Sandhill Cranes – Mycotoxins
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| Sandhill cranes fly over Kanapaha Prairie – Gainesville, FL – Photo ©Mac Stone |
The sandhill cranes’ arrival in Florida is the sure sign of winter. They come in with the staccato trumpet calls that pierce the morning air and echo through the prairie’s live oak rim. Their migratory populations have ebbed and flowed over the years on the prairie, some years with over 1,500 individuals and other years only a few dozen. There doesn’t seem to be a solid explanation for this, but some believe its due to the amount of dog fennel that grows up to 6 feet high and gives the cranes a natural barrier from potential predators like coyotes and bobcats. Without the vegetation, they simply pass over the prairie and onto greener pastures.  |
| Sandhill cranes at sunrise on Kanapaha Prairie – Photo ©Mac Stone |
One of my favorite things in the winter is to go out and photograph the sandhills at sunrise. When polar fog exhales from the wetlands, their silhouettes dot the horizon and make for some great images. On these mornings though, I’m not the only one stalking birds. If sandhills usher in the day with their calls, then coyotes are the denizens of the night. Their mad cackling can be heard from a mile away and I can’t help but wonder while I’m sitting around the backyard fire, what they’re howling about. No matter how close they sound, every time I go looking for them they’re nowhere to be found. After their raucous nights, though, I’m always certain to find the remains of their prey in a cloud of feathers on the cold prairie floor.  |
| A lone coyote stalks a flock of sandhill cranes on Kanahapa Prairie – Photo ©Mac Stone |
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| Sandhill crane infected by mycotoxin, fusariotoxin – Kanahapa Prairie – Photo ©Mac Stone |
Not wanting to stress the bird or cause it any more pain if its wing really was injured, I stayed back and watched it for a while. It was really sad to watch. The crane would call out to its flock in a broken shrill and the others didn’t respond. It’s limp neck eventually lost all mobility and hung low as if paralyzed. In the deeper water, it could barely keep its beak high enough to breathe. I apologize for the graphic photos. |
| Sandhill crane infected by mycotoxin, fusariotoxin – Kanahapa Prairie – Photo ©Mac Stone |
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| Sandhill crane, probable cause of death: mycotoxins from molded grains – Kanahapa Prairie – Photo ©Mac Stone |
Trolllin’ and Pollin’ Everglades Style
The same places I’ve been visiting since I arrived here are still continuing to surprise me. There’s no shortage of adventure and discovery in Everglades National Park, that’s for sure. With my friend, coworker, and backcountry fishing guide Pete Frezza, we headed out before dawn to meet the sun as it rose over the Everglades. Launching his boat we battled swarms of mosquitoes fully understanding our blood was a necessary sacrifice for our plans that day.
Right off the bat, the calm water began rippling out from the banks as juvenile tarpon rolled violently on unsuspecting minnows. I had never seen anything like that in South Florida. The only time I watched fish rise this frequently was on the North Platte River in Wyoming, and those were 15” trout. These were 30” tarpon. By my third cast I had one on the fly and it sent itself rocketing into the blue morning sky. What a way to start the day!
Pete was nice enough to let me have the first casts, but promptly after I wanted to see how it was done by a pro. Watching a seasoned fisherman cast into the tight spots around mangroves is like watching an artist at work. His fly danced and line undulated in beautiful loops and fell silently on the water, presenting an unresistable morsel to the fish below.
And just when we thought it couldn’t get any better than fishing on a Monday, a double rainbow appeared over the water. We stayed in this spot for the next two hours and found a few young snook which was encouraging to see since their numbers declined so abruptly after the 2010 freeze.
The bay was like glass and we could see redfish tailing in the flats as the tide drew out. Along the banks, dense mats of turtle grass floated on the surface, uprooted by storm surges and water currents, then elegantly arranged in lava-like tendrils of varying colors. Great white herons dotted the horizon waiting for unsuspecting toadfish and crabs to swim by. Just when it couldn’t get any better, all of a sudden by the shoreline we spotted it; my very first wild flamingo.
I’ve seen plenty of flamingos in zoos and postcards in all the stores down here, I’ve even drunk out of a plastic one, but never fully appreciated these birds until this moment. I couldn’t believe how they dwarfed all the shorebirds and wading birds along the coast. Maybe because they’re rare, maybe because we pulled 5 miles to get there, whatever the case I was overcome with this entitled feeling that I had been let into some special club. My camera was working, batteries at full charge, and an empty memory card, things were looking good. We approached slowly, but we couldn’t quite get close enough for a candid image. Wary of people, the flamingo would promptly take off as soon as we got within 50 feet, extending its long awkward neck and using the flats as its runway. It seemed to take forever for the bird to get into the air.
After another hour, we saw the flamingo land near some other wading birds. Hoping that power in numbers would make this bird feel safer we headed towards them and were able to get a little closer. Just then, my polarizer fell off my lens and scared the bird away. I managed to get some frames off just before, but still, with such a rare sighting, the images I was making didn’t match what I was feeling. Fortunately, the flamingo landed with a group of white herons. Seeing the image line up, Pete helped paddle us into a position to juxtapose the mangrove islands of Florida bay and this odd family of birds against the afternoon horizon.
Given the light and the physical circumstances, I couldn’t have been happier. And just in time too, because looking behind us, a storm was brewing, forcing us off the flats to bring our 15 mile pole and paddle to an end. I’m still buzzing from the energy.
Mangroves
I’ve been obsessing over mangroves lately. They are the unyielding force of the Everglades. Each of them with a unique footprint and a character all their own. Constantly bending and stretching to reach fertile ground, they posses a certain ingenuity, an intelligence, even.
Mangroves are tricky subjects to photograph, though. Their waxy leaves reflect harsh light in the afternoons and around sunset, even the slightest wind will move their outstretched branches during long exposures.
One of the more bizarre landscapes I’ve seen was right at the end of the dry season at the top of Florida Bay. For a week, North winds pushed water into the mangrove swamps along Taylor River. The ground, still parched from the months without water, stayed defiantly cracked and broken regardless of the water that now filled the area. I’d been to this place dozens of times and never seen it this way.
"Swept Away"
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| Swept Away – Florida Bay |
Venture Out! Everglades Invader
Many of you have heard the stories about pythons taking over the Everglades. While I wish this were another Skunk Ape story hyperbolized by one sighting, for those of us who live and work in the park this is a very real and scary problem. Burmese pythons (Python molurus bivittatus) are one of the world’s largest snakes and unfortunately have been released into the park. Due to their incredibly high survival rates and south Florida’s favorable climate, their populations have exploded over the last few years. It is estimated that anywhere from 5,000 to 200,000 pythons are currently residing in the Everglades. Research biologists in the park are working hard to find new ways of controlling their numbers.
Last week I had the chance to accompany wildlife biologist Trey Kieckhefer to get a better understanding of the problem we’re facing in the Everglades. One of his studies involves implanting a tracking device under the skin of nine pythons and rereleasing them into the park. While this many seem counterproductive to limiting the number of these invasive reptiles, the “Judas Snakes” as they’re called, help lead biologists to other pythons during the breeding season and offer clues as to their behavior in south Florida. Normally when biologists encounter pythons in the field, they take them back to the lab for further research or euthanasia.
Trey currently holds the record for finding the largest python in the park, at a staggering 16.9 feet. You would think a snake this big would easily be detected by the millions of tourists and workers that pour through the park entrance each year. However, as you will find in my next episode of Venture Out!, regardless of size, the Burmese python is difficult to locate even with radio telemetry and GPS tracking.
Enjoy the video and pray for our Everglades!
Mac Stone Photography 