Tracking The Florida Skunk Ape
by Kurt Z
The earliest reported sighting of the Skunk Ape in Florida dates back to 1818, when local newspapers in what is now Apalachicola, Florida, reported a "man-sized monkey" raiding food stores and stalking fishermen along the shore. Appalachicola is 500 miles from Ft Lauderdale.


In 1948, a roadside zoo and research center in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, called the Dania Chimpanzee Farm imported animals from across the world. One year, a group of West African vervet monkeys slipped out of their cages and vanished into the mangroves. They established a colony, and by the 1990s, biologists counted about three dozen monkeys near the airport. By 2015, entire families were still roaming neighborhoods and power lines, descendants of the 1948 escapees, stealing food from backyards. Scientists confirmed their species' origin and persistence. The state of Florida has never fully removed them. From one accident at a zoo, Florida gained a permanent feral colony of African monkeys, one of the strangest legacies of the state’s history with exotic animals. 


The oldest reported Skunk Ape sighting in South Florida is less precisely documented, but the earliest accounts often cited in local lore come from the 1950s. Specifically, a series of sightings in the Everglades region, particularly around Ochopee, Florida, began in the late 1950s, with reports of a large, foul-smelling, ape-like creature. One notable early account from 1957 describes a creature spotted near the Turner River in the Everglades, where locals claimed to see a hairy, bipedal figure that left a strong odor. These reports gained traction in the 1960s and 1970s as more sightings emerged in South Florida's swampy regions, particularly in the Big Cypress National Preserve and Everglades National Park.

Ochopee Florida is only 100 miles from Ft Lauderdale. Skunk Ape is that you?




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#WildFlorida

It was 9:50pm August 31st, 1886 when the earth beneath Charleston S.C. rumbled and rocked with an earthquake said to be felt as far away as Cuba. The bells at St Augustine rang out on their own and it was the last Florida Swamp Volcano irruption.

In the heart of Florida’s wild, untamed southeast, where the sun bleeds amber into the horizon and the air hums with the secrets of centuries, lies the legend of the Wakulla Volcano—a spectral enigma cloaked in the mists of Wakulla and Jefferson counties. For much of the 19th century, villagers and travelers, their boots sinking into the loamy earth near the St. Marks Wildlife Refuge, would pause, awestruck, as a thick, charcoal-gray column of smoke spiraled upward from the swamp’s emerald depths. Visible from 20 miles away, it coiled like a serpent against the bruised lavender of twilight skies, igniting whispers of wonder and dread. Seminole elders, their faces etched with the wisdom of ancestors, spoke of this phenomenon as far back as the 16th century, their tales woven with threads of Spanish explorers’ journals. They described not just smoke but, on moonless nights, a pulsing, crimson glow that flickered like a demon’s eye through the tangled cypress and sawgrass. Was it the clandestine fires of pirates, their cutlasses glinting under starlight? Signals from Native warriors, cloaked in shadow? Confederate outlaws hiding in the swamp’s embrace during the Civil War’s fevered chaos? Or, most tantalizingly, a true volcano, simmering beneath Florida’s deceptive calm? The very name “Wakulla,” perhaps born from a word for “mist” or “misting,” seemed to conjure the ghostly haze that haunted the region, a name whispered on the wind like a spell.
Yet, the land itself mocked such fantasies. Geologists, their voices as firm as the limestone bedrock beneath Florida’s surface, declared no volcano could thrive here. This was no land of tectonic fury or molten fury, but a quiet realm of sediment and ancient, fossilized secrets, far from the fiery hotspots that birth mountains of flame. Still, the mystery gnawed at the imagination, its roots sinking deeper with every failed expedition. In the 1870s, intrepid reporters from the New York Herald Tribune plunged into the swamp, their lanterns casting frail beams against the suffocating darkness. But the wilderness was a jealous guardian—its labyrinth of gnarled roots, glistening with dew, tripped the unwary; its waters, black as ink, hid alligators whose eyes glowed like embers; and clouds of mosquitoes, relentless as a biblical plague, drove explorers back. Some returned with fevered tales of a smoldering crater, its edges jagged and scorched, or rocks that hissed with unnatural heat. Others spoke of moonshiners’ stills, their illicit fires winking through the fog, or lightning-struck cypresses smoldering in the mire. The most plausible explanation, offered by modern minds, pointed to a peat fire—a slow, relentless smoldering of the swamp’s rich, decayed heart, capable of birthing that ghostly plume for years. Yet even this theory strained belief, for such a fire, burning ceaselessly through decades, would be a marvel in itself.
The phenomenon, like a phantom, vanished on August 31, 1886, as the earth trembled with the distant Charleston earthquake. Locals, their eyes wide with awe, swore the quake had sealed some hidden vent, silencing the swamp’s restless spirit. The land grew quiet, but the legend refused to fade. It found immortality in the verses of Osola: The Legend of the Mysterious Smoke of Wakulla (1922), an epic poem that painted the smoke as the breath of a Native spirit, tending an eternal flame beneath the stars. Though geological surveys, with their cold precision, found only ancient volcanic whispers in Florida’s bedrock—mere echoes of a fiery past long extinguished—the Wakulla Volcano endured as a shimmering mirage of folklore. It spoke to the human heart’s hunger for mystery, its need to cloak the unknown in tales of wonder. Today, the St. Marks Wildlife Refuge stretches vast and untamed, its marshes glinting under the sun like shattered glass, its air heavy with the scent of salt and decay. The “volcano” lives on, not in stone or fire, but as a symbol of Florida’s enigmatic soul—a land where the ordinary burns away, leaving only the extraordinary to linger in the mist.

  “Well if you believe that, I got some Florida land for sale!”
​
What if I told you a Florida town got its name to fool a freeze? In the late 1800s, citrus was king, and Polk County was booming, but the freezes of 1894–95 were desperate. Investors in one little settlement on the Lake Wales Ridge needed a rebrand. Originally called Keystone City, they heard another town had that name, so a new one was chosen: Frostproof. The message was clear: here, your oranges are safe. Of course, that wasn’t true. A freeze hit just a few years later, and Frostproof froze like the rest of Central Florida, but the name? It was clever marketing before marketing was a thing, a gamble written right on the map. Today, that gamble still echoes in the name on every street sign and fruit crate. Started as a hopeful promise, it became a Polk County legend—part truth, part myth, all Florida.

​On September 16, 1928, a monstrous Category 5 hurricane struck Palm Beach, Florida, with winds exceeding 160 mph, flattening homes and uprooting lives. The real nightmare came when the storm pushed a massive surge into Lake Okeechobee, creating a 20-foot wall of water that rushed across the Glades. Entire communities, like Belle Glade and South Bay, were swept away while people slept. More than 2,500 lives were lost, mostly Black migrant farm workers, buried in graves with no names recorded and no headlines. It remains the second-deadliest hurricane in U.S. history, yet outside Florida, few know it happened. Today, the Herbert Hoover Dike surrounds Lake Okeechobee to prevent such a disaster from happening again, but the scars from 1928 still haunt the lake’s edge. History doesn’t always make the textbooks.

​On September 16, 1928, a monstrous Category 5 hurricane struck Palm Beach, Florida, with winds exceeding 160 mph, flattening homes and uprooting lives. The real nightmare came when the storm pushed a massive surge into Lake Okeechobee, creating a 20-foot wall of water that rushed across the Glades. Entire communities, like Belle Glade and South Bay, were swept away while people slept. More than 2,500 lives were lost, mostly Black migrant farm workers, buried in graves with no names recorded and no headlines. It remains the second-deadliest hurricane in U.S. history, yet outside Florida, few know it happened. Today, the Herbert Hoover Dike surrounds Lake Okeechobee to prevent such a disaster from happening again, but the scars from 1928 still haunt the lake’s edge. History doesn’t always make the textbooks.

The Lake Wazeda Encounter
By Kurt Z
Chapter 1: The Aluminum Sanctuary
In the summer of 1973, the cranberry bogs of Warrens, Wisconsin, stretched out like a patchwork quilt under the endless sky. Desolate and quiet until the fall harvest, they were a forager’s paradise, offering tart red jewels to anyone willing to brave the damp, lonely marshes. Our family—Dad, my older brother Marc, my little brother Lee, and me—had come to the Lake  for a weekend escape. The unpolished aluminum skin on the 1960s Avion camper gleamed faintly in the sunlight, a silver fortress that always felt safe. Until that night. 
I was 9 years old, Lee was 6, and the campground was nearly deserted. Only one other camper, a sagging tent, sat across the clearing, its occupants unseen. Dad and Marc had driven into town in the Bronco, leaving Lee and me alone in the Avion. The air smelled of pine and damp earth, the petrichor of the surrounding trees lingering like a memory of ancient forests. Twisted trees, bent by indigenous hands centuries ago to mark paths through the wilderness, loomed like silent sentinels around the lake. 
Chapter 2: Tinfoil Hats & Protection
It was long after dark when something yanked me from sleep. Not a sound, not a dream, but a presence. Have you ever been shaken awake by something you can’t name? Something so real it claws at your soul, yet leaves no trace? If you’re nodding, you know the feeling. If you’ve got chills, you’re already with me. 
The Avion was quiet, except for Lee’s soft breathing in the back bed.  But something was wrong. The air felt thick, heavy, like a storm about to break. I lay still, eyes wide, heart hammering. Then it came—a low, deliberate thud against the camper’s aluminum skin. Not the wind, not a branch. Something intentional. 
The trailer shook. Not a gentle sway, but a violent, angry jolt, like a kid shaking a soda can before handing it to an unsuspecting adult. The door rattled in its frame, the metal groaning as if something was testing it, probing for a way in. I clutched my blanket, too terrified to scream. Lee stirred but didn’t wake. I wanted to call for help, but my voice was trapped in my throat. 
I don’t know why, but I felt it was after me. Not Lee —just me. A dark shadow seemed to press against the trailer, an envelope of malice that wanted to swallow me whole. The aluminum held firm, its unyielding skin a barrier against whatever was out there. I don’t know how long it lasted—minutes, maybe hours—but it felt like forever. 
Chapter 3: The Lake’s Secrets
Lake Wazeda was our weekend haven growing up. When I’d return to school, my friends would lean in, wide-eyed, as I spun tales of fishing, campfires, and the strange, twisted trees that marked ancient paths. But I never told them about that night. How could I? There was no proof—no scratches on the Avion, no footprints in the muddy shore. Just a story that made me sound like a nut. 
Warrens wasn’t just known for cranberries. In 1973, whispers of Bigfoot sightings rippled through Wisconsin’s backwoods. Grainy photos, shaky stories, and half-believed encounters filled diner conversations. But this wasn’t a sighting. This was an encounter. Not a hairy beast caught in headlights, but something older, darker, something that lived in the spaces between what we see and what we fear. A quantum shadow, maybe, slipping through the cracks of reality. 
I didn’t dare look out the window that night. I didn’t need to. Whatever it was didn’t need to be seen to be felt. It shook the trailer like it was personal, like it knew I was inside, small and scared and alone. The wheels never left the ground—I think—but it didn’t matter. The fear was real. The intent was real. 
Chapter 4: The Return
When Dad and Marc finally rolled back into the campground, the Bronco’s headlights cut through the darkness like a lifeline. I stumbled out of my bunk, tears streaking my face, and threw myself into Marc’s arms. He was only thirteen, but he was my big brother, my protector. He saw the trauma in my eyes, the way my hands trembled. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low, serious. 
I tried to tell him, but the words came out jumbled—shaking, shadow, door, something. Lee woke up then, confused, saying he hadn’t heard a thing. Dad checked the trailer, his flashlight sweeping the ground for tracks, scratches, anything. Nothing. Just the same muddy shore, the same twisted trees. “Probably a bear,” he said, but his eyes lingered on me, uncertain. 
Marc didn’t laugh. He didn’t call me crazy. He just squeezed my shoulder and said, “I believe you.” That was enough. 
I’m 61 now. About time I had to courage to write about this. Dad & Marc have now moved on to the Great Campground in the Sky and I never had the nerve to ask them to recount the event. Little brother Lee doesn’t remember anything…
Chapter 5: The Weight of Knowing
How does one recover from something like that? A moment that leaves no evidence, no witnesses, just a scar on your soul? I’ve carried it for decades, that night at Lake Wazeda. The petrichor of those trees still haunts me, a scent that pulls me back to a nine-year-old boy staring into the dark, knowing something stared back. 
I’ve read about quantum realms since then, about the spaces between what we can prove and what we feel. Maybe that’s where it lives—whatever it was. Not Bigfoot, not a bear, but something older, something that knows your name and shakes your world to remind you it’s there. 
I don’t go back to Warrens anymore. The Avion is long gone, sold or scrapped. But sometimes, when the night is too quiet, I feel it again—that envelope of shadow, pressing in. I don’t need footprints or scratches to know it was real. You don’t either, do you? Because you’ve got your own story, your own night when the world shook, and something called your name. 
​

The Golden Hour
The sun hung low over Clam Bayou in Gulfport, Florida, casting a golden sheen across the calm, brackish waters where mangroves tangled with the shoreline. I’d been kayaking through the narrow channels, the air thick with the earthy scent of salt and mangrove roots, when something glinted beneath the surface. At first, I thought it was just a trick of the light, but as I leaned over and peered into the shallow water, my heart skipped—a coin, half-buried in the silty bottom, shimmered with an unmistakable metallic glow. I plunged my hand into the cool water, fingers brushing against the smooth, heavy disc. It was old, worn, but undeniably gold, its edges etched with faint markings that hinted at a long-forgotten origin.

Paddling back to shore, my mind raced with possibilities. Clam Bayou, a quiet estuary tucked along the Gulf Coast, wasn’t known for pirate tales or lost treasure, but Florida’s history whispered of Spanish galleons and shipwrecks scattered along its shores. Could this coin be a stray relic from a storm-tossed vessel, or part of something larger hidden in the bayou’s muddy depths? I scoured the area the next day, armed with a metal detector and a borrowed shovel, the humid air buzzing with mosquitoes and anticipation. Each beep of the detector sent my pulse racing, though most finds were bottle caps or fishing weights. But then, near a gnarled mangrove root, the detector screamed—a signal too strong to ignore.

Digging carefully, I uncovered a small, rusted tin, its lid sealed tight by time and corrosion. Inside, nestled in decayed cloth, were a dozen more gold coins, their surfaces pitted but gleaming, each one a tiny piece of history. My hands trembled as I held them, imagining their journey—perhaps loot from a 17th-century ship, stashed by a desperate sailor, or a merchant’s hoard lost in a hurricane. Clam Bayou, unassuming and serene, had guarded this secret for centuries. I knew I’d need to report the find, but for that fleeting moment, standing ankle-deep in the tide, I felt like I’d stumbled into a story that was mine alone.


#ClamBayou
#TreasureHunting
#GoldCoins
#FloridaHistory
#LostTreasure
#ShipwreckRelics
#MangroveMysteries
#GulfportAdventure
#PirateLore
#HiddenHoards
#MetalDetecting
#SpanishGalleons
#FloridaExploration
#BuriedTreasure
#CoastalSecrets ​