From Sophistication to the Swamp…. Anastasia State Park to Florahome

After spending a considerable amount of time and money fettling and servicing our bikes (I’d treated the Surly, to a new bottom bracket, cables, chain and even a new set of transfers to replace the scuffed originals) we undid all that good work in just a few seconds by plunging them into the salty waters of the Atlantic Ocean. We then dragged them across a beach just to make certain that sand and grit had worked its way into every moving component. You can’t beat riding with a crunchy chain.

It was even more crazy considering the Southern Tier doesn’t actually start on the coast.  Somehow I’d managed to persuade Terry to tweak the route on day one. Considering that doing the same thing five years ago at the start of the TransAm had led to a nightmare day criss- crossing major highways, followed by the ignominy of having to strap our bikes onto the front of a bus, I was amazed he’d accepted it so easily. Maybe he figured that after a week of cycling around the city even I couldn’t get lost. Or maybe the jet lag was still dulling his senses. In truth I’d ridden the route several times over, just to be sure.

So we found ourselves cycling out of St Augustine, over the Lion Bridge and heading east instead of west. Four miles later we reached Anastasia State Park, a pristine habitat of unspoilt beaches and sand-dunes where we watched pelicans dive-bombing into the water off shore, terns patrolling the air above the surf and ospreys following the shore-line.

Searching around for someone to take a photo of the momentous moment, we managed to find the only couple in North America who appeared to have never seen a camera before. As they baffled over the controls, Terry and I shuffled in and out of position shouting instructions. Before long we’d dipped not only the back wheel, but also the front wheel, crankshafts and then our feet. As we dragged the bikes back up the beach, sand stuck to the tyres and filled the mudguards, so all you could hear was a horrible scraping sound that would send any decent mechanic into cries of despair.

Then, after riding four miles back into town we dropped our bikes off back at the Day’s Inn (my fourth hotel that week) dined out on an enormous dinner plate of a pizza and went to bed. This was going to be my kind of ride. 

Experience has taught us that ‘leaving the farmyard’ can be a time consuming affair and – already two days behind schedule – we decided to get the start done and then join the Southern Tier route proper first thing in the morning. So munched through more food at Denny’s, which was conveniently located in the same building as our hotel and a short staggering distance from our room. 

At 10.30am the following morning we found the official start, close to the Cathedral Basilica of St Augustine. “It’s good to be back,” I said to Terry, as we recorded a piece of video just before the off, but he didn’t seem quite so sure.

“Yeah,” he replied, after a pause. “I’ll let you know,” before adding more positvely “it will be great, it will be fine. Let’s go!”  And with that we set off east, hoping its Christian congregation, the oldest in United States, would have us in their prayers.

In just a few miles we’d left the sophistication of St Augustine for the swamp – the Turtle Bay Swamp to be precise – although all we saw was a dead possum and a number of very large birds of prey circling overhead like barn doors. 

The heat of the previous day had evaporated to a cool 18/19 degrees celsius and we were blessed with a tail wind propelling us along at a rocketing 17.5 mph. We were already in the land of seemingly endless straight roads stretching to an endless horizon and Terry declared it must have been built by the Romans. Before an historical argument broke out a natural history one got in their first as Terry declared a bird passing overhead was an Osprey.

“It was a Turkey vulture,” I declared, but Terry wasn’t having it. “It was an Osprey – it bloody was too!” It was going to be a long trip. 

Sadly it seemed the worshipers at the Basilica forgot about us pretty quickly as Terry’s bike suddenly started to wobbling and weaving in front of me and a clear cylindrical object came rolling down the road in my direction. Astonishingly, just a few miles after the start, Terry had dropped his water bottle, something that hadn’t happened once when cycling more than 4,000 miles on the TransAm. I’d dropped bottles, helmets, bike tools, lunch and various items of clothing, but Terry was a cycling machine and these things just didn’t happen.

Already spooked, we then passed a ‘ghost bike’ – a bike painted white to mark the spot where a cyclist, Bryan Wrigley,  had lost his life. It turns out Bryan, an avid cyclist, had been a graduate student at the University of St Augustine and had wanted to become a physical therapist. He was killed by a hit and run driver in April 2011 and an annual Wrigley ride had been organised in his memory. There was also a wooden cross – on the crosspieces were attached what I assumed  were Bryan’s wrist bands – just like the one I was wearing. It make you think, particularly considering how quiet the road was. 

After around seven miles the Turtle Bay Swamp gave way to farmland, some of it for ranching cattle, but predominently to grow Florida spuds.  Eventually we hit the banks of the St John’s River where huge live oaks, dripping with moss, lined the road and kept riverside properties, large and small, cloaked in shade. Numerous jetties jutted out into the river, providing moorings for boats. For us though the turn south meant cycling into a headwind and our pace dropped dramatically. On the plus side we spotted our first turtles of the trip. 

Just outside Hastings we joined a newly constructed cycle trail which followed an old railway line and avoided cycling on the shoulder of the busy 207. Three miles later we arrived in Hastings, named after Thomas Horace Hastings, the cousin of the rail magnate Henry Flagler, who built all those splendid hotels in St Augustine.

The story goes that Flagler needed somewhere to get fresh vegetables for his guests, so Hastings was given the job, with the town late earning the moniker as the ‘Potato Capital of Florida’. We’d seen plenty of potato fields,  but the High Street, like so many in the U.S. seemed to have had the life sucked out of it, dominated by a number of abandoned and boarded up buildings.  The Florida East Coast Railway had long gone and was now providing an excellent cycle path and you had to wonder at the determination which had carved the railroad through the swampy forest. Standing next to the now defunct line the Potato Grower Association Building looked like it hadn’t seen a spud in years.

We were just about to head out of town when Terry spotted Norma D’s kitchen where most of the local population seemed to be tucking into the very best of Southern food. According to Tori, the manager, it had only been open for 14 weeks but should be a definite stop for anyone cycling the Southern Tier – although she had no idea the trail passed right outside her door! My blackened shrimp salad was a triumph – so much flavour accompanied by tomatoes, goats cheese, cranberries, bacon. 

As we cycled onto East Palatka we realised why the cycle path hadn’t been signposted – it was clearly not finished in places and after crossing the road it weaved around what appeared to be a slightly dodgy area of town before disappearing altogether, forcing us onto the busy 309. A few miles later it miraculously appeared again on our right hand side (where it had wandered off to we had no idea) so we cut across and rode the smooth tarmac to our night stop – a camp site in the Etoniah Creek State Forest. Well at least that was the plan.

Things went awry when the road morphed into deep sand which it was impossible to cycle through. The thought of dragging heavy touring bikes for two miles was a non-starter, so we headed on to Florahome. Drained from the swamp to become farmland, it again seemed to have seen better days. Finding nowhere obvious to camp, we searched out the locals.

The local post mistress said we could camp on the grass outside the Post Office, but she seemed rather sketchy on whether we had official permission or not. The local gas station also offered no solution, so we cycled further down the Palatka to Lake Butler cycle trail, watching white tailed deer wander onto the path in from of us in the fading light. It had been drizzling on and off during the afternoon and had now turned cold, so we were wrapped tight in our fleeces as we scanned the scrub and swamp for somewhere safe to hide away for the night. 

Eventually we discovered a potential wild camping site tucked away in the forest. Our only concern was that the land appeared to be used for turkey shooting and there was a feeder and shooting platform buried further into the scrub, so we opted for a patch well out of range.

After clearing some ground in the sand we returned to the Circle K service station in Florahome for coffees and subways before cycling back and putting up our tents. We put our food in a bag and tied it up in a tree as apparently there are black bears round here, but the most fearful predators we saw were spiders with luminescent heads – like glow worms with eight legs. 

At around 9.30pm, as we tried to drop off to sleep in our tents wondering if it would be the bears, spiders or the turkey farmer who would get us first,  it started raining heavily.  It was as far from the traditional image of theme-park Florida as you were likely to get – and I couldn’t see it catching on anytime soon. 

FTotal distance since Anastasia State Park: 67.0 miles