Iceland Hotspot

This month my wife, Crystal, is guest writer for my blog. I am using a new format for my photos... the square ones are cropped thumbnails of bigger images. Click on the thumb to see a larger full version of the photo. Here's Crystal's take on another of our Iceland adventures:

Once we rendezvoused with Sue and Jeff, we packed into our Toyota Corolla and headed east to Hveragardi, one of the hottest hot spots in Iceland. Hveragardi's water is too hot and mineralized for heating homes, but somehow it's suitable for heating greenhouses, making this town of 2000 people the farming center for the capital.


Our hotel, Frost and Fire, was our favorite of all the fabulous places we stayed in Iceland. It's intimate and artistic rooms were built on the banks of a cold stream, with steam pouring out of earthen vents throughout the surrounding hills. The proprietors channeled the abundant, free hot water to heat their swimming pool, hot pots and sauna. When we weren't hiking, you know what we were doing.

Hiking in this region was like a walk through a fascinating, heavenly version of hell. Heaven in particular for our geologist, Jeff, who found himself awash in teaching moments. We followed the steam more than the trails, in awe of the Earth's guts oozing up from her steaming, ominous portals.

We climbed a high ridge for expansive views of the mossy hills with Hveragardi off in the distance. Hunkered down happily in the moss, sheltered from the wind, we shared a lunch of Icelandic cheeses and breads. How could we let a little drizzle faze us when we were sitting smack dab atop the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, with the North American and Eurasian continental plates tugging apart from one another in geologic fast-time right beneath these very hills, making for some mighty rumbly goings-on just under the surface of the deceptively firm ground.



The trail led us past amazing geological features: burbling mud pots . . . .boiling hot pots . . . . . vents of steam . . . . .portals of clear blue water, some warm, some extremely hot, surrounded by gorgeous layers of travertine of various thickness – crystalized minerals in textured shades of orange, blue, green, yellow, and red. David went hog-wild with his camera, spanning the thin travertine to get vertical shots of the vents, he fell in once up to his thigh – it shook him up, but lucky for him, and us, it wasn't a boiling one.





A rainy day in the off-season, the only other people we saw all afternoon were a group of silent horseback riders whose bright orange jump-suits amidst the fog and steam added to the surreal ambience. That, and a few sheep ambling along the hillside trail.

We were intrigued by a wide curtain of steam ascending from a valley across a river. We had no trail map, and the trails were unmarked, but two things were clear: the trails did not cross the river, and, we really wanted to find a hot river in which to soak. We decided to go for it. The off-trail moss was deep and wet, soaking our boots – no matter because the river was impossible to cross without getting wet anyhow. Following the steam, we found our spot, after testing many for just the right temperature. But at that very moment, the rain let loose and the wind picked up, and we hesitated, thinking it might be best to high-tail it back before we really got soaked. Thank goodness we came to our senses. We tucked our damp clothes under our backpacks and slithered in. Aaaaah. Sue and I applied mudpacks for the full, high-end spa experience.

The long trek back in the wind and rain almost got us down. In spite of getting our core temperatures warmed up in the river, we were freezing by the time we reached our car. But the hot tubs awaited us back home, and those delicious beds with real foam mattresses and down comforters. Yeah, we managed.

Icelandic Sheep and Barren Land

Tough critters, I can say that positively about the Icelandic sheep. In a harsh land where the only significant native mammal is the Arctic Fox, you have to wonder how a proper domestic European beast could survive the severe weather on this island just outside the Arctic Circle. But survive it did - for 1100 years these stocky short-tailed sheep thrived, eating the once lush greenery nearly into a rock-strewn desert. No kidding.

Coming from North Florida, the first thing we noticed about Iceland was the lack of trees. And of course, without trees, one can see a long way across the landscape, a beautiful openness - across vast moss-cushioned lava fields, rocky rolling hills with sculpted rocks protruding, and dramatic escarpments rising from the coastal flatlands - without so much as seeing a single tree, building, or person... but we saw sheep dotted all about.
Skittish sheep... they all tended to run away at the sight of us. Maybe they didn’t like tourists, especially tourists with cameras riding in red Corollas?... maybe all humans made them nervous, since they didn’t see too many (except the cowboys - er, sheepboys?...no, not enough machismo - cowboys who rounded them up once a year). We could go miles and miles without encountering another car... even during a trip to an indoor public swimming pool which Crystal spotted on our map. On that cold rainy day, our first day in Iceland, Crystal was drawn to the map icon like a moth to a flame. With growing doubt, we followed the long and winding road until, to our surprise, we found a big indoor pool complex at the very end... out in the middle of nowhere, no other buildings in sight, and no people anywhere... closed, and seemingly abandoned, except for a nice pair of swim goggles someone had recently dropped...oh, and a few sheep watching us suspiciously from outside the fence.
The sheep seem to wander far and wide just about everywhere, as did the fences. We saw fences crisscrossing the landscape in the strangest places, often fading off into very remote and rugged terrain. These fences are a modern addition and are meant to restrain the sheep to prevent over-grazing and further erosion, but it was difficult to perceive any real containment. It was Sheep vs. Fences, and the sheep appeared to be the hands-down winners...must be more to it than what we could see. Towns and other habitations all had fences and road grates around them to keep the sheep out, but otherwise sheep appeared to be part of the landscape. We were told that, once a year, the farmers don their orange raincoats and mount their Icelandic horses - another special breed - to collectively gather the sheep from the hinterlands for the worst part of winter. Once gathered, they are sorted out by their eartag IDs.

As for the barren land, one can’t blame the sheep for cutting down the trees (which once covered as much as 60% of the island)... the humans did that for building materials and fuel, but much later people came to realize the heavy grazing of the sheep kept anything from re-growing. Can’t blame them for that either... just being sheep (with especially big appetites in a harsh land). Besides, without them, humans could never have survived in Iceland. By successfully eking out a lifestyle in the wilds of Iceland, these hardy animals, now a unique coveted breed, provided meat, milk, cheese, and warm clothes for the Vikings and all the people who followed. Skyr, an Icelandic food - sort of a cross between yogurt and cottage cheese - was traditionally made from sheep’s milk and instantly became our favorite local treat. We even brought some home to use as a culture to make more. Here’s the recipe: (click here).

So why not plant trees now that the problem is evident? Well, Icelanders have been doing just that for 100 years now. However, this is a slow process at best. The loss of the cover has resulted in extensive erosion of the wind-vulnerable volcanic soil, making it hard for anything to get a foothold. Nearly a third of the island has become a black-sand desert. As the green-wise proprietress of Hotel Hellnar, Gudrun Bergmann, told us, young trees don’t have much of a chance against the winds, sands, and winter storms that literally strip them of their bark. But ways to improve the survival of plantings have been devised and all Icelanders are working at it. Airplanes are even being used to drop seed and fertilizer in the remote parts of the island. One hundred years ago Iceland established the first-in-the-world Soil Conservation Service to help educate the people about erosion control and planting. Ours was a snapshot view through Florida-colored glasses, and so, to us Iceland looked stark and other-worldly, but in some parts, after 100 years of effort, new forests are beginning to grow... slowly. Reykjavik has a decent showing of trees and we saw occasional stands of trees in towns and farms as well.

Like the isolated swimming pool, churches seemed to fit the middle-of-nowhere description as well. We saw several churches that, upon close inspection, appeared to be clean and well-tended, with sheep-guards and fences intact, but no other sign of human development (and of course, no trees) anywhere near. One had a raven standing guard atop it’s steeple.. He obliged me for a photo, and then flew right toward me for another shot, flying low over my head, chortling in his unique Ravenese of metallic syllables and hollow clicks. An exception to the stand-alone locations was the lovely grass-roofed church in Hof which had both trees and human habitation around it... and plenty of sheep eyeing that luscious grass roof too.





We stayed on a farm in Hof, a village consisting of several farms, one inn that had closed, and the church. The sheep of Hof were “formally” penned into green grassy fields much like they might be on a small American farm. Our lovely little farm guesthouse - Litlahof - was off by itself in the midst of the sheep fields. Seemed the perfect opportunity to photograph some sheep, but try as I might - casually meandering through the field, or sneaking a peek from behind a rock, or shooting from the hip - they were on to me, and headed pronto in the opposite direction. I didn’t have a telephoto lens, but was forced to resort to shooting through the window of our cottage. The wind was blowing so hard that day that it blew the sheep’s wool skirt askew. Jeff and I had trouble staying on our feet when we tried to walk up the road, but those low slung warm-dressed sheep stood firmly chewing their cuds (although their skinny legs looked cold).

The coastal area near Hof was rich farmland. Each farm appeared more idyllic than the last, with it’s own Yosemite-quality waterfall (foss) tumbling from the high scarp, green pastures, surviving trees (protected by the huge stone wall), and, of course, sheep, with their own barn to retreat to when the weather ain’t nice.


Earlier in the trip on the north shore of the Snaefellsnes Peninsula, I did encounter one friendly sheep, at least willing to pose regally for a through-the-car-window shot. This roadside ram must have been a “Leadersheep” - because he appeared so cool and self-confident. I didn’t make that up. A small percentage of the Icelandic sheep make up a sub-breed of smart sheep, called leadersheep. They are aware of danger, weather changes, better pastures, and all manner of things important to sheep survival, and will lead the flock accordingly. In earlier days, the sheep farmers depended on them and there are many stories of leadersheep saving the flock from an approaching (unexpected) winter storm. Anyway, this fellow looked over at us in our muddy red car, gawking out the window, and, correctly, sensed no danger. He simply sat down, posing like the sheep in Jamie Wyeth’s 1975 painting called The Islander. (click here for a look... quite a resemblance... then click back button to return here.)
And in Icelandic, ‘Iceland’ is spelled ‘Island’, so I'm venturing a guess that my leadersheep directly descended from Jamie’s, and struck the same pose in nearly the same place. In keeping with the guidance of their leader, the small flock likewise stayed put. One one-horned gal with beautiful curly wool even smiled at me. Sweet! For more stories of Iceland, there are and will be more postings, and for better quality images of Iceland, please visit my website at DavidMoynahan.com.

Disappearing Ice - Jokulsarlon

Click on any image to enlarge it.

We are living in an exciting, albeit dire (for humans), time on this planet. Global warming, climate change, water wars, sea level rise - now common stories in the news.

This month I had the great fortune to spend some time in Iceland where I could see some of the unfolding drama of our warming earth for myself. It was humbling to try to capture in my photographs the intensity (and perhaps immensity) of the moments we experienced in this land of fire and ice. The explosive rumble of a fracturing glacier crashing into the sea. The whip of cold wind on the face... so strong, it’s hard to stand up. The sting of icy rain... the shroud of fog blanketing the landscape... the numb fingers and wet cameras. These things don’t show their boldness or bluntness in photographs.

Sunshine was precious, though rain, fog or wind didn’t stop us from hiking and exploring. We visited the Snaefelsnes Peninsula, where a massive volcano is roofed by a beautiful glacier and most residents are personally familiar with magical neighbors - elves, trolls, or fairies - who live in the moss-draped lavarock; then the land of fire around Hveragerdi, where geysirs, boiling pools, sulphurous steam vents, mudpots, and hot rivers offer free geothermal energy to those who live there; next on to the south coast, Vik, and the vast sandur, where glaciers have shaped the land, fertile farms nestle beneath graceful waterfalls, and it’s sheep vs. fences in a rugged terrain; and finally to Europe’s largest glacier, Vatnajokull, with which we had our personal encounters and saw the Disappearing Ice for ourselves.

Having driven along the south coast past rugged mountains with glaciers pouring through their gaps, past countless waterfalls and sculpted cliffs - all invisible to us under dense cover of fog - our first real encounter with the ice was at Vatnajokull. And it was a REAL encounter! Face to face, hands on, incredibly awesome.

We awakened in our farmhouse cabin in Hof to a clear sky. Hallelujah! I could hardly wait for the other three to get ready to go. Our first stop of the day would be to see the iceberg-filled bay, Jokullsarlon.
Jokull means glacier and sarlon means lagoon. One of the glacier’s tongues called Breidamerkurjokull, licks this deep lagoon that has a narrow channel into the North Atlantic. Every day, chunks of ice the size of houses (or department stores!) calve off the lip of the mighty ice and fall into the lagoon. In 1975, the lake was less than 3 square miles. Due to the melting and receding of the glacier, it has now grown to 7 square miles, and reaches depths of 650 feet. The "glacier calves" then make their way out to sea... either as icebergs or, having melted, as new seawater. This water froze thousands of years ago during the late Pleistocene epoch.. Tasting this ice and drinking its water felt comparable to being graced with the opportunity to taste a priceless vintage wine.

We arrived early in the morning. You didn’t need to see the morning frost on the ground to know that the windchill temperature was well below freezing. But I was so excited by the golden light on the vast bay full of icebergs that I left my gloves and hat in the trunk for the first half hour. We spent 2 hours hiking along the shore, marveling at ice formations, the glacier, and the mountains. Some small delicately carved ice sculptures floated near the shore - tiny remnants of melted mighty bergs. Further out were mini-bergs of odd shapes. And beyond them were the massive icebergs... some white, some black, and some blue. The white ones have had their surfaces scrubbed and melted away by the elements, the black ones are fresher, still carrying the surface soil and gravel that had blown onto the glacier, and the blue ones have freshly rolled, exposing their water-saturated bellies to the sky.

Around 10:30 a small coffee shop opened. We warmed up and bought tickets for the boat ride into the lagoon. The boat was a Vietnam-war-vintage amphibious steel truck-boat with big wheels that we boarded by the parking lot. Our driver then took the road around a few hills before plunging into the bay. What a strange experience driving into and out of the water in one vehicle. Once afloat, we meandered among the large icebergs, awed by their mass and beauty and grateful for the sunlight that made them glisten. We could almost touch the giants. Accompanying us from time to time were harbour seals, who feasted on the bounty of fish in the lagoon. And eider ducks swam beside the icebergs, ducking under ledges or into cracks when threatened.

The icebergs move along with the tide and current, piling up as they run aground. Most never leave the lagoon as ice, shrinking into the small lovely crystals near shore. How long might it take for one of the behemoths to turn into a delicate little ice figurine? Visitors here generally only get a single snapshot view of the process. The larger pieces that make their way through the narrow channel, under the bridge, and into the sea immediately meet with swift currents and ocean waves. We walked alongside their path and out to the beach where several impressive icebergs had washed ashore. Here we could look deeply into their ancient ice, or marvel at their curves and hollows. We could walk right into crevices in them. They felt so old and solid.

The next day was a doozy - fog, wild winds, and driving rain. Our only venture out was a second visit to Jokulsarlon (a second snapshot) ... even that was challenging keeping the car on the road. When we returned to the very same spot on the beach, all that was left were a few beachball-size bits of ice. Were we really at the same spot? Did a high tide carry the icebergs away? As our doubts melted away, we knew as sure as sun rises that the behemoths had turned to water, shockingly, overnight!

Good (Bird) Behavior

To me, bird-watching is a lot more than spotting unusual birds and checking them off on my Bird List. I like to sit and watch... just like when I was a kid and watched fish. (A little diversion: I was really into saltwater aquaria and the habits of all sorts of sea creatures. I lived on Biscayne Bay and had a boat to get to the nearby ocean reefs. From bay to reef, the sea offered me endless opportunity to watch abundant and diverse sealife. I could float over a little ecosystem with mask and snorkel for hours just watching. But, also collecting for my mini-ecosystems at home. By learning the behaviors of the fish and other sea creatures, it made finding and catching them pretty easy. It's the same with birds.)

With birds, I catch them on my camera. I am learning how and where to find them, but even more fun, I am learning what they do in their day-to-day routines... eating, bathing, nest-building, mating, caring for young, watching out for danger and protecting their turf, speaking out, and so on... just like us. And really, just like fish and every other animal in its own way. I'm going to share some of the cool feeding behaviors that I have been lucky enough to see.

Just like the rest of us, bird feeding behaviors are really varied. Like human vegetarians vs. carnivores, the hummingbird delicately sips nectar from a flower(click) while the osprey violently snatches a fish right out of the water in his talons (click) and tears it apart. Don't we all know eaters of both kinds?

Like eating a bowl of stew, Roseate Spoonbills sift crustacea and insects from the mud by sweeping the shallows with their spoons (click). And ibises use their curved chopstick-like bills to pick their prey from the mud (click). Like the human hunter, other waders catch frogs (click) and fish (click) by stalking them - like the Green Heron (click) - or by scaring them up with a lot of dancing around and flapping - like the Reddish Egret (click).

Then there are the smorgasborders. I've watched Snowy and Great Egrets fishing from low docks, picking minnow after minnow from a large school in the shadow below (click), and stand on the rim of an overflow pipe nailing the small fish that are pouring out with the water(click). The vulture, a carnivorous feaster, stuffs his belly with roadkill (or any kind of dead meat). Here's one striking the classic vulture pose, as if he's hoping I'll keel over (click). Whereas, the Black Skimmer might be compared to the picky eater, skimming only from the surface (click).

Some birds dive, swim, and fish underwater. Some divers seek their prey amongst the rocks and plants at the bottom, like this Pied-billed Grebe(click) whose just landed a crawfish breakfast.

The spearfishing Anhinga goes straight for the fish. Crystal spotted this guy just as he surfaced with his big catch (click). When he raised it up, we could see the effectiveness of his spear-point bill penetrating right through the bream's gill plate (click). Instead of biting the big fish into pieces, the bird must swallow it's prey whole. I wonder if they ever get one too big to swallow. This one looked like it had to be too big. The Anhinga maneuvered the fish around - this took awhile - until it was pointing face-first into his mouth (click). Once he got the fish in the precisely right position, he seemed to unhinge his jaw, then all at once, the fish slid into his throat. Mind you, the fish was resisting with a sharp rigid dorsal fin the whole way. Once swallowed, that dorsal fin remained firmly extended (ouch!) going down that skinny neck (click).I remember from my aquarium days, I once had a Sargassum fish who swallowed a Mangrove Snapper that was nearly equal in size. The snapper kept that dorsal fin up and thrashed about inside the Sargassum until it tore open the predator's stomach. Both fish died. I was sad to lose both of these beautiful fish, but it was an amazing thing to have seen.

When it comes to feeding babies, having no breasts, hands, baby spoons, or food-processors, birds have come up with another creative solution: partially-digested babyfood. Yum! Open wide. In most bird species, the parent forages for food, then brings it back to the nest in its stomach where the baby feeds on the reguritated food directly from the mouth or throat of the parent. Here is a Pileated Woodpecker fledgling feeding from Mama's mouth (click). A little gross, but civil compared to the Anhinga chick, whose entire head (and spear-like bill) is down the throat of Papa (click... Yow!).

There's a taste of the world of birds that I have seen so far. There are many other behaviors to photograph and blog on. But they'll have to wait for another post. Until then, bon apetit.

Mysterious Waters

The “Upper Bridge” – that’s what they call this spot where I’m waiting for my friend, John. John, inventor and photographer extraordinaire, is bringing his specially-outfitted jonboat – think, “007" – tinkerings, extensions, and gizmos welded here or hidden there. The Wakulla River beckons to me with a boundless shimmery promise of adventure and mystery lurking in the lovely gardens in her currents flowing below me on this crisp March afternoon (click here).

Just three nights ago, I was at “the Lodge” for a meeting, and boated from the head spring... watched the last Hooded Mergansers on their journey north (click) and the shy Black-crowned Night Heron emerge from the reeds as evening approached (click) . Anhingas struck their famous spread-wing poses (click). Soon, puffs of clouds sailed across the darkening sky overhead (click). And later, flickering through a veil of cloudcover, the full moon filled me with awe (click). The Wakulla, meaning “Mysterious Waters”, heralds adventure.

One of John’s missions – or at least an excuse to be here – is to find a picturesque midstream cypress tree that can be lined up in a predetermined way with chosen stars of the winter night sky. He has long envisioned this photograph. We are scouting out possibilities.

Now afloat, we are assembling the johnnypod, a fifteen foot-high tripod on the bow of the boat. From atop this perch, the river takes on the bird’s eye perspective... that of a flying bird, as we cruise downstream. Approaching a fleet of kayaks, the paddlers gawk at our contraption. Never shy, John launches into conversation, quickly connecting dots and finding the mutual acquaintances with this group of Nature Conservancy employees. I snap away from my arial vantage point (click).

Turtles bask on fallen trees. Alligators are a signature sighting along the Wakulla. Sometimes they even share a log with the turtles (click). A wood duck passes cautiously (click). A cardinal alights on an overhanging branch (click). White ibis scare up from the reeds (click). An osprey calls out and lifts off from her nest (click). She circles and I follow her with my lens. Suddenly she drops and I lose her momentarily (damn!), missing her catch her dinner. Ah, there she is again, fish in tow, now headed downstream to a favorite dining perch (click). I “fly” over the river behind her.

Wait, it’s our dinnertime too. We stop (literally), locking the boat to the river bottom using long poles through sleeves welded to the boat. When making a photo using a long exposure, swinging around on an anchorline just won’t work. This jonboat becomes a grounded platform right on the river in such times of need. I might as well describe a few of her other unique features: she can house a roomy tent atop a large carpeted foredeck, even with the johnnypod set up overhead. She has spacious, dry, secure storage beneath the platform. There are other compartments carefully packed with tools, camping needs, foul weather gear, and emergency supplies. All this in a boat that is small and light enough to launch anywhere you can back the trailer to water’s edge. John breaks out a Jetboil stove, soup, cheese, crackers, and a bottle of wine. What lacks in garnish and cutlery is easily made up for in ambiance. We are serenaded by frogs, cicadas, and birds. The sunlight has dimmed to a golden glow (click).

Heading back upstream, from atop the johnnypod, I look back. John steers gracefully around the snags and curves with his outboard throttle extension pole. He looks very happy. Here he is (click) – my last image before climbing down to water level. As we race against light, I lie on the bow platform making photos of the river ahead (click). I experiment with long exposures and movement. Whoa! I like this one (click).

We are close enough to the ramp now to relax. The ancient midstream cypress has eluded us... no matter. We drop the “anchor poles” and watch the stars and bats appear. The bats are swooping all around us... no wonder, the mosquitos have risen from their secret dayrests as well. The temperature plummets as the darkness envelops us. We call it a day...a magical day on the Wakulla River.

Corkscrew Smorgasbord

A serious drought was causing Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary in Southwest Florida to dry up earlier and drier than usual. I was there at the end of March. The surface water was down to some shallow pools, several of which near the boardwalk. Having arrived at dawn, I headed straight for Lettuce Lakes. At the southernmost pond, I hit paydirt. It was within a day or two of drying up altogether and might as well have had a neon sign and arrow overhead to call in all diners. The small fish had been forced into such concentration that the pond was jammed with birds -- herons, egrets, ibis, storks -- all enjoying an eating spree. Three large alligators barely able to submerge and fit between birds had crashed the party as well. It was so entertaining that I had a tough time leaving, and stayed for several hours.

Every few minutes, one of the gators would pop up within inches of a wader causing a lot of fussing and shifting (click), but I never saw a bird look very scared. They were just annoyed. Though the gators looked like they could easily grab a bird, they seemed to be more content gulping down fish without all the feathers to deal with. An alligator would root around the pond floor, then stick his head into the air while opening and closing his toothy smiling mouth to help swallow his catch (click). The storks squabbled, sometimes clacking their bills and posturing for dominance (click). Herons of all kinds mingled - great blues, little blues, even a white morph, snowy and great egrets - amid the easy pickins (click).

There were many white ibis too. They seemed to be very efficient fishermen (click). A would-be thief thought so as well: Suddenly, a red-shouldered hawk swooped into the scene and landed in the mud where the water was already gone. She stood there and watched, standing high to keep her feathers clean, then flew low across the water. I noticed the waders duck and dodge but didn't think much more of it, and she was gone. But a minute later, she appeared again, this time not four feet from me on a branch (click). Ignoring me, she studied the scene with great intensity(click). Choosing her moment, she dived onto an ibis who had just caught a nice little bowfin catfish. The ibis dodged adroitly and the hawk was forced to land across the pond. Back and forth she went, divebombing every ibis who landed a fish. She'd land beside me every other attack. Finally, an ibis caught a fish that was going to take more maneuvering to swallow. The hawk saw the vulnerability, attacked relentlessly, birds squawking, the ibis dodging and clinging... finally fumbling the ball, er, fish into the air. Both players scrambled for the flying fish, then plunk, it was all over. The fish landed back in the pond, free for the moment. The hawk left, exhausted and disgusted. And the ibis went back to probing the shallows for another fish.

A relative peace descended again (click)... waders pacing and snatching, gators rising up to swallow, and the beautiful primordial swamp sanctuary (click) moving through its cycle .

A Visit to The Great Florida Birding Trail - South

The Great Florida Birding Trail (check out it's website) is an amazing compilation of birding sites in Florida. I had an opportunity to visit more than a dozen of the sites in the South Florida section during a trip down that way. I thought it would be worth sharing a thought and photo or two from each site I visited.

Arthur R. Marshall Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge was very cool. The staff and a lot of regular visitors are happy to share tips there. The highlights for me were Great Horned Owl fledglings (click), a baby limpkin (click) and her mother (click), and a mama gator covered with her babies, but there was much much more.

Green Cay Wetlands is not far away. It's a new water reclamation facility, beautifully done - a wading bird's heaven (click) - and popular people too. There were seas of flowers (click), ducklings (click), water fowl (click), and waders... well, this wader was flying (click).

Wakodahatchee Wetlands, also very nearby, is another reclamation facility. Loaded with birds and strolling visitors, I was able to view Great Blue Herons (click) and Anhingas (click) nesting from close range.

Grassy Waters Preserve in West Palm Beach is known for the its Snail Kites (click). Though I didn't capture any great images, it was wonderful to watch one hunting and catching apple snails.

Spanish River Park was undergoing restoration, but still cost $16 to get in! Nice beach and some serpentine gumbo limbo trees (click), but overall unimpressive. Nearby Gumbo Limbo Nature Center, on the other hand, was free and fascinating - helpful staff and cool educational trails (click) and displays .

Crossing the old Alligator Alley, now I-75, was disappointing. The Everglades Wildlife Management Area is virtually inaccessible (unless you bring your airboat). On the west side of the interstate, I first visited Rookery Bay Reserve. Looked like it would be great to explore by kayak (click). Also, a long boardwalk traversed several habitats (click). I found a large expanse of dried mud in which many birds had left tracks (click), so many that they crackled together into a geometric mosaic (click). One lone Reddish Egret fished beside a red mangrove (click).

Next stop was Eagle Lakes Park, a city park in Naples. Was I surprised! Behind the ballfields and playgrounds were huge wetlands ringed by paved trails, great for bicycling and bird watching. The birds must have thought it was great people watching too, for they were bountiful (click). Cormorants are usually solitary fishermen... not at Eagle Lakes (click).

Delnor-Wiggins Pass State Park, a small barrier island park was more a beach place - for sunbathers and fishermen - than a birding place. However, there were some waders along the beach (click) and 3 pelicans waiting patiently near a fisherman (click).

Conservancy Nature Center in downtown Naples is a jewel. An oasis for wildlife in the urban jungle, I saw various warblers (click) and other critters on the trails (click), and nesting Yellow-crowned Night Herons and a Bald eagle from the boat ride (that is included in the $9 admission). There were also some good educational exhibits of animals in rehabilitation, like this loggerhead sea turtle (click).

Moving north to Six Mile Cypress Slough Preserve, I was impressed by the extensive boardwalks, excellent staff, and plenty of wildlife. (click)

But the next day, I visited Corkscrew Swamp Sanctuary, one of the birding trails Gateway sites, and was really blown away. The boardwalks take you through various habitats, mostly cypress forest. It was quite dry at the time, so the water was concentrated in a few shallow pools where the wading birds (click) and alligators (click) were feasting on bowfin catfish in a mad feeding frenzy. (click). It was hard to leave these pools for all the action and antics. Near the visitor's center, I saw my first Painted Buntings (click).

On my way back to Tallahassee, I stopped at Celery Fields, a flood mitigation area loaded with birds - Roseate Spoonbills in full mating plumage to mating Black-necked Stilts (click). The whistling ducks were gone, but it was still a great stop. I saw a Great Blue with a big mouthful (click), and both Greater and Lesser Yellowlegs showing off their namesakes (click).

This was my second trip focused on the Great Florida Birding Trail. There are hundreds of sites scattered throughout the state... I look forward to the next chance I get to explore another part of the trail.

Hoot

Sea Pines Forest Preserve was listed as a South Carolina Important Birding Site at the local Audubon website. I looked it up before visiting there last week. Upon entering the preserve, I was impressed by finding 4 or 5 active Yellow-crowned Night Heron(click here) nests immediately upon entering the trail. They were very close and the herons seemed accustomed to people passing by. I got some great images of one of the YCNHs performing his mating dance. (click). (click for another). Further along the trail and boardwalks, I came upon a field of poppies (click) and some ponds with picnic shelters and such. But the wild parts called to me. I saw snakes, turtles, and many birds, including my first Orchard Oriole (click).

The real treat came at the end of my walk, when I heard a fluttering sound nearby. It took some searching, but I finally found the source: a fledgling cardinal that had accidentally landed in a small wetland pond. She was near the edge, but had sunk to her shoulders, her feet caught in submerged roots (click). She was flapping her wings helplessly on the water's surface. I grimaced at the span of deep mud, water, and poison ivy between me and her, but knew I was already committed to the rescue. When I got her untangled, I examined her to be sure she wasn't injured. At that point, she began crying out in distress. Almost immediately, a huge Barred Owl swooped in, nearly snatching her from my hands. The raptor had second thoughts at the last moment, but landed low in a tree just a few feet away. Wow! ...and darn!... naturally, I had left my camera on the ground near the trail, some 20 feet away.

By now, both cardinal parents had arrived and joined in the fussing. I decided to carry my hostage back with me to protect her and to see if the owl would stay put. Sure enough, I had plenty of time with the squawking youngster to get to my camera, put her under cover of poison ivy, and make a few shots of the owl (click) before it flew off in digust.

After hearing the story of the owl and cardinal, my 3 young cousins were itching to spend the afternoon exploring the Preserve again. Jack, the middle boy at 10 years old,proved to be the "eagle eye" of our group, spotting most of the birds we saw. As I was retelling the story onsite, Jack said, "there's the owl!" It was hard to see through the leaves so we shifted down the trail a little and were even more surprised to see not only the barred owl, but also his/her mate on a nearby branch - TWO owls! They were further away, but we had a great binocular-view of these two beauties. The cardinals were long gone, and peace had settled over the Forest Preserve. I mimicked the owl's call for the boys, "Who cooks for youuuu", and to our delight, we heard 'the real thing' from a distant 3rd owl.

It was a great day of adventure in the Preserve. Big alligators, lots of turtles, many wading birds, including 7 different herons/egrets. Thomas spotted the single Black-crowned Night Heron we saw. Charlie-the-snake-spotter found two banded water snakes for us. There were fields of wildflowers, lakes, swamps with winding boardwalks, many Yellow-crowns nesting along the lakes, and the great Barred 'hooty' owls of the Forest.

Fisheating Creek Revisited

Winding, sometimes obscurely, through the cypress swamps and vast floodplains northwest of Lake Okeechobee, Fisheating Creek is still considered a wild waterway. My friend, Sue, and I spent several days in December exploring all parts of the creek we could access. This was particularly challenging because the water level was VERY low (as evidenced here by the water line on the trees - click here). This meant we had to walk most of one 7 mile stretch, pulling our kayaks in shallows and over sand and roots (click).

On this section between Burnt Bridge and Palmdale, we came to deep pools from time to time, where all the alligators (usually strung out in the meandering swamp) were forced to congregate. It was a bit unnerving to come around a bend in ankle deep water to find 15 or more gators staring at you from the banks and the pool ahead. (Click here, and here). By 'deep', I mean maybe a foot or two... just deep enough for the gators to disappear into the tea-colored waters (which they all did within moments of seeing us). So crossing these pools in our boats felt like crossing a field of landmines - you never knew when a spooked gator might erupt as we crossed over him. We came across one nest of youngsters being babysat by a teenager. A few of the babies were fearless, even curious and swam over to my boat to investigate. (Here they are: click, click, click.)

Birds were abundant, too... like the black vultures... waiting for the carcus of a wayward paddler? (click). And the flycatchers resting on the cypress knees between forays over the water (click). And the black-crowned night heron eyeing me with one of his striking red eyes (click).

When we launched on the last section of the creek, from Hwy 78 to Lake Okeechobee (where the creek finally ends in the 'Big Water'), the sky was heavy with rainclouds. This section has been canalized, so it looked boringly straight and disturbed, but the lure of actually paddling into Florida's big lake was irresistable. I was pleased to see many wading birds, including the limpkin (now rare up in my Tallahassee neck of the woods). Even better, the limpkin didn't pay me much attention as s/he foraged along a beach. We took a small natural-looking side channel as we arrived at the lake, but soon ran out of water. No problem. We walked across the flats toward a small bay where numerous ducks dabbled. Suddenly a small flock of American White Pelicans flushed up from behind some grasses right in front of us. I had my camera ready and was pleased to get a good shot of them despite the low light with a handheld telephoto lens, and the suddenness of the moment (click here.) Where we were on the lake, there were numerous islands and peninsulae, so it wasn't like looking out at an ocean from a beach, but rather a beautiful scene of bay, cove, and strand... a waiting adventure for another visit.

In the end, there should be a sunset. In our case, there was rain... but here's the sunset from the beginning of our adventure, the upper Creek near the Hwy 731 bridge. (click) We arrived after a long drive just before sundown... it turned out to be our only sunny day.

Rainy Days in Cumberland

Cumberland Island, Georgia's southernmost barrier island, can be a photographer's dreamland: rich in wildlife, long stretches of beachs and dunes, a picturesque salt marsh, interesting ruins of an old estate, and a variety of habitats along the 50 miles of hiking trails.

A big place... so to cover much territory, you need to backpack, camping along the way, or else have a bicycle (with a basket for camera gear)... but no bicycles allowed on the ferry. (Why not?!) We knew the concessionaire rented bicycles at the dock so I brought my own bike basket for the weekend adventure. We planned to camp at Seacamp, the only campground, which is not far from where the ferry drops people off. The first glitch in our plan: no bicycles, except one junker whose chain fell off every 50 yards. The few almost-OK bikes (only kind they rented) were all rented out. Bummer!

A front was predicted to be moving through later so we got camp set up under magnificent wind-sculpted oaks (click) and went for a hike to the ruins of Dungeness. I have a few images from last year - so you can see the mansion on a sunny day (click). This day was gloomy with the imminent storm, so the appropriate image is of the "the imprisoned palm", a view from the mansion through an old iron fence (click).

I've included Cumberland Island horses from a year ago as well (click here), but this trip, my favorite horse image was of a pair out on the salt marsh with a passing sailboat in the passage beyond (click). The horses were brought here in the 1800s, but are now wild and have free roam of the entire island. They are neither friendly nor skittish, and number over 100, so seeing one here or there is likely.

There's one especially stunning oak near the boardwalk to the beach that I tried to photograph on a sunny day last January. The shadows made my images too busy to appreciate the massive sprawling tree. Well, this trip, the front moved in...bringing rain, cold, and wind... and it never let up all weekend. The "silver lining" was that this wet old oak tree glistened, and the gray sky cast no rays through the canopy, so I got a pretty good shot during a break in the rain (click).

Trying to keep my gear dry (along with myself) and lugging it on long bikeless hikes around the south end of the island in the rain felt miserable at times, but Cumberland is beautiful, rain or shine, and bad weather really cannot tarnish it's luster or allure. We'll be back.