We rolled into the campground and parked Mosey III—because, apparently, our Airstream naming strategy is more “sequels” than “original screenplay.” The setting sun cast a warm glow over the piney forest, and just as we were settling in for a quiet evening, something magical (and slightly chaotic) happened.

From a small wooden structure near the edge of our camp spot—a kind of rustic bat condo with premium mosquito-reduction amenities—erupted a swirling flurry of wings. Hundreds of tiny bats shot out into the dusk like commuters late for the night shift. It was like rush hour in Gotham, if Gotham were run by bug-eating micro-vampires instead of moody billionaires.

These bat houses, we learned, are part of a thoughtful conservation effort—kind of like tiny bat Airbnbs. The bats get a warm place to sleep during the day, and in exchange, they feast on mosquitos and other insects at night, offering campers free, all-natural pest control. It’s an efficient little ecosystem, and yes, we did spend part of the evening Googling whether it’s possible to install a bat house on top of an Airstream.

Spoiler: It’s possible. Probably not advisable, but definitely possible.

The next morning, we descended—both figuratively and literally—into the heart of the park: the caverns themselves. A ranger-led tour took us 65 feet deep underground, where the temperature dropped and the walls sparkled with ancient mineral formations. We found ourselves ducking through narrow stone corridors, navigating around stalagmites rising like stone sentinels from the cavern floor, and weaving past stalactites that hung like prehistoric chandeliers. The formations have names—“Wedding Cake,” “The Cathedral,” and our personal favorite, “The Bacon Strip”—and once you see them, you’ll understand why.

It’s humbling to walk through spaces carved by water and time, knowing that each drip and ripple took thousands of years to shape the otherworldly landscape around you. It’s like nature’s own slow-motion sculpture garden. And despite the quiet, the caverns hum with a strange kind of energy—part mystery, part magic, and all Florida.

By the time we emerged back into the sunlight, blinking like surface-dwellers who’d just time-traveled, we had a newfound appreciation for the subterranean side of the Sunshine State. Florida may be known for its beaches, but trust us—what’s underneath is just as worth exploring.