A Flagogo Special: Water, Water Everywhere

Quick! Watch it before it goes away! (I don't own the music, so it might disappear!)
A home-made music video of my various watery Florida ADVENTURES!


Watch "A Flagogo Special: Water. Water Everywhere"

Friday Me-Time ADVENTURE: Morningside Nature Center

So, my schedule at the new job offers me a Friday off. I've never had weekdays off before, so I'm pretty interested in this world of opportunity that has opened up before me. With weekends off, I am usually with my husband and we go on ADVENTUREs together, but there's nothing quite like the ones you have when you're on your own.
My first Friday Me-Time ADVENTURE: Morningside Nature Center in Gainesville.
The drive out to Gville is always nice. I take 301 most of the way, and it's very easy going. Sure, there are those pesky speed traps in Lawtey and Waldo, but they've never bothered me because I actually drive the speed limit (!). I've got a whole day and satellite radio - why hurry?
Leaving at around 11 got me to Morningside at around 12:30. It's relatively simple to find and the sign is large and obvious. I noticed only a couple of other cars in the parking lot, but the heat index being something like 110 degrees, I understood why only the brave or the odd (yours truly) would choose to show up in the middle of the day.
While the map and information for the facility was a little on the sparse side (only 2 waysides and a small brochure/map), it wasn't complicated and I found what I needed with ease. I was mostly interested in their 1870s Cracker homestead recreation, but they also have some lovely trails that I was planning on traipsing until I found that my bugspray bottle had lost all its propellant - and as I blow up like the Michelin Man when I am bitten by yellowflies, I decided to save the trail system for another day.
The Cracker homestead was lovingly rendered, and everything had a real authentic feel to it. It reminded me a bit of Dudley Farm, but Morningside had a sort of underdog charm that I liked. More than likely, I took a shine to it simply because it was completely deserted. There was nary a visitor or park employee to speak of. However, there was a jersey cow, two pigs, chickens, a couple of sheep, and a rather loud ram who was making all sorts of goat-racket.
I took my time meandering around the homestead. It was relatively small, only about an acre or so, but things were well tended and you could tell that if it weren't 4,098 degrees outside on a Friday in late July it would be a-bustle with visitors and park folk. (They do have living history reenactments on Saturdays September-May.) I was really hoping they would have a turkey that I could stare at, but alas they had none. I was very at home in the heat, but the abundant shade was a welcome respite from the glare of the sun. They've left many trees in and around the homestead I assume for just such a purpose.
There is a little Cracker house on the property, and there are two lovely rocking chairs that sit on its porch. Boy-howdy, once I was done looking around and taking pictures I spent about an hour sitting in one of those chairs, soaking up the peace and the heat. The little house (my dream home) smelled sweetly of pine and it was happily settled in its place. I rocked back and forth on that porch, trying to burn the scene into my memory: Junebugs wailing, chickens bok-bokking, sweet pine smelling, rocking chair creaking, no breeze blowing, sweat tickling my back, and the utter peace of it all. To my left, under a piece of wood on a bench, sat a recreated newspaper from 1870. I was quite pleased to pick it up and thumb through it. I will admit to you that I was in la-la land and was quite content pretending that this was my place, and I was just taking a break from working on it in the middle of the day. I think I ended up spending an hour and a halfvon that porch all by my lonesome, not a visitor to speak of, in utter bliss.
Morningside Nature Center is a lovely place. I'm sure a review of it during the cooler months when the living history reenactments are going on and more people are in attendance would be more useful, but I liked it how it was for me. For a small period of time, I had it all to myself, and that means more to me than any of that.

Apologies!

I promise promise promise I'll get something up here soon. Life's a sort of muddle right now. But soon!

Summer thunder

There's something about summer thunder that entrances me. The storms visit in the afternoon - nearly every afternoon - in my favorite time of year, and the sound of the sky and the smell of the air is like a panacea. It's just so Florida. There's a certain peace that happens during a good strong rain. Everyone's inside and safe, there's nothing to worry about. I've felt that way since I was very small. Everyone around has a reason for where they are, and it's usually all the same, and it brings people together without them really knowing it. It's like the storms, depressions, and hurricanes are nature's way of bringing people together. Nature, not death, is the great equalizer. Nature may indeed bring about death, but it does so without malice, without anger. There is only the will of nature, the proper way of things. A hurricane may destroy, but the people come together - to lament, to mourn, to rebuild. I must add that my life has never really been interrupted by a major storm, save a weeklong blackout when I was in high school, and that was just an adventure. I'm sure I'd see things differently if the wind, rain, and nature's way destroyed something I loved; however, this is not the case. I am moving to the gulf soon, so we'll see how I feel later.
The junebugs are singing hard lately. I drive home with the top down and hear them in every tree I pass under. I take the long way home, past downtown, over the bridge, and through San Marco just so I can enjoy the trees. Sure, it adds 15 minutes to my ride home, but it adds just that much to my lifespan. I know I might look like a fancypants richie in my convertible Toyota, but I really got that car because I'd rather be outside than inside. I need to see it all, and breathe it in. Sure, sometimes it's more foul than fresh, especially when I am putzing through traffic, but when I get that junebug sound and that hot mugginess of the sun it's all worth it.
I can't quite explain why I love the oppressive summer heat. I just do. It's similar to the reason I love the smell of hotel rooms - not because it's particularly pleasant, but because it means something fun is about to happen. All of my childhood happiness can be traced back to the oppressive heat. Adventures and joy are guaranteed.
I've applied to graduate school for the fall of 2011. I am so anxious that I think my blood now contains millions of little exclamation points, bouncing around and causing tiny explosions when mixed with adrenaline. It's so funny -  people keep telling me that I will bettering myself with this. Truth is, I never thought of it like that. I actually love to learn, and I am just over the moon to have the opportunity to apply for something that is complete and total Floridiana based. I don't think of it as bettering myself; rather, I see it as indulging in a lifelong passion. My love for Florida has always been a part of who I am, and what better way to learn about myself than to take it as far as it can go? This isn't an academic pursuit - it's a spiritual one. I hope with every fiber of my being, every exclamation point in my blood, that I am accepted. My hopes build like storm clouds in the afternoon, like summer thunder rumbling in my bones.

Completion!

Took and "passed" the GRE. Expect more regular updates coming soon.

My birthday is tomorrow! Yay!

A Day for Flying Kites

Few things compare, in my book, to that feeling I get when I am in the middle of nowhere and underwater. It's such a complete feeling of freedom and wholeness - like I finally fit in with the universe. I am able to stretch up and out, to not be in the way, to have complete freedom of movement. Alexander springs is my favorite place to experience this. During the summertime, there are typically many people there, but few situated as I wish to be: floating among the deepest of the headsprings. It's like nature tailor-made one special, specific spot on the map where -along with my trusty mask- I may always be happy, free, and at peace. The depth is just under my breath-holding limit, and I am allowed a moment or two to grab on to a knob of limestone and let the cold ancient water billowing up from the heart of my home cascade over me, through me, on its way out to my buddy, the St. Johns.
I must look like a complete crazy person while I am swimming about. My head pops up every minute or so from the center of the swimming area, only to pop back down again after a few heaving breaths. I've never been afraid of drowning in the cool clearness of freshwater, despite that innate panicky feeling that my lungs send to my brain after too long without a breath. My chest heaves as I swim up from the depths, pretending to breathe, and I pop up again with a sound escaping my throat that would usually signal that one is done for the day. But no, not me. A few more breaths, and I go back down into the blueness. Hold still, and you can hear the wee swirling shells and rock bits near one of the boils click around on bare limestone as they turn and turn until they are worn away. It's a close sound, almost coming from inside your body - a bit like pop rocks in your mouth. I see them, and I challenge myself to grab one, to bring it to the surface, and to show it the interest and respect that no one else would give it. So I try; I dive once... no, too short. I dive again... no, ran out of air. But the third time's a charm, and I surface, my hand clutching three small pebbles. I inspect each one, show them to the sun, and after a short rest, I return them.
Now, I know these are just wee bits of rock and shell, but to me, they are like little secrets that Florida likes to tell to anyone who would listen. They are down there, making that clicking noise, eternally swirling their existence away, but I acknowledge them and return them, to live their intended lives. For a split second in eternity, I talk to the aquifer.

* * *

Wekiva Springs State Park is an interesting specimen as far as ADVENTURE goes. Really, it's surprising that something so wild could exist in such a place (just outside jolly ol' Orlando). My dad and I got there early to take a CANOE ADVENTURE, and found it to be a pretty straightforward setup. Concrete pool containing the springs, large grassy knoll containing spring-goers, and a long river that splits off into two rather opposite types of runs. 

Upon setting out, I nearly lived a thousand lives in a few minutes. We were greeted by a Swallowtailed Kite taking his morning skim across the water. I actually got actual footage of an actual kite, and although my dad was rather unsentimental about the situation (we're an amazing team, he and I - we balance where we should and we go overboard where we should) I knew he was slowing the canoe down so I could get a good shot. Once we passed him, the kite noticed I was no longer watching, shrugged his feathered shoulders, and flew off to start the day's business. It was an excellent omen.

The map we had was pretty explanatory, or so we thought. Straight ahead, the Wekiva River oozed out and about with various spots along the way to visit and remember. However, branching to the left off the Wekiva, there was Rock Springs Run. As we made our way to the junction, we noticed that pretty much no one was heading down the latter, so of course, I voted for Rock Springs Run as our path. The committee delegated, and it was decided that it was "not a bad idea". So, turning against the current, we headed upriver upon the road less traveled.

The oddest thing about this whole CANOE ADVENTURE was the lack of wildlife. At all. We were out early, and it was warm but not stifling. No birds, no fish, no nothing. Then again, the water was almost red with tannins and the shores were close - perhaps creatures prefer wider, clearer waters.

Anyway, there were many sticks in our path. While I type "sticks" I really mean "submerged spears set to hinder your advancement, annoy your dad, and also punch your beloved canoe in its underbelly". Going upstream the entire time, with vile "sticks" in the water, and the eeriness of no wildlife made Rock Springs Run a CANOE ADVENTURE that was hard to really define. Sure, it was neat, but it was also unforgiving. We paddled for a good long while, cursing the poorly drawn map ("We must be near the end by now!"), and hoping that our assumptions about the distance key were all wrong.

Alas, we came upon the dreaded Otter Camp, an event of which we had been joking due to the incorrectness of the river map. It was relieving, frustrating, and hilarious all at the same time. And above all, more fun than anyone is ever allowed to have. (Otter Camp, by the way, is a lovely little place and I plan to spend perhaps Christmas there or some other holiday that requires the visiting of people with whom the nature of the holiday compels you.(i.e. I want to stick it to convention while also enjoying a quiet few nights alone in the woods.)

On the way back from the aforementioned camp, we saw birds, turtles, tadpoles (!), and an otter. It was almost like it was challenging us on the way up and rewarding us on the way down. 

When we finally met up with the Wekiva River again, we merged into paddled boat traffic. Few things annoy my dad and I more than a couple of novices in a self-propelled watercraft. We know that they have to learn sometime, but COME ON, IT'S A PADDLE NOT A SOUP LADLE. USE IT ACCORDINGLY. We learned from one of the rivergoers that there was a big bar with a party down the river apiece, and "everyone goes there on weekends". With that, the committee reconvened, took a vote, and unanimously declared that not only was Rock Springs Run "not a bad idea", but as a whole "a much better idea and good lord what a hot crowded mess this river has become in the few hours we were away from it".Thanks, Mr. Kite. You gave us some good juju.

A Fortnight of ADVENTURE

Few things make me feel more complete than the sound of the junebugs in the afternoon and the frogs at night. Last night, I heard the frogs for the first time this year. This afternoon, I heard the junebugs. The hour of my land is upon me, and I could not be more excited. Sure, there's winter, but in the summer this place shines and dances in the thick heat of midday. That hot feeling your skin gets when you're in the sun - it recharges me. I am solar powered.

I've hit nigh 15 parks in the past few weekends. Most notable of them were Suwannee River, Big Shoals, and Washington Oaks Gardens State Parks. It may seem like I am packing as much as I can into one day just to get a stamp in my passport, but it's really the journey that I am after, the ADVENTURE into unknown lands and unseen forests. Sure, I get my stamp, but I also get a feast for the eyes and the soul.

Suwannee River State Park is everything you could ask for in a park. It's got your camping, hiking, scenic vistas, and a ridiculous array of completely unique natural features. Plus, it's at the end of a road, in the middle of glorious nowhere ("nowhere" is an affectionate term, I assure you). I'm still on the fence about opening my heart up to the Suwannee, as it seems shifty and odd compared to my close friend and relative, the St. Johns. It's got high, sandy bluffed banks, a swift current, and seems more like a river gone feral. Not that I have a problem with that, it's just that the St. Johns is like a big old friend that tells me what it's going to do before it does it, while the Suwannee is full of surprises. At SRSP, the trail walks along the banks of the river and occasionally comes upon a spring here and there. They just boil up from Florida's limestone innards, spilling themselves into the river without so much as a run to show off (like my darlings that mosey lazily to the St. Johns from their headsprings). 
With further hiking, you delve deeper into the forest. The rudimentary map I had of the trails left most of the sights up to my own interpretation - something that I prefer. I'm sure a park ranger could have helped me had I had a burning need to explore the facts and figures of the park's flora and geological features, but I had no need. I only needed to see and to drink it all in with my eyes. Palmettos are like good friends that wave as you pass by, and the little lilies that grow in the disturbed muddy areas look like they may sing if you wait long enough. I was blown away by the rapids and rock formations in the midpoint of the trail, the water heading in two separate directions and coming from nowhere, careening helter-skelter into the earth again. And the wet sunlight filtering through the spring canopy, and the singing lilies in the mud, and sound of rushing water - it's all so much of what I love and always coming close to being overwhelming but never really getting to that point. I'm sure I use the term "mind-blowing" a lot, but ma'ams and sirs, that vista is mind-blowing.

Speaking of neat-o vistas, Big Shoals is one of the weirdest things I've seen in Florida thus far (geologically speaking, although I've yet to visit the Florida caverns, so I'll get back to you on this). It's a modest park at the start, but walk a mile into the woods and you start hearing something, like a highway. Some kind of natural white noise. As you walk, it gets louder until you see the river through the trees doing something a Florida body of water ought not do: turn white. That's right, my dears, there's rapids in them there waters. It looks like the French Broad up in North Carolina (Florida's best friend and schoolmate from way back). It's like fast and excited sweet tea, all tannins and current. Unfortunately due to the nature of the shifty Suwannee, it's not terribly easy to get a great view of the shoals from the land. I'd like to one day visit it by boat, but it's too early in the relationship to go and do something like that. I mean, I have to get to know this river. And, you know, it's shifty. I have also heard that there are giant sturgeon that leap out of the Suwannee's waters and target unsuspecting boaters, and by my source's knowledge they kill one person a year. I'm not sure about those statistics, but I am also not taking a chance in a shifty river with giant prehistoric homicidal fish lurking in its depths.

Speaking of homicidal fish... no, not really. But wouldn't that just be the best segue ever?

The final park of note is less along the lines of mighty rivers and glorious Floridiana, Washington Oaks Gardens State Park is just plain neat. It's situated along A1A, down in that there scrub that so often becomes and uninteresting blur to me between two points on a map. So many beach parks are so similar, and I know I should enjoy and respect each for what they are, but sometimes I feel like IT'S JUST A BEACH. So when I say I "visited" the beachy state parks along A1A, I mean I saw what there was to see without partaking in trails or really getting out of my car. (Does it help that I have a convertible? It's like I was outside, only not!) Yes, yes, I feel lame for not inching through every nook and cranny like I do with the inland parks, but as I grew up near the sea, I've come to take it for granted and am therefore bored to bits with it. No offense, beaches of Northeast Florida, but I want to see other beaches.
Anyway, WOGSP is surprising. I mean, it doesn't look like scrub at all. In fact, it's a beautifully organized and well tended garden of roses, camellias, azaleas, and various other flora including some rather stately live oaks. There are water features,  lovely walking paths, and the fact that it's less than a mile from the uninterested Atlantic makes it all the more neat-o.

I visited many parks recently, but the three I've outlined are the ones that really stuck with me. Not that I am knocking the others I visited (Bulow Creek, Bulow Plantation Ruins, and Tomoka are three pretty incredible places as well for the massive Farchild Oak, well-preserved ruins, and a ridiculously gigantic 50s-era sculpture representing a "Timucuan folk tale", respectively).

The next issue of Flagogo will contain a spring. Which one? I don't know yet, but dammit, I'ma goin' swimmin'.


P.s The swallow-tailed kites are back!