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Friday, December 21, 2001 - Cruising Old Florida
88 miles. Winter Haven, FL to Punta Gorda, FL
When we were in St. Augustine Joan's Uncle Chuck
asked to see the route we would take down the Florida Peninsula. After a quick
glance he concluded, "Oh, you're going to be traveling thru Old
Florida." At the time I wasn't quite certain what he meant but after a few
days I knew what it was that he meant. Today I began in and ended in New Florida
but all the miles in between, and there were quite a few of them, were in Old
Florida, and Old Florida is a great place to be if you are a cyclist.
Leaving Winter Haven, home of Cypress Gardens, I turned
off U.S. 17 and I started my run by Old Florida. Gone were the glitz, glamour,
condos, golf courses and ceaseless traffic of New Florida replaced by quiet
roads seldom traveled with miles of citrus orchards, pasture, older homes shaded
with spreading live oaks and today few dogs. Ascending Mt. Garfield, the last
and unimpressive southern peak of the Florida Alps, I cruised the rest of the
day in clear skies with a good tailwind from the NE.
The terrain now leveled out dramatically and I rode
with intensity. Along the way I passed the ugly scar of a large open pit mine
covering hundreds of acres. Florida is a major source of phosphate and I am
guessing that this was the miner's quarry (ha, ha). I did notice that the land
was being reclaimed farther down the road. Florida now has the largest cattle
ranch in the USA and I may have ridden past it. The ranch stretched for miles on
both sides of the road.
The original forest cover must have been primarily a
live oak forest with pines and palms also conspicuous. This has been largely
cleared for pasture and vast groves of citrus. In fact this must be the very
heart of Florida's important citrus industry and the harvest is ongoing. It is
done by hand, the fruit being picked and allowed to fall to the ground where it
is placed into bins which are then loaded into long bed semi trailers and dump
trucks. These are plying all the Florida roads at this time. The laborers are
all Hispanic immigrant. Even with Florida suffering the sharp pangs of recession
there is no other source of labor. It must be assumed that the wages are far
below the thresh hold of acceptability for most Americans. And somehow imported
juice concentrate is a viable to import into this country.
Upon reaching Port Charlotte I had planned to camp at
an RV Park mentioned on the route map and here once again occurred one of those
disturbing incidents of outright discrimination that, if racially motivated,
would bring the Federal Government into the fray. The manager now flatly refuses
to allow any tenters. No reason was given but I suspect that it is connected to
problems with long staying "street people". I, of course, would stay
only one night; no drinking smoking or noise. No way, needless to say, but if I
had driven in any kind of scuzzy RV I would have been welcome. Brilliant logic
on the part of my fellow countryman. It reminds me of the one great truth I have
delved from Joseph Heller's Catch 22. Right now, at this moment, this man
"hated" me at least as much, if not more , than the "enemy"
did. I got back on my bike and rode across the Peace River bridge and found a
motel room.
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