Being John Muir 
                  - Written and Contributed by Edward C. Woodward      

Several years ago, as a graduate student, I roamed Cedar Key searching for signs of environmentalist John Muir’s stay there during the late 1860s. Here’s my account.

Choosing a handheld tape recorder at Office Depot was overwhelming. Digital recorder or tape? Microcassette or standard size? Sony, Panasonic or Olympus? Environmentalist John Muir didn’t face trivial decisions like this; that’s why he had time to roam the woods. That’s what I wanted to do, retracing his steps in Cedar Key, the last stop on his 1000-mile walk to the Gulf of Mexico.

But I had to be prepared.

While kayaking, recording a thought instead of scribbling it would be easier. And recording a thought would be better for my balance climbing a tree overlooking the gulf. I love nature, but like my limbs intact, too.

Some 140 years earlier John Muir spent about three months in Cedar Key. I only had two days in the sleepy fishing village to study the same sabal palms and oaks, the pelicans and waders - or at least their offspring - that Muir did. Reflecting on his writings and philosophies, I planned to write about my experience as a modern day Floridian and weekend naturalist.

But that damn tape-recorder aisle was sapping my plans. Finally, I made a decision based on one factor: my favorite color. Cringe, Consumer Reports. Blue wins! I left, daydreaming about Cedar Key, oblivious to parking lot traffic, awakened by a horn and my brakes. "Slow down," I reminded myself aloud. I’ll get there, I thought, but I need to get there, first.

Driving north on the Suncoast Parkway, a toll road that cuts through a lovely setting, I pondered Muir walking 1000 miles in about seven weeks. He experienced nature at its pace. I blazed about 150 miles in just over two hours, glancing at scrubby flatwoods, marshes, cypress domes and sandhill cranes, wondering if a modern-day Muir would allot the time to walk Florida.

Nearing Cedar Key, I thought about trip themes. My mind settled on pop culture. I’d recently seen the film "Being John Malkovich." In the movie several characters become John Malkovich by entering his mind through a small office door. I can’t return to 1867 when Muir roamed Cedar Key, but by reading his book, "A Thousand-Mile Walk to the Gulf," I could embrace his mind frame. We also shared a birthday and beards. Hmmmm. What if I crawled through my Honda Accord’s back seat trunk access? A portal to Muir’s mind? Accord means harmony. And, like Muir, I’ve experienced nature’s awesome beauty.

On State Road 24, the final stretch to Cedar Key, I passed cracker homes with tin roofs, power lines staggered in twos marching to the coast, pines, palms and deciduous trees that shatter the stereotype of Florida’s perpetual summer.

Soon trees gave way to billboards about antiques, restaurants and places to stay. But Cedar Key, to its credit, revealed itself as a tourist light version of old Florida: narrow two-lane bridges led to modest motels and downtown buildings styled like New Orleans’ French Quarter.

I checked into the Dockside Motel overlooking a pier and the island Atsena Otie Key, the original site of Cedar Key wrecked by a hurricane in 1896. The motel clerk recommended a mullet Po-Boy at T & S Seafood Bar and Restaurant downtown. I set my pace to Muir time and walked.

After lunch I crossed the street to the Cedar Key Historical Society Museum. Ah, the first signs of John Muir, finally. Displayed were passages from "A Thousand Mile Walk to the Gulf" and a copy of the book. The hefty Hodgson Family Bible, black with gold accents, loomed nearby. Mr. and Mrs. Hodgson nursed Muir during his three-month bout with malaria. The arrangement of Muir’s book and the family bible seemed symbolic. To their "unfailing kindness and … skill and care … I doubtless owe my life," Muir wrote. And in part his lifetime accomplishments that followed: dozens of books and spearheading the National Parks Service and Sierra Club.

The museum had one notable omission: no map of Muir’s local wanderings. So I headed to the bookstore catty-cornered to the museum to find more on Muir. But Curmudgeonalia’s thorough Florida literature section was Muir-less. Ironic at first glance. It had to be shelved elsewhere. So I asked someone for help.

"Excuse me, do you work here?" I clearly interrupted his computer time. Distracted, he mentioned "owning the store" and "kicking him" if I had questions. He talked quickly, saying something about tax time and paying "sugar" to the government.

Dick Martens was  "Curmudgeon in Charge," read his business card. Muir’s books were shelved in travel and adventure. My copy of A Thousand-Mile Walk to The Gulf came from the library. So I spent 10 bucks on a copy I could highlight and dog-ear, a bargain considering Muir’s infectious passion.

I asked Martens about local Muir landmarks. His response: You mean like John Muir’s dog pissed here? Cedar Key didn’t even have an authoritative history book other than colloquial accounts by locals, he said. And no, he hadn’t read Muir’s book.

Maybe I’d find Muir at the Cedar Key Museum State Park, my next stop. I drove the mile or so to the museum, antsy to save time for the woods. Ranger Charles Neese greeted me at the museum. He’d read Muir, but wasn’t aware of local landmarks tracking his travels. However, the museum had a John Muir plaque; but not this day. It was being refurbished.

My "Where’s Waldo" search for Muir in Cedar Key was baffling. But not unique. Weeks after my trip, I read Life and Letters of John Muir, by William Frederic Badè, executor of Muir’s literary estate. Only 50 years had passed and Badè couldn’t find traces of Muir in Cedar Key:

It was amusing to see how the jaws of the natives dropped under a facial expanse of blank astonishment whenever I made inquiries about things as they were in Cedar Keys fifty years ago …. of John Muir and his sojourn; of his friends and their home. In this unlettered corner of the South, where decay in league with warmth and sun and rain obliterates the works of man more speedily than anywhere else, oblivion had swallowed up with equal haste the records of human memories.

Badè had some luck. He found "two miles north of the town, the knoll on which had stood the Hodgson residence" where there were "remnants of foundations, of garden-beds bordered by conch shells, all overgrown with cactus and underbrush." Ranger Neese thought the Hodgson house site might be on Hodgson Avenue near Hodgson Hill. I planned to head there next, but detoured to a museum path that bordered tidal water; my woods itch was fierce. I found a small clearing amid damp reads, crouched, and got quiet. Small islets, some with clam mounds, others with mangroves, arched water-top like porpoises. A lanky wading bird in chest-high reeds escaped the cold. The wind whipped. Low 40s? The cold clamped my skin through a fleecy jacket and hat. To the west bluish gray skies softened the sun, a pale yellow lollypop wrapped in wax paper. My tolerance for the cold dropped with the temperature, so I finished the trail and headed to my car. But a pleasant surprise rerouted me: three people hoisting the John Muir plaque onto a pole. Badè would be jealous.

Tim Fillmon repairs Florida’s ubiquitous green historic markers, painstakingly painting the letters and state seal. Tim, whose shaggy brown beard and sharp features resembled Muir’s, snapped pictures of the plaque. Tim shared old photos of the plaque showing faded letters, once gold when installed in 1983 - the date marked on the sign - then gathered his crew, hopped in his Chevy truck and sped away.

I read the plaque. One point stood out: "… It was while recovering from a bout with malaria in Cedar Key that Muir first expressed his belief that nature was valuable for its own sake, not only because it was useful for man. This principle guided John Muir throughout his life." This principle, I realized, was a path for my trip.

As the afternoon faded, I drove to Hodgson Avenue near Hodgson Hill. I parked at the end of the street and exited my car. Houses on stilts looked like wading birds at low tide. A cloud scheme on the horizon hovering over murky gulf waters resembled worn mountain peeks like the ancient Appalachians. Thick brush and trees in the forefront mimicked foothills. Had Muir seen this setting? And if so, did it simmer in his subconscious, coaxing him westward to the mountains?

By sunset I sat on Cedar Key’s pier reading Muir and writing. Dozens of pelicans swarmed an abandoned dock. Nearby a couple cuddled, ignoring a pelican awaiting a handout. A sailboat bobbed in rough waters. A lone fisherman bundled up at the pier’s end. Behind me, a solemn older man dressed in camouflage sat on a bench built into a stand, escaping a stiff wind. His name was Owen Freeman, or Owen the birdman. As we talked, I learned he was the pelicans’ steward. He fed them baitfish, pulled hooks from their wings, and chastised anyone too close to or harassing the birds. He even named them: "No Toes," who lost his to frost bite, grunted as he passed us. Freeman recounted countless times people kicked the birds, or allowed their children to chase them. Sometimes the pelicans bit Freeman, but he treated them with respect, anyway. He hadn’t read Muir, but watching Freeman, he embodied Muir’s attitude about nature. Muir wrote:

Now, it never seems to occur to these far-seeing teachers that Nature’s object in making animals and plants might possibly be first of all the happiness of each one of them, not the creation of all for the happiness of one. Why should man value himself as more than a small part of the one great unit of creation? And what creature of all that the lord has taken the pains to make is not essential to the completeness of that unit – the cosmos? The universe would be incomplete without man; but it would also be incomplete without the smallest transmicroscopic creature that dwells beyond our conceitful eyes and knowledge.

Freeman chided a man invading a pelican’s space: "Would you stick your face in a rattlesnake’s (face)?" The tourist recalled seeing someone hold a pelican’s beak shut in Key West. He also marveled at how many birds roamed the Cedar Key pier.

"I don’t care how many there are," Freeman snapped. "You aren’t allowed to mess with them."

Were the gulf waters always this murky, the tourist asked? Yes, Freeman said, growing weary. The tourist probably expected a Disney-fied Florida. An aqua-green post card, not a murky-watered fishing village dictated by tides.

I left. Time for dinner.

While eating fried catfish, grits and fries at Sea Breeze, I noticed touristy Florida’s influence. A pan-flute, Musak version of a song by Chicago played. And my placemat was a disposable depiction of the state of Florida and its history.

It was made in Oneida, New York.

How ironic that the state is depicted by someone else’s vision of Florida – and apparent lack of knowledge. Tampa was landlocked on the map, and according to the brief history, in "1565, Spaniards drove (my italics) out the French." There -was no mention of the infamous slaughter of Jean Ribault and his men. And, according to the map, 1835-1842 marked the "Seminole war on (my italics) U.S.A."

The map also touted the appeal of "fantasy lands" in Florida: "from coast to coast this beautiful land unfolds in a spectacle of white beaches, rolling hills, citrus groves, and beautiful waters in an incredible variety of attractions …" The dream is as alive today as it was for the French and Spanish, the English and determined pioneers of the 19th century who settled the state, battling the elements of a wild terrain. Muir was drawn by that same promise of a tropical heaven, only to be disappointed at first glance:

October 15. To-day, at last, I reached Florida, the so-called "Land of Flowers," that I had so long waited for, wondering if after all my longings and prayers would be in vain, and I should die without a glimpse of the flowery Canaan. But here it is, at the distance of a few yards! – a flat, watery, reedy coast, with clumps of mangrove and forests of moss-dressed, strange trees appearing low in the distance.

Chicago’s song gave way to a steel drum version of "Somewhere over the Rainbow," I think it was. Funny for murky waters. I headed back to the motel to write about the day.

The next morning I watched the sunrise from the pier. A sleeping pelican with head nestled in feathers looked up as I passed, then nestled again. The sun’s beam stretched like the train of a wedding gown down the water’s aisle to the pew that was the pier. I prepared myself to think like Muir.

You could say I cut corners next having a sit-down breakfast of biscuits with sausage gravy and coffee at a restaurant near the pier before fully embracing Muir mode. But I know my limitations, among them being useless on an empty stomach.

After breakfast I rented a kayak for five hours and explored the keys. But reaching the water was challenging: low tide had created a 50-yard barrier of muck. The kayak’s owner, barefooted, helped me haul the boat to the water. I, boot-footed, got weighed down in mud, which splashed up to my backpack, which now looked like a Jackson Pollock original. My hand-held tape recorder, which slipped out of my pocket, was no longer blue. But I wiped it clean and it still worked.

Paddling towards Atsena Otie Key, my heart raced. Although I’ve often canoed, I hadn’t kayaked since being a kid at summer camp. Now I was in the open water, the Gulf a little choppy, my eyes peeled for boats with big wakes, the island’s empty shore within sight. Twenty minutes later, wet and dirty – and happy about it - I reached the key.

I dragged the kayak about 30 yards up the beach and tied it to a tree. Momentarily, I worried about someone stealing the kayak, but realized this wasn’t my urban driveway where someone broke into my car. You’re being paranoid, I thought. Leave the kayak. You still have a cell phone.

I searched for a quiet place to write.

But my cell phone rang; life within reach.

My wife had a question about "sugar" we owed the government. After we hung up, I continued along the beach and passed a clump of Spanish Bayonets. Muir wrote about the plants in his journal. "By one of these leaves," he wrote, "a man might be as seriously stabbed by an army bayonet .… and the bayonets will glide to his joints and marrow without the smallest consideration for Lord Man."

Unwittingly, I lightly touched one of the bayonet leaves. I knew it was sharp, but I was curious. The plant pierced my skin and I pulled away. The sting felt like a pinprick at a doctor’s office, but no blood. The dark green leaves clumped together resembled a grand finale to a fireworks show, patriotism for nature.

After roaming the island for an hour, I found an oak tree with four limbs that merged into a seat. Muir sat "beneath a moss-draped live-oak, watching birds feeding on the shore when the tide was out." Low branches or trunk knots call my primal urge to climb. So I climbed about ten feet up the oak tree to the seat and surveyed the reed-lined coast. Grain-of-salt-sized insects bit my arms and bounced off my face. Below, birds rustled in a thicket of Florida privet. I tried to embrace the moment, to conjure that spiritual connection with nature that Muir had. But I was distracted. Civilization was a half-mile away, and I felt my cell phone pressed against my leg. My mind wandered. And I wondered why I wasted an hour of my life last night watching a poorly acted movie, "Pearl Harbor." Ah, the benefits of hyperactive synapses playing and purging images from radio, television, the Internet and billboards. I had a Charlton Heston in "Planet of the Apes" moment. Damn media! In that tree I’d tried to will an epiphany instead of allowing it to capture me.

I left the oak, returning to the main path which led to an inlet to the east where the tide crept shoreward. A lone egret stood motionless. Another bird circled in the distance while a few chirped in the background. I’d expected to see more wildlife at the inlet. Odd. Muir’s thoughts about Florida’s "strangeness" when he first saw it came to mind. "Everything in earth and sky had an impression of strangeness;" he wrote, "not a mark of friendly recognition, not a breath, not a spirit whisper of sympathy came from anything about me … I lay on my elbow eating my bread, gazing, and listening to the profound strangeness."

For the first time I can recall as a native Floridian, I felt out of place in my state. There was something eerie about the island. The wind rustled through palmetto fronds, but couldn’t penetrate the dense canopy of towering pines and evergreens; their stillness seemed worn and tired.

According to a placard near the path entrance, people have inhabited this island since about 200 A.D. I could’ve been walking in the footsteps of Spaniards, Native Americans and hard-nosed pioneers who knew this island in its wild state. Maybe I haven’t suffered enough hardships to embrace the uncertainty of living in a wild land. Unlike Muir, I live in a relatively safe world tamed by technology that often skews my perception of potential risks in the woods. I realize I could die from a rattlesnake bite or wild boar attack, but my chances of survival are far greater than in Muir’s time. That certainty, though welcomed, is a built-in filter I can’t discard.

Walking back to the kayak I saw an unusual object on the beach. It was red, with a wild green mane. Bending down to look closer, I saw it was a brick with algae. My epiphany? Huh, looks like a troll dolls of 1960s pop culture fame. Damn media!

After exploring a few more inlets, I paddled on smoother waters to Cedar Key and headed home to Tampa. But my experience felt incomplete. Something gnawed at me. So I made a final stop at the 4,988-acre Cedar Key Scrub State Reserve. Deep in the woods I heard a commotion. I eased off the path and peered into a marshy area with fallen trees. About 50 yards away I saw a bald eagle. It was aware of me and moved, lifting its wings as it hopped through the grass-lined water. I crouched to the ground and watched, thinking about our differing lives. The eagle doesn’t find ways to fill time, it lives. Eat, sleep, nest, do what eagles do.

On the other hand, we mold life to our ways, driven by desires beyond survival. Inherently we expect to survive, luxuries become concerns. Outside of disease and disability, living, for many, isn’t the challenge it once was. Often our distractions dictate our rhythm and it takes a woods walk to reset it.

Muir questioned why people value themselves greater than other parts of creation. Admittedly, I’ve seen creation as my backdrop. Often I have to remind myself that we are one.

I couldn’t outwait the eagle. He was eagling. I had to drive home and deal with taxes. Leaving, I passed a woman about age 60 walking with her golden retriever, a cell phone or MP3 player headset resting on her neck. We talked. She was sold on the area’s tranquility and wanted to settle down. Nearly 500 years post-Ponce de Leon and folks still flock to Florida searching for paradise and renewal. I jogged back to my car to make time.

In 1898 John Muir returned to Cedar Key. More than 30 years had passed since his first trip. Mr. Hodgson and his oldest son had died, but he found Mrs. Hodgson in her garden.

Muir wrote about their reunion:

I asked her if she knew me. ‘No, I don’t,’ she said; ‘tell me your name.’ ‘Muir,’ I replied. ‘John Muir? My California John Muir?’ she almost screamed. I said, ‘Yes, John Muir; and you know I promised to return and visit you in about twenty-five years, and though I am a little late – six or seven years – I’ve done the best I could.

I’ll likely return to Cedar Key with less time lapsed than Muir. But "being" John Muir will be a timeless challenge. Thankfully he left a prose map to guide me. But I haven’t abandoned the back seat pass through to Muir’s mind for those times I can’t get to the woods. However, if you’re heading to the woods and pass a car dealership and see a frustrated salesperson dragging a customer from the backseat, it might be me. Please stop and take me with you. I’ll pitch in for gas.