, phosphorus and other chemicals, thus affecting vegetation patterns. High levels of mercury are killing wildlife. One endangered Florida panther was found dead with mercury levels toxic to humans. There are less than 30 panthers left in the whole state.

Knowledge of threats to the Everglades is not new. In the 1940s, Marjory Stoneman Douglas, a pioneering conservationist, wrote of them in The Everglades: River of Grass. River of Grass is now a common nickname for the Everglades. In the 1970s, Everglades National Park was designated as an International Biosphere Reserve, a World Heritage Site, and a Wetland of International Importance. These projects of UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific, and Cultural Organization) and intergovernmental treaties are aimed at protecting samples of the world’s major ecosystems. They also serve as a standard for measuring human impacts. Despite these efforts by over 150 countries around the world, we are still making a mess of things thirty years later.

Mainly these messes are a consequence of too many human beings with too little knowledge and forethought. Enlarging the parks has been one solution, as the Everglades Park was enlarged in the 1990s, but it’s not enough. The National Park Service website sums it up: “Previously, it was thought, islands of land could be preserved simply by drawing national park boundaries. Today, it is clear that this is untrue. National parks are not islands. They are greatly impacted by what happens outside their boundaries.”

Aware of my own impacts, I headed across southern Florida on the Tamiami Trail (a k a State Highway 41), stopping at the Gulf Coast Visitor Center of Everglades National Park just to touch base when I reached the western side. I guess I can add Big Cypress National Preserve to my life list, since it is part of the national park system I drove through on my route west to the Gulf Coast. (Maybe it doesn’t count if I just looked at the terrain while driving. This life list thing can be tricky.) Just past the national park, I spent the night at Collier-Seminole State Park, a rather boring park in May, the beginning of the off season for Florida. December through April, the park offers guided nature walks and boat tours of the Ten Thousand Islands as well as guided canoe trips in the Mangrove Wilderness Area. Oh well. No problem. All I really needed was a place to park for the night and a place to walk with The Dude.

We chose a site in an almost deserted section of the campground and headed off on a walk before the evening brought out the thickest clouds of mosquitoes. We strolled past the six-sided Blockhouse Visitor Center with its stone-walled first level and log second level, an interesting little building with a few displays about the Seminole Indians who inhabited the area before the Europeans barged in. I wonder if anyone was there when the Seminoles barged in? Turning a corner from the park road, we found a monument to Barron Collier, a guy who in the 1920’s had owned a million acres in the area. This particular spot had been home to a beautiful stand of native Royal Palms. He tried to donate acreage to the federal government for a national park, but they didn’t want it. Oh, how short sighted we can be. It became a county park until 1947 when it was turned over to the state park system. Unfortunately, lightening strikes have killed the Royal Palms since the Baron’s time. His personal monument is an unusual classical structure. It looks odd in a place dedicated to nature and swamp. A row of six white columns backs a pedestal with a bust of the Barron arranged upon a white concrete patio. A simple aluminum sign told the story of his generous donation.

The salt-water marsh on the coastal side of the park was more what I had been expecting of the Everglades. It’s a vast grassy wetland is inhabited by rabbits, rodents and snakes who are prey for hawks and owls. It was grassy and moist, not flooded when I saw it, but high tides periodically flood the marsh from the gulf side, and summer rains flood it from interior rivers and streams.

The campground struck me as unusual because it has large areas of mown lawn. I suppose it helps keep the bugs down, but it just seems boring to camp on a lawn. Could be the tradeoff is worth it there. A good strip of shrubs, palms, and poisonwood trees separates the campground from Highway 92 on one side. The park road empties onto the Tamiami Trail on the adjoining side. Despite the proximity of highways, the occasional road noise was not particularly annoying at my campsite. Before mosquitoes drove us back to the camper, I had picked up two plastic sacks of garbage and retrieved a garbage bag from the side of the road that contained pop cans and chip bags. Perhaps one of the many raccoons had dragged it away from a campsite or garbage can. Or some slob threw it from an SUV.

Inside for my evening map study, away from the mosquitoes, I considered my options. I now had two weeks to cross the territory between here and northern New Mexico where I was scheduled to meet Tom around the first of June. I wanted to get there on time, but I didn’t want to miss anything in between. Impossible. Florida State Parks are numerous (155), varied, and enticing. The landscapes go from pine forests to mangrove swamps to beautiful sand beaches. If you are looking for recreation, hiking is only the beginning. Depending on the park, you can choose from bicycling, canoeing, motor boating, water skiing, in-line skating, diving, snorkeling, fishing, swimming, plus tours of caverns, cultural and archeological displays, or formal and botanical gardens. That’s just the state parks. There are tons of private and county attractions like aquariums, arboretums and the ubiquitous gator and wildlife parks. I would have liked to have seen a lot more. And that’s just the state of Florida. I had several other states between New Mexico and me.

Decisions. Decisions. Luxurious decisions. Every moment another choice. Relax in my folding chair? Walk with The Dude? Read? Write? Drive on? Explore another botanical garden? Wade at another beautiful ocean beach? Get a move on toward New Mexico? Moving on was mandatory. The pace of moving on was less so. On Saturday morning I decided to take a fairly short leap to my next night’s stay.

This route was all on the freeway so the travel time went quickly. I stopped at Oscar Scherer State Park after a short 150-mile trek up Interstate 75. I thought I should go farther, but I wanted to see Myakka River State Park, which is just up the road but has no campground allowing dogs. The description in numerous park service marketing pieces had me convinced the place was worth a short visit. Myakka not only has “wetlands, prairies, hammocks and pinelands,” and “a 7 mile scenic drive winding through shady oak-palm hammocks,” but also a canopy walkway where you can get a close look at the upper stories of tropical treetops.

Speaking of marketing, my compliments to the designers of the Florida State Parks 2004 official guidebook. It has great cross referenced indexes – alphabetical by park name, within regions, plus a “Parks at a Glance” section that gives 15 lists categorizing the parks that are good for birding or fishing, lists of all the ones that allow pets in campgrounds and so on. Individual descriptions of the parks have clear icons that tell you the main facilities and recreation before you have to read through a description you don’t care about to find out what you do care about. It was a great resource for the traveling camper. Perhaps its descendants still are.

Apparently the Florida park service finds pets objectionable enough to ban them outright in campgrounds at more than half of their parks. When allowed, camping with “fur bearing pets” costs an extra $2 per animal. Though there is no fee for them, “non-fur bearing pets, such as reptiles, birds or fish must be confined or under the physical control of the owner.” I get it that we don’t want more invasive species getting loose, but I love the image of campers with out-of-control gold fish. “Shut that fish up or else!” The guidebook says that some parks require written verification of rabies vaccination, but no one ever requested such from me. (I did have the certificate with me.) It is okay that “any pet that is noisy, dangerous, intimidating or destructive will not be allowed to remain in the park,” but I suspect the authorities consider all dogs to be so unruly. Again the lousy pet owner spoils it for the rest of us. The Dude and I abide by the rules as best we can.

Oscar Scherer campground is large but the sites are spread out enough to leave palms and other vegetation between them, giving each site some measure of privacy. The sites near the playground were crowded with families so The Dude and I selected one on the other end of the campground. After dinner, I set up my camp chair in the shade, perused the park brochure and watched butterflies flit about in the shrubs. The park is named for the father of Elsa Scherer Burrows who donated the initial land for the park in 1955. The park defines its plant communities as scrubby flatwoods and pine flatwoods, neither of which sounds attractive but I found the area to be lovely. I wish I had seen the bobcats, river otters or bald eagles that are sometimes seen in the winter months. The park is also home to the endangered Florida scrub jay. As you can imagine, habitat loss is the greatest threat to animal and bird life in Florida. The flatwoods areas are popular for development because they are high and dry. State parks are a vital oasis for inhabitants such as the gopher tortoise, gopher frog, and the indigo snake, who populate the 1384 acres of Oscar Scherer. And a vital oasis for people.

It never ceased to amaze me how the Florida parks exist cheek to jowl with cities. Right outside this park, like many in Florida, are a chain hotel, restaurants and other city amenities.  Living in northern Minnesota, I am accustomed to thinking of state parks as wilderness areas. I suppose that is less and less so as the human population encroaches. Perhaps most of my perception is taken from my childhood when everything seemed bigger and there was more space between populated areas. We’re lucky in Minnesota that the cold weather keeps the riff raff out so we still have chunks of roadless areas. Where roads do traverse the forests, in a few rare places, one can drive for miles and never see a dwelling.

Relaxing in my camp chair that evening, I noted that there were few biting bugs so far, while wondering if to say so could be a mistake that would invoke Murphy’s Law. The noisy neighbors had quieted down and I hoped that making a note of that would not jinx me either. The hot weather got me to thinking about a shower, or it may have been the fellow strolling towards the bathhouse with a towel slung over his shoulder. It was only about 6 hours since I had taken a shower, so my inner puritan advised against it. Another part of me was just too lazy to get up, gather a towel and walk that far. I had to overcome my lethargy anyway because The Dude was staring at me with his best “I demand a walk” expression.

We headed off on a dogs-allowed hike on park roads. I admired the tall pines against the darkening evening sky while The Dude left some pee mail on a few. I took some wonderful pictures of pines silhouetted against the partly cloudy purple and pink sky, as well as shots of a yucca in full white flower. Beautiful thunderheads shone in the setting sun but did not bring any rain that night.

Sunday morning found us making our way to Myakka River State Park located about 20 miles east of Interstate 75. With 58 square miles, Myakka is one of Florida’s largest and oldest state parks. Developed by the Civilian Conservation Corps, many of their buildings are still in use. Looking at the park brochure now, I can’t understand why I didn’t take the airboat tour or at least the tram tour. The airboats take tourists out on Upper Myakka Lake and into shallow, grassy areas where you may see alligators, anhingas, or sandhill cranes. The tram takes folks into the back country of hammocks, flatwoods, marshes and prairies where one can start to “gain an understanding of a natural ecosystem in progress.” Maybe tours were full when I got there. Maybe I was too cheap to pay the fee. Maybe I just didn’t want to take the time.

I did take the scenic drive along the beautiful Upper Myakka Lake, stopping at a boardwalk extending into the lake, where I watched a large flock of water birds in the distance. I regret my ignorance of birds. I had no binoculars and the long legged creatures were too far away for me to tell just what type they were. Their feathers glowed white in the mid day sun. They could have been Great White Egrets or Great White Herons, as both are inhabitants of Florida.

I admired the greens and yellows of the marsh grasses that skirted the lake. The lake forms a nice backdrop for the Spanish moss hanging from live oak and cypress trees. Spanish moss seems so exotic to a northerner like me. Trees seem to be letting their hair down, long threads of grey stems in dense clusters. Spanish moss is not really a moss, but an epiphytic bromeliad belonging to the pineapple family! It produces no fruit and only rarely flowers. Although it may seem so, the plant is not a parasite nor is it structurally entwined with a host. It is simply hanging around, perching on various convenient plants. As a matter of fact, epiphyte, from Latin, means plant that grows on other plants. Spanish moss moves about and propagates itself by fragments blown in the wind or carried by birds using it as nesting material. Like other so-called “air plants,” Spanish moss absorbs nutrients from dust and rain.

The main attraction of Myakka for me was the canopy walkway, highly touted in various tourist media as a wonderful opportunity to see the upper stories of the forest. Suspended between two stair towers, the 85 foot long walkway hangs 25 feet above the forest floor, allowing visitors to experience the airy habitat of bromeliads and vines among the tops of trees. One tower is 35 feet high, and the other is 70 feet high providing glorious views of the surrounding forest and lake. The brainchild of Dr. Margaret Loman, an expert in tropical ecosystems, the walkway is not only for tourists. The walkway allows research opportunities for scientists and access for student groups to experience the endangered ecosystem. Dr. Loman also sees the walkway as an opportunity to encourage school children’s interest in the sciences.

Among the large epiphytes in the branches of the trees, I admired grassy leaf air plant, butterfly orchid and pineapple air plant as well as the ubiquitous Spanish moss. I would like to see more informative signage along the walkway, alerting visitors to existing threats to these beautiful species. It was not until I was researching epiphytes on the Internet at home that I learned of the specific threat of invasive Mexican weevils. Probably arriving as a hitchhiking pest on some imported product or plant, the weevils have no predators here thus have thrived in southern forests, while devastating the native bromeliads it feeds on.

Oh, who cares? There will be other plants to take their place. Maybe some invasive ones from some other warm climate, like the widely despised kudzu that is spreading itself liberally around the south like a giant green blanket. Luckily epiphytic bromeliads are beautiful plants that represent Florida flora to many people. While they are worth saving for their beauty alone, there are other species depending on them for survival. In the branched varieties (like the ones we see on refrigerator magnets), numerous animals and insects live or drink the water trapped between the leaf axils. Some of the largest varieties are home to frogs, snakes, and salamanders. Parula warblers and Baltimore Oriols use Spanish moss as their primary nesting material. As well as being an iconic fixture in southern landscapes, Spanish moss provides a home to spiders and bats. Remember, we love bats. They eat lots of mosquitoes. I probably should love spiders for similar reasons, but I just can’t. I saw too many giant insect horror movies in my youth.

Botanists are trying to control the weevil biologically rather than with toxic chemicals that can target other species as well as the Mexican weevil. For starters, pesticides would kill a native weevil that is a part of the natural ecology. The native weevils have predators like birds so they have not been a problem. Studies are being done on the natural predators of the Mexican weevil in its home territory. They hope to find one that will not itself become a pest as has happened in other instances of imported predators. Good luck with that, Mr. Scientist.

Apparently there is no end of threats to ecosystems everywhere. Every time I start to research a particular threat, it leads me to another. Like most people who pay any attention to the news, I have heard the debates about spotted owls and global warming. I remember a big to-do in the news about the tiny Snail Darter. Sometimes delving into the details can be overwhelming. At least it’s encouraging to find that there are many people working to mitigate and reverse the damage. Whether it will be too little too late remains to be seen.

In the meantime, I chose to continue wasting oil and shooting climate changing exhaust out my tail pipe as I continued up the Gulf Coast to Little Manatee River State Park for another evening respite. I wrote on my map of the campground that “the park itself is ugly and uninteresting.” I suppose I was judging it by the burned and or logged area where The Dude and I took a hike on a horse trail. There are 2416 acres of park and the Little Manatee River that I did not explore, so perhaps I was being unreasonably judgmental.

A major feature of this park is the facility for horses. In a campground separate from the main camp area, there were four sites and a small stable reserved for people and horses. Several trails were designated for horses and riders. That night neither was staying at the park, so The Dude and I figured we could hike the horse trail without arousing the ire of tourists or rangers. The main attraction for us was the presence of Dude Lake, a small lake in the cleared acreage that was home to at least one alligator whose nose we saw moving across the lake, thankfully away from us. I had heard enough stories about dogs being devoured by alligators to keep my eyes open for any of the voracious varlets. At one park, a ranger told me that recently a woman had been walking her leashed dog along a canal when a gator leaped out of nowhere and gobbled up her dog before her eyes. Mon Dieu, I didn’t want my Dude to end up that way!

My mind on alligators, we followed the trail until I was tired of the ravaged landscape and turned back for our camp. Walking along at a pretty good clip with my eyes mainly on the trail, The Dude in the lead, I was startled to see a long red and black striped snake appear before me, The Dude having apparently stepped right over it unknowingly. I almost stepped on it as my momentum drew me forward before it slithered away into the brush. I didn’t have a snake identification book with me and forgot to ask at the ranger station before leaving the next morning, so I don’t know what kind of snake it was. Surely a very dangerous venomous reptile and we were lucky to escape with our lives.

Thus having taken enough risks for the evening, we returned to our camp. Relaxing in my camp chair, I was surprised to see a Fire and Rescue truck go by. I have no idea what the problem was but the rescue vehicle blocked the road for some time while other vehicles turned around in my driveway because they could not get through. This must be a dangerous place!

Well after dark, I was preparing to retire when I heard a strange ripping noise immediately outside the driver’s side of the camper. The Dude leapt up from his sleep, nose in the air, growling softly. I turned off the ceiling fan to better hear who or what was present. Hoping it was nothing large attempting to tear the cab door off, I aimed my flashlight out the driver’s window upon the furrowed back of an armadillo, busily tearing apart a stump about a foot away from the door. Seeming to appreciate the helpful light, it continued tearing and snuffling for insects for a little while before checking out the site’s water spigot then shuffling off into the underbrush.

The next day I hit the interstate in earnest, again deciding that I was not getting any closer to New Mexico by stopping at every park whose description intrigued me. Since leaving the Keys, I had taken three days to traverse only half of the way up the Florida peninsula. Although Interstate 75 took me a bit east before I could take a western route down the panhandle, the ease of making time without stopping seemed the way to go. An uneventful day brought me to the top of the state, near the east-west Interstate 10.

Just north of the intersection of the two highways, I found Stephen Foster Folk Culture Center State Park (SFFCCSP, if you think that is easier to say) nestled upon the banks of the famous Suwannee River. A small park at 650 acres, it was dedicated not only to the memory of the songwriter, but to the crafts, music and legends of the people of the area. It has been the home of the Florida Folk Festival for over 50 years and also is home to a Craft Square where artisans demonstrate and sell their wares.

Having made good time that day, I had arrived early enough to investigate the Stephen Foster Museum before going to our campsite. I was impressed with the ornate building whose exterior was reminiscent of southern mansions and the interior created with granite, marble and wood in several colors. Surrounded by carved and polished stone pillars, the doorway to one chamber supports an ornate stone structure holding a bust of Mr. Foster whose name is carved on the lintel below. One of his writing desks was on display as well as a few other pieces of furniture belonging to him that had been brought here from his home in Pennsylvania. The young savant had begun playing the flute at age four and composed his first waltz at the age of fifteen. Many of his compositions are widely known yet today: Oh Susanna, Camptown Races, Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair, My Old Kentucky Home and of course, Old Folks at Home, also known as Way Down Upon the Suwannee River. According to the information, Stephen Foster himself probably never saw the Suwannee River. (And from the nature of many of his songs, he probably had not much experience of “black folk.”) Nor were his songs about northern Florida. But, hey, they like him here and were willing to build him one heck of a tribute.

Large glass enclosures displayed dioramas that depicted scenes from several Stephen Foster songs. Like the songs that encouraged such stereotypes, here was a black man sleeping by a stream, fishing pole in hand, while a chicken pecks at a slice of watermelon beside him. Nearby, an elderly black couple sit outside a log cabin, the man playing a banjo while a small boy dances before them. A diorama illustrating The Glendy Burk shows a paddle wheeler at dock, while white folk in fine dress watch dark men work, and a black woman carries a burden on her head as she crosses the gravel street. The way we were? Whatever, it was a fine museum, well done, beautiful, and informative on Mr. Foster even if the attitudes involved were not questioned.

The campground was nothing special, the usual amenities plus a lot of space and a few palm trees. There were almost no campers. I was near the laundry, which I needed, so I didn’t mind the lack of on-site vegetative screening. At least there was very little garbage to pick up, less than half a Malwart bag. The Dude and I had a decent short hike, wherein we found a large mounded row of abandoned granite chunks. “Somebody should make a garden with these,” I thought and immediately chased from my mind any idea of sneaking one home even though I couldn’t have lifted one.

Back in the camper, I opened a drawer to get implements for making supper. As if trained by Pavlov himself, The Dude dove for the floor under the steering wheel. This is an avoidance method that he had developed during our trip through Big Insect Country. The Dude abides some things but he cannot abide a woodtick-pulling session. He would rather leave them to suck on him. Too often he has seen the duct tape and tweezers come out of a drawer, so he may as well make his escape as soon as there is any indication that they will be forthcoming. The duct tape is for nabbing the woodticks once the tweezers pull them off. I wish I could get the tweezers to actually do the job themselves, but unfortunately, I have to be wielding them. The Dude does not like this process and the smell of burning woodtick avec duct tape does nothing to appease him. Milkbones or Bacon Snaks will though. Now days he uses one of the many pet bug drops monthly and we no longer have wood tick sessions, but the memory lingers for him.

Before heading off the next day, I checked out the Craft Square. As I expected, there were not many craftspeople there on a Tuesday in the off-season. But those who were at work in their studio huts were talented and friendly. Among them were a woman painting fine designs on china and a mother-daughter pair who had hand sewn bags and quilts. I didn’t linger long, but could not resist buying a china plate decorated with pansies. Then I swung by the Suwannee River overlook to take a couple photos of it before heading back to I10, planning to make good time to Tallahassee and turn down to a highway along the coast. I had hoped to make it to a state park on St. George Island.

Nope.

I made it through Tallahassee and found my connection to highway 319 South. I was making good time along the only nearly deserted highway I had seen since Kentucky. Passing through Tate’s Hell State Forest (I am not making the name up), I heard a huge banging noise from the back wheels. Damn. No shoulders on the road. I was able to pull most of the way off the road onto the sloping grass. Tall thick pines stretched before and ahead of me on both sides of the road. I believe I had not seen a business or sign of residence for miles. Oh just swell. My cell phone was not working. One of the dual wheel tires on the rear right had completely unraveled. No. Not completely. Part of it was still firmly attached to the main tire while about two feet of fat black tire was flapping free. When I tried to drive, it slapped anything in the vicinity with great force. Even if I tried moving very, very slowly.

There was little traffic and no one stopped to help as I got out the tire iron and jack to see if there was anything at all that I could do. No way could I budge the bolts much less trust the behemoth not to fall on me if I managed to jack it up. Nothing to do but stand on the road and flag down some help. My bad-luck-help luck was good that day. A wonderfully kind married couple of about my own age stopped. They had a cell phone that worked so I was able to call my roadside assistance company. The couple was kind enough to stay with me until the company called back (confirming dispatch of a tow truck), even though they were going to be late for supper and cards with friends up the road. I remarked on the long stretch of lonely road as unusual in my Florida experience. They said it would probably not be long before the area was as full of people as the rest of the state.

Once rescue was confirmed, I thanked them again, and they headed off to their card game. I apprehensively waited for the truck. It was coming from more than 50 miles back in Tallahassee, so it took over an hour. The tow operator was a really nice guy who hoisted my motor home onto a huge trailer as I kept it on course for the ride up the ramp. Then The Dude and I hopped in his cab and we headed back to Tallahassee. Thankfully he was a talkative guy who had a lot of things to say about how he and his wife ended up in the area and how he really liked running a tow truck. He was not sure where was the best place to take the motor home, but thought that the Pep Boys would be big enough that they would be able to fit a new tire on it. The bad news from my rescuer: he had found the flapping tire had disconnected the gas line, so that would need fixing as well.

That is how I ended up spending a Tuesday night in a Pep Boys’ parking lot in downtown Tallahassee. It was about eleven o’clock in the evening when we pulled in. The tow driver left us over to the side in front of the building. A cop car circled the building but completely ignored the commotion of lowering the camper to the ground. My rescuer headed off, leaving advice to stay inside and lock the door, which made a great deal of sense to me. I locked the doors, the windows and pulled all the shades, made a sandwich and chowed it down in the dark. I figured the less it looked like someone was inside, the less likely someone would bother me. Sound reasonable? Even if not, no one did come near the camper all night. Well, not very close.

It wasn’t easy to sleep in the hot camper on the hot asphalt with all the windows closed, even with the ceiling exhaust fan running. I managed to get some sleep until about 2 in the morning when the moth*rf*ckers showed up. I don’t mean to call them that. I mean to say that they were shouting variations of that word at each other as they passed somewhere nearby. I did not see them as I peeked out a crack in the curtain. Somewhere nearby two men were taunting each other with variations of “Look here, you moth*rf*cker.” “No, f*ck you!” Luckily they did not pause to punch or kick each other, and the sound of their epithets got farther and farther away, until I was actually able to fall back to sleep until dawn.

In the light of day, the neighborhood could have been any business district in any city in the U.S. Across the street was the same sandwich chain they had on the highway in Two Harbors. Same expanses of asphalt parking lots around the same chain stores with the same sad parking lot islands of shabby palms instead of the northern shabby arbor vitae shrubs. Oops, we don’t have the Pep Boys repair chain up north, but except for the name, it looked much like any other chain auto repair shop.

Once the Boys opened for the day, I went in and explained my problem and handed over the keys. I was on their pay phone trying to get a hold of Tom or anyone at home when the young mechanic assigned to my case approached me. “What tire is flat?” he asked. I looked at him like maybe he was speaking another language, not believing that he could be so unobservant as to miss seeing the obviously shredded tire. I went over, showed him the offending tire and he said, “Ohhh.”  This incident inspired great confidence in his ability to actually change the tire.

Nevertheless, the tire got changed and it only cost about $60. Unfortunately, they were unwilling to work on the gas line because their garage was not big enough to put the Escaper on a lift. So what next? The boys at the Pep Boys (and the girls by the way) were very kind, helping me find a motor home repair shop in the phone book. I phoned it up and the attendant said to come on over. Between the Pep Boys and the guy on the phone, I got good directions and set out, hoping I had enough gas to get me there. The gas line was only broken on the way into the tank from the gas cap, so I could only start and drive the Escaper until the gas was gone. I couldn’t add more.

With great trepidation, I drove through the busy streets of Tallahassee, praying I could find the place and they would be able to fix it. Luck was once again with me in turning my break-down bad-luck around. These guys not only had a mechanic who could fix it right away, but they also had the part, plus it cost less than one hundred dollars including labor. It was not a fancy place like the Pep Boys. It didn’t even have a waiting room, but I didn’t mind sitting on a junk car, watching the mechanic crawl under the vehicle without even a jack, much less a mechanical lift. He put down a tarp, went to work, and in less than an hour, he had it fixed.

By noon I was back on the road, covering the same fifty plus miles back on my original route, crossing my fingers as we went through Tate’s Hell National Forest. But that evening we arrived at the St George Island State Park for a peaceful night near the beach.

Breakdowns bring unbearable anxiety, or so I interpret the reaction of some women to my statement that I took such a trip, much less nine weeks on the road without a man or at least another woman, and survived three breakdowns (you’ll hear about number three later). There are times when I myself entertain the thoughts, “Yikes! How did I survive that? Am I out of my mind?” At more sensible times, I decide it would be silly to think like that. I know I did just fine through all the admittedly minor breakdowns I experienced. I have traveled alone before, I do travel alone today, and I will travel alone in the future. Though I hope to be accompanied more and more often by Tom now that he is retired.

Women of a certain nature (which certain nature will remain undefined) say to me, “Oh I could never do that. I would just die if I was stranded on a back road.” Well, from now on I shall reply, “It is not just a frivolous quote from a play to say that we can usually ‘depend upon the kindness of strangers.’” Isn’t that odd? For most of us, even in places absent an immediate state of war, the world holds many fears. Fear that something will harm us or ours. Sometimes, nevertheless, and perhaps because of it, people help each other. I didn’t just die, although I sometimes went into a state of suspended animation while awaiting a tow truck. I was also insanely relived that there were tow trucks, that I had emergency road service, as well as insanely happy to find the kindness of strangers is not always a myth. As I have said before, the fact that I am an innocuous older white woman plays in my favor. Thus I’m not declaring any guarantee exists that brings us all kind deeds when in need. If one believes at all in good karma / bad karma, perhaps it helped my case that I try to do good deeds at least once in awhile when presented with the opportunity. A self-serving thought at best, but a comforting one.

I’m not saying I was never afraid, but I think I was more afraid before I left, than in my anxious moments on the trip. Afraid that someone would harm me. Afraid of the maniac killer and the petty thief. Afraid of a highway accident or of getting lost. Yeah, maybe worst of all, getting lost and crashing into a tree next to the shack of a mass murderer. Then I go for help, while a petty thief plunders the remains of my camper. Thank goodness the kindness of strangers came through for me on this trip, not to mention dang stupid luck.