In the winter of 2009, my wife and I left our our home in Peru, Vermont to arrive in lovely St Augustine Beach for our winter vacation. We gave up the snow, icy roads, and the daily stuffing of hefty maple, oak, and hickory logs into our big "Momma-Bear" Fischer wood stove, for the sun, balmy sea breezes, and carefree strolls along the fine, sandy beaches of this lovely part of Florida.
Here in Florida it was my habit each day to leave our 5th Street beach-home and walk north up the strand, passing under the the popular St. John's County Pier ("the fishing pier") and into Anastasia State Park. This Atlantic facing park encompasses over 1600 acres of bay-side hammock, salt marsh, beach dunes, and dune blow-outs, as well as four miles of fine sandy beach with an unencumbered view and pounding surf. That day, I walked passed the extension of Pope Road at the beach-end, just beyond the Resort Beach Hotel--and entered the State Park lands. The fine sand crunched softly under my feet, the sun warmed my face and the sea breeze ruffled my hair. I took a deep breath of clean sea air and felt I could easily walk the more than four miles up to the north end of the Island at St Augustine inlet. But I never got there.
As I proceeded north, the black and white spiral of Anastasia Light came into view and I was struck by the possibility of a fine-photo composition of the distant lighthouse with waving sea oats and sand dunes in the foreground. The picture would be best taken from the State Park beach walkway. Framing the picture in my mind, I struck out north-westward toward that place, across the back-beach, scattered with patches of sea oats, sea-side portulaca, and Atlantic beach golden-rod. I soon reached the State Park walkway which is confluent with Park Road, and the beach parking lot. It is here that visitors and campers make access to the sea side. I climbed the few sand-grimed wood steps and began composing my picture of the Anastasia Island Lighthouse on the far side of Salt Run about two or three miles away. Finally, I took out my camera and leaned on the north walkway-balustrade to steady my arms as I got ready to snap the picture. And at that point something in the sand surface below me caught my eye. The markings in the fine sand just below me in an area protected from the wind looked very familiar but also very much out of place.
I am an inveterate tracker, I often practiced the art as a boy on Long Island, and as an adult on and around our home in Vermont. As a youngster, some of my most enjoyable walks were taken after a light dusting of snow, when tracking was at its very best. The thin layer of snow provided the best circumstances for tracking, a thin, fine surface material underlain with a firm subsurface that resists distortion, often revealed an amazing variety of animal life residing in some small patch of wood or empty lot. On these winter walks and others along a muddy shore, or in patches of wet soil I learned to identify most of the native animals in my area by their footprints. Raccoons, cottontails, and squirrels must have been the first and most common animals I could identify from their tracks, but soon I was able to recognize evidences of deer and even a buck deer from a doe, and a fox from a small dog and also identify the spoor left by a variety of less common small critters such as the weasel, muskrat and even some common varieties of mice and voles. In Vermont, I encountered bigger game which left tracks such as moose, (though rare, we're obvious when they were encountered) and the tracks and scat of coyotes, river otters and even bear were fairly common on some paths deep in the woods of the Green Mountains.
My first sighting of a black-bear track was in a patch of remnant snow on a spring camping trip with my cousin Bill when we were both about fifteen years old. We took a bus from our homes in Brooklyn into the wilds of the Catskill Mountains one early spring, telling our parents we were going on a "supervised" Boy Scout Jamboree. But we secretly planned to be alone in the woods, testing our ability to survive with some simple camping gear--a fry pan, and a couple of GI war-surplus canteens (with that useful aluminum cup insert) as well as a compact tent Bill had carefully made from bed sheets, laboriously waterproofed with a home-concocted solution he read about.
As we trekked uphill through a small meadow in the central Catskills we came across a patch of remnant snow with a fresh bear track. We stopped to stare at it. The big flat hind foot and the five long pointy claws were clearly visible. These latter made it so plain ,to us how easily such a beast might tear apart our flimsy tent. Particularly frightening was that we might be taking shelter within it at the time.
The vision of the bear track took a bit of enthusiasm out of our plans, and the soaking rain which poured down on us that night did the rest. The rain seeped though the fabric to drip down on our upturned faces. The weight of the soaked fabric caused the main ridge-seam in Bill's carefully sewn and waterproofed tent to part and collapse around us. Huddled together in our damp clothes and covered by the wet-(though waterproofed) fabric of our collapsed tent, we tended our fire against the chilling rain and tried to calm our pounding hearts which responded to every forest sound which we attributed with certainty to a marauding bear, all night long. We took turns to brave into the edge of darkness around our blazing campfire to drag in more dry wood to keep the fire blazing brightly--and keep that bear at bay. The next day, dawned damp and drizzly, finding us cold and tired and dispirited. The thought of our warm home and dry beds beckoned to us--but we knew we couldn't go home. Arriving early from the Jamboree would have surely revealed our perfidy. So that morning, we packed up the wet and useless tent and came down off the hill (where the bear might have lived). We arrived at the main highway where we slept soundly under a dry, highway overpass. I have forgotten what explanations we gave our parents when we finally did arrive home- a day early--disenchanted with the rough life under that dusty roadway with its noisy vehicle-traffic overhead.
In this way was the memory of my first bear-track sighting permanently imprinted in my mind.
I tracked other black bears up in Vermont. One prowled into my back yard to raid a bird feeder, and another which, after sloshing through the muddy bank of Flood Brook, made a fine set of brown-prints across the smooth-white, crushed-rock surface of Glen Road. So I was well familiar bear tracks when I saw them under the walkway at the State Park beach entrance that day.
But, on this sandy beach, in warm, urbanized, St. Augustine, I really could not believe what I was seeing. Over the wind-rippled sand, I carefully followed the trail of prints which led under the boardwalk where the wind-blown deposits were even finer and the tracks more distinct. Each footprint was clean, and sharply delineated in a fine sediment which settled on an underlay of well-packed sand. Tracking conditions were nearly perfect. I determined that the bear was a small one, by Vermont standards, pointing might have been a sow. The fore paws showed the five toe pads and the pricks in the sand where the sharp tips of five long, curving, claw prints. The heel of the rear foot appeared clearly. In the dust-like sand, even the larger creases and network of fine lines on the soles of the bear's feet were visible. Brush-like markings made by the longer wisps of hair on the upper part of the foot were also visible in the fine sand.
I heard someone walking above me, and hunched over under the walkway, I had to scuttle over to the edge of the substructure to look up. There, above me, walking toward the beach was a middle-aged man whom I could share my discovery with and also confirm my conclusions. The fellow wore a bathing suit, and flip flops and strode down boardwalk to the beach with a rolled up towel under his arm.
"Hey there!" I called out, my head about even with the floorboards of the walkway.
"You want to see something real interesting?" I continued. From my position, I could see the man clearly- but he could not see me. The man stopped short to look around for the source of the voice.
"I'm down here mister..." I called, waving my arms over my head.
Finally seeing me, the man moved tentatively toward the side of the boardwalk where he peered cautiously over the edge.
The quizzical look he gave me, made me pause, but I was so excited about my find that I just couldn't help blurting out, "There are bear tracks down here!"
My pronouncement did not impress him. After my outburst, I recognized how bizarre it sounded even to my own ears.
The man said nothing. He just stared at me, his forehead wrinkled up as if he was working on some difficult puzzle.
"I know it seems strange, but, there they are," I continued defensively, pointing to the sand under the walkway, and realizing too late, that this man probably thought I was some weirdo from up north.
Without answering me, the fellow averted his eyes, tucked his towel further under his arm and turned to scurry off down the stairs and across the beach, looking back over his shoulder every now and then, perhaps to be sure I was not following him.
Before this person was out of sight, an elderly couple, who seemed to have heard the conversation I had with the first man, ambled down toward where I was standing. The man was of a chubby build and wore a colorful bathing suit and carried a beach umbrella and two light sand chairs. They too were apparently headed toward the beach. They were more curious, and appeared to change course to bear down on me.
"Whatca doin' down there? Find somet'n?"drawled the man, pressing his hairy exposed belly against the wooden side-fence, to peer down at me.
"There are a good set of bear tracks right here in the sand," I said, now after my last encounter trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
V
The man looked around toward the barren sand of the wide beach, then over his shoulder toward the highway from which we could hear the distinct sound of rushing auto traffic, then toward the barren sandy dunes, and finally to the concrete parking lot behind him.
"Ain't likely," drawled the man. His wife smiled and silently shook her head, covered in a wide straw sun bonnet, in agreement.
"I didn't think so either, but here they are," I countered.
"We live here in town, and we ain't never seen no bars," said the man with certainty.
"Nor heered of 'em neither," added the wife.
"Betcha, it's the tracks of a big 'coon," he said, and his wife nodded in agreement, her big bonnet flapping vigorously as if to emphasize her assent.
They wandered off chatting and giggling to themselves.
I photographed the tracks and turned toward home a little disappointed in the level of curiosity of my fellow beach goers. On my way, I stopped in at the Park Ranger Station where I obliquely queried the attendant about the native wildlife in the park. I made no mention of bears. The man dutifully presented me the official list of native mammals in the Park. No Ursus americanus appeared on the list. At the entrance toll-booth, I queried another Park Ranger. There being no incoming toll-traffic, I felt there was time to specifically inquire about bears. When I asked "were bears ever observed in the Park, he just laughed at me.
"Ain't no bears in this park, Sir. Why do you ask? I bet you seen some garbage canisters turned over? We got no bears but plenty of good sized and hungry 'coons though.
"No, but I did see some tracks in the sand on the beach."
"Tracks?"
"Yeah, on the beach."
The man, waved me into the small toll booth where he patientlyn proceeded to inform me about the habitat of the black bear, how many square miles of woodland they need for survival, what its food-requirements are and so forth. Behind him on the wall, hung a lovely map of the St. Augustine area with a big green patch representing Anastasia State Park. The green patch was clearly surrounded by on the east by the blue Atlantic Ocean, and on the west ans south by the yellow and brown-colored urbanized areas and networks of roadways which completely surrounded the Park.. When he finished his discourse he just twisted around in his chair to look at the map, again and then turned to me as if to say..."think again."
Over the next few days, I developed the pictures I had taken of the tracks and I searched for more tendencies on the beach. I did find other tracks. Some I encountered along the southern park boundary just north of the the Resort Beach Hotel, where the bear had skirted and possibly explored a dumpster. I followed it past the Park beach boardwalk and into the extensive dunes and blowouts of the northeast portion of the facility. I did not find any scat or bear fur to collect, nor we're there any "bear signs" such as dug holes, pulled-over branches, or torn-up rotted logs. But I was now convinced that Anastasia State Park had a resident black bear--even if its professional staff did not know it. Yet I still yearned for someone to confirm my observations.
I decided to call the Florida State Wildlife Commission (FSWC)they would know about any bears in this vicinity.
That afternoon I made the call.
The operator directed me to the wildlife section and then to the person who was in charge of mammals and finally, I spoke to the State's "bear lady". After explaining what I had seen and where as well as what I had recorded on film, I paused, half-expecting another lecture on bear habitat....
"Oh," she said, happily "That must be Sarah, #43846". She's a collared, black bear sow."
"Collared?"
"Yes, she is a nice ole, gal-bear and has caused no problems. We have placed an electronic collar on her and have been tracking her position regularly from the air. But the last time we located her she was well south of where you describe seeing the tracks in Crescent Beach. She then crossed over to the southern end of Anastasia Island from Matanzas State Forest."
"Wow, Crescent Beach, that's like ten miles down the coast---quite a distance from here."
"We lost contact with her and thought perhaps she might have gone back over the river into Faver Dykes or someplace west."
"So that means she must have wandered north all along the beach side, past all those houses and hotels and even right past my place on 5th Street! I'm amazed at their ability to be so secretive," I said, bubbling with enthusiasm.
"And, think of it, no one noticed her--until you saw her tracks up there at Anastasia State Park!"
"Suggesting to me that perhaps wildlife and humans can maybe live together amicably!" I said.
"As a wildlife scientist I dearly hope so," she said with sincerity.
"Tell me what will happen to her up there in the Park?"
"Well, if all goes well and she behaves herself, stays away from camp-sites and garbage cans and mostly keeps over on the Atlantic side of the Park she will be fine. We won't bother her. But if we get complaints, such as garbage cans being knocked over and dumpsters being raided, we'll have to go up there, trap her and bring her back down south."
"But I'm so surprised that Sarah was able to make it up to Anastasia, past all those hotels, private residences, well-used beaches, all the while traveling beside a high traffic roadway, and without being noticed. Perhaps both our species are evolving--the critters are getting more secretive, and we--humans-are getting more tolerant."
"I'm surprised too," said the "bear lady", but it sure makes me optimistic, that given a bit of open space, some legal protection and lack of hunting pressure--you know that bears are still on the protected list--that with some luck we can keep a healthy bear population in Florida for generations to come.
Get the picture?
rjk
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