The “Okeehumkee.”--The Silver Springs.--The weird wonders of the
Ocklawaha.
A queer-looking stumpy boat yclept the “Okeehumkee” was waiting for us
at the head of the “Silver Springs.” The vessel was short and broad,
like a monstrous beetle with its legs cut off; it was made to fit and
float on the “Ocklawaha” river and nowhere else. We stepped first on to
a lower deck--crowded with coils of ropes and poles, and the
miscellaneous belongings of the queer little craft--which was occupied
by the engineers, stokers, and other stray hands, who helped to work the
vessel; there was a big boiler, and a little engine, and a tiny cupboard
of a kitchen, where operations for our mid-day meal were being
vigorously carried on.
Ascending a narrow flight of steps we are on the bow of the vessel--a
wide balcony which occupies the entire front; behind this, and entered
by two glass doors from the balcony is the saloon, bayfronted with
windows all round, comfortably furnished with sofas and easy chairs,
and two round tables. Opening from this again is a narrow passage
running through to the end of the boat, on each side of which is a row
of tiny cabins--about twelve in all, narrowing towards the stern. There
is what is called “accommodation” for a score or so of tourists. Foolish
people think they are fortunate if they can secure a “berth;” they don’t
know how much may be left of them in the morning. Mosquitoes are a
hungry race, and make a meal of the sleeper. He goes to bed fair and
well to look at; when he gets up in the morning he can scarcely
recognise his own face! Wise people sit up all night, and when they are
tired of the wonderful scenery (which is illuminated at night by huge
flaming pine logs which blaze from a great iron cauldron just above the
balcony) they doze in easy chairs, or roll themselves up like mummies
and sleep on the sofas. Some sit up on the balcony all night smoking,
and at intervals singing snatches of old songs, which fall pleasantly on
the drowsy ears of the sleepers.
I wonder if I can convey to any one an idea of the Ocklawaha river! It
can be compared with no other river that I have ever seen, heard, or
read of, and its fairest wonders are at our starting point, Silver
Springs. Looking forward I see nothing but a wide expanse of pale green
water. Our steamer gives a series of short asthmatic puffs, and we are
moving slowly over the surface of the Silver Springs--so slowly we are
scarcely conscious of any movement at all. We lean over the side of the
vessel, and look down upon a world of wonders; we can hardly believe
that it is really water we are passing through. It seems as though all
the jewels from all quarters of the globe had been gathered together and
melted down, and poured into the great earth hollow we are gliding over.
The spring is eighty feet deep, the water so clear that the sweet fairy
flowers at the bottom of it seem to lie close at hand; you feel as
though you could lean over and pluck one from the bed, which seems to be
formed of holes, arches, and deep crevasses of many-coloured rocks;
variegated blues and greens and greys, all amalgamating together,
beneath the soft rippling water, give it the many brilliant,
ever-changing hues, till we feel as though we were sailing through a
stream of liquid gems--opals and emeralds, amethysts and
sapphires--enough to make gorgeous the purple robes of all the kings of
all the earth. Submerged trees are standing tall and strong in this
watery world; long ribbon grasses are gracefully waving as though
stirred by the breath of some fair floating Undine, and starry white
flowers open their blue eyes dreamily as we glide slowly over their
silent home. Silver scaled fish dart in and out from among the tall
reeds and rocky islets, and infant turtles with their ugly awkward
little bodies propel themselves along; while thin, long-bladed fish
flash hither and thither like sharp swords wielded by invisible hands,
crossing and recrossing, parrying, and thrusting--coming within a
hairsbreadth, but never smiting.
Our wee craft is only too brief a time crossing this “pool of wonders;”
then we seem to be running straight into a wilderness--a veritable bit
of the forest primeval--where a tangle of dense “hammock” seems to stop
our watery way, but by a sudden turn our little vessel strikes an
opening and takes us out of the Silver Springs, and on to the river.
Thenceforth all the day long we are gliding through the sweetest,
loveliest water lane in all the world; winding in and out through
mysterious wooded wilds--crooked and full of sudden turns and odd
angles. We wonder how our queer little “Okeehumkee” finds her way along;
we fancy she must be jointed like an eel, or she could never wriggle her
way through this leafy labyrinth. Sometimes, indeed often, she runs her
snout against the shore, and the services of a huge black Titan, “Joe,”
are called into action; he jumps off the boat, and prods and pushes with
a long pole till we are off again. Sometimes the river ties itself into
a knot, but the little craft somehow threads her way through the loops
and bows, and comes out at the other end of it.
There are no banks on either side of this marvellous Ocklawaha river;
the water runs on a level with the shore. Dense masses of jungle and
wild forest lands sweep down and close it on either side with their
leafy embrace; so closely they clasp it, that often we cannot see a foot
of water on either side of us, and the branches of the fine old trees
reach their long arms across and interlock one with the other forming a
grand overarching avenue above our heads. It is so narrow here and there
that it seems as though by some strange magical process the green earth
had been liquefied purely for our accommodation in passing through, and
anon the stream spreads out like a shining silver mirror in the heart of
a jungle of overhanging trees.
Never was there such variety of scenery on a single river; it seems as
though Nature had gathered all her forces here just to show how much she
could do with her few favourite allies--the forest, rock, and stream.
The trees are marching with us side by side, executing strange
manœuvres as we pass along, nodding their proud heads, and waving
their blessing arms above us; now it is a regiment of tall pines, the
bright lances of sunlight glinting and flashing between their boughs;
then there is an awkward squad of scrub oaks, magnolias, and gums, lofty
palms and dwarf palmettoes, with long grasses and all kinds of brilliant
vegetation crowding about their roots, and luxuriant vines and shining
mistletoe clinging and climbing round their naked trunks, clothing them
with rich verdure, and lost at last in their leafy coronals. All the
glowing growth of the forest seems locked and interlocked together, as
though the sons of the wilderness were engaged in a wrestling match,
trying which could first uproot the other from the ancient soil. Now we
face a phalanx of veteran oaks, clothed utterly, and their green boughs
hidden, beneath mantles of beautiful Spanish moss; generally it is of
deep mourning grey, and hangs like a nun’s veil gently swayed by the
passing wind, then it is of a more silvery hue, but always down
drooping, as though the iron grey beards of millions of men had been
shorn off and flung thither in sport by some wandering wind.
Occasionally we come upon masses of strange and wonderful moss; it is
long, fibrous, and shining, and hangs in wavy tresses like the golden
hair of a woman, as though some sweet Ophelia had been floating down the
river, and the envious branches, determined that _all_ should not be
lost, stooped downwards, caught and tangled her glistening tresses,
while the tide bore the fair form slowly on and the soft breeze still
murmurs mournfully “drowned, drowned, drowned.”
Here and there the scene widens, and half-a-dozen little fussy tributary
streams hurry out from their mysterious depths to join the quiet
Ocklawaha in its dreamy flow, and we push our way for a while through an
extensive watery plain, where reeds and grasses, and fair white lilies,
twine their delicate fibres together and try to stop our progress; but
we break through the pretty network as though it were a spider’s web,
and puff our ruthless way out of it. Now there are a flight of small,
bright-plumaged birds, with the heron in pursuit, or a volley of
long-necked cranes shoot with their discordant cry across our path, and
an elderly stork, judging from the length of his legs, stands at a safe
distance and watches us from the shore.
We glance up half-a-dozen narrow water lanes, take a sudden turn, and
plunge again into the wilderness. A great ugly alligator, who has been
sunning himself on a fallen tree trunk, lifts his horny eyelids
stupidly, and lazily slips under the water as we come puffing along. We
are constantly coming upon these revolting creatures in the most
unexpected places. Sometimes their leaden eyes simply stare, or they
open their spiky mouths, as though they would like to swallow us, and
don’t stir. Familiarity breeds contempt. I suppose they have got so used
to having their privacy invaded by our odd little steamer that they
conclude it is only a friendly monster like themselves, and won’t do
them any harm. Time was when the “bang, bang” of the sportsman’s gun
went echoing through these solitudes; but now tourists are forbidden to
shoot alligators or any other thing from the decks of the Ocklawaha
boats.
Sometimes we catch sight of a huge black snake wriggling its way up from
the water and through the long grass till it vanishes from our sight;
for it is here in these luxuriant and mysterious wilds that Nature hides
the most hideous of her progeny. Creeping things and poisonous reptiles,
that we shudder to think of, have their homes in these brilliant and
luxuriant solitudes--the secret haunts of all-bountiful Nature, where
man will not dare to penetrate. Or if he does he is seized by the foul
fever-fiend, malaria, and faints and falls in the slimy swamps, with a
creation of loathsome nameless things for his death companions.
We make our way through a coil of green and are again in the narrow
mazes of the mazy stream. Here and there at long intervals we pass a
solitary landing-place, which leads by mule-tracks to some sort of
civilisation far in the interior. Nobody gets off the vessel, nobody
comes aboard. I don’t believe anybody ever does. Why should they, unless
they wanted to establish relations with the friendly alligators, study
their lives and write their biographies, or be lost in the wilderness?
Now we come to a tall pine with a tiny red box impaled upon its trunk,
bearing the inscription _U. S. A. Mail_; this is the post office for the
convenience of people passing up and down the river. We are the mail,
but there are no letters for us to-day.
Presently we pass a dilapidated log-hut; its owner, a long-limbed
stalwart-looking negro, lounges in the doorway smoking his pipe. He
comes down to the boat and receives a hamper of provisions and a bundle
of tobacco. He gives us in exchange a bundle of the “vanilla plant”--a
weedy growth on the low-lying grounds of the Ocklawaha, and it is
largely used to adulterate the cheap chewing tobacco. It is gathered in
great quantities by the natives, who derive a very good revenue from the
business. Soon there is a general stir, a buzz goes round, everybody
crowds to the bow of the boat on the look out for the wonderful “Cypress
Gate,” through which we shall soon be passing. Two tall straight cypress
trees loom upon our sight; they stand one on each side of the river like
lofty Grecian columns supporting a leafy dome above our heads, and
framing the earth and sky beyond. So narrow is this natural gateway,
that as our little boat glides through it is within an inch of the land
on either side.
At one o’clock precisely the dinner is served. The cosy little saloon is
transformed into a commodious dining-room; the small round tables are
drawn out and covered with a snowy cloth and shining glass and silver,
while a goodly array of appetising things are set thereon. There are
fowls and cutlets, pure and simple, crisp salads, a variety of
vegetables, and such a dessert! Such delicious puddings and pies, tarts
and _compotes_, quite an _embarras de richesses_ indeed! One wonders
how so many gastronomic delights can be conjured out of our very limited
surroundings. There are no wines to be obtained on board; those who wish
to indulge in those luxuries must supply themselves. Our comforts are
well looked after; at six o’clock the tables are again spread with cold
meats, ham and eggs, and tea and coffee.
As soon as possible we are out on the balcony again; and for all the
long day we glide through this tropical wonderland, some new fantastic
beauty flashing upon us at every turn. Now the foliage is so dense that
the gleams of sunlight lose themselves in the luxuriant mass, and try in
vain to reach us; looking upwards we see a narrow strip of sky, like a
band of ribbon, intensely blue, lacing the tall tree tops together
overhead. Then the shores widen out, and the marshy land is covered with
broad-bladed grass; the wild savannahs and forests are driven back, and
a lofty pine stands solitary in a lonely place like an advance-guard
thrown out from an army of green. Again we are plunged in a tangled
wilderness where cypress, pine, and palm, swarm down upon us and again
line the banks of the river, and multitudes of strange forms dazzle our
eyes and bewilder our imagination. It is growing dusky, and wild weird
shapes float out of the depths and fill our minds with strange fancies.
The whole forest seems marching to some wild tune which the wind is
playing; the long, vine-wreathed branches twine and sway and circle and
swing in the twilight, like a troop of dancing girls, new born from
their silent depths, their white arms flashing and curving, while the
soft silver moss falls like a veil, hiding their laughing faces. They
come out from the gloom like a phantasmagoria of living beauty down to
the water’s edge; then they fade, mingle with earth, air, and sky, and
we are in the wilderness again.
The night is closing in; there is no moon, but the small bright stars
are trembling like heavenly fruit scattered over the dusky skies, and
earth and river and forest blend together in one black mystery. There is
nothing left of our most perfect day but its memory; it has quite faded
away--lost, swallowed up in the dark wilderness behind us.
Some of our fellow passengers retire to the saloon as soon as the
daylight fades, and stand with their noses flattened against the saloon
window to see what follows. A scanty few of us, wrapped in shawls and
cloaks (for it has grown chilly, even cold), gather upon the balcony,
and watch for the illumination that is to come; and now a general
exchange of civilities begins. One brings out a supply of quinine and
administers small doses all round; another luxuriates in a constant
shower of toilet vinegar; one walks up and down like a polar bear,
diving now and then into the depths of his coat pockets, and produces
lozenges, or sticky somethings that are a “sure antidote for
malaria”--for we are in the very heart of its dominions, there is no
doubt about that. The sunlight keeps the foul fiend down, hidden away
beneath the rich, rank luxuriance that delights the eye with its tangled
brilliance; but so soon as the sun goes down it rises, an invisible
ghost, and mingles subtly with the air we breathe, and attacks us from
our weakest points. Therefore we arm ourselves against it, and drench
ourselves with antidotes, inside and out. One gentleman, whose sole
object in life seems to be the nursing of his own infirmities, appears
like a wild Indian clothed in his cabin blankets, with his nose buried
in a huge bottle of camphorated spirits. I believe it is tied on like a
horse-bag.
Soon the huge pine knots are lighted on the top of the pilot house above
our heads, and a brilliant flame flares out upon the night and, for a
moment, every tree, every leaf, is clearly defined, like a bas-relief
flung out from a world of darkness. The blaze flickers and flashes and
fades, and, for a moment, we glide through leafy obscurity, which seems
to have grown darker from the light that has departed. In silent majesty
the grand old forest is gliding past us with muffled steps and hidden
features--a shrouded army, marching through the silent night. Then,
again, our pine fire lights up the skies, and illuminates the
surrounding scenery with flashes of red and green and blue and yellow;
then all commingling fade into one white glare; frightened birds are
scared from their secret nests, and flutter, with melancholy cries, for
a second above our heads, and then are swallowed up in the darkness. Now
the blue flame flashes up to the great tree tops, then darts downward
like a fiery serpent, and up some narrow winding water lane, and, for a
second, a thousand weird forms float before our eyes, and change and
fade and melt into nothingness. The negroes passing to and fro upon the
lower deck, their black faces and shining eyes illumined by the red
glare, look like gnomes or demons labouring in their enchanted fires.
Through these mysterious lights and shadows, ever changing, ever
varying, now suggesting veiled apparitions from another world, now
bathed in the glory of this, we pass till long after midnight, when we
are out of the labyrinth of the Ocklawaha, and back in the broad stream
of the St. John’s river. Several of us are sitting up on deck with our
baggage, ready to be transferred to the St. John’s river boat, which we
expect every moment to meet. Presently, out of the dense black, a silver
glare of light looms slowly on our sight. It is the electric lamp of the
expected steamer. Nearer and nearer looms the dim giant hulk of the big
vessel. We signal three shrill shrieks, “Will you stop and take
passengers aboard?” They signal back three demoniacal yells, “Yes.”
She comes alongside and stops. We speedily transfer ourselves from the
“Okeehumkee” to one of the splendid “De Bary” line of steamers which ply
up and down the St. John’s river. Many people make their arrangements so
as to sleep at Palatka, and take the St. John’s river boat from that,
its starting place early in the morning; but to us it was a great saving
of time to meet it on its way. There are two ways of enjoying the
Ocklawaha river excursion: one is to take the boat at Palatka, which
starts at eight o’clock in the morning, and reaches Silver Springs about
seven o’clock on the next. It remains there about two hours, in order
that its passengers may, if they please, take a row boat--there are
plenty there for hire--and row about the spring, making a closer
inspection of its wonders than they could possibly do from the deck of
the steamer. It starts again on its return journey about nine o’clock,
and reaches Palatka in the small hours of the following morning; but the
sleeping passengers are not disturbed, except by their own desire, till
the usual hour of rising. The return down the river, as the tide is with
them, takes some hours less time than the upward journey. Some people
prefer spending the two days and nights on the boat, as, by this means,
they have a daylight view of every feature of the river. The other way
is to follow our example: sleep at Ocala, and take the return journey
only. Ocala has every possibility of developing into an important place;
as yet it is new, but it is improving day by day. A large hotel is
building close to the railway station, which promises well for future
tourists.
As we exchange parting civilities with our travelling companions on
leaving the Ocklawaha boat, they lean over the rails, waving their
handkerchiefs, and wishing us “Good night,” and “_Bon voyage_.” They
puff on their way, illuminating the widening waters as they go. We watch
the dear little “Okeehumkee” puff itself out of sight; then enter the
large luxurious saloon, which is empty now and dimly lighted. Everybody
has retired to rest, not a sound is stirring any where, and the thick
carpet smothers our footsteps as we follow our dusky guide to our
cabins, which are really charming little rooms with large, comfortable
beds. Worn out with the excitements of our long, delightful day, we are
soon wrapped in a dreamless sleep.