The trouble with the beach is that it is made of sand which is hard on fishing reels. The trouble rises exponentially with the number of participating children, especially those in the “booger eating moron” developmental stage, because they keep thinking of other things to do besides hold a fishing rod.
Worse yet, beach fishing encourages bring a lot of equipment (a strong general inclination of this sawed-off sportsman) because a lot of equipment is actually called for. You need the little rod and reel to catch the pinfish to put on the big rod and reel to catch the sharks and the medium rod and reel to deal with passing customers while you’re waiting for the shark to eat the pinfish. You also need a tackle box, cast net, drink, bait bucket (or functional equivalent), chair, disposable camera (skeptic antidote), four-man fishing rig, baseball bat (shark antidote) and ice – minimum. And laying all this paraphernalia on the sand adversely impacts the next day’s functionality.
One morning, as we were preparing to leave, I walked to take one last look at the beach and noted a returning lone fisherman with two rods & reels in a five gallon mop bucket. The “Now why didn’t I think of that?” bell sounded loudly. The only flaw in his solution was the mop bucket – way too small.
The full bodied solution (bigger bucket), without adding to the problem (more stuff to carry), quickly led to a rectangular kitchen trash can bolted into a used baby backpack carrier with the seat cut out. Three six inch sections of PVC pipe bolted inside the trash can with a wooden backing were rod holders. (It helped that all of the fishing rods were telescopic). I do not build well but every once in a while – and these are the times you can really feel the force is with you – things start falling into place without measured planning. A retired small tackle box fit snuggly into the space between the PVC rod holders and the other side of the trash can! And below the tackle box was plenty of space for the other necessities. The principal further insight was that sand spikes, to deploy the rods in, fit in between the PVC tubes bringing the total rod/reel firepower to six. And the outside of the trash can is available for commercial advertising like on a NASCAR racer (just kidding).
Now I’ll be the first to admit that you get some funny looks while walking to the shore wearing this tackle store on your back (which is why I try and make somebody else wear it). But when you get to the water it is D-day in reverse for the fishys.
ML
7-12-07
Monday, October 1, 2007
Saturday, September 1, 2007
13. The Rock
If your only mode of transportation is by foot but you want to get to the end of the wilderness road, where it has been noted all America lies, you join a club. So I joined the Seminole Divers who made regular sallies to many interesting places for a gas contribution.
Real diving had long been an aspiration. Unreal diving saw several youthful attempts including building a scuba tank out of used sacristy candle glass containers (worked not at all) and who hasn’t tried the old breathing through a garden hose while under water (gives one a real appreciation for what “number of atmospheres” is all about).
The Seminole Divers were mostly the Seal Team of the anthropology department plus a few wackos who only wanted to go places where they could scuba as deep as possible. Consequently, we did a lot of river diving for artifacts. Apparently all past tribes, including the Spanish and English, were constantly throwing stuff into the rivers so it was a real source of items that had not been in the air for hundreds of years. Add to this the mastodons, who apparently swam poorly, and there was much to be found; plus the group was naturally sawed-off. I joined shortly after the trip where they tried to kill a wild pig with spear guns – my kind of crowd.
Beginner’s luck struck one Saturday morning just downstream of the second bridge on the Black Lagoon’s outflow. Though I preferred free diving, scuba tanks let one descend to the bottom and basically crawl along while holding onto the eel grass to defeat the current. The rule was “If it doesn’t look like it belongs there; it’s something”. ‘It’ was sitting completely in the open. A mottled pale blue marbled rock shaped like a hockey puck (maybe 6in by 3in). Others reported it shined like a big jewel as it surfaced first clutched in my hand.
Nobody knew what it was beyond being sure it was man-made. A professor in the anthropology department immediately labeled it a “chunky stone”. While its use to the Indians was speculative, its substance was fossilized brain coral. The professor asked if he could hold on to it for a time to measure and photograph. I said “sure”. Had he called me back I would have told him to keep it. However, a year later I concluded he was not going to call back so I called him and retrieved the rock.
It was something worth showing to others and another graduate student’s parents were seriously into Indian artifacts. Apparently they vacationed to reservations, constantly collected arrow heads and pottery shards and their living room was rumored to be full of display cases of such treasures. So an offer was made to acquire the rock.
Now it was a great rock but I did snakes and wanted to get into the big time which then meant a python. So I sold the rock for $25 to buy a rock python. In the event, I got a reticulated python which grew to the biggest snake I ever owned. This was my intention but in the fullness of time the snake ended up living in a cage made of a bulletin board glass front and uncut 4 x 8 ft sheets of plywood. The time came when the next cage was going to be a bedroom. So I sold the python.
All I have left of the snake are a few photos and a left forearm scar from the bottom two rows of teeth, and I miss the rock. However, if I had to do it all over again I’d probably do the same thing. Not for the snake but to get the rock where it needed to be – with people who did people rocks. The location of its discovery was duly noted and I hope it has remained with those who let others see it.
Besides, I still have a mammoth backbone disc and a clay pipe (unbroken bowl & stem). I also have an almost perfectly round stone, about the size and color of a ping pong ball, that my aunt picked up out of a Pennsylvania trout stream and handed to me when I was about five years old. Her interpretation was that the stream had so rounded it. I’ve been thinking about that hypothesis for over half a century and I don’t think the stream did it. I think some distant Seneca relative did it. It’s not for sale.
ML
7-9-07
Real diving had long been an aspiration. Unreal diving saw several youthful attempts including building a scuba tank out of used sacristy candle glass containers (worked not at all) and who hasn’t tried the old breathing through a garden hose while under water (gives one a real appreciation for what “number of atmospheres” is all about).
The Seminole Divers were mostly the Seal Team of the anthropology department plus a few wackos who only wanted to go places where they could scuba as deep as possible. Consequently, we did a lot of river diving for artifacts. Apparently all past tribes, including the Spanish and English, were constantly throwing stuff into the rivers so it was a real source of items that had not been in the air for hundreds of years. Add to this the mastodons, who apparently swam poorly, and there was much to be found; plus the group was naturally sawed-off. I joined shortly after the trip where they tried to kill a wild pig with spear guns – my kind of crowd.
Beginner’s luck struck one Saturday morning just downstream of the second bridge on the Black Lagoon’s outflow. Though I preferred free diving, scuba tanks let one descend to the bottom and basically crawl along while holding onto the eel grass to defeat the current. The rule was “If it doesn’t look like it belongs there; it’s something”. ‘It’ was sitting completely in the open. A mottled pale blue marbled rock shaped like a hockey puck (maybe 6in by 3in). Others reported it shined like a big jewel as it surfaced first clutched in my hand.
Nobody knew what it was beyond being sure it was man-made. A professor in the anthropology department immediately labeled it a “chunky stone”. While its use to the Indians was speculative, its substance was fossilized brain coral. The professor asked if he could hold on to it for a time to measure and photograph. I said “sure”. Had he called me back I would have told him to keep it. However, a year later I concluded he was not going to call back so I called him and retrieved the rock.
It was something worth showing to others and another graduate student’s parents were seriously into Indian artifacts. Apparently they vacationed to reservations, constantly collected arrow heads and pottery shards and their living room was rumored to be full of display cases of such treasures. So an offer was made to acquire the rock.
Now it was a great rock but I did snakes and wanted to get into the big time which then meant a python. So I sold the rock for $25 to buy a rock python. In the event, I got a reticulated python which grew to the biggest snake I ever owned. This was my intention but in the fullness of time the snake ended up living in a cage made of a bulletin board glass front and uncut 4 x 8 ft sheets of plywood. The time came when the next cage was going to be a bedroom. So I sold the python.
All I have left of the snake are a few photos and a left forearm scar from the bottom two rows of teeth, and I miss the rock. However, if I had to do it all over again I’d probably do the same thing. Not for the snake but to get the rock where it needed to be – with people who did people rocks. The location of its discovery was duly noted and I hope it has remained with those who let others see it.
Besides, I still have a mammoth backbone disc and a clay pipe (unbroken bowl & stem). I also have an almost perfectly round stone, about the size and color of a ping pong ball, that my aunt picked up out of a Pennsylvania trout stream and handed to me when I was about five years old. Her interpretation was that the stream had so rounded it. I’ve been thinking about that hypothesis for over half a century and I don’t think the stream did it. I think some distant Seneca relative did it. It’s not for sale.
ML
7-9-07
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
12d. Freeing the serpents
John had at least one uniquely sawed-off talent. He could hold his breath (at the surface) for six and a half minutes; I myself, a shorter but adequate, four and a half minutes.
Back in the good old days, when the swimming area of the Black Lagoon was restricted only by ones spirit of adventure, he would free dive down to the bottom at around 110ft. The ascent is the dangerous part because pressure helps breath holding and if you’re going to black out you do it near the surface. So our methodology was for me to start down as John started up and travel with him from about 50ft to the surface with the plan to do something constructive if he passed out while still under water. I bring this up only because the performance one evening at the headwaters of the Wacissa River required all of John’s breath holding powers to achieve the desired effect.
John owned a Volkswagen beetle, trunk in the front, and I was in possession of a water snake surplus. So one evening I talked him into taking me and about a dozen good sized Natrix to the sandy parking area just downstream of where the Wacissa River came out of the ground on the outskirts of the town of Wacissa.
When we arrived there were two middle-aged regular sportsmen standing at the water’s edge. They looked to be discussing something like a planned fishing trip or possibly some detail of the wide area of mostly vegetation covered water that is a standard North Florida river swamp. Id est a place where there are already too many snakes.
As we slowed to a stop I told John, “Do not say a word”. Without drum roll, I got out, John popped the ‘hood’ and I lifted the snake filled bag out of the trunk. John maintained silence but he was doing a lot of looking back and forth at me and the two men because he knew what I was about to do. What I did was slowly, and individually, pull snake after snake out of the bag and dropped it back in the river.
The best part of this story is not mine to tell as the best part is the version told by the audience. In the event nobody said a word. The two men were literally speechless. I’d give a lot to know what, or if, they ever spoke of the event or concluded that it was best left without comment. Sawed-off sportsmen occasionally have that effect upon others. For John’s part he almost killed us on the drive back because when he finally burst forth he just kept yelling ”Putting snakes back in the river, putting snakes back in the river” while he pounded the steering wheel as we headed home.
ML
6/7/07
Back in the good old days, when the swimming area of the Black Lagoon was restricted only by ones spirit of adventure, he would free dive down to the bottom at around 110ft. The ascent is the dangerous part because pressure helps breath holding and if you’re going to black out you do it near the surface. So our methodology was for me to start down as John started up and travel with him from about 50ft to the surface with the plan to do something constructive if he passed out while still under water. I bring this up only because the performance one evening at the headwaters of the Wacissa River required all of John’s breath holding powers to achieve the desired effect.
John owned a Volkswagen beetle, trunk in the front, and I was in possession of a water snake surplus. So one evening I talked him into taking me and about a dozen good sized Natrix to the sandy parking area just downstream of where the Wacissa River came out of the ground on the outskirts of the town of Wacissa.
When we arrived there were two middle-aged regular sportsmen standing at the water’s edge. They looked to be discussing something like a planned fishing trip or possibly some detail of the wide area of mostly vegetation covered water that is a standard North Florida river swamp. Id est a place where there are already too many snakes.
As we slowed to a stop I told John, “Do not say a word”. Without drum roll, I got out, John popped the ‘hood’ and I lifted the snake filled bag out of the trunk. John maintained silence but he was doing a lot of looking back and forth at me and the two men because he knew what I was about to do. What I did was slowly, and individually, pull snake after snake out of the bag and dropped it back in the river.
The best part of this story is not mine to tell as the best part is the version told by the audience. In the event nobody said a word. The two men were literally speechless. I’d give a lot to know what, or if, they ever spoke of the event or concluded that it was best left without comment. Sawed-off sportsmen occasionally have that effect upon others. For John’s part he almost killed us on the drive back because when he finally burst forth he just kept yelling ”Putting snakes back in the river, putting snakes back in the river” while he pounded the steering wheel as we headed home.
ML
6/7/07
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
12c. Canoeing for snakes
If you know how to drive a canoe you generally end up in the back. However a day’s outing of graduate students and advisor on the Wacissa River has certain expectations of adventure with the sawed-off afloat. This constituted a real opportunity for….payback!
Many are the stories of snakes jumping into boats passing under tree limbs. Falling is really more like it as you cannot “jump” if you have no legs. I do not doubt it has happened but suspect that the logical possibility is what fuels most stories for water snakes do spend a lot of time sunning on limbs over water as they can escape quickly by dropping.
Now I knew the Wacissa had plenty of water snakes; big brown water snakes were its long suit. It was mid morning and a likely time for them to be sunning on tree limbs over the water. It took a few passes to spot exactly what they were doing but it became clear a particular arbor geometry was favored and they were tending to be on the down stream side.
Stan was in the canoe’s stern and after a few trips past some brown’s sunning he knew what we were looking for. What we were going to do about it was the only thing that could possibly work.
Because the water was fairly swift, and water snakes are quick to fall into the river when trouble approached, we had to make our move quickly. I suspect it all worked as well as it did because the snakes were so accustomed to passing canoeists they could not believe that an approaching canoe would paddle as fast as possible directly at them and into the foliage. We had the added advantage of some concealment because the snakes were on the down stream side of the limbs with leaves blocking their view of our attack. The downside was we were not entirely sure what (all) was on the limb as we careened in.
And so it went. The other boats would stop paddling and start watching. Stan would line us up with an accurate current/canoe heading and paddle as fast as possible, with me hanging over the bow, into the tree.
There were always a number of possible, not mutually exclusive, outcomes including capsizing, finding nothing, finding a cottonmouth, finding a wasp nest. As events unfolded there would be much limb and leaf shaking and back outwards Stan would paddle us with me waving a big brown water snake over my head for all to see.
We ended up with quite a few brown water snakes. I do not remember if we kept them that day but I do remember a time of having too many water snakes and returning to the headwaters of the Wacissa River with a bagful.
ML
Sunday, July 15, 2007
12b. Canoes CAN'T sink
As the first Shaving of a sawed-off-sportsman and for many years the largest and most proficient swimmer of all the Shavings, clearly I was the number 1 choice for a canoe trip down the Cahaba River. Now the Cahaba River is not known to be treacherous, but as in any canoe adventure there are “The Perils”. My number one concern had always been, “What if the canoe tips over?” to which my sawed-off sportsman father would reply, “So what, it’s all my stuff that would be lost. Besides, canoes CAN’T sink.” This back and forth went on for about two years. Finally, my sawed-off sportsman father decided that the best thing to do is get me over my fear of the canoe tipping over. Clearly the best way to accomplish that is by rowing the canoe into a secluded area of Oak Mountain Lake and then intentionally tipping the canoe over.
Now, my friends at the time couldn’t quite understand why an early morning weekend outing with my father entailed him throwing me out of a boat. My long-time friends and fellow family members knew this to be completely acceptable D&D (Daddy and Daughter) quality time.
So at 7 am on a Saturday morning my sawed-off sportsman father pulls into my apartment community in his white Mazda pick-up truck with the canoe bungee-corded to the roof. I hop in wearing cheap shoes, an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and a baseball hat. There was obviously no need for make-up or a brush since the goal of the day was to throw me into the lake on numerous occasions.
So we get to the lake, unload the canoe, strap on our life jackets, and set out of find a nice alcove. (It’s one thing to be dumped out of a canoe, it’s quite another to do it in front of an audience.) We find a suitable place where the water is about 6 feet deep, out of the line of sight, and near the edge of the lake. A final pep talk not to worry because canoes CAN’T sink.
SS: “On the count of three … one … two ..”
S#1: “Don’t count, just do!”
Canoe flips over and we’re both in the water.
SS: “See, that wasn’t so bad now was it?”
S#1: “No, not too bad. What were you saying about canoes can’t sink?”
SS: “Canoes CAN’T sink!”
S#1: “Really? Where’s your canoe?”
SS: “It’s right here … #%!?!”
Glug, glug, glug, the canoe sinks to the bottom of the lake.
MS-L
2/14/2007
Now, my friends at the time couldn’t quite understand why an early morning weekend outing with my father entailed him throwing me out of a boat. My long-time friends and fellow family members knew this to be completely acceptable D&D (Daddy and Daughter) quality time.
So at 7 am on a Saturday morning my sawed-off sportsman father pulls into my apartment community in his white Mazda pick-up truck with the canoe bungee-corded to the roof. I hop in wearing cheap shoes, an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and a baseball hat. There was obviously no need for make-up or a brush since the goal of the day was to throw me into the lake on numerous occasions.
So we get to the lake, unload the canoe, strap on our life jackets, and set out of find a nice alcove. (It’s one thing to be dumped out of a canoe, it’s quite another to do it in front of an audience.) We find a suitable place where the water is about 6 feet deep, out of the line of sight, and near the edge of the lake. A final pep talk not to worry because canoes CAN’T sink.
SS: “On the count of three … one … two ..”
S#1: “Don’t count, just do!”
Canoe flips over and we’re both in the water.
SS: “See, that wasn’t so bad now was it?”
S#1: “No, not too bad. What were you saying about canoes can’t sink?”
SS: “Canoes CAN’T sink!”
S#1: “Really? Where’s your canoe?”
SS: “It’s right here … #%!?!”
Glug, glug, glug, the canoe sinks to the bottom of the lake.
MS-L
2/14/2007
Sunday, July 1, 2007
12a. Rita II
If you are deposited in the Harpeth River often enough, with the tents and food waiting a day’s travel down stream, you learn how to steer a canoe.
If you fish from the bank long enough, with the fish apparently elsewhere, you get a canoe.
If you’re constantly blown around by the wind, while trying to cast from your canoe, you get an electric trolling motor.
If you keep seeing those guys fishing in the middle of the lake and wonder what they know that you don’t, you get sonar.
The Rita II, named after the vessel in The Creature from the Black Lagoon, had the aspirations of a WW II destroyer, some of the equipment and a Captain of occasionally questionable command decisions.
In hindsight the first motorized cruise tempted Providence. Yours truly (180lb), Mike (180lb), Murray (230lb), Lauren, (60lb) and about 60lbs of battery + motor, conducted sea trials on the Cahaba River above the Hwy 280 bridge one Spring afternoon. Excitement muted concern for the water line being only 3in below the gunwales. We did not capsize and Murray caught one bream. Upon return to shore all were unloaded, save the Captain, so as to ‘see what she’ll do’ speed wise with minimum load. This put 240lbs in the stern and the bow in the air. Going straight was not a problem but quick turns were. Another useful insight was that the prop needed to be just below the surface so as to avoid an additional source of unpleasant rolling.
An early modification utilized jumper cables allowing the battery to be placed in the bow which made one man travel pretty level.
As time went by various numbers of the Shavings served as bow ballast but mission creep has kept voyages exciting. Our current state-o-play has made it possible to fish for striper in the summer over an underwater spring. This however requires, in addition to the usual ordinance, a big bait tub, aerator and Shaving 4 throwing the cast net for shad while standing in the bow.
Future development of the Rita II will involve a 2hp gas motor and possibly an outrigger so as to more boldly go off the beach or into the tail race of some nearby dams. I know what you’re thinking; “Fair well and ado to you fair Spanish ladies….”
There is one voyage that has not been made but should have been the first given the canoe’s namesake; a passage that begins as a christening in the storied waters of the Black Lagoon. The fence is not high and when the gate is not open the sign simply says “beach closed”. A determined crew, just before dawn’s bend and the squadrons of black vulture landings begin, could easily hoist the Rita II over the fence. Then with out arguably “opening” the beach, they could hit the water, paddle past the pier, take a right and be on their way in the dawn’s early light amongst the many creatures which still remain. Just a thought.
ML
6/6/07
If you fish from the bank long enough, with the fish apparently elsewhere, you get a canoe.
If you’re constantly blown around by the wind, while trying to cast from your canoe, you get an electric trolling motor.
If you keep seeing those guys fishing in the middle of the lake and wonder what they know that you don’t, you get sonar.
The Rita II, named after the vessel in The Creature from the Black Lagoon, had the aspirations of a WW II destroyer, some of the equipment and a Captain of occasionally questionable command decisions.
In hindsight the first motorized cruise tempted Providence. Yours truly (180lb), Mike (180lb), Murray (230lb), Lauren, (60lb) and about 60lbs of battery + motor, conducted sea trials on the Cahaba River above the Hwy 280 bridge one Spring afternoon. Excitement muted concern for the water line being only 3in below the gunwales. We did not capsize and Murray caught one bream. Upon return to shore all were unloaded, save the Captain, so as to ‘see what she’ll do’ speed wise with minimum load. This put 240lbs in the stern and the bow in the air. Going straight was not a problem but quick turns were. Another useful insight was that the prop needed to be just below the surface so as to avoid an additional source of unpleasant rolling.
An early modification utilized jumper cables allowing the battery to be placed in the bow which made one man travel pretty level.
As time went by various numbers of the Shavings served as bow ballast but mission creep has kept voyages exciting. Our current state-o-play has made it possible to fish for striper in the summer over an underwater spring. This however requires, in addition to the usual ordinance, a big bait tub, aerator and Shaving 4 throwing the cast net for shad while standing in the bow.
Future development of the Rita II will involve a 2hp gas motor and possibly an outrigger so as to more boldly go off the beach or into the tail race of some nearby dams. I know what you’re thinking; “Fair well and ado to you fair Spanish ladies….”
There is one voyage that has not been made but should have been the first given the canoe’s namesake; a passage that begins as a christening in the storied waters of the Black Lagoon. The fence is not high and when the gate is not open the sign simply says “beach closed”. A determined crew, just before dawn’s bend and the squadrons of black vulture landings begin, could easily hoist the Rita II over the fence. Then with out arguably “opening” the beach, they could hit the water, paddle past the pier, take a right and be on their way in the dawn’s early light amongst the many creatures which still remain. Just a thought.
ML
6/6/07
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
11. What in Heaven's name brought you to Carrabelle?
College is the first opportunity to chose where you live and it was not a close call – Florida. We had vacationed there for years plus the tales of natural adventures filled the books I had read. I simply wanted to cease being a tourist; I wanted to live there.
So I went to The Florida State University in Tallahassee. The cities’ Seminole meaning was an abandoned site whose resources had been exhausted. This translation amused many as “there’s nothing to do here” was a frequent complaint. Those people simply ignored the venue’s many opportunities.
Adventure destinations were always dictated by transportation; no car, one walk’s. So off to the nearest State Park I headed one Saturday morning in September. Despite several trips to Killearn Gardens I rarely had to walk the whole distance as a citizen usually stopped and offered a ride. My first expedition in the land of coral snakes, cottonmouths and the eastern diamondback rattlesnake produced a two foot eastern king snake which I knew only from books; fair enough!
As time went by the snake hunters found one another and somebody had a car. The Tram Road circuit was a biggie first shown to me by Joe from New Jersey and another guy whose sole goal was a diamondback over six feet (I heard later he found that which he had long sought). Starting at a point just off the truck route, the road could be taken to Wacissa and from there to deeper forest roads. Because much of the circuit was sandy roads it was often possible to gauge snake activity by the number of trails in the sand. Furthermore a trail with no tire track, encountered after a car passed, allowed some precision on when the snake had been there. Plus you could tell which way the snake had gone and usually some useful idea of species. More than one snake must have crossed the road and thought, “made it”, only to find himself suddenly in a pillow case.
Because much of the Tram Road circuit was unpaved it was pretty much a before dark trek; long on eastern king snakes, rat snakes, rattlesnakes. Because it was paved County 67, running south from Telogia, was the night time place. Good, lightly traveled, paved roads and an abundance of scarlet snakes and scarlet king snakes were its glory. Besides these two premiere species there was plenty else as 67 ran from hardwood forest down to the Gulf coast. Carrabelle was the turn around point where we’d get some little pecan pies and Dr Peppers and relax in an oyster shell parking lot before the trip back up 67. Those were the days (nights actually).
We all had this vague foreboding these places would be erased by civilization after we left but return visits suggest not. On one family vacation which, as luck would have it, me, Mrs. SS, and a pile of the shavings were dining on gas station food (the really fast food) in an oyster shell parking lot. We got back in the car, I started whistling the theme song from Indiana Jones, and they started screaming “NO DADDY, DON’T”. They generally enjoyed these little side trips once events unfolded but maintained that initially screaming put them in better voice for those times that screaming was called for. On this occasion a short drive up County 67 turned up a grey rat snake on its morning outing.
So I came to Carrabelle for my interest; I came for the snakes. And I was not misinformed.
Recently Shaving 3 loaned me a copy of In Search of Nature by E.O. Wilson. Chapter one is “The Serpent” where in is said “ I can testify from personal experience that on any given day you are ten times more likely to meet a snake in Florida than in Brazil or New Guinea.” I knew there were more snakes in Florida than in Tennessee and I also knew of no where there were more. Turns out, if snakes are what you seek, it’s the best place on Earth.
ML
6/4/07
So I went to The Florida State University in Tallahassee. The cities’ Seminole meaning was an abandoned site whose resources had been exhausted. This translation amused many as “there’s nothing to do here” was a frequent complaint. Those people simply ignored the venue’s many opportunities.
Adventure destinations were always dictated by transportation; no car, one walk’s. So off to the nearest State Park I headed one Saturday morning in September. Despite several trips to Killearn Gardens I rarely had to walk the whole distance as a citizen usually stopped and offered a ride. My first expedition in the land of coral snakes, cottonmouths and the eastern diamondback rattlesnake produced a two foot eastern king snake which I knew only from books; fair enough!
As time went by the snake hunters found one another and somebody had a car. The Tram Road circuit was a biggie first shown to me by Joe from New Jersey and another guy whose sole goal was a diamondback over six feet (I heard later he found that which he had long sought). Starting at a point just off the truck route, the road could be taken to Wacissa and from there to deeper forest roads. Because much of the circuit was sandy roads it was often possible to gauge snake activity by the number of trails in the sand. Furthermore a trail with no tire track, encountered after a car passed, allowed some precision on when the snake had been there. Plus you could tell which way the snake had gone and usually some useful idea of species. More than one snake must have crossed the road and thought, “made it”, only to find himself suddenly in a pillow case.
Because much of the Tram Road circuit was unpaved it was pretty much a before dark trek; long on eastern king snakes, rat snakes, rattlesnakes. Because it was paved County 67, running south from Telogia, was the night time place. Good, lightly traveled, paved roads and an abundance of scarlet snakes and scarlet king snakes were its glory. Besides these two premiere species there was plenty else as 67 ran from hardwood forest down to the Gulf coast. Carrabelle was the turn around point where we’d get some little pecan pies and Dr Peppers and relax in an oyster shell parking lot before the trip back up 67. Those were the days (nights actually).
We all had this vague foreboding these places would be erased by civilization after we left but return visits suggest not. On one family vacation which, as luck would have it, me, Mrs. SS, and a pile of the shavings were dining on gas station food (the really fast food) in an oyster shell parking lot. We got back in the car, I started whistling the theme song from Indiana Jones, and they started screaming “NO DADDY, DON’T”. They generally enjoyed these little side trips once events unfolded but maintained that initially screaming put them in better voice for those times that screaming was called for. On this occasion a short drive up County 67 turned up a grey rat snake on its morning outing.
So I came to Carrabelle for my interest; I came for the snakes. And I was not misinformed.
Recently Shaving 3 loaned me a copy of In Search of Nature by E.O. Wilson. Chapter one is “The Serpent” where in is said “ I can testify from personal experience that on any given day you are ten times more likely to meet a snake in Florida than in Brazil or New Guinea.” I knew there were more snakes in Florida than in Tennessee and I also knew of no where there were more. Turns out, if snakes are what you seek, it’s the best place on Earth.
ML
6/4/07
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