Curtis Hixon Waterfront Park

By Edward C. Woodward

If you’re an avid reader, maybe you’re like me: instructions, clothing tags, billboards, anything with words might be worth reading. So although I can fly a kite, I was curious about the instructions that came with the one my son and I flew a few months ago.

Scanning the directions, one bit stood out: don’t fly the kite “within 5 miles of an airport.” I hadn’t considered that when we planned to fly the kite by the water at Davis Islands in Tampa, which would have been by an airport. I’d like to think I would have realized the obvious kite-flying perils had we gone to Davis Islands and not read the instructions. But I’ve had my share of knucklehead moments, best captured by Gary Larson’s Far Side comic where a student at the “Midvale School For The Gifted,” pushes with all his might to open a door that reads “PULL.”

So we changed our plans and went downtown to Curtis Hixon Waterfront Park, a riverfront swath of green goodness that, counter intuitively, made me notice and admire dense, vertical concrete and steel. Let me get to my point before I lose you. If you haven’t flown a kite in a while, you’re missing out, and Curtis Hixon is a good spot to try, assuming you’ve got game and don’t dive bomb fellow park-goers, which might be a good way to test your nerves if you’re considering pilot lessons.

Because next to being airborne, kite-flying is a simple thrill – the taut line made me feel connected to the climbing, soaring kite, without effort. At its best it felt like a flawless golf swing or an effortless jump shot where the club or basketball are extensions of the body in fluid movement, not awkward separate parts, which, unfortunately, if you’re not a professional, you’re more likely to feel as often with a slice, hook, shank or clank off the rim. I’d write more about my son flying the kite, which was the objective, but he quickly ditched it for something more fascinating: the uber playroom at the Glazer Children’s Museum.

Besides being a solid place to fly a kite, Curtis Hixon has a great playground and fountains. There’s even a hill to roll down like you did when you were a kid. When you might recall flying a kite.

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a resource for exploring Florida’s waterways and woods.

Medard Park

By Edward C. Woodward      

Stuffing a Sesame Street diaper in my car’s loose window to muffle wind noise on an expressway, I realized troubleshooting my reliable Honda is much like parenting: if the engine’s good, you can MacGyver the rest. In this case, intuition was my engine. Earlier, at home in the kitchen, I sensed a cranky Sam soon would be hurling trains and magnetic fridge letters if he didn’t get outdoors.  

So flying our team flag, mascot Elmo, we road-tripped to east Hillsborough County and explored the 1,284 acre Edward Medard Park and Reservoir. The land was mined for phosphate in the 1960s, then donated to the Southwest Florida Water Management District. In the early 1970s, it became a regional county park. And in 2009, it earned the highest praise from a temperamental two-year-old: he napped on the way home.  

... mounds canopied by live oaks

At the park, Sam and I explored Sacred Hills. It’s a range of mounds leftover from mining. The origin of the name Scared Hills is more folklore than County directive, explained spokesperson John Brill of the parks and recreation department; stewards have passed down the name and a “leave it alone,” credo throughout the years, allowing the “natural playground,” to evolve on its own.  

It’s easy to understand why.  

Climbing the mounds brought back that childhood rush to explore. But explorers need to refuel early and often, so Sam and I found a live oak root overlooking the park, sat and ate our peanut butter and mayhaw jelly sandwiches. I reached for my notebook to describe the setting, but soon realized I’d left it in the car. Luckily I had a digital voice recorder and an overstuffed George Costanza wallet with weeks old receipts from restaurants and ATMS, perfect for note taking in a pinch. I silently celebrated being resourceful, though my fortune’s really just the upside of being a disorganized pack rat.  

... exposed roots reaching like tentacles

After splitting an oatmeal cream pie, Sam and I followed worn trails winding through mounds canopied by live oaks, their exposed roots reaching like tentacles to tag passersby. Sacred Hills has the hauntingly whimsical look of a Tim Burton film. As if Edward Scissorhands sculpted the terrain. Coincidently, scenes from Edward Scissorhands were filmed in nearby Lutz. Maybe not coincidently, this park’s namesake and scissor boy share the same first name. Anyone else doubting the mining story?  

While my mind wondered, Sam had more tangible thoughts: finding armadillos, an owl and monkeys. Ever since we saw an owl and armadillos at Hillsborough River State Park, Sam expects to see them elsewhere. But monkeys? Yes. Because we’re fans of Curious George and he goes to the library, school, the movies, the beach, and anywhere else you wouldn’t expect to see a monkey. So why not Sacred Hills?  

“Let’s look down here,” Sam said, easing down a mound. “Here’s some monkeys down here. Maybe hiding somewhere.”  

I followed his lead. “I think they are hiding.”  

“Somewhere?”  

“Somewhere.”  

“Somewhere,” Sam concluded. Which is not entirely untrue. And satisfying enough until interrupted by his next thought: “Something’s in my shoe!”  

view from tower overlooking the 700-acre reservoir

Following Sam through the woods I realized Sacred Hills has everything a playground tries to simulate: something to climb, paths to explore, shady trees, hiding places to ambush friends. However, even in the dense shade Sacred Hills was hot by noon, so an early morning outing would be ideal. And we had our WALL-E moments where patches of litter blemished the quiet setting, but Sam helped me clean up, filling a grocery bag full of plastic bottles, plates and cans.  

Sacred Hills has some steep drops, so keep the smaller set close by. And wear shoes with tread to grip the sandy clay and dirt ground. Sam wore his beloved Crocs. Often he insists wearing them, but they drive me and my wife crazy because they account for half his spills, including his dirt face-plant descending one mound. But who could throw away his potential Rosebud to save skinned knees?  

... our wildlife fix

Soon after Sam’s sandy snack, we cleaned up, hit the playground for a few minutes, then took a boardwalk fishing pier to a tower overlooking the 700-acre reservoir. We watched and listened as an older man trying to catch catfish downplayed their reputation as a poor-eating fish because they’re bottom-feeders (they just eat what other fish missed, he reasoned). He also wondered why chicken is more popular than catfish; growing up on a farm he watched them pick through horse waste.  

As if overhearing the catfish bit didn’t make the boardwalk memorable enough, Sam and I got our wildlife fix seeing an osprey, a little blue heron, a great blue heron and two large alligators. No monkeys, but maybe next time.  

Sam was dragging, so we headed home. Later that night, I ate catfish for dinner.  

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a resource for exploring Florida’s waterways and woods.

J.B. Starkey Wilderness Park

by Edward C. Woodward

A gopher tortoise just crossed the road. Five minutes ago Sam and I wound through an urban maze of Pasco County sprawl to find the woods at J.B. Starkey Wilderness Park. The symbolic moment deserved a John Muir-esque “Behold!” Find your tortoise pace, I thought to myself. So we pulled over, got out of the car, and followed the tortoise while it ate ankle-high weeds with white flowers. 

we ... followed the tortoise while it ate ankle-high weeds with white flowers.

Back in the car, Sam called it a “goldfish tortoise.” Weeks later I took a quick and fuzzy glance at a goldfish and gopher tortoise in my field guide. A vague resemblance. Maybe “goldfish tortoise,” is an evolving haiku. Two-year-old train of thought resembles the three-line fixed syllable poetic form more closely than typical talk: 

Goldfish, tortoise, pets? 

 Maybe Christmas or birthday? 

I want Fig Newtons. 

We drove to a large freestanding park map and kiosk, gathered pamphlets and planned our day. Playground first, definitely. Then we’d take a 1.6 mile nature trail with a branch overlooking the Pithlochascotee River (the park also has tent sites, bike and horse riding trails, and a playground trail with a butterfly garden). 

While Sam scaled the playsets, I gained my park bearings. Usually I have a pretty good sense of direction. I can’t say good because of a blemish on my hiking record: the wrong-side-of-the-mountain trek in North Carolina that ended at a golf course instead of the trail head. That fiasco needs to pop up on my mental play list whenever I’m convinced I’m going the right way. As in, taking Starkey’s nature trail to the river. 

I scooped up Sam, hoisted him on my shoulders, and hyped a hike into the woods to see the river. Pine flatwoods led to damp hammocks. The river was nearby. A sign even pointed down a trail to “Cotee River,” short for Pithlochascotee River  (click here for the river’s name origin). Most sensible people would follow a park-marked sign pointing to the river, but the map in my mind had the river on the nature trail loop. 

... aged oak trees, their trunks twisted and creased like the weathered hands of laborers

 And wanting to stay ahead of the mosquitoes, I relied on recalling the map in my mind – a loop – and dismissed the park sign as a different trail I overlooked on the map. Very smart, but most of my mental energy was sapped by mosquitoes and shouldering twenty-eight pounds. 

So we followed the loop. No river. Run away from the mosquitoes! No river, but damp ground. Back in the flatwoods. Where’s the river? 

“You’ll have to find another map,” Sam said. 

“Yeah,” I said. 

“Yeah.” Two-year-olds are humbling and a great catalyst for self-assessment. I learned that again weeks later fixing (more like wrestling with) a wheelbarrow tire. Sam’s advice as he watched? “Don’t mess up, Daddy.” 

As we wove through thickets of saw palmettos on sandy ground, I finally accepted that we were nowhere near the river; something Sam must have sensed or heard me mutter. 

“That’s the wrong way,” he said. 

“I don’t know,” I mumbled, frustrated. “We’ll go eat some lunch and then go find the right way. Are you hungry?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Me to.” 

The river can’t compete with a peanut butter sandwich, apple and oatmeal pie. We sat at a trail-side picnic table and ate. I asked Sam to split the oatmeal pie in half so we could share. I got one quarter; pie graph lessons will be carved out of cartoon time. 

After lunch we wound our way to the river, passing aged oak trees, their trunks twisted and creased like the weathered 

Pithlochascotee River

hands of laborers. We swatted mosquitoes and slopped through the trail’s end, but the reward was worth it: seeing a deep-wooded, tannic, slow-moving river flow past fallen limbs. It was a setting you might find in a photograph by Clyde Butcher. 

Seeing a Florida river is like feeling a pure golf swing: it lures you back to play. I just hope my kids get hooked on the latter: it’s a lot less frustrating, and never, as Mark Twain described golf, a good walk spoiled. 

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a resource for exploring Florida’s waterways and woods.

Joe Chillura Courthouse Square

by Edward C. Woodward

During my workout phase, tailored for basketball and a tug of war with the refrigerator door, Sam hung out in the gym nursery. In retrospect, his foam block party was a better mind and body workout than my strength and conditioning routine. He seemed rested and ready to go. So I took his lead: now I do yoga on a foam mat. There’s a reason yoga has a pose called child’s play.

How does working out correlate to exploring wildlife in urban areas? Just as lifting weights is counterintuitive to my body, so is searching for wildlife in a city’s downtown. But I had to try. Realizing a rigid workout wasn’t for me led to yoga. So what would Sam and I find exploring the urban beast’s green underbelly? We’d find out at Joe Chillura Courthouse Square in Tampa’s urban core.

But first, next to our car, Sam had to explore a rock-filled square with a tree stump carved out of the concrete sidewalk. He dug, scattering rocks to his side. I crossed Zen garden off my toddler’s gift list. Craving satisfied, Sam stood on the stump, king of the concrete square.

We walked past Fred B. Karl County Center to Chillura Square where organizers prepared a Veteran’s Day program. But Sam was more interested in the park’s benches and short ledges, his Pavlovian reflex to climb. I’ve learned to allot time for spontaneous climbs during walks. The Tasmanian Devil’s tornadic tantrum is a graceful pirouette compared to Sam’s meltdown when he’s interrupted.  

As Sam played, I watched for wildlife, my Pavlovian reflex to trees. About two dozen oak trees buffer the park. In our backyard I’ll find blue jays, definitely squirrels, or at least their markings on the compost bin, the back porch, the sand box, the bird feeder, but I digress. The oak trees near me we’re quiet, no signs of rustling or scampering; very odd to see trees without movement. There had to be wildlife somewhere. So I scanned the skyline of nearby buildings. And never have I been happier to see vultures! Beautiful, ominous, soaring black vultures! 

I’d found Chillura Square’s yoga moment. Since it’s void of other wildlife, you can focus on vultures and explain how every animal, even the ugly ol’ vulture plays an important role in our world. Next time your question mark asks who cleans up the pancaked squirrel in the middle of the road, pounce on the virtues of talons, sharp beaks and a strong stomach. Better that than claiming the squirrel’s really relaxed and the road’s a mat, okay sweetie? Kids can handle carrion, so tell them the truth.

 Anybody can watch pelicans, or alligators, or wading birds, or any other animal on Florida’s exhaustive list – a gift – of wildlife you might see going to the mall or crossing Gandy Bridge (remember, people pay to vacation here and see our everyday wonders). But why not try vulture gazing at Chillura Square? Stretch out, relax and soar.

Not convinced? Then think of it of this way: tangentially, vulture gazing helps the manatees. And everybody wants to help the manatees. How? By vulture gazing, you’re one less cooing face annoying the manatee. You are manatee crowd control. A real friend of the manatee. That cuddly gray grin? It’s a grimace, an expressive plea for space. It’s a little (very little) known fact that McDonald’s Grimace was a walking manatee, purple sunshine for manatee fans to get their fix elsewhere. With billions served every day, it seemed like a foolproof campaign. Collectively, manatees cut their lettuce budget to pay for the campaign, which led to a low-cost catalyst for the McDLT. I don’t miss the McDLT, do you?     

Please watch vultures.

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a resource for exploring Florida’s waterways and woods.

Picnic Island Park

by Edward C. Woodward

Picnic Island Park is a Richard Scarry book personified. Standing on the park shoreline overlooking Old Tampa Bay, Sam and I watched boats, coasting pelicans, and cars and trucks on Gandy Bridge. “Whoa,” he said seeing airplanes bank towards Tampa International Airport. Across the bay, downtown St. Petersburg resembled a Little People metro playset. Dome baseball stadium shown, but not included.

Wide open spaces like Picnic Island quiet the voices of the-sky-is-falling talk radio with its rants about the economy and the ills of socialism. Besides, cloudscapes are a better use of air time.

Sam plays on the shoreline, finding pink and white rocks and shells that he hurls into the bay as boys with objects near water will do. If our e-mail updates about developmental stages were baseball specific, Sam’s might read: “By now your 22-month-old could paint the outside corner with low heat. Duck at close range.”

Sam could have stayed on the shoreline the whole time. And I could have written a column on the nuances or randomness of objects found and hurled by a toddler, but there’s more to Picnic Island than its Zen-like training ground for major league pitchers. So I scooped Sam up and took the mangrove trail bordering the bay that winds northeast to a quiet inlet.

The canopied mangroves intertwine, their limbs filtering the sunlight so shadows dance on the sand. It’s a mysterious tropical Sherwood Forest. And since mysterious forests house literary legends, this one is home to a modern-day Robin Hood, Florida style. Here, the stealth Hawaiian-shirt-clad hero pilfers gas from Port Tampa tankers to relieve recreational boaters in need. And since many Florida literary characters require quirks and kickbacks, our Robin Hood, torn by a fear of water yet an insatiable appetite for mullet, demands food for gas; preferably fried and served with cheese grits.

Out of the woods and back to reality, Sam and I watched a large jet land at neighboring MacDill Air Force Base. If your little one’s an airplane aficionado, Picnic Island joins Ballast Point Park, and Weedon Island Preserve’s 45 foot tall observation tower as easy-to-reach places to watch planes. As the MacDill jet landed, its tail remained visible, a shark’s fin slicing through mangrove tops. The setting reminded me of “Airplane!” the movie, where a jet’s tail mimicking Jaws’ fin ominously tracks through clouds.

If you’re a 1980s movie buff, here’s your chance to tangentially shape your younger set’s cinematic tastes and relive a fine decade for film. You could segue from “Airplane!” to more family friendly movies such as “The Goonies,” “E.T: The Extra Terrestrial” and “A Christmas Story.” You deserve a break from fairies, rainbows, and giggling shag-carpet puppets. If you need to meet in the middle, I recommend “The Backyardigans: Tale of the Mighty Knights,” with its wicked guitar riffs, radio pop-worthy melodies, and quirky characters. My favorite? A kleptomaniac goblin with a soft spot for manners: he repents when he hears “please.”

As we reentered the mangrove forest, Sam squatted, grabbed a shell, and intently drew lines in wet sand. Reflecting on that moment now, sitting in my office overlooking our Sanford and Son version of a toy junk yard, I’m baffled by the amount of plastic manufactured for play. I don’t want to live in a mud hut and wear palm frond pants, but seeing Sam play with found objects reminds me that an ever-changing, undiscovered world is literally at hand. And fascinating, judging by Sam’s concentration.

If our economy implodes, at least we’ll still have free public parks with sticks, rocks and other makeshift toys. Let the kids run wild and we’ll gather around our portable DVD players for a 80s flick marathon. I’m bringing “Real Genius,” so bring something else. 

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a resource for exploring Florida’s waterways and woods.

Hillsborough River State Park

by Edward C. Woodward

Sam awoke at Hillsborough River State Park hands outstretched, palms up and shoulders shrugged. Wide-eyed he inhaled audibly as if saying “Where are we?” He’d traded concrete and cars for towering pines and the crying “keeeee-er” of a red-shouldered hawk. As much as I love Sam’s evolving expressions for discovery, I miss the old one: the rapid-fire “unk ah,” of spring/summer ’08.

I loaded Sam in the jogging stroller and hit the 1.1 mile Rapids Nature Trail. Mosquitoes pestered us if we stopped too long beneath the sabal palms, oak trees and other hardwoods along the trail. Within minutes we heard the rapids, water rushing over limestone rock. Underfoot the forest floor widened and was flush with sticks, leaves and nuts. Sam stockpiled green hickory nuts, taste-testing one sand-laced treat before dad doubling as photographer could grab it. 

Dense greens and browns, touchable trailside textures like bark, palm fronds, and even boardwalks, rewires my frenetic urban mind when I visit Hillsborough River State Park (built by the  Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s). My breathing is relaxed and rhythmic.

Along the trail we met a couple with a two-year-old daughter whose leaf-throwing act made Sam belly laugh. Comedy is uncomplicated, Sam reminds me. Fall to the ground making a funny face? Hilarious. And if belching doesn’t crack you up, then release the weight of the world.

The young girl’s father, who said he grew up “running the trails,” before the park had boardwalks, pointed to the river where a tire was stuck in a cluster of trash. He speculated that a rainstorm probably pushed it past the rapids. I beamed inside: a teachable moment about watersheds! The family walked ahead calling birds.

Meanwhile, Sam and I crossed the suspension bridge. Though curious to watch Sam experience the swaying narrow bridge beneath his own feet, my parenting paranoia superseded the need for writing material. So I crossed the bridge holding Sam.

On the other side of the bridge we collected trash. I handed Sam a Sam’s Cola can that he slam dunked into our small plastic bag, appropriate for his first official piece of river trash. And no, I’m not taking literary license with the litter, Scout’s honor, for what that’s worth from a low-ranking dropout. I silently fist pumped the serendipity of time, place, and my son sharing the name of a deceased billionaire’s soda.

Before lunch, we stopped at a trailside playground. Afterwards we split a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries at the blessedly air conditioned Spirit of the Woods Poolside Café and Gift Shop.

Air conditioning massages my mind, which unbinds taught brain muscles, which unleashes important thoughts. Such as: inefficient ketchup bottles ruined my Scouting career. Consider this: modern ketchup bottles have oversized flip-top lids doubling as bottoms, a brilliant design that harnesses gravity and a hinge to minimize frustration and finger exertion. When I was a kid, we suffered calloused palms pounding out red drops of deliciousness. We damaged our wrists and joints and gnarled our fingers twisting ergonomically-unfriendly tops. No wonder I scoffed at a merit badge for wood carving. Give me one for conquering the ketchup bottle! Borrowing from Marlon Brando, had I grown up with better ketchup bottles, “I coulda been an Eagle Scout. I coulda been somebody.”

Several weeks later I returned to Hillsborough River State Park with my 5-year-old daughter for a litter and ice cream expedition. With a self-professed “eagle eye,” she spotted leaf-concealed candy wrappers. She also revealed a knack for management. While she supervised from the suspension bridge, I grabbed a plastic bottle near the river bank. But it slipped from my hand. “Get the glove on,” she directed. I grabbed the cloth glove in my pocket, leftover from a cleanup, and finished the job.

We backtracked to the playground, played and picked up a few more pieces of litter. Then our destination appeared on the horizon. As if spotting land, Anna picked up a trailside stick and pointed to the Spirit of the Woods sign, which I read aloud.

“Spirit of the Ice Cream,” she renamed her new land.

 “That works for me,” I said.

 Anna agreed. “It works for me, too.”

 Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a resource for exploring Florida’s waterways and woods.

Ballast Point

by Edward C. Woodward

Although standing vigil over Sam in the shallow waters of Hillsborough Bay at Ballast Point Park, he grabbed a broken glass bottleneck. I’d only looked away a few seconds scribbling notes. Luckily, I grabbed the glass before Sam cut himself.

But the moment made me think about outdoor boundaries. I’m confident that nixing a lake swim with a loitering alligator won’t strangle my kids’ free spirit. But barefoot outdoors? Go for it! Grip the dirt with your toes and run faster. Hear the grass give way to your weight? Sounds like a rustling plastic bag, to me. What do you hear? Loosening the reigns often elicits entertaining observations.

I once took good-natured flack from some friends for allowing our kids to walk barefooted in our front yard. I heard a pinworm comment. I took it one step further. They might even step on a bee! Imagine learning a life lesson through experience? Or being aware of living things underfoot in the spaces we share as small as your step? I don’t want to raise porcelain dolls. More like worn gloves that have played the game.

So I let Sam explore the shore while I visually filtered his play area with a keener eye. The litter-strewn shoreline, though disheartening, is an ideal teachable moment. Maybe somebody tossed trash into the bay. Or maybe it was carried on waves of rain rushing into storm water culverts.

Some 1,000 pipes drain to five watersheds in Tampa, according to Michael Burwell, planning and environmental division head of the city of Tampa’s Stormwater Department. That watershed includes the Hillsborough River and its destination, Hillsborough Bay. Last November volunteers collected about eight tons of trash along the shores of the Hillsborough River, said Burwell. By my calculations, that’s about 188,500 “trash” popsicles, converting the grams of our favored brand to pounds. That’s context your pint-sized environmentalist can comprehend and act upon: a city program offers volunteers plaques illustrating where litter drains that they can attach to neighborhood culverts.   

Play soon moved from the shoreline to the playground for toddler trailing; the perfect disguise for adult play. I can swing on monkey bars and slide with abandon sans weird looks. Why wouldn’t I? But be forewarned. The monkey bars are still challenging. However, the slides have improved. Plastic is more skin-friendly than hot tin, but you sacrifice speed, man! Another upside? Modern day playgrounds enable good views. The play bridge at Ballast Point might as well be a birder’s lookout. During some visits, pelicans have flown low enough that I saw the brown feathers of their underbellies.

During this outing, Sam spotted a squirrel in a young oak tree and ditched the playground. I held Sam closer to the squirrel, which was perched about 15 feet high. Then I called the squirrel, a talent culled living in a squirrel sanctuary, also known as our backyard.

Who knows what squirrels think when you call them? The young one in the oak just stared at me, perhaps incredulous that I lacked food. I’m slightly embarrassed to admit Sam wasn’t fazed either, which tells you how often I speak squirrel. Next we gravitated to the sea wall by the boat ramp where Sam channeled his inner-crow and unearthed a worn, yet colorful trinket: a Heineken bottle cap. Note to self: teach Sam to squawk so we can score a free trip to New York for David Letterman’s Stupid Pet & Human Tricks segment.

The final word on Ballast Point. Though I love taking my kids to preserves with hundreds of acres of green space, sometimes they get bored. My kids are 6 and under and they’d rather run wild like wildlife than watch it. At Ballast Point you get both. And with the backdrop of downtown Tampa beyond the bay, you appreciate the forethought of green space in an urban setting.

Better yet, Ballast Point can be a litmus test for rural outings if you or your child are tentative woods wanderers. Get them hooked on identifying wading birds, then plunge into the woods at Hillsborough River State Park where you’ll find riverside trails and playgrounds. And maybe, depending on the day, glimpse the rarest of creatures: a father and son squirrel barking/crow squawking duo. This wildlife you’re encouraged to feed; Goldfish crackers, if you got ‘em.

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a resource for exploring Florida’s waterways and woods.

Brooker Creek Preserve

by Edward C. Woodward

After forty-five minutes in the car, I’m not surprised Anna asked, “Are we still in Florida?” Like me, she’s spoiled by Tampa’s conveniences. Within 15 minutes, our options for outings are limitless: The Florida Aquarium; Lowry Park Zoo; a dozen parks with updated playground equipment; movie theaters; milk shakes; and a free cookie at Publix.

Finally, within minutes, we’d be at Brooker Creek Preserve, Pinellas County’s largest natural area with more than 8,000 acres of forested wetlands, oak hammocks, pine flatwoods and cypress domes and swamps.

“Why is it called Brooker Creek?” Anna asked as we pulled into the Preserve’s parking lot.

“Because Brooker Creek runs through it.”

“But a creek doesn’t even have legs!” she quickly added. We’re always tinkering with word play or puns; fitting for my pint-sized palindrome.

We grabbed our backpack and left the car.

“Wait. What about a plastic bag?” Anna asked.

Luckily, we had several in the backpack. Toting a plastic bag is a habit we’ve adopted for our neighborhood walks. Anna, 6, has an eye for cigarette butts and discarded paper like a crow’s eye for shiny objects.

We walked to the Environmental Education Center. In the lobby, Anna found her favorite part of the trip: a stuffed bobcat, its claws outstretched to snag a fleeing quail. I explained that some places salvage animals found dead, hit by a car, maybe, so that we can learn about them.

“I’ll have to tell Mrs. C. (her school teacher) I saw a runned over bobcat,” she said. “Doesn’t he look cute? I wish I could take him home.”

I’ve just found the post-Webkinz craze: ERKs, or Educational Road Kill. The tag would have a literary bent with a haiku about the animal’s traits and final moments. Armie the armadillo: “Exoskeleton, its scat looks like clay marbles, Chevy on I-4.” As a bonus, we parents pick up backseat drivers reminding the lead footed among us to slow down.

We explored the Center, which you quickly realize is a hidden gem in Tampa Bay that’s no less impressive than many popular and well-reviewed day outings such as The Florida Aquarium and Lowry Park Zoo. A film set in a barn explores the Preserve’s land use history. And rocking chairs by floor-to-ceiling windows overlook lush woods.

But our (my) favorite of the nearly two dozen exhibits was the five times larger than life gopher tortoise burrow. I crawled through encouraging Anna to follow (she didn’t), playing brave despite the unnerving and too-real audio of a rattlesnake, which among other animals shares the tortoise’s home.

Outside the Center, overlooking pickerelweed, we ate lunch. “What’s that pink stuff?” Anna asked, pointing to the trunk of a nearby tree. “It’s lichen,” I said, realizing I’ve seen it so often I overlook it. And though I can identify lichen, I don’t really know what it is. But that’s why I have the “National Audubon Society Field Guide to Florida” pocket journal, which, unfortunately, sat on my bookshelf at home. Here’s part of the explanation about lichen: “A lichen is a remarkable dual organism made up of a fungus and a colony of microscopic green algae or cyanobacteria …” Of course, it’ll take an ice cream analogy to decode that for myself, but Anna will benefit, too.

After lunch we explored the Ed Center Trail. It’s less than a mile and ideal for young children, or in my case, parents with young children on their shoulders (Anna’s preferred vehicle). I stopped for a moment and stared at the swamp. I told Anna how I loved the dense vibrant green leaves soaked in sunshine. I asked what she thought about when she saw it. “Great,” she said. As in, keep moving Mr. Sherpa and wake me up when there’s something cool to see. Sometimes kids are a tough crowd, or I’m just awed by the ordinary.

In the distance we heard a mourning dove, which Anna mistook for an owl. I explained the difference, noting the barred owl’s call sounds as if it’s saying, “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” She had been walking when I asked if she wanted to try calling the owl. “I’ll try when I get back on shoulders because then it will be easier for him to hear.” I couldn’t argue with that logic, despite its cleverly masked agenda, so I hoisted her back on my shoulders. Anna worked on her owl call, which is a distant second to her crow.

Still on my shoulders twenty minutes later, Anna asked, “Are we almost there?”

“No. Are you getting tired?” I deadpanned.

“No.”

Nearing the end of our walk, I realized we hadn’t seen litter, which is a good thing. On other outings, we’ll usually collect a grocery-store sized plastic bag of garbage. By the end of this walk we’d have a cigarette filter and a scrap of paper bearing Superman. I also realized we hadn’t seen any animals other than hearing a few birds.

Soon that would change.

We saw two alligators. But that didn’t impress Anna. Instead, she was taken by the severed rotten armored catfish head below the boardwalk. Cool, but not as cool as the dead bobcat, “because he was so cute.” I didn’t realize my sweet little girl had a macabre strain, but it might explain why my high school career aptitude test suggested being a funeral director. Considering my career path, I assumed the result was a machine error that confused death with deadline. But maybe I’ll reconsider, compromise, and take up taxidermy. That way I’ll have time to make Anna’s birthday present. Apparently a pony won’t do.

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a website about exploring Florida’s historic waterways and woods.

Target: outside the box

by Edward C. Woodward

During summer break a year ago, I had a five-year-old helper in my home office. And she needed desk supplies like Daddy. A composition book, crayons and a cardboard table sufficed, until Anna realized she needed a back-pocket-sized notebook like mine. So we took a working field trip to Target: they’ve got a retention pond with wildlife, which qualifies for my column. And watching wildlife would temper my big-box-bends before surfacing in a sea of Target red. Must. Resist. Lowest. Prices. Of. The. Season. Feeling. Weak.

The challenge being outside Target is staying outside Target. But an oak tree and several cypress shade grassy spots near a chain link fence enclosing the pond. So it’s easy to find a comfortable seat. For about ten minutes Anna explored her surroundings, discovering a bird’s nest in the crook of the oak tree, watching a marsh hen slip under the fence like a sandlot kid taking a shortcut, and observing ducklings. “It’s like they’re at duck school because their moms aren’t with them,” she said.

But Target’s allure was strong. Her focus slipped. “The grass is too pokey.” Silence. “Now can we go into Target?” I needed a quick save. So I played the Ibis card. Anna digs the “shovel bird,” as she once dubbed it seeing a flock feed on our neighbor’s lawn. The Ibis are like planes, I said. And check out the cool black markings under their wings! Disclaimer: my daughter is imaginative, but also very literal. My wife once said to her, “Get out of town!” Anna replied: “But I don’t even know how to drive a car.” So for a few minutes, Anna humored me and watched the birds. A duck landed. “Look how he made the water go out,” she said. She also pointed to an Ibis on the other side of the pond. Then she’d met her wildlife quota. “I want to go look for a journal now.”

“In a moment,” I said.

“I can’t wait any longer,” she whined.

“What’s going to happen?”

“I’m going to start asking more and we can’t stay here all night or all day.” Well reasoned.

I made a deal: we’d go into Target, but revisit the pond.

After I vetoed a Hannah Montana notebook, Anna settled for Hello Kitty.

Outside, we followed smaller-than-a-lima-bean frogs or toads that were brownish-gray. They disappeared and reappeared beneath tall blades of St. Augustine grass. Anna noticed litter, too. Then, as if on cue for a public service announcement, declared, “That is really mean to leave garbage and destroy their home.”

Were Disney orchestrating the moment, Ibis and ducks like the forest creatures in Snow White would have flanked Anna’s side and chirped a clean up song. But we forgot our prop: I said no thanks to the plastic bag for her notebook. Why didn’t I go inside and ask for a bag? At the time, I didn’t think of that option. Maybe I feared facing the big box bends twice in one dive. My senses would be skewed. Altruistically, I’d rescue a portable basketball goal from the anonymity of sporting goods.  At least I could justify it as an eco-purchase: retrofit the hollow base as a rain barrel supplying drip irrigation to nearby flower beds. Take that, MacGyver.

Instead, in real time, we watched the ducks and ducklings for a few minutes before leaving. “Why do they have orange feet and we don’t?” Anna asked. I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter: imaginative science and the acute observation skills of a text-book-free-five-year-old prevailed. “Oh, because we have skin and they have feathers,” she said. Not untrue.

And a thought worth wading through the whining to hear.

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a website about exploring Florida’s historic waterways and woods.

Al Lopez Park

by Edward C. Woodward

We have a young tulip poplar in our front yard called Pops. When my wife and I were tree hunting two years ago, we targeted the quick growing shade variety: sycamore, sweet gum, red maple and the poplar. We settled on the poplar, mainly for sentimental reasons: it thrives among other hardwoods in the creek bottoms and hills of Quincy, my hometown in the panhandle. But would the tree flourish in central Florida?

Browsing the Internet, I found someone who voluntarily planted several poplar trees on public land throughout Hillsborough County and Tampa, including Al Lopez Park. So, curious about the progress of other poplars, Sam and I went to Al Lopez, a 130-plus acre anomaly within one of Tampa’s busiest quadrants: Dale Mabry Highway, Martin Luther King Boulevard, Himes and Hillsborough avenues.

But before we sized up the poplar, a nature trail called. Near the entrance, a Florida softshell turtle burrowed and camouflaged itself in dry sand. I pointed at the turtle. Sam didn’t react. But when the turtle scurried away to a nearby pond, the mobile mud pie made him laugh.

Soon we were on a boardwalk that wound through wetlands with pond-view openings framed by live oak limbs overhanging the water. Traffic was audible, but the dense woods muted the distraction. We merged with a paved jogging trail, but chose a bordering shaded dirt path. I get pumped up by impromptu paths near paved ones: it proves people still explore their surroundings instead of plowing through them in theme-park mode.

We stopped to watch a pair of chattering blue jays. In my experience as a backyard birder, I’m amazed by the blue jay’s varied voice. I recognize other bird voices in our neighborhood: seagull, mockingbird, mourning dove, red-bellied woodpecker, Eastern screech owl. But sometimes I’ll hear a new voice and it belongs to a blue jay. It’s the Dana Carvey of birds, fitting since its intensity can be Church Lady-esque.

Next, we stopped at the dock overlooking the pond’s south side. We watched a fisherman collect freshwater shrimp and minnows that he said lured bluegill, speckled perch, and sometimes bass. The narrow waterside railings enabled Sam to look at the pond without plunging into it. Sam is a climber, but these railings were Everest-esque for my Florida boy. I baited Sam with Cheerios and strolled towards the poplar.

As we neared the poplar, I wheeled Sam in front of the tree. He pointed at the poplar and giggled. Did he recognize it? We talk a lot about Pops and often look for new leaves sprouting skyward. And the poplar has a distinctive leaf. It resembles a stingray, its stem the tail or loosely, Christopher Walken’s pompadour in “Balls of Fury,” take your pick (I knew I’d salvage that $7 movie ticket). The Al Lopez poplar, a few years older than ours, appeared healthy. It had a wider limb span than Pops, though a similar trunk girth. So there’s hope beyond another deciduous season when we wonder if Pops will re-emerge after months of dormant hardened buds. The seasons are subtle in this part of Florida, and Pops pacifies my quarterly calendar envy.

Lunch time neared, so Sam and I settled under an oak tree and ate, joined by a mourning dove, squirrel and blue jay. Sam toddled towards the dove, but I lured him back with a banana. The setting felt like our backyard, excluding our Sanford and Son collection of plastic toys. Then again, anytime outdoors feels like home.

Edward is editor and co-founder of paddleandpath.com, a website about exploring Florida’s historic waterways and woods.