I have two wishes for my wanderings in backwoods Florida: One day, I want to find a dead body, (à la Stand By Me, not Bones) and I want to happen upon a skunk ape. You may know this cryptid by another name: Bigfoot. Yeti. Sasquatch. Yowe. Yeren. Tsul ‘Kalu. Wild Man of the Navidad. Hibagon. Harry. Because this is Florida, to paraphrase the Campbell McGrath poem, we have the skunk ape in the Everglades and the Bardin Booger east of Gainesville.
Allegedly.
No concrete proof exists; when questioned, the best I can muster is “I want to believe,” because I do. I also believe the best possible place to find a skunk ape (and, realistically, a dead body) is in the ‘Glades. If you’ve ever spent the night in the Everglades with no electricity and no cell service, you start to believe anything is possible. The maligned collection of ecosystems — it’s not all swamp down there, but a marvelous assortment of prairie, cypress dome, sandy beaches, pine flatwoods, and hardwood forest — contains things we will never know. The 1.5 million acres officially called “The Everglades” doesn’t include neighboring national and state parks or areas held in private hands. Point is, that’s a lot of wilderness to say something doesn’t exist, because there could be a skunk ape and we’d never see it.
One man not only insists he has, he’s opened the Skunkape (his spelling) Headquarters to share his knowledge with the world. Oh, and to also offer wilderness tours, souvenirs and camping accommodations. The Skunkape Headquarters is one of three notable things in Ochopee, a small town 36 miles southeast of Naples along the east-west stretch of US 41. The other two, the world’s smallest post office (it’s an old tool shed and it used to also be the Trailways bus station) and Joanie’s Blue Crab, lie within a stone’s throw of each other. Seriously, it’s a not a large place. Of these, the Skunkape Headquarters is the largest.
It’s tempting to mock Dave Shealy, the owner — Jon Stewart did on The Daily Show, and it’s easy to see why: Shealy isn’t polished, he isn’t a trained scientist, and he isn’t offering any proof. Also, the Headquarters has the bulk of its skunk ape information in the gift shop. When you pay your five bucks to get into the back, you may be disappointed to see exotic birds, alligators and two exquisite albino Burmese pythons (Salt and Lemondrop) that could easily eat everything else — you included — in the joint, but no skunk apes.
None of these things, from the crude published book on the skunk ape to the way you can hold a teenage alligator (with his jaws securely rubber-banded closed), inspire you to believe Shealy’s anything but a huckster looking for a quick buck. I can’t speak to that; I’ve never met the man. I can speak to this: The wildness of the Everglades makes you a believer. Don’t believe me? Take a tent into the Everglades two miles north or south of Shealy’s place on US 41.
William Cronon calls our idea of wilderness a cultural invention, saying once we willingly venture into it, it ceases to be wild. I’ve spent the night deep in the Everglades, and I can tell you Cronon is full of shit. About nine miles north of US 41, traveled on what could only loosely be called roads, I slept on and off — mostly off — in a building with only a roof, walls, and holes for windows. Ten steps off the porch brought me into wilderness, and I can tell you this: that night, in the ink-black wilds, I heard things and saw shadows I couldn’t explain then and I can’t now. The blue crab at Joanie’s, the tool shed turned post office, Shealy’s roadside Florida — they lived in another world, one separated by inky black distance and something less tangible. That intangible difference makes me believe Shealy’s tales might be true: The Everglades, the parts you don’t see on airboat rides or guided tours, likely have things happening inside them we’ll never even imagine. A skunk ape seems the most plausible.
Laugh if you will, but every culture in the world — regardless of the contact its had with other cultures — shares three things:
Tales of mermaids, ghost stories, and sightings of a skunk ape-type creature.
This article appears in Apr 28 – May 4, 2016.