Ponce's Lost Days

It’s been five days (and 500 years) since our man Ponce de Leon set off into the Florida wilderness, and still no word. According to the best record of the conquistador's historic voyage—a second-hand account written by Antonio de Herrera who presumably read de Leon’s now-lost journal—the explorer “went ashore to take possession and get information.” That’s it; that’s all he wrote. The first five days of one of the most significant events in the history of the Western Hemisphere, summarized in a comment so brief it could have been sent in a Tweet with enough extra spaces to add, ”The weathers great, wish you were here! Please send money!”

Knowing what we do about the conquistadores, I worry for the Timucuas. I imagine that undocumented excursion with the dread of a parent whose kid is in Florida for spring break and hasn’t called in five days. Only in this scenario, my kid is a resident of the host town and the visiting spring-breakers are known murderers who bring home slaves the way kids bring home T-shirts from the places they visit.

Lacking documentation, we have only our imaginations to guide our speculation about those lost five days. Two possibilities are that they either stayed on the boat or stayed at the local Timucuan village the whole time. Neither of these seem very likely. These were men of action on a desperate hunt for riches. While they probably spent some time asking the natives if there was any gold in the region, it is likely they set out to look for themselves.

Since they didn’t have horses with them, any overland explorations would have been by foot. The main trail into the interior was the one  that would later be known as the Mission Trail and eventually the famous Bellamy Road (famous because it was Florida's first Federal Road). If he went inland, de leon would likely have used this trail. An added incentive for using this trail would have been Paynes Prairie, home of the Potano tribe. Half a century after de Leon, French soldiers misunderstood the coastal Indians when they were describing the riches of the interior. When the natives told the Frenchmen that valuable rocks were found in Potano territory, the greedy soldiers assumed they meant gold. In reality the natives were talking about flint. This form of limestone was a valuable material for making weapons and tools. If de Leon’s men made the same misinterpretation, they might have taken the trail west. However, five days would not have allowed enough time to get to the Prairie, explore it and return in five days. Even if they tried, it’s very unlikely they could have made it.

The other way de Leon could have explored inland would have been by boat. If there was any curiosity in the back of de Leon’s mind about the presence of a magical Fountain of Youth, he would likely have queried the natives. And,if they were in a sharing mood, they might have told the explorer about two of Florida’s greatest natural wonders—Silver and Blue Springs in the upper St. Johns watershed. But here again, these two giant springs were out of range. No matter how hard they paddled, there’s no way the Spaniards could have reached either of these springs and returned in five days.

For the time being, some of Florida’s greatest natural treasures were spared a visit from the first invasive exotic species to invade Florida in thousands of years.

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The Land of Flowers

Sometimes you can tell how a story will end after the first few lines. When the Timucuas watched a boatload of Spaniards slosh onto their beach and proclaim that they were re-naming their land, the natives had to know this story was going to end badly. Even if they found some comfort in the fact that the new name was La Florida (how bad can a marauder be if he would name a place the “Land of Flowers?”), it would take more than a flowery name to make up for such an insult. Names had great significance to the Timucua. The process for giving or receiving them was highly ritualized. In fact, being given a new name was likely one of the biggest events in a Timucua boy's or girl’s life.

While there are no first-hand accounts of Timucua naming ceremonies, other nearby cultures were well-documented. In looking at them, we can see some common themes that give us a rough idea of how the Timucua ceremony might have looked.

Most naming ceremonies were lengthy affairs, preceded by weeks or even months of rituals designed to show the person was ready for the change of status and increased responsibilities that came with the new name. For some cultures, the ceremony was conducted by a village elder along with some witnesses or “guides.” The elder would choose a name, often after much reflection on the person’s personality or notable deed. This might be a feat of courage in battle or an impressive hunt. The guides would then have to approve of the new name and attest that the recipient was worthy of it. In the years that followed, these same guides had the power to take the name away if the person dishonored it.

In 1508, five years before he “discovered” and re-named La Florida, Ponce de Leon engaged in a sacred name-exchanging ritual with a Taino Chief in Puerto Rico.  For the Taino, this important ceremony, "called guatiao," affirmed the two men's commitment to friendship and brotherhood. Unfortunately, none of the Spaniards in attendance recorded how the ceremony was performed; only that Chief Agueybana dropped his own name in exchange for de Leon’s. De Leon did likewise. The ceremony so inspired the chief’s mother that she converted to Christianity on the spot. De Leon sanctioned her conversion by baptizing her and giving her a new name. From that day forward her name was Ines.

While the record is admittedly vague on details of Ponce de Leon’s life, there is no mention of him ever being referred to as Agueybana. The record is even sketchier for Agueybana (Chief de Leon?) because the Taino, like the Timucua, didn’t have writing. They weren’t alone. In all of the New World, the only culture with a true system of writing was the Maya and, to a lesser extent, the Aztecs. All of the events surrounding the conquest of the New World—the discovery, the first encounters with the Timucua, the guatiao ceremony—we know only from Spanish chroniclers. As Winston Churchill famously wrote, “History is written by the victors.” (He less-famously wrote, “History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.”).

For North America's native cultures, the important tasks of passing tribes history and laws and spiritual beliefs from each generation to the next was done by oral tradition. In this system, elders passed the wisdom of their ancestors to their youngers with stories and songs. Outwardly, these might have looked like simple entertainments. But in reality they were a vital part of the culture. Through stories and songs the people learned such things as how to thank the plants and animals for sacrificing themselves to the dinner plate and to ask their gods for a good harvest or favorable weather. There was no room for creative flourishes. To change a story was to tear the fabric of their society; it was to alter their reality.

If the Timucua had a written language, the anthology of these ancient stories would have been as important to them as holy texts are to cultures that do have writing. As it was, the "anthology" of the Timucuas most important stories, like the one about a boatload of Spaniards that arrived on their shore like a death-dealing Tsunami, existed only in their minds and on their breath.

There are no tattered scrolls of plant and animal lore tucked into a hidden nook in some Florida cave; no toppled rune stones awaiting an unsuspecting backhoe operator to reveal their trove of Timucuan mythology. There was no Timucua Herodotus who chronicled the native Floridian's last 14,000 years. There was no Timucuan Homer, so no Floridan Odyssey. There were no Timucuan poets, so no Timucuan Meleager of Gadara to compile their works in an anthology.

In the first century BC, Greek poet Meleager of Gadara published a collection of hundreds of epigrams from forty six of the best-known poets of that time. It was a ground-breaking work. While others had compiled collections about certain subjects, Meleager’s collection of poems by various authors was a first. The title of his book, The Garland, was a metaphorical twist on the common practice of the time of referring to poems as flowers. The idea stuck and the word “anthology,” from anthos, “flower” and legein, to gather, became synonymous with collections of stories and poems. Taken literally, an anthology of stories is a “collection of flowers.”

As it turned out, the final story in the Timucuan “anthology”—the story that began with Ponce’s arrival 500 years ago today—ended exactly two and a half centuries years later in the same place it began. In 1763 and '64, with Britain preparing to take control of Florida, the entire population of Spanish Florida loaded onto ships at the St. Augustine docks and sailed to Cuba. With them went the last 89 Timucua Indians who had long-since become enculturated into the society of the Spanish Floridians. I sometimes imagine that destitute group—a mix of men, women and children—huddled on the ship’s deck as they watched the land of their ancestors grow small on the horizon. I imagine their minds reeling with countless stories and songs heard around countless campfires. Maybe in this final moment they conceded that de Leon got just this one thing right. This really is La Florida, a “Land of Stories.”

If the Hat Fits; Even if it Doesn't...

In an effort to save time on the river, here are answers the five most frequently asked questions on my tours.

1. No, that’s not a dead animal on my head, it’s my hat.
2. No, Patsy has not threatened to leave me if I continue to wear my hat—yet.
3. No, the County has not condemned my hat and ordered me to move out from under it.
4. No, I don’t have to feed my hat.
5. Great Blue heron

For normal people, the old saying, “a hat says a lot about the person wearing it,” is nothing more than a quaint witticism. For me, it’s a genuine concern. I have a feeling my hat is only a lightning bolt away from having a pulse, and when that happens, there’s no telling what it will start yapping about. We've been through a lot together, so I can only hope we’ve developed a strong enough bond to warrant its loyalty. After all, I stuff my head into its gaping mouth every day.

From a historical perspective, the notion of my hat being the remains of an animal—a very ugly animal—is not so far fetched. For as long as humans have lived in the Sunshine State, they’ve been draping the remains of dead animals on their heads. In many cases, these "hats" (for lack of a better term) have been functional accessories worn to protect the wearer's head and face from the elements. In other cases, they were wholly decorative.

The earliest images we have of native Floridians are found in a collection of drawings by Jacques Le Moyne, a French artist in the Court of King Charles IX. As a member of the short-lived and ill-fated French settlement at Ft. Caroline on the St. Johns River, Le Moyne was essentially an entrenched journalist at some of the first encounters between Europeans and Florida’s native people. His images offer incredible insights into the original Floridians, as well as their hats.

In looking though Lemoyne’s images, it's clear that the Timucuans gave a lot of thought to what was happening on their head. Those without hats or caps had their hair pulled up into tight topknots. Some images show warriors with a few arrows stuck through their topknots--presumably for quick access. Other headwear was less functional. In images depicting Timucuan ceremonies, we see that big ceremonies meant big hats (some things never change. I’m looking at you, English Royals). One shows Chief Saturiwa addressing a group of his warriors whose heads are adorned with a menagerie of animals. If you were to cover the warrior’s faces, you’d be left with a scene straight out of Dr. Doolittle. You’d see an expressive chief sloshing a cup of cassine tea in one wildly-gesturing hand as he addresses an audience comprised of a spotted cat (bobcat maybe?), a large raptor (bald eagle?), a small dog (fox?) and a variety of birds. Inflated fish bladders protrude from the pierced ear lobes of nearly every warrior in attendance. In another Le Moyne picture, we see a foreshadowing of fashion that would be popular among young Florida boys nearly five centuries later, the “coon-skin cap.”

With their love of head-wear, it seems likely the Indians were curious about the hats (and helmets) worn by Lemoyne and the rest of those first European arrivals. The Spanish conquistadores wore helmets called morions, with a crescent brim that curved up to points at the front and back. The design had evolved from centuries of warfare in the Old World. And while they were fine in a sword fight, morions quickly became obsolete in Florida.

For the first few centuries of colonization, the prevailing styles were as diverse as the people who lived here. But, with our warm, sunny weather, one common feature was a big brim. For the missionaries and ranch hands of the mission period and 19th century crackers alike, wide-brimmed hats of one sort or another remained the lids of choice. But there were others. In St. Augustine, Cedar Key and Pensacola, the main outposts of culture in Florida for much of the early period, less functional hats came and went over the years. This diversity was driven more by fashion trends than necessity. At different times you might have seen tri-cornered hats, beaver-skin top hats (think Abe Lincoln) and a variety of military caps.

My favorite hat of all time was not worn by a Floridian, but I can't resist giving it honorable mention. In the mid-1800’s, Henry David Thoreau wore a hat that … well, I’ll let him tell it. “About a half a dozen years ago I found myself again attending to plants with more method, looking out the name of each one and remembering it. I began to bring them home in my hat, a straw one with a scaffold lining to it, which I called my botany-box. I never used any other, and when some whom I visited were evidently surprised at its dilapidated look, as I deposited it on their front entry table, I assured them it was not so much my hat as my botany-box.” Yes, his hat had shelves inside.

These days, hats have become primarily an accessory of outdoors persons. But until the mid-1900’s, hats were worn by men of all persuasions and occupations. Urban mythology offers a couple of theories for the demise of hat-wearing in men. One states that JFK brought an end to the fashion when he attended his inauguration without a lid. Another theory credits (or blames) the shrinking interior compartments of shrinking cars. But neither of these is given much credit.

For now, the reason why most men stopped wearing their hats remains as much a mystery as why I continue to wear mine.

Free-wheelin' Barnacles

There's a great lesson to be learned at Crystal River--turn off the tunnel vision. Unlike most rivers we paddle on our tours, Crystal River has a single, all-star attraction that is responsible for most of the winter visitation. There's no getting around it, people love manatees; rightfully so. However, by keeping their hot focus on this one species, many visitors leave without ever realizing they’ve just spent the day in a wonderland of amazing history, geology and archaeology. Nor have they learned about the menagerie of fascinating species that flew and swam past and, in the case of manatee barnacles, stood on their heads and waved.

If it’s ever discovered that barnacles have language, I suspect the first words we’ll hear will be, “woo hoo!!” and they will be squealed by a “manatee barnacle,” one of that special brotherhood of barnacles that arrive in Crystal River every autumn clinging to the backs of returning manatees. These are not a unique species, just ordinary barnacles in extraordinary circumstances. They are the lucky few whom fate delivered onto the back of a resting manatee at the most critical moment of their life.

Barnacles enter the world as one-eyed, six-legged, spiny-tailed, larvae called nauplius. Life for nauplius is that of care-free and unattached plankton, a not-so-exclusive category of aquatic organisms whose only defining trait is that they have little control of their own movements. Their lives are led at the pleasure of the ocean’s currents; they go with the flow, sipping fine brine and feasting on the endless supply of even smaller plankton. Theirs is the implied promise of all plankton—a life of freedom. It’s right there in the name, plankton, which comes from a Greek word for “wanderer.”

But, even the best laid plans of barnacles go often askew. A half year into its life’s journey, things begin to change for the carefree nauplii. Joints stiffen and it begins to morph into a creature that looks surprisingly like a tiny mollusk (surprising, because barnacles are not mollusks, they are crustaceans). In this new “cyprid” stage of life, the would-be barnacle foregoes feeding as it noses around looking for a suitable place to call home. It’s not choosey; oyster shells, clams, driftwood, human garbage, any solid object with enough space to do a head-stand will do. Once a place is found, the cyprid rolls over and cements its head to the surface with a dollop of brown goo exuded from its neck. This glue is powerful stuff. Dentists study it with a mind toward attaching dentures to the more storied regions of their patient’s smiles. In a strange twist, this glue which nature concocted to bind barnacles permanently in place is used by humans for added freedom—freedom to gnaw an ear of corn, freedom to smirk at less clever creatures. Having secured a home site, the barnacle encases itself in hard, calcareous shell plates. The “wanderer” has become the ultimate home-body. The only thing missing is a family.

Success, as barnacles calculate it, consists of just two things; finding a good home-site where the plankton flows like wine, and at least one barnacle neighbor with whom it can occasionally have sex. But, there’s a problem—they’re barnacles. As you can imagine, being glued to the floor by their head and being encased in a hard shell presents a challenge to the horn-fraught barnacle. But, as their half-billion year ancestry would imply, they have worked this problem out admirably.

As with many immobile sea creatures, barnacles are hermaphrodites. Each individual has both ovaries and a penis (the latter deserving honorable mention as being proportionally largest in the animal kingdom—nearly 10 times the animal’s body length). Generally speaking, barnacles spend most of their time in male mode, eating, resting and occasionally probing around with their penis for a receptive neighbor. But, once in a while, they are surprised to find themselves on the receiving end of a neighbor’s penis. Voila, they are a female—and pregnant. (this is where we might hear the second utterance—shriek?—heard from a barnacle).

For most barnacles, life is fairly predictable. But for some, opportunity knocks when they are in the critical final moments of their cyprid stage. For them, good timing, favorable currents and dumb luck come together perfectly to deliver them onto the back of a mobile sea creature such as a sea turtle, a whale or a resting manatee. It’s a life-defining moment. For the first time in its life, and probably the last, it owns its fate. In this singular instant, the soon-to-be barnacle will make the only consequential decision of its life. It has two simple choices, hesitate or roll over and attach that head…and be quick about it! One gust of water current; one shutter of the whale’s skin; one sudden notion in the mind of a manatee to move to a nearby clump of eelgrass, and all hope for becoming a true “wanderer” is gone. For the lucky few that hit their mark, it’s off to the adventurous life of a manatee barnacle.

Manatee barnacles must surely be the outlaw bikers of barnacle society when they glide into Crystal River in the autumn, riding their “hogs” with their long cirri blowing in the currents. And, while they aren’t so much riding as clinging for dear life, they do go fast. When their hog is sufficiently motivated, a manatee barnacle might top 20 mph—an unimaginable speed for the posers attached to the bridge pilings that pretend they are going fast in the rushing tidal currents. Manatee barnacles are the real deal; the 1%ers.

But the free-wheeling lifestyle comes with a price. Persistent gnawing of buck-toothed sheepshead fish and the constant sloughing of dead skin from the manatee’s thick hide take a toll on manatee barnacles. Their motto should be live fast and die young. For the next few weeks—months if they’re lucky—they’ll cruise the coves and eelgrass meadows of King’s Bay, flaunting the rules of civilized barnacle society. But by the spring warm-up, most will be dead.


Crystal River, 11/22/11: A marine biologist leans toward the reciever, closes his eyes tight and listens. He has been using this equipment for several years studying manatee vocalizations and knows most of the aquatic sounds that hum King’s Bay; but not this one. His brow furrows as he strains to hear the faint, unidentified squealing. He’s only heard it a few times before, and always when the manatees are arriving from their summer feeding grounds. He makes a puzzled notation in his field journal, “sound appears to be coming from the vicinity of some barnacles on the manatees back and sounds like....woo hoo ???”

Florida's Pompeii - Thoughts on Rodman Reservoir

Breaking news - there’s too much life in Ocklawaha River. So says the St. Johns River Water Management District (SJRWMD) and other State agencies tasked with "protecting" our waterways. It’s a recurring theme. In the 1960’s, the problematic life-form was a beautiful swamp forest growing on ground slated for a barge canal. So, after flattening a sixteen mile, 400 foot-wide path through the forest, they flooded the river valley to a depth sufficient to float the anticipated barges. Outside the cleared canal path, the remainder of the forest was left standing, to be killed by the flood waters. Soon, the reservoir was a forest of dead snags.

In the years following the valley's flooding, the dead trees decayed and toppled over, but only the parts standing above the water. Below the surface, the submerged stumps were preserved by the acidic, tannic water. The result is a submerged forest of trunks that appear to have been topped by a giant mower. In the deeper, downstream end of the reservoir these stumps stand 8 – 10 feet high from the reservoir bottom. For motor boat operators, these submerged trunks form a virtual mine-field where many propellers have met their end.

Decades have passed since construction on barge canal was halted in 1974 (it was officially de-authorized in 1990's). But, the reservoir remains. It turns out that the large, artificially maintained lake with its submerged forest of stumps is ideally suited to large-mouth bass. Enter the well-funded fishing and motor-boat lobbies and a handful of local legislators who have fought hard to keep this artificial fishing hole in place. As politicians and big business duke it out with environmentalists, Florida's tax payers continue to shell out nearly a million dollars per year for operations and maintenance and sixteen miles of the Ocklawaha Valley (including over 20 springs) remain submerged.

These days, all funding for Rodman Reservoir is used to artificially maintain the good fishing. High on the list of SJRWMD's management concerns is the overabundance of aquatic vegetation in the reservoir. The unnatural conditions created by this man-made pool have caused aquatic vegetation—mostly hydrilla—to grow out of control. Fish and fishing boats alike have trouble maneuvering.

To remedy this, SJRWMD is conducting a “draw-down” (partial draining of the water) to kill the vegetation. It’s a stressful time for the fish and other wildlife in the reservoir. But, for paddlers, these draw-downs (conducted every 3 - 4 years) offer a unique opportunity to explore the lost segment of this amazing river.

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People who love the Ocklawaha visit the drawn-down reservoir the way relatives visit a family graveyard. They drift solemnly along the flowing brown path, pausing occasionally to contemplate the gnarled tombstones. Some appear sad. Others are introspective as they try to recall happy memories. Sometimes they look around, conjuring vague images in their minds, trying to juxtapose faded memories with this wasteland. Some are inspired to poetry. I did not know this part of the Ocklawaha before it was flooded. Still, the loss feels very personal.

In the past, I’ve called Rodman Reservoir “Florida’s Pompeii.” It seems like a fitting comparison when I see the field of ashen grotesques, frozen in their tragic, final moments. It’s also powerful image to use when I’m trying to describe the magnitude of what was lost when this reservoir was filled and what continues to be lost every year that it remains. But, frankly, some aspects of the comparison don’t fit. Pompeii speaks of screaming agony and the loss of all hope. The Rodman stump forest is simply a beautiful forest frozen in time. It's a quieter, gentler tragedy.

These days, I’m more inclined to compare the Rodman stumps to sculptures. Some days, paddling down the old river channel feels like a stroll through a museum gallery, moving from one gnarled grey masterpiece to the next. They are at once lifeless and full of emotion, like the “Hands” of sculptor Auguste Rodin. As the name implies, this series of clay sculptures are of hands and nothing more. Without the benefit of a body or a face to give expression, Rodin’s Hands convey the full spectrum of human emotions and experience—longing, playfulness, excitement, agony, sadness, love.

Likewise, the sinewy detail of many of the reservoirs stumps allows us to imagine the Ocklawaha forest the day it died. Elegantly curved stems of climbing aster and buttonbush rest among the folds of a bald cypress's flared buttress. We recognize the twisted, muscular trunk of a blue beech curving around the smooth bole of a red maple. Seven feet above ground the small tree leans against the finely checked bark of a green ash. We smell bay blossoms and dodder. We welcome the shade of a towering cathedral of cypress and ash and tupelo and revel in a thousand greens of summer (or was it the fiery hues of autumn? or maybe cool, airy winter?). We hear the hammering of a pileated woodpecker and a trio of squirrels chasing though the canopy. We hear the laughter of children splashing in Blue Spring. Let's ignore that ominous, sickening rumble in the distance.

It’s not all death in the drawn-down Rodman Reservoir. Reptiles are occasionally seen along the banks of the relict channel, though not as many as in the living river upstream and downstream from the reservoir. Wading birds, and wintering crowds of white ibis and American coots work the flats. Ospreys and bald eagles love this area as well. Of course, the only living trees we see are on the far bank. One, in particular, always draws my attention. It is a huge, solitary live oak growing on a spit of high ground near Blue Spring. Its massive size and long, gravity-defying limbs are powerful reminders of nature’s ability to endure and to heal--a fine contrast to the reservoir's constant reminder of our own capacity for bad ideas. It reminds me of another famous Rodin sculpture, “The Thinker.”

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The Changing Face of Florida’s Gulf Coast

Florida has often been referred to as a paradise, partly because its abundance of beautiful palm trees. In classical versions of paradise like Atlantis and the Garden of Eden, palms are often a key element. Likewise, most iconic scenes of Florida include palms—holding the ends of a hammock on a sunny beach, flapping violently in hurricane winds, or silhouetted against a pastel sky of a smoldering Gulf sunset. But, as anyone who’s paddled Florida’s Gulf Coast lately can attest, there is trouble in paradise. Our cabbage palms are dying.

Palm die-offs have become all-too-common in recent decades. The first was in the 1970, when a disease called lethal yellowing devastated a huge percentage of South Florida’s coconut palms. However, as much as we love coconut palms, they are exotic and their loss is ecologically less significant than losing a native species like cabbage palms. Not only are cabbage palms native, they are an important element of the Florida landscape.

Historically, cabbage palms were used for food, fiber,, and for shelter. The classic Seminole chickee consisted of a cypress log frame covered by palm fronds. Paddlers in the everglades know these structures well. European settlers found plenty of uses for cabbage palms, too. Forts made of fibrous palm logs were uniquely able to absorb the impact of cannonballs. One palm-walled fort on Sullivan Island, South Carolina, was credited with saving Charleston from a British attack during the American Revolution. To commemorate this event, the cabbage palm was designated South Carolina’s State tree in 1939. Florida followed suit by naming the cabbage palm (also known as the sabal palm) as our State Tree in 1952.

Commercial use of cabbage palms has been limited. One of the more ambitious enterprises was a brush manufacturing plant built in Cedar Key in 1910. This factory made rigid scrub brushes from the fibrous “wood” of palm trunks. It was a relatively short-lived industry, however, and the overall impact on the regions palms was minimal. Of more importance has been the widespread harvesting of the trees central growth bud to make swamp cabbage. It was from this regional delicacy that the tree got its name. Another common name for this edible bud is “heart-of-palm.” This “heart” bud is the vital life-force of the tree. Removing it kills the tree. Harvesting swamp cabbage has fallen into disfavor in recent decades and is illegal on public lands. You can still order heart-of-palm salad in some specialty restaurants—most of it obtained as a byproduct of land clearing operations.

Perhaps the cabbage palm’s greatest value is aesthetic. The graceful sway of their smooth, grey trunk and large, fan-leaves bunched attractively at the top, is like no other tree. It is their presence, more than any other tree, that gives Florida’s coastal rivers and some inland waterways, their uniquely Florida appearance. And yet, they are so common, we sometimes become complacent about them. When that happens, we should read people like John Muir. “I caught sight of the first palmetto in a grassy place, standing almost alone…this palm was indescribably impressive and told me grander things than I ever got from human priest…whether rocking and rustling in the wind or poised thoughtful and calm in the sunshine, it has a power of expression not excelled by any plant high or low that I have met my whole walk thus far.” (Thousand Mile Walk to the Gulf. P. 92).

Carl Linnaeus, the “father” of the modern classification system of classifying species, was equally enchanted by palms, calling them the “prince of trees.” He felt that humans evolved in the land of palms and that we are essentially “palmivorous.”
With nearly 3,000 species worldwide, the huge Palmae family is well entrenched in every tropical and subtropical corner of the globe. They have a wide range of adaptations which include the largest fruit, largest inflorescence and longest leaves in the plant kingdom. With such adaptability, it’s a mystery why there aren’t more palm species in central and northern Florida.

One answer is their toughness. Cabbage palms can tolerate colder temperatures than other palms, growing as far north as South Carolina. They’re also drought tolerant. While they prefer the damper conditions of coastal hammocks, pine flatwoods, and river forests, they can ride out an extended droughts with little problem. Their tough, leathery leaves are not prone to desiccation under Florida’s blazing sun and are unfazed by salt spray from the ocean. They can even tolerate growing in slightly brackish water—but not salt water. And therein lays the problem.

In the 1990’s, when coastal residents in the Nature Coast and Big Bend areas reported unusual numbers of palms dying, scientists first looked to the usual suspects. Lethal yellowing, while still killing many palms (coconuts and many other exotic species) every year, is not known to attack any native Florida species. Other diseases of cabbage palms such as the palm weevil, bud rot and Texas Phoenix palm decline (which primarily attacks Phoenix palms but also effects an occasional cabbage palm) were also ruled out.

As scientists worked on the problem, they made another, more troubling observation; hardwoods and other unrelated species were also dying. This implied the problem wasn’t a disease (which are usually specific to one species) but something environmental. Researchers, including George Agrios and Francis E. Putz of the University of South Florida's botany department and Ed Barnard of the Department of Forestry in Gainesville, eventually concluded that the culprit is something far more common than any disease—salt water.

For the past 16,000 years, as the earth has steadily warmed from the last Ice Age, water levels have been rising by about 0.6 millimeters per year. But, with additional atmospheric warming caused by the emissions of our modern, industrialized world, this rate has increased significantly. NASA scientists have determined the worlds sea levels are now rising about 3 millimeters per year.

In Florida, increased salinity of nearshore waters is being enhanced by a more local problem. With ever-increasing withdrawal of fresh water from the Floridan aquifer by wells throughout the state, less fresh water is reaching the coastal estuaries. Besides the fresh water that flows into these estuaries by way of surface runoff, the artesian (spring) water that previously entered from submarine springs is now diminished as well.


Perhaps the most alarming aspect of this pending natural disaster is the lack of public awareness. The areas most affected by this die-off are relatively remote. And, while many trees are dying in Tampa Bay and other populated areas, as well as some places along the Atlantic coast, the best places to see the full effect of this die-off are the quiet, uncivilized corners of the coast—the realm of the paddler.

So, as you paddle areas like the Nature Coast, Big Bend and the Florida Keys, be sure to take lots of pictures and spare no words when describing the environment in your journal. Hundreds of years from now, your words and images may be referenced by people describing a long lost paradise that, like Atlantis and Eden, was consumed by the sea. Sunbathers on Tallahassee Beach might gaze southward upon the wide expanse of the Gulf of Mexico and wonder if such a wonderful place could ever have existed at all.

Close Encounters of the Turd Kind

Hiking in Ichetucknee Forest this morning, I was reminded that nature observation requires a few basic skills. Spontaneity is high on the list. When you spot a pair of slugs slowly sliding over each other, you must be willing to forego all plans and stop to watch them. You may never again see two slugs interacting. Next, you must have the patience to sit quietly for hours watching your slimy subjects for any hint of interesting behavior. Being observant also helps. Make mental notes of distinguishing marks that will help you identify the species when you get home to your field guide (you know, the “field guide to slugs;” the one you’ve stayed up way-too-late reading way-too-many times). You must be content with meager results. This will ease the disappointment of realizing dusk is falling quickly and your slugs have barely moved for two hours. Be thorough. Before you leave, move close so you can see any smaller physical details. You might even want to prod them a little with a stick to see their undersides. Lastly, as in all things, you should have a sense of humor. It will get you through little setbacks, like when you discover that two slugs you’ve been observing for a couple of hours are actually a pair of squirrel turds.

While I’m usually unwavering in my appreciation of nature’s gifts, I could have spent far less time contemplating those two turds and been content. As I sulked down the trail toward home, I consoled myself with the notion that I probably wasn’t the only creature out there that could list turd-watching (do aficionados prefer to call it “turding?”) as one of the most significant achievements of my day. In fact, some species live for the stuff.

In the hardwoods and swamps of the Ichetucknee Forest, and in virtually every other habitat in Florida, scarab beetles hailing from nearly 250 known species spend their days cleaning up waste produced by larger species (in Florida, these feces specialists are commonly know as "turd tumblers"). High in nutrients (a lot of plant material passes through the digestive tracts of herbivores undigested) and easily obtained, dung is a precious commodity for which scarabs compete savagely. Ideally, they will avoid conflict by being first to arrive at a new heap where they’ll quickly sculpt a ball several times their own size and roll it to a waiting underground chamber. The beetle then lays eggs inside the dung ball which will serve as food for the larvae when they hatch.

In most cases, being first on the scene is largely a matter of luck; being at the right place when a passing animal unloads. But, a few species have learned to buck the odds. Every morning in the forests of Panama, certain species of scarab fly into the tree canopy in search of howler monkeys. Positioning themselves strategically on the animals butt, the scarab waits for the monkey to defecate. It then jumps aboard the first train out of the station and clings for dear life as it plummets 100 feet to the ground. Similar, though less extreme dramas are played out on the back-side of other animals such as kangaroos, wallabees and sloths.

But turd-tumbling scarabs are not the only connoisseurs of feces. If you’ve ever had a pet rabbit, you know about their not-so-adorable habit of eating their own poop. Coprophagy is common to a wide assortment of animal species; mostly herbivores, whose digestive systems are relatively inefficient. Giving the food a second pass through the digestive tract allows the animal to digest more of the nutrients from it. Pigs, rabbits and most rodents are habitual coprophags.

For some animals, including our beloved manatees, coprophagy aids digestion in another way. Because plant material is difficult to digest, these animal’s digestive systems are full of bacteria that break it down. However, these bacteria are often absent in newborn calves. To get bacteria in their own gut, the babies must eat some bacteria-rich feces of an adult.

For those species whose survival doesn’t depend on feces, attitudes toward the stuff are decidedly less enthusiastic. Most birds avoid the stuff altogether; a fact that was capitalized upon by the Big Girl (mother nature) when she designed the amazingly turd-like caterpillars of swallowtail butterflies. A similar strategy keeps the white egg masses of Dobson flies safe from small birds as they glean the leaves of trees overhanging rivers, where these eggs are deposited.

While we can't know what goes on in a bird's brain, it's often hard not to anthropomorphize. For instance, when we see terns deliberately (and very accurately) dropping turd bombs on animals approaching their nests in sand dunes, they clearly seem to know it is disgusting. For turkey vultures, being disgusting comes naturally. Besides being famously hard-to-watch when eating, they are equally gross when they poop on their own legs and feet to keep them cool.
The only animals that consider wearing poop to be a good thing are some humans. In some cultures, it is good luck when a bird poops on your head. I prefer to take my chances.

(NOTE: I’m often asked what inspires these “reveries” (thanks Lola). Today’s came on the wings of a Carolina wren. As I sat on my patio, staring at a blank, imposing computer screen and hoping for a sign, a tiny wren landed on top of the monitor. It seemed as startled by its choice of landing spot as I was and immediately flew away. But, not before depositing a little gift on my screen. Not quite the sign I was looking for, but who am I to question the Muse.)