Mountain or molehill...you decide

The cattle in my neighbor's pasture are grazing a mountain.

It's not a mountain by New England standards and certainly not compared to the topography of the Great Rocky or Blue Ridge ranges. But for here in Central Florida, the weed-covered mounds of earth that protrude from a corner of my neighbor's field seem mountainous, at least from a bovine perspective.

They are actually the forgotten byproducts of construction projects. My neighbor, who has an earth-moving company, has deposited leftover road-building materials in that corner for years. Stacks of red clay stand alongside piles of sand, lime rock and gravel. Over time, wind and rain have melded those raw materials together until their separate colors, textures and shapes can no longer be differentiated one from another. To the cattle's eyes, and to mine as well, the entire corner appears as one large undulating mass of plant-covered ground, a rolling oasis in an otherwise level field.

It pleased me when I drove by to see the livestock chewing their way up and down the hilly terrain. Although the cattle may have conquered Mount Surplus before, this was the first time I'd seen them there. I pulled the car off the dirt road and shut off the engine so I could quietly watch the small herd of white, brown, black and spotted cattle doing what cattle do best — graze.

As I sat there wondering if the animals were enjoying the change in altitude, an all-black calf that had made his way up to the top of a mound suddenly ran awkwardly downward. Was he playing? Did he have fun? Did the hilly terrain present a pleasant change from the dull routine of grazing flat field fodder?

The cattle were too busy filling their bellies to pay attention to the youngster's antics, but I watched with interest as the entire herd found ways to enjoy their newfound bounty. While the two young calves were exploring the sloping trails, each adult member of the slow-moving herd meandered along until it found a spot — an individual grazing station — where it could chew off and consume new plant growth, overlooked stems, seedheads and leaves.

It was a bucolic scene. If I didn't know better, I could easily imagine a real mountain, or at least a series of rolling hills in New England or North Carolina, on which a herd of cattle contentedly grazed.

I sat watching the animals for quite a while before continuing home where, on our own acreage, I passed several large piles of woodchips in various stages of decomposition. We have no livestock to graze and explore our mountains-in-the-making but we do have grandchildren who, not unlike the little black calf, have fun climbing up and running down the sloping sides of our towering stacks.

I suppose it doesn't matter if you're a long-lashed bovine or a bright-eyed child, anything a little different is bound to get attention. 

The cattle in my neighbor's pasture were grazing a mountain. It may not have been a real mountain, but that didn't seem to matter. The old adage says not to make a mountain out of a molehill, but it doesn't say anything about not building one out of woodchips or surplus road-building materials.

Riding through time...

Old County Road 50 in Clermont between North Hancock Road to the west and CR 455 to the east is a winding, two-lane road that runs more-or-less parallel to the newer State Road 50.

At one time, Old C.R. 50 was the main route between Clermont and Winter Garden. In those days, black Model Ts must have chugged along the curvy path following a route sketched out not too long before by horses and wagons.

An old car on a new road

Passengers would have passed by a scattering of wooden, two-story homesteads owned by families tending small herds of cattle and groves of citrus trees. A driver might have waved a friendly hello as he passed by a homemaker picking vegetables from the kitchen garden.

Cattle enjoying a surplus citrus snack

But those times are long gone. These days, slick sedans and extended cab pickup trucks make fast work of the curves and hills on Old C.R. 50 as they zoom by one planned residential community after another. There’s nobody around to wave hello to, even if one was willing to turn off a car’s thermostatically controlled air conditioning system and roll down the window, because tall privacy fences or a development’s perimeter walls shield most homes from prying eyes.

That’s what happens to open land. Time goes by and property that once nurtured a family’s hopes and dreams gives way to progress and the reality of living a long life. Homesteaders get older and can no longer take care of the animals and crops as they could when they were young. Children grow up and move away to pursue their own dreams.

Over time, open land often gives way to development

Without anyone left to tend the fields or maintain groves, land is sold off to developers who divide it into minuscule lots. They install “improvements” and “amendments.” Well-lit paved roads appear where cattle once grazed. Lavish clubhouses, golf courses and playgrounds replace fruit trees, vegetable gardens and rope swings.

Although I understand and accept the inevitability of transition, that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Whenever I drive along Old C.R. 50 between Clermont and Winter Garden, I take it slow. This is my time to imagine what life was like in the past and to savor the few spots along the road that remain undeveloped.

As I turn off North Hancock Road onto Old C.R. 50, I absorb the view of the beautiful hillside to the north. Cattle still graze on that lovely acreage dotted by small ponds and picturesque sheds. Less than a mile to the east is a homestead on the south side of the road that still operates as a working grove and cattle ranch. I’m sure the house and barn have seen better days, but the buildings still manage to put their wooden arms around a family and embrace their dreams.

Old homestead in forefront.  New housing development in the distance 

I’ve noticed only one other property on the road that operates as an agricultural-based homestead, and recently I saw a “For Sale” sign posted there. I can’t fault the people for selling. I know all too well how much work it takes to maintain large parcels of agricultural land. No matter what crop you’re raising, farming is a tenuous business. I also understand the pressure of rising land values pitted against an increased tax burden and a diminishing desire to work as hard as one could when age was not part of the equation.

Clermont is not unique. Every town has its own form of Old C.R. 50. Remnants of lives once lived differently than they are today are scattered along many town roads throughout the county, across the country.

For me — a driver passing slowly down a pretty road — all I can do is appreciate what remains of a scenic route. It’s not about whether one type of lifestyle is better than another or questioning whether developing farmland is good or bad. The object for me is simply to be aware — to breathe in the beauty of the past while it’s still here to appreciate.

I like to compare my trips down Old C.R. 50 to inhaling the fragrant scent of orange blossoms. Both provide a stimulating hint of times gone by. Both are too sweet to ignore.

The sweet smell of orange blossoms fades as time transforms more and more groves into residential or commercial develepments

Barely contained excitement

A Florida Black Bear runs across a country lane toward a large expanse of woods

Simply Living
July 16, 2012

"Want to take a walk with me to the mailbox?" my husband asked.

Evening was just around the corner and since we both spent the better part of the day inside, we were overdue for a bit of outdoor exercise.

"Sure," I said. "Just give me a minute to get ready and I'll join you."

I slipped into shoes, stuck the phone in my pocket and grabbed the camera. Even for a short walk, I make a point of taking a camera along just in case. I've been out too many times without one and missed some exciting shots.

Our mailbox is about a half-mile away. To get there, we meandered down our dirt driveway and the unpaved road, flanked by houses on one side and a 120-acre wood on the other.

After stopping to chat with a neighbor, we continued along. Mosquitoes were coming out and I was eager to get the mail, return home and jump into the lake before the bugs got the best of me. But a few steps farther along, all thoughts of biting insects vanished when I caught sight of something I had never seen before.

"Ralph! " I commanded, pointing ahead. "Stop! There's a bear right there!"

No sooner had the words escaped my lips than a black hunk of a creature emerged from beneath a broad oak tree. Instantly, the animal noticed us and shifted gears. When I first saw him, he was nosing something on the ground but seconds later he was lumbering across the road toward the safety of the woods. Midway, he stopped to size up the two humans who had interrupted his foraging.

While all this was happening — less than a minute — I was prying the camera from my pocket and directing it toward the bear. Click. One shot was all I got before the bear disappeared into the woods.

"Should we follow him?" Ralph asked eagerly.

I shook my head. "There's no way we'd be able to find him. He's too fast, the woods too dense. It's too late to try."

We continued to the mailbox on a cloud of excitement.

"I can't believe we saw a bear!" I repeated about a dozen times. "I'm so glad you were with me. I don't think anyone would have believed me if I'd been alone."

Equally awed, Ralph said, "It looked like a big dog. I'm amazed you saw it."

"Me too," I admitted. "I still can't believe, after 21 years living here, we actually saw a bear! That's so incredible! I wonder when we'll see it again."

My elation didn't abate. I uploaded the picture I took soon after we got home and left an excited message on my daughter's voice mail. My natural high remained throughout the night and following day. It wasn't until about 24 hours after spotting the bear that my euphoria took a nosedive, settling into sorrowful despair.

On the Lake Sentinel's Facebook page, I read the following post:

"A bear was struck and killed on U.S. Highway 27 between Clermont and Leesburg sometime between Thursday night (July 5) and Friday morning (July 6), a Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission spokeswoman confirmed Friday.

The bear was about 3 years old and weighed between 250 and 300 pounds, FWC spokeswoman Joy Hill confirmed. The agency does not know the details of the crash, but sent a crew out to collect the body…"

Although I have no way of confirming that the bear was the same one Ralph and I saw Thursday evening, it probably was. I live close to the reported area and, sadly, the timing was spot on. Black bears are solitary, reclusive creatures most active during dawn and dusk. They range over dozens of square miles in search of the berries, nuts, roots and insects that make up 80 percent of their diet.

The more I think about it, the more amazed I am that a 300-pound animal managed to survive at all on the limited tracts of undeveloped land in my semi-rural slice of south Lake.

Of the estimated 3,000 black bears living in Florida, most occupy eight distinct areas, none of which includes my neighborhood. Late last month, the Florida black bear (Ursus americanus floridanus) was removed from the state's threatened species list because its numbers have increased dramatically in recent decades. Intentional killing of it is a felony punishable by up to five years in prison or a $5,000 fine. However, the majority of deaths are the result of traffic accidents like the one that took place on U.S. 27 the other night.

The possibility of seeing another black bear along our quiet country lane is slim but nature, as I was recently reminded, is full of surprises. I walked out to the mailbox expecting nothing more than a bit of exercise and a stack of bills. I returned home with a memory that will last forever.

Learn more

An excellent 15-minute video about Florida black bears can be seen at myfwc.com/wildlifehabitats/managed/bear

Well...well...well...

Getting wet is all in a day's work for the crew of All-Water Services

Simply Living
(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel March 20, 2011)

One of the things I cherish about living in the country is our pure, sweet well water.

The well we drink from is 80 feet deep. The well driller who installed it 20 years ago said he tapped into an underground river. In digging, he unearthed fossilized shells and shark teeth that I keep on a shelf in my office. Every time I look at them, I'm filled with awe for not only the remarkable history they contain but also the deep, reliable source of drinking water they represent.

We are dependent on our water, so I knew we were in trouble one recent night when I turned on the bathroom spigot while getting ready for bed to find a mere trickle of water.

"The pump's out," I called to Ralph, who had already gotten under the covers.

It was 11 p.m. and pouring outside, but he reluctantly got up. We rounded up the needed equipment — umbrella, flashlight and hammer — donned some warm clothes and headed up the hill to see if we could fix the problem.

Anyone who depends on a well for household water and irrigation learns to identify and (hopefully) fix some common well and pump problems.

A few taps with a hammer on the pressure switch will occasionally bring a stalled motor back to life. Ants that get into a pressure switch can short it out. Remove the ants and, if you're lucky, the problem goes away. Pressing the reset button on the control box will sometimes save an expensive visit by repairmen.

The other night we tried all the above, to no avail. The pump wouldn't start no matter what we did. The remaining option was to install a new control box, a fix that had helped in similar situations before. If that didn't work, we'd have to call in the well driller.

We went back to bed and slept restlessly, thinking of ways to avoid the expense of a new pump.

Early the next morning, we hit the Internet and phones. We located a control box and our helper, James, drove into town to get it, then came back to replace the old one with the new. When he was done, we had thrown $250 into a hole that still didn't pump water.

By then it was midmorning, and the inconvenience of living without running water was beginning to show. In the kitchen, dishes covered with the sticky remains of oatmeal and blueberry pie filled the sink. We were using buckets of lake water to flush toilets and brushing our teeth with the stale supply from our emergency stash — bottles we'd put aside months ago.

Ralph dialed well drillers to see who was available on short notice. Several calls later, he contacted the crew at All-Water Services Inc. in Groveland. Derrick Brigmond, the youngest member of the family-owned business, said he could come by in the afternoon.

Around 1 p.m., the workers arrived. By then my kitchen looked like a disaster area. With my youngest son home for spring break and my daughter and grandson expected for dinner, I could feel my mood sinking into a hole about as deep as the well that wouldn't work.

About two hours and $2,850 later, a new pump and motor were in place.

"The motor was fried," said Darren Brigmond, as he and his son packed their equipment. "It could have been hit by lightning or it could just have been age. It's hard to tell."

It is hard to tell when the problem you're dealing with is 80 feet underground in a secret river. Fortunately for us, that river is still flowing with enough pressure to supply us and our plants with the high-quality water we've come to treasure.

Good, clean water is one of life's most basic needs. It is so essential that we take it for granted until something happens and the water is gone. The next morning, when I turned on the tap to brush my teeth, I did so with renewed appreciation for one of life's most precious commodities.

An old adage says, "If you spend money like water, you'll always be broke." But as I recently learned, if your well is broken, spending money may be the only way to make sweet water flow.

Along came two spiders - and not the itsy-bitsy variety

Simply Living

(First appeared in Orlando Sentinel September 29, 2008)

The eight-legged crowd apparently considers the area directly outside my office window to be prime real estate.

During the past two weeks, two spiders -- a black-and-yellow argiope and a golden silk spider -- have staked their claim on this shaded bit of airspace. Both constructed intricate webs that link the underside of the soffit to the picture window, as well as to various garden plants. A cherry tomato's spindly vine acts as an important anchor for each web.

I'm accustomed to looking out of my office window and seeing butterflies, birds and bees. I'm used to following the antics of gray squirrels and catching the occasional glimpse of brown and green anoles as they leap from leaf to leaf.

Every now and then, I watch rabbits nibble succulent blades and field mice bravely dart across a stretch of mulched ground. But in all the time I've lived here, I've never had the opportunity to observe outdoor spiders in their natural habitat on a day-by-day basis.

That is, until now.

The first observation I've made since the spiders set up house is that both are huge. There's nothing itsy-bitsy about them. Imagine a toddler's hand with splayed fingers. That's about the size of the golden silk spider, also known as a banana spider or golden orb weaver.

Actually, two golden silk spiders have taken up residence outside my window -- the gigantic female and her diminutive opposite-sex counterpart. The female spider is six times larger than the puny male. He's so small and nondistinct that I didn't realize he was living in one remote section of the female's web until several days had gone by.

The web, woven by the female, is an asymmetrical orb that spans a 6-foot wide stretch. When struck by the sun, it shimmers with a rich yellow sheen like spun gold. It is from the web's glittery appearance that Nephila clavipes gets its common name, golden silk spider.

I've watched as strong winds have whipped through the golden silk spider's web and as the irrigation sprinkler has sprayed across it, but neither damaged the web. That's probably because the silk produced by these giant spiders is stronger than Kevlar, the fiber used in bulletproof vests.

While the golden silk spider and its web are certainly marvelous in a look-but-don't-touch sort of way, the black-and-yellow argiope and its web are similarly stunning. There's a tiny male argiope living on the outskirts of the female's circular web. Like the golden silk male, he's also a scrawny critter.

The black-and-yellow argiope, Argiope aurantia, is also known as a "writing" spider because it weaves a bold series of connecting white "Xs," called a stabilamenta, in the middle of its web. The female arachnid places herself near the top of the stabilamenta, where she patiently waits for prey to fly into the sticky substance.

While the noticeable crisscrossing pattern acts as a warning to birds that might destroy the web by flying into it, the pattern doesn't seem to prevent mosquitoes, beetles, moths, grasshoppers, flies or bees from becoming ensnared. Recently, I watched as the spider caught, wrapped and consumed a black beetle and medium-size fly. The entire catch-and-devour process was completed in minutes.

Watching these two amazing critters from the comfort of my indoor viewing station has been entertaining and edifying. Some people like to go to movies, sporting events, shows or parties for enjoyment; I sit back in my swivel chair and watch spiders and other wild critters go about their daily lives.

I don't know why these two huge but harmless spiders chose the 8-foot span in front of my office window to set up house, but I'm glad they did. Our country might be in the midst of a major housing downturn, but in my neck of the woods we're caught in a web of explosive growth. The residents may have eight legs, but they keep the mosquito population at bay. That's a sticky situation I wouldn't want to do without.