Uncover the Forgotten History of Florida Crackers: Resilience, Fire, and Heritage
On Florida Crackers, their origins in the Scottish borderlands, alliances with Seminoles, and the transformative fire ecology practices that shaped our landscape and conversation legacy.
Picture this: You're deep in Florida's swampland, circa 1835. Gunshots echo through the cypress trees, whoops and hollers fill the air, and a group of so-called "crackers" are pulling off one of the greatest acts of resistance in American history - pretending to fight Native Americans while secretly protecting their allies.
The price of their performance?
A mere $90 for three months of theatrical warfare that had the U.S. military completely fooled.
These weren't just any settlers. They were outcasts; ones the British Empire wanted to forget. Yet, these rebels had formed strong alliances with the Seminole tribe, recognizing a kindred spirit in their shared struggle for survival. Even the Romans knew about their fierce independence - there's a reason Hadrian's Wall stopped where it did.
In his writings, Hadrian claimed there were "no civilized people living north of the wall." These were the Braveheart people (notorious for their defiance, even if the movie’s historical accuracy left much to be desired), and their story of resistance was just beginning.
A Survival Story That Will Make You Rethink Everything
When you hear the term Florida Cracker, what comes to mind? Perhaps you picture a rugged cowboy cracking his whip as he herds cattle across sun-scorched prairies.
Or maybe you think of a bygone era where untamed landscapes are met with the grit of early pioneers — much like Frederic Remington’s rather imaginative renditions during this time period, pictured below.
“I was sitting in a “sto’ do’” (store door) as the “Crackers” say, waiting for the clerk to load some “number eights” (lumber), when my friend said, “Look at the cowboys!” This immediately caught my interest. With me cowboys are what gems and porcelains are to some others.” – Frederic Remington, 1895
Or, if we’re being honest, you might have heard the term used pejoratively—a shorthand for dismissing rural Floridians as unsophisticated or backward.
But what if I told you that this term—and the people it represents—has a history far richer and more complex than most Floridians even realize? Beneath its often misunderstood connotations lies a story of survival, resilience, and a deep connection to the land.
If you think you know Florida's history, think again. The truth about Florida Crackers reveals a heritage that is both unexpected and essential to understanding the Sunshine State’s past.
For a brief moment, erase the tourist brochures and theme parks that come to mind when thinking of Florida. Let me take you on a journey through this state’s curious past, guided by the stories of T.R. Anderson, a descendant of some of the earliest settlers in the Sunshine State. The following is a tale of migration, survival, and fire—literally and figuratively—shaping the land and its people.
The Real Story Behind Florida's Most Misunderstood Rebels
I recently had the privilege of sitting down with T.R. Anderson, a fire ecologist who has worked in eight different National Parks over the course of the past three decades. What he shared with me about Florida's true heritage left me questioning everything I thought I knew about my birth state.
To truly understand this Florida origin story, we must travel back across the Atlantic to the rugged Scottish borderlands of the 17th and 18th centuries. These were tumultuous times, with England striving to consolidate power over its neighbors. The Scots, particularly the borderlanders, were seen as unruly, fiercely independent, and inconvenient for the British Crown.
During the English Clearances, thousands of Scots were displaced, often forcibly, from their ancestral lands. Many ended up in the Ulster Plantations of Northern Ireland, where they toiled as tenant farmers or indentured servants. But life there wasn’t much better. Over time, these displaced people—known as the Scots-Irish—made their way across the Atlantic, landing in places like Savannah, Charleston, and ultimately the southeastern United States.
A French conte (a kind of prince) who observed these early settlers described them as "mean, very violent, also being very resourceful, but not liking to be around outsiders." Given their history of displacement and persecution, can you blame them?
The word "cracker" itself has fascinating origins. T.R. traced it back to Shakespeare, where it was used as a derogatory term for boisterous Scots who dared to speak up against authority. “What crackers are these that deef our ears with superfluous speech?” one of Shakespeare’s characters laments. The term referred to the cracking of wood—a sharp, unsettling noise symbolic of defiance. Over time, it became a badge of honor for those who refused to bend the knee.
Today, the term Florida Cracker is often associated with the romantic image of the cowboy, thanks in part to 20th-century films and novels. But this narrative oversimplifies a much more nuanced history. The bullwhip-wielding cattle driver is just one thread in the tapestry of Cracker culture. In reality, these pioneers were diverse in their skills and lifestyles. They were loggers, hunters, and subsistence farmers. They lived off the land, not by conquering it, but by adapting to its rhythms.
From Georgia's Black Belt to Florida's Prairies
Once in America, these Scots-Irish settlers faced yet another challenge: soil. The fertile lands of the Black Belt Prairie in Georgia and Alabama were quickly snapped up by wealthy plantation owners. This left poorer settlers with marginal land, unsuitable for large-scale agriculture.
In search of better opportunities, many moved southward into Florida—a land of swamps, prairies, and promise. The Spanish, eager to solidify their claim to the territory, offered land grants to these settlers. The plan was strategic: populate the frontier with hardy, self-sufficient people who could defend it against British incursions.
Florida Crackers adapted quickly, relying on cattle, hunting, and small-scale farming to survive. Unlike the plantation owners to the north, Crackers had little interest in land ownership. Their connection to the land was practical, not possessive. Despite being forced to the periphery time and time again, they survived, forming deep alliances with indigenous peoples by sharing knowledge and strategies.
Life & Alchemy on the Frontier
Life in the Kissimmee River Valley was not for the faint of heart. For Crackers, every day was a test of ingenuity and resilience. They navigated a landscape of ridge and slough, where rivers were the highways and the dense interior, with its treacherous wetlands and towering sawgrass, often seemed impenetrable. In this rugged environment, survival depended on resourcefulness and a deep knowledge of the land—a knowledge passed down through generations.
T.R.’s ancestors were no strangers to this hard life. His grandfather worked as a logger in the Big Cypress region of the Everglades during an era when Florida’s timber resources were being rapidly exploited. Towering cypress trees, some hundreds of years old, were felled to feed the growing demand for wood, their massive trunks floated down waterways to mills. The Everglades, often mischaracterized as an endless "river of grass," was, in fact, a mosaic of ecosystems that included vast stands of timber—an environment T.R.'s family knew intimately.
T.R.’s mother spent her childhood in a logging camp deep in the Everglades, a place where life was as raw and untamed as the wilderness that surrounded it. She and her siblings roamed the swamps, exploring cypress domes and hunting for small game. These experiences fostered a profound connection to the land—an appreciation for both its bounty and its dangers. The Everglades was their home long before it became a National Park, and their presence in the region was emblematic of the Crackers’ ability to adapt to Florida’s most inhospitable terrains.
Their connection to the land wasn’t just born of necessity—it was shaped by cultural ties, too. T.R.’s ancestors were among the Scottish and Scots-Irish settlers who migrated to Florida during the 17th and 18th centuries. Drawn southward by Spanish land grants and the promise of opportunity, they carved out a life on the frontier. These settlers brought with them a pastoral tradition, relying on cattle grazing, hunting, and fishing to sustain their families. One element in particular, fire, remained a central tool in their way of life, used to clear fields, manage undergrowth, and maintain the delicate balance of Florida’s ecosystems.
T.R. explained that fire is elemental - as crucial to an ecosystem as water or air.
Remove it, and the balance of the ecosystem shifts, often to the detriment of native species. These Celtic settlers understood this instinctively, bringing with them ancient fire management practices from their homeland. Drawing on their heritage, they practiced controlled burns—clearing the land to encourage new growth and manage wildlife habitats. The biochar from these burns replenished nutrients in Florida's easily eroded soil, while the cleared landscape allowed wildlife like bison (yes, Florida had bison!), cattle, and deer to thrive.
This tradition, rooted in ancient practices from the Scottish moors, reflected a broader understanding of how humans could harmonize with nature to sustain ecosystems. Outsiders, however, often misunderstood fire as purely destructive rather than regenerative, failing to see its ecological significance.
🔥 Fun Fact: Florida burns approximately 3 million acres annually - using the same principles these Celtic settlers brought with them from the Scottish moors. Without these controlled burns, Florida's unique biodiversity would collapse.
Talk about a hot take on history!
Fire recycles nutrients back into the soil, encourages the recovery of fire-adapted plants, and maintains open habitats that countless species depend on. For example, wading birds in the Everglades need clear lines of sight to hunt for insects and fish in shallow waters—a condition fire creates by reducing dense sawgrass, which can otherwise dominate the landscape. The Crackers’ practice of controlled burning wasn’t just a means of land management; it was a lifeline for maintaining the delicate balance of Florida’s ecosystems, a balance that continues to hinge on the careful reintroduction of fire today.
Fire ecology remains critical to Florida’s biodiversity, serving as a natural reset button for ecosystems that depend on periodic burns to thrive. Without fire, invasive plants can outcompete native species, and dense undergrowth can choke out critical habitats. Many of Florida’s iconic ecosystems, like the longleaf pine forests and the Everglades, evolved alongside fire and rely on it for renewal.
As T.R. reflects on his family’s story, he recalls how their lives intertwined with the indigenous Seminole people who also called the Everglades home. His ancestors formed alliances with the Seminoles, a relationship rooted in mutual respect and shared struggles against a common foe—whether it was the harshness of the land or the encroachment of outside forces.
Seminole Alliances: A Story of Resistance
The U.S. government’s attempt to remove the Seminole people from Florida is a dark chapter in the state’s history. However, it’s also a story of quiet rebellion.
During the Seminole Wars, when the U.S. government tried to recruit them to fight against their Native American allies, the Florida Crackers pulled off an incredible feat of resistance. According to a frustrated quartermaster's report I discovered through T.R., they would venture into the swamps, create a tremendous ruckus, fire their guns into the air... and return without a single casualty on either side.
They were literally getting paid to protect the very people they were supposed to be fighting. And when you look at the muster rolls for the second and third Seminole Wars, you'll find something telling - they're all from the North. No Southerners, particularly Floridians, were involved (except for a few families like the Lykes and Griffins, but that's another story altogether).
The Kissimmee River Valley, with its wide prairies and winding waterways, provided the backdrop for these stories of survival and resistance. It was a place where resilience was born of necessity and where families like T.R.’s shaped Florida’s history, not as conquerors, but as stewards of the land. Their legacy endures in the stories they left behind and in the land they helped to shape.
The Pitfalls of Environmental Journalism
No discussion of Florida’s environmental history is complete without mentioning Marjorie Stoneman Douglas, the author of The Everglades: River of Grass and a pivotal figure in the conservation movement.
Marjorie was a journalist prior to becoming an environmentalist; she worked for the Miami Herald, a newspaper her father co-founded. Despite being one of the Everglades’ greatest advocates, Douglas reportedly only visited the Everglades a handful of times. She preferred writing about its beauty and importance from her home in Coconut Grove.
During World War I, Douglas served in the American Red Cross, stationed in Paris. Her time there likely influenced her sense of civic duty and dedication to causes larger than herself. Published in 1947, her book on the Everglades was groundbreaking, galvanizing efforts to safeguard this unique landscape and eventually leading to the establishment of Everglades National Park.
However, Douglas’s portrayal of the Everglades also perpetuated what T.R. Anderson calls the pristine myth. While her writing painted a poetic picture of a pure and untouched wilderness, it ignored the deep and longstanding human relationships with the land. Indigenous peoples like the Seminoles and Miccosukees, as well as Florida Crackers, had actively managed the Everglades for generations, often using fire as a tool for ecological balance. Douglas, influenced by the conservationist ideals of her time, criticized practices like prescribed burns, viewing them as destructive intrusions rather than essential components of the ecosystem’s health.
In her book’s chapter titled “The Eleventh Hour,” Douglas condemned the cattlemen’s fires, suggesting they had "ripped through the heart of the Everglades, destroying it forever." This perspective, while well-intentioned, oversimplified the role of fire in the Everglades’ ecology. Fire, in fact, is a cornerstone of this landscape. The Everglades depend on regular burns to prevent sawgrass from overrunning open water, maintaining habitats crucial for birds, fish, and other wildlife. Without fire, this delicate balance collapses, choking the ecosystem Douglas fought so hard to protect.
T.R. views this tension as emblematic of a broader misunderstanding in conservation. While Douglas’s work was invaluable in rallying support for the Everglades, her dismissal of fire management practices contributed to policies that attempted to exclude humans from the ecosystem altogether.
The result was the removal of the very people—Seminoles, Miccosukees, and Crackers—who had shaped and sustained the Everglades for centuries.
As T.R. reflects, “Fire isn’t just an element; it’s a lifeblood.” Today, prescribed burns are recognized as a critical tool in preserving the Everglades, aligning more closely with the practices of those who lived here long before it became a national park. While Marjorie Stoneman Douglas’s influence is undeniable, her legacy is a reminder that conservation must embrace not just the land itself, but the cultural and ecological knowledge of those who have shaped it.
A Legacy Under Threat
As I navigate Florida's rapidly changing landscape, I see echoes of this history everywhere. In the words of T.R.'s grandfather, when asked why his family came to Florida: "We couldn't starve to death down here."
It's a simple statement that captures a profound truth about their relationship with the land - they didn't seek to own it, but to understand it.
T.R. Anderson’s decades-long career with the National Park Service has taken him across some of the nation’s most iconic landscapes—from the towering peaks of Olympic National Park to the expansive wetlands of the Everglades. His work as a fire ecologist, particularly in the Everglades, gave him a profound understanding of the delicate interplay between people, ecosystems, and policy. It also deepened his belief that history isn’t just a record of the past—it’s a guide for shaping the future.
T.R.’s time in the Everglades exemplifies how understanding history can inform modern conservation. His office, housed in a former Cold War-era Nike missile base within the park, was a physical reminder of the many layers of human influence on this land. During his years there, T.R. pored over archives filled with stories of families—Seminoles, Crackers, and others—who had lived in the Everglades long before it became a National Park. These records revealed a landscape that was far from pristine, shaped by prescribed burns, timber harvesting, and indigenous practices. Yet, the National Park Service's early policies sought to erase these human connections, promoting a depopulated wilderness as the ideal.
As T.R. puts it, “There is no better species than Homo sapiens to carry around fire.” Humans have been shaping ecosystems for over 13,000 years, and fire has been an integral part of that relationship. The Seminoles and Crackers didn’t merely live off the land; they lived with it, wielding fire as a tool to maintain the balance of ecosystems. The Everglades’ “river of grass,” pictured below, depends on fire to sustain life.
“To remove fire from the ecosystem,” he warns, “is like trying to remove water or air.”
For T.R., these historical missteps were lessons in what not to do. He began advocating for conservation policies that honored the human history of the land, including the practices of controlled burns and sustainable management. He has worked closely with indigenous communities, learning how their traditional knowledge could complement modern ecological science.
By integrating history into his work, T.R. developed a nuanced approach to conservation—one that acknowledged the mistakes of the past while striving for a future where humans and nature coexist.
Why Our National Parks Are in Trouble
Despite their iconic status, U.S. national parks face significant challenges today. Overcrowding, underfunding, climate change, and political pressures threaten the very landscapes these parks were established to protect. T.R. often reflects on these issues, emphasizing that many stem from a failure to understand the historical and cultural contexts of the parks themselves.
The romanticized notion that places like the Everglades were untouched wildernesses (the pristine myth) before becoming national parks is just one example T.R. provides to illustrate this. The National Park Service’s decision to depopulate the Everglades erased this history, creating a landscape that was not just empty of people but also devoid of its cultural and ecological caretakers.
Early conservation efforts often displaced indigenous peoples and ignored traditional land management practices, creating parks that were beautiful but ecologically incomplete. Without controlled burns, invasive species have flourished in places like the Everglades, disrupting native ecosystems and diminishing biodiversity.
Compounding these ecological challenges is the strain of overuse.
Parks like Yosemite and Yellowstone see millions of visitors annually, putting immense pressure on trails, infrastructure, and wildlife. At the same time, federal funding for the National Park Service has failed to keep pace with rising costs, leading to a maintenance backlog of over $12 billion. T.R. has witnessed firsthand how park staff are stretched thin, forced to balance the needs of visitors with the demands of conservation.
Climate change further complicates these issues. Rising temperatures, more frequent wildfires, and shifting ecosystems threaten the very landscapes parks were created to protect. The Everglades, for example, is grappling with sea level rise and saltwater intrusion, which could transform its unique freshwater habitats into barren salt marshes.
Preserve the Future by Understanding Florida's Past
For T.R., addressing these challenges requires a shift in how we view and manage our national parks.
“We have to move beyond the idea that parks are frozen in time,” he says. “They’re living systems, and they need to be managed as such.”
This means embracing practices like prescribed burns, which mimic the natural role of fire in maintaining ecosystems, and partnering with indigenous communities to incorporate traditional knowledge into modern conservation strategies.
It also means fostering a deeper public understanding of the history behind these landscapes. T.R. believes that educating visitors about the human stories embedded in the parks can inspire a sense of stewardship and responsibility. “When people understand that the Everglades were shaped by fire, or that the Smoky Mountains were once home to thriving communities, they start to see themselves as part of the story—and that’s powerful.”
In addition to his work as a fire ecologist, T.R. serves as a writer, editor, and producer with Into Nature Films. This film company focuses on capturing the stories of Florida’s unique landscapes and communities, including a rich collection of films about fire ecology. These films, available at IntoNatureFilms.org, provide a treasure trove of Florida’s history, showcasing its people, ecosystems, and conservation efforts. In exploring these films, you will not only gain deeper insights into Florida’s landscapes, but also discover the human narratives that bring these places to life.
The future of our national parks depends on this kind of inclusive, adaptive management. By learning from history and embracing innovation, we can ensure that these landscapes remain not just beautiful, but vibrant and resilient. As T.R. puts it, “Our parks are in trouble, but they’re also full of promise. We just need to have the courage to see them for what they are—and what they can be.”
Be Part of the Story
As Florida faces unprecedented environmental challenges, from rising seas to vanishing habitats, the wisdom of these forgotten rebels becomes more relevant than ever. They understood something we're desperately trying to relearn: true wealth isn't in owning the land, but in knowing how to live with it.
Here's what you can do:
Learn about fire management in your area: Explore resources from the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission on the vital role of prescribed burns in maintaining ecosystems.
Support traditional land stewardship: Back initiatives like the National Park Service’s co-stewardship agreements with the Miccosukee Tribe, which honor Indigenous knowledge in land management.
Share stories of resilience: Highlight sustainable practices and historical contributions of communities like the Seminole and Miccosukee Tribes through social media or local events.
Join conservation efforts: Connect with programs like The Florida Land Steward initiative, which offers workshops and resources for sustainable landowners.
Watch and share T.R.'s work: Explore the incredible Florida stories captured in these films, which highlight the intersection of history, fire ecology, and conservation. Visit IntoNatureFilms.org and share these inspiring stories with your network to spread awareness about Florida’s unique heritage.
By acting today, you help sustain Florida’s ecosystems and honor the legacy of those who thrived in harmony with the land.
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Until next time, keep exploring the wild side of Florida. And remember - sometimes the most powerful stories are the ones that haven't made it into the history books.
The greatest compliment i've ever received after a hog hunt near Fort Myers was "you're an honorary Cracker now", there may have been some profanity and high proof beverages mixed in but ill take it.
I love seeing the history and nuances of the beginnings of Florida and the Cracker name explained as more than a derogatory term.