Lars Andersen's Posts - Zoobird2024-03-29T02:16:52ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersenhttps://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/2524192169?profile=RESIZE_48X48&width=48&height=48&crop=1%3A1https://www.zoobird.com/profiles/blog/feed?user=3mt08r1qkxncb&xn_auth=noFlorida's Springs: Our Dying Canariestag:www.zoobird.com,2013-07-03:2129360:BlogPost:541632013-07-03T19:54:35.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">It’s a tribute to cave divers like the late Wes Skiles that photos of people swimming in the Floridan Aquifer have become common-place. In places like the amazing Blue Path exhibit now showing in the Florida Museum of Natural History, we see pictures of divers swimming through the most serene settings imaginable—suspended in dream worlds of icy-blue water and cream-colored limestone; moving through grand, underwater passages; illuminated by…</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">It’s a tribute to cave divers like the late Wes Skiles that photos of people swimming in the Floridan Aquifer have become common-place. In places like the amazing Blue Path exhibit now showing in the Florida Museum of Natural History, we see pictures of divers swimming through the most serene settings imaginable—suspended in dream worlds of icy-blue water and cream-colored limestone; moving through grand, underwater passages; illuminated by celestial shafts of sunlight. Like modern hieroglyphs, these photos line the great-halls and corridors of our public places with depictions of legendary places and heroes doing heroic deeds. They are morality tales with common themes; water is precious; never take it for granted; do all you can to protect it.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">Wes once showed me a photograph of a cave diver drifting in a submerged cave. As cave-diving images go, it was relatively unremarkable. In fact, the only clues that it was taken in a cave at all, were some limestone projections visible in the background. Judging by the diver’s enthusiastic “thumbs-up” and by his excited eyes, visible even through his face mask, it appeared to be a photo of a young man having the experience of a life-time.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">Wes was quick to point out that he had not taken this photo; it was a self-portrait, taken by the diver of himself. Wes' emphasis on the fact that the diver was alone was my first clue that all was not right with this happy scene.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">Pointing to the limestone in the background, Wes said “I know this place.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">He then pointed to the tanks on the diver’s back, “And those don’t hold enough air to reach that spot in the cave and make it back out. He’s already dead and doesn’t even know it.”</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">In that instant, with Wes’ guidance, I realized that I was not looking at a photo of a happy diver; I was looking at a man about to experience the last, and most horrifying moments of his life. As I stared at the photo, trying to correlate the tragedy I now knew to be happening with the happy appearance, I realized it was a perfect metaphor. Wes had devoted his life to sounding the alarm that behind the beautiful facade of the springs, a huge tragedy is unfolding.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">Knowing that most of us will never dive in caves, he called our attention to the springs—the only part of the aquifer system we’ll ever see. He compared them to the celebrated coal-mine canaries, used by miners to detect dangerously low oxygen levels. The springs are our visible indicators of the aquifers health. And, it doesn't take an expert to see they are sick. Our canaries are gasping.</span></p>
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<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">On a recent tour down Santa Fe River, our small group of paddlers drifted over the fresh-water geyser called Poe Spring, feeling the earth’s pulse gently rock our boats, as we discussed Florida’s aquifer system. I explained that rain water seeps slowly through the limestone to the underground system of channels and pockets; that some water is in the ground for many decades, maybe even centuries, before it works through the system and reappears from a spring; that the aquifer provides the vast majority of Florida’s drinking water.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">I then explained to the group that the aquifer is in jeopardy. It's being degraded by over-extraction and pollution from agriculture and home owners who continue to over-fertilize and spray pesticides with reckless disregard. Pointing to the green-tinted water of Poe Springs, I described crystal clear water I knew as a child. I pointed to the barren bottom of the spring pool, where the only signs of life are clumps of brown algae, and describe the eel grasses and other plant species that grew here only a decade ago. Ecologists consider Florida’s springs to be among the most diverse freshwater habitats in the world.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">We spent the next few hours paddling down-stream, stopping to admire every spring we passed. I felt like a museum docent leading tourists down vaulted green halls and showing them our amazing collection. I described each piece, gave a little history, and then moved aside to allow everyone a few moments contemplation before moving to the next piece.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">There really is power in the knowledge we have gained from people like Wes Skiles. And yet, we’re not acting on it. Our springs <i>are already</i> turning green, and most <i>are already</i> showing the obvious symptoms of too many nitrates in the form of a thick coating of algae on all submerged objects. And yet, there is no sense of alarm. The fact that the canary is dying doesn’t seem enough. I wonder if Wes ever looked out on a room full of legislators and saw only grinning fools in dive-masks giving a hearty thumbs-up.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;">Lars Andersen is a nature guide for Adventure Outpost in High Springs. <a href="http://www.adventureoutpost.net/">www.adventureoutpost.net</a> He can be reached at <a href="mailto:riverguide2000@yahoo.com">riverguide2000@yahoo.com</a> or phone: (386) 454-0611.</span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: book antiqua,palatino;"> </span></p>Finding Sanctuary in Watertag:www.zoobird.com,2012-12-21:2129360:BlogPost:518132012-12-21T23:25:50.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
<p>I’m not sure what I expected to see in the heron’s eye; maybe some sign of its soul. The Calusa said the eyes are windows to the soul. If there was ever a moment this bird’s soul would be shining from its jet black “windows,” it was now, standing knee-deep in the float-glass waters of Newnans Lake and gazing, with the tranquility of a monk, into a smoldering burnt orange sunset. I wanted to believe that the shining black well held the knowledge of the Universe—the knowledge shamen and monks…</p>
<p>I’m not sure what I expected to see in the heron’s eye; maybe some sign of its soul. The Calusa said the eyes are windows to the soul. If there was ever a moment this bird’s soul would be shining from its jet black “windows,” it was now, standing knee-deep in the float-glass waters of Newnans Lake and gazing, with the tranquility of a monk, into a smoldering burnt orange sunset. I wanted to believe that the shining black well held the knowledge of the Universe—the knowledge shamen and monks only dream of—but all I could see was the shiny speck of the reflected sun.</p>
<p>In the hour that I watched, the bird barely moved a muscle. It just stood and contemplated the sun, oblivious to me and seemingly oblivious to the hundred other herons doing exactly same thing. They weren’t a flock. They were a hundred widely-spaced individuals—none closer than two hundred feet apart—all moved by the same primordial instinct to come to the shallow north end of Newnans Lake and stare at the setting sun.</p>
<p>I may never know why the herons gathered at Newnans Lake that day. My romantic mind wants to believe I stumbled upon some previously unknown heron sun-worshipping ceremony—something akin to the fabled elephant’s graveyard. Whatever it was, I know it’s probably too simple or too complex for me to comprehend. But one thing is certain; the water was a critical element. Too deep for land predators and too shallow for gators, this thin veneer of water was the ideal setting for these birds to indulge in their transcendent contemplation without the burden of fear. Like all species, herons know that life in Florida is a gift of water.</p>
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<p>Floridians are becoming increasingly passionate about our water. With a flood of new information coming from an amazing community of researchers, cave divers, geologists and devoted people from a variety of backgrounds, our understanding of Florida’s life-giving water systems—the underground aquifers—is growing exponentially.</p>
<p>The love of Florida’s springs and aquifers goes far deeper than intellectual pursuit. It comes from that powerful, intangible place in all of us that’s too big to name. When pressed, we usually defer to catch-all words like, “spirituality.” While many people in our spring-loving community, (I call it the “Springs Republic”) shy away from discussions about the spiritual aspect of their passion for springs, none deny it.</p>
<p>Everyone comes to their love of springs from a different place. For some, it was born in the carefree days of youth, playing and seeking relief from summer’s heat in their cool waters. Others associate them with family baptisms or perhaps more personal spiritual quests. Some never saw it coming. They arrived at springs as objective strangers, perhaps for jobs or research or by pure luck of geography when they relocated to a home near a spring. But, like many before them, they inevitably fell under the water’s spell. To know springs is to love them.</p>
<p>There’s nothing new about the current upwelling of love for Florida’s springs. It just feels that way. When you think honestly about it, there’s no getting past the fact that we are all “new” Floridians. All of us are trying to re-learn and re-form the bond that the native people had. But it's not easy. We are relative strangers in a relatively unfamiliar land. While Europeans have been here for a respectable 500 years, it hardly matches the 14,000 year run of our predecessors. More importantly, our cultural and spiritual heritage has nothing to do with this land.</p>
<p>Unless you are Native American, your spiritual/religious heritage is rooted in land far from Florida. Our ancient tales and holy texts—the stories that tell us who we are and where we came from—are all inhabited by places and plants and animals and land features we know nothing about. Christian children learn the words frankincense and myrrh early, but wouldn’t recognize it if it was in their hand. How many times have you seen Mount Arrarat? Jerusalm? Mecca? Mt Fuji? When was the last time you dipped your toes in the Jordan, or did a cannonball into the Ganges or Eurphrates. There are “holy” wells throughout the Old World that would make Buddhist or Jewish or Christian Floridians weep if they ever sat at their banks, while their Florida “home” brims with over 1000 springs.</p>
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<p>I wonder what acts of reverence the Timucuan performed when they gathered alongside Silver Spring; how did their songs sound when they danced on the banks of Ichetucknee? I wonder how many Timucuan eyes welled as they approached Ginnie Spring. I wonder how many would weep if they saw it today.</p>Listening to Watertag:www.zoobird.com,2012-02-04:2129360:BlogPost:475282012-02-04T04:51:08.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
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<p>Of all Leonardo Da Vinci’s great ideas, one of my favorites is one of his simplest. No diagrams, no assembly required, just a simple re-purposing of an everyday item—the canoe paddle. He suggested if we put its blade into water and then pressed our ear against its shaft, we could hear the sounds of aquatic life. Once again, Leonardo was way ahead of it’s time. Not only did this idea pre-date sonar, it predated the belief that the sea was worth listening to.</p>
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<p>In a…</p>
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<p>Of all Leonardo Da Vinci’s great ideas, one of my favorites is one of his simplest. No diagrams, no assembly required, just a simple re-purposing of an everyday item—the canoe paddle. He suggested if we put its blade into water and then pressed our ear against its shaft, we could hear the sounds of aquatic life. Once again, Leonardo was way ahead of it’s time. Not only did this idea pre-date sonar, it predated the belief that the sea was worth listening to.</p>
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<p>In a study published in 2009, a group of biologists in Australia described a rich “vocal repertoire” of vocalizations among long-necked freshwater turtles, <i>Chelodina oblonga.</i> The list of sounds included “clacks, clicks, squawks, hoots, short chirps, high short chirps, medium chirps, long chirps, high calls, cries or wails, hooos, grunts, growls, blow bursts, staccatos, a wild howl, and drum rolling.” Of course, to assume that other turtles—including any of the 15 species in our beloved Santa Fe—have similar “vocabulary” is to enter dangerous and highly unscientific territory.</p>
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<p>Non-scientifically speaking, it seems unlikely that one species of turtle is chatting away in a language of 17 unique sounds and others are mute. I’d love to think that that our own turtles occasionally throw back their heads and “howl,” in decibels we can’t hear—their own version of the alligator bellow—or that on nights when the moon is just so, and the owls assure them there are no humans in earshot, they crowd onto logs and launch into fevered rounds of “drum rolling.”.</p>
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<p>Unlike turtle talk, there’s nothing subtle about alligator bellows. When William Bartram described alligators arching their back and “making the earth tremble with their thunder,” few people believed him. It would be decades before this phenomenon was confirmed by others. Both male and female gators bellow without regard to the hour of day or night or if they’re on land or in water. The only quiet time is winter. It’s assumed to be a general announcement of the gator’s presence, but this too is only speculation.</p>
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<p>The most spectacular bellowing is the “water dance,” done only by the males. In this display, the male rears his head, lifts his tail and then powerfully contracts his body, causing it to vibrate. If the gator is in water, the contraction causes water between the scales of its back to spray up in a misty fountain. Diane Ackerman described it beautifully, in “<i>A Natural History of the Senses,”</i> as “frying diamonds.”</p>
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<p>To be clear, it’s not the realization that marine animals make sounds that’s new, it’s the notion that they use these sounds for communication. In the days of wooden ships, sailors could hear the eerie sounds of whale’s songs emanating up from the ships hull. Some people speculate that this was the origin of the myth of Sirens, the legendary beauties who sang enchanting songs from the rocky shore and caused ships to come close and crash.</p>
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<p>To date, researchers have identified over 1,000 fish that make sounds.</p>
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<p><i>Minyard Connor savors his weightlessness. He’s oblivious to the gentle whitecaps churning thirty feet above him. He’s been down for over a minute without an air tank, listening and watching. In his years as a free diver, Minyard has learned that seas are noisy places. He recognizes the calls and chirps of the fish he’s hired to find by men like the one whose fishing line is now attached to his spear; the one who is likely swilling his fifth Bud Light in the boat overhead. Minyard knows the sounds, but he doesn’t know their meanings. He’s okay with that. Down here, at least, he’s not expected to understand.</i></p>
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<p>There are a few things the researchers have sorted out. For instance, it’s mostly male fish that make sounds. In those cases where a purpose has been determined, it’s usually for mating and courtship. Butterfly fish whisper, Seahorses make a click by tossing back their heads, streaked gurnards and rockfish growl. As we paddle the waters of Chassahowitzka and Suncoast Keys this weekend, we’ll listen for the “bubble and thud” of eels, the “cronk” of sea robins, the “grunting” of toadfish and the “umph” of bass.</p>
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<p>The list of species that make the water hum with their chatter is diverse. The one thing most of them have in common is the absence of external ears. Instead they have an assortment of pressure-detecting organs. Fish have lateral lines on their sides, blind cave fish have neuromasts on their heads, manatees have a depression on their cheek, and so on, but none of them have ears. And, therein lays the key to our own deafness in water. No matter how hard Minyard listens, he’ll never hear more than a fraction of the conversations buzzing around him, any more than we can hear the radio waves in our own terrestrial world of light air. We go about our days clueless that the air around us is full of "Lake Wobegone Days," until we turn on our high-tech sensory device—our radio—and find Garrison Keillor in full stride. The only humans who will ever enjoy the melodies and impassioned conversations that constantly vibrate our planets waters will be marine researchers with their gadgets. Even then, it will be a strange opera—beautiful music and babel.</p>
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<p>As for using paddles as listening devices, it appears that in this instance, Da Vinci had an idea better suited to poets than engineers. But, I’m okay with that. I find comfort in knowing that besides holding up my hat, my ears allow me to hear such beautiful sounds as bird song, the wind in palms, fireside stories of people like my friend Minyard, and the finest of all river sounds, the <i>blip, swish, plink</i> of a canoe paddle doing the task it was designed for.</p>
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<p> </p>Close Encounters of the Turd Kindtag:www.zoobird.com,2011-02-11:2129360:BlogPost:344022011-02-11T02:04:50.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
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<p>Hiking in Ichetucknee Forest this morning, I was reminded that nature observation requires a few basic skills. Spontaneity is high on the list. When you spot a pair of slugs slowly sliding over each other, you must be willing to forego all plans and stop to watch them. You may never again see two slugs interacting. Next, you must have the patience to sit quietly for hours watching your slimy subjects for any hint of interesting behavior. Being observant also helps. Make mental notes…</p>
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<p>Hiking in Ichetucknee Forest this morning, I was reminded that nature observation requires a few basic skills. Spontaneity is high on the list. When you spot a pair of slugs slowly sliding over each other, you must be willing to forego all plans and stop to watch them. You may never again see two slugs interacting. Next, you must have the patience to sit quietly for hours watching your slimy subjects for any hint of interesting behavior. Being observant also helps. Make mental notes of distinguishing marks that will help you identify the species when you get home to your field guide (you know, the “field guide to slugs;” the one you’ve stayed up way-too-late reading way-too-many times). You must be content with meager results. This will ease the disappointment of realizing dusk is falling quickly and your slugs have barely moved for two hours. Be thorough. Before you leave, move close so you can see any smaller physical details. You might even want to prod them a little with a stick to see their undersides. Lastly, as in all things, you should have a sense of humor. It will get you through little setbacks, like when you discover that two slugs you’ve been observing for a couple of hours are actually a pair of squirrel turds.</p>
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<p>While I’m usually unwavering in my appreciation of nature’s gifts, I could have spent far less time contemplating those two turds and been content. As I sulked down the trail toward home, I consoled myself with the notion that I probably wasn’t the only creature out there that could list turd-watching (do aficionados prefer to call it “turding?”) as one of the most significant achievements of my day. In fact, some species live for the stuff.</p>
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<p>In the hardwoods and swamps of the Ichetucknee Forest, and in virtually every other habitat in Florida, scarab beetles hailing from nearly 250 known species spend their days cleaning up waste produced by larger species. High in nutrients (a lot of plant material passes through the digestive tract undigested) and easily obtained, dung is a precious commodity for which scarabs compete savagely. Ideally, they will avoid conflict by being first to arrive at a new heap where they’ll quickly sculpt a ball several times their own size and roll it to a waiting underground chamber. The beetle then lays eggs inside the dung ball which will serve as food for the larvae when they hatch.</p>
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<p>In most cases, being first on the scene is largely a matter of luck; being at the right place when a passing animal unloads. But, a few species have learned to buck the odds. Every morning in the forests of Panama, certain species of scarab fly into the tree canopy in search of howler monkeys. Positioning themselves strategically on the animals butt, the scarab waits for the monkey to defecate. It then jumps aboard the first train out of the station and clings for dear life as it plummets 100 feet to the ground. Similar, though less extreme dramas are played out on the back-side of other animals such as kangaroos, wallabees and sloths.</p>
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<p>But scarabs are not the only connoisseurs of feces. If you’ve ever had a pet rabbit, you know about their not-so-adorable habit of eating their own poop. Coprophagy is common to a huge assortment of animals—mostly herbivores, whose digestive systems are relatively inefficient. Giving the food another pass through the digestive tract allows the animal to digest more of the nutrients from it. Pigs, rabbits and most rodents are habitual coprophags.</p>
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<p>For some animals, including our beloved manatees, coprophagy aids digestion in another way. Because plant material is difficult to digest, these animal’s digestive systems are full of bacteria that break it down. However, these bacteria are not present in newborn calves. To get bacteria in their own gut, the babies must eat some bacteria-rich feces of an adult.</p>
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<p>For those species whose survival doesn’t depend on feces, attitudes toward the stuff are decidedly less enthusiastic. Most birds avoid the stuff altogether; a fact that was capitalized upon by the Big Girl when she designed the amazingly turd-like caterpillars of swallowtail butterflies. A similar strategy keeps the white egg masses of Dobson flies safe from small birds as they glean the leaves of trees overhanging rivers, where these eggs are deposited.</p>
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<p>While we can't know what goes on in a bird's brain, it's often hard not to anthropomorphize. For instance, when we see terns deliberately (and very accurately) dropping turd bombs on animals approaching their nests in sand dunes, they clearly seem to know it is disgusting. For turkey vultures, being disgusting comes naturally. Besides being famously hard-to-watch when eating, they are equally gross when they poop on their own legs and feet to keep them cool.</p>
<p>The only animals that consider wearing poop to be a good thing are some humans. In some cultures, it is good luck when a bird poops on your head. I prefer to take my chances.<br/> </p>
<p>(NOTE: I’m often asked what inspires these “reveries” (thanks Lola). Today’s came on the wings of a Carolina wren. As I sat on my patio, staring at a blank, imposing computer screen and hoping for a sign, a tiny wren landed on top of the monitor. It seemed as startled by its choice of landing spot as I was and immediately flew away. But, not before depositing a little gift on my screen. Not quite the sign I was looking for, but who am I to question the Muse.)</p>
<p>*</p>Florida's Story Told Through Her Springstag:www.zoobird.com,2011-02-02:2129360:BlogPost:330212011-02-02T00:22:02.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
<p>I think future historians will tell Florida’s story in terms of springs. There’s no overstating the role springs have played in the lives of Floridians, dating back to the very first Floridians who arrived nearly 14,000 years ago on the heels of the great Ice Age herds and extending through every culture and time period to the present.</p>
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<p>For those first Paleo-Indians, springs were oases in a much cooler, drier Florida than we know today. For later cultures, they were invaluable…</p>
<p>I think future historians will tell Florida’s story in terms of springs. There’s no overstating the role springs have played in the lives of Floridians, dating back to the very first Floridians who arrived nearly 14,000 years ago on the heels of the great Ice Age herds and extending through every culture and time period to the present.</p>
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<p>For those first Paleo-Indians, springs were oases in a much cooler, drier Florida than we know today. For later cultures, they were invaluable sources of fresh water. Native people also considered springs to have medicinal and sometimes magical qualities. Ponce de Leon knew of a legendary Fountain of Youth before he ever set foot on Florida (though the extent to which he was motivated by a desire to find the "fountain is still debated). Three centuries later, natives living near White Sulphur Springs—the mineral-laden spring we know today as White Springs—told newly arriving settlers that the spring was sacred and that no hostilities could ever take place in their vicinity. They were neutral territory where even enemies could come and share the life-giving waters. The original Floridians--those people who lived here for 14,000 years (that's nearly 30 times as long as our own culture)--understood that there are some things far greater, and far more important, than the triflings of man.</p>
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<p>The Indians reverence for the springs was duly noted by those first settlers of European ancestry. Like the Indians, many felt the springs had healing properties. Unlike the Indians, however, they pondered ways to make a buck on this water. Spas were built near the springs for invalids and tourists who came from across the country to bathe in the healing water. And for those who couldn’t make the voyage, Florida water was shipped to them. A century before Coca Cola or Nestle ever captured a drop of Florida water to ship off to distant watersheds, bottles of Suwannee Springs water could be found on store shelves in New York and other large cities throughout the country. But not grocery stores, pharmacies, where they sat perched alongside bottles of snake oil and other remedies.</p>
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<p>Interest in Florida’s springs waned in the twentieth century. Except for a few springs-based tourist attractions—Florida’s original theme parks—and an unwavering popularity among locals as swimming holes, Florida’s springs were unheralded natural wonders. It’s only been in recent decades that a re-born bottled water industry brought the outside world to the springs again. They have also become more widely appreciated for their role as windows into the Floridan Aquifer—the primary source of fresh water, for consumption as well as other uses such as irrigation. And with this increased attention, has come an awareness that this vital natural water system is in imminent danger. Florida’s springs have taken on the role of canaries in the coal mine.</p>
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<p>It is becoming clear that concern for the health of Florida’s springs is moving toward the forefront. Until now, springs protection has been the cause célèbre of a small subculture of nature lovers—that’s us—who have been slowly gathering the information about how springs work and have started speaking out about it. Our world-class cave divers and cutting edge researchers like Dr Odum, Bob Knight and others, have provided the hard science of how these systems work. And with it, has come indisputable evidence that our aquifer and springs are in desperate straits. Local educators and activists and nature guides have heard the message and are helping spread the alarm.</p>
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<p>But, regardless of how well we present this information through venues like the Blue Path exhibit now displayed at the Florida Museum of Natural History in Gainesville, it’s still little more than a grass-roots movement. In reality, this groundswell of attention on Florida’s springs is barely a decade old. Nearly everyone now involved in this effort can trace the roots of their journey—the life’s journey that brought them to this cause--back to pursuits that did not involve springs protection. Cave divers followed their sense of adventure into the caves, biologists directed their interest in ecology to the study of springs, hydrologists, geologists and others pursued their interests without a clue it would lead them into battle. For me, it was a passion for studying nature and outdoor survival, and for teaching others about the wild places I have come to love. But all of our paths led to the same place.</p>
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<p>All of us, in our own special ways and seeing springs from our own unique perspectives, have slowly come to realize we are facing a huge problem. Luckily for Florida, there are many people who see these problems as more than fodder for academia or as a source for green-tinted political rhetoric. For them, they are a blaring call to action. A handful of working groups have been organized in recent years, and are passionately brainstorming ideas and coordinating efforts to spread the word. The Howard T. Odum Florida Springs Institute promises to be a powerful addition to this network of organizations.</p>
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<p>We already know the role springs have played in the Florida story up to this point. But the story that will be told by future historians is incomplete. We are, quite literally, writing the next chapters of the Florida story. The actions we take to protect the springs and the threats we ignore will not only influence the story future historians will tell about Florida, but how that story ends--and when.</p>Un-Natural Selectiontag:www.zoobird.com,2009-11-25:2129360:BlogPost:224252009-11-25T15:19:49.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
Hiking on Paynes Prairie yesterday, we watched a large flock of turkeys strutting among the dog fennel and salt bush plants. But we were also a bit horrified. Here it is only a few days before Thanksgiving and they're wandering around without a care in the world. After centuries of being the main attraction on the traditional Thanksgiving table, you’d think they would have developed some instinctive aversion to all things human at this hungry season. They should feel uneasy and have an…
Hiking on Paynes Prairie yesterday, we watched a large flock of turkeys strutting among the dog fennel and salt bush plants. But we were also a bit horrified. Here it is only a few days before Thanksgiving and they're wandering around without a care in the world. After centuries of being the main attraction on the traditional Thanksgiving table, you’d think they would have developed some instinctive aversion to all things human at this hungry season. They should feel uneasy and have an irresistible urge to duck behind a bush and gobble in hushed tones. Better yet, maybe they should evolve an instinct to migrate to more turkey-friendly environs (of course this would require them to also develop the ability to fly more than a couple of hundred yards without getting winded).<br />
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The sad reality is that animal behaviors rarely evolve fast enough to keep up with the changes inflicted on them by modern technology. The most glaring examples of this shortcoming are seen on roadways where wild animals face the modern world's most dangerous foe. How many times have you watched an indecisive squirrel darting back and forth in front of an oncoming car, often with tragic consequences? It’s a great move when avoiding a hawk, but relatively useless against a pickup truck.<br />
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I wonder if some of these animals have just enough intelligence to recognize the folly of their often-fatal instincts, but not enough will-power to overcome them. For instance, when a skunk does a handstand with his back arched so far back that his musk propulsion unit (his butt) is over his head and aimed forward prepared to spray, does he ever wonder if this is really the best way to handle an oncoming pick-up truck? Is there a moment, as a car is bearing down on an armadillo that she thinks, “maybe if I resist the temptation to jump straight into the air as the car passes over me, I might survive this troubling turn of events.”<br />
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The clash between modern technology and animal instinct takes place off the highways, as well. One example is light pollution. Moths that fly at night have a fatal attraction to artificial lights. In a natural setting they navigate by stars or moonlight by keeping those celestial landmarks at a fixed angle as they fly. Stars and the moon are so far away that the angle doesn’t change as the animal flies. This keeps it on a straight course. But, when there’s a bright artificial light, the moth wants to use it for navigation instead of the stars. When it keeps the porch light at a fixed angle to its side, it just flies in circles and bumps helplessly into the light.<br />
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Similar navigation concerns have prompted ocean-front communities to ban outdoor lighting during turtle nesting season. Hatchling turtles are drawn to the brightest horizon, which in natural conditions is the open ocean with reflected light of moon and stars. Artificial lights from condos or homes lure them in the wrong direction, away from the water.<br />
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Not all of these outdated instincts have such dire consequences. When your dog rolls in an animal carcass in a loving attempt to bring you information about a food source, surely he’s learned that not only will you be unimpressed, but he will be temporarily banished from the house and all human contact. Worse, it will likely result in the dog-world's version of capital punishment—a bath.<br />
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So, to all you turkeys reading this notice (my e-mail list is wonderfully diverse these days), I have some advice—evolve! Maybe you could learn a few tricks from your fellow creatures. For instance, you could follow the lead of skunks and become nocturnal. Just don’t follow their lead onto the roads. Or perhaps you could learn celestial navigation from moths. The warblers and swallow-tailed kites tell me South America is great this time of year.The Changing Face of Paradisetag:www.zoobird.com,2009-08-21:2129360:BlogPost:202212009-08-21T02:43:58.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
Florida has often been referred to as a paradise, partly because its abundance of beautiful palms. In fact, palms are a key element of classical versions of paradise like Atlantis and the Garden of Eden. Likewise, most of Florida's most iconic scenes include palms—holding the ends of a hammock on a sunny beach, being violently whipped by hurricane winds, silhouetted against a pastel sky as a smoldering orange sun sets into the Gulf of Mexico. But, as anyone who’s paddled Florida’s Gulf coast…
Florida has often been referred to as a paradise, partly because its abundance of beautiful palms. In fact, palms are a key element of classical versions of paradise like Atlantis and the Garden of Eden. Likewise, most of Florida's most iconic scenes include palms—holding the ends of a hammock on a sunny beach, being violently whipped by hurricane winds, silhouetted against a pastel sky as a smoldering orange sun sets into the Gulf of Mexico. But, as anyone who’s paddled Florida’s Gulf coast lately can attest, there is trouble in paradise. Our cabbage palms are dying.<br />
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Palm die-offs are becoming all-too-familiar to Floridians. The first bout came in the 1970, when a disease called lethal yellowing devastated a huge percentage of South Florida’s coconut palms. However, much as we love coconut palms, they are exotic species and their loss is ecologically less significant than losing a native species—say, cabbage palms. Not only are cabbage palms native, they are an important element of the Florida landscape.<br />
Historically, cabbage palms were used by natives for food, fiber for making twine and fabric, and for shelter. The classic Seminole chickee consisted of a cypress log frame covered by palm fronds. Paddlers in the everglades know these structures well. European settlers found plenty of uses for cabbage palms, too. Forts made of fibrous palm logs were uniquely able to absorb the impact of cannonballs. One palm-walled fort on Sullivan Island, South Carolina, was credited with saving Charleston from British attack during the American Revolution. To commemorate this event, the cabbage palm was designated South Carolina’s State tree in 1939. Florida followed suit by declaring the cabbage palm (also known as the sabal palm) to be our State Tree in 1952.<br />
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Commercial use of cabbage palms has been limited. One of the more ambitious enterprises was a brush manufacturing plant built in Cedar Key in 1910. This factory made rigid scrub brushes from the fibrous “wood” of palm trunks. It was a relatively short-lived industry, however, and the overall impact on the regions palms was minimal. Of more importance has been the widespread harvesting of the trees central growth bud to make swamp cabbage. It was from this regional delicacy that the tree got it’s name. Another common name for this edible bud is “heart-of-palm,” which is not as anthropomorphic as it sounds. This “heart” bud is the vital life-force of the tree. Removing it kills the tree. Harvesting swamp cabbage has fallen into disfavor in recent decades and is illegal on public lands. You can still order heart-of-palm salad in some specialty restaurants—most of it obtained as a byproduct of land clearing operations.<br />
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Perhaps their greatest value is aesthetic. The graceful sway of their smooth, grey trunk and large, fan-leaves bunched attractively at the top, is like no other tree. It is their presence, more than any other tree, that gives Florida’s coastal rivers and some inland waterways, their uniquely Florida appearance. And yet, they are so common, we sometimes become complacent about them—a condition that is quickly remedied by reading people like John Muir. “I caught sight of the first palmetto in a grassy place, standing almost alone…this palm was indescribably impressive and told me grander things than I ever got from human priest…whether rocking and rustling in the wind or poised thoughtful and calm in the sunshine, it has a power of expression not excelled by any plant high or low that I have met my whole walk thus far.” (Thousand Mile Walk to the Gulf. P. 92))<br />
Carl Linnaeus, the “father” of the modern classification system of classifying species, was equally enchanted by palms, calling the “prince of trees. He felt that humans evolved in the land of palms and that we are essentially palmivorous.<br />
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With nearly 3,000 species worldwide, the huge Palmae family is well entrenched in every tropical and subtropical corner of the globe. They have a wide range of adaptations which include the largest fruit, largest inflorescence and longest leaves in the plant kingdom. With such adaptability, it’s a mystery why there aren’t more palm species in central and northern Florida.<br />
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One answer is their toughness. Cabbage palms can tolerate colder temperatures than other palms, growing as far north as South Carolina. They’re also drought tolerant. While they prefer the damper conditions of coastal hammocks, pine flatwoods, and river forests, they can ride out an extended droughts with little problem. Their tough, leathery leaves are not prone to desiccation under Florida’s blazing sun and are unfazed by salt spray from the ocean. They can even tolerate growing in slightly brackish water—but not salt water. And therein lays the problem.<br />
In the 1990’s, when coastal residents in the Nature Coast and Big Bend areas reported unusual numbers of palms dying, scientists first looked to the usual suspects. Lethal yellowing, while still killing many palms (coconuts and many other exotic species) every year, is not known to attack any native Florida species. Other diseases of cabbage palms such as the palm weevil and bud rot were also ruled out.<br />
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As scientists worked on the problem, they made another, more troubling observation; hardwoods and other unrelated species were also dying. This implied the problem wasn’t a disease (which are usually specific to one species) but something environmental. Researchers, including George Agrios and Francis E. Putz of the University of South Florida's botany department and Ed Barnard of the Department of Forestry in Gainesville, eventually concluded that the culprit is something far more common than any disease—salt water.<br />
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For the past 16,000 years, as the earth has steadily warmed from the last Ice Age, water levels have been rising by about 0.6 millimeters per year. But, with additional atmospheric warming caused by the emissions of our modern, industrialized world, this rate has increased significantly. NASA scientists have determined the worlds sea levels are now rising about 3 millimeters per year.<br />
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In Florida, increased salinity of near-shore waters is being enhanced by a more local problem. With ever-increasing withdrawal of fresh water from the Floridan aquifer by wells throughout the state, less fresh water is reaching the coastal estuaries. Besides the fresh water that flows into these estuaries by way of surface runoff, the artesian (spring) water that previously entered from submarine springs is now diminished as well.<br />
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Perhaps the most alarming aspect of this pending natural disaster is the lack of public awareness. The areas most affected by this die-off are relatively remote. And, while many trees are dying in Tampa Bay and other populated areas, as well as some places along the Atlantic coast, the best places to see the full effect of this die-off are the quiet, uncivilized corners of the coast—the realm of the paddler.<br />
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So, as you paddle areas like the Ten Thousand Islands, Nature Coast and the Big Bend, be sure to take lots of pictures and spare no words when describing the environment in your journal. Hundreds of years from now, your words and images may be referenced by people describing a long lost paradise that, like Atlantis and Eden, was consumed by the sea. Sunbathers on Tallahassee Beach might gaze upon the wide expanse of the Gulf of Mexico and wonder if such a wonderful place could ever have existed at all.The Trouble With Turtlestag:www.zoobird.com,2008-12-15:2129360:BlogPost:94272008-12-15T03:00:00.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
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<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span class="font-size-1">(photo by Michael Levin)</span></em></p>
<p>Mother Nature has saddled Florida's freshwater turtles with an unfortunate trait - deliciousness. For as long as humans have lived in Florida they've dined on turtles. The archaeological record, including those culinary treasure troves we call middens, are loaded with…</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span class="font-size-1">(photo by Michael Levin)</span></em></p>
<p>Mother Nature has saddled Florida's freshwater turtles with an unfortunate trait - deliciousness. For as long as humans have lived in Florida they've dined on turtles. The archaeological record, including those culinary treasure troves we call middens, are loaded with evidence, as are more recent historical records. When William Bartram remarked, in the 1770's, that turtles are "food for mankind and esteemed delicious," he wasn't just speaking on behalf of the Seminoles with whom he was visiting (and dining), but for every culture that has lived in Florida for the past twelve thousand years.<br/> <br/> When African slaves were brought to this country, they learned to supplement their diet with wild game, including an animal they knew from their homeland - the "kuta" or freshwater turtle. While the language of these proud people was tragically lost within a few generations (in this country) , this one word survived. Today, "cooter" is the common name for several of our freshwater species.<br/> <br/> Even though humans seem designed to eat meat, we feel compelled to justify eating fellow species - deer are over populated; hogs destroy the forest; racoons are pests; alligators are man-eaters, goats are....just asking for it. In the case of turtles, such salves to our consience don't exist. What have turtles ever done to us? Well, I guess there was that one unfortunate incident, in 456 BC, when a turtle killed the Greek playwright, Aeschylus. Even then, I think blame clearly goes to the eagle that dropped the turtle on the writer's bald noggin, mistaking it for a rock on which he hoped to crack the turtle open. (Did I mention that Aeschylus is considered the "Father of Tragedy?")<br/> <br/> Aside from our predator/prey relationship, turtles have played other roles in cultures around the world. In India, an ancient cosmological tale says that the earth rests on the back of a huge elephant, and he, in turn is teetering on the back of a turtle. In China, soothsayers interpreted the markings on turtles backs to tell the future. More recently, in Japan, it was customary to give a turtle as a wedding gift. The turtles legendary longevity was symbolic of long life for the couple.<br/> <br/> When it comes right down to it, most of us are quite fond of turtles. They are reliable and welcome fixtures on rivers like Ichetucknee and Santa Fe, where savy parents know to instruct their child to keep count. It's a great ploy (trick?) that not only enhances the childs positive memories of the experience, but also keeps them from being tossed out of the boat for whining about being bored (I'm available for baby-sitting). Really attentive kids can sometimes count nearly 100 turtles per hour on our turtle-rich waters.<br/> <br/> In the 1960's & '70's, fondness for freshwater turtles came full circle with a surge in their popularity as pets. Hatchling turtles - mostly red-eared sliders - were the Cabbage Patch Kids of their day and nobody striving for the American dream could expect to get there without at least one pet turtle - in a very small aquarium. This fad came to a screeching halt. however, when it was discovered that some of the young turtles carried Salmonella bacteria. As a result, it is now illegal to sell any turtle under four inches long.<br/> <br/> In recent years, our turtles have enjoyed a bit of a reprieve from the whims of human fashion and appetite. Harvesting pressures on freshwater turtles for food has mostly been limited to old time cracker families who occassionally eat cooter. There is also a small cottage industry - mostly young boys eager to make a few bucks - of selling turtles to specialty restaurants. Additional threats to their survival are pollution, loss of habitat, road-kill, and predation of nest raiders - especially racoons.<br/> <br/> Today there is a new threat to our turtles that is unlike any in Florida's history. This time, the threat comes from China, where high demand for turtle meat coupled with the near extermination of their own local species, has forced suppliers to tap into markets in other countries. Most places have regulations that prohibit this trade - Florida isn't one of them. Until September, the harvesting and sales of Florida turtles was unlimited. In an emergency action, Gov. Crist stepped in and enacted a temporary ruling limiting the "take" to 20 turtles per person per day. It's a rediculously high number. With this limit, a few turtle catchers could set camp on Santa Fe River and legally wipe out that waterways' entire population within a year.<br/> <br/> The FWC is currently working to implement a plan to protect our turtle species. Hopefully, it will be more realistic than the temporary 20/person/day bag limits. If you feel inclined to add your voice to the call to protect our freshwater turtles, here are some contact numbers. Let them know you want to ban the harvesting of our freshwater turtles.<br/> <br/> Governor Crist: Tel*: (***850) 488-7146; Fax: **(850) 487-0801; Email: Charlie.Crist@MyFlorida.com<br/> <br/> FWC: Tel: (850) 488-3831; Fax: (850) 488-1961; Email: Bill.Turner@MyFWC.com<br/> <br/> <br/> In the meantime, our turtles will have to rely on other traits bestowed on them by the Big Girl (Mother Nature) - their healthy fear of humans; fast swimming abilities (they can outswim a snorkeler in fins when suffiently motivated); and clever egg-laying strategies which includes digging decoy nests. So, while our society wrestles with it's moral conscious--described Archie Carr as the "Jeckyll-and-Hyde compulsion both to learn about the natural history of animals and to eat them."--I think I'll head for the river where I can enjoy them at their best - perched on a log, sunny side up!</p>The Gum Swamptag:www.zoobird.com,2008-12-08:2129360:BlogPost:90332008-12-08T01:52:03.000ZLars Andersenhttps://www.zoobird.com/profile/LarsAndersen
I once mentioned to my young niece, Allie, that we were going to a “gum” swamp and her face lit up as though we were headed for the circus. It took me a moment to realize she was visualizing some kind of candy cane forest where honey dripped from the trees. I’ve never felt so reluctant to educate a young mind as I was at that moment. Under my breath I sheepishly muttered that the “gum” in this case was a kind of tree.<br />
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In Florida, we have two kinds of trees commonly called gums, sweet gum…
I once mentioned to my young niece, Allie, that we were going to a “gum” swamp and her face lit up as though we were headed for the circus. It took me a moment to realize she was visualizing some kind of candy cane forest where honey dripped from the trees. I’ve never felt so reluctant to educate a young mind as I was at that moment. Under my breath I sheepishly muttered that the “gum” in this case was a kind of tree.<br />
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In Florida, we have two kinds of trees commonly called gums, sweet gum (Liquidambar styraciflua) and the tupelos (Nyssa sp.). These are unrelated trees that are called “gums” for entirely different reasons.<br />
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Sweet gum got its name in the way we might expect, from its sticky sap. Dissect the Latin name, and you reveal a wonderfully poetic tribute to this sap—Liquidambar meaning “liquid amber” and styraciflua, “flowing with storax or aromatic resin.” This sap, called styrax, has been used as a substitute for storax, a perfumy balm extracted from a related Oriental species. In folk medicine styrax has been used for wounds and skin irritations. More recently, a commercial industry was established in Alabama, where the sap was processed for ointments and syrups.<br />
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But the gums that adorn our local maps with such enticing names as Gum Root Swamp, Gum Pond and Gum Slough are the tupelos. In our area there are three – swamp tupelo (Nyssa sylvatica), water tupelo (N. aquatica) and Ogeechee tupelo (N. ogeche).<br />
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Having grown up in a household steeped in Danish tradition, I am familiar with Nyssa, the small gnomes of Scandinavian folklore that inspired Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus to give the genus this name. Nyssa are mischievous little people who usually make their appearance around Christmas time. But, here in Florida you can find them any time of year. Just stand in a grove of Ogeechee tupelos and look around at the stout, squat trunks and gnarled, sprawling limbs and you’ll know you’re in the company of gnomes.<br />
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Among the most notable animal associates of tupelos are bees. Honey made by bees that have sipped on Ogeechee tupelo blooms is considered by many to be a delicacy. For diabetics, it’s much more. Because of high fructose and low dextrose content, it is the only kind of honey they are able to safely eat.<br />
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Bees also use tupelos for housing, often building hives in hollow trunks of swamp tupelo trees. Another name for a beehive is a “gum”, and thus the name"gum" trees. Some bee keepers use a 2 – 3 foot section of fallen, hollow gum tree, with boards on top and bottom, to house their bee gums. Another use for hollowed sections of gum trunks is for a kind of rabbit pen called a “rabbit gum”.<br />
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I explained all of this to Allie, but I could tell my words were little more than an annoyance – an unwelcome breeze emanating from my mouth that tickled her ears, without actually entering them. With the selective mode of hearing that is the gift of childhood, only a few choice words actually penetrated her mind. Looking up at me with doe-eyed innocence she whispered hopefully, “So it’s a forest full of honey?!”