On horseback, it’s easy to imagine what Florida looked like before roads, fences, and strip malls changed the horizon.

Ride across open pasture or through pine flatwoods, and you move through landscapes that generations of Florida families once relied on for survival. Before Florida was dotted with towns, highways, and theme parks, it was a vast mosaic of prairies, oak hammocks, wetlands, and longleaf pine forests.

These lands were home to Native peoples whose descendants today include the Seminole Tribe of Florida and the Miccosukee Tribe of Indians of Florida, communities that lived with, understood, and shaped these ecosystems for generations.

As a seventh‑generation Floridian, my family’s story is woven into that same Wild Florida landscape.

My roots trace back to my third great‑grandfather, Jeremiah E. Johns (1788–1869). Records place him in territorial Florida as early as 1829, when settlement there was sparse, rugged, and uncertain.

Florida’s cattle culture stretches back even further. The first cattle arrived in 1521 with the Spanish, animals that adapted to Florida’s climate centuries before modern ranching took shape.

Families like the Johns helped build Florida’s earliest rural communities and were part of what became known as Florida “cracker” culture, a term rooted in the sound of whips used by early cattlemen driving livestock across open range. They farmed, worked cattle and horses, and lived far from neighbors in a landscape where much of Florida functioned as open range, with cattle roaming freely across prairies and pinewoods, gathered only when needed.

Through the generations that followed, my family’s ties to the land held steady. Like many early Floridians, my ancestors lived simply, weathered hard years, and carried forward traditions rooted in self‑reliance. Among them was Avy Malinda Brown (1863–1938), whose life bridged Florida’s frontier past and the generations that came after.

Another branch of my family, the Patricks, lived among the early settlers of what is now Orlando, near the southeast corner of Orange Avenue and Central Boulevard, where the historic Patrick House once stood in what was then little more than open land.

Family accounts tell of Hannigan Jasper Patrick, who carried mail by horseback between Central Florida settlements, traveling across the same landscapes where millions now visit Walt Disney World. According to records,

“In the rainy season, they had to swim the Shingle Creek, but they always made the long trip on schedule.”

Photo of Hannigan Jasper Patrick restored by Bill Price

As Orlando grew, the Patrick family remained tied to horses, even operating a livery stable in the developing town.

Like many pioneer families, much of this history lived in stories shared around kitchen tables, front porches, and evening bonfires. Some were later preserved in local songs and books such as The Way It Was, which recounts parts of my family’s history.

Stories like those told in A Land Remembered, often called an “Eastern Western,” echo the lives of Florida’s early cattle families, reminding us that Florida’s frontier story unfolded long before cattle drives defined the American West.

Another line in my family tree connects to the Barbers, whose name is linked to the Barber–Mizell feud, a reminder of the rougher edges of frontier life. Florida’s early history is often overlooked, but landscapes like Paynes Prairie Preserve State Park still whisper the truth: this state has always held its own wild legacy, one shaped by cattle, horses, and even bison.

That connection to the land continues for me today.

As an equestrian, conservation advocate, and executive director of Rain Frog Ranch, I spend my days caring for horses and livestock and doing my small part to steward the land that sustains them. Like many working lands across Florida, our place reflects a balance where agriculture and wildlife coexist.

Through my work with the Florida Wildlife Corridor Foundation, I’ve come to understand just how vital it is to keep these landscapes connected. More than a connection of land, the Corridor is where people, purpose, and a shared calling to protect Wild Florida meet, and for me, it’s where that purpose comes into focus.

In my role with the Hillsborough Soil and Water Conservation District, I see every day how important responsible land stewardship remains.

The landscapes that supported Florida’s pioneer families are the same ones we’re working to protect for generations to come.

As a seventh‑generation Floridian, caring for this land isn’t just part of my history; it’s part of my responsibility.

And every time I ride across these pastures, I’m reminded that protecting Wild Florida means protecting both the land itself and the stories still being written here.

Seven generations brought me here.
What we protect now will carry the next.