You may not know the name Kurt Zuelsdorf, but he’s one of the main reasons Clam Bayou is a pleasant place to paddle. Let’s meet him. 
Photo by Cathy Salustri

​It’s a surprisingly mild June weekday morning when I met with Kurt Zuelsdorf, the founder of Kayak Nature Adventures. Here in front of me is a man with a trash picker and bucket, sweat-wicking clothes and a sun hat. We must walk and talk, picking up trash along the way. It seems most of our conversation centers around the history of trash and its abatement in Clam Bayou.
Yet our topic really isn’t about trash at all. For the whole of it, we’re talking about tending to and protecting the natural environment around us. I’ve met someone with an abiding love and respect for nature and specifically, Clam Bayou. So, on we walk, with no piece of garbage too small to pick up.

Kurt Zuelsdorf
Zuelsdorf has spent most of his life as a nature guide, beginning at age 9, taught by his naturalist father on the Horicon Marsh in Wisconsin. He began guiding visitors through the history of the marsh, pointing out waterways and habitats living harmoniously, and showing visitors how to enter that harmony and appreciate the complexity and balance. 
“In nature’s embrace, we uncover a bond that speaks to our soul, untamed and eternal, teaching us to live in harmony and wonder,” Zuelsdorf says.

Having settled into the friendly Gulfport community and beginning a family in the late ’80s, he noticed the trash and neglect around and within the waterways of Clam Bayou.

What’s it like to kayak on Clam Bayou and Boca Ciega Bay?
We tried it (https://thegabber.com/we-tried-it-kayaking-boca-ciega-bay/).

“I was shocked at what I saw in this natural area,” he says with a look of distaste, gesturing broadly toward the area around us. “It wasn’t a nature preserve at all. This park was a dump and the bird life suffered and wildlife habitats were trying to survive among all this trash. You couldn’t even see water, there was so much trash congregating in this bayou.”

This energy provoked his journey of stewardship and advocacy for the Clam Bayou. Inspired, he provided solutions, such as securing grants for the cleanup, and delivering education promoting clean waterways. Simultaneously, he worked with City officials to stem the flow of trash.
Kayak Nature Adventures
In 2003, Zuelsdorf began Kayak Nature Adventures. By 2013, he was leasing kayaks at the Gulfport Municipal Marina. He offered free kayak rentals to kayakers who collected trash on the paddle. In time, these kayakers pulled in 200 tons of every sort of debris from the waters and mangroves. Throughout the last 23 years, the ups and downs of business occurred as they do in most small businesses. 
There were years with the bayou filled with kayakers and months where business was closed or slow due to water quality issues (https://thegabber.com/the-aftermath-of-the-poonami/), yet through the ups and downs, Zuelsdorf remained true to his stewardship.

Several buckets of trash later, we return to his kayak rig. He meets customers ready to commence a four-hour adventure. Zuelsdorf offers instructions, the map — did they watch the video? Intertwined in those practicals are instructions about wildlife, what people have seen recently in the water, and how to get help.
When he returns to me, I ask about his plans for retirement.
“What am I going to retire from?” he replies. This is a person, who in his drive to protect nature, has architected his life to do so.
Kurt Zuelsdorf is one of the pearls among us, Gulfport.

​

• #ClamBayouCleanup
• #KayakNatureAdventures
• #ProtectOurBayou
• #GulfportStewardship
• #NatureLover
• #CleanWaterways
• #EcoWarrior
• #KayakForChange
• #BocaCiegaBay
• #TrashFreeNature

VOICES IN TONGUE 
By Kuty Z

A few minutes ago, every tree was alive, bowing to the roaring storm, waving, swirling, tossing their branches in glorious worship. John Muir wrote of their fervor, and though to the outer ear these trees now stand silent, their songs never cease.

Modern flip-flops plop and slap down the brick streets of Cedar Key’s old town, each step stirring subtle voices. Pausing to touch a rough stone wall built by elders, I hear them there too. On the porches of weathered homes—tilting sharply, paint peeling—a cat lounges in an old cedar rocking chair, and I hear them still. But it was the sight of children’s deer hide shoes, fragile remnants of the 1852 hurricane, that made the voices louder. In the cemetery, where warm cedar plank headstones have long been replaced by cold marble, woodsmen, carvers, and fishermen rest side by side on a hill overlooking a sea of grassy wilderness. Whitman “The Shell Man” lies here too, his vast collection of artifacts—some arrowheads and spear tips dated to 20,000 years old—whispering of ancient lives. Shhhhh. Their spirits linger, mingling above clamshell coffins, speaking in native tongues through time and breeze. Following their voices, I pass through shadows guiding me deeper into Cedar Key’s history.
Brilliant white egret plumes flash along the canopy over the abandoned railroad built by Faber in 1855. The chug of his locomotive is gone, but I hear them. Images rise of Timucuan natives piling oyster, conch, mussel, and green turtle shells into a mound towering 28 feet above the mudflats—a monument 6,000 years in the making. Standing atop this palm- and cedar-crowned relic, I wonder aloud, “Why here? Why this spot, so remote, plagued by biting deer flies?” The cooling summer breeze carries my questions but offers no answers—only the laughter of children running through marsh grass, flushing scores of egret and ibis into the timeless sky. I hear them.
On the centerline of Highway 24, I bond with a swallowtail kite, and we both hear them. I long to see this landscape through the natives’ eyes. John Muir, on his thousand-mile walk to the Gulf in 1867, heard them too. “The traces of war,” he wrote, “mark not only the broken fields, mills, and slaughtered woods but the countenances of the people.” Ancestors of great cedar trees still twist in the breeze, dropping scented blue seeds to the rich earth. “Savaged,” Muir called this land—vine-tangled, watery, unfinished. 
Kayaking to Seahorse Key and its lighthouse from my condo feels civilized, but civilization seems unwelcome here. Not the hum of electricity, nor airboats, golf carts, restaurants, or tour boats belong. Remnants of history endure: giant cast-iron pots once used for salt, rusted hulls of old clam boats littering the rugged shore. I wouldn’t mourn the loss of the western pier or the “Guest House,” crumbling with each tidal shift, like the modern locals who come and go.
“Atsena Otie,” from the Muscogean “acheno ota”—Cedar Island—are the only Native American words I speak and understand. I may not return to this place of cloudy water and clams, but I’ll never forget what I heard.

• #CedarKey
• #FloridaHistory
• #Timucuan 
• #NatureWriting 
• #JohnMuirLegacy
• #EcoHistory
• #CoastalHeritage#NativeVoices 
• #WildFlorida 
• #SeahorseKey 
• #EnvironmentalStorytelling
• #HistoricalTravel
• #GulfCoastVibes
• #AncestralEchoes
• #NaturePoetry 
• #NatureLovers #History #TravelUSA  #CedarKey #FloridaHistory,  #EcoTravel2025 #HiddenFlorida 

NO BULL
By Kurt Z




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.
Where Cowboys Roam
Posted: 19 Aug 2009 04:47 AM PDT
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 padlocked gate a canopy of huge oak limbs shaded a greenway that once grazed a cattle herd and several wild horses. My host, Cowboy Bob, tended to them for over 20 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 being “all in a day’s work”.
Bob’s face always lit up when talking about his mentor, Doyle Tindal a.k.a. “Old Cowboy”. He passed on up to “The great cow camp in the sky” about a year ago and now Cowboy Bob keeps his spirit alive with vivid story telling. Like when Doyle had to retrieve a big red bull from the back forty using tried-and-true tactics. A cowboy lassoed the head while others rode up the back of the stubborn bull squatting neck-deep in the swamp!  This apparently worked well for getting him to move, but getting the bull to willingly jump into the back of a caged pickup truck is where the real cattle whisperer’s techniques remain a secret!
The slow rolling journey down the lane and over the old wooden planks that bridge Moccasin Slough often skidded to a gravelly 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 has uncovered some arrowheads, tools and artifacts when he was scratching around and he relishes the day when he’ll discover some cave drawings in this old underground river cave discovered deep in the swamp. A stream surrounded by this fascinating rock formation likely fed the Withlacoochee a century back and could have led early steamboats down the flow.
The burial grounds of the great ones “are out here somewhere” Old Cowboy Doyle once said, but he never showed Bob where they were. He held their location as sacred. Ole Cowboy Doyle was ¼ Cherokee himself, ya see. Maybe someday Bob will come upon the sacred mounds here in natural Florida and I’d like to be there when he does!
Off we went into the night, back to the modern trailer, which was fully equipped with a/c, running water, and a 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, 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 keen 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 was heavy in the air. A really thick batch was finally coaxed from the pot with pancake syrup used for sweetener. (Honestly I’d have never thought of this one but it was quite good!) 
My 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. I clambored up to discover that inside was a nice leather office chair that swiveled 360 degrees. The plethora of green tree frogs and throngs of mosquitoes kept me busy ‘til 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 so when several came into the food plot I tried to communicate with whistles and small bleats at a doe and her fawn. A foot stomp here, a head bob there, and then a nasal snort, a white tail flash and they were gone. 
When the scorching sun started wilting the newly planted feed grass I knew it was time to climb down and 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 had 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 Texan’s 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 I’ve never seen a stampeding bull with a TV tangled in his horns …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’ll have an idea of what lies beyond the last house on the right.

GATOR BAIT
by Kurt Zuelsdorf
 
I can't tell you what possessed me to go into the water with that alligator, but there I was standing in the middle of the Withlacoochee River.
 
The truck coasted  into Nobleton on a sweltering summer morning. The air loomed heavy over the bridge offering glimpses of the enthusiastic canoers that stirred at the outpost.  Scurrying like worker ants the paddlers prepared for the first shuttle trip to nearby Silver Lake.  The filtered view of the river revealed no secrets as we passed over the silent flow. 
 What mystery lay ahead as we idled through the final turn onto the long narrow drive?  Oh what excitement lives just beyond the headlights beam, in the fog that grew thicker near the river. The overhanging willows, oaks and cypress trees stood as  proud guardians hanging over tin roof of the old log cabin.  My dormant childhood excitement spiked… I was at home... in the swamp again! 
  John Morris, a retired big league ball player from New Jersey was my guest for the day. He'd heard my stories about the swamp and wanted to see for himself why I was so drawn.  We moved quickly from the car to avoid the throng of mosquitoes that took fancy to his sweet smelling skin and hair. 
  I welcomed Johnny to the swamp and wondered what he was thinking. He didn’t need to say a word, he let me know instantly by swatting frantically at the buzzing pests. 
I tried to make him as comfortable as possible by offering bug spray, but somehow I knew that “comfort” – in a swamp - might be impossible to a newcomer. It’s likely that my advice of  “a few welting bug bites add to the outdoor experience” didn’t help matters!
 After a nice breakfast cooked over the wood stove we unpacked our gear and moved to the porch. Daylight was approaching and the fog played hide-and-seek with the shadows and low laying areas of the yard. My ears were full of city noise pollution and for the first five minutes we heard nothing but ringing.  We watched the river slip by and waited patiently for our eyes & ears to adjust to the outdoors.  
The frogs were first to pierce the barrier followed harmoniously by the crickets ... then it all came together. The swamp critters formed a wooded orchestra that performed their songs in the shifting shadows of the Oaks. Bullfrogs as big as  cream buckets  belched out mating calls with billowing pops and cracks. Tree frogs provided the harmony and the gators threw in a few bass growls. The Chick-a-dee’s provided the lyrics with there Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee song.
 The gray squirrels wasted no time. When they got a whiff of John's city boy smell they sent a warning cry through the canopy, Chuk,chuk,chuk, chukka -- squeeeek.
 My memory flashed back a few years to the time my dad taught us kids how to build  a squirrel call. He did it with an old peanut butter lid that he cupped it in his left hand.  He fished around in his pocket  and pulled a two-inch stove bolt and  held it in his right hand. With quick, short strokes he'd drag the bolt along the edge of the lid.   Dad's raspy call would lure 'em within range on a regular basis. I still use one today.
 We moved off the porch and stepped quietly to  the river. A light breeze carried the earthy smell into the air and it blended with a  patch of wildflowers that massaged my nasal airways and stimulated  relaxation.  The river's high water marks stained the trees well above where we stood and told stories of record rainfall and recent floods -- nature’s way of eliminating the weaker entities that live in the swamps..  
 Startled by a wheezing cough I  turned and caught  a glimpse of something stirring down stream.  I bobbed my head like an old barn owl and tried to get the visual advantage of what turned out to be Joe, the neighbor,  standing inside the base of a granddaddy cypress.
 
 His silhouette against the fog moved with an eerie quickness and before I could blink he was upon us. His raspy Marlboro voice returned my greeting  as he grabbed my hand  shaking it with the authority of a steel worker.  He offered his hand to Johnny and commented on his nice smell. He knew the smell would attract the winged biters and he kindly offered a solution. "A nice dip in the river'd do ya good."  He then spat a gob of Redman off to the side that trickled down his chew-stained beard.
 Johnny’s  comment on being a “wilderness rookie” got Joe’s attention  and he took the opportunity to show the city-boy a few things.
He told a story of an alligator that he'd been 'baitin up' for the past few weeks and wanted to know if we wanted to see him. Johnny surprised me with his enthusiasm and spoke up,  "Hell yes! Where's he at?"
Joe  responded,   " Well.  The best place to see him is out on a shallow sand bar in the middle of the river."  I shuddered when Johnny  called the charge,  "Let's go!"
 Joe's face lit up with a toothless grin that showed the deep cracks his aged cheeks.  "Now he's about a ten footer. We shouldn't have a problem with him as long as we keep a safe distance."
"What would that distance be Joe." I asked nervously.
"I'd think you'd be safe around twenty feet." He said confidently.
I wondered where he got his information. I had heard somewhere that gators were impossible to train -- always have been...always would be. That's why they've been around for tens-of- thousands of years. 
 Johnny was quick to shed his Polo shirt and $150.00 Nike's. He followed Joe (who remained fully clothed)  toward the center of the river. 
 Not for one minute did Joe seem concerned about what we were doing. "Gets a little deeper here. May have to swim a bit out to the middle." he said.
The sun was just skimming  the treetops and it pressed the fog  down onto the river. The temperature of the water was… invigorating, especially when it reached my tender midsection.  The three of us swam toward something I hadn't planned when I left St. Petersburg...a game of fear extraction!
 
"I spoke to Joe about it briefly a few weeks later and I came to the conclusion that he knew what he was doing all along -- giving us  a chance to look  primitive death in the face." 
 
 With every  stroke  I questioned what we were doing and why we needed to  go to the middle of the river to see a gator. I've seen hundreds of gators and they were no big deal...from the shore.  John on the other hand had never seen a gator and I wanted to be there with him for the experience of it all.
My toes scuffed the soft bottom  sending a chill down my spine for the possibility of what else lurks below the surface that I couldn't see.  The muck turned to hard sand and I dug my toes in and leaned heavily into the current to keep from being swept away toward the Gulf of Mexico.
 We shivered uncontrollably in water up to our armpits.  I noticed Joe  had  a beer with him and he sipped quietly and watched our expressions as we nervously looked about expecting a gator to appear any moment. Seconds later it did.  Twenty yards down stream a large head appeared motionless in the surging current. The fog slid over his aerodynamic head in waving sheets of white.  He was floating in an oily slick that appeared to come from John's body. Fancy body oils, shampoo & bug spray combined with Brut proved to be  a great gator attractant! 
 "OK I'm out a here." Joe said as he dropped his beer and headed immediately toward the shore. John was close behind riding in his wake. I, on the other hand,  couldn't move. Something was keeping me from moving. At first I was mesmerized by  how much bigger they look at eye level. He slowly moved in for a closer look and I stood my ground. 
 John called from the shore,  "Don't be stupid Kurt, get the hell out of there."   Joe stood with his arms crossed not offering any suggestions.
 I couldn't help but to wonder just how dangerous this situation was. Every fiber of my being wanted to believe that I was as safe as being with a Golden Retriever.  I felt content as the gator moved in. His eyes looked compassionate and friendly as a pup. That's when I realized his approach -- he lulled me into a false sense of security with the trademark of a big gator -- swim silently and carry big teeth!
 Now within ten feet Joe expressed concern. "Time to go Kurt...start movin' boy!"
I couldn't move. I  waited too long and now I was afraid that he might attack.  I watched the gator’s eyes quickly change from peaceful blue, to a demonic red leer of a prehistoric hunter.  Then he submerged out of site.
 There's a theory about gators. To measure up their prey  they must move within visual distance below the surface. In this pitch water that meant moving within inches of me.  Suddenly I cracked. As if being hit with a baseball bat loaded with common sense I kicked  my muscles into gear and headed back. The moment I turned my back on him was the most frightening moment that I can ever remember. I felt my vocal cords squeal for help. I could feel him moving closer as I struggled to cover the short distance in the heavy current. Time stood still as I gulped water and splashed like wounded duck. My mind was very convincing in telling me that he was within biting range.  
 When I reached the shallows I tripped and fell facedown in the mossy mud.  I glanced over my shoulder and saw a huge wake moving toward my feet. I lunged toward dry ground and grabbed a powerful hand that nervously pulled me to safety.   
 The gator slid into the shadows and turned sideways exposing his enormous ten-foot body. His armor was thick, glossy black and heavily plated with ridges and spikes. For a moment he just floated there. Then his eyes rolled back and he disappeared into the river.
  Joe was smiling from ear to ear from the satisfaction that another “City boy”  has been  initiated into swamp school.    Jersey John realized that the gator is a fearless predator that demands respect. I headed back to city-life a little wiser too - packing a new appreciation for Florida’s swamps and the creatures that patrol the murky depths of the Withlacoocheee River.
 ​