Stories from the Road – The Florida Keys
We are three snow-loving Coloradans spending the month of December barefoot and sticky in South Florida. It doesn’t take long for us to fall in love with the minerally feel of salt water, pastel-pink skies, any cold beverage with fresh lime, and that brilliant color of sunrise on ocean water that is impossible to name. We park-hop down the 125-mile chain of islands, eventually crossing all forty-seven bridges, which make up the Florida Keys, reserving tent-only sites in the campgrounds. The extra schlep from the rig to the more secluded tent-camping site is always worth it to us.
We use the sun (and shade), the tides, and US National Park Service Junior Ranger activities to structure our time, and we find a worldschool rhythm that is perfectly informed by wherever we are—boating through gnarly, rooted forests of coastal mangroves; trying out underwater photography at John Pennekamp Coral Reef State Park in search of sea fans, brain coral, urchins, anemones, and schools of scaly rainbow parrotfish. We learn about hurricanes, climate change, and invasive species.
We decorate each of our campsites with conchs, cockles, seaweed, driftwood, and the occasional piece of turquoise sea glass or fried egg jellyfishes, which look like eyeballs. We smile a lot, get really tan, and my curly hair becomes curlier every day.
About halfway down the keys on the “Highway That Goes to Sea,” we come to Long Key State Park and score another fantastic walk-in campsite right by the water. That evening after dinner, we sit by the water, toes dipping in, hands whooshing across the fine white sand, when I feel a sting, then another, and another. I jump up and try to brush off whatever is biting, but I can’t see ’em! I shake wildly as my eyes puff up and everything itches. I get in the tent and I still feel ’em. Johnny boy saves the day—he grabs a headlamp, hops on his bike, and races to the rig for the first aid kit. No surprise: I need a double dose of Benadryl. The next day, we carry on, appreciating that the tiniest Florida pests—those ever-present no-seeums—have a bite way bigger than their imperceptible bark!
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