Good Morning Mr. Kroegel!

 Monday morning I went seeking solitude, once again, on the shores of the Indian River Lagoon and was not disappointed. Arriving at Riverview Park during twilight, I had time before the sun rose to walk out into the lagoon on the end of one of the twin fishing piers of the park, where I found myself in the company of a fish crow, a seagull, and a lone cormorant beginning his morning dives.

Paul Kroegel, first National Wildlife Refuge warden in U.S.

Standing watch over the lagoon from the shoreline of the park is a statue of Paul Kroegel, the first warden of Pelican Island National Wildlife Refuge (actually, the first warden of any National Wildlife Refuge) and one of the earliest inhabitants of the area. You can read more about Kroegel and his efforts to protect the brown pelicans who still nest on an island just off shore here.

Absolute peace and calm lay on the water this morning; not even the diving of the cormorant caused more than a few very small but quickly dissipating concentric ripples on the surface. Two pelicans sailed smoothly into view, passed the docks, and glided to a landing without a sound behind me. The pelicans seem to be appearing in twos everywhere I go, these days . . . I've read that they do not mate for life but will stay together for an entire nesting season. 

 Distracted for a moment by a gentleman who came out onto the pier to pick up some litter that had been left behind during the night, I noticed that a ring-billed gull had landed on the pier behind me; how long it had been there, I have no idea, but it was amenable to having its portrait made with the sun rising behind it, even giving me a little bit of attitude with a stretch and a nod.

Turning my back on the gull, I wandered back out onto the end of the pier, watched the sun break above that low bank of clouds, finished a morning salute to the sun, and headed back towards the shore. With the sun now high enough in the sky to lighten the lagoon and expose the fish just below the surface and the fishing cormorant just below the gull, I realized, with a chuckle, that it wasn't the woman with the camera that had brought in the gull; no, it was intent on watching the cormorant and attempting to steal its breakfast, a nice sized mullet (I think . . .)

"Mine!"

 With poached mullet on the menu for the gull, there wasn't much serenity left out there in the lagoon. Soon there was a chorus of crows urging on the gull. The cormorant won, however, diving beneath the surface and holding the mullet firmly in its grip until the gull turned away. The cormorant resurfaced with the fish already 1/2 way down its gullet, and the gull had to admit defeat.

As I walked back to the car, I realized that I was not alone in that park, there were at least a dozen other people there, jogging, walking dogs, sitting on the park benches or in  cars watching the sun rise, eating breakfast, meditating, reading their papers (yes, printed papers!), and working puzzles.

Then, one of the pelicans that had flown in through my lens during the sunrise swam past me near the shore, seemingly gave a nod, and slowly paddled away . . .

Just another moment of solitude, right smack dab in the middle of somewhere.

Postmarked: Sebastian, FL

In Search of Solitude

I was driving along the Indian River Lagoon, looking for a place to stop and watch the sun rise, when I spotted a pair of kayakers getting ready to launch from the shore. I almost passed them up, but the further I drove away from them, the more I felt the pull to turn around and "get that shot!' So, back I went. We exchanged pleasant morning greetings, they agreed to let me photograph them paddling into the sunrise, and off they went.

As they quickly and silently paddled out of range, I found a place to sit and enjoy the rest of the sunrise, watching pelicans cruise just above the surface of the water, terns dive headlong into the water, and islands slowly appear from out of the fog.

I was sitting only 50 feet from a major U.S. Highway, but for solitude, it was as good a place as a cabin in the deep north woods of New York. (At least it was at 7:00 a.m. on a Friday morning in January . . .) One half hour of quiet, calm, and thoughtfulness found right smack dab in the middle of somewhere!

It wasn't until the sun had risen completely, the fog had lifted, and I was leaving and backtracking along the shore that I noticed how littered it was, how busy a place this must usually be. But for one 1/2 hour, it had been all mine.  

And so my journey begins . . . for the next 12 months, I'll be looking for ways and places to experience moments of solitude in our crowded world. I hope to be as pleasantly surprised by some of them as I was by this place and these men this morning . . .

I mean, c'mon . . . a fishing pole and that hat? I couldn't have hired a better model for this picture!

Postmarked: Rocky Point, FL

2011 - In Transition

Twelve months ago, I set for myself a challenge to photograph as many different species of birds as I could in one year. The rules were simple: the photo must be clean, clear, recognizable, and have enough quality to look good on a computer monitor at a minimum of 900 pixels on the longest side. The results can be seen on Flickr; just click on the link: Diane's 2011 Photographic Bird List 

It was fun, at first. I found that I pretty much had the wetlands and woods to myself, I knew where to go to find the most variety of species along the east coast of central Florida, and I took a couple of trips northward, along the Appalachian Trail and into New York State, that beefed up my count.

What I enjoyed most on those early mornings in the wetlands and the woods and the mountains was the solitude, the peace and quiet, and the communion with Earth and all her creatures. On occasion, there were others out there with me (birders or photographers intent on quests of their own), but I was always able to find a subject that seemed to interest only me or a place in which I was the only one "hunting" the  birds.

My count, by birding standards, isn't that high, but I'll bet that among amateur bird photographers, it's pretty darned good. (There are a couple duplicate species in the set, but they are either illustrations of the differences between juvenile/adults or breeding/non-breeding plumage.) So, I'm satisfied with what I have accomplished, as the year comes to a close.

However, somewhere along the way, maybe August, maybe September, I began to notice something different in the field: increasingly, there seemed to be more people showing up in the wild (or at least in prime birding locations)! What had been, last January, a pleasant encounter with an acquaintance here or an impromptu walk with a friend there, suddenly became a constant struggle against a steady stream of people and cameras and cars in some of the most special and quiet and peaceful places I knew. Men and then women began carrying gi-normous lenses . . . 2 or 3 feet long . . . lenses that required, for most users, a tripod, which meant that there were traffic jams on dirt roads and battles for position when a desirable species showed up doing something wonderful . . . meetups with more than a dozen photographers (some literally dragging suitcases behind them to carry all their Canons and Nikons and Tamrons and tripods and flashes. (For god's sake, it's nature, not a studio!) . . . and an unrelenting sense that it was becoming more about showmanship than about guardianship. And that the birds, themselves, and the environment, itself, might end up suffering most. (Yes, when more people use the land, we are more likely to fund its "preservation," but to what end, I ask you, when the most plentiful species in the area is Homo sapiens?)

So, for next year, I'm setting myself a new challenge: to find the most peaceful, beautiful, quiet, and undiscovered places that I can. A few photos will accompany my blog on each location I find. I will not tell you where I've been. My photos will not be geotagged. I will not compete with you to get the best shot. This will be about showing you what's out there that says we are still in touch with the goddess . . . mother earth . . . Gaea . . . god . . . and that she can still provide all that we need.

Namasté.

See you in 2012, when the name of this blog will be changing . . .

Saying Farewell to My Best Friend . . .

In the spring of 2003, my daughter adopted a pound puppy that was billed as a "mixed breed: sharpei/keeshond," but we decided it was more likely that she was a chow mix, instead. Whatever her pedigree, she was a beautiful, fluffy, and bouncy little girl. But she came with issues. . . she had been returned to the pound by her first adoptive family, she had a bit of a wild and very much of an independent streak, and she didn't like tall, dark, strange men.


Within a few months, Joey (named after a character from one of my daughter's favorite TV shows) had been picked up by the neck and shaken by a large rottweiler, developed a biting response to being touched on the back of the neck, and come to live with me. A couple years later, when my daughter and her family moved to another city, Joey stayed with me.


She'd been K-9 trained and had a large yard in which to run around and hold dominion over everything that moved. She made friends with the pit bulls who lived next door, making a game of barking at them through the fence every time she saw them, and she loved nothing better than when they would jump the fence and run around the oaks a few times with her before they made their break around the end of the fence line where it dropped into the water. She didn't like getting wet and wouldn't go with them.


But her problems with strangers continued, and she developed a habit of barking wildly and shaking the chain link fence with her teeth when any dog walked by in the street. (I've seen that habit in other chows, so I wonder if that part of her aggressive behavior tends to be a fault in the breed, rather than a fault in the dog.)


She didn't trust her vet (the first day she met him, he walked in the doors behind her, dressed in black motorcycle leathers and helmet) but loved the staff in his office. So, she was always well taken care of and welcome to board with them when I traveled. And she eventually began to let him touch her without having to muzzle her.

As she grew older, calcium deposits developed in her hips and shoulder, and the touch of a hand to a joint could cause her pain. The habit of shaking the chain link fence and the metal bars on her crate cracked her teeth. And her fear of strangers increased to the point where she began to respond aggressively to any approach by a stranger, outside of the house. When I recently moved to a new city, she refused to accept a new vet or any of his staff members. She became so fearful of strange people and dogs that she was involved in three fights (She was in a harness and on a leash and they were not! Shame on you if you let your dog run off leash!) and last weekend made an aggressive charge on a boy we encountered while walking in the woods. (She was, again, in harness and on leash, so there was no harm done, but she gave all of us a good scare!)

And so, she has gone to the rainbow bridge, where all her pain and fears are relieved. I spent most of Monday catering to her every whim, and then I sat down to write this apology to her for all the mistakes we made with her over the years that led us to this sad end to her life. Joey, my girl, I will miss you! Thank you for being my devoted companion for all these years.

(Update: this morning, Joey greeted Dr. Zern and his staff at the Chuluota Veterinary Hospital as if they were old friends. I thank all of them for the help and support they gave me over the years, especially this morning--it's Tuesday afternoon as I add this note.)

It's time to heal!

I've been thinking about the various reactions we've seen in the past few days to the death of Osama Bin Laden. Ranging from emotionally charged "Hooyahs!" to patriotically charged chants of "USA! USA!" to morally charged admonitions of "take no pleasure in any man's death" to worrisome cries of "the hydra has more than one head," I've heard it all.

One thing binds all of these reactions together: they represent the collective exhale of a world that has been holding its collective breath for nearly ten years.

Then, this morning, I heard one small voice, at the bottom of a very long string of Facebook comments, say, " How profound it would have been if our nation took to the streets with candles and prayed/meditated/remembered those we lost, walked in peace for those in other countries who lost loved ones because of OBLaden's actions."

People, it is not too late to do so. Let this be your task, if you really believe this is what we should do: gather your family, your friends, your congregation, your community, your town, your city together and make that moment happen. Lead us in prayers and meditations, that the death of this man should give us pause to reflect on ourselves and to declare our love of peace and goodness and truth. I call on all our religious, political, and intellectual leaders to do so!

It's time to take a cleansing breath!

The brief but spectacular life of a Southern Magnolia blossom

I've been waiting a year for the magnolia in my new front yard to blossom, so with three large buds developing on the lower branches, I figured I was in for a magnificent show. Every morning, I took my tea on the porch swing, waiting for the magic to happen. Last night, after a day of shopping, I came home to find one of the buds had opened, turned brown, and withered away, all in one day . . . when I wasn't even looking. Not fair! (Not to mention astonishing) . . . these blooms are enormous, I've admired them on other people's trees for years, and never before had I noticed howly quickly they open and fade away.

So, this morning, determined to catch the blossoms in action, as the second bud looked ready to open, I took up position in the front windows, camera ready, and waited:

Photo #1 taken at 8 a.m.

The first petals (tepals, as they are called) began to peel back around 8 a.m. Notice how they pull back, cup like, from the center, all of them opening at once, as if falling away from the center. What follows is a series of photos taken from one-half to one hour apart, from 8 a.m. to shortly after 1 p.m.


Photo #2 taken at 8:30 a.m. 

In half an hour, most of the tepals have pulled away from the center and the stamens are already beginning to fall away from the cone-like receptacle in the center (which you can't see, yet). The cup-like shape of the tepals catches and holds these stamens for awhile.


Photo #3 taken at 9:20

By 9:20, a honey bee and a few "love bugs" have discovered the flower and are visiting the center. As you can see, a pile of stamens still lies in one of the tepals; these were eventually dispersed by the wind. (The honey bee has probably been busy in the back yard nectaring in the Simpson Stoppers and is already carrying a good-sized load of pollen in the sacs on her legs.) She makes a quick stop to check out the stamen pile, then moves to the center receptacle.

Photo #4 taken at 9:20 a.m.

With all but three of the tepals pulled back, the center receptacle is revealed--a curious combination of numerous spirally arranged stamens at the base of a conelike receptacle bearing numerous spirally arranged carpels.

Photo #5 taken at 9:59 a.m.

By 10:00, most of the loose stamens have fallen off and blown away, revealing a red base to the cone-like structure; the darker yellow "curly" carpels cover the top of the cone. The honeybee has gone about her business elsewhere, but the love bugs still show a lot of interest in the flower.

Photo #6 taken at 10:55 a.m.

By 11:00 a.m., all but two of the tepals have pulled away from the receptacle and all the loose stamens at the bottom are gone. What remains are the curly carpels attached to a red cone-like base. The gorgeous white tepals are beginning to soften, even at this early stage, and darken in color.

Photo #7 taken at noon.

By noon the flower is fully open. The colors have deepened and the structure of the receptacle is evident. Gorgeous, isn't it? The full width of the flower is at least 12" . . . spectacular.

But it begins to fade almost immediately.

Photo #8 taken at 1:10 p.m.

By 1:00 the colors are beginning to fade; yellow and red are turning to brown and the tepals begin to droop.

Photo #9 taken at 7:40 p.m.

By 7:40, as the sun begins to set, the flower has lost its vibrancy and everything is drooping and fading to brown. By morning, there will be no white left in the tepals or the carpals. Apparently, the cone-like receptacle will remain until seeds develop (thanks to the hard work of the bee and the love bugs!)

Now, if someone could explain why that all happens so quickly? I've read that this is a very basic and actually quite primitive flower; did the first flowers have to move along quickly in order to survive? Is this an environmental defense of some sort? Why would the dna want things to be so simple and so fast? If you know, please leave a comment.

Spring has Sprung

When I first came to Florida, I must admit, I mourned for the loss of the "seasons" as I knew them from more northern climates. Nearly 40 years later, I have come to love the subtle blush of spring as it hits Central Florida. A recent walk in Turkey Creek highlighted some of my favorite spring things down here:

Trees are busting out with new leaves and inflorescence. Who knew that the turkey oak (what a name, eh?) could be so spectacular in the spring? Little teeny tiny golden leaves, lengthy trails of inflorescence (is that where it gets its name?) make this a splendiferous part of the spring-time "wakeup."

Unlike deciduous trees in the north, many hardwoods in Central Florida hold onto their leaves until late winter/early spring, when they drop their leaves, quickly blossom, and start their new leaf growth all within a very few weeks.

Along with the incredible green "leaf out" come the first wildflowers of the year. Among the earliest to blossom is the "sky-blue lupine," which bursts out in spreading clusters of blue flowers and powdery gray-blue catkin. This is a little different from northern lupine, which tends to grow in very tall and dense stands across an entire field; down here, the plant tends to be shorter and more compact. But that may just be a result of its appearing in a more sandy, drier climate. 

But the best part of spring, for me,is the return of the dragon and damselflies. Last Friday, in the upland pine scrub part of the Turkey Creek Sanctuary, I found a first of the season Regal Darner, one of the most beautiful and uncommon darners in our region.

Happy spring, everyone! Hope to see you out there!