Field Notes

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the Cody Scarp. Millions of years ago, it was Florida’s coastline. Today, in many places, it’s little more than a subtle change in elevation. If you didn’t know it was there, you could drive across it without ever noticing.

But the more I learn about North Florida, the more I realize just how many of the things I love about this place trace back to that ancient shoreline. The springs. The sinkholes. The caves. Even the rivers.

Most rivers have somewhere to go. They flow into another river. A lake. Eventually, the sea.

But in North Florida, rivers begin doing something unusual when they reach the Cody Scarp. Some disappear.

The Santa Fe River flows normally until it reaches a place called River Sink. There, an entire river vanishes underground. Several miles later, it returns at River Rise and continues on toward the Suwannee.

Farther north, the Alapaha River reaches Dead River Sink. During periods of low water, so much water disappears into the limestone that long stretches of the riverbed can become dry.

The Aucilla River may be stranger still. It disappears underground and returns again and again, as if the river can’t decide whether it belongs above the ground or below it.

But not every river disappears. The Withlacoochee crosses the Cody Scarp too. Instead of vanishing, it becomes a river transformed by springs. Madison Blue Spring pours millions of gallons of groundwater into the river each day, and farther downstream, even more springs join it.

That’s what fascinates me. The Cody Scarp doesn’t make every river behave the same way. It simply changes the rules. Some rivers lose water. Some gain water. Some disappear. Some emerge. All because the limestone beneath them becomes exposed enough for water to move in ways it can’t farther north.

The river that has captured my attention is Little River, which is honestly more creek than river. It’s close to where I grew up. Little River flows quietly through North Florida until it reaches a landscape of sinkholes where the water disappears into the limestone.

What happens after that isn’t entirely understood. Researchers believe some of the water may return at Little River Spring, about ten miles away. Other research shows that water entering the Little River and nearby Stick Sink system contributes to the groundwater feeding Troy Spring, on the opposite side of the Suwannee River.

Think about that for a moment. A river disappears into the ground. Its water travels through limestone beneath forests, farms, roads, and even beneath the Suwannee River itself before returning to the surface.

Years ago, when looking for a home to build Anasa,  I nearly bought land just south of Little River Sink. The property had two sinkholes (or karst windows) where you could look directly into the underground water below.

What caught my attention was where they were. On a map, they appeared almost perfectly aligned between Little River Sink and Little River Spring. I have no idea whether they were actually connected. Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it wasn’t. But standing beside those openings, it was impossible not to wonder what was happening beneath my feet.

That’s one of the things I love most about North Florida. The landscape doesn’t tell all of its stories on the surface. Sometimes they’re hidden beneath the limestone. Sometimes they’re carried underground by rivers that disappear. Sometimes they’re revealed again where a spring quietly returns them to daylight. You just have to pay attention.

Because the North Florida we see is only half the story. Beneath it is another landscape entirely. One where rivers don’t always follow the blue lines we draw on maps.

— Dion

P.S. Have you ever visited River Sink, Dead River Sink, Madison Blue, Little River, or Troy Spring? I’d love to hear which North Florida places have surprised you the most.

I grew up around the remains of railroads I never really knew were there.

When I was a child, an old steam locomotive sat beside the Luraville Country Store. I knew it had been pulled from the Suwannee River. I knew it was old. But I don’t think I understood just how old it was, or what it represented.

The locomotive was already an antique when it arrived in Suwannee County. Historians believe it was built sometime between 1850 and 1855, making it one of the oldest surviving steam locomotives in the country. It may have pulled passenger cars during its early years, before being sold to the Bache Brothers Lumber Company around 1890 and put to work hauling logs through the forests of North Florida.

Around 1900, its working life ended in the Suwannee River. No one knows for certain exactly how it happened. One story says the locomotive jumped the tracks at a curve and fell into the river. According to local accounts, the locomotive was being moved across the Suwannee by barge to reach timberland in Lafayette County. As it was lowered down the bluff on a temporary track, the restraining lines broke. The locomotive rolled across the barge and disappeared into the river.

It stayed there for 81 years. During periods of low water, people could see parts of the locomotive beneath the surface of the river. It became part of the local landscape and part of the stories people told.

In 1976, a group tried to recover it. They removed the bell, whistle, throttle, and other pieces, but they couldn’t bring up the locomotive.

Somewhere in this history is a story my uncle Larry once told me. Uncle Larry said he had been involved in an attempt to pull the locomotive from the Suwannee with a wrecker. As I remember him telling it, they weren’t successful. I haven’t been able to determine exactly when his attempt took place or whether it was part of one of the documented recovery efforts. But I remember the story.

And on January 19, 1979, James “Buddy” Lancaster finally brought the locomotive back to the surface. Lancaster had grown up seeing the locomotive in the river during periods of low water and dreamed of recovering it.

After 81 years underwater, the old engine was pulled across the river bottom and brought ashore on the Suwannee County side.

Lancaster brought it home to Luraville and displayed it beside the Luraville Country Store, which his family owned and operated.

That’s where I remember seeing it. I was a child then.

I knew the locomotive had come from the river. But I didn’t understand that the rusting engine beside the road had been built before the Civil War, may once have carried passengers, later hauled logs through the forests of North Florida, and spent more years underwater than most people live.

Eventually, the locomotive was sold to Jack Goyke of Jacksonville Crane Company, who donated it to the State of Florida in 1982. It was restored and moved to Tallahassee, where it remains today.

But the locomotive isn’t the only reminder of the railroads that once crossed this part of Florida. Not far from my river property, another one is still standing in the Suwannee. It’s called Drew Bridge.

Today, the bridge is one of the strangest things you’ll see along this stretch of river. On one side, a dirt road comes relatively close. On the other side, there is almost nothing but forest. No highway. No town. No obvious reason for a bridge to be standing there at all.

But more than a century ago, trains crossed the Suwannee here. According to local histories, the swing bridge was purchased in Brazil around 1899, transported to the Suwannee River, and placed into service around the beginning of the twentieth century.

It became part of the Suwannee & San Pedro Railroad, a line that ran from Live Oak through Mayo and eventually toward Perry. The railroad wasn’t simply carrying passengers between towns. It was part of a much larger network built to reach the forests.

Across Florida, logging companies pushed railroads deeper into timber country. The trains carried workers, equipment, and logs. Communities grew along the tracks. Some of those logging railroads eventually helped lay the foundation for larger commercial lines.

At Drew Bridge, the railroad created its own path through the forest. Tracks approached the river. Trains crossed the swing bridge. The railroad continued through what is now thick woods.

Then the railroad disappeared. The tracks were removed. The forest grew back.

Around 1920, Suwannee and Lafayette counties purchased the abandoned bridge with hopes of converting it into a road crossing. That never happened. The roads never came. And the bridge stayed.

I’ve known about the locomotive and Drew Bridge for most of my life. I saw the locomotive beside the Luraville Country Store. My uncle told me about trying to pull it from the river. I’ve passed the old bridge many times by kayak.

But for most of my life, they were separate curiosities. An old locomotive. An abandoned bridge. Stories people told. Only recently have I begun to understand that they are remnants of something much larger.

There was once an extensive network of railroads crossing this part of Florida. Some carried passengers and freight between towns. Others were built deep into the forests to carry away the longleaf pine and cypress that fueled the growth of North Florida.

The locomotives disappeared. The tracks were pulled up. The mills closed. The forest grew back. And within only a few generations, much of that railroad world became almost invisible.

That’s one of the things I find most interesting about North Florida. The landscape doesn’t always tell you what happened there. Sometimes you have to look for what’s left behind.

A locomotive pulled from the bottom of a river. A bridge standing in the middle of the Suwannee. A faint railroad grade disappearing into the forest.

Pieces of a world that once connected towns, carried timber, moved people, and helped shape this part of Florida. The railroad is gone. But if you know where to look, you can still find the tracks it left behind.

— Dion

FIELD NOTES FROM NORTH FLORIDA

One of the most important features in North Florida is something most people never even notice. In fact, if you didn’t know it was there, you could drive past it a hundred times and never give it a second thought. Just like I did. 

Millions of years ago, it was Florida’s coastline. Today, geologists call it the Cody Scarp. 

The funny thing is that it isn’t especially dramatic. It’s not the Grand Canyon. It’s not a mountain range. In many places, it’s little more than a subtle change in elevation. But it may be the reason North Florida became such a unique landscape.

The first clue is that you can find shark teeth in the Suwannee River. Not at the beach. Not along the coast. In a river winding through pine forests and cypress swamps, miles and miles before it reaches the Gulf.

Long before there were springs, farms, roads, or even the Suwannee River itself, the sea reached much farther inland than it does today. The Cody Scarp marks one of those ancient shorelines.

North of that ancient shoreline, water tends to stay on the surface. South of it, water disappears into the limestone beneath your feet.

That’s where things start to get interesting. North of here, the Alapaha River can disappear entirely into the ground at a place called Dead River Sink. The river simply vanishes into the limestone.

Elsewhere, that same underground world sends water back to the surface, creating the springs that have drawn me back again and again throughout my life. Peacock. Telford. Madison Blue. Troy. And dozens more.

I spent years swimming in these springs before I understood why they were here at all. In many ways, the Florida I grew up loving exists because of a coastline that no longer exists.

The more time I spend exploring this part of Florida, the more I realize that many of the things I love about it trace back to this ancient shoreline. The springs. The sinkholes. The disappearing rivers. Even the shark teeth hidden in the Suwannee.

That’s one reason I love North Florida. It doesn’t reveal itself all at once. The beaches announce themselves. The theme parks advertise themselves. But North Florida asks you to pay attention.

And if you do, you’ll discover rivers that disappear, springs that emerge from nowhere, and traces of an ocean that vanished millions of years ago.

— Dion

P.S. Have you ever found a shark tooth in a river or creek? I’d love to hear where.