The Indignities of Air Travel #3

I was flying out of Panama city airport. What I like about small airports, the relative ease, local flavor, and fewer people, were seemingly mitigated this day. Nevertheless, I had secured a window seat, a rarity for me, and gazed out the window as the asphalt slowly fell away from the wheels of the airplane. As we slowly rose over surrounding wilderness, I was contemplating the beauty of the area. Forests of slash pines, dotted with small crystal blue ponds and meandering creeks caught my eyes. Incredibly straight roads, no doubt to facilitate logging, made me wonder about the accessibility of the area for those who wanted to walk commune with nature.  I found myself thinking about woodpeckers and who would play on a baseball diamond carved into the middle of a thicket of pine trees. Just then, the man in the seat behind me leaned forward and blew his nose in my ear. 

Walking on Saint George Island

Original bridge, now a fishing pier

St. George Island is located in the bay that is formed by the mouth of the Apalachicola River. Thought to be named for the patron saint of England, the island was inhabited by Native Americans as early as 1100AD. There is only one four-mile bridge that runs from Eastpoint to the island. The first bridge to the island was completed in 1965 and was declared unsafe in the early 21st century. Today it is used for a fishing pier, with both sides extending approximately three-quarters of a mile into the by. The current bridge, which was built between 2002 and 2004, is the third longest in the state of Florida.

The island itself is long (28 miles) and narrow (1 mile at the widest). St. George can be divided into three section: The northeast portion of the island is where the St. George Island State Park is located; the southwest portion of the island, which is forested and contains a gated community known as the Plantations of St. George; and, a central portion that has a few shops, a lighthouse (re)constructed in 2005, public beaches and homes.

A slash pine at sunset

Walking on the island is more satisfying than I would have anticipated. The plantation of St. George has large areas of preserved grasslands and pine forests. There are few more satisfying sounds in life than the sound of wind rushing through slash pine trees pine (Pinus elliottii), and because St. George Island is a barrier island, there is always an ocean breeze. The slash pines are very popular with woodpeckers. In addition to the beach walks, and cycling paths, there are a few walking path especially in the area around Nick’s Hole, a wild cove managed by the Apalachicola Estuarine Research Reserve. I found and walked a trail that follows the perimeter of the cove as well as one side of the local, privately owned, airport. While stalking birds among pine trees I spotted several woodpeckers. At first, I was excited to think that they might be the rare red-cockaded woodpeckers; however, since the bird require old (living) pine tree (60-120 years old) I realized that the birds were downy woodpeckers.

December proved to be quite warm and humid. The fog was so dense on Christmas morning that when I returned from my walk each of the hairs of my arm had a small droplet of water attached to the end. In my three weeks on the island, fog became commonplace and created interesting optics. On a walk around Nick's Hole I found several columned stinkhorns (Calthrus columnatus). I read one account from the nineteenth century about the mushroom that was attempting to determine if it were eatable. The writer concluded that it smelled so bad that whether it was poisonous was beside the point. (Apparently, it is not poisonous)

Columned stinkhorn

One evening, near sunset, while walking with Angie and Cody, I looked up ahead and saw in the distance a large animal. Since the island reportedly has no bears, I assumed that it was a large dog. When it got spook, it bounded into the brush; however, when it did it did not move as a dog. Angie became convinced that I had seen a bear. I still had my doubts, hearing repeatedly that there are no bears on the island. A couple of days later, we were at the State Park and mentioned the incident to a park ranger. She smiled and said, "If you think you saw a bear, then you probably saw a bear."

On two places on the island I came across a "Witness Post" sign, indicating that a survey marker was nearby. Both of the signs appeared to be older and invited the reader to write a letter to the Director of the National Geodetic Survey in Washington DC for more information.

Much of the island has beach homes that are rent by visitors. Yet, one suspects, the gate also enforces conformity and keeps bad behavior concealed.  I find it funny that virtually every beach community I have visited in the US has a house names “A Shore Thing.” The idea of a gated community is ostensibly to keep undesirables out, thus making the resident and inhabitants feel safe. I am reminded of the film, The Sure Thing (1985), which, of course, came to the conclusion that there is no such thing. Given the propensity of using the name, do people name their house ironically, or do they think it is a clever pun?

St. George Island is a somewhat odd community along the “Forgotten Coast” of Florida. Most of the coast is underdeveloped and a throwback to an earlier era. It strikes me funny that the only magazine at the checkout stand at the Piggly Wiggly Express is Wine Spectator. 

Fort Gadsden

James Gadsden Highway Marker on Florida Route 65

Reading a guide to Florida from the 1930s, I came across a reference to an incident at Fort Blount. Upon further research turned out to have many names, including the current usage Fort Gadsden. Turning north onto Florida Route 65 from U.S. Route 98, there is an old marker that appears to have been forgotten. It is partially obscured by trees and bushes that have grown in front of it. The sign, its paint faded, simply notes that the highway was designated the James Gadsden Highway by the 1969 Florida State Legislature. The condition of the sign is a presage of what is to come as you travel north. Both the fort and the highway are named for the man who played a significant role in American history, including the removal of Seminole Indians from Florida and Georgia along the Trail of Tears, the Gadsden Purchase of territory that would become southern Arizona and New Mexico, and the antebellum politics of the American South.

The twenty-mile drive north of U.S. 98 can be somewhat monotonous. The adjacent lands are part of the Apalachicola National Forest and Tate’s Hell State Forest and are dominated by pine forests, small streams and waterways. Occasionally, you can catch a glimpse of a little used, or abandoned, railway. There are not many roads that branch from Florida 65 and those that do are what a 1939 guide would call “unimproved,” consisting of crushed gravel. The name of some of these roads conjure interesting and imaginative ideas in our minds; for example, Bloody Bluff Road.

After beginning to doubt my directions, a sign indicated that I should turn west onto Brickyard Road to reach the entrance of Fort Gadsden. Although there is a prominent sign on the highway that indicates the direction of the fort, you would be forgiven if you immediately stopped and reconsidered your turn from the highway - I did. Making our way through tall pine trees, dodging the puddles that dotted the road, and after stopping to ask a group of hunters for directions, we found the entrance to the site – only to find that it was closed. There was a temptation to have a walk back to see the fort, but the obvious closed sign and the number of hunters roaming in the same area I thought better of it.

I was drawn to the site because what happened there is one of those stories that is rarely heard. In 1814 the fort, then known as Fort Blount, was in the hands of the British who helped runaway slaves and offered protection to Native Americans. It was a place of refuge. Former slaves who had a chance for a free live begin establishing farms and communities; however, American forces, under orders from General Andrew Jackson who wanted the fort destroyed and the slaves returned to their owners, attacked the fort on 24 July 1816. The attack lasted for four days, ending only when a cannon ball landed in the powder magazine destroying the fort and killing most inside. Only sixty of the 334 inhabitants of the fort survived. Only three people escaped injury; of those three, two (a black and an Indian) were executed shortly afterwards.

Bird Watching 2015

Anhinga (Wakulla, FL, Feb 2015)

I do not like to admit it; and, I usually qualify the description of my habits. I do not consider myself a birder, but I increasingly find myself drawn to these interesting creatures. The opportunity to photograph birds provides an excuse and motivation to go out, observe and explore. There is something about birds, in a world dominated by humans, who are able to survive and adapt. They are small and hardly noticeable at times, blending into the background for those who are unwilling to pay attention.

Martha (Smithsonian,
Nov 2015)

I have been particularly interested in the declining number of bird species. A display at the Rathlin Island Museum illustrated the history of the Great Auk; however, the bird that continues to fascinate me is the extinct passenger pigeon. James Audubon’s description of a flock of passenger pigeon blocking the sun while traveling to Louisville is an evocative piece of writing. To think that the number of passenger pigeons, the most numerous bird in North America, went from approximately three billion birds in the 1830s to the last known specimen dying in 1914 is stunning. That last specimen, a female known as Martha, died at the Cincinnati Zoo and her body was placed on ice and has been in possession of the Smithsonian Museum since then. During 2014 and 2015, her taxidermy body has been on display at the Natural History Museum as part of the commemoration of the 100th anniversary of her death.

Bald Eagle (Manteo, NC, July 2015)

It makes me feel old to say that I regularly scan trees and vistas for interesting birds. As I do, inevitably, I think of Dick Davenport’s death in the comic strip “Doonesbury” whilst photography a rare Bachman warbler. There is a certain aspect of sport to the birdwatching: It is, in fact, going out to see something you have not seen before. It is yet another thing to ponder, to study and see while traveling.

Unrecognized History

I am often amused, when told by students, one of the reasons they love being in Europe is because there is so much history. Actually what they mean is that there is so much recorded and recognized history. North America is full of history that predates the American Revolutionary War; however, the public’s grasp of it is tenuous at best. We tend not to remember the history of North American that was not English-speaking or dominant. Nor do we remember those who lost or fought for noble causes whose efforts were against the mainstream.

While growing up our family visited Roanoke Island, in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, several times. One of the things we did that made a huge impression was attending “The Lost Colony” musical play. The play, which was written by Paul Green and premiered in 1937, recounts the trials, tribulations and ultimate mystery of the first permanent English settlement in North America. The musical is performed in an outdoor pavilion on the same spot where the colonists came ashore in July 1587. The play takes liberties with history, but establishes the basic facts about the colony and its disappearance.

The story of the Roanoke colony is compelling. English colonists, ill-prepared to start a thriving community on the barrier islands of North Carolina, arrived in the middle of the summer. They were accompanied by two natives who had visited England, Manteo and Wanchese, and were returning home. Arriving midsummer, the colony would have to wait until the following spring to plant food. Meanwhile, political events on Roanoke had shifted and found Manteo and Wanchese on opposite sides of a political struggle that centered on the role of the newcomers. A month after landing, Eleanor Dare gave birth to a daughter, Virginia, making her the first English child to be born in North America. We know this because John White, Virginia’s grandfather, departed ten days later to return to England for supplies. His return to North Carolina would be delayed because of war between England and Spain. When White managed to return on his granddaughter’s third birthday, he found the colony plundered and abandoned. On the walls of the fort, the word “CROATOAN” carved; on a nearby tree, the letters CRO were found. This was understood to mean that the remaining colonist had taken refuge with Manteo’s tribe at Croatoan, on Hatteras Island. Despite repeated searches no trace of the colonists was ever found.

Legends and hoaxes about the fate of the Roanoke colony flourished. Speculation about the fate of the Lost Colony is a favorite pastime for some. While browsing at the library at Manteo I came across a book arguing that the colonist linked up with the Lumbee Indians and traveled south after they left Roanoke. Over time, according to the legend, the colonists integrated with the tribe. The appearance of the Lumbee suggests that there was some interbreeding with other ethnic groups. Hence, the appearance of Lumbee Indians with European features suggested intermingling between the Lumbees and the English colonists. This theory has been largely discredited. Shortly after our visit in the summer of 2015, an article in the New York Times offered some evidence that, more than three years after its disappearance, the colony might have moved to the mainland. 

Coast of North Carolina: the bay side of Hatteras

Despite the intriguing nature of the mystery, there are other aspects of the story that I find interesting as well. The coast of North Carolina, when seen without hotels, shops and amusements, can be foreboding. The mixture of brackish water, thick swamp forests and relentless insects, especially mosquitoes, doubtlessly made life difficult for anyone in the sixteenth century. It was probably even more difficult for a group of inexperienced English colonists who had no experience on the North American continent. The idea that a group of individuals who were ill prepared for farming and building a colony in the wilderness is startling.

Today, it is fascinating to observe how the “lost colonists” are commemorated and memorialized. Streets in Manteo (named for the young man who traveled to England and befriended the colonists) are named after colonists and friendly Native Americans. The county in which Roanoke sits is named Dare County, after the young girl born just a couple of weeks after the arrival of the colonists. Virginia Dare has many things named after her and yet we know nothing about her past her tenth day. Perhaps one of the most intriguing is a statue in the Elizabethan Gardens is of Virginia as a grown woman. The optimism that Virginia would have survived and thrived in the harsh North Carolina bush is telling. For all the interest and memorializing heaped on Virginia, one cannot help but feel a modicum of sympathy for the child of Margery Harvie, another colonist, who bore a child a few days after Virginia’s birth. While the Dare offspring garners most of the attention through the timing of her birth, history does not even record the name of the poor Harvie child. Given that the Dares were considered leaders of expedition, and were among the political elites of the colony, it would be interesting to know what would have happened if Virginia had been born second. If Margery Harvie, who held a lower social status than Eleanor Dare, had given birth to the first English child born in North America would he/she have been celebrated as much?

Enon Mound (Enon, OH)

We tend to look at history filter through own lens and culture. The Ohio Historical Society has identified 42,682 prehistoric sites in the state. Yet, we do not see this as our history. The Enon Mound (alternatively known as the Knob Prarie Mound) is at least 2,000 years old, meaning that, more than likely, it predates the Roman Empire. Located in the middle of a circular road, appropriately named Mound Circle, in Enon, Ohio, the mound is the second largest conical Indian mound in Ohio. Students travel to Europe to “see” history; however, virtually no one in North America recognizes these artifacts of long vanished civilizations. In many ways these objects have been appropriated. The Enon Mound was reportedly used as an observation post by General George Rogers Clark during the battle at Piqua with Shawnee Indians on 8 August 1780 and, during the 1940s, a cross was planted atop the mound each Easter.

Seip Earthwork Mound (Bainbridge, OH) 

I once again visited the Seip Earthwork Mound, outside of Bainbridge, Ohio, this summer. The mound, which is one of my favorites, sits on a small piece of land with a picnic area and extremely limited facilities. Much like when I first visited the site in the mid-1980s, I had this small park site to myself. When the mound was excavated it was found to contain the bodies of 122 people (men, women and children) with many artifacts and treasures. As part of the Hopewell Culture, Seip Mound was built sometime between 100BC to 700 AD. Thus, while England was under Roman occupation or the confusion that followed, Hopewell people had a flourishing culture in Southcentral Ohio.

Monarch Butterfly near Seip Mound

Trying to imagine what it would have been like to have lived during the Hopewell period, I walked through the small park and watched butterflies frolicked in the tall grass and wild flowers that grow on the mound. Monarchs and swallowtails were in abundance. It was mid-August, warm and humid, and cicadas provided a natural soundtrack as I walked from the primary mound to Paint Creek. As I walked through the grassland, it struck me that while many things had changed, a person walking the same land centuries ago would have seen the same kind of butterflies and birds and would have been pestered by mosquitoes just like me. Whether North Carolina or Ohio, we pretend that we are far removed from the people that inhabited our lands centuries ago. Yet, in many ways, we are the same and it is unfortunate we do not recognize this part of our history. 

Hogestown, Pennsylvania

As US Route 11 North travels through Cumberland County from Carlisle toward Harrisburg, it actually moves in an easterly direction. The north and southbound lanes are separate by a city block at the hamlet of Hogestown, named after its found John Hoge.  What appears to have been a once prosperous town is sandwiched between the two roads that carry US11. There is a 35-mph speed limit that no one observes; several buildings have been deemed dangerous and uninhabitable by the township. Of particular fascination is the (unidentified) church towards the south end of town, built in 1858. Generations of parishioners gathered, shared community and cared for this structure. Today, there is just a skeleton of the steeple remains: symbolic of the current state of Hogestown. 

The Historic Biltmore of Providence

The Providence Biltmore opened in 1922 and is one of the classic historic hotels of New England. The 18-story hotel was designed by Warren and Wetmore who were also the architects who designed the rebuilt New York’s Grand Central Station in 1913. The hotel remains a fixture in downtown Providence; a place where weddings and other special occasions are held.

During the 1938 Hurricane the Biltmore witnessed a massive amount of water piled up in Providence as the most significant natural disaster in New England in the twentieth century. In the lobby, near the reception desk, there is a brass plaque approximately seven feet high that denotes the high water mark in the storm’s aftermath. Contemporary photographs show the tops of streetcars barely visible in the water in front of the hotel and city hall.

Mezzanine

A display in the mezzanine has several artifacts from the hotel’s past. Like many people, I was fascinated with the prices people paid for meals in the luxurious dining rooms. For example, a September 1959 menu offered patrons “roasted prime rib of beef au jus, creamed pearl onions, and rissole potatoes” (served with a roll and butter) for $3.05. For lunch in the second floor Bacchante Room in June 1962 one could order a boiled ham sandwich, with lettuce, pickle, and Saratoga chips for 85¢. Perhaps most charming is a bill, saved as a souvenir, from a newlywed couple on their honeymoon at the Biltmore. The couple spent two nights and had two dinners at the hotel in March 1951 for a grand total of $27.16. Needless to say, I spent far more than that during my stay.