The “Okeehumkee.”—The Silver Springs.—The weird wonders of the Ocklawaha.
A queer-looking stumpy boat yclept the “Okeehumkee” was waiting for us at the head of the “Silver Springs.” The vessel was short and broad, like a monstrous beetle with its legs cut off; it was made to fit and float on the “Ocklawaha” river and nowhere else. We stepped first on to a lower deck—crowded with coils of ropes and poles, and the miscellaneous belongings of the queer little craft—which was occupied by the engineers, stokers, and other stray hands, who helped to work the vessel; there was a big boiler, and a little engine, and a tiny cupboard of a kitchen, where operations for our mid-day meal were being vigorously carried on.
Ascending a narrow flight of steps we are on the bow of the vessel—a wide balcony which occupies the entire front; behind this, and entered by two glass doors from the balcony is the saloon, bayfronted with windows all round, comfortably furnished with sofas and easy chairs, and two round tables. Opening from this again is a narrow passage running through to the end of the boat, on each side of which is a row of tiny cabins—about twelve in all, narrowing towards the stern. There is what is called “accommodation” for a score or so of tourists. Foolish people think they are fortunate if they can secure a “berth;” they don’t know how much may be left of them in the morning. Mosquitoes are a hungry race, and make a meal of the sleeper. He goes to bed fair and well to look at; when he gets up in the morning he can scarcely recognise his own face! Wise people sit up all night, and when they are tired of the wonderful scenery (which is illuminated at night by huge flaming pine logs which blaze from a great iron cauldron just above the balcony) they doze in easy chairs, or roll themselves up like mummies and sleep on the sofas. Some sit up on the balcony all night smoking, and at intervals singing snatches of old songs, which fall pleasantly on the drowsy ears of the sleepers.
I wonder if I can convey to any one an idea of the Ocklawaha river! It can be compared with no other river that I have ever seen, heard, or read of, and its fairest wonders are at our starting point, Silver Springs. Looking forward I see nothing but a wide expanse of pale green water. Our steamer gives a series of short asthmatic puffs, and we are moving slowly over the surface of the Silver Springs—so slowly we are scarcely conscious of any movement at all. We lean over the side of the vessel, and look down upon a world of wonders; we can hardly believe that it is really water we are passing through. It seems as though all the jewels from all quarters of the globe had been gathered together and melted down, and poured into the great earth hollow we are gliding over. The spring is eighty feet deep, the water so clear that the sweet fairy flowers at the bottom of it seem to lie close at hand; you feel as though you could lean over and pluck one from the bed, which seems to be formed of holes, arches, and deep crevasses of many-coloured rocks; variegated blues and greens and greys, all amalgamating together, beneath the soft rippling water, give it the many brilliant, ever-changing hues, till we feel as though we were sailing through a stream of liquid gems—opals and emeralds, amethysts and sapphires—enough to make gorgeous the purple robes of all the kings of all the earth. Submerged trees are standing tall and strong in this watery world; long ribbon grasses are gracefully waving as though stirred by the breath of some fair floating Undine, and starry white flowers open their blue eyes dreamily as we glide slowly over their silent home. Silver scaled fish dart in and out from among the tall reeds and rocky islets, and infant turtles with their ugly awkward little bodies propel themselves along; while thin, long-bladed fish flash hither and thither like sharp swords wielded by invisible hands, crossing and recrossing, parrying, and thrusting—coming within a hairsbreadth, but never smiting.
Our wee craft is only too brief a time crossing this “pool of wonders;” then we seem to be running straight into a wilderness—a veritable bit of the forest primeval—where a tangle of dense “hammock” seems to stop our watery way, but by a sudden turn our little vessel strikes an opening and takes us out of the Silver Springs, and on to the river.
Thenceforth all the day long we are gliding through the sweetest, loveliest water lane in all the world; winding in and out through mysterious wooded wilds—crooked and full of sudden turns and odd angles. We wonder how our queer little “Okeehumkee” finds her way along; we fancy she must be jointed like an eel, or she could never wriggle her way through this leafy labyrinth. Sometimes, indeed often, she runs her snout against the shore, and the services of a huge black Titan, “Joe,” are called into action; he jumps off the boat, and prods and pushes with a long pole till we are off again. Sometimes the river ties itself into a knot, but the little craft somehow threads her way through the loops and bows, and comes out at the other end of it.
There are no banks on either side of this marvellous Ocklawaha river; the water runs on a level with the shore. Dense masses of jungle and wild forest lands sweep down and close it on either side with their leafy embrace; so closely they clasp it, that often we cannot see a foot of water on either side of us, and the branches of the fine old trees reach their long arms across and interlock one with the other forming a grand overarching avenue above our heads. It is so narrow here and there that it seems as though by some strange magical process the green earth had been liquefied purely for our accommodation in passing through, and anon the stream spreads out like a shining silver mirror in the heart of a jungle of overhanging trees.
Never was there such variety of scenery on a single river; it seems as though Nature had gathered all her forces here just to show how much she could do with her few favourite allies—the forest, rock, and stream. The trees are marching with us side by side, executing strange manœuvres as we pass along, nodding their proud heads, and waving their blessing arms above us; now it is a regiment of tall pines, the bright lances of sunlight glinting and flashing between their boughs; then there is an awkward squad of scrub oaks, magnolias, and gums, lofty palms and dwarf palmettoes, with long grasses and all kinds of brilliant vegetation crowding about their roots, and luxuriant vines and shining mistletoe clinging and climbing round their naked trunks, clothing them with rich verdure, and lost at last in their leafy coronals. All the glowing growth of the forest seems locked and interlocked together, as though the sons of the wilderness were engaged in a wrestling match, trying which could first uproot the other from the ancient soil. Now we face a phalanx of veteran oaks, clothed utterly, and their green boughs hidden, beneath mantles of beautiful Spanish moss; generally it is of deep mourning grey, and hangs like a nun’s veil gently swayed by the passing wind, then it is of a more silvery hue, but always down drooping, as though the iron grey beards of millions of men had been shorn off and flung thither in sport by some wandering wind. Occasionally we come upon masses of strange and wonderful moss; it is long, fibrous, and shining, and hangs in wavy tresses like the golden hair of a woman, as though some sweet Ophelia had been floating down the river, and the envious branches, determined that all should not be lost, stooped downwards, caught and tangled her glistening tresses, while the tide bore the fair form slowly on and the soft breeze still murmurs mournfully “drowned, drowned, drowned.”
Here and there the scene widens, and half-a-dozen little fussy tributary streams hurry out from their mysterious depths to join the quiet Ocklawaha in its dreamy flow, and we push our way for a while through an extensive watery plain, where reeds and grasses, and fair white lilies, twine their delicate fibres together and try to stop our progress; but we break through the pretty network as though it were a spider’s web, and puff our ruthless way out of it. Now there are a flight of small, bright-plumaged birds, with the heron in pursuit, or a volley of long-necked cranes shoot with their discordant cry across our path, and an elderly stork, judging from the length of his legs, stands at a safe distance and watches us from the shore.
We glance up half-a-dozen narrow water lanes, take a sudden turn, and plunge again into the wilderness. A great ugly alligator, who has been sunning himself on a fallen tree trunk, lifts his horny eyelids stupidly, and lazily slips under the water as we come puffing along. We are constantly coming upon these revolting creatures in the most unexpected places. Sometimes their leaden eyes simply stare, or they open their spiky mouths, as though they would like to swallow us, and don’t stir. Familiarity breeds contempt. I suppose they have got so used to having their privacy invaded by our odd little steamer that they conclude it is only a friendly monster like themselves, and won’t do them any harm. Time was when the “bang, bang” of the sportsman’s gun went echoing through these solitudes; but now tourists are forbidden to shoot alligators or any other thing from the decks of the Ocklawaha boats.