Last weekend I visited an oasis of green amidst the urban noise and haste: Hugh Taylor Birch State Park. I only had about an hour or so to spend, but absent any time constraints I could have easily lingered long enough to be charged with impersonating a park ranger or possibly a large, fish-eating wading bird.
Hugh Taylor Birch happens to be one of my favorite parks of all time. Hugging the eastern coast of urban Fort Lauderdale, the 180-acre park contains the area’s last native hammock, a tropical wonderland at the ocean’s edge where nature trails whisk you away from the rat race and into a wooded habitat of exotic plants, lagoons, mangroves, turtles, raccoons and more species of birds than you could shake a walking stick at. (I know this for a fact because I tried shaking a walking stick at every bird I saw and my arm cramped up at about the 40-heron mark.)
When you’re ready to rest your arm and enjoy a change of scenery, the woods open up to a spectacular view of multi-million dollar mansions across the Intracoastal Waterway and a chance to glimpse a manatee – an odd, bloated looking aquatic mammal affectionately nicknamed “the sea cow.” When I say “a chance to glimpse a manatee” I mean that their shy, self-conscious nature makes your odds of actually seeing one pretty scant.
What happened to my wife and I on this visit is that we passed a woman during our walk who said “Did you see the manatee?” to which I sadly answered “no.” I spent the rest of the day wondering if the manatee saw me first, said to himself “there’s that jerk Williamson,” and hid under some driftwood till I passed. Serves me right for yelling “Look, it’s a sea cow!” when I know damn well they prefer to be called manatees.
While Birch Park has emerged as sacred ground during my years in Florida, my passion for parks goes way back. I grew up in a rural part of northern New Jersey, so for the first 20 years of my life the world outside my door was a park – a vast, sprawling park as far as the eye could see. Our house was surrounded by woods and our neighbors were a colorful mix of local wildlife that included deer, bear, bobcat, coyote, fox, quail and wild turkey.
When a safari theme park called Jungle Habitat opened on land near our house during my teenage years, the local wildlife sometimes expanded to include escaped baboons, hyenas, and zebras. This occasionally resulted in comical phone conversations with the park’s animal control reps who were skittish about the negative publicity reports of escaped wildlife could bring them.
Homeowner: “I’m calling to report that we have a herd of African zebra grazing out on our front lawn.”
Jungle Habitat Rep: “Thanks for letting us know, but our zebras are all accounted for at this time.
Homeowner: “Are you saying they’re not yours?”
Jungle Habitat Rep: “They’re not ours.”
Homeowner: “Then whose are they?”
Jungle Habitat Rep: “Perhaps there’s a National Geographic special or Tarzan movie filming in the vicinity."
Homeowner: “That doesn’t seem likely.”
Jungle Habitat Rep: “Sorry, gotta go. Our escaped lion emergency line is ringing again.”
In the cities and suburbs of my adult years, connecting with nature has become more of an elusive exercise . . . but where there’s a park there’s a way! To best express my deep, primal affinity for Hugh Taylor Birch Park, I leave you with a heartfelt salute I call “Out At The Park” (sung to the tune of “Up On The Roof.”) Enjoy responsibly. Feel free to sing along. And please don’t feed the manatees.
When this fast world starts getting me stressed,
and people have just regressed to ape-like ways.
I drive my way to the outskirts of town,
and soon my guard lets down and the sights amaze.
At the park is like a world brand new,
where birds and trees and manatees greet you.
Right outside all the traffic and noise,
I’ve found a place where toys are not the craze.
And if green space puts a smile on your face,
I’ll meet you on a lark out at the park.
Out at the park!
Come on baby! Come on sugar!
