We Find "The Crack"!

Okay.

One of our goals at staying at the Chassahowitzka River Campground was to kayak to a spring called "The Crack". I'd seen photos of the spring and it got its name for obvious reasons. It looks like a giant crack in the limestone substrate. The guides I'd read said that it was a simple matter of leaving the boat ramp and paddling upstream for a while to the tributary on the left and then another paddle of about forty minutes or so to the spring.

As we headed out on the river, we saw that the weather was looking iffy with some ominous looking clouds gathering in the distance and drifting in off the Gulf of Mexico. But it didn't look all that bad and there was no lightning and thunder. It looked like a safe bet, so we headed downstream.

In quick order we found what appeared to be the tributary on the left and took off in that direction, away from the main channel. However, we soon realized that it was a dead end and was, in fact, a spot called "Grouper Hole" that has its own submerged spring and is just mainly a backwater. Okay to look at but nothing special. We tracked back out and headed into the main river again and continued on.

Then we saw the actual tributary that held our goal. It's easy to spot because the channel is split in half by a very tiny island that sprouts a few trees and sits in the midst of the pure spring water emerging from that stream. We turned again and headed that direction.

This was a very fun paddle. The scenery is excellent and there is a tremendous amount of wildlife, including enormous schools of fish, both freshwater and saltwater. The Gulf is only about ten miles away at this point and some saltwater species will come this far up the rivers to congregate in big groups. Especially the striped mullet which you see darting about everywhere in gigantic shoals of fishflesh.

We also got a huge kick out of the trip because the channel narrows along one section to not much more than the width of your paddles! When you dip your paddle into the water on either side you tend to encounter at least some of the marsh grass that presses in on either side. It feels like living in the setting of a Johnny Weismuller TARZAN movie; which is fitting because some of those films were shot on Florida's big freshwater springs (and the spring runs produced by them).

After we'd pass through these narrow areas we would come to some vast, open pools. These were always packed with fish, so the fishing has to be great here. I'd like to come back next time and try my hand at angling.

We had been told to watch for a street sign that some mischievous paddler had erected. This would mark the final approach to the spring. From here on in, we were told, the tributary got very shallow and that the last 100 feet or so required you to leave your kayak on the bank and walk the rest of the way to the spring. In fact, the information was exactly correct and we did this, wading through shin-deep water to see our destination.

The Crack is what it looks like: a huge linear break in the limestone rock. Emerging from it are millions of gallons of clear water. The pool itself is not very deep--not much more than waist-high. That is until you reach the Crack itself. Then it plunges down very deep indeed. It might be a good cave diving site, but I'm not sure. I do know that even in the crystal clear water the depths fade to black.

All the while we were kayaking to this point, the clouds kept gathering in greater volume; thicker and darker. Not ten minutes after we arrived at our goal they opened up in a tremendous downpour. If it had just been some mild sprinkles or a light rain, we would have stayed. But this was a soaking, pounding gusher of a rain. So we packed up our stuff back into our kayaks and headed back out. And, of course, as soon as we got back to the main channel of the Chassahowitzka, the weather broke and the rain stopped.

Oh, well.

We plan to return to see The Crack again. We'll do as we did on that paddle, and visit it on a weekday when there are no crowds. Because we actually did have it all to ourselves.

See the tiny island in mid-stream? You're on the right track!

There were Spider lilies in bloom along the banks.

This was actually part of the wrong turn we made. Still beautiful.

One of the points where the creek begins to become very narrow, indeed. This was a lot of fun!

Emerging from one of the narrow sections.

When you get to this last, big pool, you're close to the goal. If you look in the center of the photo you will spy the street sign that some jokester nailed to a trunk.

Closeup of the sign.

The shallow stream leading to The Crack.

I love kayaking in these places! They are gorgeous.

We arrive at the aptly named "The Crack". Doesn't look terribly deep due to the amazing clarity of the water, but I assure you that the area at the headspring (top of the photo) is extremely deep.

Carole wading out in the pool. We were just about ready to go swimming when...

The clouds opened up! It was a gusher of a storm. All of our stuff that we'd brought with which to sit around the pool and have lunch was getting soaked, so we packed up and headed out.

Back at camp, Carole whips up a dinner of grilled potatoes/onions/peppers and barbecued chicken wings.

Journey to The Crack

Well...work on THE NEW ECOLOGY OF DEATH trumps talking about the kayak trip to find "The Crack". I'll write about it tomorrow. I promise.

Gorgeous scenery on the way to find "The Crack".

The terrain in getting there was like being in an old Tarzan movie.

Tomorrow...

Tomorrow I hope to be able to post a more detailed blog. Today, though, I'm working like crazy on THE NEW ECOLOGY OF DEATH. Must finish that book...my last word on the zombie mythos.

What I hope to write about tomorrow was a great adventure Carole and I had on a kayak trip to find a spring known simply as "the Crack". When you actually see it, you'll understand how it got its name.

Ominous clouds begin to gather above us as we kayak down the Chassawhowitzka River toward the mysterious spring known as "The Crack". Would we find it? Did the Heavens spare us from bad weather? Stay tuned...

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Trying like Hell to finish THE NEW ECOLOGY OF DEATH. I altered the plot a bit and had to go back and add some more details to make the novel flow accordingly. This is what happens when the characters get away from you. It really does happen, outline be damned.

Took a brief walk in a local park to clear my head. It's nice to walk into even a small patch of forest, but one thing that you cannot do in a city park is get away from the sounds of motors. It just ain't gonna happen. And it kills off any attempt I make to find some true peace.

A local park where I went to sit and find some solitude and some quiet time.

Saved From Certain Destruction

Whenever I'm in the Crystal River area of Florida I like to visit the Crystal River Archeological Site. It's composed of a set of various mounds that are pre-Columbian. These are some of the oldest known mounds in North America.

Recently much has been made of the destruction of an ancient temple mound in Belize. When a construction company destroyed a huge artifact of the pre-Columbian civilization for the building stone that was held within it. But this is nothing new. The history of the Americas is packed with such stories, and you don't have to range far to find them.

The main temple mound at the Crystal River site was almost destroyed by a real estate

developer for the very same reason the one in Belize was destroyed. The capitalist asswipe wanted the material of which the temple was constructed to use in building nearby roads and houses. To this cause a bulldozer was used to begin dismantling the huge mound, and only last-minute intervention prevented him from going through with it.

As it was, even though most of the main mound was saved, the enormous ramp that led to the summit of the temple mound was all but wiped out, the oyster shell material of which it was made carted away to serve as foundations for roads and concrete.

Carole ascending the main temple mound.

Because this rapacious money-grubbing bastard was halted in his destructive drive, we have the mound system today in a fairly intact plot. One can see the two major temple mounds, the big burial mound, and several other mound systems within the small park. And looking at these, one can get a general idea of what the place may have looked like when it was a major local village in the days long before Europeans arrived to lay ruin to it all.
 

The side of the mound. You can see where the ramp used to be but was removed by bulldozers and dump trucks.

 I have a lot of affection for this park. I first visited it when I was a young child with my father. It hasn't changed much since those days, decades gone. And I'm glad that it has been effectively protected for all to see and enjoy.

The back of the mound closest to the water where most of the damage was done. This entire side of the huge temple mound was utterly destroyed, along with the material that made up the vast ramp that led down to the plaza area of the complex.

This was part of a series of stones that were apparently used in worship services. You can still make out part of a human figure carved into this side of the stone. (In the center, toward the top, you can make out two eyes and an open mouth. Not unlike the face in Edvard Munch's THE SCREAM.)

Carole enjoying the view from the top of the main temple mound.

 Mayan Temple Destroyed.


And don't forget! Buy yer copy of WITHERING now!

"Often the monster is just a misunderstood anti-hero. But sometimes it's a murdering, blood-thirsty asshole!"

WITHERING!

BOIDS!

Today...just birds. I really have to finish these writing projects! All of these photos were taken on our recent Florida vacation to visit first and second magnitude fresh water springs.

Great egret.

Lesser blue heron.

Lesser blue heron (in the weeds).

Another Great egret.

One of the tallest birds in North America: Great blue heron.

The Limpkin.

Barred owl.

Another Great blue hero. As top dog, they are everywhere on the waterways.

One of our two vulture species: the Black buzzard.
"Adieu!"

I Knew It Was Snake Before I Picked It Up.

After pursuing a career working for the big publishers in comics I had managed to get my toe in the door. So I had figured that with the door opened a bit I could force my foot in there and argue my case through that slim crack of opportunity. And that door had not only NOT opened a sliver more, it had been slammed in the old face and a barricade apparently erected on the other side to keep me out.

Alas.

I figured things couldn't possibly get any worse.

Soon, there was injury to be added to insult.

One thing the folk at Marvel had learned long ago was that you could reprint previously published

material in collected formats and sell them all over again. But it wasn't quite like the old days when they did that without paying the original creators. By the 1980s they paid for reprints, albeit at a lower rate. Also, they paid royalties if the sales of a particular book went over a certain number. I had received royalty payments for my HELLRAISER story that had appeared in issue #2 of the book. By the time my later stories appeared, in #5 and #6, the sales figures had apparently fallen below that threshold. I never did receive royalty payments on those.

Well, Marvel/Epic did begin to produce reprint editions of the HELLRAISER stories. My yarn, "Divers Hands" from issue #2 made it into the first volume of collected stories. Featuring my creation, the cenobite called Hunger. And I got a check for that story--at a reduced rate since it was a reprint. But I did get paid.

After banging the old noggin against the reinforced doors at Marvel and DC I continued to hold out hope that I could make some money by writing for the industry. Hardly a week went by when I wasn't working on some kind of pitch or script to try to break in once again. In the meantime I was continuing to make the bulk of my living as a dealer in new and collectible comics, heading off to conventions all over the US to do so. And one day I walked into the dealer's room at a comic convention and one of my colleagues was setting up shop. As I was looking at his offerings of new books I saw a stack of HELLRAISER titles I had never seen. These were hardback, apparently leatherbound limited editions. They were also sealed so that I couldn't see the contents, but I quickly discovered that at least one of the volumes (there were two different ones that day) had at least one story that I had written.

However, I had not received a dime in compensation. And I had not received even one contributor's copy. I was pissed, and I was also puzzled. So, when I got home I made calls to

Marvel until I got in touch with the fellow who was filling the shoes of the editor to whom I had originally sold.

"Hey," says I. "There's a hardcover HELLRAISER book out with my work and I haven't received any notice or any compensation. What's going on?"

"Oh. Those," said the editor. "Those aren't books."

"What? What do you mean 'they're not books'?"

"Those are merchandise. As merchandise, the only ones who receive payment would be Mr. Barker and New Line Cinema."

Silence from me.

"So, I'm busy," says the new editor. "Anything else I can help you with?"

Click.

Well, I reckon this is what I should have expected. As I said, it wasn't as if I wasn't warned. And it wasn't as if I didn't know the history of Marvel and DC. If they can rip off guys like Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko, then why would they hesitate for one second to rip off a bunch of minor authors writing Hellraiser stories for a title they knew would run its course in quick order and soon be defunct?

You see, I was blind to all that. Basically, what I wanted to do was write superhero stories based on characters created by men who had largely been raped and robbed by Marvel Comics. What the Hell was I thinking? In fact, though, I hadn't been thinking, at all. The only thing that I wanted was to write for a living, working for the very company that ripped off its creators and celebrated the men who did the thieving. I hadn't paused one goddamned second to think of the victimization of Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko.

Not long after this, brooding on the whole, sorry situation, I walked away from comics. Although I had only very briefly and very peripherally worked in comics as a writer, I had experienced mainly nothing but the negative side of things. In the small presses, (except for Steve Bissette's TABOO), I had encountered publishers who paid late, or failed to pay at all, or lied to keep from paying me for work I had done for them. Among the larger publishers I had encountered the Big Professional Circle Jerk that blocked almost everyone not working in the publisher's offices. When I had happened upon those very few editors who were willing to look at outside work (Dan Chichester, Stuart Moore, etc.), those fellows were removed or chose to go on to other things, leaving me without an objective contact.

In the years since, I have worked from time to time in the small press. The experiences there have not been good, either. One publisher made quite a profit on one book I wrote (and which was penciled and inked by friends of mine), but never paid any of us for the work, claiming that the issue lost money (an obvious lie considering the book's sales). Eventually I even stopped submitting to the independent presses, finding them to be nothing more than smaller versions of the liars and thieves at the big publishing houses.

It was a hard lesson. But in a way I had asked for it. All during this time Jack Kirby was struggling to get his hands on the thousands of pages of original artwork that was in the possession of the company that had stolen so much of his intellectual property. These monsters were holding that art as ransom unless he would further sign away all rights that he had to his creations. This company who did these things to the likes of Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko--the men who had created the freaking company in the first place--and I was trying to work for them?! To create for them? To pour my time and sweat and ingenuity into their bank accounts?

I got what I bloody well deserved, I reckon. In the years since the HELLRAISER franchise was cancelled at Marvel, at least some of my work for that title has since been reprinted by an outfit called Checker Books, for which I received no payment at all. In addition, I suspect that I have had my work reprinted by the new publisher of the HELLRAISER business, BOOM! Studios, and apparently they aren't legally obligated to pay me, either.

One thing, though. When I compared notes with others who had created stuff for HELLRAISER--those guys had signed contracts. Somewhere along the line, corporate Marvel must have gotten their wires crossed. I never received any contracts. Not once. They paid me, sure. But I never got a contract.

If that someday came up to bite them like a gnat, I wouldn't be disappointed.