Ft. Clinch State Park, Fernandina Beach Florida
I arrived at the park just before 11 AM even though I left the house before 5 this morning. I had made a couple of unscheduled detours, the International Golf Community just south of Jacksonville and again in downtown Jacksonville. I stumbled across the old train terminal, one of those grandiose, big columned, cut sandstone, classical buildings that had been preserved as part of the city's convention center. I tried to gain access to see its voluminous interior, but it was locked as expected now that it is not a real station. Jacksonville appears to be a working mans city with huge shipping terminals and large scale industry. Lots of bridges too; big bridges. There is no wonder why the state of Florida is out of transportation money.
Ft. Clinch State Park is a MUST visit. There are more than 4 miles of oak hammock covered roads that winds its way to the furthermost northeast point in Florida; where the Amelia River flows on the west side of the park, the St. Mary's on the north (Cumberland Sound) and the Atlantic on the east. The enchanting Cumberland Island is less than a mile away across the St. Mary's. There are two campgrounds within the park, the Amelia and the Atlantic. Thank goodness I ended up in the Amelia, because there was this unrelenting 35 MPH wind off coming off the Atlantic. If I had been there, my tent pieces would have blown away as I set each item in place to assemble the product; I would have been left with just my stakes. Only the motor homes equivalent in weight to the stacks of $20 bills it took to purchase them were sturdy enough to endure the windy punishment.
And as such, the immediate visit to the beach was a disaster. First, it was impossible to wade into the water; the ocean was behaving like it was simulating hurricane conditions. Second, there was this three-foot diameter-dredging pipe that spanned the length of the beach. Although I was determined to try to at least sit on the sand, after about 30 minutes, my eyes were irritated to the point I could not keep them open and my nasals were flowing like Niagara. I thought it was the stirred up salt air or the sand etching my corneas; later a town's folk told me it was the red tide.
I returned to camp with no intention of setting up the tent. The site was awful, only about 15 feet deep, right on the dirt road, with that filthy dirt that clouds up upon every step, and a plume of limestone dust would settle upon everything after each passing of a car. Instead I hopped on my bike and took the intimate tour of the park and the town the way it was meant to be. It was a slow wind down all the park roads. The shaded path was consistent and moss covered trees. I stopped in at the ranger station to see if my site could be changed. 'No, the park is packed tonight'.
It was about 3 miles to the historic part of town from the park entrance. The place reminded me of Galveston Texas, but much smaller. It had a similar character, like turn of the century high rolling when rail, shipping, and fishing reigned king. I had not known that Fernandina was a deep-water port, complete with container ship cranes, and tugs.
I ventured into an Hispanic festival called Santa Maria that was a big attraction on one of the city blocks. In was a block long and I found some Puerto Rican dishes, one called Pastelilla - shredded Bar-B-Q beef fried in a potato shell and served over black beans and rice. It was 3 in the after noon, so I will call that my dinner since there was no lunch; add to that a beer.
Upon returning to the park, I tried my hand at ATB (all-terrain-biking) on the off-woods trail that followed the road back to camp. My 28mm tires just dug into that sugar sand. It seemed too treacherous, what with the roots and soft sand.
I set the tent up and readied myself for a shower. I got dirtiest during the tent assembly. The park's bathhouse is el primo and apparently new. If you camp here, stay in sites 22-35; they have a paved road - unlike the lime rock at site 51. I would not recommend the beach sites; no trees, no protection.
And to end the day's experiences with a little observation: On my trip today, I stopped at a McDonald's for coffee, but I hit the restroom first. As I approach the back of the restaurant, it’s MEN to the left. Not many miles further, I had to stop again to use the restroom at a gas station; as I approached the restrooms, MEN to the left. Then at the campground, again, it was MEN to the left. Now the moral to this story is that women are always right!
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