The sky was cloudy, and I hoped it was a good day to go deep into Boca Chica Beach, a notoriously buggy place. 
We parked the car, Cheyenne and I alongside the only other vehicle currently at this most popular beach, a van whose occupant had the engine running and a laptop perched on his steering wheel. He nodded cheerfully as we stumped by and then my Labrador and I were alone in the beach wilderness.
I had plans this early morning (8 o'clock is early for a lot of people) and they involved walking as far as we could in ninety minutes before I had to drive in to Key West to meet my wife. The old road was torn up by Hurricane Wilma in 2005 but prior to that this stretch of asphalt was open to cars and it was much wider than the narrow strip still open to bikes and walkers. The ocean is unchanging if a little melodramatic this fine morning.
I had remembered to apply copious layers of insect repellent so I'm not sure if precautions were effective or if the threat of cool weather was enough to keep mosquitoes at bay.
Boca Chica is a strip of public land backed by the Boca Chica Naval Air Station which regularly flies jets off the runway here. They fly low and loud simulating aircraft carrier exercises, but the beach itself is open to public use, this side of the green hurricane fence. The power poles along here mark the old state road bed (not Highway One as some believe. The Old Overseas Highway used to pass through Boca Chica Base itself and a portion of it is still used as a second entrance gate). 
I have seen these "State Beach" signs for sale on Duval Street. 
There is no doubt however that people fling their clothes off with gay abandon around here, whether such activities are state sanctioned or not. Not, most likely, as Florida has a government that enjoys very much interfering with people's private passions. In the name of freedom, naturally.
We parked the car, Cheyenne and I alongside the only other vehicle currently at this most popular beach, a van whose occupant had the engine running and a laptop perched on his steering wheel. He nodded cheerfully as we stumped by and then my Labrador and I were alone in the beach wilderness.I had plans this early morning (8 o'clock is early for a lot of people) and they involved walking as far as we could in ninety minutes before I had to drive in to Key West to meet my wife. The old road was torn up by Hurricane Wilma in 2005 but prior to that this stretch of asphalt was open to cars and it was much wider than the narrow strip still open to bikes and walkers. The ocean is unchanging if a little melodramatic this fine morning.I had remembered to apply copious layers of insect repellent so I'm not sure if precautions were effective or if the threat of cool weather was enough to keep mosquitoes at bay.Boca Chica is a strip of public land backed by the Boca Chica Naval Air Station which regularly flies jets off the runway here. They fly low and loud simulating aircraft carrier exercises, but the beach itself is open to public use, this side of the green hurricane fence. The power poles along here mark the old state road bed (not Highway One as some believe. The Old Overseas Highway used to pass through Boca Chica Base itself and a portion of it is still used as a second entrance gate). 
I have seen these "State Beach" signs for sale on Duval Street. There is no doubt however that people fling their clothes off with gay abandon around here, whether such activities are state sanctioned or not. Not, most likely, as Florida has a government that enjoys very much interfering with people's private passions. In the name of freedom, naturally.Anyway, by the time you encounter a middle aged naked man (not me!) down here you will have been amply warned. Someone with too much time on their hands has been adding to the sole tree on the beach. A testament to the indestructible plastic pollution of our coastal waters:
This Cuban chug used to be further down the beach closer to the tide line but it has apparently been pushed up further onto dry land. It was quite a sophisticated home built escape vehicle, with a hull made of sheet metal bolted together sheathed in fiberglass to make it water tight. It has engine mounts inside and seemed to have canvas flotation rings around the top of the hull. It is also filling up with trash after long exposure to lazy passers by. The US Coastguard OK is supposed to indicate the boat has been inspected and accounted for as much as possible by the Coasties. Cubans are always floating over, or dying in the attempt, when the ocean is calm and the breezes die down.
Speaking of time on your hands there is a stone hut construction also on this beach and very elaborate it is too.
It has chambers and paths and decorations and everything. Crusoe would be at home here.
Further down the beach the way is obstructed by water, a pond spilling out into the ocean. Across the salt pond the eagle eyed guardian of Boca Chica Naval Air Station.
Hurricane storm surge has made a mess of the coastline here. It's what Nature tends to do, tearing up the dirt and making human access more complex. Someone has strung up a set of polyethylene rope between the trees to enable people to totter dry foot using rocks as stepping stones. Cheyenne and I, properly clad fear no water- my Crocs and Cheyenne's paws are amphibious.
A good spot to pause.
Someone left a copy of Conch Color magazine in this pleasant reading spot on a small chunk of waterfront sand, well shaded with a nice ocean view. 
Here is a surviving culvert from the old road. We had to get our calves wet to cross another outgoing stream of salt water to get to the next chunk of beach.
Another someone with a lot of time on their hands has been piling up rocks to create another causeway. They need to buy and wear waterproof Crocs instead.
More old road, more old power poles stretching to the horizon.
These rocks mark a divergence in the trail. To the left follow the beach picking your way through mangroves. To the right turn inland.
Quite a few years ago I brought a bicycle down here and rode to the end of the road. The road peters out at the end of the island, ending abruptly in the middle of the bushes as I recall at the spot where an old wooden bridge collapsed.
We were alone in the shrubbery, still drippy and wet from recent rains.
And, technically speaking, not completely alone:
I was surprised to come across this magnificence in the middle of the road. Later I spoke with Robert about this channel which allows the salt ponds to flush with the tides and he said it was built a couple of years ago. The steel plates looked quite new.
We stood on the bridge for a while watching the water flow under the road and then it was time to turn back toward the car. We walked briskly along in companionable silence cutting the return journey in half, and in less than thirty minutes we were back at the car.
This Cuban chug used to be further down the beach closer to the tide line but it has apparently been pushed up further onto dry land. It was quite a sophisticated home built escape vehicle, with a hull made of sheet metal bolted together sheathed in fiberglass to make it water tight. It has engine mounts inside and seemed to have canvas flotation rings around the top of the hull. It is also filling up with trash after long exposure to lazy passers by. The US Coastguard OK is supposed to indicate the boat has been inspected and accounted for as much as possible by the Coasties. Cubans are always floating over, or dying in the attempt, when the ocean is calm and the breezes die down.Speaking of time on your hands there is a stone hut construction also on this beach and very elaborate it is too.It has chambers and paths and decorations and everything. Crusoe would be at home here.Further down the beach the way is obstructed by water, a pond spilling out into the ocean. Across the salt pond the eagle eyed guardian of Boca Chica Naval Air Station.Hurricane storm surge has made a mess of the coastline here. It's what Nature tends to do, tearing up the dirt and making human access more complex. Someone has strung up a set of polyethylene rope between the trees to enable people to totter dry foot using rocks as stepping stones. Cheyenne and I, properly clad fear no water- my Crocs and Cheyenne's paws are amphibious.
A good spot to pause.
Someone left a copy of Conch Color magazine in this pleasant reading spot on a small chunk of waterfront sand, well shaded with a nice ocean view. 
Here is a surviving culvert from the old road. We had to get our calves wet to cross another outgoing stream of salt water to get to the next chunk of beach.
Another someone with a lot of time on their hands has been piling up rocks to create another causeway. They need to buy and wear waterproof Crocs instead.
More old road, more old power poles stretching to the horizon.
These rocks mark a divergence in the trail. To the left follow the beach picking your way through mangroves. To the right turn inland.
Quite a few years ago I brought a bicycle down here and rode to the end of the road. The road peters out at the end of the island, ending abruptly in the middle of the bushes as I recall at the spot where an old wooden bridge collapsed.
We were alone in the shrubbery, still drippy and wet from recent rains.And, technically speaking, not completely alone:
I was surprised to come across this magnificence in the middle of the road. Later I spoke with Robert about this channel which allows the salt ponds to flush with the tides and he said it was built a couple of years ago. The steel plates looked quite new.We stood on the bridge for a while watching the water flow under the road and then it was time to turn back toward the car. We walked briskly along in companionable silence cutting the return journey in half, and in less than thirty minutes we were back at the car. 
I forget who, jcba or Combustible Turnip or someone wanted pictures of Craig Key. Here they are, though I have no idea what it is all about. 
We are told this human built island was named for Roland Craig who bought the land from the Overseas Railway in the 1930s and made a fishing camp out of it. The claim to fame is that President Hoover came down to sail his yacht out of here presumably while failing to come to grips with the first Great Depression. There's a thought as we sail merrily through the Second Great Depression.
Craig Key lies at the southern boundary of Islamorada, a town that rejoices in the nickname of "Village of Islands." The unincorporated nature of Craig Key doesn't mean it lacks amenity. There is a splendid new bike path covering the splendid new sewer system. And there are two homes on the island.
The western-most home is much more visible enjoying as it does a thin screen of coconut trees which expose it's half finished state to anyone driving by.
While I find the location spectacular enough and the isolation for one of my disposition is highly desirable the noise from the highway would be incessant, particularly as the wind usually blows from the southeast, which puts these homes downwind of traffic... 
I know I am a fussy sod but one of my pleasures living three quarters of a mile south of the highway is the quiet, most of the year when snowbirds aren't walking and shouting in the street in the early morning. Around here there's lots of traffic.
The current building is a bit of an outhouse stuck on a small triangle of land in the middle of Stock Island. Well, the north middle really, across the street from the redoubtable Tom Thumb inconvenience store.
Just lately the County has been quite scandal free which is nice. That's not to say people aren't bitching about something or another all the time but on the whole things are ticking along nicely under the guidance of the improbable Roman Gastesi. The Administrator came from Up North to deal with the crazy politics of Monroe County and has managed amazingly well. They say he's even tempered and a good listener which is a nice change.
Anyway the county wants to renovate the Fire Station and they have been batting around a few ideas. The best idea it seems is to keep this central location and expand their plot of land by stretching across the street behind the current location.
The fire station completely fills it's small plot of land. This is a shot looking northwest up MacDonald Avenue towards Highway One.
The fire station has decidedly outlived it's allotted lifespan and accommodations are rather sub standard according to the paper.
Big development plans were in the works for the entire island with developers madly buying up large chunks of land. For a while there it looked as though the laboring classes were going to be losing their trailer parks but fortunately the Great Depression kicked in just in time. I guess it's an ill wind that blows no one any good.
I can't imagine having to hike to fill jugs with drinking water. Taking her picture I felt like Dorothea Lange. Life on Stock Island is rather more hard scrabble for a lot of residents than you might imagine. especially if you judge life in the Keys by the opulence of the Old Town mansions. Or the serenity of a Key West bicycle tour...
