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.