by Kurt Zuelsdorf

 
The month of May brings the freshness of spring, the newness of life, and the excitement of another fishing season. But his dry sense of humor crashed when he realized that we were not alone in the wilderness.   
 
  We arrived at the boat ramp of Lake Emily on the eve of another fishing season. Anglers scrambled to re-spool their fishing reels and prepare their boats for what was predicted to be another "good" year.  We unloaded the camping gear from Peter's 1969 Scout and removed a small boat from the top carrier.  Lake Emily was ruled a "non-combustible" lake. Gasoline motors weren't allowed. On this trip our craft was propelled by manpower - a set of oars that we pulled out of the trash just one week earlier.
  I rigged the Coleman stove on a branch of a gigantic Oak.  Peter built a small fire. We sipped a few Brandy Old' Fashions and talked about last year's successes and the plans for this year's top water assault. We played show and tell with our new lures and teased each other about the secret lure that would surely win the bragging rights of this trip’s competition. One by one we fondled our favorite plugs, knowing that the other was holding out on his best bet until daybreak. I laughed wildly at Peter's dry, descriptive humor -- a combination of common sense and creative verbiage -- making us best of friends for the summers   leading up to high school graduation.  I especially enjoyed the times when he laughed at his own expense.                        
 One particular incident sparked humor on every occasion. We were fishing on the same lake when suddenly Peter's bowels flared up.  We were anchored in the middle of the lake -- 20 minutes rowing time to the nearest outhouse.  With no time to spare he stripped down to his underwear and jumped overboard.  His body evacuated and he gasped in relief.  When he turned to investigate his work he discovered one of the biggest turds ever seen. Nearly the size of his forearm the "log” bobbed and drifted away from our boat.  We glanced at it from time to time in between casts to see if we could still see it, and of course we always could.  We thought the incident was over until a fellow boater dropped anchored down wind.   Within minutes the torpedo-like turd slammed into the hull of the neighboring vessel. The waves continued to lap against his boat as we pulled anchor -- we couldn't stand it a second longer, we had to leave our favorite "honey-hole" to save face.
 Our tears of laughter began to subside around midnight when we were drawn to the water's edge by the sound of fish jumping. A fresh batch of Mayflies danced on the lake in the full moon light. They tickled the calm surface with their dainty legs and wings. The water was alive with giggling ripples that lured the big Bass into a feeding frenzy.   The fish were everywhere breaking the surface and free jumping into the night sky to retrieve their share of the hatch.
 Within minutes our boat was in the water and loaded down with gear. I snapped the oars into the locks and Peter launched us from shore. The amount of boat (freeboard) that was above the water line was only about 5 inches, which left us no room for shenanigans or horseplay.   I rowed toward the center of the lake while Peter knotted a Hoola Popper, his favorite warm-up plug. We couldn't move fast enough to fling the first cast.
  I asked Peter to use the lantern so he could see what he was doing.  I didn't think he‘d bite at such an obvious trick, but he moved the lantern close to his face and flipped the switch. Instantly the Mayflies were drawn in by the thousands. Peter's head and face were completely covered with the crawling creatures. He panicked. His arms thrashed wildly and he dropped the light into the bottom of the boat.  His weight shifted and we tipped, letting enough water into the bottom of the boat to cover our feet. The flies came in by the bucketful's.  Our airways choked with flies. I screamed at Peter to shut the light off before he swamped us, but he was too busy trying to catch his breath to acknowledge me. When he found the switch, all went dark.  I began laughing hysterically about the ignorance of the act.  I didn't think he'd take it personally. I was wrong. "Let's move to a different spot." He demanded.
 With oars readied I began working toward the "hot spot".  I rowed myself into lather and made very little progress. The harder I rowed the heavier the boat felt. Peter tried coaching me on the proper technique of rowing and he prodded me to move faster, so I did. Thirty minutes later I covered a quarter of a mile and I was exhausted. Peter's belly busted with laughter when he retrieved the anchor that he'd slid into the water before we changed positions.  It had a one hundred pound ball of duckweeds clinging to it! I couldn't believe my eyes, then we both slid into a laughing jag that could be heard clear across the lake.
 We threw a few baits and even tried to free-line a Mayfly, but nothing could compete with Mother Nature's version, so we headed toward camp. When we reached the shore I was exhausted from the midnight workout, so I convinced Peter to call it a night. 
 We stretched out in the back of his Scout and listened to the radio play songs from John Cougar Melloncamp until the clock sounded 2 am.  When Peter sat up to adjust his sleeping bag something startled him.  "Holy shit," he exclaimed. "There's someone out there!" 
 "Shut up and go to sleep. There's no one out here but us." I argued
 "I saw someone! He ran across the parking lot.  He was wearing a white suit."  His eyes strained to find movement.
  I sat up to take a look and was jolted by the presence of a big feral cat that jumped up onto the hood of the Scout. His yellow eyes glowed in the moonlight and his gleaming white teeth drooled as he hissed at us through the windshield. I jerked the covers over my head. I refused to believe that someone was stalking us.
 I told him that if he gathered all the camping and fishing gear we'd leave. After all I wasn't going outside with someone or something wondering about, yet we couldn't leave our stuff behind.
 The truck door flung open in a flash and equipment began filling the back of the truck. "What about the boat?" he asked. I was being pelted by fishing rods, oars, tackle boxes, a stove and the live nightcrawlers that spilled when the top popped off the coffee container and dumped them on my legs. "OK. Screw the boat! Let's get out of here fast."
  We headed for Fox Lake, a small town about 7 miles away. Peter was visibly shaken up as he continued to check his rear view mirror and chew his fingernails like a woodchuck.
  We tried to get some sleep in the parking lot of the local Catholic Church. It seemed a safe sanctuary to spend a night for free.
  We listened to the radio and drifted in and out of a light sleep. Just then, a news flash came across the wire warning the local residents to be on the lookout for a dangerous convict that escaped from the local prison.  Our hearts leapt into our throats as he described the man's prison issue clothing and the position that he was last seen.  The DJ scornfully added that he was considered armed and dangerous and no one should try to apprehend him.
  Daylight broke about an hour later and we headed back to the lake to get our boat. When we turned onto the narrow drive that lead to the lake we were met by a barrage of police cars all heading in the opposite direction.
 They updated the report with a capture. They said he was apprehended while trying to make his get away in a small boat on Lake Emily! We stared at each other slack-jawed, and then looked into the back seat and discovered…we had the oars!  Silence in the truck was deafening. Then a Mayfly circled Peter's head and came in for a soft landing on the bridge of his nose.
That was the last time I saw Peter Grimes. He left for a big city college that fall and I guess fishing lost its charm. As for me, when the April showers bring May flowers in the upper Midwest, my blood boils with the memories of past trips. And when the Mayflies dance on the ponds in the full moon light I can still hear Peter laughing somewhere in the buzz of their tiny wings.
 
 

by Kurt Zuelsdorf


The excitement of a canoe trip boiled in our veins as we launched  from the rocky shoals of the Wisconsin River.  


  Jimmy was a true outdoors man. He carried all the badges from Boy Scouts --  enough metals to cover his shoulders, chest and sleeves.  He was the Catholic schools' "muscle-man" and the main topic of the girl's conversations during Phys Ed. Being a master canoeist he took the helm to refine his 'J' stroke. I was glad he did. I was out to fish a few Walleyes or possibly tangle with a Small Mouth Bass. With a little luck I'd hook a Sturgeon -- a prehistoric fish that grows to be the size of a canoe. 


  My Dad and brother Lee was in the other canoe. Lee's snappy body gestures generated high speed fun and action for all who knew him.  Before we launched he fished from the pier working one of Dad's new  Rappla lures. On the second cast he threw the bait high up into a tree.   Terrified at the thought of losing one of  Dad's  fishing lures he thrashed the rod wildly from side to side and tried to free himself from the 'Wrath of the Lost Lure.'  He  marched up the shoreline with the rod over his shoulder hoping to free the snag.  The overloaded branch retracted him like a bungee jumper.  He shrieked with frustration and climbed to his feet. Jimmy fueled the flame when he suggested wrapping the line around the light post for leverage. The line snapped off as a 22 rifle and it grabbed dad's attention.


  All Dads' have a strange affinity with fishing lures.  Whenever we lost one he threatened to ban us from fishing.  Every trip to the sport shop he'd remind us of the year, makes, and model number of his lost lures.


  For some reason today was going to be different. He  laughed at the site of Lee's twisted face when he came to confess. Jimmy and I awaited Lee's banishment, but were defiled when Dad reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a brand new jointed Rappla -- the hottest thing on the market and the prize of any good fisherman. Lee's pitiful expression gave way to show love and appreciation for such understanding. While Dad retied the plug Lee casually turned to us and smiled, then stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes and contorted his cheeks. 
 The trip began just below the cascading falls in Wisconsin Dells. The waters there  churn white with foam then move silently through  town.  The State's number one tourist attraction called the "Ducks"  rapped up another record tourist season and was on dry dock near the launch site -- one of the signs that winter was just around the corner.


  The canoes sagged to the waterline with enough camping gear  to  support four people --  3 days in the river wilderness. My Dad had it all;  Fishing rods, tents and sleeping bags. Tables, tripods and tarps. Pots, pans and paper goods.  This being his first overnight canoe trip he wasn't sure what to take so he took it all.  


  Dad recited the protocol,  'Hang on boys, keep  yourselves low and don't stand up in the canoe!'  I gripped the gunnels as Jimmy pushed us away. The initial rush of 'floating'  tested our balance and we spilled a few gallons of icy water into the bottom of the canoe.
  Almost immediately we encountered the caverns. Dark, damp and spooky  we inched our way through the caves to sharpen our exploration skills. At times we crouched and used our hands on the ceiling to gain passage. I remember one particularly long route that ended abruptly when the canoe bumped the wall. The 'thumming' of the vibrating aluminum disturbed the night dwellers.   It felt as someone dumped a bag of leaves on us when the bats dropped from the ceiling.  Being brushed and bumped by a swarm of bats in a dark cave wasn't on the brochure, but it made for a real test of courage. When we emerged in a cloud of winged escorts Dad laughed so hard he nearly lost his dentures overboard.


  The sheer rock walls that lined the river told stories of what the Ishnalla Indians saw when they traveled the river lifetimes ago.  I  imagined  Chief Soaring Eagle standing on the cliff in full headdress. His spear held high  chanting to the spirits. He blessed the pioneers as they passed.  He told us to, 'Listen to the river for she is all knowing.'   He ended with a spine tingling wail and cursed the dangers that waited below the surface of the flow. I would catch a glimpse of the warriors lining the banks. I could see their family's living peacefully along the river.  It was untamed then and teaming with beauty and wildlife -- their source for survival. 


  The river flowed at a jogger's pace. A simple paddle drag was all we needed to advance downstream. The swirling water hid scads  of underwater obstacles and we bumped bottom often. Sometimes hard enough to whiplash our body's forward, others slid by with a quiet whisper on the gunnel.


  Twelve o'clock noon came quickly and dad maneuvered the canoe toward a  small sandbar for a lunch break.  He unpacked the gas stove and began his mighty preparation.  It wouldn't be at all out of place for him to prepare Pheasant Under Glass with Duck'alorange dressed with small red potatoes and asparagus shoots. His extravagant camp menus are famous especially with us kids.  The adults couldn't fathom how he orchestrated the tasty cuisine's in the remote wilderness. 


  The river menu was simple; Beer-battered Pike filets pan fried to  snappy perfection in a cast iron skillet, served with corn-on-the-cob and fresh green beans. We often  talked about the things we liked best about camping and it was always unanimous -- eating! 


  Dad cooked and  told fish stories about technique and where-abouts. He included his research into the stomach for  feeding patterns and spawning seasons. The stories always ended with a peaceful gaze into the horizon and a simple toast, 'Yup, I can still see him swimming around that log and taking the bait.'   It always brought a smile to his face.


  After enjoying  one of Dad's  finer moments as camps cook we repacked the gear and continued downstream. Dad had been on the river many times and knew the terrain. He'd been planning this trip in his mind for years and told stories of someday  camping on the "perfect" river  island.


  The next few hours flashed by with the help of a hefty Crappie, two Walleye's and a Channel Cat  the size of an oar. We took turns estimating his weight, "Gotta be 10 pounds!" Lee chirped.
"Oh it's bigger than that,"  Jimmy remarked.  
"Do you think so?"  I wasn't sure. The thrill of such a big catch had me basking in my own angling brilliance. "Eighteen pounds if it's an ounce!"  Dad concluded before I slid it overboard.


  Then dad peered and smiled, "There she is boys!"  Our excitement grew as we cleared the final corner that revealed  a small island no bigger than a football field. He found the "perfect" one. The gunnel scoured onto the beach. We slid the crafts ashore and set off to explore the island. We discovered the bones of a long since deceased deer and we discussed the various possibilities of death. Jimmy calculated the "live weight" based on the skull size. "Last year's winter was pretty tough. I'll bet she starved. By the looks of things I'd say she weighed about 90 pounds. The teeth look like a two year-old's. Dad held the skull and studied it Shakespearean precision, 'Winters have been pretty tough the past three years... probably starved.' He concluded. I thought death was caused by an old hunt wound. Lee's guess was, 'Maybe it just died.'  We split up  and wandered aimlessly about pondering  'natural death' for almost an hour before we regrouped and finished setting up camp.


  The lack of firewood on the island limited us to a small, smoldering evening fire. Dad's early to bed lifestyle was boring us so we swam and played with the fire until we became exhausted and fed up with the swarms of mosquitoes.


  Soon we were in our tents. Dad's tent was simple. A piece of old canvas draped over an aluminum frame with  two lines staked to the ground...  No floor... No ends. Wide open to the elements. We often wondered why we used it at all, he said that it was  "All we needed  to keep the moisture and morning dew off us."  Dad grew up in a  cattail marsh and developed an  immunity to mosquitoes. In the midst of swarms he could remain cool, calm and collected and would emerge with "not one bite."  Lee on the other hand had a phobia about bugs and it would be amazing if he got any sleep at all.


  By midnight large raindrops plunked the nylon sides of our tent and I was thankful for  Jimmy's tent.  An unexpected storm announced its presence with clap of thunder that rolled down the river. In the distance  a tornado siren  warned the locals of an oncoming uncontrollable force. Sheets of rain tested the side walls of the tent and we all had our senses tuned in to the elements. Instantly the wind and rain died, warning us that the calm before the storm was upon us.   A low "humming" startled  Jimmy. "What the hell is that?" The wind increased and whistled across the tent ropes. I heard the concern in dad's voice, "We're in for a little wind boys, hang on... here it comes!"


  The stories they tell about the sound of tornado are accurate. The charging locomotive was coming. It snapped huge trees like tooth picks as it ripped toward camp. 
" I wanna go by Dad!" I cried as the earth began rumbling.  I could hear my brother crying and it blended with the wind to make a horrifying scream.


  The funnel cloud bounced  off the tree lined edges and  headed in our direction.  It was pushing a  wall of water out ahead of it and  before we could adjust to higher ground the flash flood reached our stoop and uprooted our tent stakes.   I could feel my fingers digging into the sand through the bottom of the tent but my grip washed away and we started sliding toward the drop off. The water flowed through the sides of the tent uninterrupted. The loose nylon snapped and tattered as the winds increased. The deafening roars of the  twister drown out my screams for dad's help.  


  Trapped inside the tent by the twisting wind and lightening that surrounded us toyed with our minds. The storm's  sky splitting bolts had no concern  for the burning voltage or what it can do to human body. The sheets of rain pelted the nylon tent and sprayed water through the zipper. There were times when the water came in faster then we could bail it out.


  I could hear dad's voice cutting in and our of the storm, "Hang in there kids it's almost over!".
  Little Jimmy fingered through his scout manual looking for answers,  "Get me out of here. Get me out of here!" As quickly as it began  it was  over. The snapping of trees and the rumbling of Mother nature's force continued down stream. I emerged from the tent into ankle-deep water and  discovered my Dad's tent gone. I couldn't believe my eyes. They slept only 10 feet away from us and they disappeared!  I called out for them both but no one answered. I   grabbed the flashlight and scanned the surroundings.  When I found the canvas tarp pinned against a fallen tree I thought the worse of things.  Water and loose brush were running over and around it.  When I approached I heard sobbing and noticed the tarp was vibrating.  I could hear Dad  trying to calm Lee. I pulled the tarp to the side and they  huddled together tightly. Dad actually laughed when he saw me and exclaimed, 'Wow! Quite a storm huh boys?'  His eyes showed concern, but he popped to his feet brushed Lee off who shivered uncontrollably. Then he checked us for injuries and hugged us both.


  We were wet and cold but safe. We huddled under a partially dry sleeping bag and watched the river regain its serenity. The sky cleared and the stars returned and for 30 minutes we didn't say a word we just sat in the sand and watched the night. 


Dad pointed out the missing deer skeleton and blessed our good fortune. Then he laughed,
"Well boys it's good to be on dry land again. Next trip we'll bring a weather radio."


That's my Dad - Always looking for adventure in the great outdoors. 


​

Daytona Bike Week 2010
by Kurt Zuelsdorf


Older bikers in the community are always eager to share stories about how they did it “way back when” and how the technology has changed the sport so dramatically. But all the grey haired “old school” bikers will agree on one thing…the bugs still taste the same!


One particular “old cat” that I saw gazing at an antique scooter on the wall of the Rossiters Harley Davidson in Daytona caught my attention. He stood sternly, arms crossed and  head half-cocked. I had to ask him what he thought of the old ’54. At first he said nothing, he just pointed near the rear end and scratched his wired gray hair. “That looks like my welding job, right there on the rear swing arm. It’s not a pretty weld, but it did the job.” 




Rollie, a biker visiting from Wisconsin, considers himself a  “real biker” that’s been riding his whole life…year round... for over 75 years!  “Being a full-timer meant that you only own a bike…no car. So no matter what you got to get up and hit the road all four  seasons of the year!” he said. “No sleet, nor rain, nor snow ever stopped me from popping my ’51  Police Special Harley into gear and heading 50 miles to the Harley plant in Milwaukee, no sir. A good thing about them old leakers – in the cold winter air -  the oil became so thick that they didn't leak as much! I'd throw  my lunch in the sidecar. Back then fifty cents in my pocket would cover gas, lunch and a beer on the way home1!”     Incidentally, he bought the bike from Bill Harley himself for $700 and got a sidecar thrown into the deal! He laughed at the thought of buying the bike instead of an old Hudson that needed new tires and what the value of Bill Harley's personal bike would be worth today.


Hungry for more info we continued chatting away and his story began to stick to my skin like the love bugs on a windshield in the sweltering season to come. 


He continued on with constant throat clearing croaks, his eyes drooped shut as he  recalled  the days of riding to work and having to pass through the low-lying areas of the marshy back roads. Most of the summer the early morning fog soaked through his work boots and kept his (then black) hair smoothed back tight to his scalp. The murky muck of the marsh was a perfect breeding bowl for the mosquitoes that  rose thick and swarmed over the roadway. The constant smacking of bugs on his face over the years is what caused the wrinkles he has today, he says. The dragonflies and bats dodged and darted about taking advantage of the feast, sometimes catching his forehead straight on – snapping is head back momentarily before he smeared it back into his hair and off the back of his head.  


June was a particularly bad month with the June-bugs pelting the uncovered skin of the knuckles and arms. But to catch one in the mouth is the laughing joke that all bikers brag about as if it were this event that qualified them as “hard-core”. Rollie chuckled at what bikers consider hard-core these days and continued.


Summer also brought the threat of deer and wildlife into play. Very seldom a day passed without a near miss with a raccoon or a rabbit. Low flying herons and hawks also tested the nerves. But it was one particular stretch of marsh, in the heat of the summer that the frogs came onto the roadway. 300 yards of pure “ick” Rollie said. Thousands upon thousands of croakers carpeted the roadway making the crossing a slippery mess of squashed goo.  Often enough they’d try to jump free only to catch a boot, a shin, or a knee-cap.   The worse case senerio was when a passing car would splash the frog parts into the face and upper body. “now that’s hard-core” Rollie added with a stern finger point.
“yea, the bikers today have so much chrome to keep clean and their meticulous about keeping them shiny, and rightfully so, I can’t imagine spending $50,000 + on a bike! You think raindrops are hard to keep off chrome…you should try frog legs and guts!” 


So for you biker's out there looking to make “real biker” or “hard core” status...spring is on the way and Rollie (who happens to be my Daddy) would be glad to escort you down the marshy muck roads of Wisconsin for  his 76th season of chew-n-swallow!

 by Kurt Zuelsdorf

Paddle into the sunrise to summer clouds streaked with purple & pink, see it permeate nature and stir the slick-calm surface of the bayou to life! 
 
Several tarpon rolled and snook swirled as a water snake slide across in front of a traveler from Ohio. It appears their are people more afraid of snakes than I! Squabbling birds bitching for the best fishing branch & calling crickets echo through the mangroves. Mornings are the perfect choice this weekend for visiting & touring the bayou, here's a few more reasons; 
 
Heron's are hatching and still  dropping  new eggs in the upper creek... a promise of a bright future in the bayou. Ten chicks have been counted and more to come!  Who remembers the gator wallow? Well, the "big fella" has emerged from the swamp and is making a new hole in the mud bar.... he's been eating well by the looks of his belly-marks. Remember the nice house with the burned out roof?  (old drug dealers house in the upper creek)  In a matter of hours it was demolished and is now gone!   
 
Spoonbills have been occupying the dead tree near the pass of the bayou nearly every day. The only pair of Black Crowned night herons in the bayou have built a nest in the lagoon that was filmed in our "Priceless" video! (visit Video page) This is exciting because before we cleaned and restored circulation to the lagoon the area was nearly dead!  
 
Daylight in the bayou comes early this time of year and awakens life to a new day... are you awake?  
 

​ by Kurt Zuelsdorf

Full moon high-water tides brought a new dimension to storm water runoff in Clam Bayou this week. Styro & plastic flowed in from yards, alleys & roadways and from all directions. But on Thursday night 13  kayak volunteers began the sunset sweep clean up series with energy and enthusiasm and took on storm water runoff head on! 
 
 
Nature was at it's finest this eve! The new green herons, in their awkward immature plumage were showing off their fishing skills to the crew. The egrets, dozens in full white plumage, gathered in a lagoon for the nightly roost. We drifted past just in time for a flyover of the royal fleet of spoonbills escorted by a wood stork!  
 
 
Grandma Rambo took to the water like a duck, the Flowers family loaded bags steadily, Ye Magical Crew Of Carol stayed ashore and swept the launch area to a fine  shine, & the McIntosh's showed their seasoned talent with a discarded crab trap and a kayak loaded to the waterline with bags! 
 
 
Sharon carrying her "Wet Floor" sign up the launch site will likely be the memorable moment. She has long been a Greenie and works hard snatching debris from the mangroves and marsh grasses, and is a tremendous help cleaning and loading equipment after the events. After tossing her muddy janitorial sign onto the heap she made one last trip to the launch. Mangrove beans are dropping this time of year and cover the  launch site. Sharon's footing started to slip, and like Bambi on an ice pond she skidded down the ramp and plunged into the bayou! Fortunes are not made or found on our clean ups but nicknames can stick forever... here's to "Slippery Sharon" for her hard work and dedication to our environment! 
 
 
Tragedy turned triumphant - Last year we lost a Roseate Spoonbill to a wad of discarded fishing line. This year the lone spoonbill returned with a new mate!  In addition, in an area once riddled with trash, now a group of (6) black-crowned night herons have moved in and established roost.   

​by Kurt Zuelsdorf
 
Excitement bubbled from a familiar face as he leapt from the Jeep to lend a helping hand.
 
He's becoming a natural steward to the environment. His enthusiasm for the great outdoors points toward a positive future for us all. Always looking to clean up our waterways Tyler encourages people of all ages by setting a good example. On our kayak quest for manatee in Clam Bayou Gulfport Floorida he continued to impress. He readily went about snatching cups and floating bottles from the water and tossed them into his kayak which he paddles from a kneeling position. The discovery of an egg sack from a fish - well described. The return of a starfish to the bay - a good deed. Hefting and paddling a heavy plank from a sandbar for proper disposal - heroic.  His uncanny outdoor skills and concerns are a good example of what the next generation could be like. Tyler's outdoor education is being encouraged and supported by Jimmy Mason, Tyler's Grand-dad. Weekends filled with outdoor adventures are just what the doctor ordered...thanks Jimmy for the courage and the cookies.
As for a tippy canoe...well it appears to be a bonding recipe for Scharibone family. The best I could figure the ingredients include; 
One helping of good attitude and a loss of balance
2 floating flip-flops, a pinch of sarcasm and a handful of concern from a spouse, and 1 bucket of mud for color
First - mix the ingredients in kayak built for two
Second -  paddle hard and into the wind for 25 minutes
Third - When the time is right (usually when the kids aren't following directions) it's time for the roll-over.  Follow this up by having your spouse jump out of a dry kayak to help. The real flavor comes in the sweet frosting - laughing so hard you can't get back in the kayak
And finally don't be afraid to get creative by falling in or out a few more timesYou'll know the recipe is a success upon completion of the trip by the smiles on the faces, the hand-in-hand and arm-in-arm walk as they head toward their car - wet, muddy & happy.
Try recipe out on your guests this holiday season, it' sure to be a hit.

by Kurt Zuelsdorf​ 
 
Elnor Islands patience is to be admired. Decades of debris rest on her feet and still she smiles. Before Saturday's clean up Elnor hoisted a spoonbill to the top of the roost to welcome the volunteers who endured the mud and muck on her shores to help make her shine. The circling osprey kept a watchful eye over the crew as did the brown pelican that swam just beyond the shore. We are committed to "Bringing Back the Birds" to Elnor and you can help.Nature is calling...can you hear it? It's a magical sound that can't be heard when swimming in the thoughts of every day life... it's a sense. It can't been seen in the news or on this laptop screen... it has to be experienced. It can't be touched through the glass of a car or the window at home... it must be caressed with your feet and fondled with your hands. What is nature saying to you today, are you listening?  

Click on the link to see a great video of the day!

Nobody's Fool
by Kurt Zuelsdorf
 
I took another step and felt cobwebs on my face. The eerie sensation of spider webs on skin—in the dark—can drop a grown man to his knees!
​
The kayak slid ashore with a hissing whisper onto an island a few miles east of Brooksville. I was on my first self-guided wild boar excursion, and there was no better place to start than a speck on the map called Hog Island! A pungent belch of sulfur fouled the 35-degree air as my foot sank out of sight into the rich earth. I threw a light line around a tree and tied it off to avoid being stranded, left to swim the cold, spooky, tannin-infused waters of the Withlacoochee River.I grabbed a flashlight from my hunt belt, where my Smith & Wesson snake pistol hung reassuringly from a camouflage hip pack. The pack also carried a whistle, matches, ammo, a small tripod and camera, and a useless snakebite kit I had no intention of using after a doctor advised it might cause more harm than good. I carried it only as a reminder of the dangers lurking in Florida swamps.The flashlight beam played tricks with the rising fog. Anything beyond ten feet glimmered with bluish-yellow streaks fanning out in all directions. The distorted light stretched the cone-shaped cypress knees to immense proportions. They bobbed and weaved like dancing wizards in the moonlight until I shut the light off.I sat for an eternity, waiting for my eyes to adjust. My ears strained to hear something—anything. City life had dulled my senses; my vision was weak, and my ears squealed with phantom sirens and noise. I shook my head like an old hound dog with ticks, trying to knock loose the noise pollution, then stood still.The flowing water broke the silence first. The river popped and gurgled over fallen cypress and around the bend, where it churned like boiling black soup. Then an orchestra of swamp life chimed in. Between the bullfrog belches and the crickets’ cracking, alligators growled their mating moans. Distant owls called, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?” Ahhh… music that salves the soul!I consulted my compass for a northeast heading. I developed the habit of using a compass on a canoe trip with my father when I was eight. We were preparing for a portage through loosely scattered hardwoods when I learned—the hard way! I eagerly grabbed the bow, and Dad hefted the stern. He urged me to check the compass. I laughed, as we had done the same portage earlier that day; I thought I knew where we were. Yeah, right!The first twenty yards slid by quickly. Soon, my narrow shoulders and spindly neck erupted in fatigue. “Time out!” I huffed.“What’s the matter… lost?” Dad chuckled.“No… my shoulders hurt,” I defended.His laughter grew, as did my fatigue with every step. Suddenly, I saw water where I didn’t remember seeing it earlier. My gut told me we’d discovered a secluded pond, a chance to observe wood ducks. When my father dropped his end of the canoe, the aluminum “pung” of the hull echoed through the woods. I snapped my head around, frowning, wondering why he’d blow such an opportunity to watch the colorful woodies.Seconds later, between a laughing jag and a gasp for air, he broke the news: “You’ve walked in a circle, Kurt. This is exactly where we landed twenty minutes ago!” During my dad’s gut-busting, wide-open belly laugh, I realized the importance of a compass. He knew I was circling all along but wanted to drive the point home—as only a dad can. His laughter still rings in my head before I take the first step into the unknown: “Always check your compass!”My plan was to stalk the length of Hog Island, hoping to see feral hogs for the first time. My boots sucked and slurped free from the tar-like mud. Another stinky pocket of swamp gas wafted upward before I reached hard ground. I slipped quietly up a steep bank to a few old oaks, their branches dripping with Spanish moss. The mystical fog added a dimension that defined my dreams of southern swamps—cold, dark, damp, and dangerous to newcomers.I eased through the darkness toward the island’s center, searching for promising signs. Scattered silhouettes of palmetto palms teased my attention with their raspy rustling. I overfilled my lungs with heavy swamp air until I felt light-headed. My senses tingled from the sweet air that healed my “city” body. I stopped again to check my direction. Earlier, unaware, I had stopped just short of a gigantic spider web. As dawn broke, I hadn’t seen it. It stretched an impressive fifteen feet across, elegantly knitted from a small oak to a palmetto and up to a tall cabbage palm.After a compass check and correction, a strong intuition urged me to scrap the original plan and change course. “Nothing doing… you’ll be okay,” said the voice behind my right eyeball. In the predawn darkness, I took one giant step and experienced an “arachniphylactic fit.” Cobwebs hit my face, and my head spun in a spastic twist, knocking my hat off. The semi-thick silk stretched tightly across my body. I spun in circles, arms flailing, trying to free myself until I tripped over a log and fell to my knees. I hunched over, covering my face, hoping I wouldn’t feel eight hairy legs advancing on my body. Sorrowfully, I was wrong.At the base of my exposed neck, something swept back and forth like a low-hanging pine bough brushed by the wind. I slapped my neck, squishing a greasy arachnid into my palm while sweeping another from my hair. A legion of goosebumps swept through me, tingling my spine. I spun like a pup chasing its tail, trying to see myself all at once, then tripped on a family of cypress knees and slid across a muddy slick of grass before regaining composure.I was too busy to notice the pale sun’s morning ascent into the foggy air or the cobalt-blue streak tickling the treetops. When I looked back at the disturbed spider web, the first spear of light shone through the canopy of oaks and palms, catching the web just right. Thick morning dew exposed the hidden gold. The breeze massaged it gently, and light shimmered down the spider’s silk strands. I saw the hole I’d carved and a few smaller spiders in the web. Gruesome displays of bug and beetle carcasses scattered throughout told the tale of an accomplished marksman—a brilliant engineer with a high kill rate and a fancy for gold. Judging by the web’s size, she was much bigger than the ones I’d already met.There, by the web, lay my hat in the dirt. I was about to grab it when I discovered her. She had eluded my frantic body search and taken a stand on my forehead. As big as a man’s hand, her right front leg tested my crinkled forehead. My gasp startled her, and she moved—one leg caught my nose, another hooked my mouth. When she jumped off my cheek, a thick yellow strand of gold silk spewed out, sticking to the side of my head. I swiped and dodged like a madman, in disbelief that she’d been on me so long. I grabbed my hat and tried to shrug it off. For the rest of the day, I could feel her hairy legs on my face.I researched these webslingers when I returned to the world of information (also called the web, haha). What I discovered was fascinating. Sometimes called banana spiders, the yellow orb spider has a remarkable defense mechanism. When confronted, she gathers body hairs with her forelegs—tiny black harpoons with sharp, serrated points. When a predator enters her lair, she flicks the hairs into its eyes. These mini-harpoons burrow into the eyeball, irritating it until they work through to the back, where they dissolve!After reading this, I developed an irritating twitch in my left eye. I try to forget the invasion, but I’m confident the yellow orb spider, protecting her gold with daggers of fear, will always be there… spinning her tricks in the depths of the Florida swamps.

​by Kurt Zuelsdorf
 
What is it about mud & men that go together like peanut butter and jelly? Maybe it's the idea that we "think" we can do whatever we want and getting muddy is the most simplistic (safe) way of expressing that.   Extreme low tide at the Clam Bayou launch site exposed some long-lost litter and the Boy Scouts of America were prepared to answer the call! Fifteen in all we set out to do what most people consider a chore -  cleaning up Florida's water ways. Our senses of "good nature" endured as we fought off the disgust of cleaning up someone else's cans, bottles, bags, hangers, and another sign that read  "We Buy Junk Cars".  But in a primitive state of mud and men we became aware that this good deed is meant for the environment.  Even as six  men in mud up to their shins pried and pulled on an old barnacle-covered tire the "Green Thread" endured. Perhaps the bayou's gallery of spiders, snakes & spoonbills, fish & foul provide enough evidence that this place is worth saving. Also worth noting; Enough golf balls to fill a bucket. A hubcap to hang on a wall and a chimney swift's broom were taken home as keepsakes. And maybe for the first time ever... it's a cool thing to be carrying  a spare tire! Our thanks goes out to Boy Scout Group 202 for overcoming the mud & muck and for doing what's right to our environment.