402 
F ORES T A N I) 
S T II E A M 
July, 1918 
CYPRESS TRAILS 
AEACT NARRATIVE 
F AR beyond the last outposts of Miami 
civilization, as you head in a south- 
westernly direction, there is a quaint 
little ramshackle gate, that suddenly clips 
the road in twain. If you could continue 
indefinitely you might, in time, reach the 
Gulf and the marvelous West Coast, and 
Tampa would welcome you. This, indeed, 
is a likely motor jaunt for generations to 
come. For a magic highway is under con¬ 
struction. It follows snugly beside the 
Tamiami Trail Canal, and is, for the most 
part, as straight and unerring as some of 
the famous Seminole trails of Yesterday. 
The Tamiami is not finished. As we 
have told you, asthmatic but entirely effi¬ 
cient dredges are gnawing at the lime stone 
and silt and coal-black muck of the Ever¬ 
glades. They go deeper and deeper into 
this mystery land, but it is a tedious work.. 
and slow. 
And the new Road, which is to inevitably 
connect the twin coasts, keep pace with the 
digging of the canal, of which it is a living 
part. Tons of immaculate white lime stone 
are tossed upon the left hand bank. Large, 
distorted masses of peculiarly formed 
’Glade rock supply the foundation for this 
road. And the gummy muck streaks it, as 
a grim reminder of crumbling, disintegrat¬ 
ed ages. 
For some ten miles, starting at “The 
Gates,” the roadbed is all that could be de¬ 
sired. The engineers have done their work 
well. There runs the narrow, ghostly 
canal; a ribboned strip of changing color, 
through primitive ’Glade territory. Its far¬ 
ther banks are grotesque with sectional 
slices of hammock and myrtle clump. Na¬ 
ture has not been consulted in laying the 
canal. The surveyors marked its unerring 
course, and whatever crossed its resolute 
path must go forever. 
To the left of the road, it is the ’Glade 
country again. Muck, smoothed out by 
rains, has made an elaborate stenciling de- 
OT THE KING PARTY 
of great experience—an engineer and sur¬ 
veyor—is in charge of twenty young fel¬ 
lows. They are mere boys and they hail 
from many parts of the country. One is 
from Detroit, another is a draughtsman in 
a contractor’s office in Cincinnati—a third 
belongs to the streets department of a 
large Western metropolis. They have 
come down for experience—and they get 
it. This interesting party is plotting out 
the reclaimed land of the Everglades in 
the proximity of the Tamiami Trail canal. 
They are surveying a country that has been 
under water for hundreds upon hundreds 
of years. And it’s a very nasty, irksome, 
dangerous job. Up to their waists in 
muck, oftimes, and with an utter disregard 
for eight-foot moccasins and rattlers, they 
are leaving a mosaic of white surveyor’s 
stakes behind them, as they go deeper and 
deeper into the No-Man’s-Land of Florida. 
It was along this same marvelous Ever¬ 
glades canal, that Mrs. King w'ent, wearily, 
hopelessly, day upon day, as the period of 
the party’s absence lengthened. Rumors 
had come from the terminus of the water¬ 
way, that Indians had seen the missing 
King expedition. 
Someone working on the dredges had 
been told by some guide, that some Indian 
possessed valuable information. They 
were all vague, uncertain rumors, difficult 
of pinning down or running to earth. But 
in her agony of mind, spirit and body, Mrs. 
King could not remain at home, inactive. 
The slightest hint of news sent her an¬ 
xiously, eagerly hurrying. 
Late one afternoon, another bit of talk 
echoed from the Tamiami. Members of 
an Indian tribe had been spied near the 
dredges. They had seen white men far 
in the glades. The Indians were in their 
canoes and were headed for Miami. Mrs. 
King could not wait. As darkness fell, she 
made another lonely journey out the 
Tamiami Road, searching every foot and 
Grave 
vice for snakes, ’gators, turtles and water 
fowl. At night, from that vast, drying 
realm, the giant turtle comes. His pil¬ 
grimage is forced. He must find water— 
water—always water! You may mark the 
clumsy trail of him, as he crosses the muck. 
It is the same with panthers and wild 
cats and the brow-wrinkled coon. It is 
true of ducks and limpkin and a dozen 
other birds. They come chattering to the 
brink of the canal, from f^r reaches of 
once water-covered Everglades. 
There is an odd camp midway out, on 
the Tamiami. A fine southern gentleman. 
