Camel Lake, March 28

The temperature dropped so much during the night that I had to bring out my down blanket. After which, I was toasty and happy to go back to sleep.

At seven, as the sky pinked up from sunrise, I went on a longer hike, around the lake then down one of the trails which constitute the Scenic Florida Trail. Their version of the Pacific Crest. As I walked, I began to hear the loud baying of a pack of hounds, interspersed with the gobbling of turkeys. Yesterday, a woman I met on the trail told me her husband and she were traveling across the country, visiting prime turkey hunting habitats.

“He just loves to kill him some turkey,” she smiled.

I’d seen a few turkeys on my drive in and they were all pretty thin, scrawny looking things.  Wild Turkeys without a lush feeding environment.

“I saw a couple of turkeys yesterday, near here,” I said, “They didn’t look like there was much to eat on them.”

She looked sheepish. “Well, we don’t waste them. I make soup or whatever.”

Today’s hunt is somewhere farther inside the wilderness. I wonder if it is her husband. But sound carries across this flat, relatively open swampland. This hunt could be miles away. The hounds become frantic, their yelping growing louder, boisterous, blood frenzied. Yet I never hear the shotgun.  Turkey’s one, hunters none.

Back at the campground, I see that only two of the ten sites are now occupied. One is mine, the other, the family with the three children. Today is Friday. This must be the day to move on. The others are going wherever. I am leaving tomorrow. For Alabama. A three -night stay on some property abutting the Conecuh National Forest. No facilities. I get to try out the boondocking system I’ve put in place.

Today grows as hot as yesterday but today, I wade into the lake at noon. The water is cool, the bottom a bit sandy turning into sharp limestone rock.  I sit there in my nylon hiking pants, my solar protection long sleeved shirt, my Tilley hat. No one is around to see how ridiculous I look but I wouldn’t care if they were. It feels glorious.

While I’m sitting there, a bald eagle appears out of the pine forest. Swoops down at the water, misses. Lifts, curves around, takes another stab. Misses again. Flies off.

I remember the bald eagles who lived on our land at Wesley Chapel. A mated pair, they were excellent hunters. I was stunned the first time I saw one of them pluck a Merganser straight out of the river. A year later, I watched with amusement as the mother was teaching her fledglings to hunt the Coho in the river directly in front of the house. She based them all on the rock garden in the middle of the swift part of the river.

She was a stern teacher. She grabbed up a plump fish, brought it back to the rock, ate it in front of her young without sharing. It seemed she was saying, if you want some, you must get it yourself.

I later saw a Kestral, but it was only lazily scouting.

The Apalachicola Watershed is one of the most diverse ecosystems in North America. Renowned botanist Angus Ghoulso, Jr. regards the Apalachicola Bluffs (sand hills spreading across the basin) as a biblical Garden of Eden. He has collected and identified over 16,000 specimens of Apalachicola flora.

There are forty-seven species of trees in the floodplain, the most common of which grow in permanently saturated soils. These include Tupelo, Carolina Ash, and Cyprus.

World class Cyprus trees were plentiful before the clear cuts began.

A rare species of dwarf Cyprus, growing less that 7 feet tall, and over 1500 years old, were discovered in one remote area by loggers who had the sense to preserve some of them from the saw.

Torreya, also known as Gopher Tree, used to thrive here but is dying off due to a fungus no one can identify. Ghoulson believes pestisides and pollutants are to blaime. Gopher Tree, by the way,  is the tree Noah was supposedly ordered to build his Ark from.

Sixty-four identified species of reptiles reside in the basin; a new one was just discovered a couple of years ago. King Snakes, black snakes, gopher snakes, rattlesnakes, snakes galore.  Forty-four species of Amphibian, including the now highly endangered Barbour’s Map Turtle, box turtles, gopher turtles, and the 155 pound Alligator Snapping Turtle, the largest of its kind,  also critically endangered.

Black Bears are now few in number but used to thrive. White Tail Deer eke out their existence. And on St. George Island, at one time there were Ibex, Zebra, and other mammals which must have crossed over aeons ago, only to be eliminated by the timber barons.

In addition to the many, many birds native to the basin, including Great and Small Blue Heron, Bald Eagles, Kestral, rare woodpeckers indigenous to this area (I heard one this afternoon–it  sounded like someone knocking on the door) this area becomes rich in rare birds on their way north during annual spring flyover.  Exhausted after their long oceanic crossing, Apalachicola Wilderness is first land fall for them.  They rest, feed on the proliferation of insects, continue on their way.

This morning, I sat entranced lakeside by the song of some of the early arrivals. I hope to meet up with them in Pickensville in five days, a major bird center, to catch the spring bird flurry.

The Apalachicola is an amazing place. Weather patterns have been badly affected by clear cutting, dredging of rivers, building of dikes and dams across what was once swamp teeming with diversity, the commercial planting of Pine forests for rapid harvest in the re-configured landscape, the tons of waste dumped into the water beginning in Atlanta and continuing all the way to the bay. Environmental warriors are needed in much greater numbers than currently exist.

Angus Ghoulson, Jr. says, “We simply don’t have any land ethics here. Maybe once our food sources no longer are available, maybe then we’ll learn.”