I’ve been the lead naturalist at Castellow Hammock Preserve and Nature Center for several years now and, in that time, have had many opportunities to roam the tangled wilderness that makes up its massive rockland hammock1. These treks have given me some of my best moments in nature: being overwhelmed in beauty and silence, identifying a plant or animal that I’ve never seen before, occasional moments of panic before reorienting myself, but mostly just pondering on the mysteries of the forest. From its bedrock and below, to the tops of the ancient giants towering above me, I’ve never had the same experience twice and for that I am beyond grateful. Of all the things that I have seen on my hikes, one thing that has eluded me are fruit trees. Not trees that fruit, but conventional fruit trees grown for our consumption.
Those who are familiar with Redland, Florida, where Castellow Hammock is located, know that fruit trees are in abundance, usually found in groves of long, parallel rows dedicated to one or two varieties. Avocados can be grown almost year round, everyone loves when the Mangos come (except those with pollen allergies), and Lychees have a brief, but coveted season. James Castellow, of whom Castellow Hammock was named, famously grew oranges and was one of the first to grow citrus in Redland at the turn of the nineteenth century.
So, imagine you are a citrus farmer in South Dade circa 1900. You’ve claimed your plot of pine rockland/rockland hammock and you’re ready to get down to business. You are faced with an arduous task. Oolitic limestone bedrock sits just beneath the surface of the land you are standing on. In many cases, it is clearly exposed. They don’t call it rockland for nothing. Achieving perfect rows of trees in quantities where you can actually turn a profit means that you are digging and crushing limestone to make holes… hundreds of holes. This is before the game-changing rock plow was invented and employed. Dynamite could be purchased2, but blowing up the rock would be a tremendous amount of work as well. Our error here is how we perceive fruit groves in general. Early South Dade citrus growers had to get creative and they did so by planting fruit trees in solution holes.
Solution Holes are a prominent feature in pine rocklands and rockland hammocks. In Castellow Hammock there are so many that I often stumble upon (sometimes literally) new ones depending on where my hikes take me. They are of all shapes and depths and the micro climates that form inside of them welcome rare endemic ferns3 and the sprawling roots of hardwood trees. Often filled with water after days of heavy summer rainfall, they are dank, to say the least. I feel it’s important to note that they are not just filling from above, but from below as the water table rises. This made solution holes attractive to prehistoric animals and indigenous people, whose remains are sometimes found within the muddy detritus pancaked at the bottom. Not all solution holes are massive and it is not uncommon to happen upon a field of smaller, shallower holes. All the same, smaller holes still collect rainwater, and their muddy bottoms teem with organic matter. Planting the trees in them would eliminate the need for digging or blowing stuff up. Initially, James Castellow did just that.
Castellow farmed on roughly 33 of the 160 acres he claimed through the Homestead Act of 18624. We are thankful to him because this means that most of the preserve is completely untouched by people. His earliest trees were planted within solution holes in an area of pineland that has long been taken over by hardwood trees. This was not newfound knowledge. In fact, this method of farming, known as Pothole Farming, has been utilized in the Caribbean for centuries. Eventually, Castellow did start planting with uniformity as the tools to create organized rows became more prominent. This was before a canker5 in 1913 took over his grove and the government burned it down with kerosene flamethrowers (not exaggerating). Castellow moved further west and continued to farm until his death in 1934. After his death, botanists, snail collectors, and explorers began calling his original property Castellow’s Hammock.
On one of my first off-trail hikes, I decided to walk one of our service roads to a dead-end where you are met with dense hammock. I entered, walking back in the general direction of the nature center. Shortly into my hike, a caterpillar fell onto my right arm. It was black with intermittent orange spots dotting its length. I knew it was a moth, but not the species. I continued on, occasionally looking down at the caterpillar and nearly fell into a huge solution hole that seemed to just suddenly appear. The caterpillar was that of a Citrus Piercing Moth, native to South Florida. While moths tend to be opportunists when it comes to their host plants, the adult Citrus Piercing Moth gets its name for its love of piercing mature fruits and causing harvest-destroying bacterial and fungal infections. They’re a real pain to growers but I thought nothing of its presence in the hammock at the time.
That same week, I met a man who had been coming to Castellow since before Hurricane Andrew6. He was a bird watcher who spent most of his time in the front acreage of the park where rarer migratory birds are more likely to be seen. We spoke for several minutes, slowly exchanging knowledge: His of Castellow’s past before I started working there, and mine of ecology and South Florida’s bat sh*t insane history. He asked me, “Are there still fruit trees on the trail?” I responded that I had no idea, “Were there fruit trees on the trail before?” He nodded, explaining that he used to be able to pick tangerines and grapefruits right from the trail, before Hurricane Andrew, of course. I was astounded. I had known Papaya to be a bit invasive in our hammocks, but grapefruit? We have historic plant inventories7 in old management documents at the park, so I pulled one out from 1991 to take a look. Citrus x paradise (grapefruit), Citrus limon (lemon), Citrus reticulata (tangerine), and Citrus sinensis (sweet orange) were all listed. The document also confirmed in a short blurb that James Castellow planted fruit trees in solution holes.
Since then, I have spoken with multiple old-timers who have continued to corroborate the birdwatcher’s claims. I think about that early hike and the caterpillar that fell onto my arm. Numerous hikes have followed and new solution holes continue to reveal themselves8. I still actively search for any remnants of these alleged fruit trees. So far, I’ve come up empty. Being so attached to South Florida’s history, I often wonder if the myth of these trees will fade into obscurity over the years and I’ll be that old-timer talking about the time I heard about the time that they existed. Perhaps one day, at the ripe (pun intended) old age of who knows, I’ll take one last walk9 along the trail at Castellow and, there before me, the glistening skin of a perfect grapefruit or tangerine will present itself. I will pick it, take a bite, and a gag realizing a Citrus Piercing Moth had already gotten to it. Jerk.
Some appendices to my rambling:
1. I would get a massive slap on the wrist if I didn’t say that hiking off trail in the preserve is prohibited and I am only able to due to my position.
2. Anderson’s Corner, right down the street, was a general store built in 1911 and still stands although it is dilapidated and inaccessible. It was famously known to sell everything from “dynamite to lace.”
3. Many of these rare ferns are either endangered or completely extirpated from the park and we work closely with botanists in identifying and preserving them when found. This is also one of many reasons why you should never go inside a solution hole.
4. Castellow made his claim in 1902 and began carrying citrus trees one by one on his back along Old Cutler Road (just Cutler Road at the time?) from an old property to his new one… or so the story goes.
5. Sound familiar mid-90s Miami kids? Canker is the reason random dudes showed up at your house and yanked out your citrus trees after it was detected in 1995.
6. I’ve found that Hurricane Andrew is often used as a metric of time for longtime residents of Redland, Florida City, Homestead, and the general South Dade region. Essentially, South Dade is divided into BHA and AHA eras.
7. You’ll never see these historic plant lists, but I assure you, they exist. In fact, come by the park and ask me to see them. Then you will see them!
8. Twice now I’ve spoken of solution holes as if they themselves are myths, only appearing randomly, especially when you’re not paying attention.
9. Or kayak!... Sorry, sobering naturalist joke. Also, I realize we are high above sea level here. Calm down.