A Bear In The Woods

“Oh sure” said Bill the manager, hitching up his pants and swapping his tooth pick from the left to the right corner of his mouth. “Sure there’s tons of bears in the woods, snakes too, but they’ll hear ya comin’ before you see ‘em”. Dropping off a load of firewood and two huge bags of Florida oranges, he wished us a “great day” and trundled away on his golf cart. Somehow his easy-going attitude did little to allay the fears that I was feeling while Jean and I crept a few hundred yards into the thick forest that backed onto the camp ground where we were spending the week. One moment we were within view of the gleaming ranks of RV’s as the massive mobile homes are called in America, and in the next we were lost in a densely overgrown frond-laden forest where the ghosts of ancient Indian tribes inhabited the dark recesses. Only the night before a large dog fox had appeared with silent stealth not ten feet from our campfire and I found myself fantasizing that he could well be the spirit of the old Indian Chief whose battered statue we had rescued from a fly tip only that afternoon. With the full moon climbing up from behind the forest, throwing the ancient trees into stark silhouette, it was possible to imagine anything. People go “camping” on very differing levels in America. At the top of the gilded heap are those who merely lock the front door of one home and enter an almost identical one with the exception that this one has wheels. Every possible “mod con” is installed from air conditioning, satellite tv, hot and cold running everything and a fridge that could house a small family. With this home-from-home, they are able to leave the frozen northern states of Canada and the USA and head down south like the snowbirds after which they are named. Year after year they return to their summer resting place and pal up with all the other returning snowbirds, and here they spend their days in chattering, chuckling groups, all dressed in a similar attire of shorts, tee shirts and the occasional splendour of an evening outfit of matching shell suits. Some bring their bicycles with them, some don their track shoes while others meander at a slow pace around the extremes of the campsite, each doing his chosen form of daily exercise before retiring behind his mosquito proof screens to catch up on a bit of telly. For those who only intend to stay for a few days, before either moving on or returning home, there is what is commonly called “a pop-up”. These folding caravans do excellent service, containing as they do a small fridge, a gas stove, two lots of beds and bug proof windows. Towed along by the family car, they can be parked into any fairly small spot, plugged into the water and electricity points, and once “popped up” to full size, a relatively comfortable home is established. Jean and I place ourselves among the third and hardiest of the groups. We have no gleaming RV and no economical Pop-Up. We belong to that lowest of life forms on the camp ground – the tent camper. To the utter amazement of 90% of our acquaintances, we actually arrive with a full “trunk” as the boot is called, with two bikes lashed onto the frame at the back, and from these humble beginnings, we construct our home. Admittedly my camping list is slightly shorter than the Gettysburg Address but not by much. However, the upshot is that we want for nothing. A camping list must of necessity contain such things as tent, poles, pegs and guy ropes, but it takes a true professional to remember the myriad of small details that turn the discomfort of living on the ground into a weekend spent relaxing in a hammock with a good book while the strains of Mozart drift about ones ears and a cool drink is at hand. But back to the bears. Not being ones to shrink from the thought of a little adventure, we have discovered the Big Cypress Seminole Indian Reservation Camp Ground seventeen miles north of the colourfully named “Alligator Alley” that links the East and West Coast of southern Florida. Efficiently run by the ever-friendly and accommodating Barbara and Bill, the camp ground is one of the best kept secrets in camping circles in South Florida. Being far from the sea and not close to anything much in particular, this vast grassy area surrounded by woodland gives everyone the space to spread out and enjoy life at whatever pace they choose. There is a pool and a hot tub, an eighteen hole putting course that has brought out the competitor in both of us; that “must-have” for all RV parks – a shuffleboard game, and a well stocked social club which can produce anything from five star meals to a vast selection of jigsaw puzzles. If you are lucky, your weekend away might coincide with a visit from “Crackerjack and the RV Drifters”. This group of musicians who hale from far and wide across the USA converge on one of the campsites up near Lake Okechobee, and for three months of the year, their numbers swell and decrease like some musical amoeba. We were fortunate to catch one of their performances and it was an insight into the part of America that we never get to see in Miami. The music is a mix of Country and Western and Bluegrass, and although at times the vocals were sometimes hard work for our un-tuned ears to pick out, the instrumentals had people on their feet and dancing. The combined years of the six players had to be somewhere around the four hundred mark but the sheer enjoyment on the faces of both musicians and audience alike ensured that they would be welcomed back time and again, and I found myself wondering if Barbara who got up and sang a couple of great songs, didn’t sometimes long to follow in the footsteps of Loretta Lynne rather than having to keep the Big Cypress campsite operating so smoothly. Life in camp moves at a delightfully slow pace. Morning walks can turn into long sociable chats with fellow occupants and shady trees and a good book are another easy option. There are tracks through the forest and along the canals for intrepid walkers and bikers offering the reward of a myriad different birds and the sighting of idle alligators. Wild flowers and air plants and a huge variation of trees make it ideal for the naturalist, and apart from the occasional buzz of a moto-cross bike that has strayed from the big circuit three miles up the road, or an aircraft making an unscheduled stop on the long tarmac strip adjacent to the site, there is very little by way of excess noise. Just three miles further on is the Billie Swamp Safari camp and this is well worth a visit if only to wander about and see the bear and the panther in their enclosures and to visit the boardwalk that takes one deep into the watery heart of the Everglades. All sorts of eco-tourism is on offer and this can be viewed from either the airboats that ply their noisy spray-filled trade or the high swamp buggies, each operated by rangers who know all the inside stories of the area. Opposite the camp ground is the Ah Tah Thi Ki Museum which gives an excellent overview of what life was like for the Seminole Indians who managed to evade capture and deportation and who to this day pride themselves on being “The Unconquered Tribe” . We also paused and wandered around the little Indian cemetery. In some respects it was similar to the old graveyards hidden behind ancient churches in England, but the names spelled out a history that made for exciting and riveting reading. Names like “Tigertail” and “Otter Clan”, surnames that rang the bells of history such as Osceola, the tribal chiefs of Billie and Frank and all too often, the graves of little children bedecked with large soft toys. Each one slept peacefully under the boughs of the Live Oaks that shade the area, and it was a privilege to see it. And so we crept into the forest and paused and listened. The susurration of the leaves high in the cypress trees, the rustle of the palm fronds, the tap tapping of the wood-peckers all sent their message. This was a place of shelter and refuge, a place where bloody battles had been fought and where warriors and soldiers had died trying to lay claim to a land that would ultimately belong only to itself. The sunlight flickered through the upper branches and dappled its way across the bracken fronds and there was a crackle of snapping undergrowth. Was it a real bear or was it a member of the Bear Clan slipping away into the depths of the forest. We looked at each other and wordlessly retraced our steps, leaving this magical mysterious place to its true owners.