Spoonbills

One of my favorite places to paddle is the shallow waters between Scale Key and Cedar Key. Aside from an occasional clam boat passing through the channel behind Old Fenimore Mill that announces the entrance to a collection of small islands, a quiet solitude reigns here. The tranquility is so infrequently broken that fish, birds, and porpoise gather here to forage and socialize. Just after sunrise on July 6th, I set off from the town beach with the tide nearly at full ebb. The air felt heavy with humidity and a scant breeze barely rustled the palms onshore. I paddled into the channel and then turned northeast, cautiously navigating my plastic kayak through the shallows to avoid running aground on the razor-like oyster shelves that populate the area.

Every once in a while, a translucent beige fin lazily broke the surface ahead of me for a few moments and then disappeared into the dark water. A fisherman friend once told me that redfish like these shallows, spending a fair amount of time near the water's surface. In these waters, redfish are virtually rock stars, aloof and elusive at times but when they're on, they can pack explosive energy. My arrival at low tide coincided with the time when individual reds remain behind in the shallows to feed along the edges of oyster mounds. Just as I dipped my left paddle blade to begin an easy cruising stroke, something exploded at the surface off the port side with a whoosh that gave me a start. I paused a few moments, awestruck, and watched the sizeable ripples radiate outward from the disturbance until they disappeared. I never saw what made the commotion but my guess is the paddle startled a very large red lounging near the surface.

Later, a pair of roseate spoonbills flew in from the northeast and descended behind a small island in front of my position. Spoonbills are large, pink waders with a 50 inch wingspan and an unusual bill shaped like a large, flat spoon. To see them in the wild is a fantastic experience. I paddled toward them, but without much hope that I'd be able to get close enough for some photographs. At low tide, the maze of channels is hard to navigate; freedom of movement is virtually impossible. But my luck held and I spotted not a pair but about a half dozen birds feeding and preening on a mound of oysters. I beached the kayak on a nearby shoal and quickly trudged through the muck to hide behind some cover. I fumbled with my camera settings hoping to get some shots off before the birds noticed me and started off. The 'bills were calm and either didn't notice my slogging behind some tall grass or simply just ignored me. Looking at the photos later, their expressions hint at another possibility. The birds seem to be wearing a faint smile (visit the photo gallery on this page and judge for yourself). Could they have been amused by my attempts to meet them on their own ground?

Scale Key

Scale Key lies just northeast of the town of Cedar Key.  The island is part of a chain of dozens of small islands that make up the Cedar Keys.  The shallow waters between the town and the island chain are peaceful and for the most part free of motorboats except for the occasional fishing craft. All kinds of wildlife find the stillness and abundance of secluded coves in these waters hospitable.  On our recent trip, we didn't have to wait long to spot oystercatchers poking their bills into the mollusk-encrusted shoreline.  As I approached in my kayak, camera in hand, they didn't seem to mind my getting close in to take a few pictures.  As we explored the shallows, swirls erupted ahead, likely from fleeing mullet. A few of the disturbances may have been the calling card of redfish, the elusive species coveted by the tanned and tattooed anglers we spotted earlier crowding the town dock with their high-riding pickup trucks and galvanized boat trailers.

As Scale Key came in sight, I spotted drifts of white on the shoreline.  White Pelicans? A quick confirmatory look through my binocs prompted some inspired paddling and a game plan for photographing these incredible birds.  I had seen these migratory giants before, near Shell Mound, peaceably gathered on sand bars.  They are quite shy, unlike their brown cousins, and will not allow people to get closer than about 100 yards. When they are disturbed, they don't fly off in a rush but instead calmly step into the water and paddle away in loosely formed flotillas. I think it's amusing how well this low key escape strategy, performed with about as much excitement as people leaving a screening of "Winged Migration", has assisted their survival. I aimed for the beach ahead, about a quarter mile west of the pelicans, and planned a sneak approach on foot.

I left my kayak on the white sand at Scale Key and headed toward the sand bar where the pelicans were gathered.  They stood with their bills pointing regally upwind.  I had only an 85 mm lens (good for a close-up shooting distance of only a hundred feet or less) and could see how easily the birds spooked. I waded across a small channel and hoped its depth, concealed by the cloudy water, didn't exceed my ability to keep my camera dry.  As I got within about 150 yards, the birds started to look agitated and so I began shooting, praying for a few good shots.  Some birds went aloft and others started marching off the bar and into the Gulf.  Within about 2 minutes of shooting, most of the flock was now heading away from me in loose bands toward another bar.  Back home editing the results, I managed one decent shot. Note to self: pick up 300 mm telephoto lens.

Magic Hour

Two weekends ago, I had the pleasure of paddling Cedar Key with my friend John Moran, a professional photographer who specializes in capturing the natural beauty of old Florida. John has a unique eye and has developed clever ways of making interesting pictures. About an hour before sunset, the magic hour light became irresistible.  We found a dead horseshoe crab on the beach and wondered what kind of image it would make.  Minutes later, John disappeared for a while with cameras aboard his blue Dagger kayak.  Just before sundown, he reappeared at our landing spot, his CF card harboring some then-unknown photographic alchemy.  "Matt, thanks for a great trip, I'll send you some images", he said later that evening. A few days later, John emailed the images, posted here and in my previous post.  Thanks John!

Atsena Otie: November 1st

Having been delayed by high winds that slowed our progress in October, we set out for Atsena Otie around 3 PM to ensure that enough daylight would be on hand for the passage through the center of the island.   High winds and heavy seas, we were told, had moved off earlier, leaving calm winds and nearly flat seas before us.  As we left shore, a lone airboat roared off to the east. Our five kayaks headed across the main channel with the eastern shore of Atsena Otie dead ahead.

The gulf was nearly glassy, like a pond in the early morning.  On the smooth, white sandy beach surrounding our favorite nameless lagoon, we hauled the boats out of the incoming tide and explored on foot. John began brandishing an impressive arsenal of cameras and lenses as I contemplated a swim in the chilly Gulf waters.  When he let me peer through a fisheye lens at the gorgeous cloud-scape overhead, I decided that the dip would have to wait.  I found a dead juvenile horseshoe crab, which was the color of amber and just as translucent, and proposed that it might be an interesting subject. We held the exoskeleton against the sun, letting the rays illuminate its convoluted insides as John shot a few frames. A tangle of driftwood along the beach evoked an ancient shipwreck, a sort of memento mori to passers-by.

The tide peaked around 5 PM, which meant the central passage through the island was more likely to be navigable.  Oyster beds make paddling here a risky proposition, even at high water. I tentatively paddled forward, wary of depth that can vanish without warning.  The other four followed. To our left,  a great blue heron croaked and flapped off behind a stand of oaks as we approached.  Someone saw an osprey hovering overhead for several moments.  The sun began setting, beginning the "magic hour" of golden light that softened the lush landscape in hues of reds, orange, and deep green.  All was quieter here too, as the dense forest created a natural insulation from the intrusion of noise from the well-traveled tourist traps onshore.

Heading around a bend to the west, the passage narrowed and I remembered from past experience that the secret to forward motion here is to hug the southern bank where the deep water is.  Two other kayakers who were visiting from South Carolina joined our group.  I looked back and saw that the six boats had stretched out along the way, each person calibrating their speed in inverse proportion to their curiosity toward the landscape.  Some stopped to take photographs while others lingered over the sights of osprey nests perched atop several snags.

We exited into the gulf on the west side of Atsena Otie.  Here, the setting sun warmed an incredible scene of grasses, palms, oaks, and sand dunes under darkening cumulus clouds that stretched to the horizon.  A few minutes later, we made landfall at the beach near the ruins of the cedar slat plant and uncorked a bottle of Shiraz to accompany our spread of cheese and apples laid out on a red and white checked cloth.  A few dead horseshoe crabs were scattered on the rocky beach.   As the last red sliver disappeared below the horizon, we watched for the "green flash", a lighting effect seen in the Florida Keys at sunset.  The flash didn't materialize, but as the wine glasses emptied, it didn't really matter.

Cedar Key Trip October 4, 2008

Beautiful weather, great company, and a marvelous sunset graced our small group as we explored Atsena Otie last Saturday.  Seven of us left the town beach around 5 PM and crossed the channel to the island, braving a 10 to 15 knot wind blowing from the east.  On the way out, someone spotted a large ray jumping clear out of the water.  Once we reached the white sandy beach, we combed the shore for shells and driftwood and swam in the wonderfully warm gulf waters.  A bit later, we paddled to another quiet beach for wine and cheese to admire a beautiful fall sunset.  On the way out, we navigated through some oyster-shallows without running aground (well, not too badly anyway).  Around 7:30, we reached the town beach again, having completed an afternoon of good cheer and fine paddling.