On May 28th 2008 I posted an essay on the Bridle Path, the strip of sandy roadway that parallels South Roosevelt Boulevard across from Smathers Beach, and the path is still there:
And the city signage is still there promising hellfire and brimstone to any forlorn soul daring to park, camp, drink or anything else (including "tresspass," sic) along this scenic strip:
There was a time when tents popped up along the Bridle Path and people took to living in the mangroves, which prompted the city to declare the area, including the salt ponds behind the bushes, an area of critical environmental concern so they could force the campers off the land and restore South Roosevelt Boulevard to it's pristine state for motorists to enjoy an uninterrupted view of nature.
The unfortunate part of the story is that by prohibiting parking the city has discouraged people, vehicle dependent people, from stopping by and enjoying this natural wilderness.
So I decided to break the trend by dropping a couple of quarters in the meter, and with an hour's safe parking, I went for an explore.
Visitors tend to think that coconut palms are native to these islands but they aren't. They are well liked by many people because their traditional "palm of hand" shape denotes the exotic tropics and coconuts are wilderness survival food. But in fact sub tropical islands like the Keys and the Bahamian Out Islands are covered by scrubby little trees, torn bushes and mangroves. The buttonwoods and mangroves surrounding the salt ponds are typical of these limestone islands:
I have the greatest difficulty telling apart black or white mangroves and buttonwoods, which all look much of a muchness to my anti-botanist's eye. White mangroves have yellowy-green leaves and little salt glands supposedly, while black mangroves are easier to identify because they sprout needles out of the ground called pneumatophores like these which feed air to the roots!
While I started my walk by finding an elderly path through the bushes, I straightened up as I came into the more open canopy under the trees, and thought I was observing a dead man in an attitude of prayer: 
It was actually an empty, abandoned wet suit, and it was indicative of the general lack of care of the mangrove forest, for though there was a trash can on the Bridle Path humans seem to prefer to dump their trash:
It seemed an especial shame to see my favorite brand of beer bottle nestled in the leaves. For all the litter the salt ponds are a pretty spot once you work your way out of sight of the road. Naturally the sounds of traffic can be heard over it all, but it is remarkably rural:
The salt ponds are a remnant, even though they extend across a fair bit of acreage between the airport,
...and Key West By The Sea condos:
The salt ponds on other side of the island were filled in to make rail beds for Flagler's rail/ferry terminus at Trumbo Point. These ponds have suffered from being enclosed by development but the canal access across the island has been cleaned out in an effort to encourage tidal flow and the ponds themselves might well be a bird watcher's paradise, not that I would know. I just like the beauty:
It has been a particularly dry Spring with very little rain and lots of dry south east winds. All of which has helped keep the mosquito population down, and the mud flats dry. Soon it will be rainy season again and the mud will disappear underneath the rain waters. The view to the north is much the same, looking towards Government Road and the houses along the Riviera Canal beyond that:
I found a log to sit on, and get my feet out of the mud, which allowed me a happy ten minutes to admire the antics of the bait fish swarming in the shallows...
...which hard as I tried, only appeared in my camera as darting shadows:
The view across the water was delightful, far from the proverbial crowds:
A far cry from the bed races of Duval Street a mile away.
Charles and Duval is the intersection where one is most likely to find a police officer keeping an eye on the crowds during a busy night of drinking on the 200 block of Duval. I found a lady marching back and forth on a cell phone impeding my view:
She's standing at the corner of the gigantic block of Ricks/Durty Harry's, a complex that includes a warren of bars and the rather dubious Red Garter Saloon around the corner on Duval which also has an entrance on Charles Street:
Which if you're not allowed to take pictures, what's the point? The point is that women take their clothes off inside, supposedly fattening the wallet of one of the city's elected commissioners, in the traditional marriage of commerce and politics:
Looking at her staring down the camera you just know she harbors a lot of respect for her clients, a real barrel of laughs I'm sure. But times must be tough at the Red Garter and likely to get tougher if they don't take care of the dry rot:
And we have on the roof that other symbol of commercial licentiousness heavily promoted by the tourism people, a pirate:
It amuses me that the US Navy commander who drove the pirates out of the Old Bahama Channel, David Porter, was hounded out of 19th century Key West for being excessively uptight. People in this town like to dress up and they do like to associate pirates with Key West so that's why we see people dresewed in the supposed costumes of the pirates who never really existed in Key West. I guess they wouldn't get the same frisson if they dressed up like the stodgy Commodore Porter. Me? I too am a fuddy duddy and I like Dade pine and shady houses, rather than houses of ill repute:
And quite the mansion on Telegraph at Charles, even if the windows are boarded up:
Even though Charles Street has become a tawdry alley alongside the tawdriest strip of Duval you can see the downtown origins of what was Florida's wealthiest city a hundred and fifty years ago.
Key West was the best stopping off spot between the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic for shipping carrying commerce between Galveston or New Orleans and the Atlantic ports. Lots of money landed here, in the city that had the mildest and most comfortable climate in the peninsula. They built their mansions and imported furniture and waited for the next economic downturn which came and changed everything one more time. Nowadays it's tourism and up till now most visitors have been in the "mass tourism" niche. One has to wonder, as the economy contracts, if the marginal spenders will be squeezed out and we will see a more upscale Key West grow out of the current depressive recession? Will they want to eat lunch with their clothes off?
It's not an urge I have sought to fulfill so I couldn't possibly say if it's still open, and there weren't crowds apparent, trying to force their way in. I was much more interested in the new Yamaha 125 Zuma scooter of which this is the first example I've seen. Aggressive and macho like the extremely popular 50cc model, but quite a bit bigger. I sold my Zuma 50 after a couple of months as it lacked any kind of storage and the handling could best be described as "squirrely" on the big fat tires. The 125 looks good though:
Joseph Cohen, whoever he is could use a Zuma or equivalent as he has a rather limited parking area...
Charles Street, the lane with the patrician name and the less than patrician face on the world. You can't blame people for being disorganized when living spaces are cramped, but a trip to the dump is often worth the cost:
When you're here today and gone tomorrow, most likely, why bother? Permanence is a quality of the homes, those 19th century piles, not necessarily the occupants, whether they live there or simply dance around a pole.
There wasn't much there to recommend it, just dirt and mangroves:
Had I had the forethought to bring along my folding chair this would have been a fine spot to pause and check out passing boat traffic:
Or pick up some trash, though why anyone thinks an empty box of bait improves the nature of the place, I don't know:
So I tried to focus on the positive, and in my search I came across a stick, which juxtaposes the warped nihilism of nature with the geometric simplicity of the abandoned bait box. 
Then I saw the faintest trace of a trail through the bushes and I abandoned my artistic pursuits and got back to exploration.
I was wearing rather inadequate rubber shoes,highly suitable for walking the boat through the shallows- useless as snake protection. The reptiles were, happily, all in my imagination and the trail soon broke out onto a mysterious dirt roadway:
But then I saw a wooden board which had lost it's message but I'm ready to bet dollars to doughnuts it bore the classic Keys greeting: "No Trespassing!" so I withdrew, deciding as usual that discretion is the better part of valor.
Especially as I'm almost certain the road leads to the home of one reclusive homeowner with a commercial fishing boat docked close to Highway One. He's probably armed too, and all I had was my good looks. Besides it was hot. 
I would miss the Spottswoods, were they to leave. I doubt Keys Energy would reactivate the electricity on my street quite as promptly after a storm, if the Spottswoods weren't there to get the level of service they are entitled to. Noblesse oblige, I guess.
There is usually a whole mass of boats hunkered around the beach and as far as I can tell from my more peaceful perch it's a well behaved spot, drinking yes, but not crazy, no fights and at worst gruesome loud music which quite drowns out the peace of the natural backdrop. Yet a short distance away, upwind and in deeper waters one can still find protection from the prevailing southeasterly winds and hardly be disturbed by the party. On less windy days there are lots of private places to drop the hook...
...put up the dive flag and let out some anchor line...
...and go for a swim with nothing on the horizon to break up the view (in one's imagination) of the mountains of Cuba to the south. And in the fullness of time one returns home, a final ten minute leg in the skiff to the outdoor shower and a nap in the recliner on the dock, shaded by the mangroves:
There was a time I used to think I might like to try living in Alaska, but I'm too old and too tropical to put up with all that ruggedness. Besides I like to feel the evening air on my skin as I watch the setting sun across the salt flats, on those evenings when I'm not at work. This reminds me why I like to live well outside Key West itself, my own private Mallory Square:
Suburban living as it should be lived, rumpled bed and all.