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.
