FRIENDS OF SALT CREEK

Salt Creek, the wild underbelly of St. Petersburg, flows southwest. It mirrors Thoreau’s walking pattern and America’s patriotic vision of wilderness but this creek proves you don’t have to go west to journey through nature. Or danger. Lake Maggiore, once at the end of Salt Creek and known as Salt Lake before it was dammed, is Walden Pond beside I-275. It’s part of the Florida Bird Trail with great blue and tricolored heron, ibis, anhinga and egrets galore smack in the middle of the city. It’s where my ‘mind and nature meet,’ unmolested by the din of civilization. I come here for the quiet, like the moorhen. 

Not especially chic or beautiful, Salt Creek is an overlooked connector between our two bays, Tampa and Boca Ciega. Visions of beautification and industrial profit once ran along with the tide while the tangled edges pass by the fringe of our society and the poorest urban parts of southeast St. Petersburg. When industry left, the heron and children were still here. The kids call it their ‘hood and step carefully. I see their sweatshirts, those famous hoodies, pulled up tight over their heads and eyes. These kids are mostly, though not all, black, and like to stay hidden inside those hoods. Their eyes peek furtively at me from deep inside to see if I’ll cause trouble.

Wearing a sweatshirt in Florida can cause deadly trouble. On February 26, 2012, Trayvon Martin was visiting his father in Sanford, Florida. He pulled up his hoodie to walk home from a convenience store in the rain. He was followed through the gated community, shot, and killed by George Zimmerman, a community watchdog. Florida’s controversial Stand Your Ground law makes it possible to shoot anyone you deem malevolent. Trayvon was unarmed. He was just seventeen, ‘walking while being black.’

What I’m struck by, as I kayak along the creek, are the night heron who sit quietly hidden inside the mangroves. Like the neighborhood boys they see me before I see them. The wading birds sit tight, adjusted to city life. Their heads are tucked in as they wait for nightfall to approach; at dusk they stir and come out of their hiding places. Their darker blue-grey bodies mimic the black clothes of the urban jungle; their bright kohl-rimmed eyes and brilliant yellow hoods mark them as exotic. The way they lurk and peer at me make them look dangerous. We tense when I come close, and again, I’m reminded of the boys who don’t want trouble.

The boundaries that surround Salt Creek are more economic, more mental and social than physical. Like its kids, Salt Creek is gritty and authentic, maybe the last authentic piece of St. Petersburg. Those boys in their sweatshirts can walk two blocks and reach a university but two blocks are thousands of dollars off their grid and not so easy to navigate. They’re hemmed in by more than gated communities and chain link fences because poverty is self-perpetuating, just like wealth. Few aspire to a college education or can afford one. Lots of these children look out on the world tensed for blowback. Exotic to some, they know their boundaries are different. They are neighbors of mine just like the night heron.

The baby bass jumps into my boat. I squeal, not because I fear the fish, but because he hopped into the boat and upset a ridiculously tranquil moment. Like, silently floating through lillypads and lotus flowers while a bald eagle soars overhead kind of moment.

A minute or two earlier I rolled my eyes as the girls in the canoe next to ours shrieked and swatted a spider to death. Every wind-up and whackrocked the boat, and I was sure they’d end up in this shallow corner of Lake Maggoire, screaming even louder as they struggle to find their slimy footing.

But now, I’m a screamer, too.

I hear Grab on to my oar! and see one of my male colleagues coming to my much unneeded rescue. For a split second I ignore his command in a subconsciously feminist retaliation.

Grab on! he says, firmer this time, and I do as he says. He swiftly catches the fish using only the palm of his hand—sticking his thumb in the bass’ mouth and displaying for our group to see. Man dominates nature, and the class congratulates his valiant effort, remarking he doesn’t even need a pole or a net to catch a fish.

And as we paddle away and duck under an overpass filled with cobwebs, I mutter I wasn’t afraid of the fish. I didn’t mean to scream.

She weaves in and out of traffic as she drives through the heart of downtown St. Petersburg. Her pulse races after an old lady cut her off and then slammed on the breaks. She hasn’t even made it to work yet and already she can’t wait to go home and nurse a longneck. 

Anhinga, Lake Maggiore (Patricia Seffrin)

As the building starts to fade in the distance she hears birds chirping in the trees, lizards running through the dry grass, and the sound of her footsteps as she walks along the shelled path. The breeze dances around her face while the tree limbs sway. She reaches her favorite spot and sits on a fallen tree snag that overlooks Lake Maggiore. Common moorhens utter their high pitch cry as they acknowledge her presence and a gopher tortoise walks nonchalantly by in search of some wiregrass. Ospreys circle overhead in hunting for an aquatic morsel. She is sitting in a lush nature preserve and yet the tall buildings of downtown St. Petersburg looms in the distance. Boyd Hill Nature Preserve makes her feel like she is in the wilderness and yet it sits in the heart of Pinellas County, the most densely populated county in Florida. Boyd Hill serves as an oasis for wildlife that thrives in the city.

Many animals have no problem adapting their lifestyle in the human urban environment. Somehow, people always have a hard time accepting them. No matter how hard people try to remove them from their buildings and yards, they always have a way of returning. Take bats for example. Many of the common species that thrive in the St. Petersburg area actually prefer man-made dwellings rather than homes created by Mother Nature. Many people don’t even realize that they have a colony of insect eating bats living in their barrel tile roofs or their attics.

Go to any outdoor restaurant in St. Petersburg and one will almost be guaranteed to compete with a flock of boat-tailed grackles over food. These birds have no problem sitting on the chair next to a human and squawk to their hearts content until the human foolishly decides to share a French fry, thus causing a chaotic swarm of fighting birds and the chance of bird doodle dropping onto the dinner plate. One may notice that there is no population problem amongst these avian critters.

Pinellas County is almost completely built out. Only 10% of the land is set aside for conservation. Yet, the nature tourism market is thriving. People flock from all over the United States (and other countries) to get a taste of white sandy beaches and to walk amongst Florida’s unique wildlife; including the oasis of Boyd Hill Nature Preserve. To these people, wilderness still exists. They still pay to enjoy a natural paradise and yet they still get to enjoy the luxuries of the city; hot showers, delicious dining, and souvenir shops.  

Great blue heron (Robin Shwedo)

When a person visits Boyd Hill Nature Preserve, he or she is coming to experience the wilderness of St. Petersburg. One would never think that a city as urbanized as St. Petersburg would have 245 acres of lush flora and fauna. And yet it sits on the Great Florida Birding Trail and is a Mecca to bird enthusiasts and other nature lovers alike. Come in the spring and take a pick of herons, egrets, spoonbills, osprey, bald eagles, owls, alligators, coyotes, snakes, etc. People can enjoy the shade of a dewy oak hammock or experience the dryness of the endemic Florida sand scrub. When they leave they are engulfed once again by buildings and traffic. Hopefully they have left their problems behind so that they may have room for new ones.

It is the year 2009.  I am at Boyd Hill preparing to interview Ginger, one of the volunteers.  She works at the front desk of the education center and greets people as they enter the park.  She is perfect for the job because she is friendly and loves to talk to people.  I decide to interview her while she works the front desk.  I ask her if she has any memorable stories to tell; her face lights up and she begins to tell a story about an alligator and some tourists.  It goes something like this. 

Alligator, MLK Bridge (Robin Shwedo)

Ginger appeared to assuage the tourists fear that the alligator was dead and hung up the phone.  A few minutes later, however, the tourists call Ginger again and exclaim that they feel positive the alligator is dead.  They tell Ginger that the alligator’s eyes are closed and it is not breathing, but Ginger once again tells them that the alligator is simply soaking up the sun’s energy and will remain motionless; once again the tourists appear to be mollified by Gingers persuasive explanation.  Ginger continued to go about her business when she receives a third phone call from the same tourists who whisper that they are about two feet from what they feel absolutely positive is a dead alligator!  Ginger yells STOP through the phone and tells the tourists to slowly step away from the alligator and don’t do anything until a ranger comes out to check on the alligator.  When the ranger drives up to the tourists, the alligator, which is very much alive, springs to life and slides into the water.  The tourists are astonished and later admit to Ginger that she was right.  They came to Boyd Hill looking for a mythical Florida alligator, but little did they know that would have a close encounter of the alligator kind.            One day, a group of tourists visit Boyd Hill, and they tell Ginger that they want to see a real alligator.  Ginger tells them that an alligator has been spotted near Wax Myrtle Pond.  The tourists thank Ginger and quickly make their way into the park.  About twenty minutes later, Ginger receives a call from the tourists who tell her that the alligator is dead.  Ginger, knowing that people often times mistake a dead alligator for a live alligator, assured the tourists that the alligator is alive and is sunning itself.  Alligators are exothermic, which means that their body temperature fluctuates depending on the temperature of the air.  If the ambient air temperature is cool, alligators may indeed look dead to the untrained eye because they remain motionless until it is warm enough to move. 

Alligators are common at Boyd Hill.  I saw an alligator on almost every visit to Boyd Hill when I was filming.  One reptilian resident of Boyd Hill, however, had eluded me: the mystical alligator known as Half Jaw, aptly named because it was missing half of its upper jaw.  After months of searching, I had my own close encounter of the alligator kind.  My story goes something like this. 

One day I was at Boyd Hill crouched on my stomach filming gopher tortoises when I heard the puttering engine of a golf cart behind me.  I look up, and I see Jessica (another volunteer) and Ginger in the golf cart.  They tell me that Half Jaw has been spotted near the lake.  They ask if I want to film Half Jaw, and I quickly hop into the golf cart.  Finally, a chance to film Half Jaw!  My heart is pumping as we race – albeit not to fast, we were in a golf cart – to see the alligator.  What would we find?  Images of a huge alligator with a fish dangling from its mangled jaw popped into my head. 

When we did find Half Jaw, however, reality was not nearly as exciting.  Half Jaw turned out to be only medium size, maybe about five feet.  Half Jaw was not mean and scary; in fact, he seemed to be a lot more scared of us than we were of him.  No one really knows how Half Jaw lost half of its upper jaw; some believe it was the result of a fight with another alligator, possibly over a female.  We point and stare at Half Jaw for a few more minutes until I have enough footage.  We haul ourselves into the golf cart and putter away to leave him in peace.  I never saw Half Jaw again, but years later someone tells me that he was found dead by one of the rangers not that long ago.  I wonder if Half Jaw realized he is an important part of the folklore of Salt Creek?

I have suggested in the past (in other papers for this very class, in fact) that I am ultimately unsure as to whether or not Salt Creek really constitutes “nature.” I have also suggested that the nature of nature (pardon the pun) seems to have changed a good deal over the years – what today is considered nature almost certainly would not have been prior to the environmental movement of the 20^th century, for instance. Nowhere is this made clearer, in my opinion, than in Robert Sullivan’s article in New York Magazine, “The Concrete Jungle.”

Salt Creek at Interstate 275

In this article, Sullivan makes the claim that New York – considered by many (or, at least, by me) to be one of the least-natural spots on the face of the Earth, is in fact morediverse than “the suburbs and rural counties that surround it” (Sullivan). Granted, I do not have the ecological expertise to make a solid claim about Salt Creek as it relates to Sullivan’s research, but if I had to guess, I would say that the same thing is probably true about the creek versus the area which surrounds it – that is, it seems to me that Salt Creek is more of an ecological hot-zone than the area of Saint Petersburg which borders its waters. After all, in spite of how Salt Creek must appear to the vast majority of those who know of its existence, there did not seem to be a shortage of biological life during our trips there as a class.

In fact, my memories feature a creek replete with life – avian life, at the very least. Pelicans, gulls, egrets, and other birds seem to inhabit the creek in abundance – and I take it that where there are birds, there must also be fish. Though I personally did not see any fish in Salt Creek, there are at least two reasons for me to believe that they thrive in the creek in spite of the tremendous amounts of garbage and refuse – first of all, unless I am very much mistaken, all the birds that I listed above are fish-eaters. But even more telling than that (and probably a more reliable method of figuring out if there are fish, since I am not an ornithologist) is the fact that there are, apparently, people whofish out of Salt Creek. I cannot imagine why – I would be testing the fish for radiation or lead poisoning before I even thought about eating it, personally – but this does at least strongly suggest that Salt Creek is populated with animals both under- and over-water.

And it is not just animals that populate Salt Creek – the waterway has thriving population of what I believe are mangroves. One might suspect that the rampant dumping of trash into the creek would stifle plant growth, but it appears that in the case of the creek, life has found a way – during our first canoe trip out to Salt Creek we saw several instances in which mangrove roots had grown through various kinds of garbage, from discarded gallon milk jugs to empty bottles of Faygo. Part of me is tempted to make the point that nature cannot be merely determined by the amount of plant and animal life in a given locale – but the more I think about it, the more I wonder what else nature could possiblybe when you strip it down to its most basic possible form. When looked at in this sense, it seems clear that Salt Creek is not merely nature – it is more natural than just about everything surrounding it.

Cleaning Up (Christopher Campbell)

The trio of would-be musicians sat in the apartment, wrenching their brains on how to write the Salt Creek song. Two-thirds of the group had visited the creek, while the other third was mildly amused by the descriptions of the subject matter. The chord progression was worked out within the span of an hour . . . the lyrics took much longer to compose. Dark, humorous banter about the probability of a high corpse content within the rank waters of Salt Creek was replaced by arguments about how the hell to write anything remotely flattering about the river. At least the iambic pentameter and the rhyme scheme had been ironed out.

The primary problem that plagues Salt Creek is, simply put, that is an eyesore. As such, people neither wish to acknowledge its presence, nor care to grant it any redeeming qualities. Aesthetics, unfortunately, is responsible for the level of importance that society offers a given thing. For example, the Humane Society runs a commercial spot on basic cable. The commercial  consists of a series of video snippets set to some sad music (usually Sarah Mclachlan or Tom Waits). In these snippets, a variety of animals look forlornly at the camera from the confines of their cages, ostensibly begging for the viewers to adopt them. What is interesting about the commercials is the ratio of cute to ugly animals, which is about 1 to 5. In other words, for every 5 fluffy puppies or kittens, there is a shot of a cat missing an ear, or a three-legged, mangy, wall-eyed dog. The insertion of these disfigured animals is to remind viewers of the cruelties of animal abuse. Salt Creek is that battered, wall-eyed puppy that serves a didactic purpose, but is rarely adopted.

While the aforementioned analogy may seem wildly inept to some, one cannot deny that the creek is extremely marginalized. The appearance of Salt Creek is proof enough that the only attention that has been paid to this stretch of water is the same attention that one might pay to a drainage ditch. An overabundance of litter of all descriptions is strewn about the banks. The mangroves are fairly filled with the leavings of people who have used the watershed as their personal dumping grounds.

The garbage itself is a sign of how non-important Salt Creek is. To hearken back to the song lyrics, one of the verses reads: “Men still cast lines from the bridge above, though sometimes their haul is a boot or a glove.” Apart from the inside joke that arose during the class’s initial visit to the creek for cleanup purposes, there is a bit of romanticism to those lines. An old boot or a glove would probably be among the higher quality pieces of refuse fished from Salt Creek. An old television set, a discarded outboard engine, or even one of the aforementioned corpses would have been nearly preferable to find during the cleanup as opposed to the plastic bags, drink cups, beer bottles, and used condoms that were present. Salt Creek apparently doesn’t even rate high enough on the litter scale to harbor decent trash.

The pastoral view of nature produces a cataract in the eye of the beholder: the dismissal of the utilitarian. To live near farmlands and reap the scenic benefits provides a completely different perspective from those who have to live off of those lands. Thus, it becomes rather laughable to adhere to an ideal that one has no practical relationship to. When one drives through a rural area and sees cattle grazing in rolling, emerald fields, that person appreciates the passing beauty of the scene. Conversely, when one is inthat field of cattle, boots stained with shit, bloody and sweating from repairing a barbed wire fence, the admiration becomes rather strained. Thus, the appreciation of the laborer, when it does arise, becomes a genuine love for the land.

Paradoxically, the decidedly un-Romantic view that visitors have for Salt Creek is probably not shared by those who experience the watershed on a utilitarian basis. The fishermen from the song most likely harbor an affection for the creek as they spend afternoons casting lines and watching would-be ecologists clumsily navigate up the waters. Perhaps those two laughing souls who warned the class of alligators should spearhead the movement to save Salt Creek. Their message would probably ring truer.

So, how to move beyond obvious, clichéd “Let’s find something and think Green about it” movement, so pervasive in today’s media. The amount of time I’ve spent racking my poor, spent brain on how to defuse my apparent distaste for the creek is offset by the actual mission of the project. Without further discourse, the mission, as I perceive it, is this: “we can endeavor to change the face of Salt Creek forever.” Yes, I realize that it’s a cheese-filled allusion to that song that the trio from the beginning of the paper produced, but the answer is hidden in a single word: face. The mission of the project is to change community perception. The dam that chokes the waters will, most likely, never be demolished. The garbage will continue to pile up. The stench will continue to offend the nostrils. These negative elements, however, will slowly reverse themselves if the citizens ofSaint Petersburg actually get to know the creek like those fishermen. A change in perception will necessarily lead to a change in reality. Once can only hope that someone will eventually genuinely love the wall-eyed puppy ofSaint Petersburg.

Undisturbed by the murmur of voices and the activity of half a dozen canoes paddling purposefully to clean up Salt Creek, a Brown-Crowned Night-Heron observed from branches of Brazilian Pepper and White Mangrove. When not expected, nature often delights. Prepared for the inner city, being suddenly surrounded by nature’s beauty and unexpected sunshine was a surprise. Not one of the popular city parks or nature trails, but an overlooked, neglected waterway in downtown St. Petersburg offered this glimpse of unsuspected nature. This can’t be a pastoral scene according to Greg Garrard. Where is the retreat to the country? Where the contrast between pristine nature and evil urban sprawl? Where is the hidden reality of nature’s relentless toughness? We are able to discover a peaceful, quiet scene of simple beauty within the city with harsh realities of floating garbage in the creek and trash entwined in the Mangroves.

Jenny Price, in “Thirteen Ways of Seeing Nature in L.A,” challenges writers to look beyond presenting nature as “the wonders of wildness” (2). A school of dolphin at a Florida beach, the aroma of a grove of blossoming orange trees in Seminole, deer nibbling at foliage in one of the state’s preserves are natural states of beauty, recognized and written about routinely. Price challenges us to look beyond the obvious and “tell us far more about our everyday lives in the places we actually live” (2).

Can we change our perception of what nature is? Not simply somewhere we visit on the weekend to getaway or escape after work to relax, but as a part of our everyday lives where we work, play, and learn.

As a child growing up in the country, my siblings and I played in fields, creeks, and on old railroad tracks, making peanut butter sandwiches and hiking to our destinations. A generation later I drove my kids ten blocks to Crescent Lake to have a picnic and enjoy the playground equipment. They spent the whole time playing tag, and hide-n-seek in the huge, old Cypress tree roots. Their imagination helped them see the real fun and natural beauty of the trees. Most of my friends took their kids to Sea World, the more adventurous camping at Ft. Desoto. Having been raised in my own backyard, or maybe because I was lazy, my children experienced nature as something they lived and played in, not a weekend destination. Price challenges us to do the same thing. Take a fresh look at what is conventionally considered nature and expand the scope to include the overlooked, commonplace beauty in the communities we live in, even in the city.

 Now living in a gated community in St. Petersburg, my experience is a drive home in my air-conditioned SUV. I view sunlight filtering through the Live Oaks hanging with moss, glimpse the sunning turtles, scampering rabbits, waddling ducks or daintily stepping cranes. When the air conditioning is off and windows are open, I am crooned to sleep at night by a frog chorus, and wake to a Mockingbird scolding our cat, or a Cardinal’s whistle. Seldom do we take the long way home to walk over a bridge on Salt Creek to see an old pylon functioning as a perch for fishing pelican, or spend a few minutes watching fish jump or ducks dive in our neighborhood retention pond. How much of nature is unappreciated because it is unmarked or unrecognized? Is nature worthy of our attention only if named or designated as a recreational highlight? How can we become more aware of the nature which is part of our daily lives?

Salt Creek is an example of a waterway unrecognized as recreational. There is a functional boatyard, successful industry, a restaurant and bar, and leased studio space for artists in a restored warehouse, and residences. The creek is traversed by main thoroughfares, bridges, and drainage pipes. It joins several larger bodies of water in Bartlett Park and Lake Maggorie. Flowing through neighborhoods not routinely recognized as “recreational”, the south side of St. Petersburg is associated with low income housing, high crime rate, and a transient business community. Is it the location, the history of being a working river, or the residential and business community that surround it responsible for Salt Creek’s beauty being overlooked, neglected, and not sought out  as a community treasure? Price reflects about this nature writers’ missing the boat in regard to socio-economic differences in L.A. Nature writers need to connect with the communities directly affected by the particular natural source, resources available, and community involvement. Salt Creek needs to be recognized as relevant, and useful to people who work and live in south St. Petersburg.

The city has opened bicycle friendly roadways, neighborhood parks, and landscaped intersections to bring nature into the city dwellers daily lives. Efforts are made to clean up neglected waterways, vacant lots, and restore abandoned buildings.St. Petersburgprobably doesn’t need another artificially constructed park to visit nature. The diverse Salt Creek landscape, neighborhood, and community contain their own value and beauty. Residents, business owners, and visitors need to recognize the topographical and cultural distinctions, but appreciate the diversity so it can once again become an alive, working part of the community. Recognizing nature in our city, being able to appreciate birds in the city streets, flowering Brazilian Pepper, and scrub growth fighting its way through old pavement reclaiming the soil, requires that we look closer and take more time to appreciate the ordinary places in our community.

After an hour long paddle and thirty eight pounds of garbage later, Salt Creek’s potential began to be revealed. It became easier to envision a cleaned up creek with caring community involvement. The mangroves, birds, and water community are obvious signs that the creek is a vital (though slightly blighted) waterway in the heart of downtown St. Petersburg. An overlooked creek had a chance to shine in the sun on a Thursday afternoon that previously had not received much notice. Ideas and a purpose to give a chance to the underdog were born. Salt Creek had an opportunity to rival Weedon Island, Clam Bayou or Ft. Desoto. Not a touristy park, but a waterway with a history and a chance to tell its story. A nature writing class gathered around an idea of rediscovering Salt Creek’s worth, and convincing a community to see its value.

“. . . I mean that they [students] should notplay life, or study it merely, but earnestly live it from beginning to end.” (Heny David Thoreau,Walden) 

Wednesday morning of spring break, the campus was mostly quiet as the sun emerged over the buildings to the east. An egret in mating plumage plucked minnows from the dock at USF St. Petersburg’s waterfront across from my reading perch at a table under broad oak boughs and blue sky. My quiet reflection on a recent sailing trip was occasionally interrupted by pleasant greetings with strangers and friends who occasionally passed by on the sidewalk and in the harbor below. Such a serene setting made it easy to shift my attention between the present and the recent past, in which I spent three days and two nights aboard Boogins II, a 34-foot sloop owned by the college that served as one of three floating classrooms for “Thoreau at Sea,” part of Professor Hallock’s Spring 2011 Nature Writing class.

Ospreys cried in the distance as the visiting co-ed sailing team (also on spring break from  Brown University, here to train in warmer climes) began rigging USF’s “Flying Juniors,” a fleet of uniform two-person racing sailboats. Supple bodies stretched and flexed before me as they hoisted multi-colored sails and launched the boats into Bayboro Harbor. Their coach looked amused as pelicans dive-bombed fish spooked by the noise. On the far side of the dock, a hodge-podge of cruisers that have been donated to USF over the years rested as silent witnesses to the scene now drenched in morning sun. Boogins II was among them, while another from our “Thoreau at Sea” trip,Wanderer, was out on another voyage. As the visiting sailors tacked towards the bay in a gentle breeze, I reflected on our adventures.

The Boogins II crew was comprised of aspiring literary scholars, mostly inexperienced at sailing but eager to learn. The six of us ranged from undergrads in their twenties, graduate students approaching middle age, and a senior auditor still spry in retirement. One among us literally crawled aboard with tears in her eyes, trembling with anxiety but determined to conquer her fear and embrace this unknown realm. Our captain assigned by the USF Waterfront Department, 26 years old but decades wiser in experience, was skilled and sympathetic. He was marginally interested in our studies and intent on making sure that all would have an exciting voyage. Indeed we did.

Aware that most of the crew was green (inexperienced, not sea-sick), our captain carefully explained what we were doing and how the boat would respond before hoisting and trimming sails or changing tacks. But it was a foregone conclusion that we would sail hard and fast, as the boat was meant to be sailed. Those who wished to do so helped trim the sails and steer the course, which occasionally meant wrestling againstBoogins II’s “weather helm,” or tendency to point into the wind in a strong gust. We were all salty smiles as our captain “buried the rail,” when the power of wind harnessed by our sails wetted one side of the hull and exposed the other, lengthening our waterline and increasing our speed.

On this trip we did not just study Thoreau’s Walden, we lived it. Most impressive, however, was our transformation from a bunch of individuals to a cohesive crew, truly classmates bound by shared adventure to each other, our campus and its vast annex of Tampa Bay made possible by these boats and able captains. In hindsight, what strikes me as unbelievable is that other students might complete a degree at USF St. Petersburg and never once explore the bay or their own souls in a similar way, yet the tools to do so are right there, just beyond the library.

Most of us have a definite preference when it comes to water: either we feel the need to live in close proximity to a large body of water or the desire to remain completely land-locked.  Even then, there’s usually some wiggle-room: a preference for living miles from the ocean doesn’t mean one can’t enjoy swimming in a lake on a hot summer’s afternoon.

Either way, though, most of us realize and accept the necessity water, of a water-way free of pollutants, garbage and other detritus of modern life, even when that water-way is in the midst of a modern city.

Meandering through the southeast section of St. Petersburg, Florida is Salt Creek.  It is relatively short, as waterways go, and situated in a socioeconomically challenged part of St. Petersburg; both of these factors figure into why it is so frequently overlooked.  Once one learns of it and sees it up close, however, it is easy to see its beauty and feel peacefully invigorated by it.  One merely has to overlook the tires stuck in the muck, the six-pack holders tied up in the bushes, the beer cans shining from the bottom of the creek, and the colors swirling atop the water around the discarded can of motor oil. 

“Kayak or canoe?” 

The question for navigating Salt Creek was straight-forward enough.  Like most of our group, my Salt Creek partner and I opted for one of the canoes.  After easing into the small craft while trying not to overturn the boat, Doug and I paddled across Bayboro Harbor toward the entrance of the creek, passing small row boats and sail boats on up to a multi-storied city-on-the-water mansion of a boat.

The trip down Salt Creek gives an intimate picture of the waterway.  No doubt a once pristine creek, there are areas still bordering on wilderness.  But lest we forget that we’re traveling a creek in the midst of a bustling city, the wilderness is intermittent; most of the shoreline now holds marinas, restaurants, a multi-artist studio, warehouses, as well as a ridiculous amount of garbage.  There were beer cans and bottles, six-pack-rings, bags that once contained potato chips, cookies, candy, and the daily haul of groceries, as well as tires and other automotive parts; these were the more polite pieces of refuse seen in the water and hanging from lower tree branches and undergrowth.

On the Third Street Bridge—Thrill Hill, to those in the neighborhood—a man stood watching us with mild curiosity as we paddled toward him.  “Watch out for the sharks!” he admonished, a hint of smile in his voice.

But there were no sharks to watch out for that day, or most likely any other day. Rather, there was garbage to retrieve from the bottom of the creek or floating in the currents of the shallow waters or from the branches of nearby shrubs.  Occasionally, someone in our group would call out about a find either fished from the water or just out of reach: “Wow, look what we got!  Guess the fish are eating Corn Flakes now!” 

“What else would you want to go with that beer?  Hey, that Styrofoam cup…can you reach it?”

“Hold on…got it!  Any chance we can pull that tire out of the muck?” 

And on it went.  Most of us alternated between admiring the natural beauty and

bits of wilderness around us and wondering how anyone could be desecrate the water-way. 

When we finally had to turn back—the high tide and low second bridge at Fourth Street South made going further difficult—I looked on the waterway with new eyes.  Here were the tires that could not be pulled out of the water; there was where the air stank with a rancid chemical stench.  But the wildlife surrounding us, both flora and fauna, seemed to be watching us as if requesting our help. 

 A month passes.  I wonder how close one can get to Salt Creek by car.  Grabbing my camera, I convince a friend to go for a drive.  We head south.

Anhinga, Lake Maggiore (Patricia Seffrin)

At the edge of Lake Maggiore, we find where the lake empties into Salt Creek just west of Ninth Street South at Twenty-Seventh Avenue South.  An anhinga watches us, spreads his wings to dry, then heads to the edge of the lake. I follow, take a few more pictures, then watch as the anhinga shows his dance steps across the water before taking flight.

On the way back to Ninth Street, we stop.  “Look,” points my friend.  I get out, walk to the creek’s shore and find myself face to face with a mid-sized alligator.  It might not be the shark our Third Street Bridge friend warned our group about, but I’m still impressed enough to snap several pictures of the six-footer.  He stays in the water, lazily watching me before swimming off.

Alligator, MLK Bridge (Robin Shwedo)

We follow the creek to the best of our ability.  In some spots, the streets run paral-lel to Salt Creek; in other places, it crosses the creek.  We are able to get a good feel for part of the waterway that our group couldn’t get to on the first canoe trip.  Egrets, anhingas, fish and gators were among the wild life observed along the way; unfortunately, we also spied the usual garbage suspects.

The final shots are taken from the Third Street Bridge of the back of Salt Creek Artworks on one side of the bridge. Crossing the street to the view the creek closer to Bayboro Harbor, I get a shot of a warehouse with Embree Marine Service painted on the side; across the creek from the metal building is an old wooden dock.  All of these—the dock, the marine service warehouse, the artworks—are as much part of Salt Creek as the egrets, anhingas, fish and alligators.  Unfortunately, the garbage, the flotsam of modern cities, was also part of the creek.  It shouldn’t be.

On the way back to Bayboro Harbor during that first canoe trip on Salt Creek, we approached the artworks’ building, backed up precariously above the shore.  A light pole extends over the creek from the corrugated metal building.  As we paddled closer, two large pelicans landed on the light pole, large sentinels with a request squawked in bird-speak; if we could understand them, we might have heard them plead, “Clean the creek, for us, for you, for the future.”

I hope we remember to do that…and more

The silence back in the mangroves allows my mind and imagination to wonder. Back here on this pond, surrounded by foliage its easy to imagine being somewhere else, some-when else. The canoe gently coats along the placid water. Here is a retreat that is sheltered from the world, hidden away from all the busy rush of everyday life. A peer over the side of canoe. The water is shallow and a ghostly underwater world lays just inches beneath the surface. Twisting branches rise up in the water and light filters down around them, forming otherworldly shadows. Everything is a single uniform gray-black color, almost the color of ash. Here and there a single bright red leaf breaks up the monochromatic underwater world.

The boat rocks as my boating partner plunges the dip net beneath the surface of the water. I resume rowing, the process now made much harder by the lowered net. A minute later he hoists the net back up. It looks like a poop-filled diaper; a bulging white container filled with black goop. The air is filled with the noxious smell of decay. The peaceful world below is a fetid mix of dead leaves, dead animals, and sloppy mud. My boating partner begins to shift through the muck, and it slips through his fingers. The smell grows worse as he rummages through his catch. Out of the filth he draws a single Faygo soda can, its base crusted with a few barnacles. Just as Bartlettpond has become a dump for decaying natural matter, so to has it become a place people dump their unwanted soda cans, liquor bottles, and other assorted trash. This single small pond, secluded as it is, could easily be some place in the Everglades, if it weren’t for the accumulated trash and the steady buzz of traffic from 22^nd Street that is just audible through the dense mangroves.