Manatees are one of the great relics of the natural world, seemingly far removed from their own time. The giant floating rock-like West Indian Manatees (Trichechus manatus) are found across large parts of the Caribbean and the Southern US - locally abdundant in some places and still endangered in others despite having staged a remarkable comeback after years of easy hunting. The West Indian species has more highly endangered cousins in West Africa and the Amazon as well as the closely-related (and more endangered) Indian Ocean-dwelling Dugong.
A very special animal in our family, our Christmas tree is adorned with a manatee at the top instead of the more traditional star and our house is littered with photos and paintings of them after a small number of them decided to grace my wife and I with their presence as we were in the process of getting engaged. Needless to say, any sighting is precious.
I was excited then when my day job called for me to head to a week-long conference in Orlando and I had the opportunity to tack a couple of days on at the end to go in search of local wildlife. Better still, the trip was to be in late January, which in the Floridian winter drives manatees far up the warmer rivers to the crystal clear waters of swampland springs across the central belt.
The most well known sites of Homosassa Springs and Crystal River are a little far for short visits from Orlando (though it can be done) and I'd heard great things about manatees and all the other wildlife that goes along with them in and around the parks on the northern edge of the Orlando urban area.
January rolled around after a bitter winter (the notion that West Coast Canada is not as snowy or cold as the rest of Canada is misplaced when you recall that it is, in fact, still Canada) and, though enjoyable, I was eager to trade the snow shoes and hot chocolate for some greener vegetation and more rum-based beverages - of course with a better chance of seeing animals that weren't hibernating.
I had been to Florida only once before as a student back in 2007 - the trip that incorporated a marriage proposal - and, although we passed through Orlando we stayed in and around International Drive as virtually all visitors do before moving on to adventures elsewhere in the Caribbean. It was summer and thus storm season then and the skies were blotted with impossibly high nimbulus clouds.
Our plane spent more time banking sideways to avoid them than it did moving forwards and our pilot had to go around one or two times because the runway was too slick with water to land. Consequently I had no idea what Florida looked like from the air.
This time, the sky was as clear as the rivers I was looking for. Even though it was winter time, the hallmarks of tropical landscapes stood out immediately even from great height - palm trees, murky waters and, simply, greenness in shades not seen in more Northern climes. As we came down the glidepath I stretched my neck to peek over the sleeping businessman's inexplicably raised elbow and caught sight of the dense low-lying vegetation that was my target.
It looked forbidding - silent despite being hemmed in on all sides by freeways and theme parks. Florida is surprisingly wild, despite what the tourist brochures and all-you-can-eat buffets imply. In this heavily populated state the locals are confined to the few large cities in the extreme North and South of the state, with modest pockets in Orlando and those snaking up each coast from Miami.
The conference went well, though the early wintertime sunsets mean Central Florida isn't quite as warm as you might imagine, and precluded trekking through the swamps in the evenings after attending lectures which left me itching to get out to explore as soon as the conference finished.
A trip out to the otherwordly spaceport at Cape Canaveral, itself in the middle of the gigantic Merritt Island wetland reserve, gathered reports of alligators on launch pads and vultures in the assembly halls of the space-launch complexes that populate the eastern seaboard of south-central Florida.
I sighted a flock of roseate spoonbills in a ditch but the NASA bus I was on moved too quickly and I'd left my camera locked on the wrong settings - as ever tuition by hindsight. I did enjoy watching the grackles mess about in the grounds around Kennedy Space Center though.
The next day I got up early and took my rented car through the convoluted suburbs north from my Lake Buena Vista base and past the anytown central business district of downtown Orlando. Abruptly, the urbanity stops and one hits the immense and pleasingly downplayed Wekiwa Springs state park.
In here is an eden sporting most of Florida's iconic species (although finding them is another matter). The ultimate find of the Florida panther (North American puma) eluded me, but in the gorgeous orange light of evening I found myself entirely alone on a trail heading deeper into the protected area, surrounded by low palm fronds in the sandbanks along the Wekiwa river. Halfway down the trail I came across tell-tale signs of bears - fur on trees, droppings on the path and trampled brush.
I heard rustling. The light was dying. I had two miles to walk back to the car. I weighed up the situation and reluctantly turned around. It is often said when you're in the forest and feel you're being watched, nothing can make that sensation go away until you get out of the forest. The mind plays tricks and I was glancing over my shoulder every few steps until I had the car back in sight. I chastised myself for being irrational - but simply put you don't mess around with bears.
The sunset took away any negative feelings - not least because I had finally bit the bullet and picked up a new smartphone before heading out on the trip and I was blown away by the quality of the HDR landscape photo feature on it. So much so, in fact, that it has fast become a staple "second camera" when I'm out and about with my telephoto lens on these days. Many make for reasonable microstock sales as well (for those wanting to monetise their hobby).
I headed back to the south side and enjoyed an evening of hospitality courtesy of The Mouse and marvelled at the incongruity of having predator-paranoia in the middle of nowhere and only two hours later being at a rum bar adjacent to the world's most popular theme park. It's a strange experience photographing wildlife in the 21st century.
Bright and early the next morning I hit the road north again, bypassing Wekiwa in an instant. Traveling twice as far again, one gets to the more popular Blue Spring state park. You have to get there early, especially in the winter when the manatees are around. Even though I was there in good time I still had to wait for half an hour for the one-in-one-out car parking situation to let me in. Thankfully the park service keeps the numbers moderated to prevent it becoming too unbearable, and, though busier than I had imagined, trails and sightings of wildlife were abundant and unimpeded.
Upon leaving the car and setting up with all the equipment I though I might need, I headed over to the adjacent boardwalk to get my bearings. Screaming kids at a swimming pool down the way made sure I headed a little further up river. I reached the edge of the water on an overhanging deck and stood, waiting. I spotted a Florida cormorant, outstretched on a log, and a series of limpkins and other wading birds dotted among rocks in the clearer-than-glass water. I assumed the manatees would be along soon as I had overheard a couple talking about them in the car park. I waited. And waited.
Suddenly a moment of clarity hit me when one of the rocks moved. In fact, a lot of the rocks were moving. Hundreds of them - hundreds of manatees slowly making their way from one side of the river bank to the other. I caught my gasp and whipped out my newly preferred phone camera to snap some teal and aquamarine tinted HDR shots of the river.
I was also practicing with an upgraded Hubble (an only semi-affectionate nickname I give to the megarange telephoto lens I use) and this was the perfect opportunity. I took a few practice shots of the cormorants then trained the camera into the water.
The manatees like to sit on the bottom for five to ten minutes at a time before surfacing and poking their huge snouts out to take a few breaths. This makes for some gorgeous water-breaking shots and the background palette is a study of green and blue. I watched mesmerised for hours, and spent the time wandering the river bank encountering different groups - some sitting stock still, others moving with surprising speed, and still more with juveniles.
Manatees - also known as seacows - are astonishingly placid, trusting creatures. The state parks service has done an excellent job allowing access to observe the animals whilst restricting river access at this time of year. These protective measures have allowed manatees in this small corner of the world to thrive, even when they're doing less well elsewhere.
The walk along the river takes you up to a trailhead and the path is an excellent demonstration of Florida's birdlife. Prevalent cardinals, waxwings and herons are all eminently visible, tempered to the presence of people by the established consistency of park visitors and therefore easy pickings for a birdwatcher or photographer.
Lighting was pretty good too and in the winter low light with only moderate shade prevented the horrific black/white contrast patterns characteristic of dense rainforest environments. I was grateful.
Another highlight for me came at the end of the trail - a rustling and shuffling revealed a pair of nine-banded armadillos digging away, oblivious to the visitors observing them. I was astonished as daylight sightings of armadillos doing anything other than running away or burying their heads in the dirt are unheard of to me.
At Blue Spring, with a little patience one can actually get a half decent photo of these otherwise impossible animals. Armadillos move virtually continuously, which in darker environments of the forest floor prevents well focused shots, and they almost never expose their faces to a photographer for more than a few seconds.
Finally I packed up my things and headed out, somewhat sunburnt after my foolish assertion that low light was less harsh and forgetting that duration of exposure is just as important. I hit up Wekiwa Springs on the way back again though with limited time I stayed around the main spring pools in the more visited portion of the park being entertained by a family of raccoons hiding in a canoe and the ridiculous Sherman's fox squirrels screaming all sorts of abuse at me.
With a sigh I loaded my camera and tripod back into the car and headed off to return to Canada after a wonderful widlife interlude - the magnitude of which disguised how short a time it had actually been. The return journey was longer than I remembered on the way out (I'd been asleep on the latter) and I mulled on the incredible state parks service the US has, which is so often neglected by visitors who fixate on the more travel brochure-worthy National Parks service. I resolved to see more of these unspoken heroes of the American natural world.
All photography © Chris Milligan Photo. All views are my own. Seek local recommendations before photographing or approaching any wildlife.
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