Stokes Creek Landing

 

The above is the observation tower at Stokes Creek.  The salt marsh runs for miles as far as the eye can see and in the distance is the Tolomato River.  The Interpretive Trail loops to the tower and intersects with the Marsh Point Trail.  Stokes Landing serves as an outdoor classroom for environmental education, it has been visited by area students and their teachers over the years. The observation platform for wildlife and marsh viewing was rebuilt by St. Johns County students. The students also developed the interpretive trail.

Marsh Point at Stokes Landing

One of the main reasons I love hiking is the beautiful and stunning landscapes along the trails.  Some of these pictures are as beautiful as oil or watercolor paintings.  The landscape is so vivid with a wide spectrum of colors that it affects all of your senses: sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste.  A camera can only capture a small portion of the magnificence.

White Spring Butterfly

 

The white and black color pattern of the White Spring Butterfly is stunning.  It attracts the eye immediately and the green foliage in the background makes a nice frame.

Wedge Spotted Cattleheart

The scientific name of the Wedge Spotted Cattleheart is Parides Panares and it is common to the Americas. I particularly like the green house window background.  The windows have a soft blue hue and accentuates the black coloring of the butterfly wings.

Butterfly Landing Gallery I

I like images of butterflies on various objects such as statues, limbs, chairs. and floors.  The different backgrounds adds more creative interest to the picture.

Orange Slice Butterflies

 

 

Flowers are not the only thing that provides liquid nutrients for the butterfly. They will often feed on fruit, manure piles, sap, and other materials that have dissolved into water.
Even moist sand or dirt often has enough liquid nutrients that the butterfly can get the nutrients it needs. Sometimes even rotting animal flesh will provide the butterfly with food.
If you are out working or playing on a hot day often a butterfly will land on you and drink from your skin. It is drawn to your skin by the salt in your sweat. Sweat has salt, and other minerals that butterflies need.

Molly Hugger Hill - Rocks, Leaves, Bees and Shirtless

Molly Hugger Hill Trail is located on Pine Mountain.  This is the third time for me hiking on Pine Mountain which has 22 miles of trails.  On the Molly Hugger Hill trail there are a lot of tree stumps and rocks.  The rocks are covered by 7 inches of leaves and there are rocks around all the tree roots.  A portion of the trail is currently home to a band of bees, a couple of them tried to chase me down.  Even though, it was early spring the weather was 73F and it became very hot with no shade from the trees.  New leaves had not started growing so a person could see the slopes of the hills through the bare trees.  I became so hot that in order to cool down, I had to take off my sweat shirt and hike part of the way shirtless.  Thankfully, no other hikers were in sight to witness my partial stripe tease.

Mountain Creek Lake

Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Trail located in the Meadowlark Garden area is the .6-mile Wildflower Trail, where native plants of Georgia are featured, including many rare, threatened and endangered species. The trail offers a gazebo, waterfall and picturesque bridge overlooking Mountain Creek Lake.

Meadowlark Gardens

We visited Callaway Gardens at Pine Mountain and hiked the Holly Trail and Thornhill Hydrangea Garden Trail in Meadowlark Gardens.

Evening Sky Moultrie Creek

Moultrie Creek is located  off US 1 South and flows into a smaller creek that runs behind my home. The evening sky reflecting the clouds over the creek paints a different picture every sunset.

The Sea-Bird by Samuel Griswold Goodrich

 

 

Samuel Griswold Goodrich (August 19, 1793 – May 9, 1860) was an American author, better known under the pseudonym Peter Parley. Goodrich was associated with his brother Charles A. Goodrich in writing books for the young. His series, beginning in 1827 under the name of Peter Parley, embraced geography, biography, history, science and miscellaneous tales. Of these he was the sole author of only a few, but in 1857 he wrote that he was the author and editor of about 170 volumes, and that about seven millions had been sold.

The Sea-Bird

Far, far o'er the deep is my island throne,
Where the sea-gull roams and reigns alone;
Where nought is seen but the beetling rock,
And nought is heard but the ocean-shock,
And the scream of birds when the storm is nigh,
And the crash of the wreck, and the fearful cry
Of drowning men, in their agony.
I love to sit, when the waters sleep,
And ponder the depths of the glassy deep,
Till I dream that I float on a corse at sea,
And sing of the feast that is made for me.
I love on the rush of the storm to sail,
And mingle my scream with the hoarser gale.
When the sky is dark, and the billow high,
When the tempest sweeps in its terror by,
I love to ride on the maddening blast
To flap my wing o'er the fated mast,
And sing to the crew a song of fear,
Of the reef and the surge that await them here.

When the storm is done and the revel is o'er,
I love to sit on the rocky shore,
And tell to the ear of the dying breeze,
The tales that are hushed in the sullen seas;
Of the ship that sank in the reefy surge,
And left her fate to the sea-gull's dirge:
Of the lover that sailed to meet his bride,
And his story gave to the secret tide:
Of the father that went on the trustless main,
And never was met by his child again:
Of the hidden things which the waves conceal,
And the sea-bird's song can alone reveal.

I tell of the ship that hath found a grave
Her spars still float on the restless wave,
But down in the halls of the voiceless deep,
The forms of the brave and the beautiful sleep.
I saw the storm as it gathered fast,
I heard the roar of the coming blast,
I marked the ship in her fearful strife,
As she flew on the tide, like a thing of life.
But the whirlwind came, and her masts were wrung,
Away, and away on the waters flung.
I sat on the gale o'er the sea-swept deck,
And screamed in delight o'er the coming wreck:
I flew to the reef with a heart of glee,
And wiled the ship to her destiny.
On the hidden rocks like a hawk she rushed,
And the sea through her riven timbers gushed:
O'er the whirling surge the wreck was flung,
And loud on the gale wild voices rung.
I gazed on the scene I saw despair
On the pallid brows of a youthful pair.
The maiden drooped like a gentle flower,
When lashed by the gale in its quivering bower:
Her arms round her lover she wildly twined,
And gazed on the sea with a wildered mind.
He bent o'er the trembler, and sheltered her form,
From the plash of the sea, and the sweep of the storm;
But woe to the lover, and woe to the maid,
Whose hopes on the treacherous deep are laid!
For the Sea hath a King whose palaces shine,
In lustre and light down the pearly brine,
And he loves to gather in glory there,
The choicest things of the earth and air.
In his deep saloons with coral crowned,
Where gems are sparkling above and around,
He gathers his harem of love and grace,
And beauty he takes to his cold embrace.
The winds and the waves are his messengers true.
And lost is the wanderer whom they pursue.
They sweep the shore, they plunder the wreck,
His stores to heap, and his halls to deck.
Oh! lady and lover, ye are doomed their prey
They come! they come! ye are swept away!
Ye sink in the tide, but it cannot sever
The fond ones who sleep in its depths for ever!

Wild! wild was the storm, and loud was its roar,
And strange were the sights that I hovered o'er:
I saw the babe with its mother die;
I listened to catch its parting sigh;
And I laughed to see the black billows play
With the sleeping child in their gambols gay.
I saw a girl whose arms were white,
As the foam that flashed on the billows' height;
And the ripples played with her glossy curls,
And her cheek was kissed by the dancing whirls;
But her bosom was dead to hope and fear,
For she shuddered not as the shark came near.
I poised my foot on the forehead fair
Of a lovely boy that floated there;
I looked in the eyes of the drowning brave,
As they upward gazed through the glassy wave;
I screamed o'er the bubbles that told of death,
And stooped as the last gave up his breath.
I flapped my wing, for the work was done
The storm was hushed, and the laughing sun
Sent his gushing light o'er the sullen seas
And I tell my tale to the fainting breeze,
Of the hidden things which the waves conceal,
And the sea-bird's song can alone reveal!

The Lily by William Blake

 Since the beginning of time, lilies have played significant roles in allegorical tales concerning the sacrament of motherhood. Roman mythology links it to Juno, the queen of the gods. The story goes that while Juno was nursing her son Hercules, excess milk fell from the sky. Although part of it remained above the earth (thus creating the group of stars known as the Milky Way), the remainder fell to the earth, creating lilies. Another tradition has it that the lily sprang from the repentant tears of Eve as she went forth from Paradise.  This is one of the few lilies that grew in my yard this spring.

The Lily
by William Blake

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat'ning horn:
While the Lily white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.

Marshmallow Clouds



 
Many states in the mid west are still experiencing snow in early April but in Florida it is now officially spring and sunshine at Marine Land.  Many sea shells were washed ashore and nothing but blue skies, Marshmallow clouds and sunshine.

Julington-Durbin Preserve

The White Trail to Durbin Creek has an opened field that leads into a very shaded path that had several bridges over the salt Marsh. It was a 2 mile round trip walk and was a perfect outing for a Sunday afternoon.

Durbin Creek

Durbin Creek is located at Julington-Durbin Preserve.  I walked the white trail to reach the creek. It was very green and lush with lily pads and hardware trees. I really would like to walk the length of the creek but there was so much thick under grow it would be difficult.

The Big Oak - A Southern "Oakenshield"

The Big Oak, located in Thomasville, Georgia is a 329 year old Live Oak, and is one of the largest of its kind East of the Mississippi River. Unlike Thorin's oak shield in "The Hobbit" it cannot be used as a shield but it has seen many years of history. The Big Oak dates back to circa 1680, which makes it one of the oldest Live Oaks in the country. I journey to this place just to see this tree.  I feel like I traveled to Middle Earth. Standing next to the Big Oak, I look like a dwarf!  One of my favorite poems by Tolkien.

ROADS GO EVER EVER ON
By J.R. R. Tolkien

Roads go ever ever on,  
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where sun has never shone,  
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,  
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,  
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on  
Under cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone  
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen  
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green  
And trees and hills they long have known.

RiverWalk "The Song of the Chattahoochee"

The RiverWalk is an outdoor 15-mile linear park that hugs the banks of the Chattahoochee River.  For centuries, the Chattahoochee River has flowed from the mountains of North Georgia to the oyster beds of the Florida Panhandle. Sometimes a trickle. Sometimes angrily slapping against the rocks.  On Good Friday, It was a gorgeous walk and I never get tired of the river.  I grew up on the Chattahoochee River banks and it is home to me. It is an intrigue part of my southern heritage and childhood memories.  I watched several boys fishing along it's banks and it brought back my own memories of playing on the river bank and catching bugs.


The beauty of the Chattahoochee River is commemorated in the epic poem The Song of the Chattahoochee (1877), by the noted Georgian poet Sidney Lanier.

The Song Of The Chattahoochee
                                 

Out of the hills of Habersham,
Down the valleys of Hall,
I hurry amain to reach the plain,
Run the rapid and leap the fall,
Split at the rock and together again,
Accept my bed, or narrow or wide,
And flee from folly on every side
With a lover's pain to attain the plain
Far from the hills of Habersham,
Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham,
All through the valleys of Hall,
The rushes cried 'Abide, abide,'
The willful waterweeds held me thrall,
The laving laurel turned my tide,
The ferns and the fondling grass said 'Stay,'
The dewberry dipped for to work delay,
And the little reeds sighed 'Abide, abide,
Here in the hills of Habersham,
Here in the valleys of Hall.'

High o'er the hills of Habersham,
Veiling the valleys of Hall,
The hickory told me manifold
Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall
Wrought me her shadowy self to hold,
The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine,
Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign,
Said, 'Pass not, so cold, these manifold
Deep shades of the hills of Habersham,
These glades in the valleys of Hall.'

And oft in the hills of Habersham,
And oft in the valleys of Hall,
The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone
Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl,
And many a luminous jewel lone
-- Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist,
Ruby, garnet and amethyst --
Made lures with the lights of streaming stone
In the clefts of the hills of Habersham,
In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham,
And oh, not the valleys of Hall
Avail: I am fain for to water the plain.
Downward the voices of Duty call --
Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main,
The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn,
And a myriad flowers mortally yearn,
And the lordly main from beyond the plain
Calls o'er the hills of Habersham,
Calls through the valleys of Hall.

 

 

Old Southern Pickup Trucks

 

 

You are not a true southerner if you don't like old run down wooden houses with a rusty pickup truck in the front yard.  That is true southern landscaping.  This old red rusty truck is located off of highway 82, 60 miles south of Columbus, Georgia.  At Christmas, it is decorated with Christmas lights and is part of a real country Christmas.  I am always on the outlook for true southern traditions and customs.  Rusty pickup trucks is an authentic southern tradition and you can usually find them all over the south.  Cowboys like trucks too.  Here is an excerpt from 'Rodeo Red' by Lucky Whipple from Cowboy Poetry at the Bar-D Ranch website.

 

Rodeo Red

"Ol' Rodeo Red
Was a Cowboy's truck
No maintenance involved
We just run him on luck.

He's a '52 Chev
With a flathead six
There's everything broke
But there's nothin' to fix.

From Fort Worth to Cheyenne
On to Spokane we sped
He was soon dubbed the title
Of Rodeo Red.

He was quite well renowned
That old pickup truck
Here comes Rodeo Red
Powder River let's buck.

The floorboard was muddled
With mud, cans and trash
To-bacco spittle
And cigarette ash.

The hub caps are missin'
The left runnin' board's gone
And the right lamp's burnt out
When the headlights are on.

The emergency brake
Would never apply
So a rock hind a tire
Was our safety reply..."

Rains Mud in Georgia

 I believe it rains mud in Georgia.  It is a phenomena that only the folks of Georgia knows about. On a rainy night in Georgia the clay dyes the rain into shades of red and burnt orange mud that runs down into the creeks, brooks, ponds and rivers.  That is really why so many folks are called red necks for bathing in muddy Georgia water. I am sure most of the country thinks it is because of the bubba trucks and guns.

"Georgia Clay"

Ain’t it funny how some things take you back?
And the here and now just fades to black
When I pull that blue tarp off of that time machine
Man, it hits me

Seventeen years old running on dumb luck
Spent the whole damn summer
Living in that truck
Them old tires still covered in that mud
Like it sticks with me, in my blood

When life was nothing more than living for the night
Just trying to steal a kiss on a tailgate of that ride
Good old days don’t wash away
Just like that Georgia Clay

Only one of my friends with a Fake I.D.
It made the hometown celebrity
Used to put her in park in a vacant lot
And I still can’t believe we never got caught

When life was nothing more than living for the night
Just trying to steal a kiss on a tailgate of that ride
Good old days don’t wash away
Just like that Georgia clay

All over everything, every last memory
Man it’s all coming back to me...

lyrics by Josh Kelly