You'd think that if the road is called Blimp Road there is a reason for it, and so there is. That's because the Air Force spends 32 million dollars a year flying blimps from a base at the northern end of the road. They used to have two until a hurricane wrecked them, one sent propaganda TV signals to Havana, who promptly squelched them. The other blimp known locally as Fat Albert has equipment on board supposedly to help intercept aircraft and boats approaching south Florida. Its a big white balloon pointing in the direction of the breeze. When its more than breezy they lower Fat Albert to one of the nose cones on the ground until the wind dies down again.
They launch the blimp on the end of a very long piece of string and it can be seen from miles around lollygagging in the sky. 
Aside from the dump and the blimp Blimp Road is also home to a ramp where people can launch boats or simply hang out and fish. Its pretty handy for small craft like kayaks but the ramp isn't very long and it doesn't seem to go very deep, for my taste and I imagine it might be all too easy to launch your car if you got it wrong.There was some kind of old fogey kayaking event going on when I stopped by yesterday afternoon so I kept the hellish machine (which has standard factory exhausts I might note) away from the nature loving paddlers. In summer this is a great spot to be alone with the sounds of wavelets splashing on the ramp.On my way back down Blimp Road, trying to keep to a sedate 30 miles per hour (fat chance!) I had to stop and contemplate the magical vastness of an island that isn't really that big. Cudjoe Key (pronounced as it is written in English: Cud-joe) is mostly mangroves and the low greenery is a bit desert-like inasmuch as the lack of perspective makes it look like a much bigger island than it really is.
Then one returns to reality and there is the Cudjoe Pocket Park at Valencia road opposite the entrance to the dump. 
It's kind of weird as parks go, kindly provided by Keys Energy our publicly owned utility company (I like it that my electric bill doesn't go to pay shareholders) and though it is equipped with a bike rack (!), a sign, and an artistic rock there is nowhere to sit. The grass is nice and lush which would make this a good spot for a picnic as lawns are in short supply in the Keys.The funny thing was that by stopping at the park I opened the door to an entire little world I had previously not imagined existed. Valencia Road was graded (my tax dollars at work? or is it really a "private" road as the street sign insisted?).
It was a glorious afternoon, low humidity, breezy and sunny, a continuation of the absolutley perfect weather we have been enjoying lately. The thermometer on the Bonneville recorded the fact for me, and I guess 92 degrees should feel hot but for my thin blood this was just as it should be:
Valencia Road wound its way back into a subdivision that was tucked out of sight, a criss crossing of dirt roads lined with palms and shrubs of various kinds. There are no canals back here so these homes would be considered "dry lots' in the local lingo but they are quite delightful for all that they aren't boat accessible.
I worked my way back along the lanes and found myself in another world. Aside from the purring of my Bonneville the place was silent, no dogs, no squawking kids no aircraft overhead, nothing. I found my way to the end of Valencia, where the street was closed by a fenced area and beyond was an old geezer walking his dog. He turned to look at me and I waved but he just stared icily back. It was perfect, a place less friendly than my own neighborhood!
I found my way to Spain Road and somewhere near there I came across a couple of horse paddocks. Now, I've never viewed the Keys as the place to come if you fancy riding horses but there they are, happy as clams.
My sisters loved to ride in their youth, and though they still keep horses, because they live in the country, they don't ride any more. Beats me, but thats how it is. I've always preferred horsepower to horses and here I am still riding. I may have imagined it but the nag seemed to be a little envious of my steed, loose on the backroads outside their stockade.
There was more than one barricaded animal in the subdivision, practically every home warned of fearsome canines within, beware of this dog and that on every fence until I came across a dog of a different breed:
Bad snakes? Thats what it says and no I didn't stop to investigate. And no, I have no idea why the first line is in English and the snake warning is in Spanish. As I am frequently moved to explain, asking "why" isn't cool in these islands. Things just are. Like iguanas:
Iguanas drive gardeners crazy down here. They aren't indigenous as for the most part they are pets that have been released and survive pretty well in the climate. They tend to seize up during cold fronts but mostly they plod around looking solemn and eating everyone's flower beds. Some people apparently don't mind the iguanas, I count myself among them, but I haven't put up a sign to that effect.No neighborhood in the Keys would be complete without this:
This house is at most half a mile from the dump; a $5 trip lasting perhaps 15 minutes and this excresence would be gone. But no, there it sits decomposing gently in the lush greenery of the neighborhood, a blight for all to enjoy. If I lived here I'd be hitching up my trailer and counting my pennies for the dump fee!
This magnificent manufactured home structure, complete with gingerbread fretwork is another example of the snowbird style of living. Apparently unoccupied like so many homes in the Lower Keys sitting there waiting for heaven knows what. An occupant perhaps? A happy grateful-to-be-here occupant? And one who perhaps would like to get rid of the gruesome hurricane fencing, but I'm pretty sure I'm overthinking this.
I came back out on Blimp Road on the other street, the one behind the pocket park and I think it's name is supposed to maintain the Spanish thread of the subdivision.
Or at least it would if the County's Public Works department could spell. I think its meant to be Asturias Road, but whats a vowel between neighbors?
Back out on Blimp Road and there is nothing between me and Highway One half a mile away except a short burst of speed to clear the dirt road from my tires. Except, whoa what's this? If I'm out exploring how can I pass by an elderly crane that pokes its snout over the hedge. I've seen this thing a dozen times as I pass on Blimp Road and today is the day I'm here to check it out. Not least the osprey nest lurking at the top of the machinery.
There's a decomposing truck next to the crane, as though one was loading the other next to what appears to be a water filled quarry of some sort. It's all terribly bucolic now the engines are reduced to rust.
And then I hear a madly revving engine across the pond, a red truck appears in a cloud of dust and ducks behind a pile of gravel. Harder and louder the engine revs and the red truck appears closer than ever. I put my camera up and the truck spins out in a spectacular cloud of dust that my feeble picture only manages to hint at: 
The driver pulls alongside, a young kid looking worried. "I'm not doing any harm," he says defensively. I start laughing which breaks the ice. Ron is 23 years old and he grew up in the Keys. "I've seen everything there is to see and I've done everything there is to do, " he says gloomily lamenting the lack of variety in his corner of this huge and variegated country. I sympathize, telling him when I was his age I visited key West and left in a hurry bound for the exciting opportunities awaiting me in California. "Its just a way to let off steam," he says of his rough riding around the quarry. He complains that the deputies come out at night and try to put a stop to it. "We're not doing drugs," he adds, making what I think is a reasonable case for some off street fun. This encounter is typical of young people in the Keys; I find them generally to be polite thoughtful and well mannered in total defiance of the preferred model of sullen bad mannered youth reported elsewhere in the country. I wish Ron well and he takes off after letting me know of another secret spot nearby worth exploring. 
When my wife and I lived in Santa Cruz, California we expected our friends would be NPR listeners, which letters in the Reaganite 1980's were often taken to mean Nicaragua Public Radio. Public funding has shrunk since then, and corporate sponsorship has kept a more middle-of-the-road NPR flourishing, which has in turn rendered it less appealing to a listener like me who wantsNPR to be a different voice in a media broadcasting world of blandness and sameness and ownership by the powerful. Oh well!
I used to work at an NPR affiliate and I submitted a number of reports to the network during the 1980's and once the thrill of hearing my name go national wore off I was left feeling bored by the formula, by the editing, by the sense that what was of value was only understood by the newsroom in Washington, not where I lived in Fruitcake, California. I stopped trying to please my masters in the network and retreated to making a nuisance of myself in local news and then, tired of the trivialization of news, I quit what my buddy, NPR newscaster Frank Stasio used to call "show biz." I am a happier man for it. Frank Deford has been heard on NPR every week since 1980 and he's still going strong. He has the longevity that confers greatness. As Woody Allen says 80 percent of success is showing up. 
Deford's talk was centered around his new sports novel called "The Entitled," exploring the role and meaning of the "sports superstar" in our world. Jay Alcazar is a young Cuban-American baseball player overseen by a tired second rate player called Howie who now manages the Chicago White Sox. The book apparently opens with a possible date rape by Alcazar, possibly witnessed by Howie and the plot thickens from there, which was as much as Deford told us, inbetween reading excerpts from the book. He did say much of the action takes place in Cuba a country he has visited twice and is apparently where his plot ends up.
Deford also told of a day when sports players and writers were invited to the Clinton White House for a reception. Deford told his wife he was sure Clinton would recognize him, as the President was a sports fan and Deford had just written a glowing piece about an Arkansas player. As luck would have it the president remained blank when the Marine Officer announced Mr and Mrs Frank Deford, much to his chagrin, but he added with a twinkle, Mrs Clinton interrupted his introduction to gush how his voice woke her every Wednesday morning. "So how are you voting?" asked a voice in the bowels of the Tropic auditorium. "Oh," said Deford, "I always vote for my listeners," to howls of laughter. "But," he allowed,"the other guy is okay too."
Deford had some comments about free agency and how football television royalties are evenly split between teams, stuff I could barely grasp. He allowed as the Paris Open in June was among his favorite events, but he doesn't like soccer except the World Cup when seen live in a European city. he answered my question about NPR with his famous line that his most devoted fans aren't into sports at all, which brought another round of applause from the packed theater. he made a point about baseball that struck home with me. He said baseball is a great sport because unlike all other games baseball allows time for reflection, for commentary, for discussion between pitches. And I have surprised my wife a few times by seeking out the night time AM frequencies on a car trip to listen to some distant baseball game as I drive. 
In closing Deford suggested sports are important to use because they bind the country together in a way that other activities fail signally to do, he also said to loud laughter that sports allow men to argue which is important for them to do. And he made another of those interesting points that keep me listening to him on Wednesday mornings; he said sports unlike any other art form are thje place where the popular and the quality are allowed to rise to the top. He compared good teams to great movies, so rarely recognized at say, the Oscars, or where the best music isn't necessarily heard on radio playlists. In sports he said you have an art form where the best is always the most popular. Deford is a sports commentator alone in a crowded profession. How many writers do you hear use the term sui generis when speaking of a player? Deford is sui generis among sports comentators.
He was of course mobbed by the old biddy snowbirds on his way out but he kindly stopped for my flash and I caught his bemusement at his popularity in this little resort town. Key West I think cherishes its brushes with interesting people because, for such a distant little town it gets the attention of people worth listening to, but they don't stay so you have to catch them while you can. And we do.
Even today there are boats wandering around their anchors in the ebb and flow of the tides in Cow Key Channel and these aren't boats that actually move. They become, over time, elaborate Ali Baba palaces on the water. I look out from the solidity of land, astride my Bonneville and I don't envy them.
As commutes go this bearded water rat doubtless prefers his cormorant neighbors to busy land dwellers among whom he navigates his bicycle locked to a palm tree on South Roosevelt awaiting his return shoreside. I've spent too many nights bouncing around at anchor, too many nights standing at the dinghy dock in the rain listening to the dismal pop-pop-pop of my idling outboard ready to take me to my watery home, to want to do it again.
My home is only 770 square feet in size, larger by far than my 20-foot boat, my 30-foot boat and twice as large as my final floating home which I sold a few years ago. 
Out here on my darkened street I see the stars overhead as crisp and as clear as I did anchored out. I pause my Bonneville on a bridge to take in the watery views, as beautiful as ever they were from the thwart of my dinghy. Beyond the simple convenience of life ashore, which I pay for in the form of a mortgage I like being anchored for a change, in one place with one view, unchanging whichever way the wind blows. Its a sensation new enough it creeps up on me still every single day. I don't regret letting my commercial Coastguard Master's License lapse. I live and work ashore now, a new phase in my evolving life.
I spared a thought for the tourists flying past Fort Zachary under their silk canopy as I got in gear and I headed south to Rest Beach to finish up my lunch break at my favorite bench. And even there I found another active water player buzzing back and forth, like a bluebottle stuck behind a pane of glass.
The winds were stronger and the waters were frothy piling into the corner formed by White Street Pier. Key West gets so active in winter I am surprised frequently by how many people take to the water at the coldest time of year. I miss my skiff but I'm not going swimming for a few months more. Less than 80 degree water temperature and I leave the salt water to the hardy types from Up North. On the other hand Raul outpolled Fidel last week in the Cuban elections. I wonder how much longer the embargo will last? 
I ought to go back and see if they are still there, waiting, in a state of suspended animation.
I left the store wondering what is it exactly that parents are teaching their children? And who is going to be trained to be my cardiologist when I am approaching my death bed? Apparently of gynecologists there will at least be no shortage, and I suppose it would be better were I to be less startled and more accepting of this state of affairs.
Back then, the fort was actually much more like its bigger counterpart called Fort Jefferson, some 70 miles west of Key West, because Fort Zachary was also built out on the water yet connected to the main island by a very long wooden causeway. Nowadays we are used to the fact that Fort Zachary is surrounded by dirt, even if it is only fill, lumpy rocky dredged materials from the harbor bottom mostly, that have been built up and around the fort itself. That expanse of weedy lawn is all rubble, added long after the Fort sprouted here.
Fort Zachary became home to a company of Union artillery at the outbreak of the Civil War and when Tallahassee seceded, the officer in charge, a Captain James Brannan surreptitiously marched his 44 artillerymen across from the town barracks to the Fort and they locked themselves inside the building and kept the flag flying for the Union. That was it for Key West and the city, despite some Bubba grumblings (notably the still extant Bethel family), they stayed with the Union for the rest of the conflict, helping support the blockade of the Confederacy. 
However its Rodman smooth bore canon never were fired in anger and today they lie around looking good and adding to the ambiance. As do their balls, as it were:
Fort Zachary forms part of the State Parks system and there is a fee charged at the entrance, which is why I have an annual pass, I like coming down that much. Sunsets are beautiful here illuminating all the components of the Fort no matter how obscure their purpose, like this fixed pulley with no ropes attached:
And the buildings themselves glow, as with pride while the dying sun slips them into darkness:
Visitors get the run of the place, nominally till 5pm but if its just a matter of climbing the steep stairs to view the sun plunge into the straits of Florida that's what these walls are ideal for:
Visitors can wander the parade ground and imagine themselves in here in the Spring enjoying a concert under the stars, perhaps. Most likely not as freezing cold as it was for the wife and I, last time we tried that about a year ago. It was great fun despite the bone numbing cold of the north wind whistling across the infernal parade ground! We huddled under inadequate blankets and listened to Arturo Sandoval blow his heart, and his cheeks, out right here:
In the distance one can spot the sterility of Sunset Key isolated across the harbor, another new arrival, much newer than Fort Zach, in the town of Key West. These days the Fort provides a breath of fresh air for city dwellers who can wander the grounds at will in perfect safety and enjoy the paths that loop mysteriously giving the place the air of being larger than it is, a necessary attribute for a park on a small island-within-an-island:
And in between the trees and the shrubbery the park service with an impish sense of humor allowed some pirates to take root, rejoicing over their booty, just outside the walls and the moat of the old Fort. Clearly someone got the Black Spot!
The Fort's walls are impressively thick and no doubt in the era before rifled cannon would have done a fine job. The moat too, but as it is the defenses now make the place look gorgeous in the dying light of the sub-tropical day:
Outside the fort's domain the 21st century intrudes with sunset cruises, ferries and private pleasure boats rushing back and forth across the entrance to the harbor, under the watchful eye of an iron statue on the ramparts, as well as a couple of tourists.
And eventually a ranger comes by in his golf cart as the sun starts to truly disappear, to remind us that in "ten minutes" the park will be closing, and reluctantly we pile into the car (we have friends visiting and the motorcycle is on hiatus for the weekend: dreary but necessary), and we leave behind a place silent and dark and cold enough to house the Prisoner of Zenda, or a man or two in an Iron Mask:
This is your friendly neighborhood Fort, a place to meander and meditate, to bring a picnic, or a bottle of wine as Key Westers would in defiance of all and any rules, to sit and to think, or not to think at all and just to enjoy. What a great place to be a kid again, Fort Zachary Taylor, far and away the best, most imaginative place to spend an evening's sunset in Key West.