Essay by Nancy Stranahan
Logo courtesy of Rebecca Richman, protected by copyright, see www.studiodune.com.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forests of the South -
  Far Edge of America's Eastern Temperate Forest
    
Photo left: At the end of its range. Sugar Maples are normally considered relatively northern trees of the temperate forest, but we found these young trees unfurling in the Florida Panhandle. Photo by Crystal Marvin.
            

    When you love some thing or some person, you want to know all about them, not just one chapter from their life; not just one facet of their personality. You want to know them in their totality. And so it is for those of us who love the Eastern forest. We thirst to know its 35 million year old biography, the depths of its hidden ecological relationships, and its regional expressions found across its vast geographical range.
 

    And so, in March of 2009, as part of a course offered by the Appalachian Forest School, a dozen participants journeyed from the forest's heartland to its furthest southernmost edge in the Florida Panhandle. During this event we witnessed the first signs of Spring to reach the continent.

 

Photo right: Cypress swamp at Wakulla State Park by David Helm.
 

    When we first arrived in Florida the trees were mostly bare. Only the bald cypress trees were beginning to leaf out in a hue described by one of our instructors as “hopeful green.” Eight days later the forests were completely filled in with tender new leaves. Tiers of dogwood flowers floated in the mid-canopy of the forest — glowing creamy white against the gray of gently swaying Spanish moss -- and even the familiar redbuds were in full bloom.
 

In the last 150 years, La Florida — the “flowered one” — has lost many of the petals that once wreathed her shining hair, but whispers of her wild beauty still shimmer in the eastern Panhandle.  In one of the counties we visited, no less than 70% of the land has been permanently protected by conservation agencies, offering solace for groups such as ours that included avowed wilderness seekers. On this trip, we were blessed to be able to see “Old Florida,” as we explored the black waters of swollen-buttressed tupelo swamps ringing with the songs of Parula warblers; scanned our appreciative eyes over expanses of salt marshes and freshwater estuaries edged with feeding white ibis and millions of busy-bodied crabs; and walked through park-like cathedrals of longleaf pine forests.

 

Photo above: Fiddler Crabs at St. Mark's Wildlife Refuge by David Helm.
 

    If there is a hymn that epitomizes the song of the South, it is the sound of the wind as it sighs through the needles a longleaf pine forest. This fire-sculpted ecosystem at one time covered 61% of the land in its original range along the southern coastal plains. Primeval longleaf forests once grew immense specimens of trees. Pine elders at one time topped 500 years old and reached astounding heights of 120 feet! Incomprehensibly, today, not one single block of longleaf old growth forest remains in the South today.

 

   The reason? First, the huge old trees were logged in their entirety. Secondly, natural wild fires were suppressed by Europeans, and regenerating longleaf could not compete against hardwoods and other pines without the help of fire. Left alone, wild fires in Florida occur on the average of once every five years. Unlike all the other pines, longleaf stays in a short "grass" stage for many years, its fuzzy white bud protected by a blanket of long needles. If a fire happens to come by, the needles steam copious quantities of water and although the needles die, they protect the bud from temperatures above the boiling point of water. After 7-10 years the taproot reaches the water table. Some time thereafter the longleaf sapling shoots suddenly up into the sky, reaching over 6 feet in just a few years. At this stage, with its unusually long needles, the young trees create fanciful figures, looking somewhat like standing "forest people." Soon the young saplings stand above the most intense of the fire zones. They can now take their time to reach the canopy. With fire suppressed in recent history, the longleaf pine forest is now a severely endangered habitat. It requires intensive management to bring back artificially, what nature once grew effortlessly all across the South.

Photo left above: Longleaf pine in its grass stage by Pat Hill.
Photo above right. Longleaf pine shooting upward by Crystal Marvin.
Photo left. Mature longleaf pine showing size relative to an adult, showing immense stature of these trees. The white ring marks a tree with a red
  cockaded woodpecker hole. Photo by Janet Laster.
 

    With second-growth longleaf forests now holding only .01% of their original occupied land, the desecration of the longleaf pine forest is one of the greatest environmental tragedies of our nation. As guests of the South, we felt privileged, therefore, to be able to hike through several recuperating longleaf forests. It was comforting to hear the sighing of the wind as it rushed through their 12-inch long needles, and impressive to walk among scattered pinecones with dimensions just as large. These ancient forest guardians once nurtured hundreds if not thousands of red-cockaded woodpeckers colonies throughout the South. Just a few years ago only six colonies remained. Today the red cockaded woodpeckers are slowly recovering, but because they can live only in the few marginalized longleaf forests that still exist, the bird species clings to a precarious future. Although we didn’t see the actual birds, we did see evidence of their nesting holes in some of the older longleaf pines which were marked with white rings, and we did see and hear other birds of the pine flatwoods, the Bachman’s Sparrow and the brown-headed nuthatch.
 

    In the white sandy soils exposed on the forest floor below the pines, we saw the tunnels of another southern keystone species, the imperiled gopher tortoise. Historically, the tunnels of Gopher tortoises once provided refuge for dozens of other animal species during the frequent occurrence of wild fires. During a fire, regardless of their ecological niche, all species hunkered down in the tunnels, side by side, predator and prey alike. One can see why our native indigenous cultures felt so spiritually inspired when they beheld the lives of turtles. As aspiring stewards, we would do well to remember the benevolent services gopher turtles provide to the larger community of life, drawing inspiration for our own conservation efforts.
 

    At Nokuse Plantation, a private 50,000 acre nature preserve, our instructor fished a camera down one of the tortoise tunnels, and was delighted to see a gopher turtle fast asleep deep in her underground sanctuary. As Florida develops the last of her wild places, these underground sanctuaries can suddenly turn into tombs when bulldozers drive over turtle-inhabited tunnels and pack them with suffocating sand. As part of their many services to the wildlife community, Nokuse offers rescue and rehabilitation for turtles dislocated by development.

 

Right above: Tortoise steward Bob Walker of Nokuse Plantation flashes a warm smile when he finds a turtle sleeping at the bottom of the third tunnel he

    investigates. Photo by Crystal Marvin. Photo left: The unmistakable profile of a turtle can be seen through the camera by all participants. Photo by David Helm.

  

 

Left above: Janet Laster and Carol Durell take photos of a yellow trumpet flower just beginning to open. Photo by David Helm.
Photo above middle. A fully emerged flower of the yellow trumpet, a type of southern pitcher plant. Photo by Janet Laster.
Photo above right. A patch of tiny sundew, each colony only one inch across, glistening with insect-sticky dew. Photo by Pat Hill.
   

    Near the longleaf forests grow wet herbaceous bogs that are dependent on the frequent fires that are naturally kindled by the highly flammable pine needles of longleaf pines and its wiregrass understory. In these southern bogs we witnessed plant communities bearing the highest biodiversity per square meter of any ecosystem in the world. The Southeast is also recognized as the nation's epicenter for carnivorous plant diversity. Here in the Panhandle we gazed upon yellow trumpet pitcher plants in full bloom, their immense flowers and dangling petals the size of a fist. We saw mats of several species of glistening sundews, some with leaves the shape of spoons and some with small uncoiling "sticky fingers."  In one location, we even saw the rarest of rare in the carnivorous plant world – the improbable Venus flytrap. Apparently, someone had transplanted a few specimens from the Carolinas back in the 60's and the plants had fortuitously “taken off” in their new home. We heard rumors that this  beautiful unprotected bog is owned by a private logging company, and is on the market for sale as part of 900 developable acres! Swampland in Florida anyone? Visions of Sanctuary South danced in our heads!
 

   

 

 Photo above: Walking through an upland sand community with sprawling sand live oaks at Appalachia Bluffs and Ravines Preserve operated by Nature Conservancy. Photo by Crystal Marvin.

 

    But for those of us who had specifically headed South to search out the southern remnants of the Appalachian Forest – the best destination of all was the grand Southern hardwood forests that flourished in the sheltered side ravines along the Apalachicola River. In these lush woodlands we saw immense trees that were hauntingly familiar -- sugar maples, black walnuts, hickories, hornbeams, and beech. But growing among them were trees that were foreign to our northern eyes, including the evergreen Southern magnolias, live oaks draped in resurrection ferns, laurel oaks speckled with their winter-yellowed leaves, and the “hemlocks” of the South -- the immense boles of Spruce Pines.
    We discovered that the Panhandle was truly the land of oaks. Many of us attending were from Ohio, where a tree guide lists 13 species of oaks. However, according to one of our instructors, here in the Florida Panhandle were a total of twenty six species! Turkey oaks grew beneath the pine trees, and would eventually crowd out pine regeneration if it weren’t for frequent fires. Short squat Runner Oaks are designed to burn to the ground every five years or so in the pine forests, and can re-sprout and bear acorns in just two years time. Live oaks sent their heavy branches sprawling horizontally through the canopy, bearing fairy-like kingdoms of ferns, mosses, and bromeliads. Water oaks guarded the higher terraces along the river corridors. During our trip, the Southeast's status as one of the world’s most important hotspots for oak diversity became firmly established in our minds.

 

 

 

Photo left: The lush temperate forest at Appalachia Bluffs and Ravines Preserve, The Nature Conservancy. Photo by Crystal Marvin.
 

    On our trip we also spent two days in kayaks and canoes, paddling the cypress and tupelo-lined corridors of the rivers. These flooded forests were quiet this time of the year, not yet awakened by migrating songbirds and the soon-to-come hordes of summer insects. It was strange to see aquatic relatives of our familiar black gums and ash trees growing directly out of the water with their weirdly swollen bases. At times the tupelo trees arched over the waterways like living cathedrals. Sometimes the waters were so dark they were black. Sometimes we would paddle into blue spring-fed waters so clear one could see water lilies growing beneath the surface, as through a glass. Each stroke from our kayak paddle swirled the mirror-like surface, breaking up our vision into a kaleidoscope of flickering emeralds and blues.
 

    In Florida’s state parks, we discovered a sister site to our headquarters at the Highlands Nature Sanctuary: the karst country of Florida Caverns. Here, after a chance torrential rain in the morning that refreshed the forest and left glowing water droplets on newly opened flowers, we walked through glades of columbines, carpets of Sweet William, and past boulders covered with walking ferns and false rue anemone. One would think we were still at home in southern Ohio were it not for the sight of bald cypress trees growing out of the limestone sinkholes, clumps of native needle palms scattered among the flowers, and exotic looking trilliums. Replacing the Trillium grandiflora we knew so well from the forest heartland was its southern counterpart, Sweet Betsy. Sweet Betsy was a gorgeous sessile trillium with colorful leaves that looked like they had been carefully hand-painted in variegated grays and greens.

 

Photos from Florida Caverns State Park. Above left: Sweet Betsy trillium by Pat Hill.
Above right: David Helm among a rock covered by columbine by Mark Wessel. Close-up of columbine by Crystal Marvin.

Photos from Florida Caverns State Park. Left: Snowbells in bloom by Crystal Marvin.
Above right: Flame Azalea in bloom by Pat Hill.

 

   

    Our conclusion from all of these memorable life experiences? We decided that the only thing better than watching spring come to the Eastern Deciduous Forest, is getting to watch it come twice. We thank Florida, the flowered one, for sharing with us her priceless treasures and giving us this opportunity to add another spring onto our short lives.
 

The journeys undertaken by the Appalachian Forest School take us throughout America's Eastern Forest: to the boreal spruce-pine forest of the far North, the grand longleaf forests of the South, the rich floodplains and estuaries of the Atlantic Coast, and the gnarled and stunted forests that guard our forest’s western flank on the wind-swept prairies of the Midwest. For a full calendar of field trips and courses, click here.
 

We are returning to the Florida Panhandle in 2010. Join us!
Here is a link to see our organizer's, Carol Kay, extensive photos from the 2009 trip
We thank the organizers, Carol Kay and Hadrian Alegarbes. for making this and future Florida trips possible.