By Joe Murphy
I yearn to believe, to have deep faith that even as Florida’s population crests 23 million people, there still might be pockets of wild lands that are deep or remote enough to provide habitat for creatures not yet discovered. Or creatures not seen in many a year.
In Florida we call our bigfoot by their proper Florida name: skunk apes. “Skunk” refers to the strong, horrible odor that purportedly surrounds them, while “ape” refers to their primate-like qualities.
My appreciation of conservation biology leads me to profound skepticism. But I do hold out hope that an ivory-billed woodpecker or two still haunt the deepest, most remote swamps and lowlands left in Florida, despite the species being considered extinct. Perhaps they occasionally gaze down at a skunk ape from their secretive perches or cavity trees.
What does it mean when all the mystery of a place is gone? How does that shape our concept of wilderness? Is the darkened swamp more valuable to us because we think something mysterious might still be out there, just beyond what we understand?
Rumor holds that Goethe State Forest (generally northwest of Dunnellon) is a hotbed of sightings of skunk apes. Articles have appeared in local newspapers over the years. Is the truth indeed out there?
When I started my research for this essay, I immediately was drawn to something intriguing and somewhat heartwarming: Those seeking communion with a skunk ape in Goethe frequently take and leave gift baskets for them. In a season of meanness that we find ourselves in, this small act of kindness seems almost quaint and surely heartfelt.
My curiosity about the gift basket sent me down the joyous rabbit hole of distraction as to exactly what one puts in said gift basket. Further research led me to several examples of beef jerky, crackers and loose tobacco being offered as gifts between Homo sapiens and Gigantopithecus Ameripithecus Floridanus (OK, truth be told there is not one accepted scientific name for skunk apes as technically they are not recognized by Western science, but this is the best name I could hobble together after meandering through Google and AI).
One early morning in March, a glorious spring day filled with a sense of exploration and adventure, I left as the sun rose and headed north to Goethe State Forest into a morning rich with possibility.
A convenience store near Inglis offered the gift basket supplies I needed. I assumed a skunk ape would appreciate me opening the beef jerky and cracker packages for them. But loose tobacco did puzzle me. Would they smoke it, and in what?
Chewing tobacco seemed a safe bet. I took great pride in my purchases. I bundled them in a handmade basket my mom had woven. Perhaps sharing the crafts of our species, made by hand in an ancient art form, would strengthen the connection and my odds of communion.
It would be easy to treat this as a goof, a lark of mirth and winks and nudges, but as I drove a deeper set of questions began to form in my mind. Could a state as populated as Florida still harbor a creature that remained a mystery to science? Indeed, had it in days long past when fewer people called the Sunshine State home?
The Seminole word for skunk apes was “Esti Capcki.” Numerous newspaper articles from the 1800s mention sightings. Florida’s human population in 1900 was only roughly 500,000 people, making it the least-populated state in the American South. Oh, how times have changed.
As the day ended and sunset approached, I headed home, with the gift basket retrieved from where I had left it, leaving no trace (take only pictures, leave only footprints). I will, however, be back, bearing gifts and good wishes.
I will take my mystery and wonder of nature through the philosophy of deep ecology, the belief that nature has on its own value separate from us and our needs. The nature we know, as it is, has all the wonder and mystery I need, and needs preservation as it is.
But a skunk ape could not hurt, particularly one with an ivory-billed woodpecker as a neighbor.
Joe Murphy is a native and lifelong Floridian who lives in Brooksville. He occasionally is mistaken for a skunk ape when out on the river or the trail. No apologies needed, but a gift basket wouldn’t hurt. You can follow Joe on Facebook (https://bit.ly/joemurphyfacebook). To learn more about Goethe State Forest, please visit https://www.fdacs.gov/Forest-Wildfire/Our-Forests/State-Forests/Goethe-State-Forest. Banner photo: A sign at Goethe State Forest (Ebyabe, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons).
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