A Week on Fort George Island. 
Jacksonville, Fla., Aug. i. — Editor Forest 
and Stream: One morning in June, when Will 
and I stepped off the train at Mayport, a small 
town on the south side of the St. Johns River, 
where it flows into the ocean about twenty-four 
miles from Jacksonville, we found a northeaster 
whirling the coarse sand about in clouds. We 
were to meet Fred, who had left the city sev¬ 
eral hours ahead of us with the camp duffle in 
his launch and a batteau in tow, and were to 
put in a week in camp on Fort George Island, 
across the river from Mayport. The strong 
head wind and tide made his progress slow and 
it was about 3 o’clock when Fred arrived. Then, 
after hastily stowing the few things we had 
brought down by train, we got under way and 
headed for the mouth of Haulover Creek. We 
had a wet trip across the river, for the Sport 
was but a 21ft. launch, and her tow made her 
hard to hold on her course in rough water. 
We expected to have some trouble getting up 
the creek, for none of us had ever been- in 
there, and we had been told that the channel 
was narrow and crooked; so when a big wave 
dropped us on an oyster bar at the entrance 
we were not much surprised. Backing off, wc 
made another start and had gone but a short 
distance when we brought up on another bar. 
Getting off this one without much trouble, we 
slowed the engine down, and, armed with a 
long pole, I stood on the bow and we slowly 
felt our way up the creek to the place where 
we wished to drop anchor opposite a small oak 
grove on a slight elevation between the creek 
and the ocean. 
It was but a short carry to the campsite, 
where we set the 9 by 12 wall tent beneath the 
spreading branches, arranged the folding cots 
and got supper under way. A change to dry 
clothes, a good supper and a moonlight night 
put us in the proper frame of mind to thor¬ 
oughly enjoy our surroundings. 
While the small island we were on is spoken 
of as Fort George Island, it is separated from 
the main island by Haulover Creek only and 
is not much more than a long narrow sand spit, 
three or four small clumps of oaks being the 
only trees, while on the sea side the coarse 
white sand is piled into new drifts and billows 
by each succeeding gale. To the east was the 
ocean and the booming of the surf, for the 
northeaster had been blowing for three days, 
and out on the bar the whistling buoy was work¬ 
ing overtime. To the south was the St. Johns 
River, the lighthouse at Mayport and the riding 
lights of the vessels at anchor in the stream off 
the town, and to the west lay Fort George 
Island proper, with Pilot Town opposite May- 
port. From a point near the south end of the 
island we were on the north jetty extends 
out into the ocean about two and one-half miles, 
while from the Mayport side of the river the 
south jetty reaches out a like distance. The 
north jetty is built- up somewhat higher than 
the south jetty, and at high tide its jagged rocks 
are visible in patches, having a dangerous look, 
especially with the seas breaking over them. 
As we stretched out on our cots and talked 
of the fish we would catch on the morrow, wc 
were lulled to sleep by the boom of the surf 
and the none-too-cheerful sound of the rest 
less whistling buoy. 
We were astir early the next morning, and 
after a hasty breakfast we took to the launch 
and ran out of the creek without getting 
aground, for it was near high tide and there 
was plenty of water. We bought a few shrimp 
at Mayport for bait and p,ut out for the north 
jetty, though it was still blowing a half gale, 
and the heavy seas on the north side were 
breaking over the rocks. Within half a mile 
of the end of the jetty we dropped anchor, then 
rowed the small boat in and anchored so. the 
boat would just swing clear of the rocks and 
rigged up our rods. Fred caught the first fish, 
a sheepshead of about five pounds. Our catch 
that morning consisted principally of sheeps¬ 
head, though there was a sprinkling of black 
fish and one good sized flounder as well as many 
undesirable toad fish and cats. We could have 
caught many more fish, for they were biting 
well when we stopped fishing, but we had plenty 
to divide with a party camping near us, so we 
returned to camp and devoted the rest of the 
day to getting our camp in ship shape order. 
We had been told by the fishermen at May- 
port that it was a hard matter to get shrimp 
enough for bait, and after working about two 
hours that night, shrimping in the creek and 
not catching enough for bait next day, we 
unanimously agreed that fiddler crabs would be 
our bait during the rest of our stay, for of 
these there were countless numbers close to 
camp. These fiddlers are excellent sheepshead 
bait, and while in the use of them one is limited 
in his catch to sheepshead and black fish there 
is at least some satisfaction in the small num¬ 
ber of toad fish taken on this bait. 
This was the only camp I had struck in sev¬ 
eral years in which we were not annoyed more 
or less by the old familiar wind-splitting, gimlet¬ 
nosed razorback hog. These camp demolishers 
have queer appetites, and while I knew rattle¬ 
snakes were a delicacy, it was while camping 
on Amelia Island a few years ago that I found 
they were soap eaters. I got back to camp one 
day just in time to see an old sow gobble down 
our last cake of glycerine-tar soap. Possibly 
the combination did not agree with her, for she 
paid us no further visits. But while we were 
not raided by the razorbacks, four or five young 
mules from the main island crossed the creek 
at low tide and sometimes spent the night on 
our side. I occupied the first cot in the tent, 
and one night I awoke to find a mule stand¬ 
ing in the open tent flaps, neck stretched out 
full length and head almost over me. I lay per¬ 
fectly quiet for a few seconds, but had to let 
out a whoop to see her jump. With a snort 
she jumped back, wheeled and tore out of the 
oak grove, knocking over some of the cooking 
utensils in her flight. 
“What the thunder w r as that?” called out 
Fred, who was sleeping in the other end of the 
tent. When I told him it was only “Maud” up 
to some of her pranks, Will made a few re¬ 
marks on mules in general, registered another 
kick against the whistling buoy, and soon the 
camp was wrapped in slumber. 
1 hat mule had lots of curiosity, but we got 
used to hearing her prowling about camp at 
night. Occasionally she would knock over a 
skillet or the coffee pot, and the clatter would 
start her off full tilt. 
One morning we decided on a change in our 
daily programme and instead of going fishing 
we landed at Pilot Town for a tramp across 
Fort George Island. Striking the shell road, 
we followed its many twists and turns out across 
the marsh and into the high hammock land of 
the island proper. At a sharp turn in the road 
we came to a stop as one man to admire the 
beauty of the scene spread out before us. On 
a little knoll stood the thick walls of cement 
and oyster shell, weather stained and draped 
with clinging vines, of a dwelling of the long 
ago. The division wall was of the same material 
and thickness as the outer walls, and in each 
room was a large fireplace built into the division 
wall. On the hearth of one of the fireplaces 
grew a cedar tree fully a foot in diameter, 
while in the other room was another cedar of 
about equal size. All about was the thick ham¬ 
mock growth, with here and there a stately 
cabbage palmetto tree. In front of the ruins 
the road skirted a bluff overlooking the marsh 
of Haulover Creek, our camp on the sand spit, 
and beyond the blue waters of the ocean. Of 
course there is a legend connected with this 
spot, having to do with the days of the free¬ 
booters. 
Resuming our tramp, we passed several at¬ 
tractive homes and presently came to a fork 
in the road. As Mt., Cornelia, on which the 
Government maintained a signal station during 
the Spanish-American war, and which we wished 
to climb for the view, lay off somewhere to the 
east, we took the right fork, but after follow¬ 
ing this road a short distance we again swung 
off through the dense hammock on a blind trail. 
This trail to the right turned out wrong, for 
we missed Mt. Cornelia, missed the Roland 
homestead with its long avenue of cabbage 
palms and double row of concrete houses, all 
alike as two peas—the old slave quarters—of 
which we had heard a good deal and were 
anxious to see; missed the three pirates’ graves, 
but we did fetch up finally at Fort George In¬ 
let, at the north end of the island, and about 
five miles from Pilot Town. It was too late 
in the day to retrace our steps and get on the 
right road, so we plodded back to Pilot Town 
boarded the launch and returned to camp, and 
though we did not see all we had set out to, 
we were well pleased with our jaunt. 
And so the days passed—fishing and loafing 
as suited our fancy—till the time came to break 
camp and start on our trip back up the river 
to the city. G. A. I. 
