​By Kurt Zuelsdorf
 
 
Just the other day I had a rare opportunity to visit the bayou on my own, not to pick up trash but to reacquaint myself with the nature that started it all. I paddled silently around the south pass and admired the clean habitat. I stopped momentarily to see the progress of a recycling project put on by the Little Green Heron's. They lost their eggs last year in a Tropical Storm you know, because they built their nest too close to the water. This year they took apart the nest and moved it up higher! Our construction industry could learn a thing or two from these geniuses.  
 
 
The wintering pelicans and Willits fed calmly on pristine oyster bars and shimmering shallow grass flats. The mangrove's legs look better than ever these days and the herons are moving about under the clean canopy.  I've been searching so hard for things to clean up lately so it was nice not to. At times I lost myself in the peacefulness of the bayou and wondered; What now? What to do without trash to pick?  Have I been "trashing" so long that I've lost my place or have I found a new green thread to attend? 
 
 
I found my answer when Wilford Woodruff Academy from Winter Park came to town to help restore our bayou. They sat intently at the Outpost with Carol on  a cold morning and artistically worked on coconut doorstops. Alex Russell went to work immediately on his project like he had a purpose. A coat of red paint and a black overlay ala Spiderman.  Another nut  read "Peace". A few had colorful flowers, all showed extreme creativity! What goes on in  a young person's mind these days? What inspires them to learn & grasp the importance of the environment?  We shared  ideas on recycled art that could help raise money for their school's cause and at the same time help the environment. The "treasure bottles" for restaurant tables is sure to be a winner! (Attn teachers; send me a note and I'll share more on this one) 
 
 
After a chilly launch from the shelly shore the stiff northern breeze literally blasted us out  the south channel of the bayou. A brown pelican dove in between the us and sifted mouthfuls of small minnows in front of a eleven-year old giggling girl. Before I could ask my usual question on the most common death of a pelican a youngster asked me..."is it true that most pelican's die from blindness? From diving into harsh elements that wear away their eyelids and expose their eyes to ultra-violet rays?"   The #1 answer is always "fishing line" but this boy somehow knew the correct answer.  When I asked how he knew he said, "Because I'm Robbie Pellicane!" 
 
 
Greg McIntosh from Nature Matters Inc provided some great entertainment for the crew. He instinctively jumped out of his kayak in a popular trash-catching corner and thrashed around the heavily polluted mangroves tossing bottles, cans, bags, & balls out to the eager cleaners to pick from the water. I was standing knee-deep pulling  bags when saw a red football come flying straight out the top of the canopy. A long arm from the back of a kayak stretched tall and with the talent of an NFL wide receiver snatched it one-handed!  To my surprise (but somehow not really...) it was Alex Russell who grabbed the Spiderman ball from the air. It matched his already painted coconut perfectly!  
 
 
Somehow, some way, and always, nature finds a way to educate!

​Kayaking across Boca Ciega bay on a calm balmy morning stirred images of what the pioneers saw when they discovered Treasure Island Florida.  Back then schools of mullet filled the bays, manatees floated and frolicked along side dancing dolphins. Sunsets that shimmered like gold medallions on the gulf and flocks birds donning their finest plumage lining the shorelines, and the endless tropical beaches loaded with a variety of shells...the "Real" treasures of the island! 

by Kurt Zuelsdorf
 
  It’s 9-14-2001. The sky is clearer than one hundred years before. All planes are grounded. No smog dilutes the air, no jet streams distort the cobalt blues. The sky’s un-natural rumbling is silent.
 - Slung low in my beach chair my bum brushes the sand. The beach aches for my attention and my toes are happy - digging, scraping. 
-  Laughing gulls celebrate over every last kernel of a tourists’ popcorn. Skimmers glide in the soothing surf. A lone dolphin plays just offshore -a laugh then a squeek. Natures song celebrates the stillness that may not be heard again in this lifetime. All of life knows things are different now…somehow.
- The fiddler crabs time is now too for they are out marching the sand. My intrusion into their space accepted until the shadows of a heron passes above.  A sprint toward home they drop into their holes, but only for a moment then back out to enjoy the day…not to be denied.
-  A family of raccoons taking a bath in the shallow water along the mangroves. The curious little kits stay close to mother.  The crabs move too quickly for tiny paws. Entertainment found in a pelican feather twisting in a low hanging branch - a brief tussle then a taste.
 - The sun sets too quickly, quietly into the peaceful Gulf… perhaps for the last time… I hope, I pray.  The sunset colors are most brilliant of all. Can you see them? Can you see the “green flash”?
 - The night sky is so clear. Don’t want to leave now…can’t.  A new life is beginning. Just Florida and me. The way it used to be… a hundred years ago. The airlines begin again tomorrow - a new era of sand and sky.

by Kurt Zuelsdorf

​Then it appeared. Big, dark, and muddy...a sippie hole! A place not fit for man nor beast...carved deep by the unlucky drivers who dared cross her. 

  Tommy Taylor is a good-old Southern boy who loves the outdoors. He called when the hogs started tearing up his hunt-lease somewhere just south of Tallahassee.  I paused momentarily, then reacted instinctively.
 The next things I knew, there were five hunters packed into my Trooper. We sputtered into town on I-10 with a bad water pump and a shit-load of camping gear. During  a parts delay at the local repair shop we agreed to make the best of a hotel. After check-in  we called Tommy about the change of plans.  Our hearts longed for camping in the Great Appalachacola Forest -- 750 thousand acres of slash pine, cypress heads, & gum swamps. Our excitement would have to wait until morning.  
  Tommy pulled into the parking lot at 4:05 am driving his wife's two-door blazer with a loaded 270 Remmington ready on the dashboard. I thought it was a bit peculiar, but he made sense. "In case a big old buck jumps the road...I'll be ready."  How do you argue reasoning like that?
  Once underway Jimmy, a rotund -- lifelong sportsman from St. Pete, began his antics. His choice for the day... fox urine. For anyone who hasn't  gotten a whiff of this pungent piss, don't. It'll make you sick.  As all good hunters do, he developed an immunity to smelly urine's and other stinky scents. But it's funny... have you ever noticed how the person in control of the biting scent is the only one immune. Anyway, he quietly detonated his scent bomb, all the while sporting a crafty grin.   Tommy was the first to notice and wondered  who brought the litter box with them.  
  The stench flooded the truck and circulated through the heating ducts -- it was  a dizzying breeze. Five men strained their necks out the windows like dogs catching the wind.  As discomforting as it was I admit to enjoying pranks like that with the boys, it's what ads character and humor to my hunts -- and somethimes the humor and comrodery is the only thing I take from the woods.   Yes, Jimmy The Fox is truly a master of his own game when it comes to concocting blends that stagger the scences -- a true asset to any hunt group.
  Circumstance had it, that we happened across a fresh road-killed Red Fox this morning. Jimmy nearly jumped out the window to get at the trophy tail -- explaining how lucky having one can be. Tommy took the suggestion to heart and pulled the truck around. With a quick flick of his pocket knife the tail was his, he didn't even mind the ticks and fleas that fell from it when he hung it from the rear view mirror.
   Miles of dirt road passed as we shared tales from past hunting trips and harvests. Ronnie recapped an adventure that involved (as many of his stories do) doing his morning duty on a mound of red ants. "The dam things make it all the way up to my ass before they bit. Then it felt like I'd been shot with a hot load of double 00 buck!"  When he offered his bare-ass as proof I got the point. One thing about Ronnie though, he could shoot a shotgun slug better then anyone. I once saw him pull a double on a deer hunt while balancing on a barb-wire fence. Two deer broke cover during a cattail drive and two deer went right back down again -- high-quality shooting that could only come from years of carrying a shotgun.
  Terry relived a moment spent with a pack of wild hogs  in  the Green Swamp. "Oh those suckers were everywhere. I could smell em', and when they broke cover I just started shooting. There must have been 5...maybe 11 hogs held up in the palmetto's!"  He discovered what happens when common sense fails and the natural urge for survival takes over...he called it a Phobie. "In a situation like that you don't want to be short on lead. I'm loaded to the teeth with ammo now and when my 45 gets rolling... boy you'd better be out of the way!"
 Tommy  talked about the time he cornered a 250lb sow in a water hole. They were about to give up when his partner noticed a snout and eyeballs sticking above the water. 
"I knew I put a good hit on her," Tommy said,  "but the arrow passed right through. Boy I tell ya', it's as if the skin sealed up around that wound and it didn't bleed a drop. So we put 'old Jake' on the scent...he's a Paskagoula Hog Dog and boy can he track! By the time we got to the hole, Jake had locked on to her snout and was being swung around like a raggdoll. But that old pup wasn't gonna let go cause he knew he'd get the barrel treatment."  (A technique that I'd heard of for breaking a dog of chasing deer. They put the dog in an oil drum with an old deer hide inside and seal it up. Then push the barrel down the road with the front bumper of the truck. "Old  Jake held on long enough so is I could snatch her hind legs...from there I just held her till she drowns." 
 Moments later we arrived at the hunt camp. It wasn't what I expected...a few old trailers tucked under the overhanging pine bows. The mess tent floor was a dozen wood palates nailed together. A bunch of old screen doors strapped together formed  the walls, and a rip-stop tarp made the roof. Two picnic tables were in the center and a big bulletin board on the wall, on it was a map detailing all the tree stands on the property -- each one distinguished by a pushpin. If someone was in one of the stands, a simple washer-spacer  was on the pin -- an ingenious layout. 
  Soon after marking off our stands the hunt was on. Our first steps away from camp were punishing. Brambles, Blackberries and palmetto thorns peeled the skin off our hands.  We tried to keep pace with Tommy but he moved through the swamp like a snake. He slid over  logs and through the thickest part of the swamp then disappeared.  I could hear Terry behind me complaining about the terrain and his 'bad knee'.  We lost Ronnie and Jimmy shortly after departure and they turned back. Terry and I pressed on to follow Tommy. By the time we found him he bagged a nice sow. I asked him where the fatal hole was he said, "What hole? What gun?  I caught him bare handed and slit his throat with my knife!"   He stuck his fingers through the fleshy neck meat and kindly pointed out the juggler. "Ya get em right in here and they shut down right-quick-like." Terry and I stood in disbelief that he did it so quickly. The next task at hand was getting the 'rooter' back to the truck.
  During past hunts we discovered the best way to extract a pig from the swamp is by pole. We tied the legs together and slid a stiff branch between them then tossed her between a couple of big shoulders.  Before I knew it we were back to the truck, strapping the  hog up top. As the blood drooled down the windshield Tommy mentioned his wife's last request to keep the truck clean. 
I didn't care, we had a hog on the truck and few beers in the cooler...it was time to head  back to camp and celebrate.
  I didn't remember passing any mud puddles on the way in, but on the way out we labored through  few that made me a little nervous.  We planned on the Trooper doing the mud work and I wished we had it now. Then it appeared. Big, dark, and muddy. A sippie hole! A place not fit for man nor beast and certainly not suitable for a street vehicle. It was thick with mud, carved deep by the unlucky drivers who took a chance to cross her. I could see how she lures the drivers in -- on the surface she  looked shallow and serene. On the bottom she was soft and deep. I could tell by the convincing look in Tommy's eyes that he could take her. He eased his was in. The front wheels dropped off the edge and water crashed over the hood. He stood on the accelerator and dumped the rear. The front wheels slammed against the steep side of the hole and within seconds the tires spun free.
  Mud and water  flowed into the cockpit. It seeped in through every crack and crevasse and worked its way up my shins. The boys had a  troubled expression on their face when a black water moccasin slid its way in the window. Terry panicked and scrambled over my shoulder and out the window. He clawed his way through the muck and made it to dry land. I tried to open the door but  the steep sides of the hole pinned the doors shut.
  The snake, startled by the hollering, turned inside-out and fled. I didn't want to leave the truck with a snake in the water, but something happened to change my mind. First the left front wheel dropped about a foot followed by the right.  I've heard stories of park rangers disappearing with their vehicles in the Florida swamp never seen or heard from  again.  I didn't want to become a statistic, so I dove out the window. 
  When I reached dry land I saw Tommy still sitting behind the wheel. He was laughing. "My wife is gonna kill me boys!"  He gunned the motor and tried over and over again to free the truck, but it was no use, the sippie hole was holding too tight.
  Terry and Jimmy got lucky and flagged down a big mudder  pickup. A huge man stepped from the cab and scolded us for being out there with a two-wheeled vehicle. He freed the fallen vehicle from the depths of the hole with a quick snap. Tommy angled his truck on a side hill and opened the doors. The water rushed from the cab but the mud was stubborn. We used our hands to scoop the mud from under the seats and dash...it was sloppy and it stunk like sulfur.
  I admired Tommy's sense of humor when it came to returning the truck to his wife. He laughed all the way back to camp and entertained thoughts of claiming it stolen so he wouldn't have to face her. In the end he did the right thing and went home.
  I haven't returned to the Appalachacola Forest since I wrote this, but I've tangled with a few off-road hazards -- I know that when I least expect it,  I too could be singing The Sippie Hole Blues.

​ 
TUESDAY - Short-billed Dowichers and Willets lined the beach on the East end of Boca Ciega Bay today. Sitting...sleeping...sunning in the warmth and serenity of the bayou with a flock of wading birds is what Kayak Nature is all about. Come join us won't you?

Kayaking across Boca Ciega bay on a calm balmy morning stirred images of what the pioneers saw when they discovered Treasure Island Florida.  Back then schools of mullet filled the bays, manatees floated and frolicked along side dancing dolphins. Sunsets that shimmered like gold medallions on the gulf and flocks birds donning their finest plumage lining the shorelines, and the endless tropical beaches loaded with a variety of shells...the "Real" treasures of the island! 
 
It is apparent to me, based on what I witnessed Saturday morning clean up on Elnor Island, that the mayor and councilmember's of Treasure Island are firmly grounded in where the real treasures of Treasure Island are! One by one they emerged from the thick island carrying armfuls of lumber and debris. Mayor Maloof mostly covered in mud casually poked here head out momentarily for a water break. She didn't even mind the mangrove crab perched on her knee. Other locals like Bob Dowling from Treasure Island's Beach Steward Society handily loaded countless bags and boards onto a boat and recounted childhood stories of shenanigans and sightings of nesting birds on the island. Greg McIntosh from Nature Matters conducted a clinic on how to remove big  items from the mangroves. If ever in need of manpower for protecting nature...call in a  McIntosh! 
 
Nearly 30 people stood side by side for 3 hours picking and passing debris to waiting barges and boats for proper disposal. With the passing of every load the smiles & laughter grew and the island regained its glory. One of the "real" treasures nearly restored. 
​
Citizens of Treasure Island be proud of your leaders, they not only talk-the-talk, but they walk-the- walk even in the harshest places in an effort to protect and preserve your natural treasures!

​​My dad thought I was holding up a dead, frozen deer. His attitude changed when he realized that I caught it bare handed! 
 
  We pulled into Warrens in Northern Wisconsin on the eve of my first rifle season. The falling snow danced along the winding road that lead to the campsite.  The temperature inside the '69 Bronco plummeted after we rolled down the windows to get a deep breath of frosty air.  With puppy-like enthusiasm I stuck my head out the window and got stung in the face by huge flakes of snow. I pulled it back in when my lips started freezing to my teeth. My body trembled with excitement – I was going on a “big woods” hunt with my Dad.
  He eased his way around the final corner.  The head lights peered through the snow covered slash pines.   A few years earlier, Fortune showed us a beautiful 10-point buck standing under the picnic shelter in the park.  Our minds lit up with memories of his bold posture and wide glossy-white rack. I couldn’t tell if he was kidding about a placing a tree stand near the shelter.
  The outhouse came into view. It always tickled our funnybone. We dredged up an incident that involved "Unk" one of my Uncles.  On one occasion he overindulged in one of Dad's five-alarm chilis and he got all bowed up.   He was really pissed-off and didn't hesitate to jump all over the cook.  "Pull this dam truck over to the can so I can dump this chili where it belongs. In the shitter!"   He dove out the door and scrambled to free his pants. The old outhouse whirled with leaves and tilted when the door slammed shut.  
 Dad seized the moment. He pulled the truck around and placed the bumper against the door.   He gave the can a nudge and let it settle. A more aggressive push followed by another. If trapping him inside a smelly, broken down old outhouse wasn't enough -- on the third try he tipped the can to a 45-degree angle. It teetered for a moment...almost over...then returned with a crash.  The old shitter buckled from the strain and threw Unk out the door onto his face with his pants slopping around his knees! The laughter subsided as the “thunder mug” faded into the snowy night.
 We returned to our favorite campsite in the remote corner of the park -- nearly 50 miles of wilderness bogs, lakes and woods right outside the door.
 Dad squeezed the 20-foot Avion between two monstrous pines.  I jacked the stabilizer bars into place and within minutes Dad hit the sheets. His World Class snoring rattled the aluminum roof vents and kept me from sleeping for more than a minute at a time.
   The excitement of the hunt was more intense than any year I could remember. Christmas Day almost lost its #1 ranking that night. Vivid dreams of World Record bucks played only long enough to visualize   every possible shot angle; running, standing still, cornered away.  I'd be ready for anything and everything, or so I thought.
  The clattering bells of an old wind-up clock startled my dream buck and I shot high over his back.  It took a moment to convince myself the dream was not an indication of the upcoming day. Sometime in the night the old furnace blew out and the frigid air penetrated the thin aluminum walls. I lay and listened to my dad's morning rituals. 
  He began with a frantic head scratch and a few throat clearings. He followed up with the question,  “What time is it? “    “I don't know.” I whispered.
"Why...it's...daylight in the swamp!" he cheered, pulling the sleeping bag from my head and roughing my hair.
  I pulled my head back into the sack and laughed to myself. I loved seeing him enter the silliness of my childhood world – Ahhh, the transformation of camping.
  His next move was toward the small kitchen where he fumbled noisily through the silverware drawer looking for the flintlock lighter.  I revisited the definition of anticipation, i.e. Listening to the sound of flintlock spewing sparks toward a hissing gas flow.  Relief came when I heard the "whump" of the stove igniting.
  Next, he stepped outside and left the door open.  A frigid blast of Arctic air and swirling snow swept across my bed and made it nearly impossible for me to get out of my warm bag.  He returned with a frozen water container and chuckled.
"How cold is it?" I asked. 
When he reached over me to open the curtains and check the thermometer he slipped his ice-cold hand down the back of my neck, "Says 10 degrees! Once we get up and moving we'll be plenty warm."   Funny…to me it felt much colder.
  He chopped the frozen surface of the jug, enough to fill the Blue Stone coffee pot to the brim .I waited for the final act of his routine; A series of long, slow, noisy, coffee slurps and a gasp. I dove into layers of clothes hoping to be warm enough, which I never was.
  I stuck my head out the door. The first breath of cold air scorched my lungs and froze  my nose hairs. The snow creaked beneath my feet as I made my way toward what was left of the outhouse. There's something very invigorating about being the first one to grace the throne on a cold morning. I tried to hurry my duty along, but I was too nervous…hence my discovery of the  ghost poopy – (one that makes a lot of noise, but is nowhere to be found.)
 I stepped lively back to the camper trying to revive my frozen backside. I stood outside the trailer with my shoulders shrugged over my ears and my fingers balled up inside my mitts. I was wearing my Grandpa's old wool hunt pants too. I didn’t like how the air circulated every time I wiggled.  He, on the other hand, cherished the feeling of wool on his bare skin. He wore nothing else.
  He slurped the last of his coffee and tossed me an extra pair of wool socks to stuff in my backpack. "When you get to your stand put these fresh socks on. And here's your lunch." He handed me a brown bag containing a frozen butter sandwich, two cookies and a thermos of hot chocolate. "Make sure you check your compass and stay still until I come and get you."   He also encouraged me to shoot a big one before he disappeared into the woods.
  The snow hung in the Pines and lit the forest floor. It made it possible to see without a flashlight. I made my way through the woods toward my stand. I accidentally bumped a limb and toppled snow down the back of my neck.  I was lathered from walking too fast so it was cold and refreshing at the same time.
  When I reached my stand I leaned the gun against the tree and opened my jacket. A cloud of steam poured from the zipper and crystallized on my eyebrows. I changed my socks and poured myself a cup of hot chocolate to pass the time that moved as slowly as the pine sap that covered the tree. 
  Three minutes till opening and I nearly fell out of my tree stand when the first rifle shot cracked through the woods. I had a brand new Remmington 30-06 and it was shaking in my hands as my eyes scanned the woods. I was so busy looking in the direction of the shot that I hadn't noticed the deer that made its way under my tree. I snapped the rifle to my shoulder and drew bead on a nub buck. He worked his way passed and never knew I was there. A few seconds later all hell broke loose and shots sounded all around me. In between the echoes I could hear my heart beating through my clothing.
  Five deer, all does, ran through a small opening and disappeared.  Three more ran within 20 yards. Two minutes later a small herd stopped under my tree. My eyes strained to grow antlers on every one of them. Around noon I stopped counting at 46 -- All does, no bucks.
  I made the classic hunters mistake when I left the stand to take a leak. I leaned the gun against the tree and exposed my cold fingers. I’d waited hours to go, but my fingers were so cold and stiff that I couldn't unzip my fly. I did everything I could, short of tearing a hole in my pants to get them open. Finally I managed to get the zipper half down. I fumbled through the various 'fly holes' and fished my trout from its warm shelter. One more layer of cloths and I wouldn't have cleared the zipper. As it turns out, by the time I finished, the zipper froze half way down. My hands were so numb I gave up and left it alone.
  On the way back to my stand a small dear stepped broadside 15 feet away. He lowered his head and caught me. I took a step and he looked away. I wondered how long he would let me advance.  A few more steps and we were eye to eye.  He kept looking around as though he never saw me.
  I reached out to touch him and his head flinched stiffly. I offered my exposed palm to his nose and he showed no fear. He didn't mind my touch, so I checked for broken bones or injuries. I just assumed he was injured, why else would a wild deer let me be so intimate, right? 
  I found nothing wrong with the yearling.  I took a stand next to the deer and waited for Dad.  Just for kicks I wrapped my arms around the deer and pretended I caught it. Dad stopped momentarily to laugh at what he thought was a dead, frozen deer that someone propped up as part of a morbid joke.  I let go of the fawn and his head immediately popped up. Dad's body shuddered and he froze in his tracks,  "It's alive!"
   He looked bewildered.  He performed his own evaluation and found nothing wrong either.  We stood for a while and observed the frailty of the eyebrows.  We watched his ears work in opposite directions as he scanned for sound. But it was his eyes. The whiteness of his eyes was truly enchanting. We tried to nudge him along with gentle persuasion but he refused and kept returning to our side.
 In the distance a small pack of coyotes howled and barked. It sent cold shivers down my spine and I was glad to be near Dad. He understood and respected my decision to give the deer a chance to make it on his own. With predators in the area the deer wouldn't go to waste.
  He concluded, "If he's still here when we return this afternoon we'll take him with us."  We laughed at the possibility of a live transport back home to show the family.
  Just then another hunter appeared and headed our way. He too thought the deer was dead and propped up. I had one photo left on my film roll so I asked him to take a shot. When the shutter closed the deer raised his head as if there were nothing wrong.  With two leaping bounds he disappeared into the whiteness, but not before we captured one of the most treasured moments I'd ever spent in the woods.