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When the humid, salty sea-air gently ruffled my collar I dropped my head back to catch a breath and I thought I saw something standing below the osprey. The grand plumage of our osprey was shining from atop The Kings Nest and for a good reason. The new osprey chick has arrived and is venturing to the edge of the nest!

The birds-eye view from there one can only imagine….Glistening bay waters reflecting the pristine pink castle on Pass-a-grille, shadows of shiners and mullet cruising the shallow grass flats below, the clickity-clang of the mast’s in the yacht club and of course the ruffled canopy of the mangrove estuary…

I’ve been watching anxiously, daily for three years as the birds tested, nested & guarded the South pole. I watched the first stick be carried and tucked into the platform, I saw a storm wipe out the first nest. Many of you toured Clam Bayou sensed my enthusiasm as we kayaked or paddleboarded past the nest and I thought it fitting to send ya’ll, because you’ve helped create and protect this habitat, a short video we got this week. With your continued support and efforts this family, for generations to come, will be the first to view the sunrise and the last to see it set here in this paradise called Clam Bayou.
CONGRATS TO YOU AND THE PROUD OSPREY FAMILY….WELCOME TO GULFPORT!

Gulfport Marina webcam has a pre-setting on the active nest here. You may get a glimpse of the newcomer = http://www.mygulfport.us/City_Departments/Leisure_Services/Marina/Large_Cam/Large_Marina_Cam1.htm

Welcome West Coast Kayak!

With the help of our sponsors we’ll be providing these clean up/eco-tours FREE OF CHARGE! Your only requirement is filling up a bag of trash during the trip and together we’ll help protect and preserve Florida’s manatee habitat!

We anticipate a huge turnout of volunteers and sponsors and in an effort to track info more efficiently please fill out the form with a brief sentence or two of how you’d like to help.

THIS IS THE ONLY WAY TO REGISTER FOR THESE EVENTS! 

Register here = http://kayaknature.com/habitat-flor-da-manatee/

Details and schedules will be sent electronically.  1 person per registration.

Sincerely,

Kurt Z.

There’s about a million ways to celebrate Earth Day I suppose.  I’ll celebrate by acknowledging you all – our volunteers over the years – for the wonderful things you’ve done,  throughout the year,  to rescue, restore & recapture our eco-systems!  Thousands of people have gained a richer appreciation for Earth because of what you’ve done.  Scores of children have become aware of nature. Municipalities have learned how to better their practices. And nature is smiling brighter than ever…

CLAM BAYOU NATURE PARK, Gulfport Florida – Just the other day April 18, 2009 THE GREEN HERONS HATCHED! That’s right, we have three new chicks in the upper creeks and that wouldn’t be possible without the continued help and support from you all! Many of you were in the initial kayak clean ups back in 2005 when the trash was overwhelming. If you haven’t been back to get your reward, Earth Day (week) may be the day for your return.

ELNOR ISLAND – Last year in May we joined forces with the city of Treasure Island guided by the enthusiasm and passion of Bob Dowling and launched two massive clean ups of this island just inside of John’s Pass. (see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gJGtb9f2k04 for video)

This week Bob  returned to Elnor and discovered one active Blue Heron nest and another one being built! Other birds have returned as well and the plant life on the island is making an amazing comeback! Because this island is off limits to the public we can’t go visit, but know your efforts have made this small slice of Earth a better place for all!

The act of protecting and preserving our beautiful water ways are so rewarding when you can come back and see how fast Earth can recover from tragedies. Each and every one of your efforts are so important and so appreciated. HAPPY EARTH DAY!

by Kurt Zuelsdorf

Change occurred today on Clam Bayou in the form of heavy fog that sent sheets of white  across the bow of the kayak.  Without the scissors of the sun to cut away the veil, it hid every reflective image from above.   No shadows.   No direction.   I just drifted with the outbound current and listened to the oaks drip melodic thugs of moisture onto the dry sea grape leaves below.

The great migration to the North is at hand for the “real” snowbirds.  The swallows, willits, loons & bay ducks milled around like people in an airport waiting for a flight.    The white pelicans readied themselves for the long flight, perhaps back to the Horicon Marsh in Central Wisconsin where they feed on huge schools of carp.  They remind me of the professional business travelers as they wait for departure - cool, calm, collected and in their finest white outfits. Others looked more like I do in the airport – nervous, fidgety & jumpy, wondering if I should eat something.    A marbled godwit reminded me of the foreign traveler with a long, snooty bill.  Standing alone he kept to himself and watched the whirlwind of travelers traversing the South pass.

The gulls, like most dedicated, diligent gate attendants, were willing to answer even the most annoying questions from a little blue heron that seemed to have lost his way near the luggage conveyer - an endless school of baitfish that came out of a tunnel, rotated around the oyster bar then disappeared back into the mangroves.   From a nearby shore a Mockingbird was preaching, and no kidding it sounded like –  ”Many bags look alike…”     Occasionally a childish, noisy egret would run to belt, flap his wings and squawk in frustration.  He disrupted everyone in line until his prize was caught or until the gulls swooped in and shooed him away from the front of the line.
Right on schedule the Black Skimmers were called to the tarmac and cleared for takeoff. I n perfect formation cutting through the fog a flock of at least 50 plotted a course toward Gulfport beach escorted by a dozen plovers - daily commuters you know.

I missed the early departure of our winter artists - the Brown Pelicans.  They  must have taken the red-eye  to the flats and islands of the region. I’m sure their beaky luggage was tightly packed with fishy delights for the trip.  They were kind enough to leave their artwork plastered on the south wall of mangroves, but like the frost of the North their white impressions will slowly drip into the swirling outgoing tide.

A birder named Charlie from D.C. moved with the frost line too, pausing briefly in the bayou for a peak.   I don’t think he’d mind me relating him to this classy bunch of travelers do you?  He disappeared in the mist with bird book in hand followed closely behind by the  Pie-billed Grebe parking attendant that kept things moving in perfect order.

Today I heard the tropical winds from the South whispering to the birds – “Time to go, time to fly. Fly with me on the grace of my currents and together we’ll free the frozen world. Time to go, time to fly to a place where the nests on treetops drip with thawing dew. Let my currents carry you…time to go, time to fly and together we’ll watch the fog chase the frost away.”

WATER MONKEY STAND UP PADDLEBOARD WELCOME SUP

It was a giant step forward to move the annual marina yard sale into Clam Bayou. Aside from a parking shortage, vendors should be thrilled about the scores of people that passed their display tables showing everything from stainless screws to, well…the kitchen sink! I saw an old pair of binoculars that my dad gave me as a kid and the years reeled back… I was a kid in a park again and perhaps I wasn’t alone…

Meanwhile, operating in seamless coordination on the old Osgood pad, was the staging area for the Clam Bayou clean up. Smiling faces once again accompanied the sunrise on the nicest day so far this year. Hearty volunteers of all ages rummaged through the undergrowth for their own treasures of cups, cans, papers & bottles. Kayaks & canoes paddled the waterways skimming the surface for debris while a hoisted sail cut the veil of a settling fog prompting an image of our motto – “Gateway To The Gulf.

On Saturday I saw it and heard it…it was right there! The possibility of bringing a Mullet fest or a Seafood fest into the park. I saw a day when a nice band is strumming away the old Hank Williams tune on a lighted stage “Jambalaya”! Food vendors line the green way and sure, why not? A beer vendor.. it’s a nice touch on a sunny day with “a-jambalaya, a-crawfish pie and-a file’ gumbo”!

 Fest-goers walking and picnicking through the park with Fido and the family. Why not open the Coast Guard Aux building as the headquarters for the event to collect the cash for food tickets? We sure could use it. Flanked on the sides by the towering masts in our wonderful marina and the growing oaks on the hill, this makes a unique setting that provides a great environment, an upbeat and positive element…just the attitude needed to regain and build high(er) standards for Clam Bayou. “…son of a gun, we’ll have big fun on de bayou.”

WATER MONKEY STAND UP PADDLEBOARDING!

Jimmy was a true outdoors man. He carried all the badges from Boy Scouts — enough metals to cover his shoulders, chest and sleeves. He was the Catholic schools’ “muscle-man” and the main topic of the girl’s conversations during Phys Ed. Being a master canoeist he took the helm to refine his ‘J’ stroke. I was glad he did. I was out to fish a few Walleyes or possibly tangle with a Small Mouth Bass. With a little luck I’d hook a Sturgeon — a prehistoric fish that grows to be the size of a canoe.

My Dad and brother Lee was in the other canoe. Lee’s snappy body gestures generated high speed fun and action for all who knew him. Before we launched he fished from the pier working one of Dad’s new Rappla lures. On the second cast he threw the bait high up into a tree. Terrified at the thought of losing one of Dad’s fishing lures he thrashed the rod wildly from side to side and tried to free himself from the ‘Wrath of the Lost Lure.’ He marched up the shoreline with the rod over his shoulder hoping to free the snag. The overloaded branch retracted him like a bungee jumper. He shrieked with frustration and climbed to his feet. Jimmy fueled the flame when he suggested wrapping the line around the light post for leverage. The line snapped off as a 22 rifle and it grabbed dad’s attention.

All Dads’ have a strange affinity with fishing lures. Whenever we lost one he threatened to ban us from fishing. Every trip to the sport shop he’d remind us of the year, makes, and model number of his lost lures.

For some reason today was going to be different. He laughed at the site of Lee’s twisted face when he came to confess. Jimmy and I awaited Lee’s banishment, but were defiled when Dad reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a brand new jointed Rappla — the hottest thing on the market and the prize of any good fisherman. Lee’s pitiful expression gave way to show love and appreciation for such understanding. While Dad retied the plug Lee casually turned to us and smiled, then stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes and contorted his cheeks.

The trip began just below the cascading falls in Wisconsin Dells. The waters there churn white with foam then move silently through town. The State’s number one tourist attraction called the “Ducks” rapped up another record tourist season and was on dry dock near the launch site — one of the signs that winter was just around the corner.

The canoes sagged to the waterline with enough camping gear to support four people — 3 days in the river wilderness. My Dad had it all; Fishing rods, tents and sleeping bags. Tables, tripods and tarps. Pots, pans and paper goods. This being his first overnight canoe trip he wasn’t sure what to take so he took it all.

Dad recited the protocol, ‘Hang on boys, keep yourselves low and don’t stand up in the canoe!’ I gripped the gunnels as Jimmy pushed us away. The initial rush of ‘floating’ tested our balance and we spilled a few gallons of icy water into the bottom of the canoe.

Almost immediately we encountered the caverns. Dark, damp and spooky we inched our way through the caves to sharpen our exploration skills. At times we crouched and used our hands on the ceiling to gain passage. I remember one particularly long route that ended abruptly when the canoe bumped the wall. The ‘thumming’ of the vibrating aluminum disturbed the night dwellers. It felt as someone dumped a bag of leaves on us when the bats dropped from the ceiling. Being brushed and bumped by a swarm of bats in a dark cave wasn’t on the brochure, but it made for a real test of courage. When we emerged in a cloud of winged escorts Dad laughed so hard he nearly lost his dentures overboard.

The sheer rock walls that lined the river told stories of what the Ishnalla Indians saw when they traveled the river lifetimes ago. I imagined Chief Soaring Eagle standing on the cliff in full headdress. His spear held high chanting to the spirits. He blessed the pioneers as they passed. He told us to, ‘Listen to the river for she is all knowing.’ He ended with a spine tingling wail and cursed the dangers that waited below the surface of the flow. I would catch a glimpse of the warriors lining the banks. I could see their family’s living peacefully along the river. It was untamed then and teaming with beauty and wildlife — their source for survival.

The river flowed at a jogger’s pace. A simple paddle drag was all we needed to advance downstream. The swirling water hid scads of underwater obstacles and we bumped bottom often. Sometimes hard enough to whiplash our body’s forward, others slid by with a quiet whisper on the gunnel.

Twelve o’clock noon came quickly and dad maneuvered the canoe toward a small sandbar for a lunch break. He unpacked the gas stove and began his mighty preparation. It wouldn’t be at all out of place for him to prepare Pheasant Under Glass with Duck’alorange dressed with small red potatoes and asparagus shoots. His extravagant camp menus are famous especially with us kids. The adults couldn’t fathom how he orchestrated the tasty cuisine’s in the remote wilderness.

The river menu was simple; Beer-battered Pike filets pan fried to snappy perfection in a cast iron skillet, served with corn-on-the-cob and fresh green beans. We often talked about the things we liked best about camping and it was always unanimous — eating!

Dad cooked and told fish stories about technique and where-abouts. He included his research into the stomach for feeding patterns and spawning seasons. The stories always ended with a peaceful gaze into the horizon and a simple toast, ‘Yup, I can still see him swimming around that log and taking the bait.’ It always brought a smile to his face.

After enjoying one of Dad’s finer moments as camps cook we repacked the gear and continued downstream. Dad had been on the river many times and knew the terrain. He’d been planning this trip in his mind for years and told stories of someday camping on the “perfect” river island.

The next few hours flashed by with the help of a hefty Crappie, two Walleye’s and a Channel Cat the size of an oar. We took turns estimating his weight, “Gotta be 10 pounds!” Lee chirped.

“Oh it’s bigger than that,” Jimmy remarked.

“Do you think so?” I wasn’t sure. The thrill of such a big catch had me basking in my own angling brilliance. “Eighteen pounds if it’s an ounce!” Dad concluded before I slid it overboard.

Then dad peered and smiled, “There she is boys!” Our excitement grew as we cleared the final corner that revealed a small island no bigger than a football field. He found the “perfect” one. The gunnel scoured onto the beach. We slid the crafts ashore and set off to explore the island. We discovered the bones of a long since deceased deer and we discussed the various possibilities of death. Jimmy calculated the “live weight” based on the skull size. “Last year’s winter was pretty tough. I’ll bet she starved. By the looks of things I’d say she weighed about 90 pounds. The teeth look like a two year-old’s. Dad held the skull and studied it Shakespearean precision, ‘Winters have been pretty tough the past three years… probably starved.’ He concluded. I thought death was caused by an old hunt wound. Lee’s guess was, ‘Maybe it just died.’ We split up and wandered aimlessly about pondering ‘natural death’ for almost an hour before we regrouped and finished setting up camp.

The lack of firewood on the island limited us to a small, smoldering evening fire. Dad’s early to bed lifestyle was boring us so we swam and played with the fire until we became exhausted and fed up with the swarms of mosquitoes.

Soon we were in our tents. Dad’s tent was simple. A piece of old canvas draped over an aluminum frame with two lines staked to the ground… No floor… No ends. Wide open to the elements. We often wondered why we used it at all, he said that it was “All we needed to keep the moisture and morning dew off us.” Dad grew up in a cattail marsh and developed an immunity to mosquitoes. In the midst of swarms he could remain cool, calm and collected and would emerge with “not one bite.” Lee on the other hand had a phobia about bugs and it would be amazing if he got any sleep at all.

By midnight large raindrops plunked the nylon sides of our tent and I was thankful for Jimmy’s tent. An unexpected storm announced its presence with clap of thunder that rolled down the river. In the distance a tornado siren warned the locals of an oncoming uncontrollable force. Sheets of rain tested the side walls of the tent and we all had our senses tuned in to the elements. Instantly the wind and rain died, warning us that the calm before the storm was upon us. A low “humming” startled Jimmy. “What the hell is that?” The wind increased and whistled across the tent ropes. I heard the concern in dad’s voice, “We’re in for a little wind boys, hang on… here it comes!”

The stories they tell about the sound of tornado are accurate. The charging locomotive was coming. It snapped huge trees like tooth picks as it ripped toward camp.

” I wanna go by Dad!” I cried as the earth began rumbling. I could hear my brother crying and it blended with the wind to make a horrifying scream.

The funnel cloud bounced off the tree lined edges and headed in our direction. It was pushing a wall of water out ahead of it and before we could adjust to higher ground the flash flood reached our stoop and uprooted our tent stakes. I could feel my fingers digging into the sand through the bottom of the tent but my grip washed away and we started sliding toward the drop off. The water flowed through the sides of the tent uninterrupted. The loose nylon snapped and tattered as the winds increased. The deafening roars of the twister drown out my screams for dad’s help.

Trapped inside the tent by the twisting wind and lightening that surrounded us toyed with our minds. The storm’s sky splitting bolts had no concern for the burning voltage or what it can do to human body. The sheets of rain pelted the nylon tent and sprayed water through the zipper. There were times when the water came in faster then we could bail it out.

I could hear dad’s voice cutting in and our of the storm, “Hang in there kids it’s almost over!”.

Little Jimmy fingered through his scout manual looking for answers, “Get me out of here. Get me out of here!” As quickly as it began it was over. The snapping of trees and the rumbling of Mother nature’s force continued down stream. I emerged from the tent into ankle-deep water and discovered my Dad’s tent gone. I couldn’t believe my eyes. They slept only 10 feet away from us and they disappeared! I called out for them both but no one answered. I grabbed the flashlight and scanned the surroundings. When I found the canvas tarp pinned against a fallen tree I thought the worse of things. Water and loose brush were running over and around it. When I approached I heard sobbing and noticed the tarp was vibrating. I could hear Dad trying to calm Lee. I pulled the tarp to the side and they huddled together tightly. Dad actually laughed when he saw me and exclaimed, ‘Wow! Quite a storm huh boys?’ His eyes showed concern, but he popped to his feet brushed Lee off who shivered uncontrollably. Then he checked us for injuries and hugged us both.

We were wet and cold but safe. We huddled under a partially dry sleeping bag and watched the river regain its serenity. The sky cleared and the stars returned and for 30 minutes we didn’t say a word we just sat in the sand and watched the night.

Dad pointed out the missing deer skeleton and blessed our good fortune. Then he laughed,

“Well boys it’s good to be on dry land again. Next trip we’ll bring a weather radio.”

That’s my Dad – Always looking for adventure in the great outdoors.

WATER MONKEY STAND UP PADDLEBOARD

One particular “old cat” that I saw gazing at an antique scooter on the wall of the Rossiters Harley Davidson in Daytona caught my attention. He stood sternly, arms crossed and head half-cocked. I had to ask him what he thought of the old ’54. At first he said nothing, he just pointed near the rear end and scratched his wired gray hair. “That looks like my welding job, right there on the rear swing arm. It’s not a pretty weld, but it did the job.”

Rollie, a biker visiting from Wisconsin, considers himself a “real biker” who’s been riding his whole life…year round… for over 75 years! “Being a full-timer meant that you only own a bike…no car. So no matter what, you got to get up and hit the road all four seasons of the year!” he said. “No sleet, nor rain, nor snow ever stopped me from popping my ’51 Police Special Harley into gear and heading 50 miles to the Harley plant in Milwaukee, no sir. A good thing about them old leakers – in the cold winter air – the oil became so thick that they didn’t leak as much! I’d throw my lunch in the sidecar. Back then fifty cents in my pocket would cover gas, lunch and a beer on the way home!” Incidentally, he bought the bike from Bill Harley himself for $700 and got a sidecar thrown into the deal! He laughed at the thought of buying the bike instead of an old Hudson that needed new tires and what the value of Bill Harley’s personal bike would be worth today.

Hungry for more info we continued chatting away and his story began to stick to my skin like the love bugs on a windshield in the sweltering season to come.

He continued on with constant throat-clearing croaks as his eyes drooped shut while recalling the days of riding to work and having to pass through the low-lying areas of the marshy back roads. Most of the summer the early morning fog soaked through his work boots and kept his (then black) hair smoothed back tight to his scalp. The murky muck of the marsh was a perfect breeding bowl for the mosquitoes that rose thick and swarmed over the roadway. The constant smacking of bugs on his face over the years is what caused the wrinkles he has today, he says. The dragonflies and bats dodged and darted about taking advantage of the feast, sometimes catching his forehead straight on – the splat snapping his head back momentarily before he smeared it back into his hair and off the back of his head.

June was a particularly bad month with the June bugs pelting the uncovered skin of the knuckles and arms. But to catch one in the mouth is the laughing joke that all bikers brag about as if it were this event that qualified them as “hard-core”. Rollie chuckled at what bikers consider hard-core these days and continued.

Summer also brought the threat of deer and wildlife into play. Very seldom a day passed without a near collision with a raccoon or a rabbit. Low flying herons and hawks also tested the nerves. But it was one particular stretch of marsh, in the heat of the summer, that the frogs came onto the roadway…” 300 yards of pure ‘ick’”, Rollie said. Thousands upon thousands of croakers carpeted the roadway making the crossing a slippery mess of squashed goo. Often enough they’d try to jump free only to catch a boot, a shin, or a knee-cap. The worst case scenario was when a passing car would splash the frog parts into the face and upper body. “Now that’s hard-core”, Rollie added with a stern finger point.

“Yeah, the bikers today have so much chrome to keep clean and they’re meticulous about keeping them shiny, and rightfully so. I can’t imagine spending $50,000 + on a bike! You think raindrops are hard to keep off chrome? You should try frog legs and guts!”

So for you bikers out there looking to make “real biker” or “hard core” status…spring is on the way and Rollie (who happens to be my Daddy) would be glad to escort you down the marshy mucky roads of Wisconsin for his 76th season of chew-n-swallow!