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Brush Shrouds Burial Mounds

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By BAIRD HELGESON, The Tampa Tribune

Published: September 16, 2007

COCKROACH BAY - Lewis F. Symmes III doesn't consider himself a rich man, but he does have an island.
Symmes and his family have irritated government officials for three generations by refusing to sell their undeveloped island deep in the Cockroach Bay Aquatic Preserve in southern Hillsborough County.

There is no bridge to the tiny outpost about 100 yards from shore in the 8,583-acre preserve.

The myths surrounding the island called Big Cockroach Mound are legend in these parts. Symmes is a bit of a mystery himself. Local lore has it that Symmes is a recluse, perhaps nearing 100, who relies on friends to check on his island. A couple of anglers said they heard that a governor gave him the island as a favor.

In truth, the man locals call 'Old Man Symmes' is the third generation of Symmeses to own the land. The man said to be a curmudgeonly hermit is a chatty retired quality-control engineer for TRW Inc.'s Delta and Atlas space programs.

The island was once part of a failed get-rich-quick plan concocted by Symmes' grandfather. Then there are the stories of buried pirate treasure.

In reality, Big Cockroach Mound is a 10-acre isle of seashells covered by dense, thorny brush, mangroves and gumbo limbo trees. The island is home to three American Indian burial mounds, making it the most archaeologically significant land in the preserve. Artifacts are so significant that workers with the Smithsonian Institute once traveled here to produce a map of the island and its contents.

The harsh wilderness allows Eastern indigo snakes and black-and-yellow garden spiders to thrive. The matchbook-size spiders weave glistening tapestries of webs that hang from tree limbs and sparkle in the morning sun.

In recent years, a few adventure-seeking campers, pot smokers and treasure hunters have been spotted there. The tallest seashell mound is 35 feet and is said to be one of the highest points south of Gainesville, offering a panoramic view of Cockroach Bay to the south and downtown St. Petersburg to the west.

Symmes, 76, is proud the island remains in his family's hands, and he delights in recounting the government and private offers for the property. State and local wildlife officials have viewed the island as a final piece to complete the aquatic preserve, which was created in 1976 to protect coastal wetlands.

'It's the only thing we have left of Old Florida, and we intend to keep it,' Symmes said.

And why not? There are no buildings on the land so insurance isn't needed, and the assessed value of $5,625 means the annual tax bill is $114.57.

'A lot of people want that island, but I like knowing we own it,' he said.

Entrepreneurial Venture
Cockroach Bay Road, which runs like a belt through wilderness in the middle of the aquatic preserve, ends at a tiny boat ramp across the water from the island.

Most mornings, dozens of anglers drive to the boat ramp to slip their flat boats into the water before the sun breaks the horizon.
Symmes grew up in Riverview and spent much of his career on Florida's east coast. He and his wife, Betty, retired to a small condominium in Sun City Center, a 15-minute drive to the island. He comes to the boat ramp every few weeks to check on the island, but he never identifies himself to the locals.

Symmes' grandfather bought the island in 1908 for $1,000 from the family of Fred B. Walker, who killed himself there. Walker had lived in a small home on the island for years, and reportedly his job was to maintain a shipping light on nearby Beacon Key.

Lewis Symmes Jr. and a partner, Tampa banker L.L. Buchanan, viewed the deal as an entrepreneurial venture, not a way to preserve the land. They planned to sell the mounds of seashells for material to build roads that had begun to stretch across Florida.

The elder Symmes didn't anticipate two problems that would scrap his plan.

First, he and his partner never devised a good way to get shells off the island. They built a walk bridge that proved too small to remove shells in large quantities. A storm later washed away the bridge.

Second, Symmes never foresaw that asphalt would become the preferred road-building material in Florida.

The island languished, becoming a fishing retreat for the family and a landing for a passenger boat out of St. Petersburg that brought tourists to climb the mound.

Members of the Glades culture, which included several American Indian tribes, built the mounds about 2,000 years ago, mainly from discarded shells of the seafood eaten by natives, said Rodney Kite-Powell with the Tampa Bay History Center. The island could have been part of the mainland back then, and the mounds could have had a ceremonial purpose, he said.

In the mid-1930s, Symmes recalls being a young child in his grandfather's arms when they found workers digging up the island for the Smithsonian.

'I remember seeing the Indian bones all lined up in a row,' he said. 'And my grandfather told them they were knowingly trespassing, and he told them to leave.'

The Smithsonian documented hundreds of artifacts and the remains of 224 bodies, about half young children and infants, perhaps signs of an epidemic.

The Smithsonian never extracted all the artifacts on the island, which has attracted countless scavengers and fueled speculation about buried treasure.

Local archaeologists said a small group of treasure hunters think pirates buried their bounty on the island. Treasure hunters also think the tall mounds of seashells would have been an ideal place for pirates to hide gold and other loot.

'It's absurd,' said Bill Burger, an archaeologist who has been on the island three times over the past 35 years. 'But the more you denigrate the myth, the stronger it seems to become.'

Preserve staff members don't want people to know they have no authority or presence on the island to shoo off would-be trespassers. They try to ward off treasure hunters and fledgling archaeologists who dig deep holes on the land and then wreck or steal the remaining artifacts.

Randy Runnels, who manages the aquatic preserve, is worried that Symmes' hands-off ownership style will lead to the loss of artifacts.

'It would be good to get it under someone's management,' he said.

About the time Symmes' father inherited the island, federal and state agencies started to purchase nearby sod farms, vegetable fields and abandoned shell mines for what became the preserve.

Government officials tried to buy the island several times over the decades but generally never offered more than a few thousand dollars. In the late 1980s, as Symmes' father was dying, the state offered $89,000.

'I told them I'd take a million,' Symmes said, recounting the story with a laugh. 'They left me alone after that.'

Others have tried to lay claim to the property.

In 1975, two Hillsborough County men, Tom Whitaker and Palmer Smith, erroneously tried to give the island to Hillsborough County government. Symmes quickly intervened to point out they didn't own it.

Then several years ago, the island became tangled in real estate shenanigans when someone sold a bogus deed to a buyer in the Carolinas.
Symmes researched the transaction and got a quit-claim deed to ensure the property remained in the family.

'I am sure it was just a little oversight,' he said with a laugh. 'It just shows you that you've got to watch, even when you own something.'

An Island With A Heartbeat
Symmes owns the island with two cousins, who both live in the Tampa Bay area. He holds the deed and has been the family's lead representative in island matters.

Yet Symmes hasn't been there in years. He has little interest in bushwhacking through the brush or contending with the smoky plumes of mosquitoes and no-see-ums.

Like his grandfather and his father, he hopes to pass it on to his oldest son, James Lewis Symmes, who lives nearby on the Little Manatee River and works for Caterpillar, the heavy equipment manufacturer.

'It means a lot to me to have it stay in the family,' he said. 'I'm not rich, but I don't need the money enough to sell it.'

Symmes' son has no interest in selling the island, either.

'I am all about doing what we've done all along and just sit on it,' he said. 'The way it is now is the way it needs to be.'

Locals don't care whether the island is in private or public hands, but they count it among the state's last wilderness areas.

Billy Wheat, who works for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission, spends his workweek sitting under a large umbrella at the boat ramp at the end of Cockroach Bay Road. He and his yellow lab, Barney, wait for anglers to return so he can document their catch and track fish migratory patterns.

Wheat has been to the island a time or two over the past seven years, the thrill of the adventure outweighing the threat of a trespassing citation.

Wheat spends his slow time looking across the water wondering what natural mysteries are unfolding on the island.

'That place has its own heartbeat,' he said.

Reporter Baird Helgeson at (813) 259-7668 or bhelgeson@tampatrib.com.

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