Back in July 2013, we ran a two-part special called Krome Insanity. We delved into the backstory of the so-called “Krome Insane Asylum”, the abandoned facility in the middle of the Everglades swamp in Miami. (Read Part 1 and Part 2).

As we reported back in 2013, the facility was a spooky place – the photos certainly prove that. Chances are, if you ask anyone who knows anything about the place, they’ll tell you they know a friend of a friend who has been there. They’ll tell you that the facility was a mental health institution where only the worst of the “problem cases” were sent. They’ll tell you that this place burnt to the ground in a freak accident. They may even tell you that the spirits of the mental patients haunt its abandoned halls even to this day.

As it turns out, urban legends are all that run rampant here. The facility was never an insane asylum – what it was, was a Cold War anti-air missile base. Resultantly, we owe you both an apology and the real story, which you can get below.

The place is actually IFC HM-95, D battery. IFC stands for integrated fire control, and HM for Homestead-Miami. In a nutshell, this facility was where the army operated early warning radar to detect incoming bomber airplanes. Back in the early 1960’s rocket science hadn’t developed to the point where you could just press a button and expect a rocket launched from Russia to fall in the U.S. Their nuclear weapons couldn’t reach that far – that is, until the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was a simple thing for Russian rockets based in Cuba to reach U.S. shores in minutes, even seconds. Miami was ground-zero for nuclear conflict. The Cold War got hotter by the minute.

The U.S. rolled out a defense system called the Nike Missile System. It consisted of a net of radar sites to sweep the air for enemy bomber planes. If an enemy plane were detected, radar operators would place a call to their nearest missile launch site, located within a mile or two of each radar base. The idea was to have the missile base fire at enemy bombers and hopefully take them out before the bombers could reach their targets.

Over 200 Nike missile sites were constructed in the U.S., several in Miami alone. The fact that so many were built  – and so quickly – tells of the paranoia of the era. Once they were rendered obsolete, the armed forces generally either sold them off for redevelopment or abandoned the sites. The site that would come to be known as the “Krome Insane Asylum” is, in fact, the IFC base for missile battery D. It lies abandoned and largely forgotten, crumbling into the swamp that surrounds it. Its corresponding missile base was transferred to another federal agency – the Immigration and Naturalization Service – and now operates as the Krome Detention Center.

As important as preserving historic sites is keeping alive the history behind them. Places deemed historic sometimes are allowed to stand yet remain closed to the public, akin to how brides store their wedding dresses for decades despite never intending to wear them again. Places like these can sit mothballed behind chain-link fences for years. Keeping silent risks relegating these places to the dim corners of our collective memories.

It sometimes happens that a remote locale may harbor a surprising past. Alternatively, an ordinary, everyday place may hold a hidden history. Places like these are hidden in plain sight – although they still stand, their backstories are at risk of being forgotten.

This author has endeavored to provide photographs, street addresses, and global positioning coordinates to lend context to these discussions. These tools are useful when comparing current satellite images to aerial photos depicting the former lay of the land.

While it is true that Miami-Dade County is a relative newcomer on the scene of history, in less than two centuries it has seen many firsts, many highs, and many lows. Say what one will about Miami-Dade, one thing is certain: it is a place like no other.

It’s where the civic leaders drop a landmark in a place no one can get to, where scientists forget to remove a ten-story space rocket from the county’s backyard, and where engineers build a railway platform that goes nowhere.

It is, all at once, familiar yet foreign; beautiful but not perfect; always sizzle and sometimes steak – but at South Beach prices. It is concrete and cafecito; where Mary Sue and Fulana exchange chisme in Spanglish; where college jocks burn their tuition money partying at Club Space.

It is a curious, crazy place that sometimes makes no sense.

For this author, it is home.

DADE COUNTY’S NAME CHANGE:
A BREAK WITH AN UNSAVORY PAST

Miami. Metro-Dade. The three-oh-five. The county’s official name is Miami-Dade, although it not always known as such.

In 1513, Juan Ponce De Leon was the first European to sail into Biscayne Bay. He reached the settlement of Tequesta (recorded in his journal as “Chequescha”), as the region that would become Miami was then called. Spanish settlement continued throughout the following two centuries. With the influx of Europeans, so too came illnesses previously unknown in the Americas. A large portion of the indigenous population succumbed to disease.

Permanent settlement of the area began in earnest in the nineteenth century. At the same time, the Seminole Indians made inroads into the region, sparking tensions with the U.S. government that would erupt into the Seminole wars.

Dade County was created on January 18, 1836 by the authority of Territorial Act of the United States. It was named after Major Francis Langhorne Dade, who was killed in 1835 during the Second Seminole War. At the time of its creation, Dade County was huge, extending as far north as Palm Beach County and south to the upper keys.

Fort Dallas, a military base on the Miami River in what is now Downtown Miami, represented one of the furthest southern reaches of U.S. settlement in North America at the time. The Seminole wars proved disastrous for the early settlement. Nearly everyone at the fort was a solider stationed there, and the wars caused near-total depopulation of the area.

In the midst of the wars, a plantation owner by the name of William English charted the Village of Miami on the south bank of the Miami River. In 1844, Miami became the county seat. The census of 1850 indicated that ninety-six residents lived there. Formal incorporation of Miami as a city would not occur until 1896.

Fast-forward to November 13, 1997. Over 161 years since the county’s founding, voters changed its name from Dade to Miami-Dade. The change was purportedly motivated by a desire to capitalize on Miami’s international name recognition. The measure was also an attempt to dissociate the county from a dark event in Florida history: the Dade massacre. The Dade implicit in the massacre is the selfsame Francis Dade who lent his name to the county.

On December 23, 1835, two full troop companies under the command of Major Dade left the Tampa region en route to Fort King, in present-day Ocala. Little did they know they were headed into disaster. After five days of marching they found themselves south of Bushnell in central Florida, where a superior force of 180 Seminole ambushers sprang from the hammocks. Major Dade fell in the first volley fired – indeed, it is commonly held that the very first bullet of the engagement struck Dade, killing him while he was astride his horse. That shot was fired by none other than Seminole Chief Micanopy.

The Seminole ambush nearly decimated Major Dade’s troops to the man. Since Dade’s forces were assembled in single-file marching lines standing two abreast, they were easy targets for the ambushers’ guns. Out of the 110 men under Dade’s command, 107 were killed outright in the fighting. Three were injured, and one of the wounded was later caught and killed while trying to flee. By comparison, the Seminole forces sustained three casualties and five wounded.

The voters’ opting to break with 161 years of Dade being known as such was not a decision taken lightly. Even so, without questioning the county forefathers’ wisdom in naming Dade County after a commander whose blunder led to the eradication of two U.S. companies, one might feel safe in positing that the name change was a good thing.

As for Fort Dallas, the building still stands, but not where originally built. What buildings remain have since been moved to their current location in Lummus Park.

HIALEAH’S CHIEF WILLIE WILLIE SIGN:
JACK TIGERTAIL STOOD PROUD OVER THE ENTRANCE TO THE CITY

The story of how Hialeah would come to have an enormous Seminole Indian at its entrance begins with an Irishman. In 1914, Henry Coppinger founded a tourist attraction along 19th Avenue and the south side of the Miami River. Coppinger’s establishment, dubbed Coppinger’s Tropical Gardens, was a nature park. Visitors were treated to exhibitions of exotic flora and fauna, the latter including alligator shows. Coppinger also offered guests a glimpse at a Seminole village maintained on site.

Prior to Coppinger’s arrival, development had already begun pressing ever southward. The drainage of the Everglades caused all manner of upheaval for the Seminoles living in the area. Hunting grounds were destroyed; in turn, tribal income from the sale of pelts and hides plummeted. The Seminoles’ traditional way of life was at risk of being completely eradicated. Thus, for some Seminole, working at Coppinger’s seemed like the best way to make a living in changing times.

Enter Jack Tigertail, also known as Chief Willie Willie. Born in Big Cypress Swamp, he lived in the Everglades about twenty-five miles west of Homestead. In 1918, he moved his family to Coppinger’s. Articulate and handsome, Tigertail excelled as the tribe’s intermediary for business affairs. He quickly became a local celebrity. In fact, he was so larger than life that by 1921, he was selected to represent the growing community of Hi-a-le-ah, as the city’s name was written then.

It seemed a natural fit to have Tigertail represent the city’s image. After all, the city’s name had its roots in the Seminole-Creek language. Hialeah means “pretty prairie” or “high prairie”.

An image of Tigertail in Seminole dress was turned into an enormous roadway sign erected at the city’s entrance on First Street (Hialeah Drive) and County Road (Okeechobee Road). Tigertail’s sign served as the proverbial Indian guide. The sign, with arm outstretched, showed the way to Hialeah. His image was also used on promotional materials.

Sadly, his fame would outlive him. On March 8, 1922, Tigertail died under mysterious circumstances. His body was discovered at Coppinger’s with fatal gunshot to the back.

A quandary ensued regarding Tigertail’s burial. Despite having lived in the Seminole community at Coppinger’s, he could not be buried there. Nor could he be buried in Hialeah – James Bright, who developed the city along with Glenn Curtiss, could not secure permission to erect a monument within Hialeah’s city limits. Instead, he was interred at the Miami City Cemetery, making history as the first Indian to be buried there.

The sign was eventually taken down, but not all that is gone is forgotten. Chief Willie Willie’s sign may no longer stand at the entrance to the city, but his legacy lives on in the form of the City of Hialeah’s official seal, which bears his likeness.