In our quest to preserve and make available as many Florida writings as possible, here’s a public domain piece from Outing magazine dated 1891.
A visit to Florida had long been my dearest wish. I had read books without number on that fascinating country, and by the fireside in my far-away home I often dreamed of tropical delights —— balmy air, luscious fruits and splendid successes with rod and gun.
We left C— in a blinding snow storm. In forty eight hours we found our selves in another world, as it seemed— green, luxuriant foliage and soft, balmy air took the place of the ice and cold winds.
After a few days’ tarry in Jacksonville one of the elegant St. John’s River steamers conveyed us to Sanford, every hour bringing forth some new surprise or beautiful bit of scenery to enchant the eye. From Sanford a pleasant carriage ride of seven or eight miles landed us at the fine orange grove owned by Mr. L., whose house was low, with a wide veranda almost entirely around it. A beautiful stretch of water, called Crystal Lake, in which our host informed us lurked many a gamy bass, only waiting to be caught, spread in front of the house.
As we sat on the piazza enjoying our evening smoke and planning for the morrow the moon came up in all her beauty, touching with silvery sparkles the ripples on the quiet lake and lending new glories to the scene. How soft and warm the air felt to our Northern senses, and after the rattle and hurry of travel the absolute quiet seemed a blessed relief.
Our life for the next few weeks was a succession of hunts, varied occasionally with a troll on the lake for bass, and the success that attended on these agreeable pastimes was usually very satisfactory. I particularly remember one of our shooting excursions, not the most successful perhaps, but it is the one most vividly impressed on my memory and will pass as a fair sample of many similar trips. After an early breakfast one bright morning Bernard, Mr. L. and I started for a ten-mile tramp to the “ prairie,” knowing we were likely to find good snipe shooting there, with perhaps a shot or two at a stray duck. A valuable pointer named Floss went with us. My pet gun was, of course, not forgotten—a double-barreled Parker, 16 gauge, weighing a little over six pounds, but noted for its close, hard shooting qualities and a knack for “getting there” in long shots. My companions carried heavy 12-bore guns, and I did not envy them the extra weight, which in a long day’s tramp is quite a serious matter when you are doing the carrying.
Taking an old road but little used, leading through the pine forest, we walked merrily along, drinking in the pure morning air, our guns over our shoulders and Floss obediently trotting along at our heels. After an hour’s steady walk we left the road and coming to some scrub palmettos—a likely place for quail—sent Floss ahead to look the matter up for us, greatly to her satisfaction.
A more beautiful dog I never saw, and it was a pleasure to watch her graceful motions as she quartered the ground to right and left. Suddenly she became motionless, and with eyes that started from her head with excitement, and one foot still in the air, her whole body stiffened until it seemed as if she was carved in marble. We did not stop long to admire her, however, for with guns at full cock we eagerly stepped forward to flush the game. She had found; soon it was whirr-whirr whir-r-r, and a covey of about twenty quail were up and away like a flash of lightning, but the leaden messengers sped quickly after. Three plump birds answered to the call and were gathered in by Floss.
Now the fun began and became very exciting as bird after bird was found and added to our rapidly-growing bag, until a few unaccountable misses on the part of Bernard and myself put a damper on our spirits.
However, when we counted the game and found eleven birds matters commenced to look bright again, and we hurried toward the prairie, resolved, as Bernard said, “to make things hot for each individual snipe in a circuit of five miles.”
As we went on, the high rolling ground covered with pine trees was left behind us and gradually gave place to swamps and stagnant pools of water. Here grew the stately palmetto trees, with their beautiful foliage and long slender trunks, giving a more pronounced tropical aspect to the scene, but causing us to look suspiciously around for snakes and other pleasant things peculiar to the greenish water covering our road, a foot or so deep in some places, and through which we were obliged to wade. All nature seemed hushed as our scarcely visible path led us deeper and deeper into the dense mass of luxuriant vegetation covering the swamp we were passing through.
Not a sign of life was visible here, the cheerful note of the meadow lark was no longer to be heard, and only an occasional glimpse of blue sky could be had through the moss and rank growth above our heads. Several times we narrowly missed losing the hardly discernible road, but we persevered and finally reached higher ground. Then the country became more open, the trees fewer, and at last we arrived at our destination—the prairie.
This stretch of open ground hardly deserved the name, not being at all like our Northern idea of a prairie; but the birds we were after were there in plenty, so we heartily echoed Bernard‘s remark about “ what’s in a name,” and gave ourselves completely up to the sport before us. This particular prairie was nearly a semicircle in shape, fairly level, somewhat wet and muddy land, covered in many places with long, coarse grass not any too green. Behind us and to the right and left this open space was in closed by a thick growth of palmetto, cypress and other trees, while in front, at a distance of nearly a mile, the St. John’s River marked the remaining boundary. This opening was entirely free from trees, except in its very centre, where, clustered closely together on a slight elevation, grew five unusually large palmettos, giving at a distance the effect of a tiny island in a sea of faded green. Scattered here and there could be seen small herds of the lean, gaunt cattle peculiar to Florida, and far away toward the river an occasional flight of ducks darkened the air, causing us to cast longing eyes in that direction.
Agreeing to meet at a certain place on the river’s bank for dinner, we each took a different course, but always tending in the same direction.
Carefully examining my gun and finding everything right, I set my face toward the river, expecting every moment to have a snipe rise up from under my very feet, as they sometimes have a trick of doing.
For fully ten minutes I tramped on without a sign of game, and began to think my luck had deserted me, or that I had not yet reached the right ground. As a slight addition to my pleasant feelings I could hear at frequent intervals to my right the boom, boom of my comrades’ shots, assuring me that they at least were finding something whereat to shoot.
Things were beginning to look blue for me, when suddenly a well-known “skeep” several yards to my left made every nerve tingle with excitement, and wheeling rapidly I barely caught a glimpse of flying wings before they were hid in the grass again, not over a dozen rods away. “ Steady ! old boy,” I said to myself, and resolving to keep a better lookout next time, slowly and carefully approached the spot I had marked with my eye. With eager, cautious step, bated breath and gun at full cock I crept along until with a whirl and a dart my snipe was a dark, zigzag streak in the air, but only for a second or so, for quickly raising my gun and taking hasty aim, I pulled the trigger, and the dark streak resolved itself into a pair of wings and a ludicrously long bill joined to a plump body that promised many a tender morsel.
With a happy, contented feeling I repressed an inclination to wave my hat and hurrah, and instead I slipped another cartridge in my gun and was then ready to proceed.
The ground I had now reached was just right for snipe, and they were fairly plentiful, but rather inclined to be wild at times; still I had no cause for com plaint; my bag was slowly but surely growing, though not quite in the same proportion that my cartridge belt became lighter.
And as the sun marked the hour of noon I kept on toward the river, visions of dinner and other luxuries arising be fore my eyes at every step. A ten-minutes’ walk brought me within a stone’s throw of the river, but here my progress seemed stopped by a mass of reeds and water stretching between me and the higher bank beyond.
After vainly looking for some kind of a ford, and seeing no way out of the difficulty but a very wet one, I started to wade across.
Considering all the circumstances, I made splendid time through the muddy water and at length reached dry ground, where I soon had a fire started and proceeded to dry myself, being wet nearly to the waist.
Mr. L. and Bernard had not yet put in an appearance, but it was not long before they reached the unpleasant-looking barrier between us. “ Hello, there! ” called out Bernard, “ where is the ferry ?”
Telling them to follow in my footsteps and to look out carefully for certain dangerous holes not down on the chart, after many growls and a prodigious amount of splashing they finally found themselves safely across.
The fire soon dried our wet clothes, and then selecting a shady place we quickly unpacked the necessities of life, with a goodly share of the luxuries as well.
What a glorious dinner we had that day! A hunter’s appetite is the best of all seasonings, and with jokes and happy laughter we did full justice to the good things before us, “ cleaning the board,” according to Bernard; but that idea has since seemed a little far fetched to me, for I am convinced there was not even a shingle to be found within five miles of the spot. Appetites being satisfied pipes were filled and lit, and reclining at our ease close by the river we puffed out clouds of soothing smoke, watching them rise in the warm, quiet air until lost to view among the palmetto leaves above our heads. The events of the morning were duly discussed; every successful shot had to be lived over again, when suddenly Floss set up a loud howl and made a dash for the water, causing us to spring to our feet and grab our guns in a hurry.
Standing on the very edge of the bank, barking with all her might, Floss fairly trembled with excitement, and was with difficulty restrained from jumping into the river. A commotion in the water, not eighteen inches from her nose, partly explained her queer actions; but at first we could not see the true cause of the excitement. Suddenly a reddish brown object appeared among the dark eddies, twisting and coiling in a ludicrous manner, and giving us a partial view of the largest snake we had ever seen. We did not dare risk a shot for fear of hitting Floss, and before she could be dragged a safe distance away the reptile had disappeared.
After waiting a short time for a possible reappearance of our slimy visitor, and firing several useless shots at a sleepy alligator on the opposite bank, we at last concluded to start for home. Keeping together and carefully looking out for chance tempters, we waded back to the prairie. The next half hour added several snipe to our bag, but time would not permit of further indulgence in the fascinating sport, for that day at least, so we reluctantly left the prairie behind us, and finding our road again journeyed back through the swamp lands to the dry ground beyond. Here we left the road, and making a short detour to the right soon reached a pretty little lake nestling among the pine trees and reflecting their stately trunks on its placid bosom. Many of these tiny ponds or “lakes ” are scattered all over Florida, and at certain sea sons hundreds of plover and an occasional snipe are to be found on the moist ground surrounding the water. Mr. L. and Bernard went one way and I the other, and we made the circuit of the lake.
Soon I heard my comrades banging away, and then caught sight of two plover flying across the water straight toward me; stooping down I awaited their approach with breathless interest, fearing they would swerve either to the right or left and pass out of gunshot. But as luck would have it they came within range and I brought down one bird with each barrel, making a very pretty double, to my own great satisfaction. I saw no more game that day; the sun was slowly sinking behind the pine tops, and hastily joining my companions we finally regained the road and tramped merrily along toward home.
An hour’s steady walking brought the cheerful lights of home within sight, and we were soon seated at a bountiful supper, to which we were able to do ample justice, in spite of feeling rather tired after our thirty miles’ tramp. Then, lighting cigars, we counted the game, and found that the result of our day’s sport consisted of eleven quail, thirty-nine snipe and five plover—a fair bag, considering that we were amateurs. No ducks had been shot, for we were unfortunate and did not succeed in getting near any on this particular day. The sleep we enjoyed that night was perfect, and the next day found us ready for another hunt.
Days and weeks flew quickly by, and the time for our departure came all too soon. I advise those who have never made the trip to Florida to do so by all means.
Nearly everyone takes a vacation in summer time. Why not change the programme a little for once and enjoy a few weeks of sunshine, with unlimited shooting and fishing thrown in, during the disagreeable Northern months of February and March? The expense is very slight, comparatively speaking.
Better quail and snipe shooting cannot be had anywhere, and ducks are plentiful all through the winter. Deer and wild turkeys are to be found in certain parts of the State, though they are rather scarce, except in the wild, unsettled regions; still, good sport can be had in this direction if one knows where to go for it. The fishing is excellent, and good, satisfactory catches are the reward of those who follow the gentle art in this favored land.
