An old road, barely more than a track that runs through the mangroves is meat and drink to me, a mouse for a mouser, the source of the Nile for Speake and Burton. I had to go see what was what. Trash was to be my portion, my reward for my curiosity:
In addition to carpeting, vehicle interiors, wheels and tires, garden ornaments and bed springs there was about abandoned in the bushes, lying on it's side in a most undignified manner:
Someone with a can of spray paint had taken the time to describe in some graphic detail how much better he was at certain acts than any woman could possibly be. It was left to me, not one to ignore a challenging thought, to wonder how lonely this Summerland man must be, to find himself just 25 miles from the fleshpots of Key West and reduced to this to get attention:
I give him points for creativity, I daresay I have never seen anything quite so "artistic" done with grout, but I have to wonder at the sanity of a man who wanders out into the mangroves to express himself so forcefully, in so lonely and despairing a manner. Happily there were barricades to deeper penetration into the woods as it were, by this lonely wielder of grouting mixture:
The trail wound it's way under a leaden sky, a muddy rocky trail underfoot and an unpromising sky overhead, full of gray foreboding:
Taken on foot the trail seemed long, but it's probably a half mile, easily ridden on a bicycle to a deep square pool of what appears to be freshwater, possibly an old quarry. The building in the distance sits alongside Highway One:
There were signs of trash all the way:
Until I turned a corner and came across the treasure trove!
This looked like an innocent wonderland to me, a place that would have ignited the imagination of a 13 year old me. I parked the bicycle and took a stroll:
The parental cry of frustration that rings across the Keys is that there is nothing for children to do in these islands. I have no children, I rejoice in that newly minted status described as "Child Free" yet in my memory I keep the seeds of a very active outdoor childhood. This collection of unused concrete pipes would have served me very well 38 years ago.
Upon my arrival at home in Italy from my English boarding school Diego and I (in the stylish hat) would have broken loose from the grip of his parents and my older sisters and we would have made slingshots for ourselves out of Y-shaped tree branches, bicycle inner tubes and patches of leather begged from the local shoe maker.
And we would have run through this splendid array of trash turning it into a wonderland worthy of the multi-colored plastic Ronald MacDonald. It even has its own enemy dirigible (the very innocent Fat Albert checking for intruders in the Straits of Florida):
I must be bacterium resistant after spending so much of my youth running around most unsanitary places. We had a blast. I was however alone on Summerland Key that afternoon free to wander and wonder. I have no doubt someone will be able to identify this reeking lump of rust:
Or this old trailer, I wonder how and why it found it's way out here to dissolve slowly into a pile of rust alongside a load of roofing tiles:
Of course I had to climb up and enjoy the view from atop the rusty heap. I may be 51 years old but I still feel some sort of kinship with the little boy pictured above. The view across the mangroves was hardly startling:
There was more artwork to admire among the ruined fort of my imagination:
While I was amusing myself taking pictures and enjoying the view someone was sneaking up on me. He turned tail and scooted as soon as I spotted him. Perhaps he was the author of the rude scribblings I found earlier. Or perhaps, even more titillating, he thought I was the author the doodles and he turned tail through the bushes to escape my horrid intent.
I made my way back through the trash to the start of this little adventure:
But when I looked up the street and spotted his broad brimmed hat the last I saw was the mystery cyclist pedaling hard to get away from the weird dude photographing rubbish.
Even the trash piled up in people's yards.
Jim took me on a fabulous tour of Boca Chica which is the largest military facility in the Lower Keys. They train huge numbers of fighter pilots there with the most up to date facilities and it was a tremendous privilege to get to ride the Bonneville around the base. Things being the way they are photos aren't allowed, but I retain fond memories of Bombfarm Road, Old Highway One running through the middle of the base, the much lusted after bowling alley (the only one in the Keys!) and of course the astonishing main runway, a place whose size makes Key West "International" look very rural indeed. Thanks to Jim and his very flash V-Star for an excellent ride. 
I'm not sure which trees exactly are slated for destruction, perhaps all of the non natives, because the debate about their worthyness has returned to that intractable desire to maintain forests wherever they may be of native plantings only. And despite every tourist's ardent desire, coconut palms, among others, are not natives. Just as at Fort Zachary where casuarinas were the issue, supporters of palm trees argue their beauty outweighs their non native status:
Unlike Fort Zachary's pines which were spared after years of arduous debate, it looks as though the palms are going to be cut down. Perhaps it's their fate, but there is to be a discussion about this on Wednesday in the city commission and perhaps they will reveal which trees exactly are slated for destruction :
As I made clear in my essay on the cemetery, I like the palms, but these days what do I know? 
There is a house in the Lower Keys built after Hurricane Wilma flooded the islands, that developed a personal response to hurricane threats. It seems like a nice idea but horribly expensive.
It's a bit hard to photograph as the greenery is abundant and the front gate not very welcoming, and I am not one to go trespassing for the sake of a picture. The owner of this newly built home decided the vehicle was worth saving in the event there might be another flood. So the garage was built up in the air on the same level as the house:
I've pondered this idea a bit and though it isn't practical for me, lacking as I do the lot size or the money to build it, I wonder who exactly it is practical for. After all for a regular vehicle, even a Bonneville (gasp!) it makes more economic sense to replace the wheels than to pay to build an elevated garage with all the costs involved.
Parking one's car 15 feet above ground level (4.5meters) may have more to do with sentiment than hard headed economic sense. Me? I try to rent a ground level storage locker when a hurricane threatens for a modest $200 a month and put my machines there for good or ill...Good, so far. 
There is a canal alongside Highway One in this neighborhood that accommodates more of the commercial type boats and less of the recreational:
I'm not sure if this fisherman is tired of the lifestyle or unable to make a decent living but he has turned to selling the tools of his trade as ornaments:
It struck me as sad. 
But across the Overseas Highway, chicken done right is still going gangbusters:
I read a comment a while back that someone actually tried my recommendation and liked the fried chicken. I was quite surprised. This one is at Mile Marker 25, at the Mobil gas station ($2.11 for a gallon of regular). 
So much for getting my zincs and spark plugs here... Hurricane season is also a reminder that pretty soon the waters will be warm enough for swimming so I want my skiff ready to launch in a couple of months. Boyz N Their Toyz was all boarded up, boats on trailers for sale, everything despondent and abandoned:
Well I guess they hadn't been open that long and in this economic climate it's the longer established businesses that tend to hold on (sez I rationalising magnificently). However this company has been around for a while:
I'd like to think it's just the land up for sale but it doesn't look that way. And the space between those two businesses is also available:
Come on down the weather's lovely!
The good life, at least for the dog.
Peter 
On the whole the plot was daffy but plausible enough. Neither the "device" nor the traitor who sold it played much of a role in the plot which was really a vehicle to explore friendship and the 
Driving home in the Nissan before dawn Thursday I had to pull over to fumble with the unfamiliar heater controls in the car. I accidentally fired up the air conditioner and I couldn't remember how to turn that off and replace it with necessary heat. The last time we used it was last December in North Carolina, but my wife was in charge of heat on the road trip and it took me a moment to figure out how to warm up the car (push the knob to the red. Doh!). The outside temperature gauge read 46 degrees Fahrenheit which is less than 8 degrees in new money. That is cold when you are used to 80 degrees/27C. 
The good news, when I awoke six hours later and crawled out from under a heap of every blanket we own, was that there was sunshine. That same cloudless sky that allowed all the warmth to drift up into the stratosphere was making for a glorious, bright winter day. One pair of socks was not enough so I pulled another pair on top of that and contemplated heading out in the brisk north wind. The outside temperature gauge under the house read 58 degrees (14C) and it didn't even feel that warm. Nevertheless I wheeled the bicycle out and decided I had to make an effort. Besides, sitting at the computer reading about wonky economics and unhappy people worldwide wasn't doing my mood any good. I rode north to the pool.
Even in winter, when the water temperature is 70 degrees, there are some fruitcakes that come out and sit on the rock hard "beach" and take swims in the little salt tidal inlet that constitutes the "park." Aside from a trash can and and a gravel open space "parking lot" there are no amenities here which suits me (and lots of others) just fine. I have to confess I am losing my faith in the will of our leaders to do anything radical about our economic woes and the continued news of bankers and their poxy proxies continuing to line their pockets at our expense fills me with rage and a bicycle ride is a fine antidote to the wilful inability of our new president to follow through and bring a new economic attitude to our nation's capital. I shouldn't be surprised, he got donations from the same skanky investors who always pay to get their candidates into office, the ones who enjoyed a 150 million dollar inaugural party. The pool was looking delightfully unattended in the brisk afternoon sun:
I'm figuring that as time goes by and we print money to fund a stimulus that will do nothing more than patch the gaping holes of an economy in endless decline we will all have to find our own amusements, after we have gone through the tedious business of completing all the chores we will need to do to stay alive. In that respect I plan to take advantage of living on the water and enjoying the views and hell, perhaps even learning how to fish and fillet. It's all in the attitude I guess, so I will enjoy it all.
It's hard to maintain a grumbly attitude on a day like this, especially knowing that decent people in British Columbia are getting snow and fog and general nasty dampness. Plus we have a new head of the CIA who is decidedly opposed to torture and now with Associate Justice Ginsburg revealing, as it were, a very nasty cancer, perhaps the President will show us his ability to appoint a new attitude on the Supreme Court. There's no doubt his economic advisers want more of the same wasteful spending of our money, and it irks me mightily to see that. But the sun is out: 
Perhaps a gigantic financial meltdown really is the only way to get re-started, though I cannot begin to imagine the pain we shall be forced to endure, not only here but across the world where people have a lot less than us to start with. Perhaps on second thoughts they, who have less of an entitlement attitude will do better than we shall. Perhaps, on third thoughts, not: especially when their meager rations get cut even more to feed our political demand for this ridiculous ethanol.
Ah yes, Thursday was a glorious day in the Keys. My wife said she loved me before she left for work, I'm not even missing the Triumph as it's so bloody cold and my job for now seems secure even as the city mandates no overtime and tries to figure a way to enforce such a rule when public safety is at stake. Who knows, perhaps I'm wrong and President Obama will carefully and subtly put a collar on the financial shenanigans and for once my gloomy prognostications about politicians in general and some in particular won't be borne out. The anti mosquito canals filled with water in the thunderstorm we had earlier in the week. No sign of the mosquito eating fish though:
I had left overs for lunch, and burned not a drop of ethanol to get these pictures. I hope their immoral bonuses choke them, I'm having a "no dollar day" off work.
Carsten Lane is become a bitter disappointment to me. First it used to have a messed up name and it was impossible to tell if it was supposed to be Carsten, or in the plural Carstens because the signs at William and Margaret Streets couldn't agree. Nowadays they seem to agree on the singular. Very boring:
We still have it listed in our computer aided dispatch as Carstens, long may it stay in confusion. Worse than that is the fact they have cleaned up the back of the old Harris School and now the lane is wide open to the northwest and any air of dark and forest-like mystery has been lost to efficiency:
I mentioned the Harris School in a previous essay (30 November 2008) and it seems no one wants to buy the building, nor the huge chunk of land it sits on so here it is, all cleared and ready for unbridled development. Meanwhile Carsten(s) Lane is no longer a shady jungle of growth, overpowered by the building that used to be occupied by the MARC House.Now its just a one sided alley, but at least it's only the middle piece. The opening off William Street still retains some of that closed in look I am so fond of:
And the overgrown bit still curves wildly as it always has:
Of course there is still a chance that you can rent a house, rent a bicycle and enjoy looking out without missing a thing:
Then there are the attempts at beautification which looks really nice, all symmetrical and tidy and stuff and in the middle of it there is one of those bizarre signs. I wonder why anyone imagines that some dolt who lets their dog crap all over a flowerbed is going to be put off by a vivid little sign:
Besides the sign spoils the effect, but there we are. These signs are all over the place because too many people who walk their dogs, and there are tons of them in Key West, don't pick up after them. I swore after my last dog died I wasn't picking up after anybody's dog ever again, I had bagged tons of the stuff over the years. Twelve years of that is enough and I don't envy people like this lady shown below walking a large, doubtless productive, animal, though I'm sure she was amply armed with plastic bags:
There are better maintained homes on Carstens Lane too,
And there are the castles in the air, with all their different living levels,
And there are projects jealously guarded:
Margaret Street leads away past the ravaged Harris school block which is wide open on that side too:
But taken at a slightly different angle things really don't look so bad, especially if there is a Bonneville in the foreground:
It was a gray afternoon, overcast and promising rain, which never materialized, so I looked up from where I was standing contemplating change and how annoying it is:
Very apocalyptic I'm sure but it's just a photographic illusion.