​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 unfit for man or beast, carved deep by unlucky drivers who dared to cross her.
Tommy Taylor, a good ol’ Southern boy who lives for the outdoors, called when wild hogs started tearing up his hunt lease just south of Tallahassee. I paused, then reacted instinctively. Next thing I knew, five hunters were crammed into my Trooper, sputtering into town on I-10 with a bad water pump and a ton of camping gear. A parts delay at the repair shop forced us to make the best of a hotel. After checking in, we called Tommy about the change of plans. Our hearts ached for camping in the vast Apalachicola National Forest—750,000 acres of slash pine, cypress heads, and gum swamps. But our excitement would have to wait until morning.
At 4:05 a.m., Tommy rolled into the parking lot in his wife’s two-door Blazer, a loaded .270 Remington on the dashboard. Peculiar? Maybe, but his logic was airtight: “In case a big ol’ buck jumps the road, I’ll be ready.” How do you argue with that?
Once underway, Jimmy, a rotund lifelong sportsman from St. Pete, started his antics. His weapon of choice? Fox urine. If you’ve never smelled this pungent piss, don’t. It’ll make you sick. Like all good hunters, Jimmy was immune to the stench of urine and other foul scents. Funny how the guy wielding the stink bomb is always the only one unfazed. He quietly detonated his scent bomb, sporting a crafty grin. Tommy was the first to notice, muttering, “Who brought the litter box?” The stench flooded the truck, swirling through the heating ducts—a dizzying, nauseating breeze. Five men craned their necks out the windows like dogs catching the wind. As uncomfortable as it was, I’ll admit I enjoy pranks like that with the boys. It’s what adds character and humor to my hunts—sometimes, the camaraderie is the only thing I take from the woods. Jimmy “The Fox” is a master at concocting blends that stagger the senses, a true asset to any hunt group.
By chance, we came across a fresh road-killed red fox that morning. Jimmy nearly leaped out the window for the trophy tail, claiming it was lucky. Tommy took it to heart, pulled the truck around, and with a quick flick of his pocketknife, the tail was his. He didn’t mind the ticks and fleas falling off as he hung it from the rearview mirror.
Miles of dirt road passed as we swapped tales from past hunts. Ronnie recounted an adventure involving (as his stories often do) doing his morning business on a mound of red ants. “Those damn things crawled all the way up my ass before they bit! Felt like I’d been shot with a hot load of double-ought buck!” When he offered his bare backside as proof, I got the point. Ronnie, though, could shoot a shotgun slug like nobody else. I once saw him pull a double on a deer hunt while balancing on a barbed-wire fence. Two deer broke cover during a cattail drive, and two went right back down—high-quality shooting born from years of wielding a shotgun.
Terry relived a moment with a pack of wild hogs in the Green Swamp. “Those suckers were everywhere. I could smell ’em, and when they broke cover, I just started shooting. Must’ve been five… maybe eleven hogs in those palmettos!” He learned what happens when common sense fails and survival kicks in—he called it a “phobie.” “In a situation like that, you don’t wanna be short on lead. I’m loaded to the teeth with ammo now, and when my .45 gets rolling, you’d better be out of the way!”
Tommy shared the time he cornered a 250-pound sow in a water hole. His partner spotted a snout and eyeballs poking above the water. “I knew I put a good hit on her,” Tommy said, “but the arrow passed clean through. The skin sealed up, and she didn’t bleed a drop. So we put ol’ Jake on the scent—he’s a Pascagoula hog dog, and boy, can he track! By the time we got to the hole, Jake was locked onto her snout, getting swung around like a ragdoll. That pup wouldn’t let go; he knew he’d get the barrel treatment.” (That’s a technique I’d heard for breaking a dog from chasing deer: toss ’em in an oil drum with a deer hide, seal it, and roll it down the road with the truck’s bumper.) “Jake held on long enough for me to grab her hind legs. I held her till she drowned.”
We arrived at the hunt camp, which wasn’t what I expected: a few old trailers tucked under pine boughs, a mess tent with a floor of nailed-together wooden pallets, screen doors strapped for walls, and a rip-stop tarp for a roof. Two picnic tables sat in the center, with a bulletin board displaying a map of the property’s tree stands, each marked by a pushpin. A washer on a pin meant someone was in the stand—an ingenious setup.
The hunt was on soon after we marked our stands. Our first steps from camp were brutal. Brambles, blackberries, and palmetto thorns tore at our hands. We tried keeping pace with Tommy, who slithered through the swamp like a snake, gliding over logs and vanishing into the thicket. Terry grumbled about the terrain and his bad knee. We lost Ronnie and Jimmy early on—they turned back. Terry and I pressed on to find Tommy, who’d already bagged a nice sow. I asked where the fatal shot was. He grinned, “What shot? What gun? I caught her bare-handed and slit her throat with my knife!” He stuck his fingers through the fleshy neck, pointing out the jugular. “Hit ’em right here, and they shut down quick-like.” Terry and I stood in disbelief at his speed. Now we had to get the “rooter” back to the truck.
Past hunts taught us the best way to extract a pig from the swamp is by pole. We tied her legs, slid a sturdy branch through, and hoisted her between two sets of shoulders. Before I knew it, we were back at the truck, strapping the hog on top. As blood drooled down the windshield, Tommy mentioned his wife’s request to keep the truck clean. I didn’t care—we had a hog and a few beers in the cooler. Time to head back to camp and celebrate.
I didn’t recall mud puddles on the way in, but on the way out, we slogged through a few that made me nervous. We’d planned on the Trooper for mud work, and I wished we had it now. Then it appeared: big, dark, and muddy—a sippie hole! Unfit for man, beast, or street vehicle, it was thick with mud, carved deep by unlucky drivers who took the chance. It looked shallow and serene on the surface but was soft and deep below. Tommy’s eyes said he could take it. He eased in. The front wheels dropped off the edge, water crashed over the hood, and he floored it. The rear dumped, and the front wheels slammed against the steep side of the hole. Within seconds, the tires spun free.
Mud and water poured into the cockpit, seeping through every crack and crevice, rising up my shins. The boys looked troubled when a black water moccasin slithered in the window. Terry panicked, scrambled over my shoulder, and clawed through the muck to dry land. I tried opening the door, but the hole’s steep sides pinned it shut. The snake, startled by the hollering, turned inside out and fled. I didn’t want to abandon the truck with a snake in the water, but then the left front wheel dropped a foot, followed by the right. I’d heard tales of park rangers vanishing with their vehicles in Florida swamps, never seen again. Not wanting to be a statistic, I dove out the window.
On dry land, I saw Tommy still behind the wheel, laughing. “My wife’s gonna kill me, boys!” He gunned the motor, trying to free the truck, but the sippie hole held tight. Terry and Jimmy flagged down a big mudder pickup. A huge man stepped out, scolding us for tackling the swamp in a two-wheel-drive vehicle. With a quick snap, he freed the Blazer. Tommy angled the truck on a side hill and opened the doors. Water rushed out, but the mud clung stubbornly. We scooped it from under the seats and dash with our hands—it was sloppy and stank of sulfur.
I admired Tommy’s humor about returning the truck to his wife. He laughed all the way back to camp, joking about claiming it was stolen to avoid her wrath. In the end, he did the right thing and went home. I haven’t returned to the Apalachicola Forest since writing this, but I’ve tangled with a few off-road hazards since. I know that when I least expect it, I could be singing the Sippie Hole Blues.
#HuntingAdventures #ApalachicolaForest #WildHogHunting #OutdoorLife #FloridaSwamp #HuntingStories #NatureHumor #SouthernOutdoors #CampingLife #OffRoadChallenges #SippieHole #WildlifeTales #HuntingCamaraderie #FloridaHunting #AdventureAwaits
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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. 
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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.