It was 93 degrees F. in the shade, I was definitely drooping, and Uli’s tires had gone mushy. We were Bedouins in search of an oasis, and I was counting on the Ocala National Forest. It didn’t disappoint. (Score another one for my friend Ginny, who reminded me before I left that miracles don’t happen unless you expect them to.)

Immediately upon entering the Ocala, relief washed over me. The forest was probably at least five degrees cooler than the surrounding Florida flatland, and a sweet, gentle breeze lifted my spirits. When I saw the Clearwater Lake Recreation Area, I knew I’d found my miracle. Al and Georgia Clark, the friendly campground hosts manning the entrance station, made me welcome, recommended the best site, and told me about my neighbors. view photo

 :: Campground Characters ::

On this Sunday evening they were relatively few: A lone 60-ish man, a 50-something father and his 20-something son, and a 30-something man with a German shepherd (“Nothing will bother you with that dog around,” said Georgia). The lone older fellow turned out to have been a longtime bartender at the National Press Club in Washington, DC, so he wasn’t surprised by any crazy thing a writer would do. He had been living in Florida for the last eight or nine years (“Since my sciatica came on”) and now seemed to be living in campgrounds (“The woods are nice and it’s cheap”). The elder of the father-and-son team was a self-taught artist who created extraordinarily lifelike birds with little more than paper (mostly lots of toilet paper), glue, and paint. When I asked about his training, he said he’d had none—he had just always loved birds.

The campsite itself was as advertised by the Clarks: A large-but-cozy-seeming space, with a level, sandy, pine-needle-cushioned floor that was perfect for the tent; a picnic table; a fire pit (banned, though, because of the drought-related fire dangers); a standing charcoal grill (allowed); and a utility pole (close enough to a large tree for me to rig up a clothesline). Oh, and there was that view of the lake in question (more like a pond, but I wasn’t going to quibble) through the subtropical, mixed conifer/deciduous forest, the handy path down to my own private beach, and a multitude of marvelous birds. Ocala refreshed me in body and soul, and cost me $10 per night. I stayed two nights. view photo

 :: Old-fashioned Service ::

I also checked out the nearby tiny town of Altoona, Florida. Altoona, Pennsylvania isn’t far from where I was born and raised, so of course I had to visit its southern sister. I discovered three gas station/convenience stores, one post office, and a few houses. At one of the stores I found ice for my cooler and—miracle of all miracles!—a copy machine. Copies were seven cents apiece and you paid by the honor system (“Yes, ma’am, I made 10 copies of these six pages, so I guess I owe you $4.20”). The ice man who happened to be refilling the freezer delivered four bags to my car and had the good taste to admire Uli.

 :: Roughing It Vs. Creature Comforts ::

The next three nights were spent in hotels or motels: One in Okeechobee (on the north side of the huge lake of the same name, famed for largemouth bass and Yankee snowbirds) and two in the Keys (a shabby old one in Marathon and a first-class old one in the heart of Key West). It was never my intention to camp only—on a long trip, a mix of indoors and outdoors is perfect as far as I’m concerned. Each has its advantages and disadvantages, and I enjoy both; plus, weather and availability are always considerations. Financially, too, they complement one another: Ten-dollar bits of heaven on earth make waterfront creature comforts possible for me, just as spaghetti cooked on the camp stove and $6 fish and chips in a plastic basket allow for the occasional seafood feast in a fine restaurant. (Friends certainly help, too: The giveaway rate—and free parking and free local calls—at the superb Key West hotel came courtesy of a friend of a friend, and I spent the weekend as the guest of said friend in Sarasota.) view photo

 :: The Slow Lane ::

A few words about the road itself may be in order, too. (Note to my insurance agent: Skip this paragraph!) I’m sure that the relatively even, sedate pace we’re keeping on the blue highways is the key to Uli’s sustained high level of fuel efficiency: Uncharacteristically, I’m keeping to the speed limit. (At least in the East . . . I will make no promises concerning roads west of the Mississippi, so please don’t forward this to any Western lawmen). It’s a big country and the thought of getting my license pulled halfway through the trip due to an excess of speeding tickets is too embarrassing to contemplate (not to mention that I want to be around to see what happens next). Normally I’m the one in back thinking GET OUT OF MY WAY!, but now I’m the one everybody else on the road loves to hate. I have considered putting a big sign in the back window that reads:

NOT FROM THESE PARTS,
FULLY LOADED, NO DEATH WISH:
PLEASE BACK OFF!

(That’s the polite version of my fantasy sign.) I slow down to let others pass and pull off whenever I can to let a parade go by, but mostly I just feel like an unrepentant skunk at a garden party. I guess you have to expect a few blisters when the shoe is on the other foot. view photo

 :: The Land Of Opportunity::

In Florida City, just north of Key Largo, I stopped at the Farmers’ Market Restaurant for dinner. It was early and the restaurant wasn’t busy, so the atmosphere was relaxed and the waiter and I chatted more with each course. Edgar Valdiviezo was a native Peruvian who first settled in New York City, but it was too cold for him and after a while he moved on. Eventually he married and had children and the family ended up in South Florida, but he wasn’t sure how long they would stay there: The schools weren’t challenging his bright children, and he and his wife cared deeply about their education. In fact, his 10-year-old son had just been honored that morning as the top student in his class, and Valdiviezo expected the same for his six-year-old daughter at her upcoming school ceremony. The economy was a factor, too; since 9/11, he told me, business had been awfully slow. Agriculture kept going, he said, but tourism dried up. By the time I left, I had met the rest of the small staff and had a cheery group photo of Valdiviezo, Manager Florene Buscemi (the owner’s mother), and Cook Warner Garcia. They were all working hard to make better lives for themselves and their families, and I fervently hoped they would succeed.
view photo

 :: Campgrounds With Style ::

Then I was in the islands. There are a number of state parks in the Keys, so I stopped at one—Bahia Honda—to see what it offered. After I paid the $2.50 entrance fee, I saw a sign saying that the Florida state parks had been named the best in the nation in 1992. It didn’t take long to see why: Secluded beach campsites (with freshwater spigots) could be had for under $24, and for about $2 more some came with electric. There were beautiful public beaches with sheltered picnic tables and large, clean bathrooms; I enjoyed a seaside picnic lunch of vine-ripened-tomato sandwich and watermelon and waded in the surf a bit before reluctantly tearing myself away. There was one excellent site still available in the Sandspur Campground and I was tempted to reserve it for the night, but the mosquitoes were intent on sucking me dry and I felt sure that I could depend on the kindness of that stranger in Key West; so I resisted the temptation. I visited a bit with the rangers before leaving, though, and found the three women to be a very happy, sassy bunch. “Boston, Chicago, and Cuba in one room,” said Judy Favaloro, and I marveled yet again at the richness of our national cultural hodgepodge. view photo

 :: The Real Key West  ::

I could have told you about the spectacular Key West sunset, or the great food, or the night life—but I saw no reason to waste precious space on those once something like The Great Chicken Controversy had come to my attention! (Besides, the former have been done to death and I have no interest in re-plowing old ground. You want slick travel advice, try AAA.)

One block north of the pier at the foot of Duval Street—a mere 90 miles from Cuba, it’s the southernmost point in the “continental” U.S.—sits the Chicken Store. In addition to being a place where one can purchase an “I love chicks” t-shirt or a fine example of Haitian metal art, the store serves as a shelter for “nuisance” hens and roosters (both caged and free-ranging) and the command center for a grassroots movement to preserve Key West’s gypsy chickens. “Chickens are safe here,” proclaims the lintel above the front door.

Though chickens have wandered at will through the town for the past 175 years, it seems that the times they are a-changin’. A statement posted in the store says, “The city manager—prompted by people who hate chickens—officially declared them in June 2000 to be ‘obnoxious and destructive,’ the key words allowing for permits to destroy them. . . . The city has been responding to chicken complaints on a case-by-case basis, and has deported about 700 chickens to the mainland.”

Most visitors seemed to be either disgusted or bemused by the cluckers underfoot and the quixotic calls for restoration of the birds’ previously articulated rights; the former hurried out and the latter poked around and tried to make sense of it all (a doomed effort in Key West). My family kept chickens when I was growing up and I even had a few fat Plymouth White Rocks of my very own for awhile, so you know whose side I’m on. I generally try to remain a neutral observer, but everyone has his or her limits, after all; I’m rooting for those chickens. view photo

And the beat goes on. Stay tuned for next week’s installment. . . .