North by Northwest

Our week at the Jolly Roger drew to a close and it was time to depart the Keys. Our next port of call was the Florida panhandle but Florida is 500 miles long, several days driving. Coincidentially friends were attending a wedding in NW Florida traveling South and East, while we were in the Southeast traveling North and East. We decided to see if we could intersect at lunchtime at a midway point. Naples FL was identified as the mid point, with a route through the Everglades and an RV park in Naples for our accommodation. 

Driving across the Everglades a canal paralleled the old highway. As Francis drove I was amazed by the flora and fauna so close to the road. Egrets wading slowly through the marsh, Anahingas spreading their wings under the Spanish Moss, masses of Bromeliads clustered on every tree and lying like half sunken logs everywhere, Alligators. Big lumpen lazy Alligators laying in the swampy water. Their torpor made me think of what the naturalist had said about the sea turtles, "they are cold blooded, very slow metabolisms". While the Alligators probably would have moved fast for prey or to rout a predator, they were motionless at this point, sometimes lying on top of each other too lazy to move.

We stopped at the Miccosukee Indian cultural village. In front of the village is a huge model of a swarthy, presumably Miccosukean man wrestling an  equally outsized Alligator, the Miccosukean version of Paul Bunyan and his blue ox? My experience brought more to mind the Roman post office more than myth. (The stamp window may be open but you must have exact change and the cashier is closed, when the cashier opens the stamp kiosk is closed.)

The Miccosukee facility entrance had a gift shop backed by a pair of symmetrical counters. Behind each counter stood a splendid specimen of willowy native american womanhood. Left hand counter girl studiously ignored me, facing in every direction except the space I occupied, each time I moved she pivoted to avoid my gaze. It was a rather amusing game. I caved first and wandered off to try right hand counter girl. She was indeed 180 degrees out, brightly greeting me and offering me samples of freshly made fry bread. When I asked about the guided tour scheduled for the next hour, she said that she was sorry I had to ask at the other counter... Back across the hall to find the other counter vacant, back to cheerful girl but she had now relocated to the left hand counter and I overheard her say "the one o'clock guided tour is self-guided". Huh, I can stand in the sun reading a brochure, better idea ride through the Everglades reading a brochure, so grabbed a brochure, bid Paul Miccosukee farewell and got back on the road with the real Alligators.

The Everglades ended and we emerged into tropical suburbs. Whoever developed Naples Florida really did have an Italianate sensibility. Canals and stucco work well for both tropics and Mediterranean.  While rather sprawling it was attractive. Our campground was cramped but equally attractive, lushly landscaped with palms and pines. Bromeliads clung to the trees and Francis collected fallen samples of several varieties. The campsites were very narrow, there was but six inches leeway between a concrete pad and tree for us to back into. Francis has shown himself to be adept in handling the truck and trailer rig. The proof was his sliding the trailer into that space with an inch to spare from an overhanging Tillandsia.

The fellow in the next camper, a huge 42 foot unit, complemented Francis on "threading the needle. They were leaving the next day and he said he would probably knock out a leaning ornamental lamp post on his way. Francis later went over to give them our contact card. We all ended up drinking wine and swapping histories. They were retired attornies, having left their firm, sold their house and bought the big truck and trailer to spend three years criss crossing the country. They had a son in the foreign  service and a daughter abroad. A family dedicated to wanderlust. We hope to stay in touch. He did by the way take out that lamp post.

Yolanda and William had attended a Niece's wedding in Tampa and intended to visit another in Fort Lauderdale. In Naples, we would intersect them on their way. Amazing but true, we did actually connect and had lovely lunch together before parting to go our separate ways.

From Naples, we at random picked a town called Carrabelle on the Gulf Coast for our next stop. It was a fishing village with a long pre civil history. Our rv park was a fishing camp owned by a fellow who looked like Jimmy Buffett and sounded liked Jimmy Buffett mixed with an AM deejay, a deep slightly gravelly very resonant voice. His wifi network was named Rich Rabbit and so he will remain Rich Rabbit to me. Mr. Rabbit, I have a crush on your voice. He recommended seafood at The Fisherman's Wife and urged us to buy a fishing site from his property. We weren't interested in the site but the seafood held promise.

 also had a waterfront park with a fantastic sculptural bike rack and a small historical museum. After the civil war, ferries had brought commuters and commerce between Carrabelle and Appilachicola. The ferry service ended when an overloaded boat capsized in stormy seas. The local museum featured information about the disaster and the survivors. A  great swimmer had notified the authorities of the disaster, he was lauded for his feat but the several black boatmen who also managed to swim ashore and survive could not even identified.  Judging by the historical museum there were no persons of color of note in Carrabelle, hmmm... The most interesting oddity in Carrabelle was a full size "Nina" docked at a private dock, Nina as Nina, Pinta, Santa Maria. The connection to back water Carrabelle still escapes me.

From Carrabelle we wandered North to visit Duke. We had met Duke, aka George Jonkel, when he was visiting his Daughter Laura, our Annapolis neighbor. A retired ornithologist, he was still a enthusiatic naturalist and bird watcher, who could identify a dozen different species in a flock of seagulls. Duke has the aura of a modern shaman, speaks often of being in tune with the earth and has constructed a contemplative labyrinth on his property. His little house  is a treasure trove of interesting things, a scattering of Indian artifacts, a wall of blue Scandinavian porcelain plates, a pile of new age magazines on crop circles, a entire room of his home made wine. Every day in his company brings out a new facet to his long and interesting life. Francis says when he looks into Duke's blue eyes beneath bushy greyed eyebrows he still can see the child inhabiting the old shaman. 

Grandson Colin, Francis and Duke