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!

HUGE! 2009 14ft Tandemonium  kayak (used) with seats only $500

2010 Emotion Temptation (used) $450 w/ seat = video here  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZT8teaJXuQ

16′ sit in kayak $200 video here =         http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMLhEMbHTPw

RTM Ocean Duo sit on top w/ new seats! 4 molded seat positions for 1,2,or three paddlers. $450 SOLD

Emotion Co-Motion double kayak w/new seats! Great sit on kayak $400 SOLD

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.

THE MAGICAL MUD!
> by Kurt Zuelsdorf
>
> Standing on the Eastern shore of Boca Ciega Bay at the entrance to the
> Clam Bayou Estuary I can only imagine what this bay (off the beach of
> Gulfport) would look like if it hadn’t been dredged in the middle of
> the last century.
> Once mangrove islands were sprouted & spread on air-filtering legs
> and oysters bars flourished, filtering toxins from our waters to
> ensure clean, clear water. Now there is an open bay that generates
> only a fraction of life that it could-had not been dredged. Experts
> predict that Boca Ciega Bay may take 200 years to recover – if ever!
> Looking inward toward the Clam Bayou, however, one can see what
> could have been. Mangroves, mudflats, oyster bars, birds, fish,
> otters, gators and more -.the life that an estuary breeds! Most people
> aren’t award that one cubic metre of Clam Bayou Estuary mud contains
> enough worms and shellfish to equal the number of calories in 16 candy
> bars…the magic of life here! Also, a healthy, untended estuary
> produces from four to 10 times the weight of organic matter produced
> by a cultivated corn field of the same size!
> Water draining off the uplands carries a load of sediment and
> nutrients. As the water flows through salt marsh peat and the dense
> mesh of marsh grass blades, much of the sediment and nutrient load is
> filtered out. This filtration process creates cleaner and clearer
> water. Clam Bayou’s magical mud flats are critical, crucial and
> magical – not to be “man”ipulated.

by Kurt Zuelsdorf

Dear Journal; 

I poked my head out of the hole overlooking Clam Bayou after a week-long freeze that has the tops of the entire estuary burned to a dark brown. My wings were stiff from the lack of activity so I thought I’d give ‘em a stretch. I cruised low over the bayou and watched a group of humans launch from the shelly shore. They paddled and stumbled to their feet on flat boards and they carried bags. The North wind still brings a cool crispness and it swept them into the South pass. Fishermen on the pier asked questions about the spines on a catfish. Silly beings, I found out the hard way when I got jabbed as a chick. It left me wingless for a few days ‘til the swelling went down. I wish the guy in the hat wouldn’t have told them the dangers…. “Nature’s way” is sometimes the best way.

 One of the fellas sitting in a boat was looking very clean-cut and proper…impressive beak too! His sunglasses reflected the sky and he smiled when the circling vultures dropped on a wind current over the freezer-burned mangroves. The wind rustles these dry leaves making hunting a little easier for me. A mouse or a snake would suit me just fine.

 I watched them fumble through the narrows of a lagoon near my home. And then they started doing something unusual for this species. Deep in the roots of a tree lay a box. It’s been there for some time you know. When the wind blows, the box makes a squeaky sound as it rubs against the tree. I don’t know…only thing I can tell you is from my perch I see that it scares my neighbors, even the little crabs that cover the ground won’t go near it. Maybe its the greasy slick that emanates from it’s skin, anyway this guy with the glasses poked and prodded until he got that box out of there! He paddled away smiling as though he’d caught a giant marlin. Funny species. Wish I could send him a thank you card, but I’ve seen feathers made into writing pens….barbaric!

 Two guys standing on the boards with long paddles made me laugh when they passed close. Never saw me though. The guy with the big head and bright smile was joking about Coke bottles and fake teeth and kept jabbering about nothing really, but they kept me entertained enough to follow. I kinda like the style of the bearded one. He has a keen eye for stuff and said he fancied snakes…hey, me too!

 The fella in the black hat I’ve seen before several times although I don’t think he knows me. He talks a lot about nature and seems to really like this place. He points out the plants and birds and fish and others listen intently. If he shows up again I’ll name him. I know it’s not proper to name these people as it is said to name them claims ownership of them, but I can’t help myself. This guy has caught my eye and I think I’ll call him Soupy, hmm, don’t know why, just will.

 The paddlers kept moving toward the fresh water entryways that mix and swirl and make this place special for the fish. The recent freeze killed so many lately. Flocks of vultures have been swooping and diving and feeding on the fish but with so many dead it’s likely they’ll not be able to eat them all before the smell starts in. Bad for the fish, but good for the birds and crabs I’ll bet! The freeze didn’t kill all the fish like I’ve seen in nearby lakes. Huge schools of minnows remain only to be scattered by those pesky jumping mullet. Why do they jump anyway?

 A bottle here, a can there and too many plastic bags to count were loaded into their boats. Pictures of my pals, the herons, were taken and the further they went the more they enjoyed themselves. Laughing grew louder and the picking continued. They all came to agree on one thing – this place is special. I seconded.

 Nearing the end they encountered a place that I and others rarely enter. The trash in this place makes us all sad. And this group reacted just as we do- looking around in disbelief. Are we related? Do we have a common thread? Why does all this junk have to come here where I live, where I play, where I eat and sleep? It seems we all have the same questions and not enough answers.

 Back from whence they came, the current carried them past the new nests built by the little green herons. They haven’t been nesting here long you know. Nope, only the past few years and they love it here as much as me. My dream is that more people continue clean up efforts here ‘cause if not… we’ll ALL be homeless.

 In the distance I heard them coming. The crows! We’ve never gotten along with the crows. Ever since great, great, great, great Grampa Barney got caught snatching an egg there’s been war. They blame us for the loss of so many young-uns and for the nickname they call a flock of crows…A “Murder”! Can you imagine? Thought it best I lay low and let ‘em pass as they do everyday at this time on their way to the roost, but I risk being seen by…yup, the bearded one saw me! His comment on my heart-shaped face was sweet. I give the others credit for trying to spin their head in a circle like me but I don’t think they can. Then one by one they saw me perched on the naked branch under the canopy of burned leaves. You’d think they’d never seen a barn owl before! They just sat there all slack-jawed ‘til I flew off to tend to my hungry belly. I suppose I’ll see them again. I gotta consider getting me one them cameras so I can make an album for my chicks. Otherwise, they and nobody else will believe the pile of trash they removed from our living room!

 Yours truly on this day 1/26/2010

The Barn Owl of Clam Bayou

Councilman Rick Butler said the city-owned vacant land at an old brush site on 102nd Avenue will be outfitted with a storage building and picnic facilities, with minimal cost to the city.

“The new venture will give local enthusiast a place to explore local waters with a kayak or canoe,” Butler said.

Butler came up with the idea when he realized that the city-owned land that once was the brush site and the location of the city’s old sewer plant was vacant. He approached Kurt Zuelsdorf of Gulfport who operates Kayak Nature Adventures.

Zuelsdorf, a nationally-recognized environmentalist, will develop the property on Cross Bayou Creek into a canoe and kayaking haven where people can glide the waters north to Tampa Bay and south to the Bay Pines veterans medical facility.

“I’m thinking it would take several hours to make the trip by kayak,” Butler said. “There are amazing things to see on the shores and in the water.”

The creek is home to numerous species of birds, turtles, alligators and tropical vegetation. Butler himself, who was born and raised in Pinellas Park, recalled playing and fishing there as a child.

Butler said preliminary plans call for building a picnic area across the street from the proposed kayak facility site. Besides renting vessels, the location will give water enthusiasts a safe place to launch their craft and park vehicles.

It is expected that Zuelsdorf also will offer environmental tours of the waters. Zuelsdorf, Butler said, has earned a reputation for cleaning the environment of litter. He is credited with cleaning more than 100,000 pounds of bottles, paper and other trash over the years from Pinellas County’s waterways and beaches.

“This project will add a lot to the city,” Butler said. “There is a lot to see from a kayak or canoe.”

Butler said he has traversed the waterways by canoe, rowboat and even by airboat.

It is expected that the new facility will be in operation by next spring.

by Kurt Zuelsdorf

The kayak slid ashore with a hissing whisper onto an island a few miles East of Brooksville. I was on my first self-guided wild boar excursion and no better place to start than a speck on the map called Hog Island!

A pungent belch of sulfur fouled the 35 degree air when my foot sank out of sight into the rich earth. I threw a light line around a tree and tied it off to avoid being stranded, left to swim the cold and spooky tannic-infused waters of the Withlacoochee River.

I grabbed a flashlight from my hunt belt where my Smith & Wesson snake pistol hangs reassuringly from a camouflage hip pack. It also carries a whistle, matches, ammo, a small tripod and camera and a useless snakebite kit that I have no intention of using after being advised by a doctor that it may cause more harm than good. The only reason I carry it is to remind me of the possible dangers that lurk in Florida swamps.

The flashlight beam played tricks with the casually rising fog. Anything beyond ten feet glimmered with bluish yellow streaks that fanned out in all directions. The distorted light stretched the cone-shaped cypress knees to immense proportions. They bobbed and weaved like dancing wizards in the moonlight until I shut the light off.

I sat for an eternity and waited for my eyes to adjust. My ears struggled to hear something… anything. A person can get out of shape living in the city. My vision was weak and my ears squealed with phantom sirens and noise. I shook my head like an old hound dog with ticks and tried to knock loose the noise pollution, then stood still.

The flowing water penetrated the sound barrier first. The river popped and gurgled over the fallen cypress and around the bend where it churned like boiling black soup. Then an orchestra of swamp life chimed in. In between the bullfrog belches and the crickets cracking the alligators growled their mating moans. Distant owls called “who cooks for you. Who cooks for you”. Ahhh . . . music that salves the soul!

Now, I consulted my compass for a Northeast heading.

I developed the habit of using a compass while on a canoe trip with my father when I was eight. We were preparing for a portage through some loosely scattered hardwoods when I learned…the hard way! I eagerly grabbed the bow and dad hefted the stern. He urged me to check the compass.

I had to laugh as we had done the same portage earlier in the day, I knew where we were. Yeah, right!

The first twenty yards slid by quickly. Soon after, my narrow shoulders and spindly neck erupted in fatigue. “Time out!” I huffed.

“What’s the matter…lost?” Dad chuckled.

“No…my shoulders hurt.” I defended.

His laughter grew anger as did my fatigue with every step. Suddenly I saw water where I didn’t remember seeing water earlier in the day. My gut feeling was that we had discovered a secluded pond and a chance to observe some wood ducks.

When my father dropped his end of the canoe I was shocked. The aluminum “pung” of the hull echoed through the woods. I snapped my head around with a frown and wondered why he would blow such an opportunity to watch the colorful woodies.

Seconds later, in between a laughing jag and a gasp of air he broke the news, “You’ve walked in a circle, Kurt. This is exactly where we landed 20 minutes ago!”

It was then, during my dad’s gut busting, wide-open belly laugh that I realized the importance of a compass. He knew I was circling all along, but wanted to drive the point home–as only a dad can do. The sound of his laughter still rings in my head before I take the first step into the unknown. “Always check your compass!”

Anyway, my plan was to stalk the entire length of Hog Island in hopes of seeing feral hogs for the first time. My boots sucked and slurped their way free from the tar-like mud. Another stinky pocket of swamp gas wafted upward before I reached hard ground. I slipped quietly up a steep bank that leads to a few old oaks which proudly displayed their bounty of Spanish Moss. It dripped and drooled off every branch. The mystical fog added a special dimension that visually defined my dreams of southern swamps — cold, dark, damp, and dangerous to newcomers.

I eased my way through the darkness toward the center of the island and tried to find some promising sign. The scattered silhouettes from the palmetto palms teased and tested my attention with their raspy rustling. I overfilled my lungs with the heavy swamp air until I felt light-headed. My senses tingled from the sweet air that heals my “city” body. I stopped again and checked my direction. Earlier, and not to my awareness I had stopped just short of a gigantic spider web. It had just begun to get light and I hadn’t been able to see it. It stretched an impressive 15 feet across. Elegantly knitted to the branches of a small oak then over to a Palmetto and up to the top of a tall cabbage palm.

After a compass check and correction I felt a strong intuitive sense that suggested I scrap the original plan and change course. “Nothin doing…you’ll be ok” said the voice behind my right eyeball. In the predawn darkness, I took one giant step and experienced an “Arachni-phylatic Fit”…when I felt the cobwebs on my face, my head spun away in a spastic twist that knocked the hat off my head. The semi-thick silk stretched tightly across my entire body. I spun in circles with my arms flailing about trying to free myself from the web until I tripped over a log and ended up on my knees. I hunched over covering my face. I hoped I wouldn’t detect the feeling of eight hairy legs making advances on my body . . . sorrowfully I was wrong.

At the base of my exposed neck, I could feel something sweeping back and forth like a low hanging pine bow brushed by the wind. I wrongly slapped the back of my neck and squished a greasy arachnid into the palm of my hand while sweeping another from my hair. A legion of goose bumps swept through my body and tingled my spine.

I spun like a pup for his tail trying to see myself all at once then tripped on a family of cypress knees and slid across a muddy slick of grass before I regained composure.

I was too busy to notice the pale white sun’s morning ascent into the foggy air, or the cobalt blue streak that tickled the treetops. When I looked back to where I had disturbed the family of arachnids, the first spear of light shone through the canopy of oaks and palms and caught the web just right. The thick morning dew exposed the hidden gold. The breeze massaged it gently and the light shimmered down the spider’s silk strands. I could see the hole I carved and a few smaller spiders in the web. The gruesome displays of bug and beetle carcasses scattered throughout the web told the tale of an accomplished marksman — a brilliant engineer with a high kill rate and a fancy for gold. Judging by the size of the web she was much bigger than the ones I’d already met.

And there by the web I saw my hat lying in the dirt. I was about to grab it when I discovered her. She had somehow eluded my frantic body search and had taken a stand on my forehead. She was as big as a mans hand and her right front leg was testing my crinkled forehead. My gasp for air startled her and she made her move — one leg caught my nose, another hooked my mouth. When she jumped off my cheek a thick yellow strand of gold silk spewed out and stuck to the side of my head. I swiped and dodged like a madman in disbelief that she was on me for that long. I grabbed my hat and tried to shrug it off. The rest of the day I could feel her hairy little legs on my face.

I did a little research on the webslingers when I returned to the world of information. (Also called the web, haha) What I discovered was fascinating. Sometimes called Banana spiders, the Yellow Orb Spider has one of the most interesting weapons for protection. When confronted, the spider gathers a bunch of body hairs with her forelegs. These tiny black hairs shaped and designed as harpoons have very sharp serrated points and edges. When the adversary gets within the perimeter of her lair she flicks the hairs into the predator’s eyes. Once in the eye the mini harpoons burrow their way directly into the eyeball. The weapons continue to irritate the eye until they’ve successfully worked their way all the way through the backside of the eyeball where they dissolve!

After I read this, I developed an irritating twitch in my left eye. I try to forget the invasion, but I’m confident that the Yellow Orb Spider that protects her gold with daggers of fear will always be there . . . spinning her tricks in the depths of the Florida swamps.

By Kurt Zuelsdorf

The kayak drifted inward with the tide before the sun peeked over the treetops on a recent morn. Simple paddle strokes broke the glassy surface of the upper creeks. An endless stream of birds headed in the same direction as me. Could it be? Were we all heading to the same party? To the spot that Stetson Law Students picked clean of debris. Where volunteers of all ages helped remove hundreds of bags of garbage from the swamp floor just days before!

Winged traffic thickened in the air like a Monday morning’s commute. In the creek several Tarpon slowed their pace… then stopped as the sneaky Snook swirled ahead. Fish chasing minnows left & right and switching lanes without signaling… so typical at such an event.

Birds, like chatter at a fancy party grew louder as I neared.  At the last turn through the narrow grass channel I was greeted by the host; a Great Blue Heron standing tall displaying his finest plumes. He announced my arrival loud and clear – not a good thing for this party crasher! My cover was blown…

The grand entrance of the hammock opened up into a lagoon and for the first time in ages the waters were free of debris! Tri-colored herons stood to the side waiting to perform as the mullet milled around the dance floor in a well-choreographed routine. A yellow-crowned night heron snatched a fiddler crab and munched as I passed through the elegant dome of mangroves and into the grand ballroom.

All the big players were there. White Ibis by the dozens worked the floor and the crowd. The gaudy Roseate Spoonbill filtered the creek for snacks trying not to be noticed, yea right! Scrub Jays & Red-winged black birds were in attendance too. White Egrets moved about the dance floor and canopy above – a handsome young couple were having a squabble over how to properly eat a creek chub at such a fancy event.  Young herons attending their first gala sat awkwardly along the edges, almost unnoticeable if not for the occasional squawk for attention.

The swamp jesters, the Little Green Herons, showed off their acrobatics. Some hung upside down from the red mangrove roots to snatch a minnow, while others stood in the vines and provided a chorus of croaky swamp tunes.

A family of raccoons entered through the back door and barged their way into the buffet line working busily to wash clean then crunch on everything they could find. A young one sampled a snail…a tickle… a taste… then a headshake in disgust. I was disappointed that the otter pulled a no-show, but it’s hard to find a sitter for the new pups at the last minute you know!

Twisting my head for a final glimpse of the star-studded cast, I caught the eye of the surly security guard…the resident alligator! Realizing that my plumage didn’t meet the dress code I slid silently out the side door confident that this party will go on and on if WE let it!

As the mangrove doorway closed behind me I imagined them asking me to deliver a message to all of those who made this party possible and those yet to come: