Naturally Intriguing

The Fleming Island I was born into was a wild tangle of woods, water, and wildlife.  By the time I reached adulthood, developers had transformed it into a bustling suburban sprawl of concrete, yuppies, and traffic jams.  As the island I grew up on becomes even further unrecognizable, I cling to the relics of past.  Recently I came across an old newspaper article from 1987 regarding the population of Fleming Island.  In some ways, it was enjoyable to read about the place I remember, but more so a painful reminder of what my home is not anymore. Fleming Island residents fight for pristine environs By Mary Shanklin   Underneath the haunting oaks and dirt-road heart, Hibernia still remains a battleground where residents continuously try to hang onto a somewhat isolated way of life.    Most recently, Fleming Island residents heard their call to arms when the state announced in June that a beltway could be built through the Hibernia area of the island.    "Those people know w

A warm Saturday with no foul weather in sight begs for a kayaking excursion.  So Dave and I started paddling north on the St Johns, enjoying the calm water, the abundance of ospreys, and the manatees.  At one point, Dave pointed out a manatee that was only a few feet to the right of his boat.  Intrigued by the huge gray lump with stark white propeller scars on its back, Dave slowed and paddled a bit closer.  "Don't spook it," I instructed.  As a kid growing up on the river, I've witnessed what happens when you spook a manatee, and it's no joke.  Most people have this image of manatees as docile, slow-moving animals blissfully unaware of their surroundings.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Heeding my advice, Dave backed off of the manatee, and it slowly swam away. We continued our track north, paddling under the multitudes of private docks stretching from the shore to the drop-off beyond the sand bars.  The water was only about 3 feet deep beneath our b

We've hiked Stevens Trail in Colfax many times, and we'd thought we'd seen it all. Then someone said to us a couple months ago, "Have you hiked Stevens Trail from Iowa Hill?" Iowa Hill is a small town in the Sierra foothills, at about 2800 feet in elevation, that was a big mining town back in the day. After several fires wiped out the original town, the only thing left now is the "Iowa Hill Store" and an old cemetery dating back to the 1800's. We've driven through here many times, but never noticed any trailheads. Then a few weeks ago we stopped into the old store to see what it was all about, and discovered a bar tended by an old man in overalls, who walked with a cane and wore a long gray beard. There was a pool table here, a small book shelf, and a couch with a dozing pit bull. In the back of the bar was a display cabinet containing relics of the past.....a glass telegraph insulator, some old bottles, and other miscellaneous items from a

Dave and I have cruised Iowa Hill Road time after time, and never paid attention to the line of boulders by the road above the river indicating the trailhead of Windy Point. One day as we were cruising up into the hills, we noticed several trucks and tour vans parked here, and it finally clicked.....there's a trail there. So this past Sunday, we parked at the boulders and embarked on a new trail. The beginning of the trail is a nice grassy stroll under some pines. Nothing too ominous. But as soon as you step out from the trees and the sun hits your face, the trail drops steeply, and continues to drop for nearly the entire extent of this trail. I knew this was going to be murder trying to hike back out, but I try not to let fear stop me from doing worthwhile things, so on we went. The scenery here is different from other trails we have hiked. Instead of dense trees, much of this trail is grassy hillside. Might sound like a good view, but as spring has long since passed here i

Despite a forecast for all-day rains, Dewin and I drove an hour and a half to a place I have not been since I was a kid - Okefenokee Swamp in Waycross, GA. I remembered nothing about this place, but knew it was full of gators. And so, hopeful that it would be a nice opportunity for some up-close wildlife shots, we took our chances and drove into the gloom. The second we arrived in the parking lot, raindrops began pelting the asphalt.....not a good sign. But umbrella in hand, we entered the gift shop and paid for our tickets anyway. Fortunately, the rain stopped just before we left the main building to embark on this exciting day! (sarcasm) We had about 20 minutes to kill before the first exhilarating facet of our South Georgia adventure, the fabled traaain ride, so we took our first left off the main walkway, only to find Dewin's worst source of nausea.....caged animals. That's right. We thought this place was all about the WILDlife, but the first stop on our trek was a pit 40

This past Sunday, tired of the Sierra foothills' cold keeping us in, David and I decided to hit Stevens Trail for the third time since we have lived here. The last couple hikes here were embarked upon in the late afternoon. This time we managed to reach the trail head before 9am, despite having enjoyed several adult beverages the night before. When we arrived at the parking lot for the trail, temps were only in the 40's, but the sun was shining, so we ignored our chill bumps and set out. In truth, I was not expecting any surprises today, but I brought my camera just in case...... The 4+ mile hike down trail to the river was just as it always was: beautiful wildflowers, treacherous bends, and the promising fall in elevation that we knew would eventually yield the north fork of the American River. By 10:15, we had reached the rocky bank that we had previously gold panned. Our chill bumps were gone after hiking for over an hour, and we were ready to plunge our hands into the

Last Sunday, David and I decided to check out a local hiking spot, Stevens Trail. This trail in the Sierra Nevadas was originally created by gold miner Truman Stevens in 1870. It begins in Colfax and drops in elevation as it winds northward through the mountains down to Secret Ravine and the north fork of the American River. The trail is over 4 miles long, and somewhat treacherous in areas, as the canyon walls are steep, and there are the occasional rock slides here. The scenery along this foot path is beautiful and varied. There is lush vegetation, tall trees, grassy slopes full of wildflowers, waterfalls and mountain streams that cut across the path, and huge rock formations. Old mine shafts still exist along some parts of the trail. But the most awesome views are when the American River is visible. Calm in some spots, and violent whitewater in others, it's clear and cold and awesome to behold (unintentional rhyme). The trip down to the river wasn't bad at all. Most

Summer in Florida is an awesome thing. Hot and buggy, yes....but so much opportunity for hiking, bike riding, swimming, fishing, etc. Sometimes you just can't wait! So in February, just as the days were starting to warm enough for us to comfortably venture outside, David and I decided to embark on a voyage: a 4 mile kayak trip up the east bank of Fleming Island, from Hibernia to Moccasin Slough. The sun was out. There was not a cloud in the sky. The air temp was in the mid to upper 60's. The water temp was still cold of course, but we were feeling brave. We packed our cameras, granola bars, and bottled waters, threw on our swim shorts, and set off. At first, sitting in the cold water that seeped up through the unplugged scupper holes in the bottom of our kayaks was unpleasant. But soon, our nether regions were used to it, and we were paddling along without a care in the world. There was no wind at all, and at times, the water looked like glass, flat and peaceful, refl

The young Eastern Diamondback that I discovered basking on an abandoned golf course in February of 2009 is still alive and kicking. Just this past February, David and I made another attempt to find him, and there he was.....only about 10 feet from where he was found last year, and even within the same month as last year. This time however, it was a cool cloudy day, as opposed to a cool sunny one, and he had taken refuge under a square piece of hard black plastic. I suspected right away that this was the same snake. He was the right size, in the right area. I wouldn't know for sure until comparing photos, but sure enough, the proof was in the pics. My baby Eastern from last year had made it through an entire year without falling victim to human expansion. It was great to know that he had been eating well, staying warm, and most importantly, that no one with ill intentions had discovered his home base. Sadly, this snake may not survive the next year. The area he resides is now a d

As a reptile enthusiast, I used to love to collect the animals I found in the wild. There was something rewarding about finding the animal, successfully capturing it, and then maintaining it in a miniature version of its natural habitat. But more rewarding was being able to sit and study the animal for hours on end, just watching it peruse its glass prison, mistakenly thinking that I was giving it everything it needed. These days I have an entirely different outlook on the same hobby. I've experienced the dark underbelly of the reptile trade, the side that thrives on money and recognition, not the love of the animals. I've seen starving cobras languishing in their cages. I've seen dehydrated vipers fresh off an airplane from Africa, destined for a freezer or backyard burn pile. I've seen perfectly healthy rattlesnakes taken from the wild, crammed in pillowcases and thrust into the pet trade, where they quickly died from stress, or contracted disease in someone'