February, 2009 - We continued our tour of the state parks in Florida's
Forgotten Coast, leaving St. Joseph State Park and stopping in the cute
seaside town of Apalachicola on our way to St. George Island State Park.
We had visited Apalachicola last year and been enchanted by its unique
shops and history, and we found it equally charming on our second visit.
The town was once a bustling cotton shipping port, and it now
harbors a sizeable fleet of oyster boats. There was an active
sponge harvesting industry too, and the Sponge Museum offered
not only a glimpse of that unusual industry but a terrific collection
of curious antiques as well.
We picked up another jar of the semi-sweet locally harvested Tupelo
honey and spent a happy morning wandering through the many shops in
town.
Over on St. George Island we checked into the state park that fills the tip
of a long, narrow sand peninsula. Like St. Joseph, this park borders
both a shallow saltwater bay and the Gulf coast. The bay is sleepy, lined
with skinny trees with exposed roots. We learned that a tidal surge had
covered the entire end of the island in recent years, leaving the bayside
trees immersed in salt water longer than they liked, and sadly killing
many of them. This gives the bayside a slightly haunted look.
Lots of swamp creatures patrol the area, and we noticed unusual birds
standing in the trees and a sneaky alligator biding his time at the
water's edge.
The coastal beaches were wind-blown and blustery when we were there.
At night the roar of the waves on the beach filled the trailer, even though
the campground is a healthy distance from the beach.
The beaches
extend for
many miles,
and we did lots
of invigorating
walks along
the water's
edge. The
seashells were
abundant, as
they had been
at St. Joseph State Park, and the campground had a lovely display
giving the names of all the different creatures' shells that could be
found along the beach.
Leaving the Forgotten Coast, we ventured slightly west and stayed
in two more parks. Pine Log State Park boasts vast stands of pines,
a terrific mountain biking trail (this from an avowed roadie who does
not particularly enjoy mountain biking) and a lovely row of campsites
overlooking a pond.
Lake Powell park sits on the edge of a lake that was the perfect place for
kayak exploration. The morning awoke under a shroud of thick mist that
gave the park's trees a mystical look.
Later in the day, once the sun was victorious over the fog, we took
the kayak into the far corners of the lake where we spotted a Bald
Eagle. He watched our bright yellow craft for a long suspicious
while and finally flew off with a majestic sweep of his wings.
This portion of the Emerald Coast has a few upscale communities, and
we rode our bikes through the South Walton Beach and Rosemary
Beach areas one morning. Like everywhere else in this country, many
developers' dreams have evaporated in all stages of construction since
the housing market crash (not to mention this area's sudden face-off
with nature in a series of hurricanes). We rode through a community of
graceful homes that stopped sprouting when only about 20% were built.
Boardwalks meandered through the community and over waterways,
offering pretty views of what could have been.
A fellow biker stopped and took our photo in front of the grand entrance
to the strip of road that defines a particularly ritzy part of the coast.
She recommended that we
check out the Middle Eastern
style swimming pool that was
the central attraction of one new
development. I wouldn't have
thought that this distinctly Arabic
looking community would have
been a big seller among Americans in this era, but sure enough, we saw several sales
people with clipboards in hand and prospective customers in tow.
Further west along the Emerald Coast we discovered the Gulf Islands
National Seashore. This jewel of a drive presents the stunning coast at its
best, especially on bright sunny days. The sand is blindingly white, and the
water is truly green in places. We walked the beach and our shorts soon
gave way to bathing suits and frolicks in the waves.
The signs warned of rip-tides, but just like the warnings of bison gorings at
Yellowstone, you don't really take those things seriously at first glance. I
was mighty curious about the dark green band of water that is behind
Mark in this photo. It beckoned me in the way that ocean water always
has since I was a a small child. I just had to find out how deep it was
there. So I bounded out into the waves, going from waist deep to over my
head in one step. Hmmm... it was deep! I turned around to swim in and
soon found that my most powerful strokes were not moving me forward.
Mark stood on the edge of the water, just 100 feet from me, but despite
my best effort, I couldn't make any progress towards him.
Suddenly the sign about rip-tides came back to me. Is this a rip-tide?
Yikes! What had the sign said about them? I had no idea. Mark was
yelling something at me from the beach, but I couldn't hear. I just dug in
and swam towards him for all I was worth, valiantly ignoring the rising
feeling of panic in my heart. In a few minutes (that felt like forever), I
finally found my footing on the sand, dug my toes in, and hiked my way
back to him, uphill in aggressive water. I stood next to him on the
beach, trying not to let my pounding heart and panting breath be
noticeable, and feigned nonchalance about the whole thing. "Great
workout!" I said cheerfully. Mark quietly shook his head at me, hands
on his hips. "Didn't you read the sign? Swim sideways, parallel to the
beach, when you are in a rip-tide." ... Oh, that's the trick!
The power of the ocean is deceptive along this idyllic stretch of coast,
with its shimmering, rich shades of turquoise. The waves show dark
green just before they break, and the sandpipers dart in and out of the
water effortlessly, living their entire lives on the edge. However, we
learned from a local ocean kayaker that in 2004 Hurricane Ivan
completely destroyed the road along this strip of land, effortlessly
tossing it in tiny pieces all over the inland side of the peninsula.
Eager to stay on top of repairs, the state replaced the road immediately.
Five days after reopening the road, Hurricane Dennis roared through.
The sea chewed up the new road and spewed it all over the bayside
dunes a second time. I was stunned to walk the dunes and find
evidence of this man's story all over the place, as far as 300 yards from
the road.
This savage aspect of nature seems implausible as you sift the fine sugar
white sand through your hands. In places along the Gulf Islands National
Seashore it looked more like snow than like sand.
It had the same texture as the sand we found in the Coral Pink
Sand Dunes park in Utah, but here it was pure white rather than
a rusty burnt orange. Riding our bikes alongside the sand
"snowdrifts," we thought of all our friends and family who have
had such a snowy winter in Michigan.
The spectacular scenery on these glorious
sunny days brought out the most romantic
notions in everyone along the beach. It is a
place for lovers, and this young couple found
each other quite irresistable.
We stayed along the beach for many days,
watching the coast change from minute to
minute as a series of storms blew through. It
was the perfect place to slow down again and
get back in touch with ourselves and with
nature before heading on to Alabama and a
gradual trek west.