Under Beech, Oak, and Poplar

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On my last day of training in Bradenton, FL, I woke up before dawn to make it back to Celery Field one last time. The air was humid but cool, and the skies were clear. The whole western sky was bright, liquid gold. I had to stand behind the roof supports for the shade. The pond seemed fully awake, but there was no great bustle. I heard some cranes trumpet as they flew low towards the rising sun, and there were small birds chirping in the reed grass. On a distant shore, a limpkin walked along. The yellow, decurved bill, the eggy body shape, and the snaky neck reminded me of a Dr. Seuss character. It plodded along in the water, dropping its head down the mucky bottom. After a few minutes of watching, I saw it pull up a mussle and take it on shore to open.

"The whole western sky was bright, liquid gold."

Off in the distance, a line of trees outlines a peninsula of land in the marsh. Plain above the branches, perched and surveying his territory, sat the Lord of birds. Even far away, the hunched black shoulders and snow white head of the bald eagle is unmistakable. An eagle at the start of a long journey home is a good omen.

My instructor released me late, and I sped north over the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, pelicans flying along side me as I crossed Tampa Bay. In St. Petersburg, I left the highway and turned West towards the coast. I had been to the beach once before, the second night of my stay, after sunset. The full moon rose high into the night sky, and coming over the boardwalk, I saw the ocean stretch out right before me a foamy white color. But, I was deceived, for the ocean was still a hundred yards away, and what lay before me was crystal sand: pulverized quartz washed down from ancient mountains by forgotten rivers. Underfoot, it felt like fine salt and it crunched like fresh, soft snow. Shimmering in the moonlight, the sand felt eerie and powerful. Now, in the sunlight, I was amazed by how cool it was to the touch. Even barefoot in the blazing sun, the temperature was absolutely pleasant. I stayed on the beach just long enough to grab a pocketful of shells, then I raced back to the highway and onward to Tampa International Airport.

The crystals are not white, as they seem. They are, in fact, clear, like polar bear fur.

 Back in North Carolina this weekend, I found the time Sunday to head out to the woods. Compared with the bustle of the Florida marshes, the deciduous forest was drab and quiet. Yet, I was soon back to old habits: sneaking barefoot through the trees, asking questions of squirrels, staying out-of-site of hikers, birding, of course, and crossing swift, cold creeks. I feel a great re-connection with the cold air and with solitude and stillness, and though I will find no more alligators to stalk, I believe I am still stalking deeper, more primitive creatures, ancestors to me, modern man, and their echos out there under beech, oak and poplar. Who can tell where this hunt will take me?

Robert's crossing: a "swift, cold creek."

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