During a trip to Florida’s Forgotten Coast, Mike and Jennifer discovered a less crowded, less developed part of the state and capped off their visit by sampling a delectable gift of nature.
By Mike Wendland, F426141
March 2015
For RVers, it’s difficult to find a more popular state than Florida. But it’s equally difficult to find a spot on the beach that isn’t crowded and built up with high-rises and condos as far as you can see in most directions. That’s why we have fallen in love with Florida’s Forgotten Coast.
A local newspaperman and promoter named Chuck Spicer came up with the name Forgotten Coast a quarter-century ago to describe the area that stretches from the town of Mexico Beach, southeast of Panama City in Bay County, to the town of St. Marks in Wakulla County.
We rang in the new year during a trip to Florida, spending the first few days in the far northwestern area around Destin and the so-called Emerald Coast, where the waters of the Gulf of Mexico are shaded turquoise and the sand is powdery white. This is a highly developed portion of the panhandle, a touristy spot, with fine bistros and lots of upscale shopping, as well as traffic jams.
We had been hearing of the area farther east, past Panama City, for years. This year, we decided to check it out ourselves. We took U.S. Route 98 more than 150 miles from our start at Destin and noticed a gradual falling off of development.
Condos and beach places do exist all along 98, on the Forgotten Coast, but they tend to be more of the beach-house type, not the high-rise, and not nearly as many as in the area we had left. We stopped at two state parks — St. Joseph Peninsula State Park and St. George Island State Park, both tucked away on remote beaches devoid of development.
We would have overnighted at St. Joseph had it not been for a recent vegetation burn that left one of the two camping areas scorched and blackened. The smell was still heavy in the air, and after a brief exploration of the beach and a boardwalk hike, we left and continued down the coast.
We stopped at the town of Apalachicola, a sleepy fishing town known for its oysters and shrimp. The shrimp boats tied up to a dock along the Apalachicola River gently bobbed in the water. Museums, raw bars, and a great local microbrewery stood ready to lure in passing tourists.
But our first destination was St. George Island and the state park there, where we spent the night backed up against some 20-foot-high sand dunes. The park bills itself as the “Best Kept Secret along the Forgotten Coast,” and rightly so. It offers nine miles of pristine beaches, four of them along the main drive and five more miles in a special area accessible by foot or by vehicle with a special-use permit.
A great 2.5-mile nature trail meanders from the campground through the pine forests and coastal scrub to the bay. Hikers are advised to stay on the trail, as rattlesnakes live here. Alligators inhabit a couple of ponds near the campground.
From the campground to the east, a couple hundred yards over the dunes, lies the Gulf of Mexico. To the west a similar distance is Apalachicola Bay, a great swimming and kayaking spot. The state park campground offers 60 sites, and during our visit in early January, we had no trouble finding a spot.
In terms of history, the island has always been used for fishing. And the numerous stands of slash pine on the island were heavily “turpentined” during the early 1900s. Slashes where the gum was collected to make turpentine remain visible in some of the larger trees.
The beaches were wild and empty and offered spectacular vistas in all directions. It actually reminded us of Cape Cod.
We took our time breaking camp and afterward made our way back across the bay again, meandering along the coast — often just yards from our passenger-side windows — until we found the tiny town of Carrabelle.
Carrabelle is a fishing town of 1,300 with a great sense of humor. On U.S. Highway 28, the main drag, Carrabelle boasts the world’s smallest police station — a phone booth marked “Police.”
We explored Carrabelle, again remarking on the lack of development. Then it was time to find a place to spend the night.
I’m a sucker for sleeping with the sound of crashing waves. So when we encountered the Ho-Hum RV Park, just a few miles east of Carrabelle, in northwest Florida and smack dab on the Gulf of Mexico, we had to pull in for a look. That’s all it took, even though it was raining at the time. Finding a place to camp this close to the water is pretty rare.
It’s a delightful little park. Nothing fancy. But clean, neat, and far from the overdevelopment that characterizes so much of the coastline of the Sunshine State. To the east stood a couple of well-spaced beach houses. To the west, nothing but wild beach, bordered by scrub pine. One of our neighbors said he keeps returning to the area because it is “Old Florida,” meaning the culture is laid back, very Southern, as much of the state was before all of the development.
The park boasts a lighted 250-foot-long fishing pier and a narrow little beach. Pets, on a leash, are welcome in the park, on the beach, and even on the pier. Kids, not so much. It’s billed as an “adult only” park.
From Carrabelle, we made a trip inland, chasing bees. Actually, we were chasing the product of bees — honey. And not just any honey, but tupelo honey.
Along the Forgotten Coast I had seen several signs advertising tupelo honey. It struck me that we were a long way from Tupelo, Mississippi. I didn’t think much of it until some neighbors at Ho-Hum, Dave and Georgia Greens from St. Charles, Missouri, told us they were making an excursion to the town of Wewahitchka the next morning, some 70 miles north and east. They shared that they planned to make this trek because Smiley’s tupelo honey was not only world-famous, but if you bought it at the factory, it was much more reasonably priced.
Some places in the area were charging as much as $25 a pound for tupelo honey, the Greens explained. At Smiley Honey, it was available for $10 a pound.
Why so much? Because tupelo honey comes from the green-white blossom of the white tupelo gum tree (Nyssa ogeche). These blossoms are notoriously fragile, and the weather must be just right to produce an abundant honey crop. In good years, tupelo trees will bloom for only a few weeks. In bad years, the nectar flow lasts only a few days. Years of experience and good beekeeping skills are required to produce great tupelo honey.
We made the trip the next day and had a honey tasting. Shirley Williams, the manager, gave us a tour of the factory and explained all about honey production. Then she whipped out some tiny little plastic spoons and started pouring.
Smiley Honey sells honey from wildflowers, blackberries, holly, cotton, orange blossoms, and sourwood. We loved every spoonful. But it was the tupelo honey that rocked our world.
Shirley explained to us that the color of tupelo honey ranges from extra-white to white, and it has a cloudy, greenish hue when held up to the light. Tupelo honey has an amazing flavor. It has even been immortalized in song. Have you heard Tim McGraw’s popular country song “Southern Girl”? There’s a line in the song about “kisses sweeter than tupelo honey.” And “Tupelo Honey” was the title song of a 1971 album by singer Van Morrison.
Tupelo honey is lip-smackin’ sweet. Smiley Honey literature describes it as having “a bright and unique floral burst that dissolves easily on the tongue, and has a very pleasing finish. It has a dewy freshness that contrasts starkly with overprocessed, common honey varieties.” And tupelo honey also resists crystallization.
Shirley explained how raw honey is a wonderful gift from nature. Not only does it taste great, but the health benefits of raw honey are well-documented, she noted. It is a powerful antioxidant, it boosts the immune system, it promotes better digestion, and it helps to regulate cholesterol and blood sugar levels (among other things). Many honey lovers also report that local, raw honey helps to treat seasonal allergies. Raw honey is loaded with beneficial enzymes, pollen, vitamins, and minerals, which Smiley Honey staff works to preserve through minimal processing.
What a sweet ending this was to our trip to Florida’s Forgotten Coast. We’ll be back.