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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.

The thermometer read 40 degrees, and the Withlacoochee River flowed in serene silence. My phone buzzed early and often with paddlers eager to know if the trip was a "go." But it was Abby-the-camper’s call from Hog Island that grabbed me: "Kurt, it’s 34 degrees here... are you coming?" My chapped lips stretched into a grin as I assured her we were on our way.
The bumpy road to Iron Bridge Recreational Area was etched with deer tracks and blissfully free of traffic. My heart skipped when four deer darted across the path—a fleeting wildlife moment that always rekindles my love for the outdoors.
At the put-in, twelve kayakers emerged from their cars like butterflies from cocoons, stretching, yawning, and smiling. The sun glinted off the tannin-stained waters, casting slivers of light through the swamp. Cypress knees rose like wise wizards, their faces, hats, and gowns carved by nature’s hand.
We posed for a photo, then launched, our kayaks painting the river in vibrant pink, orange, red, and gold. Paddles dipped like wings, sending ripples toward shores lined with fist-sized snail shells. Freshly turned earth from feral hogs hinted at intrusion, but Bob, picking trash from a tangled branch, reminded me of Paul Ehrlich’s words: "The fluttering of a butterfly’s wings can affect climate changes on the other side of the planet." Small, steady efforts—one paddle stroke at a time—make the difference.
In the back, new friends whispered as the river narrowed. Ahead, paddlers resorted to a walk-drag technique through the shallows, prompting my grin. "Follow the flow to the outside bend; it’s deeper there," I called. The wizardly cypress knees seemed to nod, guiding the way.
A limpkin, a hawk, and a flock of white ibis were our only companions on the three-mile journey downstream. Not a boat, canoe, or soul in sight—just us and the river. As we neared Hog Island, colorful paddles shimmered in the sunlight, landing softly on the sandy shore where lunch snacks appeared amid more stretches, yawns, and smiles.
We pushed back into the flow, colors stretching around the next bend. Sunlight warmed my face as we navigated shallows, sand, and deeper, darker waters. Every shadow looked like a gator—until we spotted a real one! Seeing our destination eased the soul, and the kayaks drifted lazily toward it.
As Chuang Tzu mused, “I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man.” Until next time, we paddle on.


#KayakingAdventures #WithlacoocheeRiver #NatureLovers #PaddleLife #OutdoorVibes #WildernessJourney #RiverPaddling #NatureInspires #WildlifeMoments #CypressMagic #EcoAdventures #ButterflyEffect #HogIsland #KayakCommunity #ExploreNature #SunshineAndPaddles #RiverDreams #GroupPaddling #FloridaOutdoors #MindfulAdventures
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Oct 4, 2016
7:05 PM

Just a moment ago a lone eagle landed in the tallest tree in the neighborhood.
The report from the local bird colony rejected the apex skybibrd's return... Or so I thought.

The bald eagle is magnificent. And the male specimen that sits in this tree is attending the barrage of winged locals that visit his limb. He was standing stall with his head on a swivel,  but not for fear of dive-bombing crow, the nagging osprey or the heckling J-bird, no... he was watching for his lovely lifelong bride that had dropped behind on their migration flight from 1000+ miles. Thirty minutes passed before she whooshed over the treetops of my yard sending a percussion of wake that reached the earth.  They sat quietly together and rested well into darkness.  I expect their young eagles from last year will be returning to the neighborhood as well. This family of 5 will be hungry after a long flight so please adjust your lifestyle accordingly.

Please be mindful of your small pets in open areas
Don't feed ducks or strays as you are gathering them for easy pickins
If you spot one take a moment to enjoy the majesty 

​I will be out this morning to scout their possible nesting site for the season

 


​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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