by Bill H Myers
Off to our right, the emerald green waters were dotted with small islands, many with white, sandy beaches. Pleasure boats cruised between the islands, while live aboard sail boats anchored just off shore. The view on our left was of the darker blue waters of the Atlantic extending out to the horizon.
As we crossed the Seven Mile Bridge just outside Marathon, I heard Lori say, “Wow, look at that view!”
Looking into my rear view mirror, I could see her sitting on the couch holding her phone near the window snapping off photos. After each one she'd say something like, “That was a good one,” or, “Wait until Polly sees this one.”
I could tell she was getting more and more excited as we got closer to Key West. It was different with Buck. He didn't have his phone out and didn't take any pictures. He seemed a little sad about how much had changed since the last time he'd been in the area.
When we went through Key Largo, he had said, “I spent a month here once. We were shooting a movie and the crew set up tents and trailers in an old fish camp.
“We'd get up every day before sunrise and if the weather was right, we'd shoot scenes until the light went away. Then we'd come back to the camp and play cards until just before sunset. Then we'd go back and shoot the evening scenes.
“The mosquitoes were so bad at night we'd build fires to smoke them out. In the morning, we'd wake up smelling like smoke and still be covered with mosquito bites.
“Most of the crew didn't have access to showers because there wasn't much fresh water. The water had to be trucked in every day and it was too valuable to waste. Only the lead roles got to take showers. The rest of the crew had to wash up in the gulf if they wanted to get clean.
“Just about everyone working on the movie smelled like wood smoke and sweat. But no one complained. We were making movies. It'd be different today.”
After he told me this, he was quiet for a while. He may have been thinking about what it was like when he was a movie star. Back then he was living in a mansion. Now he was living in a trailer park, a long way away from Hollywood.
It looked to me like he was pretty happy with the way things turned out. He had his health, his friends, his beloved Polly, and his memories.
As we continued on toward Key West, Buck would occasionally point to a place and share something about its background or history. His stories were interesting and I wished I had a way to record them. He probably wouldn't want me to, but I think they'd have made a great book.
We were making good time and it looked like we'd hit Key West around four. Lori was still on the couch shooting the occasional photo, but she was getting restless. It had been three hours since we last stopped and we all needed a break.
We had just crossed over Big Pine Key when Buck said, “When we get to mile marker fifteen, I want you to pull over. There'll be a road on your right I want you to take.”
Chapter Sixteen
We were about a mile away from mile marker fifteen when Buck said, “Slow down, we're almost there. It's a small road. You're going too fast, you're going to miss it.”
I eased off the gas and let the motorhome coast. Behind us, a newish Camaro was riding our bumper. The road ahead was narrow and there wasn't much of a shoulder for me to pull over onto. I still hadn't seen the road Buck wanted me to take, but needed to let traffic behind me know what I was planning to do. I hit my right turn signal and watched as the cars behind backed off.
Traffic was building up behind us and I still hadn't seen the turn Buck wanted me to take. It'd been a long time since Buck had been down this road; maybe the turn was no longer there. I was just about to give up on it when Buck said, “It's just ahead. Turn now.”
Up ahead on my right, I saw a narrow road. I hit the brakes to burn off some of the speed we were carrying and when we reached the road, I pulled over onto it. As soon as we were completely off the highway, I brought the motorhome to a full stop. I turned to Buck. “Are you sure we should go down this road in the motorhome?”
He nodded. “Shouldn't be a problem. It was okay the last time I was here.”
I should have asked him how long ago that had been. It was a mistake not to.
From behind me, Lori asked, “What are we doing? Why are we stopping? We're not there yet.”
Buck smiled. “There's something I want you to see at the end of this road. If Walker will get this thing going, we'll be there in less than three minutes.”
The road in front of us was only paved for the first three hundred yards. After that, it turned to a mixture of sand and shells. It was one lane and narrow, just barely wide enough for the motorhome to get through. If we met a car, one of us would have to back up. As it turned out, meeting a car on the road was the least of our worries.
The motorhome weighed seven tons. Taking it off road was never a good idea. On a track like the one Buck had gotten us on, where the pavement stopped and the dirt took over, the tires could sink into the sand and we'd be stuck. It would take a pretty good sized tow truck to get us out.
Even if we didn't get stuck, the sea shells covering the road presented another problem. Hit one just right and it could puncture a tire. Even if we had a spare, there was no way we could jack up the motorhome and change a tire by ourselves. The motorhome weighed six tons. The tire and wheel weighed over a hundred pounds.
Neither Buck nor Lori concerned themselves about this. They were just along for the ride. To them, the motorhome was simply transportation. An oversized car with a toilet and a place to sleep in the back.
But for me, the motorhome was my home. It was where I lived. It was the roof over my head at night. If something happened to it, I'd be homeless.
Still, Buck said we should drive to the end of the road. He said it wouldn't be a problem for the motorhome. Since we were already committed, I put the motorhome in gear and headed down the road.
Wary of the deep ruts on each side of the road, I steered toward the center and kept our speed to just above a crawl. I wanted to be able to stop quickly if I had to. Out of nervousness, I asked Buck, “Is there going to be a place to turn around at the end?”
He nodded. “There was the last time I was here. But that was thirty years ago. Things could have changed a lot since then.”
Thirty years? I wish he would have told me that earlier, before we'd committed to going down that road. The GPS on the dash apparently agreed. It kept saying, “Turn around. Wrong way.”
I was thinking the GPS was probably right. We should turn around. But it was too late. The road was too narrow. Not enough room to turn the big motorhome around.
So we kept going.
A mile in, the road narrowed even more and curved to the right. I couldn't see what was beyond the curve and it didn't help when Buck said, “I don't remember it being like this.”
His sudden uncertainty worried me. It'd been his idea to drive the road and if he wasn't sure about it anymore, neither was I. Mango Bob seemed to agree. He had left his bed in the back and came up front to join us. His repeated meows showed his concern.
Bob wasn't sure where we were or where we were going, but he didn't like the bumps or bounces that had disturbed his sleep. He continued to voice his concern until Buck patted his lap and said, “Up here, Bob.”
He recognized the invitation and jumped up into Buck's lap. He put his front paws on the dash and watched the road ahead. I looked over at him and said, “Bob, you be the lookout. If you see anything dangerous, let me know.”
He replied, “Murrrph.” It all looked dangerous to him.
Just beyond the curve, Buck pointed and said, “There it is.”
In front of us stood a black tower about forty feet tall and built entirely of wood. It looked to be an old observation tower of some sort, except there were no stairs leading up to the top.
It was supported by four narrow legs set on concrete blocks. The sides above the legs were covered in black shutters. It looked like a church steeple had grown legs and settled down on that spot of ground. But th
ere was no church nearby.
The road we had come in on circled around the tower. The part of the circle behind the tower was overgrown with grass and appeared to have deep ruts. Off to the side of the road just to the right of the tower was a bare patch of sand. Buck pointed to it and said, “Pull over there and park.”
I wasn't sure whether the motorhome would sink in the sand or not. If it did, we'd be stuck. But it was too late to worry about that. We'd already gone too far. I pulled over onto the bare patch and my stomach dropped as I felt the tires sink in. Fortunately, they didn't sink far. Something solid below the sand supported us.
Lori had her phone out, snapping photos of the tower. She asked Buck, “What is that thing?”
He smiled. “I told you it would be worth seeing. Let's get out and take a closer look.”
Bob jumped down off of Buck's lap and headed to the back. Apparently he'd decided to let us inspect the tower without him. As soon as Bob was out of the way, Lori opened the side door and stepped outside. Buck followed.
I grabbed the motorhome keys and my phone and went out after them. Instead of following as they walked over to the tower, I checked the tires and then our surroundings.
The tires had sunk about two inches into the sand but didn't appear to be sinking any further. That was the good news. The bad news was we were at the end of a dirt road, surrounded on all sides by dense tropical undergrowth. There were no homes nearby, no cars, no signs of civilization except for the strange tower. Its blackness stood in stark contrast to the deep blue of the Florida sky behind it.
I pulled out my phone and snapped off a photo. I wanted to have something to prove the tower actually existed. After getting the photo, I walked over and joined Buck and Lori. Buck heard me coming and said, “So what do you think?”
I shrugged. “I don't know. What is it? Why is it here?”
Buck pointed to it. “It's the Bat Tower. Built in the 1920's by a man named Perky. He was trying to sell land around here, but he had a problem. This area was mostly swamp back then and the mosquitoes were real bad. When potential buyers came to look at the properties Perky was trying to sell, the mosquitoes would swarm them. Most would flee the biting mosquitoes before Perky could give his sales pitch.
“Perky knew he had to do something about the mosquitoes. He had read about how bat towers were used in Europe to control flying insects. He figured one might work here, so he had one built. This is it.”
Lori looked at the tower then back at Buck. “Did it work? Did it get rid of the mosquitoes?”
Buck shook his head. “No, but it didn't matter. Right after the tower was built the stock market crashed. Perky went bankrupt and lost everything. The state now owns the land the tower sits on.
“It's amazing that more than a hundred years after it was built, the bat tower still stands. It's survived hurricanes, tropical storms, and greedy developers.”
Lori was still curious. “Did it attract bats?”
Buck shook his head again. “No, Lori. It didn't attract bats. But in the 1950's it did attract a lot of teenage kids like me who lived nearby. We'd come over here on Friday nights, drink beer, listen to music and talk about girls.
“I'm surprised it's still here. Surprised it didn't get burned down or blown away.”
We stayed another ten minutes walking around the tower taking pictures, wondering how something built of wood more than a hundred years ago could survive, especially in the Florida Keys.
While Buck and Lori talked about the tower, I walked the path that circled it. It was overgrown and looked like it had been driven on recently. The sandy soil was well packed. I was pretty sure it would hold the weight of the motorhome. It had to, because driving the circle was the only way out.
As we walked away from the tower, Lori turned to Buck. “I can't believe I've never heard about this place. We were taught a lot about Florida mosquitoes in veterinary school, but they never said anything about bat towers and they sure didn't tell us about this one.”
Buck smiled. “It's probably a good thing they don't talk about this much. The fewer people who know about it the better. If too many learn about it, it won't be long before it's covered with graffiti or some idiot uses it for firewood.”
Chapter Seventeen
We brushed the sand off our feet before we got back in the motorhome. We couldn't get it all the sand off but enough to make a difference. Inside, Lori settled in on the couch and Buck sat up front in the passenger seat.
I started the motor, put it in gear and steered toward the path around the tower. About halfway around I felt the front tires sink into the sand. Rather than stop, I gave it a little gas and let the dual rear tires push us through. I held my breath until we'd made it all the way around.
After driving the circle, the narrow shell road leading back to the highway didn't look nearly as treacherous as it had on the way it. Still, I took it slow, steering to the center, trying to avoid potholes while watching for oncoming cars.
When we reached the highway, southbound traffic was heavy. There was no way for us to squeeze in, especially in a motorhome. While waiting for a lull in traffic, I checked the GPS. It showed we were just nine miles from Uncle Leo's. We'd be there soon.
Traffic finally cleared and I pulled out onto the highway and headed toward Key West. A mile ahead the road turned to four lanes and we were soon in what looked like the industrial side of town. Liquor stores, tattoo parlors, a tire shop, and used car lots. Not exactly what I expected to see in paradise, but I suppose every town needs those kinds of places.
I had hoped we'd be camping in more of the Key Westy part of town, not the industrial side, but the GPS had a different plan. It said we needed to turn left three hundred yards ahead at the stop light.
The light was red when we got to it so I coasted to a stop and checked out what was nearby. A Mexican restaurant on our left, next to it a T-shirt shop and a sandal factory. If we got a craving for tacos, T-shirts or flip-flops we'd be covered.
When the light turned green, I hung a left and followed the GPS. It took us through a neighborhood of small, old homes and to a sign reading, “Uncle Leo's RV Park.”
I pulled into the park's entrance and stopped at what looked like the office, a small, white, concrete block building. Before going in, I asked Lori, “Whose name are the reservations in?”
“Yours. Just go in and tell them you're here.”
Inside the campground office, a mature woman was sitting behind the counter. She stood and smiled when I walked in. “Welcome to Uncle Leo's. You checking in?”
“Yes ma'am, I am. Name's Walker.”
She entered my name into her computer and said, “I've got you right here. You'll be in the back, in number seven, one of our best sites. You towing anything?”
“No ma'am.”
“Good. That'll make it easier. All our sites are back in. Will you need any help?”
“No ma'am. I'll be fine.”
“Good. But if you need help, let me know. We don't mind helping.”
I nodded. “I'll keep that in mind, but I'm pretty good at backing in.”
She handed me a map. “I've circled your site. To get to it, go down lane B and turn left at the end and stop. Your site will be behind you. Just back into it. Number seven is painted on the post beside it.”
She looked at her computer screen then, using a magic marker, wrote a few numbers on a yellow card. “Your reservations are through Friday. Check out time is eleven. Put this card on your dash so we know you've checked in. If you leave the park, be sure to keep the card with you. If you have a dog, keep him leashed while in the park. Any questions?”
I shook my head.
“Then you're all set. If anything comes up, we'll be here in the office until eight. After that, you can reach us by phone. The number is on the map.
“One more thing. We don't allow drugs in the park. No loud motorcycles or loud music either. If your neighbors complain, we'll ask you to leave.”
&
nbsp; I nodded. “Sounds reasonable. But you won't have to worry about us. We're pretty quiet.”
She smiled and sat back down in her chair. I went out to the motorhome and climbed in. Lori had changed places with Buck and was now in the passenger seat. Buck had moved to the couch and was talking on his phone.
I handed Lori the map. “Our site is in the back. The lady said to go down this road, turn left at the end and look for number seven. We're supposed to back in. She said the sites are tight and I might need your help guiding me in.”
Lori nodded. “You get us back there and I'll guide you in.”
I put the motorhome in gear and we headed back. The drive was short and we quickly found number seven. Compared to the other sites we had passed on our way in, seven looked to be one of the best. Most of the others had no landscaping, but seven did. Palm trees on both sides and a bougainvillea bush at the back. The palms would provide shade and the bougainvillea would give us some privacy.
I pulled past the site, put the motorhome in reverse and carefully backed in. A white plastic fence behind the bougainvillea marked the boundary between Uncle Leo's and the residential neighborhood behind. I used the branches of the bougainvillea to judge how far I could back. When the branches touched the motorhome, I stopped and put it in park.
With the motor still running, I asked Lori to go back and hold Bob while I ran the slide room out. I didn't want him getting hurt while the slide was in motion. When Lori gave me the OK, I pushed the button and ran the slide out. It moved the couch back and opened up a lot more floor space. With the slide out, the place was starting to feel like home.
I went back up front and killed the motor. I pulled down the window blinds and unfolded the large silver-backed sun shade and used them to cover the windshield. I then went outside and connected up to shore power and city water. When I came back in, Lori was in the passenger seat talking to someone on the phone. Probably Polly.
Buck had ended his call and nodded at me. A nod that said, “We made it.”
