Cabin P.S.

It seems appropriate to mention that during the cabin visit, my guests and I went for a short hike on The Yearling Trail. It's a microcosm of the best sort of hiking: nearby, scenic, and historic.   

Yes, it's summer in Florida. Yes, it's H-O-T. 

We were looking forward to an easy 3 miles with plenty of water and sight-seeing, and then happy hour at the cabin, probably including some wading in spring water which is always a superbly refreshing 72 degrees.

Little did we know . . . .

A portion of the surrounding forest burned a few years ago, and I've been there several times since. It's thrilling to see how the robust new greenery surges back from the blackened landscape. Scrub ecosystems in Florida actually depend on fire for their continued life. Without fire, the trees grow too tall and shade out the smaller plants, the habitat becomes inhospitable for the creatures that live there (like scrub jays, who like a short landscape where they can easily dive for cover and where predatory hawks can't spy on them from tall trees), and it all changes. Some pines actually require a fire's heat before they will open their cones and release their seeds! 

All that to say, I wasn't worried about the burned parts adjacent to the trails. What I didn't take into account was how many of the bushes and smaller trees, damaged by fire, were knocked over by some of the violent thunderstorms we've had recently. The trail had not been cleared, so we often had to climb over downed trunks and branches. It slowed our progress considerably, and the day became hotter and hotter as we moved in fits and starts through the landscape.

I've always been able to soldier on, but the heat really got to me this time. When kayaking, I loathe portaging over obstructions or struggling through thick vegetation, and this was much like that -- as one friend remarked, "Deadfall is the land version of water hyacinths." So true!

I kept having to rest, and balance between drinking enough water and saving enough water for the rest of the walk, and navigating the deadfall became more and more daunting as the day wore on. At one point I seriously thought about giving up, concerned for my health and not wanting to risk actual heat stroke. But the practical aspect of calling 9-1-1 convinced me that my better course of action was to make it under my own power. I pictured some helpful and burly rescuers hiking out to our location, strapping me to a backboard, and carrying me at various terrifying angles while they clambered over all the deadfall . . . and that seemed way worse than doing the clambering myself, thanks very much.

Eventually, with lots of encouragement and patience from my companions and the loan of one of those wearable fans, I made it back to the trailhead. Once in the car, air conditioning blasting, I recovered quickly -- thank goodness! After dipping my toes in cool water, clutching a cold Bud Light, I was entirely myself again. 

But you won't catch me hiking in summer anytime soon, and maybe never again!

Home Again for the Fourth

My time at the cabin was lovely, but I am happy to be home again. I like my house enough (and the cats!) that I miss them when I'm away. And with at least two nights of fireworks in the offing (the city did theirs on the 3rd and then the amateurs took over for the 4th), I wanted to be home. 

My fireworks protocol is to bring the outside gentleman cat into the bathroom for the duration of the evening, close all the blinds, and play "spa music" to muffle the noises. When things get really loud, I distribute treats to everyone. No matter how startled they are, they gobble up the treats and I hope that gives the noises a positive association -- or at least provides a few minutes in which the cats have something else to think about! 

Fortunately, the noise and smoke didn't seem as awful this year as in years past. Old-school fireworks celebrations are still hard on veterans, wildlife, pets, sensitive humans, and people who dislike pollution. I've seen pictures of drone displays that are more impressive and quieter. Perhaps that's the wave of the future and it would be okay by me!

Here are a few highlights from the cabin. Hiking, strolling, reading, canoeing, socializing, and plenty of good food were the order of each day.

  

Road Oak

A friend has given me a week at a remote cabin and I will be taking full advantage of the opportunity to rest in beauty like this. 

Firsts

Things I'd never done until yesterday:

1. Bought 2 pool noodles and promptly destroyed them.

2. Created makeshift roof rack pads to carry my kayak (see Item 1).

3. Loaded my kayak all by myself, using a technique I learned from a YouTube video. It was shockingly easy.

4. Sweated through my clothes 3 times in one day.

5. Had to take a shower in order to be clean enough to go kayaking with friends.

6. Stopped to check the kayak on the side of I-95 and stood in black ants while checking. My kayak was fine and my feet were okay eventually. (Thank goodness they weren't fire ants!)

7. Saw a bright and prolonged shooting star traverse half the sky, while floating under the moon, planets, and stars on a beautiful estuary.

8. Ran off the road on the way home, I guess because of inattention on a dark, sparsely marked remote roadway. The road turned and I didn't. The next thing I knew, I was driving on grass. Fortunately there was no ditch or culvert to fall into. (You can bet I slowed down after that.)

Like the song says, "When was the last time you did something for the first time?"

It feels good And even if it didn't feel good, I survived!

Still Summer

Despite what most folks might say about Florida, August 1 ushers in an ever-so-slight shift in the light that means fall is on the way. Our days are definitely growing shorter and the blazing heat of high summer has moderated by a miniscule amount. It's nothing like northern climates, but it's what we have.

This hint of fall's approach isn't enough to make me want to eat anything cooked, however. It's still salads all the way until the heat really breaks. 

Meanwhile, there's gazpacho. I love stacking everything up in the bowl before I mix it together into what one of my school friends calls "If salad was soup."

To complete the effect, after sunset tonight there was a tremendous thunderstorm with pelting rain, a spit of hail, ear-splitting thunder, and lightning directly overhead. Yep, still summer.

Score One for Accuracy

We've been having an incredibly rainy summer. Sometimes it rains in the morning, which is weird for this area. Our usual weather pattern is hot and sunny most of the day, giving the clouds time to build up in the west and sweep overhead with thunder and lightning galore, creating all kinds of excitement for about 15 minutes. This usually happens in the early afternoon (just in time to catch me returning from lunch) or around 3 p.m. (fine by me) or quite often around 5 p.m. (adding an extra dimension to the evening commute). And sometimes it socks in and rains all evening.

Florida is supposed to be water-soaked, so I have no problem with this -- although I have to wonder what in the heck we'll do if we have a hurricane when the river is already at flood stage.

Meanwhile, all these rainy days played havoc with the baseball schedule. The local summer wood bat league has navigated its season and playoffs have begun. I've become more diligent about attending, as the end of the season nears.

Yesterday it rained early and the start was delayed. I went to the ballpark at the usual time, and was literally the only person in the stands for about 15 minutes. Then a few more dedicated spectators appeared, and the announcer felt obliged to let us know what was going on.

"LADY and gentlemen," he said, "tonight's game will begin at 7:15."

Midsummer Dawn

Greeting the sun, as we turn toward winter.

Turning the Corner to Summer

We are fortunate to have this kind of everyday beauty already blooming and setting seeds in our neighborhood. We could use more rain after having a few showers yesterday--in the midst of a fearsome drought and wildfires across the state--but all told, I have no complaints about Mother Nature. She does things in her own time, and that's fine by me.

Salt Water and Pixie Dust

Saturday night a group of us ventured out onto the Indian River Lagoon in search of bioluminescence. It's a well-known phenomenon in Puerto Rico and perhaps a few other places in the world. What's not well-known -- even to many Floridians -- is that it occurs regularly in late summer right here in Florida.

Microscopic plankton called dinoflagellates grow in the shallow, brackish water of the lagoon estuary during the summer months, when the water is quite warm. The bioluminescence occurs when they are are disturbed. In other words, when the water is agitated, they light up. It's a simple explanation with a spectacular effect.

We launched just before sunset. Kayak Guy and I had recruited some friends to join us, several of whom are new to kayaking. They were understandably a little nervous about a 4-mile night paddle on unfamiliar waters, but eager to see if the experience lived up to the stories we'd told them. By the end of the evening, they were struggling for words to describe their feelings on an evening none of us wanted to end.

The weather was perfect, with just enough breeze to keep off the mosquitos. We headed north to the no-motor zone, where there is no development, not much ambient light, and lots of sea grass. As the sun set, we noticed the froth from our kayaks and paddles beginning to glimmer. Darkness fell, our eyes became better adjusted to the lack of light, and we saw more and more of the sparkle.

Each little wave from our kayaks, each splash from our paddles was outlined in light, transporting us back to the wonder of childhood. Laughter rang out. Excited voices called across the water. Some of us paddled quickly, startling the mullet, which zoomed away from us in glittering streaks.

Many mullet jumped into the air -- they tend to do that -- and a few jumped into our kayaks. There were some screams but no one panicked as the mullet were rescued and returned to the water. I was lucky that my northbound encounter with a southbound mullet resulted only in a smack in the chest, not a smack in the face. He/she bounced off and splashed to safety.

One friend paddled away from the group and glided into the center of a pod of five sleeping manatees.  By the time he saw them, there was nothing he could do but hope for the best -- they are gentle but powerful and can easily tip over a kayak. As the huge mammals awakened and churned the water in surprise, their hurried retreat created a dazzling burst of light, with each creature sheathed in the brightness.

Meanwhile, I dipped my hand into the water. It came up bearing what looked like a handful of stars, glittering against my glove as millions of tiny organisms winked their light.

And over us all hung the Milky Way, with Venus, Jupiter, and Mercury bright near the horizon, connecting us with the infinite cosmos.

Light above, light below, magic in the middle.  

A Change in the Air

Fall is coming.

Fall in northern climates shouts and waves. Here it tiptoes in, whispering hello.

Since August began, there's a change in the light. It's softer, more yellow, less blazing white-hot than before. Temperatures have moderated into the high 80s from the high 90s, and we've had several afternoons of scattered showers instead of the huge, 20-minute thunder-and-lightning extravaganzas that characterize summer.

It's a welcome change.

Kite Season

Photo from flickr.com

I love the way the seasons come around, even in Florida where we don't have the obvious markers of blazing fall color, first snowfall, ice out, and so on.

Late July and early August mean the swallow-tailed kites are gathering nearby. Usually they're quite solitary birds. If I'm lucky enough to see one at all, it's a solo or maybe a pair.

What a treat it is to know these days they're roosting together at night, eating as much as they can during the day, and preparing to fly to South America for the winter.

The trick is knowing where they roost so you can be nearby early in the morning to see them take their first flight, before heading off in ones and twos for the day's hunting.

Remember, you almost always only see one or two at a time. Fix that in your mind.

Then imagine this joy.

Summer in Florida

The big view and the small . . . .

Lake Woodruff Wildlife Refuge

Buttonbush flowers and seed pods

Launched

Remember this?

As of yesterday morning, nobody home.

That's meconium in the bottom, a red liquid made up of leftovers from the transformation process. Human and other mammal babies have a meconium, too: intestinal contents developed while they're in the womb and expelled soon after birth.  

We noticed just in time to see the first flight, over the back fence and into the woods behind the house.

From this perch, it fluttered away - no doubt to look for flowers and its first meal.

I don't especially care for these pagoda plants (they aren't native), but they support butterflies and hummingbirds so I let them stay.

We'll be keeping an eye out for "our" butterfly!

Meanwhile, the pipevine is putting out new leaves, ready for the next batch of caterpillars.

Busy Right Now

Back soon.

Lake George

Water lily

We Have Natives

And now we have this pretty chrysalis!

It was a total surprise to find it by the sunroom door a few days ago.

We had noticed that the leaves were disappearing off the pipevine, but we didn't see any caterpillars. Now we can be sure there was at least one.

Eye level by a busy door might not be the wisest place to choose for a transformation location, but well, there you have it. We will be extra-careful using this door until pupating is complete. 

We're considering taping up some sticks nearby, because the door and trim are pretty slippery and the butterfly needs something to hang onto when it emerges. That's a critical time, because the wings are folded up and the butterfly needs to hang unimpeded long enough to pump fluid into the wings, with the help of gravity. (If you haven't seen this life cycle in time lapse, go watch some videos right now! This is a good one.) 

See the little "seat belt" that holds it up? The photo gets fuzzy when I blow it up that much, but here's a close-up. I love that part!

I used to wear myself out raising caterpillars on the back porch of my previous house. They eat a lot. I was at the nursery almost daily, buying more herbs. (These are midnight swallowtails chowing down on a parsley plant.)

Transformation in progress. (See the "seat belt"?)

And then . . . .

Now we plant native host plants in the yard and hope for the best. The pipevine is quite spectacular when it's blooming, with blossoms about as big as your hand.

Sometimes the chrysalises fall victim to wasps before the transformation is done. We are solidly on the side of the butterflies -- but wasps need to eat, too, you know? Nature is never all one way.

If this pipevine swallowtail makes it, it will look very much like the midnight swallowtail in these pictures. Actually, it's the other way around: the pipevine swallowtail is poisonous, so it doesn't get eaten. Various other butterflies -- such as the midnight swallowtail -- mimic its coloring and they don't get eaten, either, even though they're not poisonous. So just by existing, the pipevine swallowtail helps other butterflies.

As I said, I used to put a lot of energy into raising the caterpillars and butterflies, which was fun but an exhausting responsibility. Now I just try to facilitate and stay out of the way.

For the 4th

Happy birthday, America. May you always achieve your highest aspirations.

Summer Reading, Anyone?

In case you need some ideas, here's a fun flowchart from the awesome Strand Books. (Full size picture here.)

This Bit of Summer

I could have styled this photo better (just a slight turn would have covered the sink drain with a leaf, right?) but I just slapped and snapped. Obviously.

And so you get a microcosm of early summer: a surprise hydrangea, backed up with some organic tomatoes in a blue bowl, and a sweet potato and an onion in one of my favorites, a blue-and-white polka dot bowl.

The hydrangea isn't native and so I am inclined to look askance at it, except when it fluffs up these pretty pale blue or creamy white flowers, as if to woo me into having more positive feelings about it. When it's not flowering, the only reason I tolerate it is that Kayak Guy's dad probably planted it, an unknown number of years ago.

The tomatoes come from the nearby CSA and the downtown farmers market, and are so much more deliciously local than what the grocery store offers. The CSA is almost done for the year -- once this run of summer squash ends -- because the Florida growing season is essentially backwards from traditional garden timing.

The farmers market will soldier on through the hot months, but will switch over to okra and collards, two things that I like even less than hydrangeas and store-bought tomatoes. It may be a long summer.

I remember buying the polka dot bowl on a "junking" trip with a dear friend, about 25 years ago when I collected blue-and-white pottery and displayed it in an antique cupboard. Now all I really collect is books, being more inclined to shed most other possessions whenever I can. But I've kept a few of my very favorite pieces from the decorating days, and I've kept the friend, too.

Such small things, and so much pleasure from each of them. There's a lesson there somewhere.

Game Over

Baseball always makes me feel philosophical this time of year.

Local baseball wrapped up last night, with a difficult 9th inning loss by the home team. Much as I wanted to see the River Rats advance to the championship game, I can't possibly say they deserve it after giving up the tying run on a bobbled bases-loaded single that followed a series of miscues, and the go-ahead run on a bases-loaded walk. Followed by the insurance run, also on a bases-loaded walk.

It was a really good game for a while there, and then it got ugly.  Oh well.

The bigger picture is that this is the end of local baseball, which clearly signals the progress of the seasons. It's August already. The days are already noticeably shorter and, while I have plans for another long river trip before summer's end, we're already turning toward fall.

Another season, soon another year. It all goes by so quickly.

An Old-Fashioned Fourth

We spent the Fourth with friends, combining the festive and the local in just the right measure at the lakefront park in their community. Unfortunately, we missed the bike parade.

 

We were on time, however, for the concert of patriotic music by the neighborhood's "fun band."  The musicians' ages ranged from teen to retirement, and some of them have been in the band for 25 years. If Norman Rockwell never did a painting showing the various expressions of concentration, enjoyment, and surprise that musicians make while playing outdoors, well . . . he should have. 

Afterwards, it was time for barbecue, baked beans, cole slaw, sweet tea, and a tableful of homemade and store-bought desserts.  The two dogs in attendance were extremely well-behaved, and the people who arrived by boat were pretty sorry because it kept bouncing around in its moorings and having to be retied, until it grounded itself (and the father had to get in the water to free it).

When the party broke up, we visited with a new friend who showed us his fantastic arrowhead and pottery collection, all discovered while he was growing up near here. Amazing stuff.  His wife called them "your boring arrowheads," but we thought they were anything but boring. There's nothing like artifacts from a few thousand years ago to put America's 200 years into perspective.

On the way home we stopped for gelati, taking it home to the screened porch while listening to the first volleys of do-them-yourself fireworks. The weather wasn't promising for the celebration downtown, nor was the $5 parking charge, so we merely listened and kept an eye on the pets.

It never did rain, and there were lots and lots of pops and sizzles as we finished the day with candles, quiche and white wine on the porch. After all, the French supported the American Revolution, remember?