Santa Fe River
Santa Fe River
By Doug Alderson
Excerpt from Florida’s Rivers: A Celebration of Over 40 of the Sunshine State’s Dynamic Waterways by Doug Alderson, published by Pineapple Press in 2021
The 75-mile Santa Fe River originates in Lake Santa Fe near Keystone Heights and flows north of Gainesville before doing what several other Florida rivers do—swirl underground. The phenomena were accurately described by J. R. Motte in 1837 while on duty as a surgeon in the Second Seminole War: “About eight miles from Newnansville we crossed the Santa-Fee [Santa Fe] river, over the natural bridge. Had we not been told by our guide at the moment, we should never have suspected that there was anything like a river in our vicinity. This spot exhibited another specimen of Nature’s freaks, which I have already noticed; but here it was on a much larger scale. The river, which a week previous had overflowed this spot to a swimming depth, and a width of half a mile, now passed quietly underground a distance of three miles, forming a natural bridge of that width; when it again emerges into daylight, and shows itself flowing in a broad and deep channel.”
The natural bridge had been used as a Native American trail for millennia since it bypassed the need for a river crossing. The Spanish followed it as well and used it as part of their east-west mission trail, also known as el Camino Real, the Royal Road. It ran from the Apalachee Province near present-day Tallahassee to St. Augustine. The Bellamy Road, built in the early 1800s by the American government, generally followed the same route. The spot where the Santa Fe River disappears underground is now part of Oleno State Park, one of the first state parks built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s. The river re-emerges three miles later at River Rise State Park and flows another 35 miles to the Suwannee River. Most of the large springs for which the river is renowned are between High Springs and the Suwannee. These include Gilchrist Blue, now a state park, Rum Island, Ginnie and Lily.
Lily Spring is smaller than most of its counterparts but was best known for its long-time caretaker, Naked Ed, one of the last of Florida’s colorful hermits. For many years he lived in a tiny hut near the spring and generally wore a loin cloth or his birthday suit, weather permitting. Since 1986, Ed Watts, alias Naked Ed, took care of Lily Spring and greeted paddlers. On one mid-winter visit, we found the bearded naturist fully clothed and sitting beside a fire in front of his palm frond covered hut. The only thing naked was his prominent bald head. Temperatures in the fifties evidently deterred the famous hermit, but he did say he stripped down on a recent cold day at the request of visitors from Michigan who knew of his fame. “I hate to disappoint people,” he said. “I’ve posed for pictures with all kinds of people, even church groups. And a few will actually take their clothes off, too, for a dip in the springs. But if they’re uncomfortable with me being naked, I’ll slip on a loin cloth, especially if kids are around.” I had heard that Ed had a collection of different loin cloths, but he didn’t volunteer to show them to us.
Ed was surprised to see anyone paddling the river given the earlier rain and cool weather and he regaled us with stories of how he prevented people from trashing the springs and turning it into a party spot, and how he was interviewed every semester by University of Florida journalism students—usually pretty young women, he said. But what was really on his mind was the potential sale of the ten-acre Lily Spring property since it had been up for sale. He was helping the owners screen would-be buyers. “You can tell if they’re serious or not,” he said. Of course, Ed wanted to continue being the caretaker of Lily Spring if it was sold. “I’d hate to leave this place,” he said.
Numerous hand-lettered signs posted on trees reminded guests of Ed’s philosophy of non-judgment regarding nudity—“I’m not qualified to cast the first stone. Are you?” Other signs advocated a respect for nature, and one asserted that “man is the most dangerous animal in the jungle.”
Ed said he loved having respectful and sober visitors, especially “girls in their twenties,” although he assured them he was harmless. What would a Santa Fe River Adam fantasize about other than an Eve? People often wondered if Ed was simply a lecherous old man or some kind of folk hero? Perhaps he was an amalgamation of both.
Ed’s public nudity emerged from a childhood disease. He was born with brittle-bone disease and he spent a lot of time in hospitals, becoming accustomed to being naked in front of nurses and doctors. Once he was an adult, after working various jobs, it became dangerous for him to work since he could so easily break bones. He once broke a rib while coughing. He began to receive government disability and wanted to move to a place where he would be comfortable in his birthday suit, and people would be comfortable—or tolerate—him. A 1985 canoe trip down the Santa Fe River turned him on to Lily Spring, and a dire need to clean it up, and so a rent-free arrangement was made with the owners. Ed became the unofficial caretaker. And so the renowned “wild man of Lily Spring” was born. Ailments forced Ed to leave his beloved spring a few years after our visit, but the legend lives on. A beer in High Springs still bears his name—Naked Ed’s Pale Ale.
St. Petersburg Times reporter Jeff Klinkenberg penned an article about Naked Ed in 2000. “Ed is a throwback to an era mostly gone,” Klinkenberg concluded. “Once every corner of our state boasted a genuine eccentric living in the woods or on the water. But like panthers and crocodiles, few were able to survive civilized Florida. Yet Real Florida hangs on. There are woods and swamps just big enough to harbor endangered wildlife, and a few hidey holes that can shelter an endangered hermit or two.”
Another Florida river once harbored a well-known hermit. The “wild man of the Loxahatchee”—Trapper Nelson—was a Tarzan-like figure in southeast Florida from the 1930s until the mid-1960s. Often going shirtless (not naked) to reveal his muscular physique and barrel chest, Nelson would entertain visitors with a huge indigo snake draped over his shoulders. He trapped animals for fur and operated a small zoo along the river. His homestead is now part of Jonathan Dickinson State Park (see Loxahatchee River description).
On almost every trip down the Santa Fe River, what is apparent is that the river environs serve as a wildlife haven. A myriad of plate-sized turtles is usually poking their heads above the surface or sunning on logs. Numerous birds line the shores or dart across the waterway—great egrets, wood ducks, wood storks, white ibis, anhingas, bald eagles, great blue herons, crows, red-shouldered hawks, pileated woodpeckers and kingfishers. Most are in pairs and seem unafraid. “It’s like Noah’s Ark,” one friend observed. Indeed, if Noah had needed a near complete representation of North Florida riverine wildlife species, he would have come to the Santa Fe River. But would there have been any room for hermits in his survivalist scheme?
A highlight of any Florida trip are river otters frolicking along the shore. On one Santa Fe River trip, a pair of them dove into the water as we approached and ducked into a den inside an embankment. We could hear them inside, communicating in a language only known to otters, their voices echoing in what was likely a small cave.
As much as the Santa Fe is a wildlife haven, it does have its share of problematic issues and threats. Over the past few years, the river has had chronically low water levels, a result of below average rainfall combined with increased aquifer withdrawals. And still, water bottlers seek to withdraw more water from the river’s springs. Opposition has been growing and some proposals have been defeated or delayed, especially in light of periodic historic low water levels. The low water was evident at one rocky stretch where we had to step out of our watercraft and push them along the shallow stretch for thirty feet. And only a quarter mile above the Highway 27 Bridge, a rocky span fifty feet wide completely blocked the river.
The Santa Fe’s water quality has become degraded over the past few years, too. Massive algae blooms are sometimes apparent, especially near blockages where there is inadequate flushing. Litter is another issue, mostly during the warm months below the launch for tubers at the privately-owned Ginnie Springs. Despite frequent clean-ups, the number of bottles and cans (mostly beer) below the tube launch can be problematic. Perhaps the river needs more caretakers like Naked Ed.
Janice Hindson, Executive Director