3/27/2005
Dawn breaks, the bike is still in the parking lot and unmolested (something that I never take for granted and why I always try to park it where it’s visible), and it’s time for me to do something that I seldom do: get rolling early. Boots are still wet (they were to remain wet for another full week – it had rained that incredibly hard on Friday) but there’s not much that I could do about ‘em.
Got my shower, got packed, and headed out the door looking for breakfast. Riding down Clewiston’s main drag I see three other BMW riders. We wave, I ride another block or two, and then see a gentleman outside a restaurant. He’s got another BMW R1150GS, looks the part of being a serious touring rider, so I head on over in his direction.
This gent’s name is Chico and he and I start chatting and we quickly discover that we’ve got quite a bit in common. He’s curious about my skull and crossbones stickers because he’s coming back from the Pirates of the Conch Republic campout over in Marathon in the Florida Keys and wonders if I’m affiliated with that group. “Nope” I reply,except that I did once spend a night sleeping on a picnic table during one of their campouts a few years ago. They are a fun, disorganized group that get together every year after Bike Week and hang out at Knight’s Key Campground in Marathon for a week or two.
Chatting with Chico a bit more it transpires that he has been reading some of my stuff that has been posted on some of the BMW bike sites. On top of that he’s a manager for the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America’s annual get together to be held in Lima, OH this year. Small world.
Chico likes my writing and he’s riding the same model of motorcycle that I’m riding. Obviously Chico is a man of excellent tastes.
Turns out that Chico is in front of Robbie’s Restaurant in Clewiston, and there are perhaps 20 bikes parked in the lot. The manager of Robbie’s would later apologize to me, explaining that on most Sundays there are usually 50 bikes present. Robbie’s is a simple, country-style restaurant with hearty portions of basic foods. And excellent breakfasts. Obviously there are quite a few folks from over on the coast who are riding the 70 or more miles to Robbie’s in order to have a relaxed weekend breakfast.
Chico heads out, I have breakfast, and after breakfast I start shooting the breeze with a bunch of guys on go fast bikes. These guys are all grayer and older than me, and I discuss tagging along, since we are all riding in the same general direction.
That doesn’t last long.
Leaving the fuel stop I head down the road and these guys are rolling pretty quickly. Then I miss a turn. I ride another half a mile of so, find another road on my GPS that will connect with where I am supposed to be going, and boogie at a respectable speed.
And these guys are still gone. As in “I think they lit up the afterburners.”
I get out into the farmland a bit and think that I can see them in the distance. Bear in mind that this part of the Everglades south of Clewiston is about as flat and open as Kansas, and there are long stretches of flat, narrow farm roads with the occasional 90 degree turn as the road meanders between drainage canals.
And these guys have basically ridden out of sight before I even got going. Wow!
To add insult to injury, here I am riding along at maybe 85 mph on a narrow road posted at 45, and I hear a buzz that sounds like a zillion angry bees behind me. And it’s another go fast bike rider passing me like I’m sitting still. Sheesh!
Now I really feel old. I think that if BMW ever offers a diesel-fueled variant of the good ol’ GS models I’m going to get one of those. Just so I can putt-putt-putt along the country roads and not pretend to be able to keep up with anyone.
I stop to take a few photos and keep cruising. The most memorable photo shot was when I ran across several buzzards having brunch at the side of the road and the roadkill of the day turns out to be a 5-6 ft. gator that lost a mating season standoff with a pickup truck. That’s that Law of Tonnage at work; no matter how big, bad and horny Mr. Gator was he still wasn’t going to win in a battle against an F-350. I take some photos but nothing that looks like I can use in my next book ‘cause those blasted buzzards wouldn’t pose the way that I wanted them to pose. Imagine that.
As I mentioned, this is farm country and it looks like Kansas gone psychedelic. Drainage channels crisscross the area. Someone out here is growing shrimp in ponds, but most of this area appears to be sugar cane production and beef cattle. I stop to take some photos of cattle on a ranch and, once again, the critters are wary of a crazy old Pirate wearing a bright red reflective jacket and pointing something at them. Imagine that.
Coming into the Big Cypress Seminole Reservation the speed limit drops and then drops again. I’m not sure what happens when you get a speeding ticket on an Indian reservation and am not anxious to find out, so I crawl along at the posted speed limit, trying to stay awake.
No older gents on sport bikes to be seen, by the way. Those guys were supposed to be heading down here too, and they are long gone. They certainly weren’t letting any cypress grow between their spokes, so to speak.
Big Cypress Reservation doesn’t look as prosperous as the Brighton reservation of yesterday. Not bad, but not that good either. The bingo hall here is closed and the old bingo building is dilapidated. I later learn that this operation was moved to the Hollywood (Florida) reservation, which is much flashier. This may be, but I’m not sure at the moment, the very same and first high stakes bingo hall that ushered in the entire industry of Indian gambling establishments in the USA.
Big Cypress has a motocross race track, the world renowned Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum, an RV park, a private runway (the tribe of 4,500 people owns a corporate jet), the Billy Swamp Safari (maybe it’s a coincidence, but the Chairman of the Seminole Tribe in Florida is a gent by the name of James Billie, and it looks like Indian casinos have been berry, berry good to him from what I’ve read in the media), a rodeo complex, and souvenir shops. No general stores that I saw although it’s very possible that I missed them, but you would see Clewiston addresses pretty regularly on the reservation and Clewiston was miles and miles away from where I was standing, so I presume that it’s not out of the question that the locals on the reservation do most of their shopping in Clewiston. I also didn’t see any gasoline for sale here, and I presume that the closest gasoline station would be 20 or so miles away at the Miccosukee travel plaza off of I-75. Interesting. This community is pretty isolated.
I poke around a bit but it’s Easter Sunday and, duh … one of the very few holidays when the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki Museum is closed. That’s too bad, and I’ll have to run back over here some other day to see the museum.
I ride down to the rodeo stadium and stop to take some photos. While I am there a youngster, of perhaps late grade school age, comes buzzing by on an ATV. He’s on a dirt track that parallels the small road but I have seen other ATVs buzzing along on the county highway that runs through the reservation. Unlike the Brighton Reservation, which had signs up warning against operating ATVs on the highways, the ATV seems to be an accepted means of transportation on the Big Cypress Reservation
Back on the road and the ride southbound to the Miccosukee Travel Plaza continues to be on pavement of good quality if a bit narrow, and the road meanders through farm country with a posted limit of 45 mph. The scrub brush is getting a little taller and the area is less cleared than north of the reservation. I later hear that there are plans to widen that road beginning … well, basically, any day now...
The Miccosukee Travel Plaza is just what it sounds like – your standard not-very-exceptional fuel stop. Out west or in the Mexican desert it wouldn’t be unusual to have a fuel stop that becomes a landmark in an isolated area, but here, east of the Mississippi River, it is odd to find an area so sparsely populated that a fuel stop becomes a bit of an oasis.
This is the modern Indian reservation money maker: few trinkets,and plenty of 92 octane gasoline. And compared to some parts of the country, and certainly the rest of the world, this location isn’t that isolated. But all of those cars on the side of I-75 that have run out of fuel tell the tale that being perhaps 40-50 miles from the nearest alternative for fuel has caught many people by surprise.
I chat a bit with some travelers and other riders. Most of the motorcyclists out here are from the Greater Miami area and are heading home.
A Miccosukee reservation police ossifer and I strike up a conversation and I take a few photos of his cruiser. On the way out of the travel plaza parking lot I spy the local police substation and figure that I’d drop in and take a few more photos. Imagine my surprise when I walk in and there’s no one home.
Hmmmm … now being alone in a police station – and uninvited at that – makes me a bit nervous. So I go back across the street to talk to the officer that I was just shooting the breeze with. He laughs, and tells me that, yup, they usually leave the station unlocked and that he’s the only one on duty.
I’m thinking that it’s commendable that things are this peaceful around here, but if I recall correctly even Andy and Barney locked the door to the Sheriff’s Office when they left.
OK, so we have that cleared up and it’s back to the police substation for some photos of their other patrol vehicles – swamp buggies. Now that’s something that you don’t see every day.
Back on the road and it’s time to head back home. It’s getting past noon and as much as I’d like to explore further in the Everglades I’ve got obligations on Monday and need to get home. There’s about 350 miles between where I’m at and my home in Jacksonville and I’ve got more places to check out today so it’s time to boogie.
Those gators and killer mosquitoes around Everglades City will just have to wait until another trip.
The old R1150GS motorcycle boogies westbound on I-75 through the edge of the densely forested and very beautiful Big Cypress National Preserve to Rt. 29, and then it heads north. As I pause to take some photos of a sign warning of the Florida panther I realize that not only are there zero services at this exit, but that the really tall fence next to the roadway isn’t designed to keep humans out of the nature preserve but rather to keep the critters from getting to us humans. Sweet.
About this time a couple comes riding by. At first I think that it’s another set of young kids on a go fast bike. As I watch I realize that it’s a couple of at least my age, out here in the middle of nothing, riding a Honda Reflex scooter. And here I am, with my crashbar- and GPS- equipped adventure touring motorcycle, worried about whether or not I’m fixing to become puma bait.
Folks, it’s starting to get a bit weird in the woods out here.
This is a very rural area, with handfuls of people living out here. As you go back north you start to see more and more residences, but things are still pretty sparse. The little town of Immokalee is pretty interesting – the Mexican influence is so strong on the southern side of town that I’ve since told several friends who are curious about traveling in Mexico that we should ride down here and hang out; most of the lettering on the buildings here is in Spanish and I’m sure that Spanish language opportunities would abound.
Doing some research after I return home I discover that there is actually another Indian casino just a few blocks from where I was riding. Clearly, I need to return to Immokalee one of these days and check that place out.
Continuing north on Rt. 29 the strong Mexican influence continues. I stop outside a store to buy some drinks and take some photos and it’s locked up. However, the gentleman next door comes over with the keys and opens up for me. Nice folks, and not a word of English is spoken.
(continued in the next blog entry)
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