Great Lengths - The Green Heron

As I ride my bike back to my house, I have one hand on the handle bars and one delicately cradling a Green Heron (Butorides virescens) that is thankfully behaving.

The bird is beautiful with deep green plumage on its head and back, rusty-colored feathers around the neck, a long pointed beak and a deceivingly long neck. From a riverside perch, Green Herons can extend their neck great lengths to the water and snap up an unsuspecting fish.

Green Heron © Manfred Dangel

The Heron was found in shin-high grass in the Harns Marsh in Lehigh Acres, Florida. As I peddled by, I expected it to fly and when it didn’t I considered it was injured. I parked the bike and stepped towards it. The bird rolled on to its back and offered its feet in a meek attempt to defend itself. I placed my hat over its head and examined what I believed was an injured wing. The bird could not fly. I carefully placed him under my arm and headed for home, chanting softly “please don’t bite me”.

Green Heron © Maria Elena Corradino

What I have done so far and what I will do is nothing exceptional. Rescuing injured wildlife is something that everyone with the capacity to do, should. What the rehabilitators do is something extraordinary and should be supported. Chances are you have a wildlife rehabilitation center nearby (and this is your chance to give them a shout out). For me, the Clinic for the Rehabilitation of Wildlife (C.R.O.W) in Sanibel, FL is the closest. They have a wide reaching network of volunteers who are willing to pick up the animals on location or at designated facilities.

Back at home I placed the heron in an animal carrier. I drop the bird off at the local vet’s office who secures it in a safe area. Later, a volunteer will pick the bird up along with an injured turtle that is awaiting transport. Once at the clinic, they will assess the injury and with good fortune and good medicine, have the animal back in the wild as soon as possible.

Green Heron © Pete Corradino

Consider the great lengths these rehabilitation centers go to for these wild animals and consider supporting their cause. Help injured wildlife. Volunteer to be a transporter. Donate to their organization. These clinics and the wildlife need all the help they can get. 

Don't Tread on Me - The Cottonmouth

Americans drive a lot. Every year we build new roads and expand old ones. Wildlife is always in danger and the need for rescue is constant. Where the rubber meets the road, there is often a critter in between.

I make no judgments when a rescue is required. My safety is the number one priority. Getting the animal to safety is number two regardless of the species. There are times when my safety involves more than dodging traffic. The wildlife that is injured, stranded, trapped, etc. usually does not understand your intentions and can make the situation more difficult. Such was the case when a Cottonmouth (Agkistrodon piscivorus) made the proverbial “crossing of the road”.

Turtles are easy. Pick them up by the shell in front of each rear leg, carry them in the direction they were heading and place them far off the road. (Snapping Turtles and Softshell Turtles require a gentle grab by the tail and with arm fully extended away from your body, to bring them to safety).

When it comes to a venomous reptile, the plan changes. As I approach the snake in the road, it coils in defense as Cottonmouths do. It’s not helping. The approaching traffic spots me waving them into the other lane and had I not stood in the road they would have surely run the snake over. A car stops and asks if I need help. I explain I’m trying to shoo the snake off the road. Thoughtfully and with a twang reminiscent of a character from Deliverance, the driver points out that it’s a “ven-mus snake and it’ll bite cha!” He drives around.

The snake heads east, changes its mind and heads west. I carefully move to the opposite lane and direct more traffic around. A driver shakes his head. The snake slides off the pavement and into the grass, safe for now.

Certainly encounters with venomous snakes require caution, but out on the roads there is no question who is the more dangerous species.

Puke Breath

"Let me warn you about Vultures" the woman on the phone at the animal rehab center said. "It's ok - I know where you're going with this. They're pukers."

While on tour on Friday we spotted a juvenile vulture sitting on the ground under a palm tree. Unusual. It hopped about and clearly could not fly. So after a quick call to C.R.O.W (Center for the Rehabilitation of Wildlife) out on Sanibel I confirmed that the Vulture had most likely fallen from the nest and was in need of rescue.

Vultures eat carrion. Dead stuff. On occasion the Black Vulture will help a sick or injured animal into the next world but fresh road kill is always the chef's choice for our roadside clean up crew.

Vultures don't seem to have much in the way of a defense system considering their weak talons but it might be a toss up if I had to rescue an injured owl vs a vulture. Vultures puke. They vomit when stressed. They barf if you get too close. So the idea of rescuing an injured vulture requires considering this consequence.

I prepped myself by climbing into a stinky dumpster to get a cardboard box big enough to transport the bird to CROW, grabbed a towel from the Lake Trafford Marina and headed down the road to wrangle the bird.

I know it's a juvenile because it still has feathers on the head. Adults go bald which is a great benefit when you spend your days with it stuck in a dead animal carcass.

Upon approaching the bird - it hopped about and tried to get lift off. I followed it around the Marina sign. I followed it around a Sabal Palm. There was no way I was going to catch this bird. It was healthy. It just had no idea it could fly. So I made one mad dash towards the potential puker and it leaped skyward, landing 6 feet up on a chain link fence. I approached again and the bird hopped down and headed towards the canal - I followed and when the bird ran out of space and was cornered by me, my box and my barf-shield, it leaped again, soaring a few feet down into the canal. Just before splashing into the gator-filled water, it flapped with several heavy wing beats, soared skyward and landed on a branch where it looked back at me as if to say "I had no idea I could do that". The vulture could finally fly. Good luck my new vulture friend and may the cars and roads bring you good fortune.

How to Kill a Pelican

Judging by the precautions the wealthy community of Anna Maria, Fl takes to protect their wildlife it wouldn't surprise me to see a poster on how to kill a pelican. I mean why not. They're just birds. They poop on the pier. They steal fish from people fishing. Who cares if a pelican dies?

Kenny and I were geocaching from Venice to Bradenton along the Gulf of Mexico today and found ourselves out on the pier at Anna Maria. The 600 foot long pier has a bar and a restaurant out on the end and there were well over 200 people on it this Saturday night including many people fishing. As we were walking off the pier an unmanned fishing pole snagged a pelican. Kenny grabbed the fishing pole - alerted the owner and demanded the guy understand the seriousness of the situation. "Oh that happens all the time" the guy explained. Now seriously annoyed - Kenny and I tried to make him understand that the hook had torn the Pelican's bill, the monofiliment was now tangled around the bird's wings and the treble hook had cut deeply in the bird's side.

We were able to get the bird onto the pier. As I distracted the Pelican, Kenny covered the bird's head with a reusable Publix shopping bag and grabbed the bill. Pelican's can turn their head in every direction and if they hook you they can shred you. We untangled the fishing line but the hook remained lodged in it's side.

The fisherman who hooked him helped us restrain the bird and after 30 minutes the bird was stressed to the point where it seemed to pass out. We were able to cut the hook loose and eventually the bird roused itself (and posed for the picture).

Another woman called 911 and asked for their assistance only to be passed along to Fish & Wildlife in St. Lucie County. I asked a local bartender who also said it happens all the time. Cut the hook and let the bleeding, injured bird go. A poster on Brown Pelican Safety explained how not to be injured by a hooked bird and to call a number (which is no longer in service). I called 411 while restraining the bird with the other hand. They gave me the number for Fish & Wildlife in Polk County. Where is Polk County?!?

Eventually we called Save Our Shorebirds - a bird rescue operation 30 minutes south of the Anna Maria Pier. Coincidentally when we passed it earlier in the day I explained to Kenny that my dad used to help rescue Pelicans back in the 70's and 80's and some of the Pelicans came here. Who knew we'd rescue one later?

We placed "Billy Bob" in a large pelican-sized Rubbermaid file folder and I drove while Kenny kept the know angry Pelican from escaping in the back seat of the car. We brought him to S.O.S. and dropped him off in an overnight hotel cage (the pelican not Kenny). Volunteers from S.O.S. will look after the poor pelican as soon as they can and I'll update his progress.

It was a frustrating experience and the lack of help from people passing by was disheartening. Had we not been there the Pelican would have died. And even after we had assisted the bird, the lack of information on how to rescue the bird is unconscionable. The really stupid thing is I ran to the car to get the container and when I returned another guy (who had helped us capture the Pelican) had snagged a Laughing Gull by the legs. By the time we had brought that bird in and restrained it, his feet were so bound up that it was not long from losing circulation in the feet and possibly losing those feet.

I'm sure things like this happen all of the time and sadly fishermen probably just cut the line and the animals die. Thankfully there are organizations like S.O.S. (941-388-3010) in Sarasota County that help rescue and rehab injured wildlife.

In Lee County C.R.O.W. (239-472-3644) does similar work for many types of wildlife.

For those that would injure an animal or pass one with little care? I would send them to the Anna Maria City Jail. But that probably wouldn't make much difference.

An Everglades follow up from Mike (and my Mt.Equinox Nightmare)

Hi Pete,
I want to thank you for all you did for me - you were in frequent communication with my wife and you alerted the proper authorities in Collier County. And after I was rescued and I drove out to the park office, there you were waiting for me. You're a great friend, thank you again.
I'd also like to thank the police and rescue teams. They were professional and kind and searched in a safe, scientific manner.

Some low points:

• Not being able to find the trail on Sat. morning, walking in a large circle, feeling dehydration set in, feeling panic set in, and collapsing in weakness.
• Hearing the rescue helicopter at 3 am but not being able to get to the pond in total darkness before it left.
• Seeing the helicopter again at 8 am but not being able to successfully signal it.
• Being continually hounded by mosquitoes.

Some high points:

• Finding the gator hole with water later on Sat. morning. This was the only water I came across, including on the rescue walk out. The gator hole was an oasis in the abnormally dry strand. It was occupied by numerous alligators, turtles, frogs, insects and birds. It provided me a home for over 24 hr. It saved my life. Without it I would have had no water, no open view to the sky, and I would not have been seen by the helicopter crew.Having such well-behaved alligators! The big one to my left and all the others kept their places around the pond and I kept mine.
• Being rescued!

I also want to apologize to all of my family and friends for the worry I caused them. This incident occurred because of what I did early Saturday morning - I left the old tram road and bushwhacked without having the proper equipment with me.

In November of 2005, as per my obligations to the Equinox Preservation Trust in Manchester Vermont, I set out with EPT President Rich Heilemann to hike the "Blue Trail" on Mount Equinox and clear the blowdowns. The trail is one of the steepest ascents in the state, rising from 1000 feet in the valley to the peak at 3800+ feet.

It's enough to climb the thing, but we were carrying a chainsaw, fuel, chaps, wedges, oil and saws to remove trees that had come down long before in one of the mountain's typical wind storms. It has snowed an unusual amount that November, so we had the added difficulty of tromping through snow.

Earlier that year I had been bitten by a deer tick and subsequently come down with Lyme Disease which I struggled with through the summer. By fall I had a few lasting effects; headaches, joint pain and breathing issues which linger to this day. But half way up that mountain that day, the pain became so great that the thought of lifting the chainsaw was nearly unbearable. Each step burned through my muscles and my joints strained like tree limbs in an ice storm. My head pounded and could barely breathe at times. I should have turned around. I felt there was shame in doing so and I continued, Rich carrying the chainsaw as I dragged myself upward. As we neared the 3000' level, Mike appeared. No doubt in search of ferns beneath the snow and for the life of me I can't remember if he was going up or coming down. He asked if he could help, selflessly setting aside his plans for the day and assisted for well over 90 minutes as we removed a 60 foot Spruce that had come down straight down the trail.

Walking down was no easier, but Rich and Mike traded off carrying my equipment as I slowly plodded down the steep and slushy trail.

It was one of the most physically challenging things that I have done and I've always been appreciative of Mike and Rich for their help that day. Wheather they knew how badly off I was or not, they probably kept me from a visit to the hospital or worse.

Just felt like telling you all that. For what it's worth.

Survivalman: Pete and Mike's Everglades Nightmare

It's 8:40 am on Sunday August 19th and I'm sitting in the middle of the 80,000 acre Fakahatchee Strand State Park. The cell rings and the ID flashes RESTRICTED. I nervously pickup and the sheriff on the other end says in a low, gravely tone - "We found your friend".

I arrived at the Fakahatchee at 8:50 am on Saturday. My friend Mike from Vermont had planned to meet me for an excursion into the swamp to locate rare ferns. Mike is a well-conditioned hiker, a seasoned outdoorsman and knows more about ferns than anyone I know, but he asked me along because I'd be interested and because hiking in the swamp in August is best not done solo. Our meeting time was 9 am and by 9:15 I worried that there had been a change of plan. I left a message on his phone in Vermont since he is cell-less (no service in many places in Vermont...mountains you know) and waited another 30 minutes.

Disappointed, I headed to a near by state park to explore a bit and later headed to the old Calusa Indian shell mounds of Marco Island to poke around. The heat, insects and lightning finally forced me to call it a day around 5 pm and I headed home.

As I reentered my cell service area, several messages came in, one from Mike's wife, hoping he had found me as that was the plan. When I returned her call she was worried. He had not checked in which he always does. When he had not returned by 9 pm I joined in on the worrying and began the search for Mike.

The park staff was gone for the day, so I called the county sheriff's office where they asked "Fakahatchee? Never heard of it." It's the largest state park in Florida. My mom's voice in my head gave me direction so I did what she would do anytime one of her kids was missing for more than 8 hours. Several calls to Broward County Sheriff and Florida Highway Patrol turned up nothing. Calls to the local hospitals turned up nothing. "Maybe he is in jail?" one deputy suggested. I laughed and that too turned up nothing. I spoke to Mike's wife again. He had not returned, but I got the description of his car and license plate. By 10:30 pm I had decided I would have to make the drive back to the Fakahatchee which is an hour and 30 minutes from home. I know him well enough to know that if he had arrived after I left at 9:45 am, he would not want to miss the chance to find these ferns, but the 11 mile road in called Jane's Scenic Drive is a legitimate wreck of a road. As they continue to do Everglade's restoration in the park, they are letting the road go and there are not so much pot holes as there are craters filled with water.

By the time I arrived at 12:30 am, it's pitch black and an ominous sign leading down the lonely stretch of road reads "PARK CLOSED DUSK TO DAWN". I continue on and the first time my truck goes axle deep in the water I think there is no way Mike could have made it out here in a Toyota Corolla.

I start the odometer at the Ranger station and slowly make my way down the dirt road. Moon Vine covered trees weighs heavily on the canopy. I'm driving through a tunnel of green - my headlights illuminating each ephemeral flower. I can't say that I'm not nervous out here. I'm in an enormous area inhabited by random squatters. This is where people hide out. At 1:15 am, my lights bounce off a compact car pulled up in front of a rusted old gate. It's empty and my heart sinks. Mike is out there. It rained 3+ inches today and the temperature has dropped 25 degrees. I also recognize this spot as the place I photographed the bear 2 weeks ago.

Thankfully Verizon has good coverage and I'm able to call the sheriff's office. There must have been a shift change. The woman on the phone knows exactly where I am and within 45 minutes she has dispatched 2 patrol cars, a K-9 unit and a chopper. It's 2 am when thee patrolmen arrive, slowly dipping into and driving out of the water holes in the road. One officer tells me he spoke to Mike Saturday morning at 6 am. Mike had explained our plans and the officer told him there was a criminal in a white truck on the loose out here. His last words to Mike - "Don't get lost".

The swamp here is thick. They want to send the K9 unit in before they loose Mike's scent, but it's pitch black and there are water moccasins and gators here, not to mention an abundance of thorny plants. It's too dangerous so we wait for the chopper. They have infrared and night vision, but out here in the darkness, pilots can loose the horizon, not knowing which way is up or down. They spend 40 minutes doing an 8 mile search and find nothing. The jungle is too thick to penetrate to the ground and the spotlights turn up nothing. At 3:30 am Mike's wife in Vermont asked me "Is there still hope?" There was no choice but to hope. But at 4 am they called the search off until daybreak.

A patrolman stayed at the scene and I headed back to the sheriff's sub-station in Everglades City. They want to ask me a few more questions. Seriously - I think I might be a suspect.

At 7 am I wake up in my truck outside the sub-station. My head is pounding, my body aches from sleeping in a bucket seat. There are 5 police units idling in the parking lot. I'll ignore my environmental voice. Inside they are planning the search. Police from Lee County, Collier County and Wildlife Conservation are ready to head out. The chopper is about to go back up.

I ask if I can help and they tell me to stay put. I now know I am a possible suspect in his disappearance. I stay put, but the crazy in me thinks it funny to imagine leaping in my truck and taking off, starting a high speed Everglades chase. You know you'd watch it. I need sleep.

At 8:30 am a police vehicle with a trailer of ATVs speeds down the road. I'm guessing they found him and these guys don't want to miss the chance to use their toys.


At 8:40 am on Sunday August 19th the cell rings and the ID flashes RESTRICTED. I nervously pickup and the sheriff on the other end says in a low, gravely tone - "We found your friend. And he's ok."


The chopper had begun a slow, methodical search and spotted him quite a distance from his car. (Map is a very rough estimate of location) They dropped an MRE (Military Meals Ready to Eat) to him and made the plan to extract him.

At 9:40 am on Sunday August 19th and officer stops by my truck and tells me the rescue team is lost. The trail they left behind had disappeared.

By 11:45 am, 27 hours after he became lost, Mike and rescuers emerged from North America's largest swamp. Thorn-scratched and Mosquito-bitten, a dehydrated and elated Mike arrives at our original meeting point. His wife said he never misses meetings and I couldn't be happier to see him make this one.

During the night, the officers asked me all about Mike. Would he be prepared for this? What was his health? Where were you going? Did he have a cell or GPS?

I told them that if anyone I know could survive this, Mike could. He's always prepared. He's fit. He knows what to do. And he did. He had arrived at 6 am on Saturday and decided to trek a bit before we were to meet. He went a bit off trail, left two markers, found a life-list fern, took a picture, looked around and was lost. This is easy to do and if you think it would not happen to you? Try it. Everything looks the same. The brush is thick and you can easily loose track of direction. (As I stood talking to the officers at 4 am, we argued about which direction we were facing. I was wrong. As was officer #2.) But at 8:30 am on Saturday, Mike, knowing he was lost, prepared to endure an unknown amount of time waiting for rescue.

He had planned to return to the vehicle and head back to meet me, so water, snacks and other survival gear were in the car. He would have to survive on what he had, but most importantly he stay put. Instead of wandering and getting more lost and excessively dehydrated, he found a gator hole full of water. This offered an opening in the canopy to see planes or helicopters above. It also provided water if necessary (and in 95 degree heat the murky water was). He made a bed of sawgrass (surprisingly soft?!?) and a shelter of palm fronds. Around 5 pm, a massive black thunderhead moved in and poured 3+ inches of rain down. As the sun dipped, the temperature did as well, needling down towards 70. Try telling someone that 70 degrees is not cold! Keeping an eye on the grunting gators across the hole and listening to the frogs and barred owls through the night, he waited. When the first chopper flew over and disappeared, he had no chance to signal them. He even considered the helicopter was looking for the criminal that was on the loose. Disappointed, he waited for sun up; sure they would be looking for him at first light. It wasn't until 8 am that the helicopter began the search, but soon enough, they found a thirsty, tired man waving his hat and filthy shirt at them.

I would have freaked out and wandered in this situation. So I'm in awe of Mike for enduring this experience. The wet, the cold, the wildlife, the uncertainty of rescue. It was a simple mistake. One lost trail, but Mike kept his wits about him, stayed put, had an excellent understanding of the environment and thankfully came out alive. Most people would fret about the animals but Bears, Alligators and Panthers were the least of his concerns. Considered - yes, but staying hydrated and preparing to be in a place where he could be found assured he survived his Everglades nightmare.

I think Mike's wife will be implanting a GPS chip on him when he returns to Vermont!