12 Aug Liquid Gold: Camping in the Dry Tortugas
Sooty terns and magnificent frigatebirds filled the air as I stepped off the ferry at Dry Tortugas National Park. I focused on a single tern as it swooped to the ground, landing out of view where I imagined it being greeted by a hungry chick. As the only known nesting location for either of these species in the continental United States, I certainly intended to watch for both eggs and young but setting up camp was my first goal. I loaded my gear into a cart and skirted Fort Jefferson’s moat toward the campground.
Perhaps best known as Samuel Mudd’s prison, I’d learned there was a much richer history here as I’d researched for my Dry Tortugas National Park pictorial history book. On this trip though, I was most interested in the birds. I’d begun taking pictures for my upcoming photographic guide to the Birds of Florida and I recalled well one of my previous trips, my first spring migration visit to this island when birds seemed to drip from the trees. I’d seen an incredible number of new to me species and the birds were so intent on fueling up on fruit and insects after their long flights that they ignored me and my camera, making photography comparatively easy. But first – a campsite. My eyes landed on an open site tucked into the shade of a sprawling buttonwood tree. I’d found my spot.
Gear seemed to explode around me as I extracted my tent from the waterproof bin I’d so carefully packed. The tent went up easy enough but sweat trickled down my spine as I wrestled a shade canopy onto an unyielding frame. Was it on sideways? Or maybe backwards? I sensed shadows flitting through the bushes around me as I twisted the nylon this way, then that. A twittering from a nearby sea grape tree seemed to celebrate my success as I finally situated the shelter above the picnic table and swaddled it in bug netting.
Anxious to pursue these hints of birds but determined to finish setting up camp first, I turned my attention to my cooler’s rapidly melting ice. Surely, I could fit one last bag of ice into the overstuffed container before the ferry departed with my only potential source of cold. I flipped open the drain at the back to clear space and turned to organize dry goods into one of the action packers. Something rustled. I turned back slowly, scanning the leaf litter for motion that was now gone. I rose for a better view, peaking behind the cooler in time to see something disappear below it. The flow had formed a small tunnel in the sand, an indentation filled with the equivalent of gold on a dry island such as this – cold, fresh water. An ovenbird emerged from the shadows, splashing its way across this treasure. It was several minutes before this rejuvenated ovenbird abandoned its find, strutting slowly away from the cooler, plucking an insect from a dry leaf before disappearing below a nearby bush.
I closed the cooler’s valve, ready to wrestle that last bag of ice into its interior but no sooner had I sat on the picnic bench when a flash of red drew my attention. I found myself eye to eye with a scarlet tanager. This sexy male watched me intently, but its quick glances toward the fading pool below my cooler confirmed I was not the object of his desire. It seemed the Dry Tortugas would once again live up to its birdy reputation and with the help of this bit of liquid gold from my cooler, I might never even have to leave camp.
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