There is something about a big, empty beach that makes you realize how little you need to be happy beyond your brood (and a Frisbee). When your family has the run of a shore so quiet and elemental, you feel both zenlike and Swiss Family Robinson–adventurous.
As it turns out, such a sense of discovery is still possible here in the U.S., in a corner of Florida known as the Forgotten Coast. This roughly hundred-mile-long stretch along the Gulf of Mexico, comprising several barrier islands and a village named Apalachicola, certainly does have screen saver–perfect beaches. But you'll also find dense forests to hike through, quiet bays, and time-warp seafood restaurants. And the region's nickname isn't just a clever tourist-board invention: The area is still relatively undiscovered.
The parks system, which got its hands on this land before developers did, deserves the thanks for that. Since the 1980s, 87 percent of Franklin County—the southern portion of which is the Forgotten Coast—has been designated federal or state parkland. The remaining 13 percent is occupied by a smattering of vacation homes and modest hotels. (Zoning laws forbid buildings taller than 35 feet.)
Most families head to the largest and most popular island, the 23-mile-long St. George. Here, nouveau-plantation vacation houses (many available to rent by the week for a steal) give way to a 1,962-acre state park, where it's still possible to stake out a vacant strip of beach with a rear view of the palmetto-and-pine forest. Another island, the uninhabited wildlife reserve St. Vincent, hosts an average of 10 visitors a day—in high season. You can rent bikes on the mainland, ride them along the packed sand, and see who can spot the most intact tulip shells.
The rest of the Forgotten Coast is also ripe for exploration. The creepy name alone makes Tate's Hell Forest fascinating. (The story goes that in 1875, farmer Cebe Tate got lost there for a week; by the time he finally stumbled out, his hair had turned white.) These days, easy paths cut through the thicket of lollipop-shaped pine trees, and a boardwalk extends over a sweep of rare dwarf cypresses. Down the road is Apalachicola National Forest, which teems with carnivorous pitcher plants. And a bit to the southwest is St. Joseph Bay—yep, also state-protected—where even toddlers can wade into the water to scoop up fluorescent blue–eyed scallops with a dip net.
When you want a little dose of civilization, you can have it in the bay- and riverfront town of Apalachicola. In this circa-1900 village, formerly a booming port, Old South meets new yuppie: Charming buildings listed on the National Register of Historic Places house antiques shops, wine bars, and art galleries, along with kitschy souvenir stores, fried-fish joints, and a 1950s soda fountain. On the edge of town, kids can handle whale skulls and turtle shells at an interactive marine-life museum, then head to the dock to gawk at the patinated old shrimp boats with names like Classy Lady.
Although tourism is slowly overtaking fishing as the top moneymaker here, the area is in little danger of becoming MTV's next spring-break location. Even the top foodie destination, the Indian Pass Raw Bar—an oyster restaurant that has received glowing reviews from The New York Times and Chowhounders—hasn't changed much since it opened in the 1980s. At this highwayside shack, diners still grab their own drinks and economy-size boxes of saltines from the back, then eat oysters straight off plastic trays. On a map hung on one wall, visitors (both local fisherman and tourists) tack up notes about their dining experiences on torn bits of paper towel. One note in grade-school scrawl sums it up neatly: "Awsome."
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