Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Rainbow River



There's a lot to love about autumn. Cooling temps, colorful foliage, migrating birds, and fall flowers are high on the list. But for Florida paddlers, one of the greatest gifts of the season is the opportunity to visit some of the beautiful spring rivers that are overrun by the squealing hordes in warmer months. Rainbow River, which we'll be paddling on November 17 and again several times in the coming months, is a prime example. 


There's no blue like a spring
The water of Rainbow Spring and much of the river seems more clear and blue than most--largely because the wide open canopy allows plenty of sunshine to illuminate the white sand bottom. Drifting over this water is like being on a living aquarium. Mullet, bass, bream, garfish, bowfins and gangs of smaller fish along with snails, turtles and other reptiles can be seen working through gently undulating meadows of water celery and Sagittaria. There are also many waterbirds (including unusually large numbers of cormorants and wood ducks). Several extended families of river otters make this one of North Florida's best rivers to see these amazing mammals. Houses line much of the west side this river, but they aren't too distracting.
A Rainbow River moment
River Lore
For well over a century, as adventurers and nature lovers beat a path to the shores of Silver Spring, her sister spring, the Rainbow went relatively unnoticed. A surprising fact when you consider that it's Florida's second largest spring, gushing an average of 763 cubic feet per second. Maybe it's the name. The Indians called it Wekiwa, which means, simply, "the spring of water." This seemingly uninspired name was as common in the lexicon of Florida's natives as the name Blue Springs is today. When white settlers displaced the Indians, they changed the springs name to... you guessed it, Blue Spring. 
Phosphate mine near Dunnellon
In 1890, when the area became ground zero for Florida's huge phosphate boom, a health resort with a large hotel was built on the high slope overlooking the spring basin. Among other things, the resort offered boat rentals and passenger steamboat service to Dunnellon, a few miles downstream. It wasn't until 1937 that the springs promoters, feeling the need to give this beautiful spring an identity of it's own, renamed it Rainbow. But, the change didn't come easy. Even today, you'll still find many locals who call the river Blue Run.
In 1950, the hotel was destroyed by fire. Ten years later, the spring caught the attention of two mega-corporations, namely S & H Greenstamps and Holiday Inn, who bought 55 acres around the head spring. The hotel was rebuilt and the property was developed into a full scale tourist attraction, complete with river boat rides and log rafts. They even offered river tours in a small, air conditioned submarine! The park closed in 1974, and after sitting idle for 15 years, was bought by the state.
Green heron - a favorite bird of many paddlers
Rainbow Springs State Park opened in 1995. High, dry banks along most of the river bank, have allowed property owners to build homes close to the water. But, with it's exceptionally clear, blue waters and lots of birds and other wildlife, the Rainbow is still a beautiful paddle. 

Difficulty

 The first hour of this trip is a round trip paddle up to the spring head and back. The upstream paddle here is against a moderate current - not quite as strong as Silver, but close. Aside from that, this river's a breeze. It's plenty wide and the curves are long and easy.


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Tuesday, September 25, 2018

Scents of Place



Ocklawaha River. December 10, 2009

It was cold this morning, even for December. I was standing on the bank of Ocklawaha River listening to the waking reveille dominated by the piercing chips of a cardinal hidden in a nearby wax myrtle thicket. High overhead, a gang of honking crows worked the rafters of the forest cathedral.

"a veil of misty drifts off the water...."
A veil of mist drifted off the water and curled around my ankles as I knelt down and dipped my hand into the water. Slowly and with unintended reverence, I lifted my cupped hand to my nose and took a deep whiff. In that instant, I was transported back to a night thirty years earlier, when I crossed Santa Fe River on the I-75 Bridge in the bed of an old pickup truck. It was my last ride of a three year hitchhiking odyssey, a quest of sorts, on which I had hoped to find my place in the world. In that moment, thanks to a breath of musty river air, I knew that place had been here all along. 

Some rituals are born of superstition. Others are meant to appease some god or another. My habit of beginning some tour-days with a quiet moment at the water’s edge and connecting with the river is nothing so grand. It’s a simple ritual that evolved many years ago from my habit of going to the riverbank after unloading the boats and splashing water in my face. When time allowed, I’d sit in the grass and close my eyes. It allowed me to cool down, but more, it helped quiet the racket in my mind—the counting of boats and gear, checking the roster, planning the route, reciting things I wanted to say and when I’d say them, checking my first-aid kit. I’d turn it all off and feel the cool water running off my face and down my neck.

As I knelt by the Ocklawaha that morning, I was engulfed by the river's scent. It wasn’t bad or good—just a faint essence of the river. It was familiar and comforting, like a grandmother’s attic. But, rather than scents of dusty photo albums, overstuffed chairs, doilies from a long-ago wedding and boxes of crisp letters written between young lovers now grown old, the images conjured by the river’s scent were of the present. They were of flowers, leaves and mud, birds and snakes and every living thing I knew to be living in that river’s forest and in its water. I couldn’t isolate any single fragrance and pin it to an exact source, but I recognized the blend.


Every river has its own scent. I don’t know this from any studies and I certainly don’t know it from personal experience; I can no more identify a river by its scent than I can sniff a Chardonnay and tell where the grapes were grown. I know rivers have their own scents because it can be no other way. Every river weaves through a unique blend of habitats, soils, minerals, plants and animals; each of them in unique proportions. Mostly I know it from riding in my truck with my basset hound, Gus. With his head out the window, his nose high and his floppy lips and ears slapping his head, he would erupt in an apoplectic mass of slobber and fur when we got about a mile from Ichetucknee River—his home turf.

Bears are even better. When I hang a bag of food from an oak limb near my campsite, every bear within a mile downwind will hoist its muzzle. An experienced old bruin will know he’s about to enjoy a snack of nuts, dried fruit and the sight of an annoying human scrambling into the underbrush.

The bear knows every stream in its range by its constellation of fragrances; the aromatic sum of its countless parts. It recognizes the blend of everything along its banks and in its water, from the butterweeds blooming below the rocky bluff and the sickening-sweet chitins of scarab beetles, to the musty fur of the river otters; it probably knows which otter. Depending on which way the wind is blowing, it knows what’s blooming in the high scrub or if a gator has stirred the muck of a spring freshet. For bears in the Ocklawaha forest, the air is a wild bouquet with strong elements of cypress pollen, 7000 year-old marl, squirrel turds and reptile musk. Waccasassa is a complex mix of buckeye blooms, rank golden club leaves, crimson, lipstick-scented groundnut flowers, fiddler crab froth and the putrid black muck exposed by low tides. 

But no mammal, regardless of brain, brawn or snout size, can match insects for scent detection. When a group of entomologists released sex pheromones of a female luna moth into the air, they found that males six miles downwind could detect them. Turns out the moth’s large, feathery antennae are not decorative but highly adapted scent detectors that make my own detector—my nose—look like a vestigial appendage relegated to holding up sunglasses. The lunas charms are wholly lost on me. 

I find it less intriguing than disappointing to know I am awash in a riot of scents that allows the bear to distinguish this river from all others. The bears nose twitches, the moth races past with a certainty of purpose, while I stand, deaf, dumb, blind and whatever smell-less is called. I want to know when to cheer on the luna. I want to smell the bear’s river.

I’d like to think there are people with trained “noses” who can recognize the complex tones of wild, “free-range” water. I would envy them but I would also be concerned. Any doe-eyed river-rat who found himself with such a gift would be invaluable to the world’s power brokers in these opening days of the Water Wars. 

I picture our hero as the uncomfortable guest at a black-tie “water tasting” event at the local Millionaires Club. Floating the room, he overhears connoisseurs discussing the finer points of river scents. Near the fireplace, a portly gent with a handlebar mustache and top hat (yes, I still get my rich-people clich├ęs from the Monopoly game) explains to an ambitious young upstart that rivers of the Suwannee basin westward carry subtle hues of beaver musk while those in the beaver-free streams of the Peninsula do not. Across the room, a bottled-water tycoon leans against a Martini bar and explains to a Saudi prince that blackwater is to spring water, what a wine cooler is to Champagne. A smarmy, toothy grin spreads across his flushed face when the maitre d’ sidles up carrying two crystal goblets and an elegant bottle of Ichetucknee.

Of course, any river-rat with such intimate knowledge of nature would likely be more comfortable in the “earthier” setting of a State Fair. As the scene opens, we find our hero sitting on a panel of river connoisseurs (though the Fair officials felt more comfortable billing them as “river sniffers”), in a converted “Scouts of the Wild West” shooting gallery, nestled between the Tilt-a-Whirl and a cotton candy stand. As the audience of a dozen or so mildly interested passers-by (including those in line for cotton-candy) watch, the judges pass a snifter of river water down the line. Each reverently lifts the vessel to his nose, closes his eyes and utters as many eloquent, quiche-and-Chablis descriptions and florid words as he can muster. 

Finally the flask comes to the champ. The audience falls silent as they watch him work his magic. He closes his eyes as he solemnly lifts the flask to his celebrated nose and inhales deeply. A faint smile of recognition spreads across his face. But he’s just warming up. As he leans forward, he pinches his eyes tight and focuses on the olfactory signals rushing his brain. “I’m detecting the subtle undertones of brine and rotten fish. This water is from of a coastal river.” An excited murmur breezes through the crowd. “I smell arrow-wood, red-buckeye, golden club, corkwood, ancient bald-cypress and garfish spawn. But there is no sign of mangrove detritus or spores of giant leather fern. This water comes from Waccasassa River…” a premature rustle of applause is cut short as he continues, “….the middle section.” The audience breaks into wild cheers. Even a few bleary-eyed, slightly-nauseous people staggering off the Tilt-a-Whirl applaud limply. The judges flutter around the champ like warblers in wax-myrtles. But the champ is oblivious, his attentions fully on the light breeze that has wafted though the stands. He tips back his head, closes his eyes and breathes it in.


The clock ticks. I splash another handful of Ocklawaha on my face. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I believe, the way people always like to believe such things, that I can smell a thousand-year-old cypress... and just a hint of bear.

Chaz - Feb 19 2018 (7).JPG
An otter sniffs the air

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

The Opera Singer


In the early 1990’s, a large live oak fell into Santa Fe River about a mile below the Rise. Its massive trunk and tangle of branches spanned the channel. The only way past was through a ten-foot gap along the south bank. It was just wide enough to make the tree more of a “feature” than an obstacle.

Years passed and the tree decayed. Small branches broke away and the sharp edges were worn smooth by decay and flowing water. Eventually, all that remained were the trunk and a couple of dozen thick, curving limbs. What had begun as a chaotic tangle of twigs and branches had been crafted by the flow of time and water into a beautiful natural sculpture.

Viewed from downstream, the snag was unremarkable—attractive in the way of driftwood, but not unlike the dozens of other snags on the river. As you got closer, however, the angles shifted and all those random features—the twisted limbs, the knots, the cracks and highlighted grains and stains—fell into perfect alignment to create the image of a singing lady; not a prim choir-girl with good posture, but an impassioned singer with a towering beehive hairdo that would have made the Bride of Frankenstein envious. Her head, tipped back dramatically and facing the sky and her long, slender arms, held high in front of her as though reaching for heaven, gave the singer the appearance of rapture incarnate.

We called her the Opera Singer; a name made more fitting by the fact that she made music. As the river water swirled around her thigh (or waist, when water was higher), it gurgled and bubbled in a way that created a lively percussion melody. With time, I came to appreciate her music as much as the singer.  I often caught myself listening for it long before I could reasonably expect to hear it. 

The Opera Singer became well-known to the local paddling community. Nobody made a big deal about her. She was a just beloved landmark that added color to paddler’s conversations. What could make an otter sighting more interesting than to say it was “a hundred yards upstream from the Opera Singer?”

Features like the Opera Singer remind me to listen to water. Snags, sweeps, boulders, shoals and the countless other objects that adorn all streams are often more than just visual features, they are musical interludes. Sometimes I schedule paddle trips on the middle Suwannee when I know the river will be singing.

Unlike most Florida rivers, the middle Suwannee is lined by massive limestone walls that extend below the water line. Over millennia, the flowing water eroded the rock at the water line. The resulting cavities range from small pockets to cave openings. Some are grottos lined with their own collections of smaller pockets at the waterline within their dark recesses, which adds a beautiful echoic quality. These features pop and sing and play delicate percussion when the wavelets generated by passing boats, splashing animals or even a stiff breeze enter and plop against their inner walls. Each pocket has a different note and volume, depending on its size and depth. The size and force of the wave also makes a difference.   


Floods filled the Santa Fe Valley in 2001. When the water receded the Opera Singer was gone—mostly. Her arms and her dramatic hair had been swept away, leaving only her torso and a disfigured head. The snag was, once again, just a snag. 

Word spread through the paddling community. People shook their heads and shrugged but before long she was all but forgotten. River people understand that the river is eternal, a liquid thread that binds everyone--past, present and future--who has ever known it, but that individual plants and people (and the occasional Opera Singer) come and go like the seasons.

A few weeks after the flood, I paddled up to the Rise. I had heard the Singer was gone, so I wasn’t surprised when I rounded the bend and saw her broken, twisted form in the distance. What did surprise me, however, was to hear her “voice.” She was still singing. While little remained of her graceful form--gone were the bouffant hairdo and the graceful arms that once reached for the heavens--her waist was still intact at the water line and the water passing around it was still gurgling, still singing her song. The singer had changed, but not the song.
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I’ve never been to an opera, but I'm familiar with the basic format; large-lunged people sing songs in a language nobody understands about gooshy things like love and windmills. 

Rivers are like operas. The heart of both things is a story—actually, a collection of  stories that are woven together to make one big story. If I've learned anything in my years of studying and watching nature, it’s that every river is an anthology of stories. Every feature—every boulder, shoal, tree, shrub, meadow and every single thing along its banks—has its own story that is also an integral part of the bigger, overarching story of the river. 

Ask an entomologist, and he’ll point to a rotting log or a tussock of floating vegetation and he’ll tell you dramatic tales of courtship, mating, defending territories, finding food and the countless life-and-death struggles that are constantly at play. Ask a geologist and he’ll point to that bolder in mid-channel and recount rising and falling seas and will describe amazing creatures, marine and terrestrial, that have occupied this spot over the past millions of years. The cave diver will tell you about the aquifer and cave systems surging through the earth beneath you. She will show you that the land has a pulse.

Now step back from these features and listen to the music accompanying them. Just listen. Allow yourself to enjoy the percussion of wind and water. You don’t have to know the language. Just listen and the music will tell you things no word can touch. Every feature plays the water like a percussion instrument and each is different. Fast flowing rivers sing dramatic and frenzied songs of steep slopes and jagged drops. Slower rivers whisper about easy terrain.  Large boulders grumble ancient tales that have echoed down the gorge since the water began while the willow strainers sizzle and pop with a restlessness that reflects the sandy, unstable ground these trees prefer.

These days, I notice the musical notes of water playing against stones and obstructions in ways I never did before. When a river song grabs my attention, I listen more closely and with more appreciation than I used to. I still know only a fraction of the language, but I enjoy the song just the same.




Tuesday, May 29, 2018

Snail’s Pace



 Ichetucknee -  Wednesday - 1/17/18

Today, like many days, I left the river wishing I had more; more battery life in my camera; more layers of clothes between me and the numbing cold; more aspirin for creaky knees that protest long periods of kneeling on rocks. More than anything, I wished I had more daylight. For the past four hours, I had been staring at a square yard of Ichetucknee river bottom and the crowd of pea-sized Elimia snails that occupied it. As often happens, I spent most of that time transfixed in a state of fascination familiar to all naturalists and cause for concern to all others.

By most people’s standards, it had been an unremarkable wildlife encounter. In the time I watched, the most ambitious snail of the group (what’s the collective of snails—a herd? An ooze? A snooze?) was a rambunctious fellow who covered a good half a foot.

Looking back, I see now it was the relative inactivity that made the scene remarkable. It forced me to shrink my perception and see the world from the snail's eye-view. The irregular rocky bottom that I had so often waded across and scanned with the nonchalance of a lumbering giant was now a dramatic landscape. I gazed with a snail’s awe at towering vertical cliffs and deep ravines. Fuzzy chara plants and the clump of red Ludwigia I once kicked from my shoe were now monstrous outgrowths that any adventurous snail with time to spare could make a career of exploring.

As I scanned this world I had so often Gullivered over, I was consumed by the notion that this will be the only world those hundreds of snails will ever know. Judging from the layers of crushed white shells over which they crawled, it was clear they had inherited this realm from countless generations of fore-snails.

Standing to take in the broader view of the snail’s beautifully contoured homeland I was humbled. How could I ever want more from my own vast world? I turned my gaze to the  riverbed upstream and downstream of this little community that now felt so familiar. The clear water allowed me to see other submerged realms, other plateaus far removed from those at my feet, other cliffs and other ravines; other glistening white valleys bedded with the shells of that valley’s ancestors. I realized I was looking at worlds the snails in “my” little community would never see.

As I turned and headed up the hill, up from the river and into the dry upland, I was acutely aware that I was entering a world my little snails could never even conceive. Nothing about it would fit into their known reality. How do I rate? How could I wish for anything more, when every one of the snails I just left will be dead by the next spring of my life. A hundred generations of these snail’s descendants will live and die—many of them in this same rocky plateau—by the time my own days end. How do I rate?

A sliver of shade fell across my eyes. I looked up to see it was cast by an old friend, a towering bald cypress whose branches I’ve scanned many times, watching the comings and goings of birds and other wildlife. This tree’s “knees” and my own have met many times—causing at least one of us considerable pain.

I looked up into the expansive canopy and thought about its ancient age. I wondered how many of my descendants will pass through this shade. How many will knock their knees on its? I wondered what worlds this mother of the forest will gaze upon that I can never conceive.

Wednesday, March 28, 2018

Florida’s Story as told by River Names



The names of rivers are like time capsules that preserve some pieces of their history. If we dig deeper into those stories and expand on them, we often find they add welcome color and context to stories we might know only superficially from dry history texts. The five rivers on which I guided tours last week offer a good case study

First up was “Waccasassa,” a river that’s name was given by the Seminoles and means, “Place with Cow Pens.” Dig deeper and you’ll learn about the remote, cow-tending operations that were generally called, “cow pens” among early settlers. William Bartram encountered several of these on his 1774 explorations of Florida and Georgia. In Travels, he says cow pens usually included “two or three acreas of ground, more or less, according to the stock, adjoining a rivulete or run of water….” He doesn’t elaborate on the housing situation other than to simply state there was a “habitation.” The residents, despite what one “might reasonably expect, from their occupation and remote situation (were) civil and courteous, and though educated as it were in the woods, no strangers to sensibility and those moral virtues which grace and ornament the most approved and admirable characters in civil society.” (Bonus trivia—“Waccahoota,” the similar sounding name of a relct community off Williston Road, means “Cow Pens,” and refers to a similar cow-tending operation that once stood there. That cow pen later became the home village of Bowlegs, brother of Paynes Prairie’s namesake Chief, King Payne. Those familiar with the Hawthorn area might now have a better sense of the name origin of Cowpen Lake)

Ichetucknee is another interesting Seminole name. I think it says good things about today’s Floridians that many people know this name means “Place where there are Beavers.” What is less known is that the Seminole name of manatees translates as “big beaver.” While I have no proof that the name alludes to a time when manatees were more common in this river, I can’t help but wonder.

Of all the names in last week’s name-rich line-up, “Withlacoochee” might be the least intriguing. Perhaps the most interesting (and telling) thing about this name is that there are two of them. Like Wekiva, it appears “Withlacoochee” was not a proper name for the river, but more of a descriptive that was elevated to proper name status by white settlers.

Ironically, the more modern sounding and clearly non-native name, “Santa Fe,” is actually the oldest name in the lineup. Like so many Florida place names that include “Santa” or “Saint,” this one refers to a Spanish Mission that stood alongside the upper river in the 1600’s; long before the Creeks (later called Seminoles) arrived. I sometimes wonder if any of the resident Timucuas ever asked the missionary about the real Santa Fe, for whom the mission was named. I like to picture the monk shifting nervously, with a deer-in-headlights expression on his face as he tried to explain that Fe was a fourteen year old girl who was brutally tortured and killed for holding fast to her beliefs and refusing to convert to the religion of her oppressors.

Silver River has is the newest name of all these five rivers. When the Seminole Agency was established at Ft. King (later Ocala) the new agent changed the river’s name from the Seminole, “Suailleaha,” which is said to have meant, “sun glistening water,” to Silver River. While there is no record of the circumstances, I wonder if he was attempting to give deference to the Seminoles by giving their name his best English translation. Though, as even the driest, most superficial historical texts make clear, giving the Indians deference was not high on the Indian Agencies “to do” list.



Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Otters on the Ichetucknee


River otters love nothing so much as a mouthful of crayfish

It was as quiet as one would expect of a thirty five degree morning as we carried boats and gear down to the Ichetucknee launch deck. Aside from my friend John Drum, who was also gearing up for a paddle, the only other sign of life on Ichetucknee this morning was a johnboat that came puttering up to the dock just as our group was launching. The johnboat was loaded to the gunnels with cameras, gear and thickly-bundled people, including scientist and cave-diver extraordinaire, Tom Morris. I knew from previous correspondence with their producer that this was a film crew from the U.K.. They had come to film river otters for a BBC documentary. 

River otters are common on the Ichetucknee. Some mornings, as I am staging my boats for a tour, a group of otters will swim past the launch deck. They begin near the head spring and slowly make their way down the run, diving and poking into every submerged crevice and clump of Sagittaria in their energetic search for breakfast. Aided by sensitive whiskers, excellent underwater vision and a prowess common to many mustelids (the weasel family), they usually surface with a mouthful of food. In other parts of the country, they main prey are fish. But, in the spring-fed rivers of North Florida, they seem to relish nothing so much as a crunchy crayfish. In fact, I often hear the crunching of approaching otters before I see them.


Otter fur is so efficient its skin rarely gets wet
Another telltale sound of river otters is their huffing. When they dive, otters close their nostrils (and ear openings). When they resurface, they blow the water from their nostrils like little construction workers. Over the years, I’ve come to recognize the enthusiastic crunching and bubbly snorts of approaching otters as surely as my dog Murphy recognizes the jingling of my truck keys. And both sounds are a call to action. In Murphy’s case, it means lunge for the door. For me, it’s a signal to freeze.

The best thing about hearing crunchy snorts (I will call them that until corrected by an accredited snortologist) is that it means the otter hasn’t seen me. If I freeze or, even better, crouch behind some cover, I will likely have a grandstand seat for one of my favorite wildlife encounters. Nature rarely gives advance notice—and never so pleasantly as the soft, wet snorts of a river otter.

Such are the moments that have steered many bright-eyed youngsters into  careers with nature. Ask any nature photographer, nature writer, or park ranger and you’ll probably hear a story of an encounter like this. If I asked the half dozen Brits huddled on that boat, I’m sure I would have heard a half dozen tales involving wonderful animals I have only heard about.

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Winds of Change


Tree stands atop tip-up mound
As we enter the new year, with Hurricane Irma slowly fading into memory, our local river levels are returning to normal. At this point, the last places where we're seeing remnant effects on water levels are the springs. All the water that was absorbed into the ground in recharge areas is now pressing down on the water table and causing increased pressure on the aquifer. As a result, the springs are flowing a bit stronger than they were before the storm. It’s a nice bonus of the storm, but it will be temporary. In the coming weeks, the pulse of additional water delivered by Irma will level out and the springs will return to their pre-storm levels.

The most enduring effects of the storm will be in the forests. Unlike areas that felt the full hurricane, the strongest winds in North-central Florida were sporadic and only caused pockets of damage. Some of these pockets were large. Much of Gainesville, for instance, had significant wind damage, while other parts of Alachua County felt breezes no stronger than a summer storm.

Damage along our local rivers is spotty as well. Large stretches of Suwannee, Withlacoochee and Ocklawaha appear untouched, while other stretches are littered with isolated fallen trees. Parts of the Ocklawaha and St. Johns river forests had entire stands of mature trees pushed over.
Together they stood, together they fell

To those of our fellow humans who like their nature controlled and their forests tidy, these storm-ravaged forests seem like nature’s train wrecks; tragic scenes of destruction. But here again, we are viewing nature with civilization-tinted glasses (I hear they sit heavy on the nose).
Walk through a storm-ravaged forest with a naturalist and you’ll learn that extensive areas of damage are not considered “destruction.” Ecologists call them “natural disturbances.” Where one kind of habitat (mature, closed canopy forest, for instance) is eliminated, another (sunny glade) is created. In newly opened forest clearings, seedlings can thrive that had little chance of surviving in the shade of a standing forest.

Clearing opened by Irma allows sun-loving plants to thrive

On a smaller scale, each individual fallen tree creates new habitats, new opportunities for certain species to thrive. The pit created by an uprooted tree—called “tree throw”—creates a divot in the ground that will become a small, ephemeral pool after rains. These isolated pools are ideal for certain animals to breed and feed. Another new feature created by the fallen tree is the “tip-up mound” of roots and soil that are hoisted above the ground. Tip-up mounds (which can stand over 10 feet high if it was a big tree) create another habitat altogether. In large, flat swamps that have few bits of exposed ground, tip-up mounds become valuable islands where small plants can thrive. These, in turn, will offer food, shelter and breeding sites for to birds and other creatures. In short, the fallen tree will enhance the biodiversity of the area.

These descriptions are superficial and hardly do justice to the complex (and fascinating) ecology of disturbances and succession in natural systems. But hopeful it’s enough to give you a sense of appreciation for the “disturbances” we will be seeing in North Florida’s forests and along our rivers for years to come. With time, you’ll realize these disturbances and new, sunny glades are ideal places to aim your binoculars as you paddle past.
Fallen trees pave the way to the forest's future