Oregon Coast Day Two - Harbor Seals, Old Growth Forests, Clear Cutting, and Dunes - April 16, 2011

Harbor Seals
Yaquina Head Outstanding Natural Area

Yaquina Head Outstanding
Natural Area

I am out the door by 9:00am, headed to Yaquina Head Outstanding Natural Area. It is 49 degrees. Fog sits low and a heavy mist blankets the world. As I enter the park, I smile at its name. Apparently the person who named the park was pretty impressed by its treasures. I head first toward the lighthouse. The largest lighthouse on the Oregon Coast, it was first lit, I learn, on August 20, 1873 and is a functional light to this day, though now it is automated and no longer in need of attendants. Just below the lighthouse I discover steps that lead down to the rocky beach. Indeed, the beach is composed entirely of dark blue, almost black, oval rocks, called cobblestones. Some of the stones are as large as my fist. The rocks are composed of fine-grained basaltic lava, created when the lava was chilled and cooled quickly. I am delighted at my find.



Cobblestones

The fog is so thick that I cannot see very far. I note various shapes and sizes of sea stacks beyond the beach, but I cannot see far. Signs tell me that there are also tide pools in this area when the tide is low. However the tide is rising at present and I am unable to find any accessible pools. In the absence of a view, I am struck by what I hear instead. Above the roar of the ocean I hear birds calling. And as the waves ebb and flow, they jostle the cobblestones, which strike against each other, sounding somewhat like wind chimes that are made of both metal and wood, a quite pleasant tinkling sound.

I head down from the bluff to Quarry Cove. As I look across the cove, examining the broken vertical basalt that makes up the hillside, I am startled to see - harbor seals, reclining on rocks in the middle of the cove! Harbor seals! I am delighted. I have never before seen harbor seals. I am surprised at their coloring. I had always thought of seals as being dark grey or black. But these seals are varying light shades, and are spotted and mottled. They are quite funny looking, with short little fore-flippers, long heavy bodies, and short little feet set close together, looking barely functional.

I learn that seals, along with walruses and sea lions, are called pinnipeds, from latin words meaning winged feet. Harbor seals weigh 250 - 300 pounds. They have no ears, just round faces with large eyes. Closest to me is a rock upon which ten or so recline on their sides. As I watch, the water rises with the incoming tide, and they jostle for position. New seals climb on as some slide off. I can hear them talking, some making a groaning noise, some what sounds like a honk. I am fascinated.
 

I spend about an hour watching the seals - taking dozens of photographs as I do. There is no one present but me, probably a result of the early hour and the rain. The seals are aware of my presence, and one or two regularly gaze directly at me. But I am far enough way that they do not seem afraid. I am struck by the innocence in their faces. While watching them trying to position themselves on the rocks, I think that they must be among the most innocent, and most defenseless, creatures on the planet. I know they are quite agile in the water, I see them moving swiftly through the water even now. But they have no hands or feet which can grasp, and they cannot easily move while on land, can only bounce along on their bellies. Fortunately they are protected by the Federal Marine Mammal Protection Act. I change positions, take more photographs. A cream-colored seal continually checks back with me. I feel a connection taking place.

When we acknowledge that all of life is sacred and that each act is an act of choice and therefore sacred, then life is a sacred dance lived consciously each moment. When we live at this level, we participate in the creation of a better world. ~ Scout Cloud Lee

Seal Rock

It is now past 11:00, and I must move on. Just below Newport I find Yaquina Bay Lighthouse, followed by Seal Rock.. At Seal Rock, the sand is a deep orange color. The rocks jutting up are made of vertical slabs of basalt such as that which I had seen at Yaquina Head, though all seems to be crumbling.

  

Yaquina Bay Lighthouse

Just south of Seal Rock is Driftwood Beach, a wide sandy beach below some dunes. There are no rocky hills in this spot.  I am in a tsunami zone once again. I watch a very happy dog walk his people along this beach. I had been told that the coast was much prettier below Newport, and I am finding this to be accurate. I move on.

Driftwood Beach



Cape Perpetua - Cades
Cove Trail

Cape Perpetua - Devils' Churn

Soon I find Cape Perpetua Scenic Area and the Suislaw National Forest. At 800 feet, the Cape Perpetua Headland is the highest point accessible by car on the Oregon Coast. Sitka spruce forests can only grow within three miles of the coast, as conditions further inland are too hot and dry. Cape Perpetua is considered a rather unique ecological area as the temperate spruce rainforest transitions down to the sea. Trails take one from the parking areas along Hwy 101 down to the ocean as well as up to the top of the mountain.  I wander the Restless Waters Trail from the overlook of Devil’s Churn - where waves boil through narrow opening in the rocks - down to the beach, then pick up the Cave Cove Trail, a little over a mile and a half of hiking through a Sitka Spruce Forest. 

When I return to my car, I discover a road that spirals to the top of Cape Perpetua.  It is a ghostly drive through foggy forests. When I head back down, I notice a side road with a sign indicating "One lane road with turnouts." Oh, it is always hard for me to resist those one lane roads up and down mountains and through forests . . . The decision is made quickly, I turn left.  I find myself traveling through mixed countryside that brings a conflict to the fore and affects my ability to enjoy the areas of beauty I see.

Between sections of old growth spruce, Douglas fir, and Western hemlock I find myself driving through areas in which the forest was clear cut many years ago - and never re-planted. The hillsides are scarred, with stumps ranging from inches to a foot or more jutting from the ground. Short grasses or shrubs grow amid soil quite bare in areas. The hillsides are ugly.

I wonder why clear cutting? And why were the forests not re-planted? Who determined that savaging the land in such manner is okay. Seeing the land so damaged causes me pain. It hurts even worse as I drive through the old growth stands. Trees here are 150 feet or more tall. Trunks are massive. The undergrowth is thick and rich. White trillium are blooming.  The canopy stretches across the road, with trees intertwined. These are the trees which were cut.

White Trillium

I keep driving east, wondering where I’ll end up. I’m not sure exactly where I am. Signs at a trailhead indicate that I am on Forest Road 55. But my map does not show this road, so I’m not sure where I’m headed. The road turns from paved to gravel. Then the road worsens, as the dirt beneath the gravel is chewed up. My best guess puts me 8 or more miles from Hwy 101.

I keep going. I am curious. And soon I find myself in woods that are currently being harvested! Branches and small logs from cut trees are piled together, feet high. But it does not appear that in this area clear cutting is taking place. There are bare areas amid trees left standing. I am confused. I thought I would feel better. But I don’t, as I realize that the best of the trees, the largest, the most majestic are the ones which have been harvested. Complexity.

I begin to question our need for constant consumption of wood products, for lumber. I recall the many places I have visited, homes made of redwood and cedar. Is it worth raping the land in this way to have log homes? What about furniture? Complexity. I know from reading that these practices, both clear cutting and selective cutting, not only kill the trees but damage the land in various ways. They also affect entire ecosystems. Complexity. It hurts. I turn and head back. I need to seek out beauty once again.  But I know these questions will not leave me. I know I will be faced with these sites and these conflicts again, particularly over the next several days.

Cape Perpetua - Gwynn Creek

Just south I discover the Gwynn Creek beach area. This area is stunning, quite stunning. There are no people here. Where are all the people? I have the beach to myself, and I walk for a bit, savoring its beauty.



Cape Perpetua - Gwynn Creek



Then I discover Strawberry Hill Wayside, where I find more seals on rocky outcroppings. These are further away than were the seals at Yaquina Head. But I can hear them. I move on, and I discover Washburn State Park. I pass signs indicating elk can now be found in the area.


Heceta Head Lighthouse





Strawberry Hill Wayside
Harbor Seals









Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread wthin it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect.  ~Chief Seattle

I discover Heceta Head Lighthouse. The Heceta Head Lighthouse is purportedly haunted. Its ghost is Rue, wife of an assistant light keeper in the 1890's and mother of a young girl who drowned. Rue committed suicide and has haunted the Heceta Head Lighthouse ever since, looking for her lost daughter. Complexity.



Oregon Dunes National
Recreation Area

Just south of Florence I discover the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area. This area is fascinating. According to educational material, the dunes stretch 40 miles from Florence to Coos Bay. Some dunes tower 500 feet above sea level. Though fifty years ago the dunes were bare, grasses have begun growing and the dunes are now comprised of mixed ecological areas.  On the east

Oregon Dunes National
Recreation Area

side of the dunes, a natural wetlands has begun developing.

Some areas in the park are open to offroad use of recreational vehicles. Some are closed, for foot traffic only. These are the largest expanse of coastal dunes in North America. I question, should we allow off highway vehicle use? Complexity. Five marked trails allow one to cross the dunes on foot to access the ocean. I hike up a trail to the top and survey the expanse. Once again, there are no people here. Where are all the people? It is not cold. It is no longer raining. The land is beautiful. I am fortunate to be able to see it like this.

I am exceedingly tired at this point and find myself bypassing parks, wanting to "bunk in" for the night. I think my fatigue is as much emotional as anything else. I am a bit overwhelmed by all the beauty I have seen, satiated at this point. I am overwhelmed by the amount of forest destruction I have seen. And I am overwhelmed by the complexity of the issues I have contemplated. I head to my hotel in Coos Bay and turn it all off for the night. I don’t even eat dinner, just crawl under the covers. Tomorrow is another day. I will start again.

Donna

April 16, 2011




 

The Oregon Coast Day One - Wind, Rain, Seastacks, and Rainforests - April 15, 2011



Arcadia Beach

There are no easy answers. Not to most issues of substance, I think. I ponder this thought as I head across highway 26 from Portland to the Oregon Coast. I have been attending the annual conference of the American Association of Suicidology. At the last session I attended, researchers and clinicians addressed the question of predictability, i.e., can you accurately predict that someone will make an attempt to take his/her own life? What factors might provide clues that such an attempt is likely to take place? What factors might provide clues that such an attempt is likely to take place imminently. Some in the room expressed a desire to develop an protocol, an instrument, some standardized means of evaluation by which clinicians can predict that an attempt is imminent. I shake my head. I do not believe it is possible. Human behavior is not so predictable.  I agree that human behavior is somewhat predictable sometimes. I know that there exist lists of signs and indicators that someone might be suicidal. But I also know that some persons may exhibit such behaviors and yet make no attempt. And I know that some persons who take their lives exhibit no such signs. I appreciate the desire of these experts in suicidology to prevent such tragic loss of life. But I also know that we will never be able to predict with accuracy either way. Human behavior is a complex weave of internal and external factors, some of which we can never be in touch.

I will think further on these thoughts as I explore over the next couple of days. I had recently been apprised of the words of H.L. Mencken, "For every complex problem there is a simple solution . . . and it is wrong."  I agree with Mencken.  I know that the older I get the less black and white I see.  I have also discovered that I prefer color - in all its complexity - vivid color. Yes, let me see color!

I have five days to explore and plan to use every minute of it.  I have never before visited the Oregon Coast but have been told that it is quite magnificent. Many persons have told me that it is much more stunning than the Washington coast, which I love. I know that when I peruse the map, the Oregon Coast looks like it is composed of one state park or recreation area after another, down the length of the state. How many can I visit?

Road to Seattle Mountain Natural Area

It is raining as I head out, but I am not disappointed. I know that cloudy and rainy days offer photography opportunities that are limited by sunny ones.  I think on complexity. Some wish always for sunny days and curse the rain. But I know that it is difficult to photograph the forest on a sunny day - there is too much interplay of light and shadow to fully see . . . I know also that colors are more vivid beneath the clouds and the rain, that too much light washes out color. I welcome the clouds and the rain.

South Fork Rock Creek

As I drive west from Portland, I drive through rolling hills, farmland, orchards - and Christmas Tree Farms! Christmas tree farms always bring a smile to my face.  Soon I find myself in Northwest rainforest, dominated by coniferous trees, Sitka spruce, Douglas fir, Western and Mountain hemlock, Western red cedar, and Lodgepole pine. It is early spring and the hardwoods interspersed among the evergreens - maples and spruce - are only just beginning to bud. Because of the high annual rainfall, these woods are marked by mosses and lichen growing on tree trunks and a ground cover of fern. These are seriously tall trees!  I am anxious to be among them. I look for pullouts or parks that will give me an opportunity to wander among them, smelling, touching, and seeing.  



Skunk Cabbage

I see my first deer-crossing sign. Another smile. It is 11:15, and it is 40 degrees. I enter the Tillamook State Forest. I see my first snow at around 1500 feet, patches at the base of trees. I enter the Clatsop State Forest. Finally I find a rest area at Sunset Springs. This one has a trail that winds across the South Fork of Rock Creek and through the woods. I explore. The banks of the creek are lined by gnarly birch trees. Signs indicate that this area has been hit hard by fires in the past. The trees certainly look lush today.

I continue on. Soon I see signs for the Seattle Mountain Natural Area. I make the turn. The picnic area and mountain itself are 7 miles from Highway 26, on a one lane winding road. At least it’s paved. The road undulates and curves, and I am "forced’ to drive only 20 or so miles per hour. I drive through lush, lush forest. I can see in the distance some areas that have been logged, badly, where the ground looks ugly and scarred. I know I will face strong feelings about logging while I am out here. But for the moment I am under dense canopy, so I put those thoughts away. Complexity. I cross the Necanicum River. I pass areas of standing water in which grow the pretty but odiferous, yellow skunk cabbage. Hah! I know that the root of this plant is food for bears, who eat it after hibernating, as a cathartic or laxative. 

Necanicum River



Off the Road to Seattle Mountain
Natural Area

Finally I reach the end of the road, which is the trailhead for the path to the top of rocky Seattle Mountain. Though I sometimes hike alone, I trust my intuition, and this isolated area does not feel safe today. So I turn around and head back. I enjoy the drive. I am in my element. And I suddenly find myself slamming on my brakes and skidding across the road, to keep from hitting the doe who has bounded up the side of the mountain from my left, crossed the road, and headed into the forest to my right. I sit for a few minutes to let my heart rate return to normal. I smile. My first wildlife encounter of this trip. I am in my element. And I travel on. I am passed by only two cars on the 14 mile roundtrip into this forest.

Arcadia Beach

I finally reach the coast at Cannon Beach.  I am excited to explore this area which has been recommended by several people. But I am disappointed. The beach is flat and surrounded by houses, restaurants, and shops. It looks not much different from beaches on the east coast. I move on. And soon my expectations are gratified. First Tolovana Beach Wayside Park, then Arcadia Beach. Arcadia Beach is what I have been looking forward to! Vertical columns of rock called seastacks jut from the ocean floor. Rocky hillsides stretch down to the sea. Small caves are cut into the rock at the beach level. Mountains rise one behind the other along the coast to the south. Yes!



Arcadia Beach

 I move on. The rain has intensified. It is hard to see very far. I pass signs indicating that I am in a tsunami zone. These signs carry more meaning than they might at a different time. The road turns inland. I pass signs for Cape Lookout. But the coast is too far away to explore those beaches this afternoon. It is late and I want to spend the night in Newport. I pass dairy farms. And as I enter the town of Tillamook, I pass the Tillamook Cheese Factory and visitor center. I note its presence for a future visit. It has warmed a bit. It is 3:30 and is 52 degrees.

 



Boiler Bay

Highway 101 winds along the Pacific once again. Though visibility is limited by the rain, I turn into Boiler Bay State Scenic Viewpoint. As I exit the car, I am buffeted by high winds and pelted by rain. I learn that the area is named for a ship that sank in 1910, the J. Marhoffer. Apparently one can see the ship’s boiler at low tide. I would have thought the park had been named after the boiling action of the ocean as waves bounce off the rocky outcroppings.

Boiler Bay

I watch ocean swells move in, one after the other, not just waves but swells, the ocean rising as it reaches land. Though I am thoroughly soaked below my jacket, I wander the edge of the cliffs, just to see what I might see. I am rewarded as I find a cave next to a waterfall which plunges into the ocean. As I return to my car, I smile at the dozens of gulls and the handful of geese that have settled on the grass in the parking area. The wind is too stiff to fly, and these guys hunker down.


Rocky Creek State Scenic
Viewpoint


Now I find Rocky Creek State Scenic Viewpoint. Here the wind is so ferocious that I am hit by foam being blown up from the shore. I endure it happily. I laugh as I pull into Cape Foulweather. This spot was discovered by Captain James Cook on March 7, 1778. It is the first geographic location named by Captain Cook as he began his exploration of the Pacific Northwest. Apparently it is not unusual for winds of 100mph to buffet this area. I think Captain Cook must have been here on a day similar to mine. I move on.

I discover the Yaquina Head Outstanding Natural Area. I note that this park is operated by the US Bureau of Land Management. I note a lighthouse high on a bluff. And I see signs for a rocky beach. But the rain is too heavy and the wind too stiff to explore this park this evening. I will return tomorrow morning.


Yaquina Head Lighthouse

Yaquina Head is just north of Newport, my stop for the night. I check in to the motel. Then I ask the desk clerk to tell me what is the best local restaurant - not a chain - in the area. She directs me to Georgie’s Restaurant. I dine on shrimp at an oceanside table (indoor) and I reflect on the day. I still have four to go. They promise to be outstanding.

Donna

April 15, 2011©



Communing With the Manatees - December 10, 2010



Manatees in Blue Springs

I have lived in Florida my entire life, but I have never seen manatees in the wild - until today. What a spectacular day this is!!

Blue Springs

This morning finds me, Lenora, and Gwen bundled against the chill, mugs of coffee in hand, heading south on Hwy 441, then east on Hwy 40 - through the Ocala National Forest - before turning south again on Hwy 17 and landing at Blue Springs State Park just outside Orange City.  Total trip time is about two hours from Gainesville.  I’ve never before been to Blue Springs State Park, had no idea this gem was hidden south of Deland.  As we follow the brown directional signs to the park, our last view of civilization is an older Orange City subdivision, then Voila!, we find ourselves in this not-so-secret wilderness.  I am transported to another time.



Blue Springs is the largest spring on the St. Johns River.  The St. Johns is the longest river that is contained entirely within the State of Florida, flowing 310 miles from its headwaters, a large marshy area in Indian River County, until it joins the Atlantic Ocean at Mayport, just north of Jacksonville.  It is one of the few rivers in the world that flows north. Blue Springs and neighboring Hontoon Island State Park encompass miles of the St. Johns that have been designated an aquatic preserve. The preserve consists of diverse plant communities such as freshwater marsh, cypress swamp, mixed hardwood swamp and hardwood hammock.


Tree Hugger!

Lenora, Gwen and I decide that our first task is reconnaissance, to learn the lay of the land. We discover that a boardwalk parallels the spring run, from its opening into the St. Johns River up and around to the slit cave entrance of the underground springs. Gnarly old oaks dripping with moss line the banks of the spring run, punctuated by palm trees and palmetto bushes. South of the springs is a canoe and kayak landing on the St. Johns. South of the landing and across the river are miles and miles of marsh, swamp, and hammock. This is original, old Florida at its finest.

Blue Springs

The land around Blue Springs has a storied history, initially serving as the home of Timucuan Indians, then becoming a steamboat landing, before turning into a crowded fish camp. An enormous mound of snail shells can be found at the east end of the spring run, remainders - and reminders - of the Timucuan, for whom snails were a diet staple. The green-tinged water in the spring run is crystal clear and stays a constant 72 degrees. Approximately 100 million gallons of water flow out of the spring each day!

Water temperature is what makes Blue Springs so special. When water temperature in the St. Johns River drops below 68 degrees, West Indian Manatees, who live in the St. Johns River year round, migrate to Blue Springs where they remain for the winter. Jacques Cousteau filmed his documentary The Forgotten Mermaids at Blue Springs in 1971. The film brought international attention to the plight of manatees and influenced the State of Florida to purchase Blue Springs. It became a state park and is now a designated manatee refuge. In the winter the spring run itself is closed to swimmers, divers, and boaters, though the St. Johns River remains open to these activities.

 

As we wander the boardwalk that parallels the spring run, I am astonished at what I see - literally hundreds of manatee resting in the spring waters or moving slowly toward the mouth and into the St. Johns. Accompanying the manatees are hundreds of fish, including funky-looking gar as well as various species of catfish, bluegill, and other fish I cannot identify. Cormorants supervise all this activity from their perches on twisted tree trunks that arch out over the water.

Rangers tell us that they count the manatee each morning, before the water warms up and the manatee begin their slow move into the St. Johns, where they spend the day dining on grasses and other aquatic plants that line the river. Last week the count reached its peak for the season thus far, more than 300 manatee crowded into the spring run. As temperatures drop it is expected that more will join their large brethren.

Andrew, Gwen, and Lenora

Bald Eagle

Satisfied with our reconnaissance, Gwen, Lenora and I head over to the canoe and kayak kiosk operated by St. Johns River Cruises. Our plan for the day is to spend several hours in kayaks on the St. Johns and intersecting waters, communing with the manatee and enjoying the wild. We are waited on by Andrew, a delightful young man with a tremendous knowledge of the land and its wildlife, as well as a great sense of humor. Andrew outfits us with life vests, paddles, maps, and emergency whistles, then turns us loose in 3 brilliantly-colored, sit-on-top kayaks. He tells us that manatee are attracted to the mango-colored boats. Gwen smiles.  That one’s hers! As he pushes us out into the river, Andrew points out a bald eagle perched high in an ancient tree across the river. I smile, too. It know it is going to be a good day!  



Welcoming Committee

While Lenora and Gwen head to the mouth of Blue Springs, I paddle across the river to get a better view of the eagle. I am unable to see the eagle very well, but I do paddle close to what appears to be the local welcoming committee, several trees full of American black vultures, all hunched, keeping watch over the river. I think it’s funny how vultures have such a bad reputation. When you think about it, eagles, falcons, hawks and owls are all birds of prey, meat-eaters, but vultures have a rep because the meat they eat is almost always dead. Yet if you think about it, the California condor, crows and ravens also eat carrion. Indeed, bald and golden eagles will eat dead and rotting carcasses if they are available, too. But the vulture is the bird which is butt of all jokes. Anyway, these guys appear harmless . . . except they seem to be fighting among themselves. At times they sound like cats hissing. Then there is squawking and flutters as one backs down another, and repositioning takes place. I talk softly to them, take some photographs, then drift on.

Lenora & Gwen, St. Johns River

Bank of the St. Johns River
Red Maple aflame

Lenora and Gwen soon join me, and we slowly paddle south along the western edge of the St. Johns River. The river is lined with bald cypress, oak, red maple, palm and pine trees. Moss hangs in thick strands from the trees. This is Florida, so the foliage is just now changing colors, and the red maple are brilliant in coloration. Aquatic plants at the edge of the river include thick mats of pennywort, thinner groupings of cow lilies, and some grasses I cannot identify. Except for bird calls, all is quiet. Though staying in the same general area, Lenora, Gwen and I soon paddle and drift off by ourselves, sometimes coming together to talk about what we see, sometimes exploring alone.

Great Egret in the pennywort

Though I don’t see them, I hear owls calling across the east side of the river. I am captivated by both the manatee and the numerous, colorful birds, and I alternate my attention between the two. I paddle close to a great egret and sit watching that snowy-white bird seize small fish from the water with its bright yellow beak. I am fascinated as I watch the egret’s long neck, stretching and gyrating as it swallows the fish. I am aware that manatee abound, though I do not find it easy to see them in the tannin-stained water of the river. Instead I see ghostly shadows silently gliding past, and I watch their trails in the water.

Little Blue heron

Woodpeckers cry out periodically; heron and cranes shriek as they leave their perches to fly across the river. We paddle into the Smith Canal, which flows into the St. Johns from the southwest. Here we settle in at the edge of the pennywort, watching as numerous manatees munch on the plants and grasses. Manatee are herbivores, consuming 10-15% of their body weight each day. I think to myself, that’s a lot of plant-life - as manatee, who average 8-12 feet in length, weigh about a ton on average! I also think, it’s good that manatee eat that much, as they are dining on numerous non-native aquatic plants that could choke off the river were it not for our hungry little . . . er, large . . . friends.

We are so close to the manatee that we could touch them if we wanted. Close to the riverbank they swim slowly under and around our kayaks, then crowd into the pennywort to dine. Sometimes all we can see are patches of grasses being jerked up and down from below. Sometimes we are aware of manatee presence only as we hear them surface to breathe, it sounding like whales blowing air from a blowhole. At other times the manatee stick their heads out of the water to grab particularly tasty morsels. I am close enough that I can see the whiskers on their chins.

Gwen & Lenora, St. Johns River

I have learned that manatee are very gentle creatures. They have muscular bodies, and though they are so very large, they have very little body fat, thus their need to eat constantly, also to seek refuge in the warm waters of the springs. These West Indian Manatees have wrinkled dark-gray skin. They have two forelimbs containing three to four toenails on each, as well as a large flat tail that they use to locomote. Manatee have no front teeth, only molars. Oh, and, an interesting bit of trivia, the closest relative to the manatee is the elephant! Manatee are nonaggressive, spending their time resting, slowly moving up and down the river, and eating. Their only natural enemy is man. We have done great damage to them with our powerboats that travel swiftly up and down the river, slicing up the manatee with propellers when they are unable to travel fast enough to escape. Indeed, many of the manatee here at Blue Springs have large white scars on their bodies, evidence of run-ins with boats.



Mom and Calf
Mom has a scar on her back

We paddle amid numerous mom and calf pairs. Manatee give birth only every two to five years, with nursing calves remaining with their moms about two years. This low birth rate together with numerous losses from boating and other accidents has led to low population numbers. At present there are only about 3,000 West Indian manatee alive. And I am presently paddling amidst about a tenth of them - Awesome!

Great Blue Heron

I paddle upriver, wanting to examine a large blue bird who is guarding a patch of pennywort. I ease into the growth, finally stopping within about four feet of the bird, who turns out to be a great blue heron. He is quite striking, with his slate blue body, deep blue-black patches on his head and breast, blue-gold beak, and long plumes of feathers hanging from his back and breast. I sit watching him for about twenty minutes. He knows I am here, though he never directly looks at me. Before he flies off, I move on, to leave him in peace. I rejoin Lenora and Gwen, and we move up and down the river, stopping for long minutes at a time to observe munching manatee, then paddling silently to another spot, to watch again. I am nowhere but here.


LIttle Blue Heron
astride a manatee

We pull into one patch of plants where the water is fairly shallow. These must be special grasses as about half a dozen manatee are so greedy for this food that they crowd up against the bank, backs several inches out of the water as they feed. We watch a funny little blue heron decide that the back of a manatee must be the perfect perch. He flies over, lands, then fishes from this stand until the manatee duo back up and submerge once again.

I could do this every day  . . .

All too soon we realize that it is 4:00; our kayaks must be back at the kiosk by 4:30. We slowly paddle back, past little blue heron and tree after tree full of vultures. Cormorants line the pipes which close off the entrance to the springs for boaters, spreading their wings to catch the sun. The eagle has moved on, but the water is full of the gentle giants. Amazingly, as we paddle closer to the entrance to the springs, I can feel the change in water temperature. It is most definitely warmer over here. Remaining on the water until the last possible moment, we finally sigh and beach our kayaks, thanking Andrew for the day. It has been marvelous. I am exceedingly relaxed. I could do this every day. I will be back!

Donna 

Local color amid local color on the St. Johns River