Most major metropolitan areas have a mega-mall zone, a no-man's land carved out in the heart of suburbia where the landscape is artificial and asphalt deserts sprawl out between carefully choreographed access roads. The St. Augustine equivalent lies along US One between State Road 312 and Lewis Point Road, the product not of calculated planning, but rather the indescriminate building of strip malls, "superstores" and car lots shoulder to shoulder down the highway. In some places, the restaurants are three lots deep, one right behind the other in the same block. Two aging shopping centers anchor opposite corners of SR312 where it crosses US One, bound for St. Augustine Beach. Another shopping center, the Ponce de Leon, is nearly extinct, hanging on in the shadow of a Wal-Mart superstore. Only the Flagler Hospital seems to have enjoyed the luxury of some forethought in its layout.

On some maps, this area is designated St. Augustine South, but no "town" structure exists. Wholly unincorporated, this is technically county, not city. While the southern boundary of St. Augustine proper is where US One crosses Oyster Creek, for most St. Johns County residents, it is another waterway that defines the outer edge of the city's influence. Moultrie Creek winds it's way to the Matanzas River under US One some ten miles south of the last shopping mall and car lot. Cross Moultrie and you are truly back in the county, despite the suburban feel of the St. Augustine Shores township.

Nearly two centuries ago, this was Seminole country. In 1824, the treaty of Moultrie Creek ended two years of open warfare between the Creek federation and European settlers in the East Florida territory. Representatives of the Tallahassee, Miccosukee, and Muskogee tribes brokered an agreement with the new American government that created the Seminole Nation. Less than a decade later, the US government adopted a policy of expatriation, forcing Seminoles to move west beyond the Mississippi. By blatantly ignoring the terms of the first treaty, they precipitated the second Seminole uprising, which lasted for ten years. A third Seminole war, the Billy Bowlegs War, ended only after the retreat of the last three hundred Seminoles into the impenetrable recesses of the Everglades. One hundred fifty years later, they remain unmoved and undefeated, a foreign nation completely surrounded by the United States. It was here above the brackish waters of Moultrie Creek that they first declared their independence and sovereignty. No monument marks the birthplace of the Seminole tribe, only a broad sweep of savannah and salt marsh, etched by time and tide. The road above and the creek below mark an intersection between history and hydrology, where the future of Florida was once decided.

The township of Moultrie lies just west of the present route of US One. Old Moultrie Road begins at King Street and is joined at one point by the Dixie Highway near the San Lorenzo Cemetery, south of Oyster Creek. More than likely, this is the original route of the Kings Road, since modern US One probably did not exist until the early 1900's. The road, creek and town are all the namesake of John Moultrie, who was the British governor of St. Augustine (and East Florida) in the late 1700's. More than anyone else, it is Moultrie who is responsible for the Kings Road itself. It was his commission, his route and at his direction that British engineers constructed the first highway across the East Florida Territory.

A few miles further south, the roadside begins to revert to pine woods and scattered houses. Even here, the twenty-first century is closing in on St. Johns County. New roads cut into the black earth indicate the presence of developers, intent on creating new housing subdivisions- instant communities in the middle of nowhere. Already a new high school, two new churches and a public library have sprouted from the forest, extending a pseudo-suburbia from south St. Augustine to Dupont Center. Named for Josiah Dupont, an early nineteenth century plantation owner, Dupont Center is little more than a crossroads, where State Road 206 crosses US One, headed for Crescent Beach and the Matanzas Inlet. Anchored by a gas station, produce stand and a second USFS vertical control tower, there is little here to slow down passing traffic except a single red light.

The entire run, from King Street in St. Augustine to the Flagler County line, is one of the few times that the railroad is not visible from US One. The line south lies somewhere between the highway and Interstate 95, to the west. On the opposite side, the Matanzas River separates the mainland from a barrier island and the Atlantic Ocean. In between are hundreds of acres of low, swampy pine forests that must have seemed to go on forever when the Europeans first arrived. Interspersed among the stands of pines and palmetto thickets are twisted blackjack oaks, briars and canebrakes. At the time Moultrie was governor, the land was populated by black bears and panthers, deer and bobcats. By the first decade of the twentieth century, bears and panthers were already a rarity everywhere in Florida but deep in the swamps or in the relatively untouched forests of the interior. Feral hogs, escaped from settlers pens, had begun to establish themselves as the most dominant wildlife and the deer were thinning out. Thirty years later, another accidental import arrived on the scene to permanently change the natural order of things- the armadillo.

Five miles east of US One where the interstate intersects the highway again is a small reminder of Moultrie's plantation period Florida. Like a snapshot of the late 1700's, Faver-Dykes State Park preserves a fragment of wilderness that would seem quite familiar to British settlers. Perched on the edge of Pellicer Creek, the expeditionary forces of England and later, of the young United States may have camped here as they patrolled this area during the Seminole Wars. By now, few large predators roam the forest, the Seminoles have long since departed and only the wildlife that has learned to live with indifferent humans prowl at night. The soft crackle in the undergrowth you hear by the campfire after dark will most likely belong to an inquisitive raccoon, but it is enough to stir the senses and momentarily remind you that survival here was once tenuous.

Back out on the highway, a postcard of a different era waits at the end of the interstate's exit ramps. During the thirties, forties and fifties, Florida citrus was king. In a time before overnight deliveries and online shopping, the only way to get really fresh fruit was to come to Florida. Growers like the Indian River Fruit Company became synonymous with Florida sunshine and gold literally grew on trees. Roadside stands were everywhere, hawking freshly picked grapefruit, tangelos, tangerines and oranges. Every tourist attraction of any merit would have a juice bar and mesh bags of fruit hanging from the rafters to remind northern visitors to take some back home. A trip to Florida could not have possibly been complete without a sack of oranges among the souvenirs.

Here at the junction, the descendents of those ubiquitous icons of the Sunshine State compete for the fleeting attention of travelers headed back north on I-95, with loud signs and louder colors. Gas stations in day-glo yellow and lime green offer tropical jellies, pecan candy, fireworks and Florida t-shirts, along with Indian River fruit and Vidalia onions. Garish and gaudy, these modern hucksters can still convince the departing tourist to leave just a few more dollars in Florida, carrying on one of the oldest commercial enterprises in the state.

On the south side of the interstate, Charlie T's truckstop and motel has been less fortunate. Empty and abandoned, weeds now grow in the cracked pavement around the dry fuel pumps. The motel is crumbling under the weight of a mountain of kudzu and a layer of dust coats the counter inside the empty restaurant. From the driveway, I can see the bridge over Pellicer Creek, the boundary between St. Johns and Flagler counties. Seventeen miles south of St. Augustine, it is the end of the day and the end of the road- for now.