A Child's-eye View: Turkey Creek Sanctuary

I've walked through Turkey Creek Sanctuary with my grandson before, and we've ooo'd and ahhh'd over lizards and turtles and fish, but I'd never actually seen what he sees, until I handed him the camera and let him lead the way. Wooo, hooo; what a wonderful experience that was . . . (these photos were all taken by Caden, with the exception of the shots of him walking down the path.)

With my old Olympus E-410 (with a good 40-150 zoom lens) in his hands, Caden and I headed into the Turkey Creek Sanctuary for an afternoon of nature photography. This was his first experience with a DSLR all to himself, and it was our first photographic outing together. He quickly left me behind and headed down the path, as a man on a mission.

First stop: the butterfly garden. A few fumbled shots, a fuzzy photo, a quick lesson on focus and mechanical issues, and we were on our way.



As we walked toward the entrance to the preserve, we saw what we thought was a gopher tortoise statue on the edge of the garden, but it moved as we approached. Caden carefully focused his camera and grabbed the next shot:

Well done, little man!
 
For the next two hours, I looked at the sanctuary through the eyes of a seven year old, following him along as he scoped the brush and the woods on either side; what an experience that was! Every one in a while I heard him voice an abrupt little "Hm," and we would stop, while he framed and focused his shot.
 
Few of us spend much time thinking about the beauty of destruction, but Caden considered them all . . . the unusual break in a tree trunk, blown down by hurricane force winds:

 
Or the stark beauty of a dead pine tree towering above our heads into a clear blue sky:

 
We looked at flowers and new growth plants and side paths that led to nowhere, and finally, came to the creek, where there were gators and turtles and fish and we spent nearly an hour as he snapped photo after photo after photo! One of the biggest gators I've ever seen in Turkey Creek:

And a large gathering of turtles and catfish at the canoe launch dock:

Finally, as we left the trail, nearly two hours later, one resident gray squirrel beggar made one last attempt to garner a handout.

We made one last stop in the nature center, where Caden took his last photos of a manatee skeleton and this (stuffed) barred owl on display there:

If you have a grandchild take him or her for a walk with a good camera in their hands! If you don't have your own grandchild, borrow one! Not only do they need to be turned onto the beauty of nature, we need them to love it enought to take care of it, when we are gone . . . and I guarantee, you will have the time of your life!

Clapping on the Downbeat with Celtic Woman

A few weeks ago a former student, now in college, posted an upbeat music video clip on his Facebook page and admonished his readers to "clap on the upbeat, white people!" (Well, he had it a little bit wrong, confusing up/down/off beat, but I'm giving him the benefit of doubt, here.) And that led me to consider why it's so true that some kinds of music invite rhythmic clapping on the downbeat (country and Irish, for example) and other kinds of music invite clapping on the up or "off" beat (jazz and African, for example). For those who don't know, up and down referred, originally, to the direction of the conductor's baton, which always comes down on the first beat of a measure . . .

Last night, I had the pleasure of attending a performance of Celtic Woman, which includes a few numbers in which the performers invite the audience to clap along, and, sure enough, there we were, clapping along (thunderously) on the downbeat! And it was good and right that we should do so.

Just watch an Irish dancer perform: their feet accentuate the downbeat, and to be clapping along with the upbeat would absolutely ruin the urgent, driving nature of the dance . . .

Here's a reel from a previous tour, with the performers dancing and the audience clapping! Slainte!

Of Missiles and Mangroves: Part III (Goin' on a Rail Hunt)

Remember all those practical jokes you heard about as a kid that sent people on "snipe hunts" into the darkening woods at twilight? Well, there really is such a thing as a snipe, and they really are nearly impossible to catch, especially with a camera! They hide in ditches and forage along the edges of tall reeds and grasses and fly up with a burst of speed, if they hear you approaching, before you even know they are there.

Well, the black rail is even more elusive, living deep within tall marshy grasses, preferring to walk or run and rarely taking flight unless you nearly step on one. And they are rare. In fact, these birds are so rarely seen, it is one of very few birds that can be checked off your life list by sound alone. The black rail is the smallest North American rail, measuring about the size of a sparrow.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

On Wednesday, Jan 26, 2011, a group of twenty-four intrepid birders headed into the restricted St. Johns National Wildlife Refuge in hopes of "hearing" a black rail. The group was led by MINWR biologist Mike Legare, who has been conducting research on the area's small population and has been instrumental in protecting the salt marsh area in which they live. We were driven into the marsh on a trailer loaded with hay bales about one hour before sunset.

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
At the appointed hour (apparently, there is a 10-15 minute window during which the rails may be enticed into calling), Legare began playing his tapes. Since this was not mating season and they were not aggressively defending territory, getting a black rail to call meant getting them to express interest in what strangers might be hanging around. We wandered up, down, back and forth along a very wet path, stopping occasionally to listen, very quietly, for a rail to respond. Upon hearing a single, distant response, Mike stepped off the path and into the tall marsh grass; come on, if you like, he said, and off we went into the marsh. We stumbled along in tall, wet, grass, unable to see where we were putting our feet down (it's getting dark at this point, mind you), some people losing their balance and falling, and most of us stepping into pools of shin deep water! Were there snakes there, in that grass? Nobody asked.
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
By the time the sun sank below the horizon, we had heard a response from at least four rails in the area, watched a gray ghost (male northern harrier) hunting along the distant palmetto stands, and filled our boots and shoes with at least an inch of water. (Thanks, Mike, for getting us "cut off" from the path!)
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Back at the trailer as darkness descended, we wrung the water out of our shoes and socks and trailered back to the parking lot with the black rail added to our life lists.
 
This is a field trip you should not miss, if you ever have the opportunity. Legare says that the black rails in this area seem to be declining in numbers, despite constant monitoring and control of their habitat (which includes controlled burns designed to keep taller scrub from invading the area.) Currently, there are fewer than 20 known nesting areas for this bird in Florida and it is listed as endangered or threatened in at least five of the eleven states in which it breeds.
 
Hopefully, the national wildlife service will be able to continue monitoring and protecting habitat for all our endangered, threatened, and declining species, not just the black rail!

Of Missiles and Mangroves: Part II (Snark Infested Waters)

After leaving the lighthouse, we drove past several launch complexes on our way to the 45th Wing Space Museum, including Complex 14, where manned orbital flights began. We had some interesting lessons in the development of launchpad bunker technology, including a look at some of the earliest made of little more than sandbags piled about 15 feet high and 5-10 feet thick that were only a few hundred feet from the pad. (Ignition was hardwired and there was a limit to how far the wires could be strung.)

The Freedom 7 memorial site sits at the beginning of the approach road to Complex 14. Surrounding the abandoned pad (all that remains is a concrete pad, everything else has been "recycled" in some way) is prime scrub habitat, home to some of the families of scrub jays and dozens of gopher tortoises. Biologists on the cape take their job as guardians of endangered species seriously; during one launch, two owl nestlings were removed from a nest close to the launch pad for two nights and taken to the Maitland Center for Birds of Prey; they were safely returned to the nest after the launch, where their parents immediately took up their care and successfully fledged them.

One of the most important projects underway at several sites around the cape is the removal of the invasive Brazilian Pepper (also known as Florida holly, even though it is not a holly but is closely related to poison ivy and sumac). Along roadsides, where scrub and hammock oaks should thrive and along river edges where mangroves should be growing, the Brazilian pepper has crowded out most native species. The shrub was imported from South and Central America in the 1800s as a decorative accent tree. Two species were imported: one planted on the west coast of Florida and the other on the east. The two species did so well that they grew across the state and hybridized in the middle.

Birds love the berries and, oddly enough, gopher tortoises apparently have done well living under the stuff, as biologists are discovering dozens of tortoise dens beneath the trees as they are being removed. Unfortunately, they have a spreading growth pattern that crowds out mangroves and scrub species.

This effort to remove the peppers and reline the edges of the causeways with red mangroves is a project that could lead to improvements in eradication and control efforts accross the state. An unfortunate downside to eradication efforts is the loss of the attractive berries, which have encouraged migrating songbirds to stopover in the spring and fall. However, both the scrub and the mangroves harbor resources that support certain native species, some of which are currently threatened or endangered.

At our final stopover on the cape we met one extinct species of which nobody mourns the loss: the Snark.



 The Snark (named after Lewis Carroll's snark) was one of the first Intercontinental missiles, propelled by rocket fuel and jet engines. It was pretty much a failure, with only a handful ever being deployed after dozens were launched that flew short and fell into the ocean (hence, the idiom "snark infested waters" and the drawing of a shark's jaw on the nose of the model on display in the museum hangar.)

It's good to know that eleven threatened and endangered species are being watched over by the environmentalists of the 45th Space Wing, including loggerhead turtles, green sea turtles, leatherback turtles, scrub jays, and southeastern beach mice.

Interesting factoid: concern about the health of the Poseidon submarine turning basin led biologists to conduct a survey of marine life in the basin; they counted more than 200 hundred species living there! Yay.

Of Missiles and Mangroves: Part I (Scrub Jays and Historic Lighthouse)

Yesterday, I was privileged to tour Cape Canaveral Air Force Station with Don George, a biologist with the 45th Space Wing and one of the environmental engineers charged with protecting endangered species on the base and planning mitigation activities when an area of scrub is taken for the construction of new launch facilities. George only leads two tours per year, both of which occur during the Space Coast Birding Festival, sponsored by the Brevard Nature Alliance.

Our first stop was on a small rise a bit north of the trident basin, where George called up a family of endangered Florida scrub jays, who responded to his pishing and a handful of acorns.

As we watched the birds picking up and then burying each nut, we learned that there are 144 families of scrub jays living in this roughly 15000 acre area. One of George's missions is to keep the habitat in a condition that will support the scrub jay, which means periodic burnings, sometimes within feet of buried stores of solid rocket fuel.

Our next stop was at the Cape Canaveral Lighthouse, which was built in 1848, then rebuilt in 1868 so that it could be seen for 16 miles, rather than the original 10 miles. At that time, the port was an offshore area that was bounded on the east by a reef, not the deep water port that visitors see today. In 1894 the lighthouse was relocated about a mile and a half inland because of beach erosion. (1/2 mile of that distance has disappeared into the ocean since then.) In 1954 the light was automated, in 1993, the fresnel lens was removed and a modern optic was installed, and in 2000, ownership of the lighthouse was transferred from the Coast Guard to the U.S. Air Force (in fact, the Canaveral Light is the only lighthouse owned by the air force.)

The light went dark from 2004 until 2007, as the building was being restored. The keeper's house no longer exists, but the brick oil shed is still adjacent to the building. This is a photo of the iconic black and white light as it stands, today.

Poached!

Last summer I photographed these amazing butterfly orchids growing in the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge. Since the plants are fairly obvious to the knowledgeable observer as you drive by, I've kept an eye on them whenever I've been out there. Last time out, all that remained on the branch of the cedar tree were a handful of roots and scars in the bark. The orchids had been poached by someone who knows what wild orchids look like when they are not in bloom or by someone who had been waiting for the right moment.

Sad. Very sad.

Poaching of wild orchids has been a problem in Florida for many years; Susan Orlean wrote a book, Orchid Thief, about some infamous poachers of the ghost orchid, a very rare and hauntingly beautiful Florida wild orchid that grows only in swamps in the Everglades. (One very famous ghost orchid has been blooming along the Corkscrew Swamp boardwalk for the past few years; it's become popular with photographers and orchid enthusiasts, alike.) And in 2006, a Nancy Drew mystery covered the same topic.

The sale of wild orchids is illegal, but it's difficult to prove whether a particular specimen offered for sale was taken from the wild or grown from seed.

Maybe the person who took these orchids is just an ass who wanted to keep them all to him/herself and doesn't have an interest in propagating and selling the orchid. Whatever. I'm pissed off. This is the sort of behavior that causes access to wilderness areas to be "closed to the public."

Anyway . . . what's my point? Well, if you're reading this blog, you love nature, probably, as much as I do. Consider it your duty to keep a watchful eye on things as you hike, or bike, or walk, or meander through the wild. If you see something suspicious--someone digging through the dirt or picking flowers or ripping orchids off a tree--report it to a park ranger! Immediately.

Backyard Birding

With smoke from the Palm Bay muck fire drifting through the area all day, I decided to hang out and watch the birds in my back yard, rather than head out to the wetlands. Since I have a brand new back yard, with what could be considered a non-existant canopy and very little cover for birds, it's been difficult establishing my feeding stations as a safe place for birds to be. My only regulars have been a half dozen mourning doves and a couple of cardinals. A large flock of palm warblers drifts across the lawn several times a day, but they do not visit the feeders.

The cooing of mourning doves (Zenaida macroura) is one of my favorite sounds; however, they tend to be messy and don't like to share the feeders with other birds. Some people mistake them for pigeons, but while they are in the same family, doves are of a different species. Until the trees get bigger and other birds get comfortable using the feeders, I'll take them, anyway! They are difficult to spook, and they seem to be getting used to having Joey wander around in the yard while they are at the feeder.

Palm warblers (Dendroica palmarum) seem to be ubiquitous this winter! Hundreds live in the woods behind my house and dozens work the back yard for insects and tiny seeds all day every day. Their call is a sweet and high whistle that fills the air when they are on the move, and they don't seem to be bothered by either myself or Joey until we get within 4-5 feet.

Hopefully, these regulars will bring in some migrants when spring begins to draw near. . .