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Camp fright

The tale of Edgar J. Watson and an area too quiet even for the Everglades leads to some bad dreams.

By TERRY TOMALIN

© St. Petersburg Times,
published October 29, 2001

EVERGLADES CITY -- The park ranger said that by Everglades standards, the bugs out at Watson's Place weren't all that bad.

"What about ghosts?" I asked. "Have you seen any lately?"

Candace Tinkler laughed.

"Some of the rangers talked about going out there and putting on some white sheets, just so you have something to write about," she said. "But this is a government agency ... we couldn't justify the expenditure."

Joke if you like, I thought to myself, but we'll see who's laughing when I return with proof that Edgar J. Watson -- the planter, trader and murderer who terrorized these swamps at the turn of the century -- lived.

"I suppose you don't believe in UFOs and think Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone," I told my friends who had agreed to accompany me on this expedition into the Twilight Zone. They, like Ranger Tinkler, were skeptical of my claims that the scenic National Park Service campground known as the Watson Place was a hotbed of paranormal activity.

"Well good luck," Tinkler said. "Be mindful of the tides and bring plenty of insect repellent. Because the only thing you'll see out there is mosquitoes."

Much has been written about the fabled Watson, a sugar cane farmer who is rumored to have killed more than 50 people, including the notorious Western outlaw, Belle Starr.

"The body count is probably an exaggeration," said Frank Stapleton, a backcountry guide who has spent many a lonely night amid the ruins of Watson's old homestead. "By most accounts, he probably only killed three people, and who knows, that might not even be true."

What is known is this: In 1910 the body of Hanna Smith was found floating in the Chatham River. She had worked upstream at Watson's place, and the folks around Chokoloskee had heard that old Edgar had a habit of killing his help when payday rolled around.

A few days later, when Watson came into town in a small boat powered by the first outboard engine anybody in those parts had seen, the townspeople shot first and asked questions later.

"He didn't even get off a shot," said Stapleton, an amateur Everglades historian. "They killed him where he stood."

The people of Chokoloskee were so intimidated by Watson, they dragged his body 8 miles out to Rabbit Key and buried it, so he could do no one any harm.

"Then maybe we should paddle out to Rabbit Key and see if we can find his ghost out there," I told Stapleton.

"No," he said. "If stories are true, then Watson probably buried some of his victims on the Chatham River site. There should be plenty of ghosts out there."

Watson, like the Calusas who inhabited the area for thousands of years before him, chose the location for a reason. Once you leave Chokoloskee and head inland in a canoe, kayak or motorboat, there are few places to stop.

The Watson Place is located on the only patch of high ground for miles. The Indians hunted and fished here, and left a midden of refuse for the white men to find. Watson farmed sugar cane here, then boiled it into syrup, which he shipped to Key West and Tampa.

"If you think about it, he must have been quite a man," Stapleton said as he surveyed the overgrown homestead. "There was once 40 acres of cleared land and a two-story house, the largest one south of Fort Myers."

Some say Watson got greedy. Not satisfied with being King of Sugar Cane Island, he wanted to be Emperor of the Everglades. But death intervened before he could implement his plan.

"Restless spirits linger," I told my friends. "There is a good chance we might run into Watson's ghost, especially since it is almost Halloween."

Two of my companions, Jon Willis and Phil Flamand, asked what made me such an authority on the subject. For starters, I explained, there wasn't a science fiction/horror movie made that I hadn't seen at least twice.

"Look," Willis said, pointing to the back of the park service that stood at the entrance to the campsite. "Maybe there is something to the stories."

There, scratched deep in the metal by a ghostly fingernail, was a warning:

Spring breakers go home! Ed Watson's ghost doesn't want you here!

Now, as the sun disappeared below the mangroves, we huddled together inside a screened tent to wait for Watson to arrive. The evening passed slowly as we traded stories of ghosts and ghouls. The night air was still, save for the buzzing of thousands of mosquitoes thirsting for our blood.

"Don't you think it is weird that there are no animals, no birds, nothing out here except for us?" I said. "This place must be haunted."

The 15-mile paddle against the current had taken a toll on my companions, and by 9 p.m., everybody was ready for bed. So we retired to our tents and settled in for a restless sleep.

Hour by hour, I tossed and turned, listening for some sign from the other world. Eventually I drifted off into a fitful sleep, plagued by nightmares.

First I dreamed that I was at a Christmas party that had run out of food. Then, I was somehow mysteriously transported to an airport where a security guard discovered a Swiss Army knife in my backpack. "But I always carry one," I tried to explain. "I'm an outdoors writer."

Then, without warning, I found myself alone and in charge of my son's day care class. There were dozens of kids jumping up and down on the tables and chairs ...

"Are you a little girl or a little monkey?" I asked one of the offenders.

"What did you say?" a voice roused me from my slumber. "Nothing," I mumbled.

"Yes you did," Willis insisted. "You asked me if I was a little girl or a little monkey."

I pleaded ignorance and blamed Watson. Flamand and Stapleton started yelling.

"I'm out of here," Willis said. "Next time I'm bring my own tent."

Now, they were really scared.

If you go

The paddle out to Ed Watson's homestead can be hard or easy, depending on the tide. Most paddlers choose the inland route up the Lopez River, across Sunday, Oyster and Huston bays, then down the Chatham River to the Watson Place, a distance of 15 miles.

There is no fresh water and the bugs can be vicious, so plan accordingly. But once the Everglades gets a couple of good cold fronts, the mosquitoes are not quite as bad. A tent with no-see-um netting is a must any time of year.

The primitive camp site does have an outhouse and picnic tables. But no open fires are permitted. Bring a stove and carry out all of your trash.

Keep your food and water in a raccoon-proof container. These pesky critters have been known to chew through the side of a tent to get to some fresh H20.

Backcountry travelers must get a permit at the Ranger Station in Everglades City before hitting the Wilderness Waterway. If the Watson Place camp site is booked, the Lopez River camp site is a good alternative. There are also open-water camp sites at Rabbit, Pavilion and Mormon keys, a similar paddling distance from the put in point at Chokoloskee.

For information, contact the Gulf Coast Visitor's Center, P.O. Box 120, Everglades City, FL 34139, call (941) 696-3311, or log on to www.nps.gov/ever.

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