08 Feb ‘Wild Florida’ Adventures – Pet Armadillo?
I arrived at Jonathan Dickinson State Park with no real agenda. It had been the closest camping spot I could find to Hobe Sound National Wildlife Refuge where I intended to take pictures of sea turtles early the next morning for my forthcoming book Wild Florida. I’d never been to Jonathan Dickinson before and found myself stunned by the high sand hills as I drove through the park, so different than the flatland of my usual south Florida home range. I couldn’t wait to explore this new terrain but as I pulled into the parking lot at the Kitching Creek Nature Trail, I spotted an armadillo wandering through the plants in the parking lot median strip. The wonderfully odd nine-banded armadillo was definitely one of Florida’s mammals that I wanted in the book, and I had yet to photograph one. I threw the car into park and jumped out with my 100-400 mm lens.
The armadillo had already scooted its way into a patch of saw palmettos, leaving me to aim my lens at moving vegetation in the hopes that his face might reappear. The shrubbery served him well. Several minutes passed with me quietly repositioning around the palms glimpsing little more than the tip of a nose, a stub of a tail, or the accordion of bands along one flank or the other.
All of a sudden, the armadillo’s head appeared. I took several shots, sure this would be a fleeting moment. It was, but not in the way I expected. Instead of turning back into the thicket of palm fronds, the armadillo stepped onto the road and waddled straight for me. It was now too close for my lens and I regretted that I’d left my camera with the wide angle lens in the car as I’d rushed out after my quarry.
The armadillo continued right up to where I knelt with my camera, stopping mere inches from my shoe. It lifted onto its hindlegs, looking up at me in the same way my puppy does but unlike my puppy, it looked surprised to see me there. It dropped back down to all fours and scurried back into the palmetto thicket.
I stayed in place, somewhat stunned. I knew armadillos have poor eyesight, so I assumed he hadn’t realized I was there. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t return now that he knew I was there, but I waited nonetheless in the hopes of another photo opportunity within range of my long lens. I didn’t have to wait long by wildlife photography standards. A couple of minutes later the armadillo re-emerged from his palm thicket. Once again, he bustled right up to me and stood up on his hind legs inspecting me at close range with his front paws practically resting on my knee.
“Is that your pet?” I heard a voice call from across the parking lot.
I shook my head no as the newly arrived couple rushed toward me and my banded friend. The armadillo seemed not to appreciate the additional company. He dropped back to the ground and scuttled away from the parking lot, disappearing into the understory of the surrounding pinelands in a decidedly un-pet-like way. I was sad to see him go. We’d bonded only briefly, but it was a most endearing encounter with an armadillo.
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