What's new on the Bayou
by Kurt Zuelsdorf


"I want to speak with so many things and I will not leave this planet without knowing what I came to find out, without solving this affair, and people are not enough. I have to go much farther and I have to go much closer." - Pablo Neruda

Otis the Grebe
November's weather snuck in nicely from the north carrying with it the “real” snowbirds. Willets, dowitchers and godwits are huddling on the south pass oyster bars. The local oyster catchers seem happy to have them back after a lonely summer with the gabby gulls.

Green and black-crowned heron nesting habitat in the upper creeks looks fabulous thanks to countless volunteer greenies that prepped the nursery for their return to nesting. One of this year's late hatchers stuck around to take advantage of the fiddler crab crop on Brandt's Island. This year’s crop seems a little down from last year, but the food source is alive and well.

Now 5 years in a row the pie-billed grebe has returned to the south pass----always great to see him again. Since he is the only one, a name would be fitting.... Otis seems appropriate, unless you have other suggestions?

A brief glimpse of the black-crowned night heron and an encounter with the ghostly bittern keeps my spirits alive as the summer was slow here. A most exciting discovery in the upper creeks is a series of small teacup size nests (perhaps a palm warbler). I've always wondered what the purpose of the spiders is in the bayou and these nests have revealed that the web is being used to weave the twigs and bind the nest! In addition, they (the birds) have chosen a strand with a string of eggs on it. The baby spiders are said to eat the parasites that cause harm to the baby birds, then at some stage of growth the birds eat the spiders! Such amazing things in the place called Clam Bayou if you just adjust your eyes accordingly!

Black vultures are gathering in the skies about the bayou waiting for nature’s call to clean up when the temps drop and turn the tilapia belly-up.

Bald eagles are back in the area. On a recent photo tour with Denise from PA a huge male performed an aerial drop-swoop-grab on a mullet right in front of us, only to be shooed away by the osprey. Still no nesting activity on the osprey posts. The small nest that was built last year was blown away in a recent storm.
 
White Pelican migration is on. I was fortunate to witness three drop into the region on a clear blue sky over the bayou. (Please visit NATURE VIDEOS page  and other recent videos). Their bill can hold 3 gallons of water... it's beak really can hold more than his belly can!

Swamp Things
​By Kurt Zuelsdorf

Chatter unlike anything  I’d ever heard.   
The cute little calls were not bugs, toads, or birds.  
I was standing in a nest of  baby alligators!

The noisy leopard frogs and crickets couldn’t  compete with a cicada, but they tried.   
Fall in the Green Swamp, over 50 thousand acres of Florida’s most important aquifers. It’s swampy. We were camping.
Sweet Gum, Oak, and “Squaw wood” campfires shrouded the canopy of century old trees. It smoldered throughout  the camp  shared by Brother Terry, a gent named Jimmy The Fox, and a marksman named The Dini.  These three reputable  sportsman rolled out of their tents ready to hunt!  Terry hoped I’d prepare his favorite hunt meal. Who-Hash, its  canned corn beef hash mixed with scrambled eggs piled high on burnt toast. I never could stomach the smell so I insisted he do his own cowboy cooking. He fumbled for the flint lighter that sparked the Coleman stove to life.  The flame illuminated the heavy black stains around the burners. The dents and dings tell more stories than I’ll ever be able to recall – a treasured item indeed. After breakfast Terry reminded me to bring the “G.A.L.S”. 
Guns. Ammo. License. Snacks. 

The campground was full of camouflaged hunters waiting for daylight. Some dragging deeply from cigarettes chattering among themselves. Other’s seemed to be sleep deprived and over-served.  Old pickup trucks with rifles hung in back window struggled to stay running, and BTW, why do Floridians think they need to warm up a car?  The gates to the management area were about to open and the positioning was underway!

The old cattle bridge across the Little Withlacoochee River has no guide rails. Creatively built of a dozen 2-inch pipes spaced 3 inches appart. Cows won’t cross it, barely wide enough for off-road tires.  The tannin flowed quickly just below the rails, evidence that a 2-year draught was over and the swamp watershed was full.  

Check station attendants are some of the most interesting characters in Florida’s management areas. Usually local volunteers, they check licenses and handout permits - never eager to pass local knowledge on to a passing city boy on his way into “their” swamp. But one would do well to slow themself to the local’s speed – a step faster than a snail – and listen carefully through the tobacco chew and southern drawl. Ptherwise “pallet fire” sounds like pilot far!

The stations are just a small, sheltered concrete slab with a wash down hose that hangs just below a scale. Off to the side on a small nightstand was an old gallon pickle jar with natural lard made  from used bacon grease & sugar water. Yessir, a good-ol fashion flytrap, and it was full to the rim with blow flies! Old skulls, antler sheds, turkey feathers or sometimes arrowheads and fossils were lying about, you never know what you’ll see scattered about.  The station eliminated the 50-gallon barrels that held entrails used for research.  Now brain samples test for chronic wasting disease and lower jaw samples are collected to determine age, along with sex, weight, and number of antlered points and date of harvest.  The biggest attraction that drew hunters from miles around was the progress board – a big chalkboard that posted the number of deer, hog and squirrel kills for the season. Up to that day 23 deer, 65 hogs and a whopping 125 squirrels were recorded.  Numbers that indicated room for a few more deer kills by seasons end. 

The bone-jarring 8-mile journey came to a dusty halt at the end of Bull Barn Rd. From here facing east it’s nearly 45 miles to the next hard road. Nothing in between but Florida wilderness. Many stories of lost hunters barely making it out alive lurked in the back of our mind, including a story of the warden who disappeared. Neither him nor his truck were ever seen or heard from again. Whether true or yarns spun by locals to protect secret hunt spots was unknown, but one look across the vastness and you could believe it might happen.

The ½ mile walk to our favorite spot passed quickly with no conversation between Terry and me. Our pace slowed. Our steps grew cautious and we stopped to to enjoy daybreak! The sun peaked through the backdrop of tall pines on the other side of the low growing palmettos just beyond our cypress head.  Spanish moss is heavy in the scattered old oaks. Small flocks of curlew passed overhead. Great herons were positioned in the shallows.  Morning fog provided the final touches on a scene most Floridian’s or visitors will ever come to know or enjoy outside of Disney. 

Last years controlled burn left black slashes across our shins and knees as we slowly traversed the new growth. Spiders, gecko’s, skinks and small snakes scurried out from under our feet.  Startled, a large armadillo reared on its hind legs and hopped through the brush like a kangaroo. Certainly out of character for the armored dildo, when compared to the southern speed-bump-slump more common on roadways.

The palmetto growth escalated as we neared the fringes of the swamp. Its thick jacket consisted of thorny vines and scrub oak entangled with cabbage palm and slash pine. The moist black earth was freshly tilled revealing roots and fresh bulbs – a feral hogs favorite snack.  We split up armed with a plan to slip into the core without spooking its inhabitants.  On our hands and knees we crept like kids through the low tunnels used by all forms of wildlife.  The first 10 yards were the toughest. Two-inch long thorns tore at my skin and cloths. Eventually it gave way to cypress knees and ankle deep water where the core of the hammock was revealed. I stayed on my knees in the soft muck for a moment and stretched my head high enough to get a peek at a pair of wood ducks spinning nervously about in the open pond. With an effortless thrust they whistled up through the shaded canopy.  The glorious rays of the sun revealed the male’s countless colors and distinctive hood.  Back on the small pond their only evidence of existence disappeared in the ripples that tickled the hyacinth and set the water lilies into a gentle dance. 

My legs sank deeper into the muck. Air pockets from decaying vegetation released gases that hung heavy in the humid air.  In no time the swamp returned to it’s unspoiled life. Cardinals chased each other through the underbrush. Small warblers nervously bobbed and flipped their wings nearby. A platoon of scrub jays chatted amongst themselves in the treetops before moving on to a place only they knew looking for the freshly fallen acorns – a favorite autumn snack.

My eyes became transfixed on the palms on the far side of the pond. Something big in the heavy cover was feeding. Terry detected the same movement. I knew he enjoyed these moments as much as me. He slowly worked around the outside of the pond staying low and using foliage for cover. I waded around the left side where a bottomless pit of muck tested my plan and patience. The water was getting deeper with every step and it was nearing my waistline. The lilies didn’t seem to mind and neither did I, but it was the muck that I feared. Cypress knees bumped my shins as I toed my way across.  Submerged logs tested my balance and courage.  Then and eerie presence stopped me in my tracks. The ripples on the pond and in the weeds all came to calm. The hair on the back of my neck came to full attention. I was several yards from dry land when a chirp from below grabbed my attention, but it wasn’t a bird. Another croaked from the other side and slightly behind me, but it wasn’t a frog. Something squeaked from the lilies at my knees, was it a bug?  Then in unison they began to cry. Startled, I shifted my weight and almost fell. My hands groped the water and lilies for balance. I tried to see what made such an odd chatter – unlike anything that I’d heard before. Then I realized!  The cute little calls were not bugs, or toads, or lizards…they were baby alligators screaming for help!  My mouth went bone dry. My knees buckled and my stomach knotted up. My heart was pounding and my mind raced to find hope.   I was afraid to call for help and my body wouldn’t move.   When a submerged log that rested against my leg started moving the “phoby” reached force 5! The lily pads to my right heaved up and retreated, then again. I pictured an unsuspecting wildebeest in the outback sipping from the rivers edge and I expected a huge prehistoric head full of teeth to lunge from beneath the surface. I had to move. The cries continued. The lilies moved again. Closer, within arms reach.  A low-pitched growl and a nasty hiss was the last draw. I don’t remember my first few steps, but imagine that I may have walked on water. 

I heard myself cry. Birds scattered. Frogs and minnows on the pond scurried for cover as my legs churned the calm surface into a white lather.  Mud boiled up around me as neared the shore – the scariest moment of the dash. Where was he? Was he behind me plotting his “death roll”? I turned to look back from the waters edge when the palmettos beside me exploded with movement. Palm fronds and branches were flying into the air as if trucks were plowing through the cover. Then the warning flag of a white tailed deer flashed his goodbye.

Terry had witnessed the ruckus and approached with a questioning frown. I suppose it could have been the lily pads on my head and shoulders, or maybe the mud that speckled my sheet white face or that I was shaking like a palm frond in a hurricane.  

We saw then where a big alligator had crushed the grass where we stood, but we never saw the gator. Now more educated I’ve learned that during droughts, alligators excavate holes, which become ponds, which gather fish, which feed birds, which in turn become nourishment for alligators. Luckily I wasn’t the one providing the next meal!

 “Phoby?” Terry asked. “Force 5 phoby!” I corrected him stoutly.  I’ll try to explain; Phoby was a term that Terry and I invented to describe excitement or fear on our many outdoor adventures together. We needed a language, so we decided to use parts of the Saffir Simpson scale, the one used to measure the force of a hurricane as our model.  There are five categories. 
Cat 1; the equivalent of getting ready for the hunt. The excitement of seeing a deer cross in front of the car.  The fear in watching a scary movie perhaps.
Cat 2; seeing a nice buck in the distance from a tree stand. Seeing movement in the underbrush. Having a cockroach on your toothbrush.  
Cat 3; Prey is near and the possibility of a shot exists, but doesn’t occur. Walking into a spider web in the dark.  
Cat 4; High phoby. Phoby that sucks the wind from your lungs. You can feel and see your heart pounding through clothes. Senses sharpen enough to hear things that only dogs can hear. Standing face to face with a white tail deer or perhaps a snake in your sleeping bag would take you to this level.  
Cat 5; Force 5 intrudes and impairs rationality. It affects both physical and mental ability. Can be both catastrophic and hysticarical all at once.  It burns everlasting spine-tingling memories into the memory banks. The special moments of euphoria while taking a trophy. I can tell you with no uncertainty; standing in a nest of baby alligators in the middle of a swamp will achieve Force 5!

Our hearts sank a minute later when the single report of a rifle followed by a hearty cheer announced some other hunter’s victory.

We both knew it was a big deer that we pushed to the standing hunter, but we didn’t realize just how big until we returned to the check station.  Hunters were gathered around the scale and blocked our view from the hanging buck. We could see the excitement in the crowd as they milled about trying to get a peek. “Weee –doggy. We just got ourselves a possible state record here!”  The warden announced.   The gallery cheered. The tally on the harvest board revealed it was the only deer killed that day in the entire Green Swamp. We didn’t get out of the truck. We didn’t tell them what happened.   We were tired, wet and disgruntled. When we approached the river, another hunter’s luck went south.  He missed the old cattle bridge and dropped his truck into the river below. Several other men were standing hip deep in the river trying to budge the truck, but it was clearly not a task for bare hands. Darkness was upon us as more men joined in the. I stood on the bridge, maybe afraid to go into the water – knowing first hand how the gators of the Green Swamp spread their phoby !

In 2024, the landscape of Florida is changing. Towering centurions—ancient oaks that have watched over neighborhoods for centuries—are being felled at an alarming rate. Insurance companies are mandating their removal, citing the ever-looming threat of storms, and homeowners, caught in a tangle of policy and fear, comply to safeguard their properties. Yet, as each great tree is cut down, there is an unmistakable sense of mourning, a communal recognition of loss that runs deeper than the act itself.
These trees, with roots sunk deep into the earth and branches that stretch toward the heavens, are not just silent witnesses to history—they are living chronicles. A peculiar kind of reverence settles around the freshly cut stumps, drawing passersby like mourners to a gravesite. Dog walkers pause, joggers and cyclists stop to lay a hand on the weathered bark, marveling at the girth of what remains. It is a moment of unspoken tribute: an acknowledgment that what stands before them is more than just wood, but a vessel of stories.
Do these trees, even in death, retain the energy they once radiated? I believe they do. Here’s the story one whispered to me.
Toppled, Yet Resilient
Picture the late 1800s, when men on horseback first surveyed these lands. Perhaps Hamilton Disston, the ambitious entrepreneur who famously purchased four million acres of Florida for just 25 cents an acre, dropped a seed or two that grew into one of these sentinels. The tree witnessed holidays spent on porches filled with laughter, children growing up and having children of their own. It saw the timeless cycles of life unfold beneath its canopy.
Over millennia, some of these ancient oaks have been graced by 3,600 sunrises and sunsets. They have seen the true, unfiltered spirit of America. Indigenous tribes such as the Calusa and Seminoles relied on them for sustenance, finding comfort in their shade and sustenance from their sturdy branches. Long before modern politics complicated their simple majesty, these trees filtered the air, rooted deeply in their purpose.
As one tree's story recounts, “I have stood by the graves of those felled by chainsaw and storm, and I remember. There is a majesty in holding your ground for decades, providing a service that transcends the visible. I have watched Gulfport transform, from a quiet town without electricity to a bustling neighborhood with brick streets, trolley tracks, and steamboats chugging along the waterfront. We were here before power lines buzzed and cement roads stretched across the city. We offered shade to generations, watched children climb and swing from our branches, and held up against fierce winds that would have torn the world apart without us.”
The Forgotten Guardians
The roots of these trees, now deemed nuisances for cracking driveways and foundations, have served as anchors for entire ecosystems. They have sustained life and offered stability long before urbanization measured value in dollars and square footage. Their worth, however, is a currency of another kind, one not recognized in courts or insurance boardrooms. It is a standard of living measured not by profit but by legacy.
“Remember us,” the tree seemed to plead, as the saw bit through its life ring by ring. “We were more than timber. We were home, refuge, and history.”
Florida’s changing skyline tells the story of progress, but with it comes a deeper question: Are we listening to the wisdom of those who stood long before us? Are we recognizing the quiet strength of those who provided shelter, not just for homes but for hearts and memories?
Let us measure life by what has lasted and by what truly stands the test of time. The trees, with eyes unseen and voices now hushed, still have stories to tell—if only we would listen.

​ 
At the last house on the right a moss-covered steer scull hangs in an oak just past the fence posts that are adorned with worn out cowboy boots. From the size of the boot Doyle didn't look like a big man, but Bob made it clear that his size wasn't an indication of his character or ability to throw a cow and hold is own at the local saloon.
 
 
 
The massive steel gate to the Flying Eagle Ranch scraped the gravel hump in the road and spun a white whirlwind of dust into the scrub oak forest…dry enough to choke even the most hardened cowboy.  Just beyond the paddle locked gate a canopy of huge oak limbs shaded a greenway that once grazed a cattle herd and several wild horses that my host, Cowboy Bob, tended to for over 35 years.While riding in the air-conditioned confines of a modern vehicle I found it hard to imagine a cowboy’s lifestyle of horseback riding, herding cattle, and fence tending as part of a days work.  Bob’s face always lit up when talking about his mentor Doyle Tyndal a.k.a.  "Old Cowboy". He passed into greener pastures a few years back and now Cowboy Bob keeps his spirit alive with vivid story telling, like when he had to retrieve a big red bull from a neck-deep swamp out in the back forty. Using tried-and-true tactics of lassoing and bareback riding really worked for getting him to move, but getting the bull to willingly jump into the back of a pickup truck is where the real cowboy whisperer’s’ secrets remain!
 
The slow rolling ride down the lane and over the old wooden planks that bridge Moccasin Slough often skidded to a graveling halt out of respect for a passing snake or endangered tortoise.  Stories of Seminole Indian skirmishes that took place here so long ago are clear in Bob’s imagination and his ability to translate the images are magical! Hell… my stampeding imagination saw them , the Seminole scouts that is, sitting in the giant cypress trees that still stand today...oh what the trees can reveal when the wind blows just right! Over the years Bob discovered some arrowheads, tools and artifacts and relishes the day when he'll discover some cave drawings in an old under ground river cave. This fascinating rock formation fed the Withlacoochee a century back and led early paddleboats down the flow.  I think he’ll stumble onto the burial grounds of the great ones and find what he’s looking for someday...here in natural Florida!
 
Into the night and back to the modern trailer fully equipped with a/c, running water, and myriad of trinkets. The twang of country music played low in the background - fitting for this museum.  Pictures of the Old Cowboy hung on the wall. Cowboy poetry books & novels stacked on the shelves. Hat racks made from deer antlers & steer horns. Guns of old and new in every corner and a fridge loaded to the hilt with cowboy food...meat! Turkey feathers were used to prop window dressings back made sense for this long time recycler of found items.   Outside the cool confines of the trailer far, far, from civilization the stars drew my eyes deep into the Milky Way galaxy well beyond the full moon. I realized a man could get lost in this world, this civilization that most people will never see or hear about if not for cowboys like Bob.
 
Bob was certain for me to witness the sunrise in his wonderful wilderness. His early morning wake up call lassoed me from a night of sweet dreams about days of old. The bold smell of cowboy coffee, a really thick batch, was poured from a pot and pancake syrup was used for sweetener. (Honestly I’d have never thought of this one but it was quite good!)  Hat in hand and boots untied he booted me out the door and into the darkness to an observation tower that resembled an old windmill, but in place of the wind vane was a box with windows. Inside was a nice leather office chair that swiveled 360 degrees. The plethora of green tree frogs and throngs of mosquitoes kept me busy till daylight! 
 
The Cardinal birds were the first to welcome the day with their distinct sound. Pairs of them darted through the scrub cover and caught a glimpse of me several times, but didn't mind. Lots of squirrels, a fleeting pair of woodpeckers, then 20 turkey made their way past me in the half light of a harvest moon. The moo of a distant cow reminded me that I was in an old overgrown pasture - now forest. Hoot Owls called from distant roosts and squadrons of sand hill cranes cruised overhead. Do they fly and sound like prehistoric birds to you, or is it just me?   I’ve always been a big fan of the whitetail deer and I’d try and communicate with whistles and small bleats at a doe and her fawn. A foot stomp here, a head bob there, a nasal snort and the white tail flash and they were gone. 
  
When the scorching sun started wilting the newly planted feed grass I knew it was time to head back to camp. Bob was sitting comfortably in the a/c reading a novel. He had done the dishes, made more coffee and was taking inventory of the fridge's meat stash.  "Want some bre-fas…you must be hungry?" he asked. Not being a breakfast eater I declined, as I was more interested in the collection of old trailers that sit in the camp yard. One in particular, perhaps a 1950 (or older) Airstream, had my attention. It turns out it belonged to Old Cowboy and has been here for decades. Bob’s family used it for weekend retreats for years until, as he says it, “we just flat-wore it out!” It was the first trailer to be moved here and will likely remain forever. 
 
My favorite story was of a night Bob spent in camp alone. It went something like this:
 
It was along about mid-night when the TV signal on Letterman began to fizzle and fade. We put the TV in place of the old window shaker a/c when it died. Well the TV wiggled a bit and I thought it to be odd, then in one sudden sucking whoosh the TV went straight out the window!
 
 Well…hell, we had stretched the sagging antennae wire up a nearby post for a signal. And a bull, with horns like you'd see on the hood of a Texans Cadillac wandered between the posts and got his horns tangled in the wire and jerked the TV straight out the window!!
 
Now I don't know about ya’ll, but a stampeding bull with a TV tangled in his horns isn’t something you’d see everyday here on the coast…hell, I’ve never even heard of anything like that, but Bob will be quick to tell you “That’s no bull!”
 
So if you find yourself wandering down Moccasin Slough Road just East of Inverness and see the cowboy boots on the fence and the steer skull on the tree… you’re almost there!  And if you see a bull with a TV in tow… you’re beyond the last house on the right.

​A 40 degree thermometer reading and  the flow of the Withlacoochee  make no sound!
The phone rang early and often with paddlers wondering if the paddle trip was a "go", but it was the call from Abby-the-camper at Hog Island that got my attention. "Kurt, it's 34 degrees here...are you coming...are we going?"  My smile stretched the already chapped lips and I assured her we were on the way.
The bumpy road leading to Iron Bridge Recreational area was littered with deer tracks and scarce on traffic. My enthusiasm peaked when four deer crossed in front of the truck. Always something about a wildlife crossing that tugs at my heart-strings and renews my relationship with the outdoors.
 Upon arrival the paddlers emerged from their cars like butterflies from a cocoon... a stretch, a yawn and a smile! The sun was already reflecting off the tannin tinged waters sending slivers of light through  the  swamp. The cypress knees always remind me of wizards...faces, hats and gowns galore here.
12 kayakers posed for a picture then lit up the river with vibrant colors of pink, orange, red and gold. Water dripping from the wing-like paddles rippled into the wake toward a shore lined with fist-sized snail shells. Fresh earth turned over by the feral hogs are a sign of intrusion &  destruction but Bob, while picking trash from the tangled branch  reminded me of something Paul Erlich once said - "The fluttering of a butterfly's wings can affect climate changes on the other side of the planet."  Hmmmmm... it's the little efforts (ongoing)  that make a difference... one wing beat at a time...
New-found friends in the back of the pack whispered quietly as the river grew thin. Ahead paddlers resorted to a walk/drag technique that made me smile. "When you follow the flow to the outside bend, things be deeper". The wizardly cypress knees kindly point the way, can you see them?
A limpkin, a hawk and a flock of white ibis was all we saw during the 3 mile journey downstream. Not a boat, a canoe or a person to be seen, we were all to ourselves as we approached Hog Island. Looking back down the channel the wing-like paddles of various colors shimmered in the sunlight until landing softly on the sandy shore where a variety of lunch snacks emerged.
Another stretch, another yawn, another smile and we took flight back into the flow. Colors stretched beyond the next corner, sunlight warming my face as we pressed on through the shallows and across the sand to the deeper, darker depths of the flow. Everything looks like a gator ya know...’til you see one!
Something about actually seeing the destination relaxes the soul and eases the mind. The colorful kayaks lazily drifting....’til next time. 
“I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming, I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man.”  ~Chuang Tzu

Oct 4, 2016
7:05 PM

Just a moment ago a lone eagle landed in the tallest tree in the neighborhood.
The report from the local bird colony rejected the apex skybibrd's return... Or so I thought.

The bald eagle is magnificent. And the male specimen that sits in this tree is attending the barrage of winged locals that visit his limb. He was standing stall with his head on a swivel,  but not for fear of dive-bombing crow, the nagging osprey or the heckling J-bird, no... he was watching for his lovely lifelong bride that had dropped behind on their migration flight from 1000+ miles. Thirty minutes passed before she whooshed over the treetops of my yard sending a percussion of wake that reached the earth.  They sat quietly together and rested well into darkness.  I expect their young eagles from last year will be returning to the neighborhood as well. This family of 5 will be hungry after a long flight so please adjust your lifestyle accordingly.

Please be mindful of your small pets in open areas
Don't feed ducks or strays as you are gathering them for easy pickins
If you spot one take a moment to enjoy the majesty 

​I will be out this morning to scout their possible nesting site for the season