The Secret River

It was last summer when I learned the Anclote River begins in J. B. Starkey Wilderness Preserve.  While on a run, a fellow runner with her two scampering black labs and I crossed paths.  She recommended a service road along the powerlines that I had long overlooked.  The Anclote River passes the trail, she pointed South.  She told me that she didn't take her four legged running companions down that way in the summer months because it tended to flood.  It sounded wonderful.

Powerlines in a wilderness park seem like an odd choice of route for a cross country runner.  Why not take to the deepest and most rugged paths?  I have learned that the powerline path cuts directly through the park.  Trails intersect right and left; new opportunities to explore seem unlimited.  But I do love those rugged trails, too.

It is summertime, although the river has yet to flood my path.  Just two weeks ago there was little river to speak of, so I was overjoyed to see the waters of  the Anclote River gushing from one side of the road to the other this morning.

According to Wilfred T. Neill in the Pasco Times of March 20, 1977: “The name Anclote dates back to early Spanish times. The Spaniards called these islands Cabo de Anclote—Cape of the Kedge Anchor—because ships had to use a kedge to winch their way through the shallow water or the winding channels. And early French sailors called the islands Cap d'Anclote, which, of course, has the same meaning as Cabo de Anclote.” According to Neill, Anclote is by far the oldest place name in Pasco County and one of the oldest in Florida. The name is found on a 1715 map which I have seen, and a 1545 map, according to a newspaper article. The Red Race of America (1847) by Henry Rowe Schoolcraft has:

“ANCLOTE, an island on the southwest coast of Florida; also, a river flowing into the gulf at that locality, which is also called, in the Seminole dialect, the Est-has-hotee.”

From Origins of Place Names and Anclote Images

The segment of the river that crosses my path is unlike the better known mouth.  This part is narrow, winding, shallow, and hidden.  There are no boaters or fisherman, just a great blue heron, a slew of mosquitoes, and a sole runner to be seen.

I have viewed the river at this point of intersection countless times, but toady it seemed as if it were singing as it ran by, to use the words of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings from The Secret River.  I could not simply run past it today.  I had to see where the waters would lead me.

Mere steps away from the trail, the morning sun was blackened by a veil of leaves and intertwined branches.  Inside, the air was noticeably cooler, a welcomed relief from central Florida summer heat.  The twisting waters and buzz of mosquitoes were the only sounds.  No longer was I in a wilderness park with other runners, cyclists, and hikers.  I was simply in the wilderness! 

To follow the river further, I decided that it was best to cross and move westward.  Thankful for long legs and, at the moment, lower water levels, I managed to hop across without getting too wet.  I felt more free than ever before.  It was difficult to believe that I was in the same park, now that I was without trails to follow and signs marking the way.  Only the riverbeds and fallen trees directed my path.  I could not help but think of the early settlers of this area.  At one point in time not too long ago, this is what my home was like.  No fences.  No traffic.  No footsteps but your own. 



I felt like I had traveled far, crossing the river multiple times, and occasionally standing in awe of this seemingly undiscovered part of the park.  When I made my way back towards the poweline path, I was shocked.  I had traveled no more than 100 meters down the maintenance road, and even that was a generous estimate.

There is still so much more to explore, I thought.

I'll be back tomorrow.

Oh, and I finally broke in my new shoes.  After a week of exclusive road running, they are now covered in the sand, grit, and brown waters of central Florida.  It's about time.



"All that the sun shines on

is beautiful, so long as it is wild."

John Muir

Atlantic Monthly, January 1869

My Serenova findings:

The other side of the lake

Two structures that I first found on an aerial map- about 2.5mi out

They are (were?) wired for electricity

Lovely open land

Through the cypress trees

 Secret river

Serenova Adventures

Somewhere in the 6,533 acres that comprises the Serenova Tract o f J. B. Starkey Wilderness Preserve is a lake.  Okay, there are many lakes, but I am looking for a specific one.  I had seen pictures of it- sprawling, lily pads covering the periphery, and a pier jutting in on one side.  From aerial maps, I knew that is was on the eastern side of the trail and about two and a half miles out, without any wrong turns.  Today, my goal was to find it during my five mile run.

The morning was foggy.  The usual yellow-green of the summer was heavily clouded in grey.  The fog was so dense that I could not see but a few meters ahead at times, so finding a body of water was going to be difficult.  I kept running southwest, feeling myself going lower and lower.  All of those environmental science classes were going to come in handy.  I know my Florida ecosystems.  It had to be around there somewhere. 

Then, out of nowhere, I found something completely unexpected in a wilderness park.

A chimney.

Surrounded by a wire fence with signs warning park visitors not to trespass, the stone chimney was a marked change against the natural elements of the park.  The preservationist in me had many questions and a few miles to think about them.

How old is the chimney?  When was the structure destroyed?  How was it destroyed?  Who owned the building?  What is currently being done to preserve the chimney?  Are any archaeological digs planned?

As I did my own little survey of the site around the edge of the fence, I caught a glassy reflection through the trees in the distance.  The lake!  My trail sleuthing had paid off.

Sometimes even extensive Google research does not produce answers, and this is one of those cases.  All I know is that this would have been quite a beautiful place to live.

Maybe one day I will find the answers to my questions.  I should contact the West Pasco Historical Society.  Someone has to know something.

Memorial at Brooker Creek

It was just past seven in the morning and the gates to Brooker Creek Preserve were open, welcoming visitors to another summer morning at the park.  I decided to run the two mile paved loop in the front of the park before I took to the trails for for miles.  Making my way towards the park entrance, I passed the small fenced area surrounded by native Florida plants.  Stopping my watch, I stepped from the road and onto the rose colored stones.  This beautiful, humble spot is where Margaret "Peggy" Park is remembered.

Photo from Southeastern Outdoors

I discovered the plaque last week, but I did not know Peggy Park.  All I knew was what I read.  She worked for the Florida Game and Fresh Water Fish Commission.  She was young.  She died protecting the land she loved. 

Today, I passed her memorial, and more informed, I thanked her for what she gave to the land.  I can not think of too many other ways to die that are as noble as this.

Peggy grew up in Columbus, Ohio.  She loved animals: cats, dogs, fish, gerbils, wolves.  She decided that she was going to be a park ranger from and early age, and that is exactly what she did.  After graduating from Ohio State University with a bachelor of science degree in natural resources and wildlife management,
Peggy became a Pinellas County wildlife officer.  From 1982 until a fateful day in 1984 she protected precious land in Pinellas county.

On the night of December 13, 1984, Peggy approached two suspicious young men who ultimately had a stolen hand gun.  One man, nineteen year old Martin Grossman, was on probation and afraid of going to prison.  Peggy refused to let him go, but the large man overpowered the petite officer.  Grossman and seventeen year old Thayne Taylor beat Peggy on the head with her own metal flashlight twenty to thirty times.  Peggy fired her gun once, but Grossman then shot her in the head with it.  In the final moments of her life, she had the strength to call "I'm shot!" into her radio.  Peggy died.

Her memorial is peaceful, like the land that surrounds it.  No trace of struggle or senseless violence remain.  On an early morning run, one may pass her memorial and not take notice, not realize what was given in order for this land to be protected today.

Taylor was sentenced to seven years in prison for third degree murder.  He was released after two years and ten months.  Grossman was to sit on death row for twenty-five years.  On February 16, 2010, at the age of forty-five, Martin Grossman was executed by lethal injection for the murder of Peggy Park.

Twenty-six years later, Peggy is physically a part of the land she loved.  Her ashes were scattered by helicopter in what is now Brooker Creek Preserve so that she could forever be with eagles that she watched over.




After 25 Years
Wildlife Officer Peggy Park
A Fitting Memorial
Grossman Execution for Peggy Park Murder

Serenova Tract Thunderstorm

Driving through the lightning and thunder with ominous black clouds above, I started to think that maybe I was a bit crazy.  As much as I love to watch the lights dance in the clouds before the sun rises, I questioned my sanity, and not to mention safety.  How safe is running in a forest alone, rambling around various bodies of water in a central Florida thunderstorm stretching as far as the eye can see?  I'll be fine, I convinced myself.  This is worth it.

Pulling into the small parking area, I was glad to see that multiple people were already in the park. 

"Ya got bug dope on ya?"  A middle aged hiker with a walking stick asked me as we entered the trailhead at about the same time.  I did, and we agreed that the deer flies can be a pain.  Although I would not come upon many pesky insects because they well aware of the storm on its way.

Down the shaded path, I passed two birders in canvas hats, fishermen contently sitting on their coolers, and the man with the walking stick.  J. B. Starkey Wilderness Park would be deserted in this sort of weather.  Well, I'm glad to be in the company of other crazy people, I thought. 

I made my way down a few dead end trails, stumbled upon an old anachronic parking lot like surface, and discovered a hidden little lake blanketed in lily pads that I long to paint.   Following a crushed shell road deeper into the park, the rain beating down heavier, and Serenova opened up.  I could see the silhouette of cypress domes against the sky as it grew progressively darker.  Knowing Starkey, I assumed the paths were a series of loops, so when I trail crossed the road, I took it.  It directed me east, further away from the road and then south, further from the trailhead.  I kept my eye on the power lines, my key to judging distance at Starkey, and continued on.  About a mile later, I crossed the road again.  Thunder boomed over me.  The storm was no longer close, it was here.  I picked up the pace and headed down the road, back to the lot the shortest way I knew.

When I returned, the fishermen were packing up and the birders were long gone.  If they were going in, I guessed I should follow.  As I unlaced my sand caked Brooks and changed out of my soaked shirt, I decided that I had to come back another day soon.  Clearly the lightning gods wanted me around for a bit longer.

Now, I was curious about storms and Florida.  I knew that in Florida, the Sunshine State and also the Lightning Capital of the United States, most lightning strikes occur in June, July, and August, our rainy season.  Despite listening to Dennis Philips clad in his trademark suspenders every so often, that was about the extent of my knowledge of Florida lightning statistics.  I decided to do some research for myself:

West central Florida has around 90-100 thunderstorm days in a year, higher than any other area of Florida.   Lightning accounts for well over 50 percent of weather related deaths in Florida.  You would think that hurricanes may top the list of dangers, but our thunderstorms prove to be most deadly.  "Lightning Alley" was new term for me.  This corridor from Tampa Bay to Titusville receives the most lightning strikes in the United States on an annual basis. 

"Past history has shown that many people struck by lightning in Florida were near water, in an exposed location, or under/near trees."  Three for three?  Okay, maybe I was a bit crazy.

Statistics from NOAA.

To learn more about this great park, I recommend a short YouTube video and the SWFWMD Serenova Tract webpage.

Friendships

One of the aspects of running that I love most is how it unites, and reunites, people.  I had the pleasure of running with a former track and cross country teammate from high school in a place that holds many memories for both of us.  I competed with the girl for just a year, being that she is two years younger and started running as a sophomore, but we have remained friends despite graduations, running on opposing teams, and moving away from one another.  One thing that has kept us close is our love of the sport.

Just like days in high school, we met at 6:30am at the crushed shell parking lot of the corral, predictably wet from the heavy summer air and smelling like a mixture of salt and horse.  After stretching, applying bug spray (horse flies are unrelenting in the summer and I am known to keep a bottle or two in my car), and many hugs, we made our way down the horse trail that connects to the paved bike path. 

Meandering a few strides over 6.5 miles through the vast landscapes the park is known for, the bike path at J. B. Starkey Wilderness Park is a popular spot for runners, cyclists, walkers, and friends.  Although it extends to the 42 mile Suncoast Parkway, my friend and I were just going to put in a few miles.

We discussed old running and new running, stories from high school and college.  She is about to leave our little town for another with a four year college located in Tennessee.  I am about to graduate and leave the world I have called home for the past few years.  I laughed after hearing tales about former teammates.  She laughed about my giddy, obvious love for the park and the trails.

I pointed to the right of the path, "There's a great trail back there, along the tree line.  I ran it all of the time last summer."

"By yourself?" she asked, clearly worried about me running alone in God-knows where.

I assured her that I was safe and that "I've never gotten lost."  But that doesn't mean I always knew exactly where I was going, either.

Two miles.  The pristine painted white line stretched across a newly repaved section of the trail.  The mile marker had moved; it used to be worn and hardly visible just beyond the section of trees.  We turned around anyway and made our way back to the start of the trail.  Nothing stays the same when you are away.  The paved path now extends to the front of the park, forever altering the home cross country course I was told I inspired.  Young longleaf pines have grown nearly a foot since March. 

I guess what does remain are the people.  In the early morning hours, I see the same people out on the trail:  the middle aged man and his doberman, those speedy cyclists, and running club members who have seen me running at Starkey since I was thirteen.  Friendships.  That's what I love about running.  Even though we may not always know where we are going, we know where to return and we know we have our friends to return to.

My friend was feeling the heat of the quickly rising sun and decided to take the wooded trail back to the corral.  We said goodbye, unsure for how long it will be this time.  A week?  A year?  I turned around and ran back down the path for a mile or two more, greeting each person I met along the way with "Good morning."  What better way is there to spend a morning than running with longtime friends and new ones.

A few pictures of the bike path from last summer

Summer Reading Options...

I ordered a few new books today!  Two GRE prep books and two by Klinkenberg.  Hum... I wonder which ones I would rather dive into first?

Pilgrim in the Land of Alligators:  More Stories about Real Florida
By Jeff Klinkenberg

Dispatches from the Land of Flowers: a Snake Man, a Sad Poet, a Lightning Stalker, and Other Stories about Real Florida

By Jeff Klinkenberg