Tag Archives: Florida Beaches

Wild Florida

Cedar Key
Wild Florida is always waiting to reclaim what we’ve built.

Download the Wild Florida pdf here.

From time to time I teach at Eckerd College as part of their OLLI program. It’s a not-for-credit program geared towards adults. One of the things I enjoy the most about OLLI is that my “students” want to be there; they aren’t there for a degree or a grade. They choose which classes they want to take based solely on what piques their interest, not because they’re trying to graduate. These classes are supposed be fun for them, and so the people who come to my classes either love Florida as much as I do or they want to learn more about Florida, which makes the classes fun for me (not that they aren’t fun already because, hey, I’m getting paid to talk about Florida, which is my favorite subject ever). Creating these courses also gives me an excuse to do more research about parts of Florida that catch my attention (Here’s a link to the summer courses at OLLI).

This week I’ll give a 90-minute talk called Wild Florida. I’m in love with the wild bits of Florida, which is more of it than you’d think. Working on the materials for this class gave me an idea for a book, and, hopefully, my editor will agree. The idea for the book and the idea for the course come from the same place: When I speak at OLLI, so many of the people who attend are not Florida natives and they absolutely delight in learning about the state — not only the weird stuff, which really isn’t what I do anyway, but the wonderful. The spectacular. And so I created this class to give people more insight into exactly how spectacular wild Florida is. One example is Archbold Station, one of the last bastions of safety for the scrub jay, the indigo snake and others. And if you want to know more, well, hey, you’ll have to come to one of my lectures or buy my next book. Until then, here’s a cool little movie a bunch of Florida kids made about the scrub jay.

Road Trip: The Forgotten Coast, unluckiest town in Florida and a lighthouse

This article originally appeared in the Dec. 29 issue of Creative Loafing Tampa.

Lying on a Panhandle beach, I turn to Barry and ask, “Why don’t we live here?”

“You’d be too cold,” he answers, and he’s not wrong. My friends joke (but not really) that I get Seasonal Affective Disorder when the sun’s behind a cloud for more than 15 minutes, and that whenever the mercury drops below 80º I run for my sweatshirt. Right now, it’s in the low 80s and I’m writing with a blanket over me.

Nevertheless, the Florida panhandle beckons. Specifically, the Forgotten Coast of Gulf, Franklin and Wakulla counties. Sand dunes line the coast, buffeted by pine forests from the small towns selling hyper-local seafood and low-key tourist dreams. Few roads trace the edge of the land here — US 98 through Port St. Joe and, to its west, 30A. I am hopelessly, totally, irrevocably charmed by seaside forests and small-town splendor.

I’m not the first. Years — centuries — before Tampa Bay became a place to live, Florida’s panhandle attracted people. After Ponce de Leon’s 1513 discovery of Florida, pioneers opened the West — West Florida, that is, which totally became a thing as our much-maligned state bounced between five flags until becoming part of the US in 1821. Of course, statehood wasn’t an easy road — the U.S. couldn’t let just anyone in, right? So, in 1838, Floridians got together and convened a constitutional convention at St. Joseph, Florida’s largest town with a whopping 6,000-ish people.

By the time Florida became a state in 1845, that town was gone.

What happened?

In July 1841, a ship from the Greater Antilles docked there. NBD: St. Joseph was a significant port (’member, anything south of the Panhandle was a swampy morass of death, what with the skeeters and gators and lack of air conditioning) so ships came and went like it was today’s Miami. Except this ship had a passel of passengers lousy with yellow fever, which sucked for the passengers who died — but not before they infected most of the town. Of the 6,000 living there, all but 1,500 died. Of those, another 1,000 fled because they weren’t fond of death. So when a hurricane hit a couple months later, the 500 remaining residents found themselves homeless, because the storm trashed pretty much every building. Resolute pioneers that they were, they soldiered on… only to have fires rip through town a while later.

That should have been enough, right?

[read more at cltampa.com]

Backroads of Paradise in the New York Times

Backroads of Paradise by Cathy Salustri
The great Florida road trip, in book form.

Welp, they don’t seem to care much for Donald Trump, but the New York Times likes me.

A weeks ago, I’d shut down email for the day, except — fun fact — I’m almost always trying to clear out my email. Over at Creative Loafing, our food editor and one of my favorite people, Meaghan, always has about three or four emails in her inbox. She’s that good at clearing them out. Right now, I have roughly seventy-seven million emails waiting for me, so I feel compelled to check them from time to time, even when I’m theoretically done for the day.

So, the de facto in-laws are down for the holidays, and as we’re all watching football I start looking for easy emails to handle. I see one from a John Dorman, who says he’s with the Times and would like to do a Q&A with me. Now, we have a daily paper here we also refer to as “the Times“, so I thought, oh, OK, that’s weird, because they rejected me for the Festival of Reading and haven’t shown any interest in Backroads whatsoever, but cool.

Then I get to the signature line and it’s not the local Times. No, it’s the New York Times. Or, as I said about two seconds after I realized which paper had contacted me, The New York Fucking Times, but only in my head, because, well, I try not to say fuck so much around Barry’s parents, because I’m a goddamn lady and all.

So, um, hey, read this super-cool interview with this awesome Florida chick who’s in the New York FUCKING Times. Or buy the print version of the paper Sunday. Or do both.