Roebling’s Delaware Aqueduct

Roebling’s Delaware Aqueduct from Pennsylvania facing New York earlier this month.

In an era before flight corridors, interstates, and railroads, the Delaware and Hudson Canal was one of many manmade waterways dug in 19th century America to connect the fledging country’s coastal cities to its raw materials in the interior. The D&H Canal, which linked New York City to the coal fields of northeastern Pennsylvania, took three years to dig and opened in 1828.

The journey was arduous. Mules dragged canal boats down the 108-mile-long tow path and had to pass through 108 locks as the elevation rose 1,075 feet. Dams originally were built where the canal crossed Rondout Creek and the Lackawaxen, Delaware, Neversink rivers. At these dams the mules and their drivers crossed on a rope ferry. Traffic jams plagued those four crossings, so in the 1840s the D&H Canal Company hired engineer John Augustus Roebling, fresh off his designs for two wire cable suspension bridges in Pittsburgh, to design aqueducts over the four waterways.

Completed in 1847, the wire cable suspension bridge over the Delaware River, known as the Delaware Aqueduct, consisted of four spans of a 134 feet each that ties Minisink Ford, New York, to Lackawaxen, Pennsylvania. The four stone piers were shaped like a V where they face upriver in order to break up ice floes before they smashed into the bridge. The wooden superstructure on top had a trough in the middle to hold the canal’s water and towpaths along the rim on both sides where the mules and drives walked. The canal operated until 1898. Shortly thereafter, water was drained from the aqueduct, and it was converted into a toll bridge first for wagons and then automobiles.

The bridge looked nothing like Roebling’s design by the time the National Park Service purchased the span in 1980. No longer needed to hold water, the trunk walls had long since been removed, and flimsy wood guardrails stood in their place. The stone piers and cable suspension’s remained, however.

The NPS undertook a restoration of the bridge’s superstructure in the 1980s and 1990s to return it to its original appearance while remaining a vehicular bridge. Of the four aqueducts that Roebling designed for the Delaware and Hudson Canal, the Delaware Aqueduct is the only still in existence. It’s also the oldest wire cable suspension bridge in the United States and a National Civil Engineering Landmark. The entire former D&H Canal system was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1968.

Roebling went on to engineer the Brooklyn Bridge, though he died in 1869 after he suffered injuries sustained while planning that landmark’s construction. His son Washington Roebling oversaw the bridge’s completion 14 years later.

Though nowhere near as grand and as celebrated as the Brooklyn Bridge, the Delaware Aqueduct is still a fascinating remnant of engineering history sympathetically rehabilitated to suit modern needs.

The aqueduct as it looked before the truck walls were removed. Courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

Underside. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

Aerial of the bridge after it was an aqueduct and before its rehabilitation in the 1980s. Courtesy Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

Pre-rehabilitation. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA

Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division Washington, D.C. 20540 USA


Looking toward New York from Pennsylvania. The road and middle of the bridge was once the Delaware and Hudson Canal.


The original cables still support the bridge. The wood trunk walls have been rebuilt to match what the bridge looked like in its aqueduct days.


Three pieces are pointed facing upriver to break up ice.


The north walkway. This is where the mules and drivers would have walked.


Only one car can pass at a time.


Early March ice on the Delaware River.


Driving to New York.


This toll house was built after the bridge switched form canal boats to wagons. It’s now a small museum.


New York state historic markers are simple and to the point.

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Belle Haven Apartments, Sarasota


The Belle Haven as it appeared in December.

One of the finest Boomtime buildings in Sarasota, Florida, is at risk of demolition after years of vacancy. Sound familiar? In the 1990s, it was the John Ringling Towers, which was razed in 1998. This time it’s the Belle Haven Apartments.

Designed by revered local architect Dwight James Baum in the Mediterranean Revival style, the Belle Haven debuted in 1926 as the El Vernona Apartments, luxury accommodations for seasonal residents on Sarasota Bay just north of downtown. Rooms featured linen and silverware, and guests could pass those frigid Sarasota winter days on the dock that stretched into the bay. The site was intended to be the centerpiece of the Central Broadway development, but the those plans were quashed in the 1927 land bust. The Belle Haven was converted into offices in 1984, and the building closed about a decade ago. Yet the building has remained relatively untouched in its nearly 90 years, surprising considering its location on such a visible and desirable tract. It was locally landmarked in 1984.

The Belle Haven’s surroundings sure have changed a lot in the past 90 years though. Sarasota went from winter getaway to thriving small city after World War II, and buildings sprouted up near the bayfront to reflect its heightened status. The bay itself is now farther away from the Belle Haven after fill was added in the 1960s. Next door, the hulking Quay entertainment complex rose in the 1960s and then came crashing down in 2007 when a $1 billion project was planned for the site. That project died during the financial crisis, and nothing has been built to replace it, so the Belle Haven sits idle amid a sea of scraggly grass lots.

Change is on the horizon. A developer bought the former Quay property and Belle Haven last year with plans to build a hotel, commercial space, retail, and residences. As of now, the Belle Haven is to be integrated into those plans. But that could quickly change. Or the Belle Haven could be left vacant and not maintained. It’s up to preservationists to remain vigilant and remind the developer and public officials of the building’s architectural significance.  Sarasota doesn’t need another loss like John Ringling Towers.

Source: Sarasota County History Center

The building was surrounded by empty lots when it was built. Now it’s surrounded by empty lots again.

1927 shot.

1946 aerial of downtown Sarasota. The pier belongs to the Belle Haven, which is in the foreground. Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,


The Belle Haven entryway today.






The metalwork fire escape appears to be original.




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Florida Keys Memorial, Islamorada


The Florida Keys Memorial with crypt in the foreground.

The cremated remains of hundreds of hurricane victims are encapsulated in a crypt in the Florida Keys Memorial near US 1 on Upper Matecumbe Key. The approximately 300 dead were killed on September 2, 1935, by the Labor Day Hurricane. The Category 5 storm had winds of more than 200 mph and is the most intense hurricane on record to hit the United States.

The victims–many of whom were World War I veterans–were in the Keys to construct US 1, a Civil Conservation Corps project. Weather forecasting was nothing like it is today, but people did know a storm was coming. An 11-car train was dispatched from Miami to travel down the Florida East Coast Railway tracks to pick up the vulnerable workers and locals. A series of delays held up the evacuation train, and it reached the workers at about the same time as the full brunt of the storm. People scrambled into the cars. The train crawled ahead in the slashing rain and wind. It only made it to Islamorada before tidal waves of up to 20-feet high shoved all but the locomotive and its tender off the track. An estimated 400 people died in the storm. About 260 were veterans.

Initially, the plan in the aftermath was to collect the bodies and ship them to Miami for burial. But the intense heat accelerated decay and made the plan unfeasible. Instead, many of the bodies were burned in funeral pyres and the remains were collected.

The Moderne style Florida Keys Memorial, also known as the 1935 Hurricane Monument, was completed in 1937 at Mile Marker 81.5 to serve as a final resting place for the victims. It cost for $12,000. The 65-by-61 foot monument was built of coral limestone quarried nearby. It features an 18-foot tall frieze featuring waves and coconut palms blowing in the waves. The crypt is 22 feet long and has a tile map of the Keys on top. Artists with the New Deal’s Federal Art Project created the memorial. Harold Lawson came up with the memorial’s design, and sculptor Lambert Bemelmans carved the frieze. Ceramacist Adela Gizbet, craftsman William C. Shaw, and designers Allie Mae Kitchens and Emigdio Reyes completed the tile crypt.

More than 4,000 people attended the monument’s dedication on Nov. 14, 1937. It was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1995. Islamorada and the Florida Keys have long ago recovered from the 1935 Labor Day Hurricane, and visitors from across the globe congregate there to enjoy the year-round warmth and clear waters. In contrast, the Florida Keys Memorial is a powerful reminder of nature’s fury.

Read “Last Train to Paradise” by Les Staniford for more on the 1935 Labor Day Hurricane.

The Florida East Coast Railway train sent to evacuate the people in the storm’s path. All but the locomotive and tender were flung from the track.

Veterans housing after the storm. Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

Miami Star Tribune coverage. Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

Bodies lined up. Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

Funeral pyre at Snake Creek. Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

Dedication ceremony on Nov. 14, 1937. Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

The casket’s remains contain an unknown veteran. Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

1957. State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,







Remnants of a sea creature in the limestone.



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Key West’s Eyebrow Houses


525 Margaret St. built in 1886.

Many a Key West visitor has spotted the disproportioned roof on an eyebrow house and thought, The carpenter must have really screwed up on that one. But Key West’s trademark form of architecture is supposed to look that way.

The Classical Revival style eyebrow houses are side oriented gable-roofed buildings usually five bays wide and 1 1/2 or two stories tall. They are distinguished by a gable roof extension that creates a large awning over the top floor windows. The roof extension is the reason they have the eyebrow moniker, though I think “eyelid house” would be more fitting.

Most of Key West’s historic residences were built with one goal: block out the sun. Eyebrow houses take this to the extreme. Back in the late 1800s when most of these houses were constructed, sun-shading vegetation was sparse in Key West. There is no natural source of freshwater on the island, so, historically, Key Wester’s relied on cisterns and desalination plants–and they sure weren’t going to waste that precious liquid on water-chugging trees and plants. That changed once a water pipeline reached Key West in 1942, and the junglelike Key West we know today was born. The proliferation of shady trees–along with air conditioning–has freed up Conchs to focus on more important features when building homes, like where they’re going to put the bar.

Alex Caemmerer suggests in his “The Houses of Key West” that the eyebrow house is derived from either the Louisiana five-bay center hall house or saltbox of New England. Key West’s residents were inspired by both locales, so either makes sense.

The eyebrow houses repelled rays, but they probably didn’t do much for airflow on the top floor. Maybe that is why they seem to limited to Key West. According to the Historic Florida Keys Foundation, approximately 75 historic eyebrow houses exist. Photographed below are those I spotted while biking around the city last month.


643 William St. built in 1889. It was built by Edward Roberts, a ship’s carpenter from Ireland.


708 Southard St. built in 1874.


623 Southard St. was built in 1874.


410 Margaret St. built in 1892.


917 Grinnell St. built in 1889.


710 Ashe St. built in 1889.


1115 Southard St. built in 1889.


1108 Southard St. built in 1885.


1121 Southard St. built in 1889.


614 Grinnell St. built in 1889.


618 Grinnell St. built in 1889. A number of Bahamians lived in the home until 1938, when it was purchased by Quaker activist Adele Scott Saul. She owned it until 2011. It was recently restored.


804 Elizabeth St. built in 1874.


The Sapodilla Villa at 807 Elizabeth St. was built in 1890.


What a perfect example–a little too perfect. That’s because it was built in 1998 in the Truman Annex at 62 Front Street.

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Hermitage Artist Retreat

Sarasota County, Florida, had grand plans for the Hermitage and its associated buildings when they bought the property in 1986: they wanted to replace them with a parking lot.

It seemed like a practical decision at the time. The Gulf of Mexico had crept up on the Hermitage, a rambling board and batten residence erected in 1907, and was about to devour it. The other structures, built in the 1930s and 40s, weren’t doing much better after decades of abuse from the sun, sand, and water. So it must have come as a surprise to county officials when a vocal pro-preservation continent responded with a loud “nuh-uh” to their plans to add more parking at the Blind Pass public beach.

In 1907, Sweden-born Carl Johanson built a one-and-a-half story pine and cypress cottage on Manasota Key. He chose a site Calusa Indians had used as a midden, archaeologist speak for “trash dump.” The humble, 2.75 acre waterfront estate had a name befitting its remoteness: the Hermitage.

Johanson, his wife, and three youngest children lived on Manasota Key until 1913. They added a detached kitchen to the north elevation shortly after construction that is today a bedroom. A sleeping porch was also tacked on about 10 years after construction. That space is now the living room. The stone fireplace there was built in the 1920s. Other additions followed through the 1940s, including the current kitchen and two bathrooms.

The property earned its lasting reputation in the 1930s when it was operated as Florida Sea Island Sanctuary, an ambiguous name for a nudist resort. The Hermitage was only accessible by boat then, so Adam and Evan wannabes could frolic in the sand and sea without judgement. But the prude-free environment turned later in the 1930s when a shell road was laid on the key. Nudists packed their very light suitcases, and the Hermitage transitioned into a hotel, owned by former patron Louise Plummer.

In 1941, retired naval engineer Alfred Whitney, by all accounts a jerk, had an elevated house built on the parcel south to the Hermitage. His self-designed home, called Liability Lodge, included a corresponding pump house, garage, and cypress water cisterns. Whitney’s property was combined with the Hermitage’s after he died in 1946, and the tracts–totaling 8.5 acres–have remained joined ever since.

Writer Ruth Swayze, most famous for writing some episodes of the TV show “Taxi” starring the erudite Tony Danza, leased the Hermitage from the late 1970s until 1990. She and her daughter Carroll Swayze, a painter, invited their artist pals for stays in a foreshadowing of what was to come for the property.

Fine wine aged quicker than the time it took for the Hermitage’s revival. Shortly after Sarasota County bought the acreage in the 1980s, preservationists, including Ruth Swayze, implored officials to not clear the land for more beach parking. Surprisingly, they listened. Officials even appropriated $8,000 in 1992 to move the dilapidated Hermitage  away from the Gulf’s relentless tug until a plan for the building was in place. The general consensus at the time was that the Hermitage should be turned into a house museum to demonstrate to school children what life was like for early settlers–yawn. But the county wasn’t about to foot the bill for the work.

In the late 1990s, Syd Adler and others affiliated with the Sarasota Arts Council pushed the idea of converting the buildings into an artists retreat. Not only would the use preserve the structures, they said, but they would remain in an active use that would benefit the community. Works for us, county leaders said, and in 1999 the property was leased to the nonprofit Hermitage Artist Retreat Inc. for the princely sum of $1 per year.

The organization cobbled together funding, both grants and private donations. In all, the rehabs cost about $1.3 million, but none came from taxpayers. Work began on the main house in 2002. It was plopped on top of 4-foot tall concrete pilings and restored inside and out. The Hermitage welcomed its first artist, sculptor Malcolm Robertson, the following year. In 2009, the Beach Cottage was the last building to be completed, and earlier this year work wrapped on the pair of restored cisterns.

A nine member committee selects the established artists–painters, sculptors, writers, playwrights, poets, composers, among others–who are offered invitations to the Hermitage. Up to five artists stay at a time for up to six weeks, and their food is provided. Those who stay the six weeks are required to complete two acts of community service, such as a reading, exhibit, or performance. Not bad for an extended stay at such a scenic location.


The Hermitage, as seen from the dune that separates it from the Gulf of Mexico.



View of the south and west elevations.


View of the east elevation.


The Hermitage before its move.

Hermitage on the move in 1992. Source: The Charlotte Harbor Area Historical Society and Ulysses Samuel (U.S.) Cleveland Collection

Hermitage on the move in 1992. Source: The Charlotte Harbor Area Historical Society and Ulysses Samuel (U.S.) Cleveland Collection


The dining room is one of two original ground floor rooms.


Kitchen addition.



View into the former detached kitchen, now bedroom.


Tight quarters.


The living room was a sleeping porch addition.


I was there to do window restoration work. Source: Hermitage Artists Retreat Facebook page


Clip books chronicle the Hermitage’s rebirth.


Stairs to the 2nd floor.


Second floor bathroom, originally a bedroom.


View from the tub.

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Second floor bedroom.




Drift wood dolphin.


The Whitney Garage.


The Whitney Cisterns.


The Whitney Pumphouse, now studio space.


The Whitney House was built in 1941 and designed by a naval engineer to be hurricane resistant. So far, so good.

Whitney House interior. Source:


The Beach Cottage. It too was moved back from the dune.



The Beach Cottage before restoration.


View from the cottage’s front porch.

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Walkway over the dune to the beach.

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Saratoga Race Course


Waiting for the races to start. These seats filled up quickly.

The hand-rung bell signaled that the next horse race at the Saratoga Race Course was 17 minutes away. This is just one of the many traditions at the historic venue, established in 1863 and the oldest of its kind in the United States. For the non-hardcore handicappers on the grounds that day–and there were many of them–the sound was their cue to put down their drink, pause their conversation, and pick up their program to quickly choose a horse to bet on.

For 40 days each summer, the thoroughbred horse racing syndicate converges on scenic Saratoga Springs in upstate New York. Horse racing’s popularity is freefalling, but Saratoga Race Course seems to be OK considering the drastic drop in patronage and handles at other tracks. More than 20,000 people attended on the Thursday I visited earlier this month–a lot considering that Saratoga Springs, a town of 27,000 permanent residents, is surrounded by a whole lot more trees, hills, and lakes than people.

Unlike most tracks, Saratoga does not rely exclusively on gambling to spin the turnstiles.  The track has grown in spurts in its 150 years but has managed to cling to its Gilded Age appearance and feeling–all while accommodating modern conveniences. This commitment to historic preservation attracts people from all social realms, from the bigwigs in the clubhouse dressed in bespoke suits to the family in the picnic area dressed in T-shirts and jeans. Yes, some of the racegoers were there solely to try it hit it big. But the majority were there to enjoy the ambiance with their friends and family.

The tone for my day at track was set once I got out of the car. Usually, the journey from the parking lot to a venue the size of the Saratoga Race Course (capacity 70,000) is a hurried walk through a concrete maze of vehicles. Instead, on my way to the entrance, I walked down a grassy corridor beneath shady maples. To the north was the practice track, which was originally the main track for a year back in 1863 when Saratoga opened. Today it’s tongue-and-cheekily called Oklahoma because of its perceived distance to the main track, about a quarter mile away.  To the south were historic stables, filled by horses and tenders. Parking areas were marked not by numbers or letters but by the names of the many legendary thoroughbreds that have galloped on Saratoga’s hallowed dirt.

The harmonious design extended to the main track. The nonhistoric Union Avenue entrance was stately yet reserved and blended well with the other structures. The grandstand nearly doubled in size after a 1960s addition but it matches the original in scale and appearance, though it utilizes different materials. Flowers and decorative ironwork serve as decorative elements and are scattered throughout the grounds. The trademark peppermint-striped awnings added flair and provided additional covered seating areas. Everything is meticulously maintained.

The lag between races passed quickly with so much to explore on the 350-acre property. I observed the jockey-mounted horses trotting through the crowd on their way to the track, gulped my first Shake Shack milkshake, listened to a bluegrass band playing in the gazebo, and drank the putrid water spouting from the Big Red Spring. Not even rain showers kept me in my seat for long. This left little time to handicap, as evidenced by my lightened wallet by the time I left. All well. It was a wonderful day nonetheless.


Ca. 1900. Library of Congress. Detroit Publishing Company Photograph Collection.

Enjoying the lawn in 1940. Source: Courtesy of Saratoga Springs Historical Museum, George S. Bolster collection

Racegoers in the 1954. Source: Times Union Archives

Affirmed, the last Triple Crown Winner. Times Union Archives


The Union Avenue entrance.


The grandstand, expanded in the 1960s, is a quarter-mile long.


The oldest portion of the grandstand and clubhouse.


A festival-like atmosphere permeates the grounds on other side of the grandstand. The area includes live music, food tents, and pop-up shops. Oh, and lots more betting windows.



Equestrian designs are everywhere.



TVs showing the races allow picnickers to watch the action while under the maples.


A spring bubbles up on the grounds and is named after Secretariat and Man O’War.


The water tasted like a metal pipe colada.


The paddocks are in view for racegoers.



The horses strut through the crowds on their way to the starting gate.


There are no shortage of betting windows.



Vintage signage.


Here they come.


View of the finish line from the grandstand.



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Rod and Gun Club, Everglades City

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The walls, ceiling, front desk, and stairs at the Rod and Gun Club are all made of locally harvested pecky cypress.

Dozens of unblinking eyes stared at me as I stepped through the lobby and dining room at the Rod and Gun Club, a motor court and restaurant in Everglades City, Florida, that was once a private hunting and fishing getaway for the nation’s most powerful. Of course, the eyes belonged to the musty taxidermy fish, animals, and reptiles hung long ago from the pecky cypress walls. The unofficial living history museum hasn’t changed much since it was built in the 1920s, but that is a good thing.

Everglades City pioneer William Allen constructed a house on the footprint of today’s Rod and Gun Club ca. 1870. Allen sold his holdings to George Storter Jr. in 1889, and the core of the current club structure was built shortly thereafter. There weren’t a whole lot of options for travelers in those parts at the turn of the century, so Storter began to take in wealthy Northern sportsmen and yachters. He expanded his home to accommodate them.

In 1922, Barron Collier bought Storter’s dwelling and much of the land in Everglades City, then known as “Everglades” and before that “Everglade,” to use as his base of operations for construction of the Tamiami Trail, the first road to plow through the wilderness and link southeast and southwest Florida. In exchange for funding the road, Collier, a New York City-based advertising magnate and owner of 1 million acres of Florida land, had just one humble request: that a new county be created and it be named after him. Thus, Collier County was sliced from Lee County in 1923 with Everglades City as the county seat.

Collier converted the old Storter house into a hunting and fishing club for his esteemed friends and guests. The club proved a popular place, attracting rich and powerful men during the winter months eager to drink, smoke, and slaughter creatures out in the boonies. At least five U.S. presidents visited, as did tough guy celebrities such as Ernest Hemingway, John Wayne, and, er, Mick Jagger. (I really want to know the circumstances that brought the Rolling Stones frontman and his then wife, Jerri Hall, there in 1991.)

Everglades City had a brief boom during construction of the Tamiami Trail, boasting a few thousand residents and a trolley at its pinnacle, but the Great Depression halted the growth. Hurricane Donna inundated the town in 1960, and both the Collier Corporation and county government hightailed it for higher pastures. Everglades City and nearby Chokoloskee gained notoriety in the 1970s and 1980s when a number of citizens were busted in drug smuggling crackdowns. Today the community of about 400 people mostly survives on the money brought in by recreational fishermen and eco-tourists who venture into the nearby Everglades National Park. Elevated modular homes–often seasonal residences–are the most popular modern building type. But many Everglades City lots sit empty.

Collier died in 1939, and the Rod and Gun Club remained in the hands of the Collier Corporation until 1962. Now open to the public, the club has been owned by the Bowen family since 1972. I visited on a scalding day earlier this month. I was prepared for the cash only policy; I wasn’t prepared for the lack of air conditioning. The rooms in the original building are no longer rented out because of the fire safety risk, so overnight guests are relegated to the newer–and air conditioned–duplex cottages nearby. The Bowens make no qualms about the lack of upgrades and write on the club’s website: “The Rod and Gun Club does not cater to the needs of all vacationers but to those whom are seeking to experience a piece of history!” My wife and I had lunch on the veranda. It was hot, but the ceiling fans and breeze off the Barron River made it bearable. The food was decent, but the service left a lot to be desired. It didn’t matter. Opportunities to experience a place like the Rod and Gun Club are rare.

The George W. Storter Residence ca. 1915 before Barron Collier converted it into the Rod and Gun Club. Source: State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

The building is located on the Barron River. Source: Everglades Rod and Gun Club

Source: Everglades Rod and Gun Club

Fresh catch on the dock in the 1950s. Source: Collier County Museums Photo Archive

Soon-to-be President Dwight Eisenhower and his wife, Mamie, on the dock in 1951. Source: Collier County Museums Photo Archive

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The main entrance fronts the Barron River. The truck lies; the club wasn’t established in 1864.

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The veranda.

The veranda overlooking the water.

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The front desk and antique cash register.


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Sorry, buddy.

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As close as I will ever get to a panther.

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The large fireplace probably doesn’t need to be used very often.

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The Mrs. checks for a dial tone in the  cypress phone booth.

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A pool table and piano provide the evening entertainment.

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A bar is tucked away off the fireplace in a cozy room.

This is what it looked like in 1950. State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory,

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The dining room.

I wish it still had the chairs from ca. 1950. Source: Collier County Museums Photo Archive

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Pool and waterfall.

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A 1970s lounge area off the pool.

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The jukebox features the greatest modern hits.


I want this chart.


I expected a statue of Barron Collier or a monument at the grandiose circle in the middle of town. Nope. It’s this unsightly radio tower. 

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The Collier Corporation’s laundry building is now the Museum of the Everglades.

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Bank of the Everglades (1926).

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The former Collier County Courthouse (1928), now the city hall.


Former train depot (ca. 1928). The tracks into town have long since been removed.


Modest former Collier Corporation worker housing.


A work boat and crab traps. Stone crabs are a big deal here.

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Everglades City is connected by a causeway to Chokoloskee, about 4 miles to the southeast. The most significant building there is Ted Smallwood’s Store (ca. 1917). Seminole Indians used to trade with Smallwood, and outlaw Ed Watson, of Killing Mr. Watson by Peter Matthiessen fame, was killed there.

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