Sure, the southern United States has more than its fair share of pesky bugs that most people actively avoid. Mosquitos, horseflies, and palmetto bugs probably top that list. So it probably sounds strange that we devoted an entire day to insects, particularly to the appreciation of insects. The older kid is pursuing an entomology degree and needed some experience for a graduate-level university class commencing this fall, so that became our excuse.
Southern bugs differ from those found commonly in Michigan and the Apalachicola area offered a particularly promising level of biodiversity. Nonetheless I won’t talk much about the insects because that wasn’t my particular purpose. I wanted to visit the remaining Florida panhandle counties I hadn’t yet encountered so I could add them to my list.
However, I needed some kind of incentive to hook a travel companion and this was the bargain I struck. The same carrot didn’t work for the rest of the family though. They preferred a quiet day at home. So me and my usual travel buddy took a day-long driving loop and critter safari without them. Their loss.
Tate’s Hell
Tate’s Hell didn’t seem too hellish. Really, they should call it something more benign, like maybe Tate’s Heck. Sure, it’s remote and hot as the surface of the sun during summer but it doesn’t feel overtly evil or foreboding. Correctly named or not, Tate’s Hell State Forest is a real place and it covers a vast territory east of Eastpoint.
So what is the actual Hell of said Tate? Well, it’s a legend with several variations. They all involved Cebe Tate, supposedly a local farmer from the 1870’s. Indian curse this, lost in the swamp that, snake bite, delirium, you know, the usual spooky story stuff. Anyway Cebe finally emerged from the swamp after a week of wandering aimlessly and said something along the lines of “My name is Cebe Tate, and I just came through Hell” and then promptly died. Thus, Tate’s Hell earned its name. Well, except I couldn’t find Cebe Tate — or anyone else named Tate — in the 1870 U.S. Census for Franklin County, Florida. But why let facts get in the way of a good story?
Anyway, I never saw anything quite that dramatic. However, I did stop by the Ralph G. Kendrick Dwarf Cypress Boardwalk (map) after rambling down several miles of dirt/sand roads of various conditions. The trees here are perhaps a third the size of regular cypress. Speculation focuses on an underlying layer of clay that prevents roots from growing any deeper and thus trees growing any higher. Either way, it’s an interesting stop deep within the bowels of a much larger natural preserve that may or may not be cursed.
Florida River Island
We drove like a (leisurely) bat out of Tate’s Hell and northward into the Apalachicola National Forest. Our next stop was Florida River Island which does indeed involve an island set within the Florida River (map). I’d never heard of the Florida River and probably for good cause. It’s a very short tributary of the much larger Apalachicola River, somehow given a name much more expansive than its appearance. We stopped at a campground and day-use area and used that as our base for further exploration.
We were in Liberty County (map) which was notable to me and probably only me. It that meant I’d captured Florida’s smallest county by population. Only about eight thousand people lived in Liberty County during the 2020 U.S. Census. Nobody ever goes there by accident. Interstate 10 bypasses it; no major towns anchor it; and half of it sits in a swamp. And that’s precisely why I stopped there. Now I have proof.
Panhandle Pioneer Settlement
Next we continued further north towards Blountstown in neighboring Calhoun County, at the top of our loop. This was our first taste of Central Time during the journey, although it lasted only briefly. We returned to Eastern Time as we continued our drive down the backside of the loop.
However, before we did that we stopped for lunch and then toured through the Panhandle Pioneer Settlement (map). Local historians did a great job of collecting vintage structures from all over the area and creating a living history museum. Unfortunately the living history part wasn’t happening that day so we just poked around the buildings… and also kept our eyes open for bugs somewhat surreptitiously. I pretended I was appreciating architectural details because I didn’t want anyone to think we were weird. Not that it ever stopped me before.
Cape San Blas Light
Finally we headed down to the Gulf Coast town of Port Saint Joe (map) where we toured the Cape San Blas Light. The namesake cape juts into the Gulf nearby although Port Saint Joe isn’t technically part of it. True enough, the town acquired the light from the U.S. Government in 2014 and moved it to a local park away from the cape.
The name “Port Saint Joe” seemed awfully informal, like why was it called Joe instead of Joseph? Well that innocent question revealed a rather convoluted history. Nearby Saint Joseph Bay was the namesake, which seems simple enough although it gets a little more complicated.
A town called Saint Joseph rose by the bay in 1835 and briefly boomed before a yellow fever epidemic drove most of the residents away and the town failed. Much later, around the turn of the 20th century, a local railroad constructed a port where a line terminated. This was a couple of miles north of the old Saint Joseph town site. I guess the owners wanted to differentiate the new port from the old settlement so they went with Port Saint Joe.
Overall I considered the day’s county counting a success. I even added a new lighthouse! Ironically the bug hunt wasn’t all that successful, but we both had an enjoyable time just driving around.
Articles in the Southern Heat Series
See Also: The Complete Photo Album on Flickr
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