Introducing Viva Timucua: The Other Anniversary

This year marks the anniversaries of two important events in Florida’s history. One you've surely heard about. The other you probably have not. One spawned festivals and lectures across the State and nationally (even internationally). The other has gone unnoticed by all but the most knowledgeable Florida historians. But what makes these two anniversaries especially important, the reason I'm mentioning them together, is that they are intimately related. In fact, we can't honestly and fully discuss one without mention of the other.    
 

As you've probably guessed, one of these events is "Viva Florida," the state-sponsored commemoration of the 500th anniversary of Ponce de Leon’s discovery of Florida. In 1513, de Leon, waded ashore (probably somewhere near St. Augustine) and claimed the land that had belonged to the Timucua people and their ancestors for nearly 14,000 years. He renamed it, "La Florida."

 It was a fateful event, not only for the Spaniards who had unknowingly added a continent to their real estate portfolio, but also for the Timucua. The bewildered natives had no way of knowing that de Leon was just the first of a virtual stampede of explorers, soldiers and colonists from many foreign lands that would soon follow. Nor could they have known that, in just two and a half centuries, these newcomers would erase them from this land. We've heard this story so many times about so many tribes, we know it by heart—disease, warfare, slavery, cruel mistreatment, forced rejection of long-held beliefs, forced acceptance of an unfamiliar religion. Each is a wrenching tragedy that typically ends with a destitute band of people clinging  to life and to the last vestiges of their once-proud culture, until something—one last epidemic, one last betrayal, one last massacre of men women and children—ends them. And always, a hollow justification. 

The Timucua's final tragedy lasted exactly 250 years. It ended on the docks of St. Augustine in 1763. England had recently won possession of Florida and now nearly all of the residents of Spanish Florida emigrated to Cuba. With them went the last 89 full-blooded Timucuan men, women and children. Those who survived the journey found disease, starvation and squalid living conditions in their new home. Within four years, all were dead. The last full-blooded Timucuan—a man Juan Alonso Cabale—died in Cuba in 1767.

This is also the 250th anniversary of the Timucua's departure from Florida.

There’s something uncanny about the symmetry of these two anniversaries. The fact that this year marks the 500^th anniversary of the story’s beginning and the 250^th anniversary of its end, and that the story itself lasted exactly 250 years, seems almost too perfect for something so tragically imperfect. It's the kind of thing that would  have made an excellent foundation for a dual commemoration that gave full, unwavering focus on the tragedy. It could have been a well-balanced acknowledgement of both events focused on exploring the many facets of this complicated story. In fairness, the Viva Florida campaign has done some of that. But, it has been an open-ended approach that simply begins with de Leon's arrival and explores everything that has happened in the 500 years since. In short, it has been a grand re-telling of Florida's history. For me, the uncanny symmetry of these two events would have made for a perfect framework around which to tell the full, unbiased story of what happened to Florida's natives.  

But rather than bemoan this missed opportunity, I prefer to use this pair of anniversaries as a good excuse to pay homage to the native Floridians and learn what we can about them and their intimate knowledge of this land. Toward that end, Adventure Outpost will devote much of the next several months to exploring the story of the Timucua's last days. We'll do it the same way we explore all of Florida’s wild stories—by getting out there and exploring the sites where they happened. I'm calling this series of tours, "Viva Timucua."

For those of you who don’t have a great love of history (don’t feel alone, that’s most of you), I should stress that these tours will essentially be like all my other tours. The main difference will be that the pre-trip “talk” that I usually give (only about 5 – 10 minutes) will focus on that part of the “Viva Timucua” story that pertains to that day’s trip. On the water, these will be the same relaxed, casual (and usually spread-out) paddle trips that we always do. As always, those who want to hear about some of the plants and animals we’re passing can stay close to me, while those who prefer to be away from the group are free to do so. Our trips are always about going at your own pace and hearing as much or as little as you want.

Some examples of the trips I’m planning to do as part of this “Viva Timucua” series are:

“The Dunes.” On this paddle we’ll explore an area southeast of St. Augustine that witnessed the two keystone events in this story—de Leon’s arrival and the Timucuas departure. These were the two events that marked the beginning and the end of this 250 year story. At our lunch/stretch break, we’ll poke around a bit in the dunes and examine some of the amazing plants (and animals?) that thrive in this harsh environment. (this is the trip we’re doing this Sunday, 8/04/13)

 “Ft. Mose.” This paddle will take us into the marshes north of St. Augustine to the site of the first free black settlement in N. America. The inhabitants of the Ft. Mose settlement  boarded boats at the beach of their small island and sailed out to board the larger boats that would take them, along with the Indians and the rest of the residents of Spanish St. Augustine, to Cuba in 1763. 

“Mission Santa Fe.” This trip will take us into the remote upper reaches of Santa Fe River, past the site of the mission village of Santa Fe de Toloca, where Alonso Cabale’s parents and ancestors lived. This mission gave its name to the river.

“The Hontoon Owl.” On this tour-story we’ll explore the area around Hontoon Island and Volusia Blue Spring, which were at the southern edge of the Timucua territory. We’ll discuss the fascinating archaeology of the area, including the unique animal effigy (totem?) poles and what they may have meant to the natives.

“The Fountain of Youth.” On these springs tours we’ll talk about de Leon’s legendary quest as well as what the springs meant to the Timucuas. There will be several trips under this heading, including Ichetucknee, a section of the middle Suwannee with a very important connection to this period, and Silver Spring.

I’m sure there will be other trips in this series, but these are the ones that come to mind at this sitting.

NOTE: We are currently overhauling the website ( www.adventureoutpost.net ), so the calendar has not yet been updated to show the "Viva Timucua" tours. If you want to know what's being planned, please e-mail me at riverguide2000@yahoo.com and I'll give you the latest. The calendar should be current by early - mid September.

The Clark Island Gator

   

I step out of my old red pickup and hardly notice the door's squeal or the crunching of small seashells under my boots. Nor do I notice the squadrons of wading birds prodding the nearby mud flats. In a few moments I’ll grab my binoculars and study the wild menagerie, but not yet. My first task on this hot July morning—a ritual evolved over sixteen years of guiding tours—is to study the sky and the water. I need to check paddling conditions to determine this day’s route.

Leading tours in this quiet corner of Florida’s Big Bend, just north of Cedar Key, has one distinct advantage over other coastal areas—options. With countless barrier islands and large swaths of salt marshes we are able to paddle in a greater range of weather conditions than most other parts of the Gulf Coast.

In ideal weather, we can venture off shore, crossing mile-wide spans of open water to reach great birding sites on a few isolated islands. On smoldering mid-summer days when afternoon squalls are likely, we’ll stick to the near-shore islands, stopping to explore the wrack on sandy white beaches or maybe hike into the scruffy interior of an island in search of interesting wildlife or Indian middens. If an early breeze is already churning white-caps by launch-time, we’ll keep to inside passages, enjoying the calm water in protected bays and marshes.

This morning, the signs are mixed. On the drive in, clear, blue skies had promised an idyllic day. But as I step onto the beach, a stiff west breeze buffets my face. I cling to the brim of my hat and watch the breeze pester the nearby forest, rattling palm fronds and causing the Spanish moss to swirl in the oak boughs. There's only one option today. We’ll have to keep our route behind the islands, setting a course for the secluded tidal lagoon known as Preacher’s Hole.

Fishermen know Preachers Hole as a place for full-figured lunkers. But for me, the real attraction is its seclusion. Without a map, only seasoned locals know the narrow passage slicing between Raleigh and Clark Islands. While this wouldn't have been my first choice of routes on this day, it’s not a bad one. Best of all, it means we’ll be visiting my friend Felder Tiggs. *

It’s a strange irony that paddlers seek places where they are least likely to encounter other humans. And yet, some of the most memorable events on our tours involve people we meet. But, it can’t be just any person. They must be entertaining (whether they mean to be or not). Naked Ed, for instance, only has to hang out (okay, I could have used a better choice of words) at his palm-thatch hut at Lily Springs and he’s guaranteed a steady stream of giddy visitors. As his name implies, Ed rarely wears more than eye-glasses and a grin. And that’s what people find so amusing. Felder Tiggs has other gifts.

 

Until recently, Felder owned Clark Island, one of the low, palm and oak shrouded islands that crowd this remote corner of the Gulf. It’s an attractive little island, but not much different from the scores of other islands in the area. What sets it apart is its location alongside the narrow entrance into Preacher’s Hole, a nearly land-locked tidal lagoon with an exceptionally deep sink near one edge. It’s a “honey-hole” known to many local fishermen.

 

When Felder first bought Clark Island, he hoped to make it a paddler’s retreat. He talked of camp sites and maybe even some cabins. He’d treat bigger groups to an in-the-rough banquet of wild Florida cuisine of oysters and fresh fish. It was a fine plan. But the paddlers never came, not in numbers that could be considered "commercial."  With their interests geared more toward the sugar-sand beaches and good birding spots of the outer islands, few people ventured eastward across Clarks Bay to the Hole.

 

On those occasions when I steered a tour group to Preachers Hole, Clark Island was usually quiet. Sometimes there would be a few fishermen camping among the oaks. If we were lucky, we’d spot Felder hard at work. He was always glad to see us. Abandoning his labors, he’d climb down to the oyster shell beach and help everyone out of their boats. With his deep southern drawl, handsome, weather-worn face and the ever-present pistol strapped to his side, he made a memorable first impression.

 

Eager to tout the natural beauty of his island, Felder would take us for a hike. Our first stop was the back marsh, a shallow, 10-acre basin thick with needle rush and cord grass. From there we’d enter the welcome shade of a low, wind-sculpted coastal hammock forest. Weaving our way beneath gnarled scrub oaks and pines, Felder and I became a team—him telling great stories about what had been happening on the island, and me pausing occasionally for any teaching moments we happened upon.

 

After a mile of scrub oaks and coontie, we’d arrive at “the sink”, a surprisingly large, 10 ft deep sinkhole located in a densely shaded oak/myrtle forest near the islands center. The sink was the highlight of the tour, partly because it was an interesting natural feature and freshwater oasis for wildlife, but also because the remains of a huge alligator rested on the bottom.

 

When it was alive, Felder frequently spied this gator moving between the islands. It grew fat on raccoons, rodents, fish, birds and anything else it could sink its teeth into. The sink hole oasis on Clark Island was a favored haunt. Then, one day Felder found the gator dead.

 

In the months that followed, the rotting corpse of the gator became the highlight of Felder’s impromptu tours. With each successive visit to the sink hole, the corpse was in a further state of decay. To say it stunk would be a gross (very gross) understatement. But, being a Southern gentleman ever-eager to accommodate his guests, Felder would always climb down into the sink, and pry open the gaping maw to illustrate what a fine large animal it had been. It was entertainment at its best—interesting and disgusting at the same time—and everyone loved it! (proving, once again, that beauty is in the eye of the nose-holder!). To this day, when I see someone who was on one of those tours, their face beams like a school kid’s as they recount the story of Felder Tiggs and the Clark Island Gator to their friends.

 

 

Epilogue

 

One day, a few months after my latest visit with Felder, I returned to Adventure Outpost after a day on Withlacoochee River. My worker came out of the store with an excited look on his face. “Lars,” he said, “an old guy came by with something for you that you've gotta see.” I went in and there, lying on the front counter was a huge alligator skull. “He said you knew this gator and thought you might want this skull.” To this day, that skull hangs on the wall in the front room of Adventure Outpost—a constant reminder of a good friend and a great place.

 

 

*  UPDATE - This is a true story. However, “Felder Tiggs” is a fictitious name (a composite of some other locals) I used until I got permission from him to use his real name (as you can imagine, he can be hard to track down). Since that time, I have seen him and shown him this story and he generously gave me permission to use his name. I can now give due credit to my good friend (and interesting character), Pat Westmoreland. Pat, by the way, was also the source of the authentic dugout Indian canoe we have on display at Adventure Outpost. He obtained it from We Wa Indians in Nicaragua when he was down there working with them doing.....well, that's another story

 

The Canary's Song

It’s a tribute to cave divers like the late Wes Skiles that photos of people swimming in the Floridan Aquifer have become common-place. Everywhere, we see pictures of divers in the most serene settings imaginable—swimming through dream worlds of icy-blue water and cream-colored limestone. They ease through grand, underwater passages and squeeze through the earth's pulsing arteries. In some photos they are drifting as though suspended in the ether, the quintessence, illuminated by celestial shafts of sunlight. Like modern hieroglyphs, these photos line our great halls and the corridors of our public places with depictions of legendary places and heroes doing heroic deeds. They are morality tales with a common theme; water is precious; never take it for granted; do all you can to protect it.

Wes once showed me a photograph of a cave diver drifting in a submerged cave. As cave-diving images go, it was relatively unremarkable. In fact, the only clues that it was taken in a cave were some limestone projections visible in the background. Judging by the diver’s enthusiastic “thumbs-up” and by his excited eyes, visible even through his mask,  it appeared to be a photo of a young man having the experience of a life-time.

Wes was quick to point out that he had not taken this photo; it was a self-portrait, taken by the diver of himself. Wes' emphasis on the fact that the diver was alone was my first clue that all was not right with this happy scene.

Pointing to the limestone in the background, Wes said “I know this place.”

He then pointed to the tanks on the diver’s back, “And those don’t hold enough air to reach that spot in the cave and make it back out. He’s already dead and doesn’t even know it.”

In that instant, with Wes’ guidance, I realized that I was not looking at a photo of a happy diver; I was looking at a man about to experience the last, and most horrifying moments of his life. As I stared at the photo, trying to corelate the tragedy I now knew to be happening with the happy appearance, I realized it was a perfect metaphor. Wes had devoted his life to sounding the alarm that behind the beautiful facade of the springs, a huge tragedy is unfolding.

Knowing that most of us will never dive in caves, he called our attention to the springs—the only part of the aquifer system we’ll ever see. He compared them to the celebrated coal-mine canaries, used by miners to detect dangerously low oxygen levels. The springs are our visible indicators of the aquifers health. And, it doesn't take an expert to see they are sick. Our canaries are gasping.

-------------------------

On a recent paddle tour down Santa Fe River, as our small group drifted over the fresh-water geyser called Poe Spring, feeling the earth’s pulse gently rocking our boats, we discussed Florida’s aquifer system.  I explained that rain water seeps slowly through the limestone to the underground system of channels and pockets; that some water is in the ground for many decades, maybe even centuries, before it works through the system and reappears from a spring; that the aquifer provides the vast majority of Florida’s drinking water.

I then explained to the group that the aquifer is in jeopardy. It's being degraded by over-extraction and pollution from agriculture and home owners who continue to over-fertilize and spray pesticides with reckless disregard. Pointing to the green-tinted water of Poe Springs, I described breath-taking blue water I knew as a child. I pointed to the barren bottom of the spring pool, where the only signs of life are clumps of brown algae, and describe the meadows of eel grasses and other plant species that grew here only a decade ago. A German boy added that he had learned in science class that Florida’s springs, when healthy, are among the most diverse freshwater habitats in the world.

We spent the next few hours paddling down-stream, stopping to admire every spring we passed. I felt like a museum docent leading tourists down vaulted green halls and showing them our amazing collection. I described each piece, gave a little history, and then moved aside to allow everyone a few moments contemplation before moving to the next piece.

In Blue Spring, a young girl asked, “What would happen if, by some miracle, pollutants were kept out of the ground from now on and only pure rain water was allowed to percolate through the limestone?” I smiled at her charming innocence, and tried to think of a way to break the news to her that adults are not that smart. But then it occurred to me waht a great question it was—not only because it’s a comforting notion, but because we need to visualize such possibilities. So, here we go--imagine if we really got serious about limiting extraction and restricting the use of fertilizers and pesticides. Of course, it would require sweeping changes to the way we do things like grow food and landscape our yards. Most importantly—and really the biggest challenge—is that it would require sacrifice. Food products would probably get more expensive, but they’d be healthier. Our yards might not be the exact shade of green we like, but they’d be healthier. All aspects of our lives would be much healthier.

Best of all, if we stopped polluting, Floridians could look upon the increasingly-green, increasingly-cloudy springs not as lost causes, but as healing wounds. Their toxic flow would be like a draining infection. Every ounce of toxins that flowed from the springs would mean one less ounce of toxins in the aquifer. Future generations of Floridians would be able to look at photos of clear, blue springs and divers in underground caves—those same timeless hieroglyphs that will surely line their great-halls and sacred chambers as they do ours—not as depictions of ancient history and poignant reminders of long lost wonders we called springs, but as touchstones. They’d flock to displays like the Blue Path exhibit now showing at the Florida Museum of Natural History and look upon them as beacons of hope--hopeful reminders of what will come when all of the toxins have been flushed from the system. They will be tributes to the sacrifices of their ancestors of the early 21^st century who had the foresight to change the way they did things—fertilizing, spraying pesticides, spilling paints and oils, using water frivolously—so Floridians could, once again, have clean drinking water.

There really is power in the knowledge we have gained from people like Wes Skiles. And yet, we’re not acting on it. Our springs are already turning green, and most are already showing the obvious symptoms of too many nitrates in the form of a thick coating of algae on all submerged objects. And yet, there is no sense of alarm. The fact that the canary is dying doesn’t seem enough; maybe it will have to fall in our glass of water before we notice. I wonder if Wes ever looked out on a room full of legislators and saw only grinning fools in dive-masks giving a hearty thumbs-up.

Finding Sanctuary in Water

I’m not sure what I expected to see in the heron’s eye that day, maybe some sign of its soul. The Calusa said eyes are windows to the soul. If there was ever a moment this bird’s soul would be shining from its jet black “windows,” it was now, standing knee-deep in the float-glass waters of Newnans Lake, gazing, with the tranquility of a monk, toward a smoldering, burnt-orange sunset. I wanted to believe that shining black well held the knowledge of the Universe—the knowledge shamen and monks can only dream of—but all I could see was the shiny speck of the reflected sun.

In the hour that I watched, the bird barely moved a muscle. It just stood and contemplated the colorful western sky, oblivious to me and seemingly oblivious to the hundred other herons doing exactly same thing. They weren’t a flock. They were a hundred widely-spaced individuals—none closer than two hundred feet apart—and all seemingly moved by the same primordial instinct to come to the shallow north end of Newnans Lake and stare at the setting sun.

I may never know why the herons gathered at Newnans Lake that day. My romantic mind wants to believe I stumbled upon some previously unknown heron sun-worshiping ceremony—something akin to the fabled elephant’s graveyard. Whatever it was, I know it’s probably too simple or too complex for me to comprehend. But one thing is certain; water was a critical element. Too deep for land predators and too shallow for gators, this thin veneer of water was the ideal setting for these birds to indulge in their transcendent contemplation without the burden of fear. Like all species, herons know that life in Florida is a gift of water.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Floridians are becoming increasingly passionate about our water. With a flood of new information coming from an amazing community of researchers, cave divers, geologists and devoted people from a variety of backgrounds, our understanding of Florida’s life-giving water systems—the underground aquifers—is growing exponentially.

The love of Florida’s springs and aquifers goes far deeper than intellectual pursuit. It comes from that powerful, intangible place in all of us that’s too big to name. When pressed, we usually defer to catch-all words like, “spirituality.” While many people in our spring-loving community, (I call it the “Springs Republic”) shy away from discussions about the spiritual aspect of their passion for springs, none deny it.

Everyone comes to their love of springs from a different place. For some, it was born in the carefree days of youth, playing and seeking relief from summer’s heat in their cool waters. Others associate them with family baptisms or perhaps more personal spiritual quests. Some never saw it coming. They arrived at springs as objective strangers, perhaps for jobs or research or by pure luck of geography when they relocated to a home near a spring. But, like many before them, they inevitably fell under the water’s spell. To know springs is to love them.

There’s nothing new about the current up-welling of love for Florida’s springs. It just feels that way. When you think honestly about it, there’s no getting past the fact that we are all “new” Floridians. All of us are trying to re-learn and re-form the bond that the native people had. But it's not easy. We are relative strangers in a relatively unfamiliar land. While Europeans have been here for a respectable 500 years, it hardly matches the 15,000 year run of our predecessors. More importantly, our cultural and spiritual heritage has nothing to do with this land.

Unless you are Native American, your spiritual/religious heritage is rooted in land far from Florida. Our ancient tales and holy texts—the stories that tell us who we are and where we came from—are all inhabited by places and plants and animals and land features we know nothing about. Christian children learn the words frankincense and myrrh early, but wouldn’t recognize it if it was in their hand. How many times have you seen Mount Arrarat? Jerusalm? Mecca? Mt Fuji? When was the last time you dipped your toes in the Jordan, or did a cannonball into the Ganges or Eurphrates. There are "sacred springs" and “holy wells" throughout the Old World that would make Buddhist or Jewish or Christian Floridians weep if they ever sat at their banks, while their Florida “home” brims with over 1000 springs.

I wonder what acts of reverence the Timucuan performed when they gathered alongside Silver Spring; how did their songs sound when they danced on the banks of Ichetucknee? I wonder how many Timucuan eyes welled as they approached Ginnie Spring. I wonder how many would weep if they saw it today.

Schedule of upcoming Tours

We're in the process of overhauling our website - www.adventureoutpost.net  so the calendar (as well as trip descriptions, river conditions, etc) has not been updated. To help get the word out about what we are tentatuvely planning, we're posting the Long Schedule here and also on our Facebook Page (be sure to "like" the Adventure Outpost group page if you want to be kept in the loop).

 

As always, these trips are subject to change—especially if we haven’t had any expressed interest in a scheduled trip and someone suggests something different. The moral of this story—if you’re considering a trip, please let us know. You won’t be obliged to sign on or bound in any way. It will just help us decide if I can change a trip for a request.

Long Schedule

April

20 (Sat): Ichetucknee (FULL)

21 (Sun): Cedar Key

22 (Mon): Manatee Encounter - Crystal River

27 (Sat): Hontoon Island / Blue Springs S.P.

28 (Sun): Bartram’s Battle Lagoon

 

 

* There are still many OPEN DATES in April! Let us know where and when you want to go, and we’ll schedule it.

 

 

May

 

02 (Thurs): Crystal River Manatee Encounter - Last manatee tour of the season!!

04 (Sat):  The Santa Fe less-travelled - Hwy 47 to Ichetucknee confluence

05 (Sun): Ichetucknee / Santa Fe (Long Version)

 

10 (Fri): Canaveral Natl. Seashore

11 (Sat): Rock Springs Run

12 (Sun): Ocklawaha (Silver R. – Gores Landing)

14 (Tues): Cross Creek : The World of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

 

18 (Sat): Ozello

19 (Sun): Chassahowitzka

20 (Mon): Weeki Wachee

 

24 (Fri Eve): Moonlight paddle on Santa Fe R.

25 (Sat): Cedar Key

26 (Sun): Waccasassa / Wekiva

28 (Tues): Lost Springs of Ocklawaha

 

* There are still many OPEN DATES in May! Let us know where and when you want to go, and we’ll schedule it.

 

 

June

 

01 (Sat): Wild(ish) Side of St. Augustine (NEW ROUTE! & shorter trip)

02 (Sun): Deep Creek

 

07 (Fri): Rainbow River

08 (Sat): Suwannee Wilderness Trail

09 (Sun): Cross Creek The World of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings

 

14 (Fri): (HIKE) Paynes Prairie: History and Lore of the Great Savanna

15 (Sat): Steinhatchee

16 (Sun: Gum Slough

17 (Mon): Homosassa River

 

22 (Sat): “Wild Lore of Ocklawaha River”

23 (Sun): Bear Creek

 

29 (Sat): Prairie Creek

 

 

* There are still many OPEN DATES in June! Let us know where and when you want to go, and we’ll schedule it.

 

 

 

July

 

01 (Sun): “Lost World of the Ivory-billed” in the Lower Suwannee backwaters

06 (Sat): Bartram’s Battle Lagoon on St. Johns River & Alexander Spring Run

07 (Sun): Silver River

 

13 (Sat): Rainbow River *

14 (Sun): Withlacoochee (South) – The Limpkin Patch

 

20 (Sat): Cedar Key

20 (Sat evening): Moonlight Paddle on Santa Fe R.

21 (Sun): Ocklawaha (Gores Landing – Eureka)

 

26 (Fri): River Styx: X-Stream Exploration

27 (Sat): Olustee / Upper Santa Fe

28 (Sun): Chassahowitzka

 

 

* There are still many OPEN DATES in July! Let us know where and when you want to go, and we’ll schedule it.

 

 

 

August

02 (Fri): Deep Creek

03 (Sat): Wild(ish) Side of St. Augustine #2 (NEW ROUTE – shorter trip)

04 (Sun): Wild Side of St. Augustine #1 (Ft. Mose route – longer trip)

 

10 (Sat): Shired Island Island Hopping

11 (Sun): Cedar Key Island Hopping / Sunset paddle

 

17 (Sat): Bar-hopping down Suwannee River

18 (Sun): Prairie Creek

 

24 (Sat): Cross Creek

25 (Sun): Spring hopping down Santa Fe River

 

31 (Sat): Wild(ish) Side of St. Augustine #2 (NEW ROUTE – shorter trip)

 

 

* There are still many OPEN DATES in August! Let us know where and when you want to go, and we’ll schedule it.

 

 

 

September

 

01 (Sun): Wild Side of St. Augustine #1 (Ft. Mose route – longer trip)

 

 

*  There are still many OPEN DATES in September! Let us know where and when you want to go, and we’ll schedule it.

 

 

 

October

 

17 (Thurs): Weeki Wachee

18 (Fri): Ozello

19 (Sat): Black Creek

 

26 (Sat): Wakulla River (Concurrent with St. Marks Monarch Butterfly Migration Festival)

27 (Sun): Wacissa River  (Concurrent with St. Marks Monarch Butterfly Migration Festival)

28 (Mon): Aucilla River  (Concurrent with St. Marks Monarch Butterfly Migration Festival)

 

 

*   There are still many OPEN DATES in October! Let us know where and when you want to go, and we’ll schedule it.

 

 

 

November

 

14 (Thurs): Chassahowitzka

17 (Sun eve): Presentation: "History & Wild Lore of the Nature Coast" (Crystal River @ Plantation Inn)

18 (Mon): Suncoast Keys: Haunts and Hideaways of the Gulf Coast Pirates 

20 (Wed): Chassahowitzka

21 (Thurs): Weeki Wachee - Mermaids, manatees and more

23 (Sat): Crystal River: Manatee Encounter

 

*   There are still many OPEN DATES in November! Let us know where and when you want to go, and we’ll schedule it.

 

 

 

**  RESERVATIONS REQUIRED FOR ALL TOURS

 

For information or to make reservations, please call: (386) 454-0611 or e-mail: riverguide2000@yahoo.com

 

Ponce's Lost Days

It’s been five days (and 500 years) since our man Ponce de Leon set off into the Florida wilderness, and still no word. According to the best record of the conquistador's historic voyage—a second-hand account written by Antonio de Herrera who presumably read de Leon’s now-lost journal—the explorer “went ashore to take possession and get information.” That’s it; that’s all he wrote. The first five days of one of the most significant events in the history of the Western Hemisphere, summarized in a comment so brief it could have been sent in a Tweet with enough extra spaces to add, ”The weathers great, wish you were here! Please send money!”

Knowing what we do about the conquistadores, I worry for the Timucuas. I imagine that undocumented excursion with the dread of a parent whose kid is in Florida for spring break and hasn’t called in five days. Only in this scenario, my kid is a resident of the host town and the visiting spring-breakers are known murderers who bring home slaves the way kids bring home T-shirts from the places they visit.

Lacking documentation, we have only our imaginations to guide our speculation about those lost five days. Two possibilities are that they either stayed on the boat or stayed at the local Timucuan village the whole time. Neither of these seem very likely. These were men of action on a desperate hunt for riches. While they probably spent some time asking the natives if there was any gold in the region, it is likely they set out to look for themselves.

Since they didn’t have horses with them, any overland explorations would have been by foot. The main trail into the interior was the one  that would later be known as the Mission Trail and eventually the famous Bellamy Road (famous because it was Florida's first Federal Road). If he went inland, de leon would likely have used this trail. An added incentive for using this trail would have been Paynes Prairie, home of the Potano tribe. Half a century after de Leon, French soldiers misunderstood the coastal Indians when they were describing the riches of the interior. When the natives told the Frenchmen that valuable rocks were found in Potano territory, the greedy soldiers assumed they meant gold. In reality the natives were talking about flint. This form of limestone was a valuable material for making weapons and tools. If de Leon’s men made the same misinterpretation, they might have taken the trail west. However, five days would not have allowed enough time to get to the Prairie, explore it and return in five days. Even if they tried, it’s very unlikely they could have made it.

The other way de Leon could have explored inland would have been by boat. If there was any curiosity in the back of de Leon’s mind about the presence of a magical Fountain of Youth, he would likely have queried the natives. And,if they were in a sharing mood, they might have told the explorer about two of Florida’s greatest natural wonders—Silver and Blue Springs in the upper St. Johns watershed. But here again, these two giant springs were out of range. No matter how hard they paddled, there’s no way the Spaniards could have reached either of these springs and returned in five days.

For the time being, some of Florida’s greatest natural treasures were spared a visit from the first invasive exotic species to invade Florida in thousands of years.

*

The Land of Flowers

Sometimes you can tell how a story will end after the first few lines. When the Timucuas watched a boatload of Spaniards slosh onto their beach and proclaim that they were re-naming their land, the natives had to know this story was going to end badly. Even if they found some comfort in the fact that the new name was La Florida (how bad can a marauder be if he would name a place the “Land of Flowers?”), it would take more than a flowery name to make up for such an insult. Names had great significance to the Timucua. The process for giving or receiving them was highly ritualized. In fact, being given a new name was likely one of the biggest events in a Timucua boy's or girl’s life.

While there are no first-hand accounts of Timucua naming ceremonies, other nearby cultures were well-documented. In looking at them, we can see some common themes that give us a rough idea of how the Timucua ceremony might have looked.

Most naming ceremonies were lengthy affairs, preceded by weeks or even months of rituals designed to show the person was ready for the change of status and increased responsibilities that came with the new name. For some cultures, the ceremony was conducted by a village elder along with some witnesses or “guides.” The elder would choose a name, often after much reflection on the person’s personality or notable deed. This might be a feat of courage in battle or an impressive hunt. The guides would then have to approve of the new name and attest that the recipient was worthy of it. In the years that followed, these same guides had the power to take the name away if the person dishonored it.

In 1508, five years before he “discovered” and re-named La Florida, Ponce de Leon engaged in a sacred name-exchanging ritual with a Taino Chief in Puerto Rico.  For the Taino, this important ceremony, "called guatiao," affirmed the two men's commitment to friendship and brotherhood. Unfortunately, none of the Spaniards in attendance recorded how the ceremony was performed; only that Chief Agueybana dropped his own name in exchange for de Leon’s. De Leon did likewise. The ceremony so inspired the chief’s mother that she converted to Christianity on the spot. De Leon sanctioned her conversion by baptizing her and giving her a new name. From that day forward her name was Ines.

While the record is admittedly vague on details of Ponce de Leon’s life, there is no mention of him ever being referred to as Agueybana. The record is even sketchier for Agueybana (Chief de Leon?) because the Taino, like the Timucua, didn’t have writing. They weren’t alone. In all of the New World, the only culture with a true system of writing was the Maya and, to a lesser extent, the Aztecs. All of the events surrounding the conquest of the New World—the discovery, the first encounters with the Timucua, the guatiao ceremony—we know only from Spanish chroniclers. As Winston Churchill famously wrote, “History is written by the victors.” (He less-famously wrote, “History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”).

For North America's native cultures, the important tasks of passing tribes history and laws and spiritual beliefs from each generation to the next was done by oral tradition. In this system, elders passed the wisdom of their ancestors to their youngers with stories and songs. Outwardly, these might have looked like simple entertainments. But in reality they were a vital part of the culture. Through stories and songs the people learned such things as how to thank the plants and animals for sacrificing themselves to the dinner plate and to ask their gods for a good harvest or favorable weather. There was no room for creative flourishes. To change a story was to tear the fabric of their society; it was to alter their reality.

If the Timucua had a written language, the anthology of these ancient stories would have been as important to them as holy texts are to cultures that do have writing. As it was, the "anthology" of the Timucuas most important stories, like the one about a boatload of Spaniards that arrived on their shore like a death-dealing Tsunami, existed only in their minds and on their breath.

There are no tattered scrolls of plant and animal lore tucked into a hidden nook in some Florida cave; no toppled rune stones awaiting an unsuspecting backhoe operator to reveal their trove of Timucuan mythology. There was no Timucua Herodotus who chronicled the native Floridian's last 14,000 years. There was no Timucuan Homer, so no Floridan Odyssey. There were no Timucuan poets, so no Timucuan Meleager of Gadara to compile their works in an anthology.

In the first century BC, Greek poet Meleager of Gadara published a collection of hundreds of epigrams from forty six of the best-known poets of that time. It was a ground-breaking work. While others had compiled collections about certain subjects, Meleager’s collection of poems by various authors was a first. The title of his book, The Garland, was a metaphorical twist on the common practice of the time of referring to poems as flowers. The idea stuck and the word “anthology,” from anthos, “flower” and legein, to gather, became synonymous with collections of stories and poems. Taken literally, an anthology of stories is a “collection of flowers.”

As it turned out, the final story in the Timucuan “anthology”—the story that began with Ponce’s arrival 500 years ago today—ended exactly two and a half centuries years later in the same place it began. In 1763 and '64, with Britain preparing to take control of Florida, the entire population of Spanish Florida loaded onto ships at the St. Augustine docks and sailed to Cuba. With them went the last 89 Timucua Indians who had long-since become enculturated into the society of the Spanish Floridians. I sometimes imagine that destitute group—a mix of men, women and children—huddled on the ship’s deck as they watched the land of their ancestors grow small on the horizon. I imagine their minds reeling with countless stories and songs heard around countless campfires. Maybe in this final moment they conceded that de Leon got just this one thing right. This really is La Florida, a “Land of Stories.”