82 
FOREST AND STREAM 
February, 1918 
A WINTER HUNT AMID PALM AND CYPRESS 
QUAIL, TURKEYS, DUCKS AND ’GATORS IN THE WILDEST AND GAMIEST SPOT 
IN ALL FLORIDA FILL HUNTERS WITH THE JOY OF FOREST AND PRAIRIE 
By THOMAS TRAVIS 
F OR years I had dreamed about, it. I 
had pictured my old dogs, Robin 
Hood and Lem, pointing staunchly 
among the palmettoes, roading game 
among the prairie grasses where Bob 
White crouched in luscious coveys. t re¬ 
trieving duck and snipe among the tus¬ 
socks of the Everglades, and trailing tur¬ 
key where the orchids blossomed among the 
palms in midwinter. ... I had dreamed 
for years, as I sat before the fire on Win¬ 
ter nights with the gale snoring through 
the chimney tops, and Robin Hood twitch¬ 
ing in sleep as he trailed some dream bird 
to its lair . . . and now, at last it seemed 
really coming my way! 
Maps, tourists’ agencies, railroad adver¬ 
tisements, silent-lipped old hunters—all of 
them I had besieged with this one ques¬ 
tion : “Where can I find the wildest and 
gamiest spot in all Florida? I want to 
camp among the palms and oranges, on the 
edge of a hunter’s Paradise.” And at last, 
a close-lipped veteran of many trails said 
to me, “Go down to -.” 
That is all I could get out of him, and 
that bit only by a solemn promise to tell no 
one' else. So, after a careful search to 
check up possible overstatements, I decided 
that spot, whispered by the old veteran, 
was about as near it as I could hope to get. 
So the tickets were bought, the dogs sent 
off in a roomy crate, ammunition and sup¬ 
plies expressed with the tent, and I settled 
down to wait and work till the fateful day 
dawned when I was to go ahead, and, if 
conditions were as hoped, telegraph back 
to my old friend Cummings, the veteran 
of many a good game trail, to join me in 
“No Name.” The day came on faster 
than I thought, for I was busy right up 
to the last minute, with barely time to jump 
in the waiting auto and make the night 
express seven miles away. 
The fun began right from the first. All 
afternoon the snow had been falling in 
large flakes, and now, as we turned on the 
searchlights and opened the throttle, we 
were plowing through a snoring winter gale. 
with bare time to make the night express 
at its first stop out of New York. On pins 
and needles I made that ride. Once we got 
lost among the winding roads; again we 
were held up by snowbound traffic. But at 
last we rolled into the station with three 
minutes to the good, just time to wave 
good-bye, just time to see the baggage 
safely aboard,—and climb on the, dark¬ 
ened sleeper, trembling,—that is no exag¬ 
geration, trembling even yet lest a tele¬ 
gram should stop me at the last second, 
with news of some unavoidable business 
complication that would drag me back. 
But when the conductor gave the signal 
and the train gathered headway, I threw 
myself on the empty seat of the sleeper, 
peered out in the driving snow, and heaved 
a huge sigh of relief. . . . Let them call me 
back now if they could—for I could not 
receive any messages whatever, and the 
night express was gliding by the station 
lights, gathering speed, puffing, then hum¬ 
ming, and finally flying through the winter 
gale. . . . To the land of Palms and our 
Winter camp in NO NAME. 
No use going to bed that night. My 
hands were still trembling and my heart 
jumping with every snort of the engine. 
Evidently winter traffic wasn’t very strong 
on that night express for I had the sleeper 
almost to myself. With face glued to the 
window I watched hour after hour, till 
somewhere just below Washington we ran 
out of the snow into rain and dark. Then, 
forward in the smoker, I sat, till at last 
sleep began to touch me and I went to bed, 
only to find that I was not sleepy any 
more. So stretched at ease, I lay and 
watched the dark flash by till the first 
streaks of a red and golden dawn lit up 
the land of^ pines and log cabins some¬ 
where South of the Great Dismal Swamp. 
A LL that day sere fields of cotton 
stalks ran by. little villages of cab¬ 
ins, little towns of a flat land crowd¬ 
ed with pine forests slid behind us. And 
just as dusk was creeping out to cover the 
land, came the first glimpse of what I had 
come to see, the first hint merely,—a tiny 
cypress swamp whose flanks were dotted 
with palmettoes, above which the buzzards, 
those amazing fliers, wheeled. . . . Then 
dark again, with Jacksonville our next 
stop. Then on in the midnight till at last 
we drew up at the small way-station on 
the East Coast, from where I was to take 
the “Jo-a-ree Train” into the camp. It 
was all coming out as I had dreamed— 
the start in a snoring storm, the end—in 
the land of palms. 
N OW the Jo-a-ree is a log train that 
starts when it gets a load, and takes 
passengers only as a concession. They 
can hang on the baggage, or ride on the 
logs, or they walk, just as conditions de¬ 
mand . . . and that is the only way in. 
Also the Jo-a-ree runs not on time but on 
eternity. So I set me to wait, in the soft, 
balmy night, for Jo-a-ree. 
Then it came—not the train, but the 
dawn of my first tropic day with all the 
mystery and color of a tropic opera scene 
beyond the footlights. You will excuse 
the enthusiasm, for this was my first 
glimpse of it, and it was one of my 
dreams coming true. First a faint light 
in the east. Then the red rim of the sun. 
Then a chorus of mocking birds and red- 
birds ; and at last, the full red orb of the 
sun lit up a dream land of palmettoes -and 
palms. Along came Jo-a-ree, and we 
puffed away to the glowing west, through 
pines and palms, over streams and through 
swamps, anon rattling past palm and orange 
groves, till at last, the camp of “No-Name” 
appeared, and we were there—the very end 
of the track. 
Even as I jumped from a train a flock 
of curlew flew over, and a covey of quail 
scurried into the thicket. The game was 
here, without doubt. A couple of days’ 
scouting proved it beyond peradventure. I 
located a big flock of curlew, several flocks 
of plover, half a dozen coveys of quail, andj 
last, but of which you shall hear anon,—■ 
