There are times when friends want to walk their dogs with you, so you pile into their car and let them drive.
Being a passenger is novelty for me, and for Cheyenne the novelty is that as we travel she can get my attention.
Chuck and Wayne are practicing letting their Vizlas off the leash and this trail on No Name Key is isolated enough their dogs will be safe and will come back. They did. 
By February the southern reaches of No Name are dry enough to walk, and yield views south across the mangroves and the waters of Bogie Channel, the water that separates No Name from Big Pine Key.
Wayne. He was having a better time than appears in this picture. A fine figure of a man.
Dead trees.
I love the views from this part of No Name Key.
Wayne was fascinated by the dead car sitting and decomposing on the dried mud. 
Chuck watched with the patience of man not in a hurry.
How this Buick got here and why it was left here to fade away in the salt water and salt air we will probably never know. It looks, by the type of plastic to have been left here long after Alpha 66 was using this island to train for the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba.
Wayne was fascinated by the differential flaking apart in the semi-submerged marine environment.
When I pointed out that metals in this climate don't last nearly as long as we are told they will, Wayne told me to take a picture of a beer can rotting almost before our very eyes. Supposedly these cans will last for centuries when dumped; this one is rotting away even before the label fades. 
Tootie (or Zuzu, I can't tell them apart) started to urge more progress, so we left the scene of the wreck and plunged inland through the mangroves.
One last look at Bogie Channel and the Overseas Highway Bridge to West Summerland Key...
...and we were back in the shade of the trees. Chuck led the way, waving a stick to fend off the cobwebs built across the abandoned trail. "I feel like Cardinal Woolsey," he announced, one of those incongruous statements that make no sense in the middle of nowhere. He was comparing his stick to the crosier carried by Sam Neil, Cardinal Woolsey in the TV series The Tudors, and when I remembered that the homoerotic romps of half naked men has been a staple entertainment in their household the comment suddenly had context. I have started watching The Tudors on their recommendation and it is indeed splendid fun, a soap opera in costume with a vice for every taste.
Cheyenne's vice is mangrove water and now she is training the boys' dogs to do the same.
They however, did not seem to find the tannin infused waters of the mangrove swamp as appetizing as Cheyenne does. She will seek out these puddles and wallow in them and drink them and spurn my water bottle back at the car. And no, her peculiar habits cause her no gastrointestinal problems. Bryce wondered how bad she smells after her immersions. I have had swimming Labradors in the past and the trick is to use Head and Shoulders shampoo on their weekly baths. Then when the dog gets wet she smells not of wet dog but Head and Shoulders. I was told years ago that dandruff shampoo is really good for washing poison oak out of a dog's fur. And yes, I know that weekly baths are excessive but my dogs' coats look great with weekly shampooing. And form time to time she snags chocolate too... I have no idea how my dogs flourish with all the fears and phobias that are attached to modern dog ownership.
The ride back was fun for me, as I got the seat of honor so I could take pictures from the front seat of the anglers on the bridge.
It was a lovely day, brisk and breezy and sunny.
Not everyone was well wrapped up for the cool north breeze.
Even the Key Deer were out noshing. A fawn...
...and her mom.
They may not be naked babes but you can't accuse me of never being cute.
Being a passenger is novelty for me, and for Cheyenne the novelty is that as we travel she can get my attention.Chuck and Wayne are practicing letting their Vizlas off the leash and this trail on No Name Key is isolated enough their dogs will be safe and will come back. They did. By February the southern reaches of No Name are dry enough to walk, and yield views south across the mangroves and the waters of Bogie Channel, the water that separates No Name from Big Pine Key.Wayne. He was having a better time than appears in this picture. A fine figure of a man.Dead trees.
I love the views from this part of No Name Key.
Wayne was fascinated by the dead car sitting and decomposing on the dried mud. Chuck watched with the patience of man not in a hurry.How this Buick got here and why it was left here to fade away in the salt water and salt air we will probably never know. It looks, by the type of plastic to have been left here long after Alpha 66 was using this island to train for the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba.
Wayne was fascinated by the differential flaking apart in the semi-submerged marine environment.When I pointed out that metals in this climate don't last nearly as long as we are told they will, Wayne told me to take a picture of a beer can rotting almost before our very eyes. Supposedly these cans will last for centuries when dumped; this one is rotting away even before the label fades. Tootie (or Zuzu, I can't tell them apart) started to urge more progress, so we left the scene of the wreck and plunged inland through the mangroves.One last look at Bogie Channel and the Overseas Highway Bridge to West Summerland Key......and we were back in the shade of the trees. Chuck led the way, waving a stick to fend off the cobwebs built across the abandoned trail. "I feel like Cardinal Woolsey," he announced, one of those incongruous statements that make no sense in the middle of nowhere. He was comparing his stick to the crosier carried by Sam Neil, Cardinal Woolsey in the TV series The Tudors, and when I remembered that the homoerotic romps of half naked men has been a staple entertainment in their household the comment suddenly had context. I have started watching The Tudors on their recommendation and it is indeed splendid fun, a soap opera in costume with a vice for every taste.
Cheyenne's vice is mangrove water and now she is training the boys' dogs to do the same.They however, did not seem to find the tannin infused waters of the mangrove swamp as appetizing as Cheyenne does. She will seek out these puddles and wallow in them and drink them and spurn my water bottle back at the car. And no, her peculiar habits cause her no gastrointestinal problems. Bryce wondered how bad she smells after her immersions. I have had swimming Labradors in the past and the trick is to use Head and Shoulders shampoo on their weekly baths. Then when the dog gets wet she smells not of wet dog but Head and Shoulders. I was told years ago that dandruff shampoo is really good for washing poison oak out of a dog's fur. And yes, I know that weekly baths are excessive but my dogs' coats look great with weekly shampooing. And form time to time she snags chocolate too... I have no idea how my dogs flourish with all the fears and phobias that are attached to modern dog ownership.The ride back was fun for me, as I got the seat of honor so I could take pictures from the front seat of the anglers on the bridge.
It was a lovely day, brisk and breezy and sunny.
Not everyone was well wrapped up for the cool north breeze.Even the Key Deer were out noshing. A fawn......and her mom.They may not be naked babes but you can't accuse me of never being cute.
There's my bench looking north on Whitehead street to the courthouse itself and the Mile Marker Zero sign which marks the start of US Highway One in front of said courthouse. That and the Green Parrot attract tons of tourists for excellent people watching right here.
The fact is we seem to be enjoying a splendid winter of masses of people which is quite putting me off hanging around downtown, as is frequently the case for me. So in the interests of pissing off riepe let me show a picture of a visitor who is not nubile or even female.
Below are my favorite Keys colors, blue green and white.
And more of the same with some bougainvillea thrown in. 
Whoever decided to build a vertical roof was not doing anyone any aesthetic favors.
Whitehead Street looking north all the way.
I grumbled about the fence and got a comment saying people were ripping "souvenirs" from the place. The older I get the less able my fellow humans seem to be at acting polite in public. If I had to live in the city I'd like to have the cemetery for my neighbor. Not only is it pretty to look at but the inmates don't disturb.
Lots of people are afraid of cemeteries and dead people, an attitude I find rather odd. When I worked in town during the daytime I would frequently come into the cemetery, check the headstones which are packed with history and eat a picnic lunch among the dead. It is, I grant you, sentimental but were I dead and buried here I'd enjoy, if I had any sense of being, getting a break in the monotony with a visit from the living. As it is Angela Street runs along side wo with a dog, banned from the cemetery itself, I was limited to looking through the fence. I also noticed this old roadsign, the sign itself removed from the post. That was owing to a recent deicsion to reverse the one way traffic on this section of Angela Street.
I still have trouble remembering the correct order of one way streets in Bahama Village which were all changed a couple of years ago. Imagine how much of a struggle it is for me to remember this unexplained change as well. Traffic now travels inbound, westbound from Frances Street.
Half way down this block of Angela lies the little side street called Catholic Lane, because of it's proximity to the Catholic section of the cemetery across the fence (in death Key Westers apparently prefer to be sgregated by religion, as though God cares). Catholic Lane merits its own essay, of course and wouldn't you know it, that one is already in the bag: 
And just to brighten up the scenery I came across a Vespa similar to my wife's ET4.
Summer tourists flock to Veteran's Park on the south side of Highway One at the southern end of the Seven Mile Bridge because the waters are shallow and the wading or swimming is easy. This time of year in the wake of a cold front the waters are rather cool for swimming at dawn and Cheyenne and I had the place to ourselves. Three cars came and went in the hour we were there but none of the occupants got out, preferring to sit and admire the view through their windshields.
The tide was out and with a full moon coming up there was a fair bit of normally submerged beach exposed.
As the sun made it's way up the colors changed and I stood there entranced. 
Above, the spoil islands created by Flagler's dredging to build the Seven Mile Bridge. Below the view west past Veteran's Park.
I've always wanted to be twenty feet tall. It was not until I came to the US that I discovered that being 5'6" (168cms) is considered short. It's a useful height to be if one wants to live on a boat.
So, why do they call these red mangroves? Are the roots red enough?
It was a delightful morning.
I hoped he was enjoying the morning as much as I was. This weekend is my long weekend at work, Saturday night through Tuesday morning, so when the sun is at this angle this weekend, I'm asleep.