11/19/2024 Otis Returns “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.” – PablRead Now ![]() Otis the Grebe “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 November’s chill crept in from the north, ushering in the true snowbirds. Willets, dowitchers, and godwits now huddle on the south pass oyster bars, their chatter a welcome reunion for the local oystercatchers, who endured a lonely summer with only garrulous gulls for company. The green and black-crowned herons’ nesting grounds in the upper creeks gleam, revitalized by tireless volunteer greenies who prepped the nursery for their return. One late-hatched heron lingered this year, feasting on the fiddler crab bounty along Brandt’s Island. The crab crop seems thinner than last year’s, but the food chain hums on. For the fifth year running, a solitary pied-billed grebe has returned to the south pass—a faithful visitor deserving a name. Otis feels fitting, though I’m open to other suggestions. His quiet presence is a comforting constant. A fleeting glimpse of a black-crowned night heron and a brush with the elusive, ghostly bittern lifted my spirits after a slow summer. Most thrilling, though, is a discovery in the upper creeks: delicate, teacup-sized nests, likely woven by palm warblers. These intricate creations reveal a hidden symbiosis—spider webs lace the twigs, binding the nests, while strands adorned with spider eggs serve as nurseries. The tiny spiders hatch, devouring parasites that threaten the fledglings, only to later become food for the growing birds. Clam Bayou unveils such wonders when you train your eyes to see. Above, black vultures circle, awaiting nature’s cue to clean up as falling temperatures turn tilapia belly-up. Bald eagles have returned, too. On a recent photo tour with Denise from Pennsylvania, a massive male eagle executed a breathtaking drop-swoop-grab on a mullet right before us, only to be chased off by a territorial osprey. The osprey nesting posts, however, remain quiet; a small nest from last year was lost to a recent storm. The white pelican migration has begun, a spectacle of grace. I was fortunate to witness three glide into the bayou against a clear blue sky, their bills—capable of holding three gallons of water—living up to the adage that their beak can hold more than their belly can. (See recent clips on the NATURE VIDEOS page for more.)
11/19/2024 Swamp Things Chatter unlike anything I’d ever heard.The cute little calls weren’t bugs, toads, or birds.I was standing in a nest of baby alligators!Read Now Swamp Things
By Kurt Z Chatter unlike anything I’d ever heard. The cute little calls weren’t bugs, toads, or birds. I was standing in a nest of baby alligators! Leopard frogs and crickets couldn’t compete with a cicada’s drone, but they tried. It was fall in the Green Swamp, over 50,000 acres of Florida’s vital aquifers. Swampy, wild, and untamed. We were camping. Sweetgum, oak, and “squaw wood” campfires shrouded the canopy of century-old trees, smoldering through the camp shared by Brother Terry, a gent named Jimmy The Fox, and a marksman called The Dini. These reputable sportsmen rolled out of their tents, ready to hunt. Terry hoped I’d whip up his favorite hunt meal: Who-Hash—canned corned beef hash mixed with scrambled eggs, piled high on burnt toast. I couldn’t stomach the smell, so I insisted he do his own cowboy cooking. He fumbled for the flint lighter, sparking the Coleman stove to life. The flame illuminated heavy black stains around the burners, dents and dings telling more stories than I could ever recall—a treasured item indeed. After breakfast, Terry reminded me to grab the “G.A.L.S.”: Guns. Ammo. License. Snacks. The campground buzzed with camouflaged hunters awaiting daylight. Some dragged deeply on cigarettes, chattering among themselves. Others looked sleep-deprived and overserved. Old pickup trucks, rifles hung in back windows, coughed and struggled to stay running. (Why do Floridians think they need to warm up a car?) The gates to the management area were about to open, and the positioning began. The old cattle bridge over the Little Withlacoochee River had no guide rails—just a dozen 2-inch pipes spaced 3 inches apart. Cows wouldn’t cross it; it was barely wide enough for off-road tires. Tannin-stained water flowed swiftly just below, proof the two-year drought was over and the swamp’s watershed was full. Check station attendants, local volunteers with tobacco chew and thick Southern drawls, were some of the most colorful characters in Florida’s management areas. They checked licenses and handed out permits, rarely eager to share local knowledge with city boys passing through “their” swamp. But you’d do well to slow to their pace—a step faster than a snail—and listen carefully. Otherwise, “pallet fire” might sound like “pilot far.” The station was a small, sheltered concrete slab with a wash-down hose hanging below a scale. A nightstand held an old gallon pickle jar filled with natural lard—used bacon grease and sugar water—a good ol’ fashioned flytrap brimming with blowflies. Old skulls, antler sheds, turkey feathers, and occasional arrowheads or fossils lay scattered about. The station had replaced 50-gallon barrels for entrails with brain and jaw samples to test for chronic wasting disease, alongside records of sex, weight, antler points, and harvest date. The biggest draw was the progress board—a chalkboard tallying the season’s kills: 23 deer, 65 hogs, and 125 squirrels, signaling room for a few more deer by season’s end. The bone-jarring 8-mile drive ended at Bull Barn Road. Facing east, it’s 45 miles of Florida wilderness to the next hard road. Stories of lost hunters—some barely escaping, others like the warden who vanished with his truck—lurked in our minds. True or local yarns to guard secret spots? One look across the vastness, and you could believe it. The half-mile walk to our favorite spot passed quickly, Terry and I silent. Our pace slowed, steps cautious, as we paused to savor daybreak. The sun peeked through tall pines beyond low-growing palmettos, just past our cypress head. Spanish moss draped heavy in scattered old oaks. Small flocks of curlew passed overhead, great herons stood in the shallows, and morning fog framed a scene most Floridians or visitors would never know outside Disney. Last year’s controlled burn left black slashes across our shins as we traversed new growth. Spiders, geckos, skinks, and small snakes scurried from underfoot. A startled armadillo reared on its hind legs, hopping through the brush like a kangaroo—far from the usual southern speed-bump slump. Palmetto growth thickened near the swamp’s fringe, a tangle of thorny vines, scrub oak, cabbage palm, and slash pine. Moist black earth, freshly tilled by feral hogs, revealed roots and bulbs—their favorite snack. We split up, planning to slip into the swamp’s core without spooking its inhabitants. Crawling through low wildlife tunnels, the first 10 yards were brutal—2-inch thorns tore at my skin and clothes. Eventually, it gave way to cypress knees and ankle-deep water, revealing the hammock’s heart. I knelt in soft muck, stretching to glimpse a pair of wood ducks spinning nervously in an open pond. With a thrust, they whistled through the shaded canopy, the sun catching the male’s vibrant colors and distinctive hood. Their ripples tickled hyacinth and set water lilies dancing. My legs sank deeper into the muck. Air pockets from decaying vegetation released heavy gases. The swamp soon resumed its unspoiled rhythm: cardinals chased through underbrush, warblers bobbed nervously, and scrub jays chatted in the treetops before moving on for fallen acorns. My eyes locked on palms across the pond—something big was feeding in the heavy cover. Terry noticed it too. He savored these moments as much as I did, moving low around the pond’s edge, using foliage for cover. I waded left, where a bottomless pit of muck tested my plan and patience. Water rose to my waist, lilies unperturbed. Cypress knees bumped my shins as I toed across submerged logs, balance and courage waning. Then, an eerie presence froze me. The pond’s ripples stilled. The hair on my neck stood erect. A chirp below wasn’t a bird. A croak behind wasn’t a frog. A squeak from the lilies at my knees wasn’t a bug. Then, in unison, they cried. I shifted, nearly fell, groping for balance. The chatter—unlike anything I’d heard—was baby alligators screaming for help. My mouth went dry. My knees buckled, stomach knotted. My heart pounded, mind racing. Fear kept me from calling out; my body froze. A submerged log against my leg moved. The “phoby” hit Force 5. Lilies heaved and retreated—once, twice, within arm’s reach. A low growl and nasty hiss broke me. I don’t recall my first steps but imagine I walked on water. I cried out. Birds scattered. Frogs and minnows fled as my legs churned the pond into white lather. Mud boiled as I neared shore—the scariest moment. Was he behind me, plotting a death roll? At the water’s edge, palmettos exploded with movement. Fronds and branches flew as if trucks plowed through. A white-tailed deer’s flag flashed goodbye. Terry approached, frowning. Maybe it was the lilies on my head, the mud speckling my pale face, or my shaking like a palm frond in a hurricane. We saw crushed grass where a big alligator had been, but never the gator itself. Later, I learned that during droughts, alligators dig holes that become ponds, attracting fish and birds—their prey. Luckily, I wasn’t the meal. “Phoby?” Terry asked. “Force 5 phoby!” I corrected stoutly. Phoby, a term Terry and I coined, describes the thrill or fear of our adventures, modeled on the Saffir-Simpson hurricane scale:
At the river, another hunter’s luck sank—his truck missed the cattle bridge, plunging into the water. Men stood hip-deep, struggling to free it, but it was a job for more than hands. Darkness fell as more joined in. I stood on the bridge, hesitant to wade in, knowing the Green Swamp’s gators spread phoby like no other. #GreenSwamp #FloridaHunting #OutdoorAdventure #HuntingStories #SwampLife #AlligatorEncounter #WildernessTales #FloridaWildlife #HuntingSeason #NatureThrills #CampfireStories #PhobyForce5 #DeerHunting #FeralHogs #SouthernOutdoors #WildFlorida #AdventureAwaits #HuntingLife #Backwoods
11/18/2024 GATOR BAIT 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.Read Now
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. |
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AuthorKurt Zuelsdorf. Published author, Urban Tracker, Outdoor Enthusiast & Kayak Nature Adventures Owner Operator Archives
June 2025
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