New month, new leg of the journey - "The Redneck Riviera"! Also known as "The Emerald Coast" or "The Forgotten Coast", but we're going with the Redneck Riviera.
First stop, Apalachicola. For the oysters.
"Apalachicola Bay produces 90 % of Florida’s oysters and 10% of the nationwide supply. Over 2.6 million pounds of oyster meat is harvested annually. Most of the oyster beds are harvested by hand, making the industry sustainable and non-polluting. Apalachicola Bay oysters have a reputation among chefs across the US as being some of the finest tasting oysters available. They hold their flavor after cooking and are prized for their plump, meaty texture, mellow flavor and balanced salt content. They have a refreshing seaweed aroma and a deeply cupped shell. "
They were just like they say, meaty and very mellow. Nicole had about four dozen over the two and a half days there, and while she usually likes her oysters "dirty", brinier, she had to admit that they were plump and satisfying, and with just the right amount of lemon and horseradish, pretty darn good.
We arrived late into town on the first night, and went straight to Boss Oyster. We walked in at 7:45 pm, and they told us that we would have to order quick, kitchen closes at 8:00. (What is it with early curfews here in Florida?). Nicole had her oysters, and mom had an overly stuffing filled crab cake. During the next round of drinks at Gibson Inn, we chatted with a private airplane pilot from North Carolina who told us, "Oh no, don't have the crab down here. They just don't know how to make it. Oysters, yes. Scallops, yes. Shrimp, yes. Don't order the crab." (And sure enough, Mom got suckered in to ordering Crab Au gratin the next night, and it was pure cheese, no crab.)
We met and chatted with the locals at the Gibson Inn. One of them, an environmentalist's wife, had hitched a ride back on the wagon after 30 days sober, and entertained the whole crowd. The bartender was an adorable, slightly flighty, older woman named Betsy. With a tender far off look in her eyes, Betsy told us that we should make sure to check out the Bald Eagle's nest on 11th St, between Ave B & C. (We found it on 12th St, between Ave C & D). She also told us that it was a real miracle that the oil from the BP spill didn't reach Apalachicola Bay, since 95% of creatures in the Gulf come there to reproduce. (It's actually that, 'Over 95% of all species harvested commercially and 85% of all species harvested recreationally in the open Gulf have to spend a portion of their life in estuarine waters. Blue crabs, for example, migrate as much as 300 miles to spawn in Apalachicola Bay.').
Then, Betsy told us about Tate's Hell. The story is that Tate went into the Sumatra forests, North of the Bay, with his four hunting dogs. They crossed paths with a black bear, who killed all the dogs, and sent Tate fleeing through the forest. Apparently, inside the forest, everything looks the same. After two days of wandering, he was bit by a cottonmouth viper, just above the knee. Some locals found Tate, two weeks later, just a mile from the Bay, half dead and delirious. In response to all their questions, the only thing that he could say was, "My name is Tate, and I've been through Hell". He lived, but lost his leg.
So, after a morning of driving around St George's island, we saw the sign for Tate's Hell, and drove on in. It was a dirt road, but clearly a road. We drove in, scanning for wildlife. And kept driving, and kept driving. By the time the road started to turn into a path, we decided that we should probably turn around. But, by the time that the path turned into a soft, sand path, there was absolutely no where to turn around. Mary Lou just kept saying, "Whatever happens, don't stop. Just keep moving through the sand, no matter what." Nicole's phone wasn't picking up enough signal to give us a satellite map, so we decided to press forward, instead of backing the RV up the whole way. It must come out somewhere, right? It may have, but, around the next curve was an overflow river flowing over the road/path. We backed up some time before we found the remnants of another connecting path, and spent fifteen minutes doing a 35 point turn, wheels spinning in the soft sand, before pointing back in the right direction. Mary Lou was the one outside, braving the bears and the vipers to navigate. You could tell that she was really stressed, because she didn't even take a photo of the whole experience.
We made it out, just in time for sunset. If we hadn't made it out, we would have spent the night out there in Tate's Hell, as the winter storm blowing across most of the country, sucked up the moisture from the Gulf and triggered tornado warnings across the country. Luckily, we got to watch the storm blow in over the Bay from the safety of our RV park.
Soundtrack:
Born on the Bayou - CCR
Bad, Bad Leroy Brown - Jim Croche
No comments:
Post a Comment