Key Largo is for the birds. Roseate spoonbills stand like statues in the shallow saltwater flats. Broad-winged hawks cut circles in a cloudless tropical sky. And yellow-crowned night heron perch on the sulfur-scented mangroves at low tide. But this being the Florida Keys, the eclectic island chain that stretches more than 100 miles from here to Key West, the bird encounters can also be a little … odd.
From the category archives:
Destinations
Her white-sand beaches that fade into a green ocean are among the most postcard-perfect in the Caribbean. Her history, from the crumbling windmills to the old sugar-cane plantations, is among the most fascinating. Her people, accomplished in the West Indian art of island hospitality, are among the friendliest. So why is St. Croix the lost Virgin Island, at least when compared with her two showy sisters, St. Thomas and St. John? When we landed on the island, we couldn’t tell. There was a blast of warm, humid air, the smell of jet fuel and Frangipani blossoms that greeting us as we stepped off the plane. There were rum drinks offered to us in plastic cups – and fruit punch for the kiddies – a trademark of this region.
At the windswept peak of Rendezvous Mountain in Jackson Hole, Wyo., there comes a moment when you’re forced to ask: stay or go? Staying means snapping out of your ski bindings or shouldering your mountain bike (depending on the season), boarding the aerial tram, and then descending to the safety of Teton Village. Going means plunging off a steep drop, the kind of incline that make this mountain resort a legend for thrill-seekers.
Spring training? Yeah, we’ve got that. The Boston Red Sox are right here in Fort Myers, Fla. The Minnesota Twins play down at the Lee County Sports Complex. It’s all-you-can-eat Grapefruit League excitement. But that’s just the half of it. Unlike other Sunshine State destinations, where baseball is front-and-center during the final throes of winter, the game is really a sideshow here. A diversion. So what’s the main attraction? Confidentially, that would be the quiet Gulf beaches, the picture-perfect saltwater flats teeming with exotic fish, and a surprising number of first-rate historical attractions.
Look out for the bear. Mind the moose. And watch for the cougar. You don’t have to visit a national park to see them up-close. Just go skiing in Whistler, British Columbia, during the spring, and you’ll find them everywhere. Even on the slopes. Bears come out of hibernation during March, leaving their dens and foraging for food. Moose and cougar share downhill runs with crosscountry skiers, snowboarders and alpine skiers.
The turtle eggs drop like marshmallows into a neat pile on the sand. Plop, plop, plop. After each fall, the six-foot-long loggerhead, half-buried in a dune above, waves her enormous back fins as if she’s swimming away. “I can’t bear to watch this,” groans a woman holding a newborn baby, who is standing a safe distance from the midnight birthing scene. “One of these is enough for me.” During sea turtle nesting season at Archie Carr National Wildlife Refuge near Vero Beach, Fla., which happens from March to September, thousands of marine turtles take the beach here, laying up to one hundred eggs each under cover of darkness. The new mom among us cringes when she hears that number. One hundred eggs.
A flotilla of powerboats hovers above a Technicolor reef, tied together like a fleet of mothballed warships. “We’re almost ready,” says Bill Becker, who is in command of the lead pontoon vessel. He turns his radio up a notch. “OK,” he says. “Here we go.” Becker signals to the scuba divers waiting at the stern. One by one they step off the side of the boat, plunging into the transparent Atlantic off Looe Key, Fla.
The two-hour drive from Key Largo to Key West is often though of as a difficult, if not dull, journey – navigating around speed traps, traversing windy bridges and dodging dog-size deer. But the trip down the Overseas Highway is a destination unto itself for many motorists, who savor each span and absorb the unfolding seascapes with the kind of devotion normally found in the saltwater fly-fishermen or underwater photographers who frequent these islands. I didn’t believe in the existence of the road aficionados until I moved back to the Florida Keys a year ago after a five-year absence. I hadn’t noticed them the first time I lived here – well, actually I had, but I thought they were just slow drivers. Then, while researching a magazine story, I interviewed a motorcycle shop owner in Charles Town, W.Va., named Bill Ford, who told me that there was “a real cult aspect,” to the ride down to the Southernmost City.
Rob stares at the bulge under Kari’s jacket, the only outward sign that she’s two months shy of having a baby, and there’s a pregnant pause. Our guide had been animatedly talking about what’s biting out in the flats near Sanibel Island, Fla., this time of year – snook, redfish and an occasional cobia – until his eyes settled on my fishing buddy’s midriff. “How far along are you?” he asks. “Seven months.” “You gonna be okay to fish?”
Not another theme park. That’s the first thing I thought when I saw the enormous construction site rising out of the scorched sawgrass fields in Orlando two years ago. The last thing we need here is another theme park.
There’s a road sign along U.S. Highway 434 that looks so ordinary, so official, that you’re tempted to ignore it. By the time you realize what you’ve seen – an image of a cow being sucked into a spacecraft – it’s disappeared in your rearview mirror. There are the extraterrestrial-looking rock formations. Canyons that could pass for a backdrop in any science fiction movie. Darkness hides these surreal geological formations at night, but as the road curves up the mountain the moon emerges from behind a cloud and illuminates their chiseled, otherworldly surface. And there’s the name itself: Angel Fire. Every alien invasion site should be this clearly marked.
The USS Spiegel Grove is the biggest, priciest, and most controversial artificial reef in the world. And maybe, the most fun. How else to describe an audacious plan to sink a 510-foot retired Navy landing dock ship that’s had more cost overruns than a Navy fighter jet project and more plot twists than a David Mamet movie?
Bill Ford believes the 160-mile journey between Miami and Key West is “just about the only decent road trip in the entire state of Florida.” And he ought to know. Ford used to run Harley-Davidson motorcycle tours from Orlando to the Southernmost City, and he says there’s “a real cult aspect” to the drive. Maybe it’s the feeling that when you’re crossing the spans of the Overseas Highway, you’re riding on water. Maybe it’s the legendary hangouts where crusty locals mix with weekend tourists – weathered institutions like Alabama Jack’s near Key Largo, Lorelei’s in Islamorada, and Sloppy Joe’s in Key West. Then again, maybe it’s the danger.
The expression on my dive buddy’s face says it all: The saucer-like eyes, the look of total astonishment as she peers through the plastic bubble. Who can blame her? On the other side of the pane, at a depth of 21 feet, is a room with four beds, a fully-stocked kitchen, a TV and phone. This is Jules’ Undersea Lodge, which is believed to be the only underwater hotel in the world. The corners of her mouth turn upward, but it’s difficult to smile when you’re breathing through a regulator. If she were on land, she’d probably be saying, “I can’t believe it. There’s a hotel down there.”
It’s less than 48 hours before a performance of Leonard Bernstein’s “Serenade” and the piece just isn’t coming together. The conductor, Sebrina Maria Alfonso, drops her hands after a few measures. “Pay attention to pitch,” she says to no one in particular. She glances at her solo violist, Robert McDuffie, to see if he’s ready to continue. He nods. Alfonso raises her baton. “Again. And…”
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