Palolo Hatch

Kingfish and snapper at Bud n Mary's Marina

Islamorada has gained international recognition as the sportfishing capitol of the world. Twice a day, reports come on the radio from captains all across the Keys boasting how 8-year olds and arthritic retirees are landing fish. Lots of fish. It seems everyone down here has a glorious story about landing a monster tarpon or snook. I will go ahead and blame it on the cold snap, which killed all the fish, because I just can’t cope with the idea that I’m so remedial or unlucky as to stay in the Cub Scout status of Keys’ merit badges with my one mangrove snapper.

A palolo worm and hand-tied fly to mimic the pattern

Just last week the famous palolo worm hatch came to a close. During the full and new moon phases in May and June these guys come out of the hard coral to spawn in the ocean side of the Florida Keys. Instinctually, they head in the same direction until reaching their breeding grounds. Giant tarpon gather by the hundreds to eat these tasty little creatures and following the foodchain, so do the anglers.

Anglers on Atlantic side of the Florida Keys waiting for rolling tarpon

Pete Frezza blind casting for tarpon

Pete Frezza, a local guide and biologist, took me out to see the last leg of the palolo hatch in hopes of catching a tarpon on the fly. We poled around for a few hours along the shallow banks but the worms proved sparse and the tarpon skittish.

After the motor died, Pete push-poled us to a spot on the flats

We decided to cut our losses and head for the flats to do some bonefishing, but on the way, the engine made a clicking sound and shut off. We were stuck. A few miles from the boat ramp, poling along would have landed us home around midnight so we decided to call for a towboat.

Water abstract

A Florida Gator fan at heart, I love orange and blue anything.

While we waited, I made some images of the metallic patterns of the setting sun reflected in the water, quickly turning a disaster into an interesting photo opportunity.

A slow stripping motion with the fly line mimics the movement of the palolo worm

Perhaps it was my fault; my karma for proudly posing with a dead tarpon in January. I obviously have no business fishing in the Florida Keys. Maybe I should just leave the saltwater angling to the pros and geriatrics.  

Our rescuers, TowBoatUS

Fa-Ka-Hat-Chee

A strangler fig wrapped around a large cypress tree.

A swamp by any other name would be just as sweet, right?

No way.

A cypress dome in Big Cypress National Preserve

For the longest time I’ve dreamed about photographing the Fakahatchee Strand and Big Cypress in South Florida. Finally, two weeks ago I got to briefly test the waters, making one of many-to-come trips.

Densely packed swamps, the overwhelming epiphytic conquest, and secretive wildlife all reveal the Baroque character that is the Florida tropics.  Like Borneo, Machu Picchu, or Bora Bora, the name alone carries a reputation all its own and with it the allure of some foreign Pandora that demands exploration and inspires wonderment.

Pond apples adorned with mosses, ferns, and orchids.

The Calusa, Timucuans, and Jororo tribes had it right. All of my favorite places around Florida have names with a built-in personality and timelessness. To name a few: Kanapaha, Apalachicola, Panasoffkee, Myakka, Pithlochocoo, Alachua, and of course, the Ichetucknee.

Tillandsia and cypress trees

Cypress knee cluster 

It’s the antiquity of it all; like a lost civilization, overgrown and forgotten, you can only imagine the once wildness that was the entire state. In a few well-hidden places, little pockets of exclusive backcountry help remind me that this was what Florida must have looked like 18 million people ago. And I wonder, should the Timucuans or Calusa still be around would they be so spiritual or optimistic? What kind of name would they give our Miami or the bustling streets of Orlando? 

Halloween pennant dragonfly (Celithemis eponina) 

Wildflowers in the sawgrass prairie

My Walden

An image I made back in 2000 of Hogtown Creek on Fuji Film. I practiced

exposure and composition religiously, trying to find ways of showing the 

beauty I saw in what would become my most beloved place. 

I started getting into nature photography around my junior and senior year of high school. Most days I would leave Eastside High and set out to explore the backwoods of Alachua County. One area in particular held a very special place in my heart and I would frequently wake up before sunrise in order to catch first light before the bell rang for first period. It’s known as Hogtown Creek but there are very few people who actually know where it is. Sometimes I wouldn’t even bring my camera and instead would just sit and read by the water. It became my training grounds as a naturalist and as a photographer. It became my Walden.

Low water on Hogtown creates whitewater over the limestone bedrock.

I rarely go back home without stopping by to see how it’s changed and to rekindle my love affair with this unique place.

I used to sit in this elm and read Thoreau for inspiration.

The same tree, ten years ago. 

Planar Elms line the creek and in the summer damselflies dance around the grasses. After ten years, it hasn’t lost any of its magic.

Ebony jewelwing female.

I now find myself with a whole slough of Waldens from Florida to Honduras; secret landscapes with limited access, which helped shape my understanding of the natural world and define my career as a photographer. I’m so grateful to have these little sanctuaries for the soul. 

Kanapaha Prairie at sunrise. 

Cattle on Kanapaha Prairie.

Spider webs connect pickerelweed flowers like communication centers.

Again, my favorite live oak.

There are photos to be found everywhere on Kanapaha Prairie. 

Like every great relationship, the more you stoke the fire, try new things, and open your channels to its unique voice, the hotter it burns. There are always new nooks and crannies to explore, new experiences to share, and that's the beautiful thing about nature. No matter how far we may stray or unintentionally take it for granted, it will always welcome us back with open arms. 

Fall 2007. Every season offers a new gift in Hogtown Creek.

Smooth, like Keith Stone

My dad and Belle, taking a nap on the prairie.

For Keith Stone, the ideal father's day would probably consist of sipping whiskey with me, my mom, and my two brothers by the horseshoe pit, shooting a few rounds from the rifle followed by a midday nap in the hammock, and ending with a hearty steak and potatoes dinner. He's a man's man, a mustache and cowboy boots kind of man, born and raised in rural southwest Virginia. So I'm sure that when I first started running around enthusiastically chasing butterflies with my camera and becoming a frequent visitor at the botanical gardens, he wondered where he went wrong. 

Butterfly orchid (Encyclia tampensis)

When I tell my dad, who mows the lawn with a pistol and owns three different chainsaws, that I just went out looking for flowers this weekend, he might wince a little, but should know that out here, it’s totally a "manly" endeavor. 

If you can get past the constant discomforts of sweat, bugs, and unyielding heat, then Florida summers are actually pretty nice. Right now in the Everglades orchids of all types are in bloom. These little beauties aren’t hard to find if you know where to look. Exploring for orchids has actually become one of my favorite things to do on the weekends. The ironic thing about these very delicate and sexy flowers is that they thrive in such harsh places. Just to find one in bloom you end up traversing razor sharp grasslands filled with stinging insects until arriving at a cypress slough where you trudge through venomous snake territory and gator infested waters. 

I wouldn't go to these lengths had my dad not instilled in me an appreciation for the outdoors, that, and the thick stubborn skin of a country bumpkin. 

So, happy Father’s Day! To the dad who always taught us to take advantage of each day and to always take the time to stop and smell the flowers--well, as long as no one else is watching.

Summer's a Creepin

Everyone told me when I got to Audubon that I came at a cushy time, arriving in the temperate month of November. Now that June is around the bend I’m starting to see what they were talking about.

Adam Chasey paddling out in the Florida Bay.

Temperatures are reaching a balmy 94 degrees in the afternoons, which feels more like 105 slogging around in the humid mires of the Everglades. At our sample sites, the water around the flats could hard-boil an egg and the bays are about as refreshing as backwash. The only option for cooling down is pouring my ice-cold drinking water down my shirt, which I’m pretty sure will one day induce cardiac arrest.

I have yet to see the mosquito swarms famous for carrying off small children, but the deer flies, oh my lord the deerflies are unbearable. If mosquitoes are the infantry then the deerflies are the delta force of the bloodsucking army.  They always seem to bite the hardest when both of my hands are occupied or they’ll attack in tactical nondescript locations like the ends of toes, the shoulder blades, or right on the soft spot of my arch. To boot, they are extremely fast and difficult to kill. I loathe them with such deliberate malice but when combined with the intense heat of a cloudless sun and the stillness of everything else, my rage probably looks more like a temper tantrum from some frustrated schizophrenic. Although, I must admit that killing them occupies the greater part of my day and really gives me a sense of purpose and direction. I feel just as accomplished in crossing out items on a to-do list as when I hear the crunch of their blood-filled abdomens on my arm. A little demented? Perhaps, but I guarantee if you spend a week out here you’ll be talking trash to the lifeless deerfly bodies smashed in your hands too.

Red mangrove in the flats at Joe Bay just before a large rainstorm.

Summer in the field might mean some slight discomforts, but when four o’clock rolls around and those cumulous nimbus clouds start building on the horizon, it all seems worth it. The energy in the Florida summer sky is intoxicating especially when out on the open water or mangrove flats. There’s just a certain vulnerability and appreciation I feel when the thunderheads tower over the landscape.  May is only the beginning and I can’t wait to see what kind of fickle weather patterns ensue with the coming months, despite the bugs that come with them. 

Weekend Warriors

Garl Harrold (back center) with group in one of his secret gator holes.

After a full week of work, Saturdays usually come with a dilemma. On one hand, I have my big, beautiful, and neglected bed, while on the other an entire national park is going through some dramatic seasonal changes. Either way, it’s a win-win situation and I can easily justify one over the other, usually at the influence of weather. This weekend, I chose the Everglades.

My roommate Adam (right) with coworker Erin (center) and Wolfgang (left) 

dare the other to walk into the gator hole.

Normally I go out alone, but since Garl (of Garl’s Coastal Kayaking) had a group of paying customers to where I could hitch a ride, I decided to tag along.

You can see here how cypress domes get their names.

We went out to a few cypress domes off the beaten path and looked for snakes and owls. After only ten minutes of looking, we came upon a slight depression, which looked like the perfect hideout for water snakes. Fortunately we had three herpetologists in the group and they helped us find 6 cottonmouths in one small pile of logs.

Hiking into one of these domes can be pretty muddy.

Of course, on a branch just above these snakes sat a barred owl. 

Quill-leaf epiphyte (Tillandsia fasciculata) takes over the trunks of pond cypress in this dome.

With the return of the rains, all of the parched epiphytes are starting to perk up and fill out. Walking through the trees amongst the varieties of air plants and orchids carries the same silent awe as snorkeling a coral reef. It’s just so beautiful how every inch of livable space is occupied by something that contributes to the overall health of the ecosystem.

For sunset, we paddled out into the Bay and got to see my favorite seasonal change of all: clouds.

Down here, the afternoon storms and towering, anvil-shaped cumulous clouds are famous for appearing out of nowhere. Summer isn’t here quite yet, but when it is, I’ll be ready!

Playing the Audubon Card

Last spring I worked for the National Audubon Society at the Francis Beidler Forest Sanctuary in Harleyville, South Carolina. In the office chatter I would always pick up little tidbits about one of their sister sites, Corkscrew Swamp in Naples, Florida. One of the top grossing Audubon enterprises, Corkscrew Swamp brings visitors around a 2 mile boardwalk that weaves in and around cypress, slash pine, and marsh. I always wanted to visit, but never found the time to drive the four hours from Gainesville. This weekend, however, four of my friends and I booked two nights in one of the researchers cabins. Playing the Audubon card, we slept in air conditioned rooms, cooked full meals in the kitchen, and most importantly, were granted unlimited access to the swamp. 

Day 1:

Adam Chasey photographing Alligator Tail and Pond Cypress on the boardwalk.

Within five minutes of getting on the boardwalk we came within 6 feet of a Pileated Woodpecker

and he pecked at a tree for 15 minutes without minding our presence. 

Raccoons came and went, cutting us off on the boardwalk. 

These guys just roamed around looking for crawfish, though the water was high which made

hunting a little difficult. 

Strangler figs wrap around six hundred year old bald cypress.

A view of the boardwalk at sunset.

Alligator tail and bald cypress.

Day 2:

Adam Chasey climbing one of the strangler fig vines. In this photo he is about 30 feet off the ground.

Although invasive, these little brown anoles are fun to watch. The red pouch is call a dewlap

that the males swell in order to attract females. 

Alligator Tail detail.

Green tree frogs were everywhere this time of year!

This is another exotic invasive called water hyacinth. It's pretty, but just to name a few things:

it clogs waterways, impedes sunlight from reaching native aquatic plants, depletes oxygen in the water,

and provides breeding grounds for mosquitoes. The park is going to spray for them next week.

Tillandsia, an epiphyte, grows everywhere here. 

Here's the fun one. We spent forty five minutes playing with flashlights to light up this one part of the canopy

where the big dipper peeks through. We decided just to highlight the rims of the tree to draw you in more to the center. 

Fun times, although the mosquitoes and horseflies were making it a little difficult. 

Day 3

Sunrise on the marsh.

A nice fog rolled in through the slash pines just as the sun came up.

Red ant with dewdrops.

The eyed click beetle has the distinct marks on top of its head. When a bird sees this

beetle from above it appears to be a snake. 

One of the staff, Mike Knight, gave us a tour of the entire swamp property on their famous Swamp Buggy. 

We saw tons of red-shoulder hawks

Tree frog detail on alligator tail.