Marco Island is flat. Everything on it sits within a few feet of sea level except one low rise near the middle of the old Caxambas settlement, and that rise is not natural. It is a shell midden, built up over centuries by the Calusa and their ancestors out of the remains of what they ate: whelk, conch, oyster, clam. Otter Mound Preserve protects a little over two acres of it.
The second layer of the story is more recent and just as strange. Ernest Otter and his wife Gladys lived here in the middle of the twentieth century and terraced their property using thousands of whelk shells, stacked into low retaining walls that still run through the undergrowth and around the perimeter. They look like something between a rockery and an archaeological feature, which in a sense is exactly what they are. A wooden outhouse is the only building left from the pioneer-era village that once stood around them.
Above all of it sits rare tropical hardwood hammock, the habitat that covered the high ground of this coast before anyone dredged a canal: gumbo limbo with its peeling copper bark, strangler fig, wild coffee, and enough canopy that the path stays shaded even in the middle of the day.
The walk itself is tiny. A tenth of a mile of concrete and mulch, a short climb onto the mound, a side loop, benches and interpretive signs. Twenty minutes covers it, half an hour if you read everything.
Two practical points that make it more useful than its size suggests. There is real shade here, which almost nothing else on Marco offers. And leashed dogs are welcome, which is not true of a single Collier County beach.