On Thursday, I started a short outing to North Peninsula State Park. Nearly as soon as I plunged into the shady trail, I was confronted with an unexpected surprise, a brilliantly-colored odd-looking plant. It looked a bit out of place in the green and brown undergrowth of the subtropical hammock…
Today (Friday) I headed to River to Sea Preserve and then Washington Oaks Gardens State Park, two more of close-in favorites.
The reason — one of the reasons — I keep very close to home is I am on a budget, gas is getting more expensive, and frankly, if something happens I want to be easily within range of home. Number two reason is I deeply love trees, big trees, and these places provide some desperately needed nurturing and grounding for me right now.
I encountered this fellow when I was just starting the River to Sea Preserve walk. I was a little out of the way of my normal path, avoiding as I was a noisy gathering at the picnic shelter. The black buzzard noticed me, turned around as I carefully approached trying not to frighten it. It peered down at me with a beady eye, curiously, flapped its wings but didn’t fly off. Peaceful human. It was still there on its perch when I turned a corner out of sight. The buzzards are often seen on sunny days soaring along with the unseen thermal currents. As homely as they are close-up, they are majestic fliers.
It’s difficult to capture the essence and beauty of this strip of oak and palm hammock that is River to Sea. You turn the corner off a utility road and enter a green sanctuary that breathes peace and tranquility, filled with a wild array of pulsing life formed as shrubs and trees. Huge live oaks, carrying whole ecosystems on their great limbs arching over the wide sandy path that crunches underfoot. The fragrance is indescribable… there are few flowering plants here in the deep shade. Billows of wild coffee hug the edge of the path, competing with the saw palmetto and other shrubs. Willowy saplings stretch up through the oaks as they aim for the sun. It is a wondrous place, a relatively small place, a haven amidst the bustling building madness of the Eastern coast of Florida.
As spring progresses many ferns are beginning to pop up and display their feathery finery against the sandy soil. Some look familiar but I am not yet acquainted with their names. Still, I can admire their graceful appearance, adding to the tapestry that is the forest floor and on up into the canopy.
The tide was out when I was at River to Sea. The beach is encrusted with billions of old oyster shells, remnants of generations of feasts held by the people who once called this pleasant place home.
To communicate the visual impact of these huge oaks is a hopeless task. I have no idea how old they are, but this specimen is surely several hundreds of years in age. Think of all the hurricanes and tropical storm it has endured to still stand, straight and tall today.
Here I am at the Nature Trail at Washington Oaks Gardens SP. It is about 2.5 miles long and first enters deep shady hammock, then briefly ventures out into coastal scrub, the remnant of which survived inundation by Hurricane Matthew’s storm surge which crossed nearby SR A1A, killing the sand oaks on the edge of the hammock. Only silvery stumps remain starkly telling their tale as they loom above the saw palmetto and other shrubs.
Here’s a bit of the lush subtropical gardens at Washington Oaks. The flush of the azaleas is now long past and short-lived in this warm climate. I was lucky to catch it at its height in early March.
Washington Oaks Gardens lies between the Intracoastal Waterway (Matanzas River) and A1A. It also has an oceanside beach on the east side of A1A, if you desire to wiggle your toes in coarse coquina sand (broken up shell and limestone).
Heading back to Palm Coast, I encountered a ton of traffic going north on A1A. This coastline is very popular in spring before hurricane season starts on June 1st. Soon enough all the snowbirds will flee and return to northern climes.
Enjoy your weekend everyone. Next week should prove “interesting”…
In joy,
Eliza Ayres
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