Nature’s wonders captivate at dazzling Caladesi Island
Special Florida Section – Sunday, June 04, 2000

CALADESI ISLAND – It is the beach that brought me here. But an hour and a half after arriving on Caladesi Island, a state park off the coast of Dunedin, I have yet to lay eyes on it.

Instead of joining other visitors making a beeline for the Gulf surf whenthe Caladesi Island Connection ferry docks on the St. Joseph Sound side of the island, my husband, son and I queue up with 14 others for an It’s Our Nature walk. We follow Linda Taylor, founder of the tour company, to a sign that greets visitors with a smattering of information on the barrier island.

All I know about the island at this point is that it has been on Stephen”Dr. Beach” Leatherman’s top 10 list of U.S. beaches for several years. The beach, by virtue of such things as the quality of its sand and water, is again ranked No. 6 for 2000. But, as Taylor will show us, the island holds much more for visitors than its pristine beach.

Caladesi Island (pronounced cala-DEE-SEE) is a taste of unadulterated coastal Florida. No high-rise condos. No beach rental stands. No hotels. No fishing pier. Besides the ferry dock, a 99-slip marina, a small concession stand/park office and two bathhouses, the island is blessedly undeveloped.

Before leading us down a boardwalk trail, Taylor tells us a little about the island’s history and habitats. The park consists of 650 “upland” acres and more than 1,800 acres of mangroves and grass flats surrounding the island. In 1921, a ferocious storm severed Caladesi from neighboring Honeymoon Island, then known as Hog Island.

Caladesi was first inhabited by Native Americans, though no one knows what tribe. A survey done by the Smithsonian Institution revealed several trash and ceremonial mounds on the island, left behind by the ancient people.

“Caladesi,” we learn, means “beautiful bayou” in loosely translated Spanish. And, judging from what we will see during our three-hour walk, the island is one of the few on Florida’s coast that still can live up to such an accolade.

Our 31/2-mile walk will take us through three island habitats: beach scrub, pine flatwoods and hardwood oak hammock. Taylor, who wears a broad-rimmed cap pulled low over her tan face, rattles off the names plants and trees we will see: southern red cedar; cabbage (sabal) palm, Florida’s state tree; slash pines; saw palmettos, a favorite habitat of snakes.

Then she urges us, “Take time to smell, hear and feel nature.”

We begin, trodding toward the beach. But before we get within sight of it, we bear left, leaving the boardwalk behind for loose sand that shifts like powder under our sneakers and makes our calves ache with effort.

The sun is high above our heads by this time, but its rays are muffled by gray clouds that threaten to spill rain on the parched island.

Our predominantly female group is an interesting mix of demographics. Besides my family trio, there are two mother-daughter pairs celebrating this Sunday, Mother’s Day, with a natural twist. There are five women from a local business networking group, and a 50s-something couple. Three other women, all from the Clearwater/St. Petersburg area, have traveled here by themselves, out of curiosity.

Some in our group have been to Caladesi before, many only to experience its beach. But most of us are here for the first time, to discover a little of Florida’s natural history, to take a tame walk on the wild side.

Taylor leads the walk in fits and starts. It’s clear that even after walking these paths for two years with groups like ours, her fascination with the place has yet to be quenched.

Higher Ground

We pull up frequently – sometimes after a few steps, sometimes gaining as much as several hundred yards – so Taylor can share something with us. She shows us a “toothache” tree, which has leaves that were once chewed to relieve dental pain.

Farther along the path, we see the squiggly “footprints” left by a snake that has slithered across the sand path.

When we walk through a stand of pines, their trunks charred by fire, she talks of controlled burns.

This burn, Taylor explains, was done to keep scrub oaks from becoming towering trees that could create shade that would change the ecosystem of the pine flatwoods. Despite their wounds, the pines seem healthy. The scent of them fills the air – a clean smell that releases sudden memories of my all-but-forgotten Girl Scout camping trips.

Taylor turns to face us, her animated gestures commanding attention. “Watch closely,” she says, “and you’ll see the earth changing under your feet.”

Come to think of it, it already has. When we entered the stand of pines, we left behind the low beach scrub. Ahead, we see oaks spreading their limbs. We are climbing a little higher above sea level, Taylor explains. Still, the island’s highest spot is only a few feet above the sea.

“The altitude . . . the air is getting real thin up here!” jokes a woman as she feigns a swoon.

“I’m about to pass out tissues for nose bleeds,” Taylor throws back with a wide smile.

The sun has shrugged the clouds away and is beating down upon us. We sip water from bottles that swing from our hips while Taylor points out more plants – “tread softly,” a white-flowered member of the nettle family; soft, feathery dog fennel; prickly pear cacti, shriveled from the drought but still bearing a beautiful yellow flower.

Taylor brings the group up short at the lip of a bay. She points west to a
strip of sand that separates the inland water from the Gulf. This once was Dunedin Pass, or Big Pass. But nature, with its fit of storms, has delivered enough sand to this spot to close the pass, making it possible to walk from Clearwater Island north to Caladesi Island.

Taylor pulls a book from her pack, Yesteryear I Lived in Paradise. Myrtle Scharrer Betz, its author, was born and raised on the island. Taylor tells us a little about Betz, who penned the book when she was 87.

As a young girl, Betz rose well before dawn, made her widowed father’s dinner, then rowed herself across St. Joseph Sound – two miles and 238 strokes – to attend school in Dunedin. Betz left the island when she married, but returned to live there for a short time with her husband and daughter.

Above and Below

From the bay we turn down a path toward the ruins of the houses built by Betz and her father, Henry Scharrer.

As we enter the oak hammock, Taylor urges us to look beneath our feet. The sand, firmer here, is riddled with small holes dug and inhabited by fiddler crabs.

Then she bids us to lift our gazes to discover the hammock’s aerial garden of Spanish moss and resurrection fern. High above the treetops, someone sights a osprey, a fish clutched in its claws.

We reach the ruins and stand among the stones that mark the foundation of Betz’ house. Part of its fireplace still stands. A sign near it admonishes visitors not to dig up or remove anything from the site.

Taylor again brings out the book, passing it around so we can look at a picture of Betz’ abode. It was an undistinguished wooden structure – simple, small and utilitarian.

Taylor then leads us to an unusual pine prized by Betz. The pine, which Betz calls the “harp” tree, has double upright limbs that sprout from a single trunk, It reminded her of the string instrument played by her mother, who died when Betz was 6 years old.

Taylor asks whether anyone in our group had met Betz before her death in 1992 at the age of 97. Several women relate memories. One speaks of a visit that Betz paid her women’s group. “She was just a little old lady. Anybody’s grandmother. It was surprising to think of her living the kind of life she did.”

Quiet Time

Before we leave the hammock, Taylor asks us for 10 minutes of quiet as we walk toward the beach. We set off, quiet as monks who have taken a vow of silence, lending an ear to the voice of the land and its inhabitants. Laughing gulls cry overhead. The sight of an osprey brings only the point of a finger. Pine needles give way under our feet with brittle crunches. Black and red mangroves hug the path, signaling that we are nearing the Gulf coast of the island. Trees give way to chest-high scrub, and suddenly we see the beach.

There is a smattering of applause as we approach the watery reward of our journey. Many of us fall to the sand to pull off socks and shoes. We wade in the surf like children, careful to shuffle our feet to urge stingrays out of the way. I stand in the water, which laps cooly my ankles, and savor the No. 6 beach in the United States. We are about half a mile from where most visitors have clustered.

As I turn to make my way toward the unfurled umbrellas of civilization, I picture Betz as a young girl, frolicking in the turquoise waves as they break upon the shore of her own little piece of paradise.

Caladesi Island State Park is off the coast of Dunedin, north of Clearwater. It is accessible only by private boat or the Caladesi Island Connection pedestrian ferry. Visitors who take the ferry, which sails from Honeymoon Island State Recreation Area on State Road 586 in Dunedin, must pay a $4 per carload park admission. For more information on Caladesi Island State Park, call 727-469-5918. On the Web, check www.dep.state.fl.us/parks/

The ferry to Caladesi leaves hourly beginning at 10 a.m., weather permitting. Round-trip fare is $6 for adults, $3.50 for children ages 4 to 12, and free for kids under age 4. Maximum stay on the island is four hours. For more information on the Caladesi Island Connection ferry, call 727-734-5263.

Linda Taylor meets It’s Our Nature walk participants at the ferry dock on Honeymoon Island. The guided nature walk of Caladesi Island is $15 per person. Taylor also leads a variety of other trips, including hikes on Honeymoon Island, kayak trips and bird-watching walks. For more information, call It’s Our Nature at 1-888-535-7448 or 727-441-2599.

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