A splash, a wake, a swirl of mud from the bottom. Flared nostrils spraying  a sour  mist, whiskers of a seal,   mossy backs &  prop scars…then a close encounter!  See the video on our website and Kayak Nature Today!  www.kayaknature.com

Jimmy was a true outdoors man. He carried all the badges from Boy Scouts — enough metals to cover his shoulders, chest and sleeves. He was the Catholic schools’ “muscle-man” and the main topic of the girl’s conversations during Phys Ed. Being a master canoeist he took the helm to refine his ‘J’ stroke. I was glad he did. I was out to fish a few Walleyes or possibly tangle with a Small Mouth Bass. With a little luck I’d hook a Sturgeon — a prehistoric fish that grows to be the size of a canoe.

My Dad and brother Lee was in the other canoe. Lee’s snappy body gestures generated high speed fun and action for all who knew him. Before we launched he fished from the pier working one of Dad’s new Rappla lures. On the second cast he threw the bait high up into a tree. Terrified at the thought of losing one of Dad’s fishing lures he thrashed the rod wildly from side to side and tried to free himself from the ‘Wrath of the Lost Lure.’ He marched up the shoreline with the rod over his shoulder hoping to free the snag. The overloaded branch retracted him like a bungee jumper. He shrieked with frustration and climbed to his feet. Jimmy fueled the flame when he suggested wrapping the line around the light post for leverage. The line snapped off as a 22 rifle and it grabbed dad’s attention.

All Dads’ have a strange affinity with fishing lures. Whenever we lost one he threatened to ban us from fishing. Every trip to the sport shop he’d remind us of the year, makes, and model number of his lost lures.

For some reason today was going to be different. He laughed at the site of Lee’s twisted face when he came to confess. Jimmy and I awaited Lee’s banishment, but were defiled when Dad reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a brand new jointed Rappla — the hottest thing on the market and the prize of any good fisherman. Lee’s pitiful expression gave way to show love and appreciation for such understanding. While Dad retied the plug Lee casually turned to us and smiled, then stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes and contorted his cheeks.

The trip began just below the cascading falls in Wisconsin Dells. The waters there churn white with foam then move silently through town. The State’s number one tourist attraction called the “Ducks” rapped up another record tourist season and was on dry dock near the launch site — one of the signs that winter was just around the corner.

The canoes sagged to the waterline with enough camping gear to support four people — 3 days in the river wilderness. My Dad had it all; Fishing rods, tents and sleeping bags. Tables, tripods and tarps. Pots, pans and paper goods. This being his first overnight canoe trip he wasn’t sure what to take so he took it all.

Dad recited the protocol, ‘Hang on boys, keep yourselves low and don’t stand up in the canoe!’ I gripped the gunnels as Jimmy pushed us away. The initial rush of ‘floating’ tested our balance and we spilled a few gallons of icy water into the bottom of the canoe.

Almost immediately we encountered the caverns. Dark, damp and spooky we inched our way through the caves to sharpen our exploration skills. At times we crouched and used our hands on the ceiling to gain passage. I remember one particularly long route that ended abruptly when the canoe bumped the wall. The ‘thumming’ of the vibrating aluminum disturbed the night dwellers. It felt as someone dumped a bag of leaves on us when the bats dropped from the ceiling. Being brushed and bumped by a swarm of bats in a dark cave wasn’t on the brochure, but it made for a real test of courage. When we emerged in a cloud of winged escorts Dad laughed so hard he nearly lost his dentures overboard.

The sheer rock walls that lined the river told stories of what the Ishnalla Indians saw when they traveled the river lifetimes ago. I imagined Chief Soaring Eagle standing on the cliff in full headdress. His spear held high chanting to the spirits. He blessed the pioneers as they passed. He told us to, ‘Listen to the river for she is all knowing.’ He ended with a spine tingling wail and cursed the dangers that waited below the surface of the flow. I would catch a glimpse of the warriors lining the banks. I could see their family’s living peacefully along the river. It was untamed then and teaming with beauty and wildlife — their source for survival.

The river flowed at a jogger’s pace. A simple paddle drag was all we needed to advance downstream. The swirling water hid scads of underwater obstacles and we bumped bottom often. Sometimes hard enough to whiplash our body’s forward, others slid by with a quiet whisper on the gunnel.

Twelve o’clock noon came quickly and dad maneuvered the canoe toward a small sandbar for a lunch break. He unpacked the gas stove and began his mighty preparation. It wouldn’t be at all out of place for him to prepare Pheasant Under Glass with Duck’alorange dressed with small red potatoes and asparagus shoots. His extravagant camp menus are famous especially with us kids. The adults couldn’t fathom how he orchestrated the tasty cuisine’s in the remote wilderness.

The river menu was simple; Beer-battered Pike filets pan fried to snappy perfection in a cast iron skillet, served with corn-on-the-cob and fresh green beans. We often talked about the things we liked best about camping and it was always unanimous — eating!

Dad cooked and told fish stories about technique and where-abouts. He included his research into the stomach for feeding patterns and spawning seasons. The stories always ended with a peaceful gaze into the horizon and a simple toast, ‘Yup, I can still see him swimming around that log and taking the bait.’ It always brought a smile to his face.

After enjoying one of Dad’s finer moments as camps cook we repacked the gear and continued downstream. Dad had been on the river many times and knew the terrain. He’d been planning this trip in his mind for years and told stories of someday camping on the “perfect” river island.

The next few hours flashed by with the help of a hefty Crappie, two Walleye’s and a Channel Cat the size of an oar. We took turns estimating his weight, “Gotta be 10 pounds!” Lee chirped.

“Oh it’s bigger than that,” Jimmy remarked.

“Do you think so?” I wasn’t sure. The thrill of such a big catch had me basking in my own angling brilliance. “Eighteen pounds if it’s an ounce!” Dad concluded before I slid it overboard.

Then dad peered and smiled, “There she is boys!” Our excitement grew as we cleared the final corner that revealed a small island no bigger than a football field. He found the “perfect” one. The gunnel scoured onto the beach. We slid the crafts ashore and set off to explore the island. We discovered the bones of a long since deceased deer and we discussed the various possibilities of death. Jimmy calculated the “live weight” based on the skull size. “Last year’s winter was pretty tough. I’ll bet she starved. By the looks of things I’d say she weighed about 90 pounds. The teeth look like a two year-old’s. Dad held the skull and studied it Shakespearean precision, ‘Winters have been pretty tough the past three years… probably starved.’ He concluded. I thought death was caused by an old hunt wound. Lee’s guess was, ‘Maybe it just died.’ We split up and wandered aimlessly about pondering ‘natural death’ for almost an hour before we regrouped and finished setting up camp.

The lack of firewood on the island limited us to a small, smoldering evening fire. Dad’s early to bed lifestyle was boring us so we swam and played with the fire until we became exhausted and fed up with the swarms of mosquitoes.

Soon we were in our tents. Dad’s tent was simple. A piece of old canvas draped over an aluminum frame with two lines staked to the ground… No floor… No ends. Wide open to the elements. We often wondered why we used it at all, he said that it was “All we needed to keep the moisture and morning dew off us.” Dad grew up in a cattail marsh and developed an immunity to mosquitoes. In the midst of swarms he could remain cool, calm and collected and would emerge with “not one bite.” Lee on the other hand had a phobia about bugs and it would be amazing if he got any sleep at all.

By midnight large raindrops plunked the nylon sides of our tent and I was thankful for Jimmy’s tent. An unexpected storm announced its presence with clap of thunder that rolled down the river. In the distance a tornado siren warned the locals of an oncoming uncontrollable force. Sheets of rain tested the side walls of the tent and we all had our senses tuned in to the elements. Instantly the wind and rain died, warning us that the calm before the storm was upon us. A low “humming” startled Jimmy. “What the hell is that?” The wind increased and whistled across the tent ropes. I heard the concern in dad’s voice, “We’re in for a little wind boys, hang on… here it comes!”

The stories they tell about the sound of tornado are accurate. The charging locomotive was coming. It snapped huge trees like tooth picks as it ripped toward camp.

” I wanna go by Dad!” I cried as the earth began rumbling. I could hear my brother crying and it blended with the wind to make a horrifying scream.

The funnel cloud bounced off the tree lined edges and headed in our direction. It was pushing a wall of water out ahead of it and before we could adjust to higher ground the flash flood reached our stoop and uprooted our tent stakes. I could feel my fingers digging into the sand through the bottom of the tent but my grip washed away and we started sliding toward the drop off. The water flowed through the sides of the tent uninterrupted. The loose nylon snapped and tattered as the winds increased. The deafening roars of the twister drown out my screams for dad’s help.

Trapped inside the tent by the twisting wind and lightening that surrounded us toyed with our minds. The storm’s sky splitting bolts had no concern for the burning voltage or what it can do to human body. The sheets of rain pelted the nylon tent and sprayed water through the zipper. There were times when the water came in faster then we could bail it out.

I could hear dad’s voice cutting in and our of the storm, “Hang in there kids it’s almost over!”.

Little Jimmy fingered through his scout manual looking for answers, “Get me out of here. Get me out of here!” As quickly as it began it was over. The snapping of trees and the rumbling of Mother nature’s force continued down stream. I emerged from the tent into ankle-deep water and discovered my Dad’s tent gone. I couldn’t believe my eyes. They slept only 10 feet away from us and they disappeared! I called out for them both but no one answered. I grabbed the flashlight and scanned the surroundings. When I found the canvas tarp pinned against a fallen tree I thought the worse of things. Water and loose brush were running over and around it. When I approached I heard sobbing and noticed the tarp was vibrating. I could hear Dad trying to calm Lee. I pulled the tarp to the side and they huddled together tightly. Dad actually laughed when he saw me and exclaimed, ‘Wow! Quite a storm huh boys?’ His eyes showed concern, but he popped to his feet brushed Lee off who shivered uncontrollably. Then he checked us for injuries and hugged us both.

We were wet and cold but safe. We huddled under a partially dry sleeping bag and watched the river regain its serenity. The sky cleared and the stars returned and for 30 minutes we didn’t say a word we just sat in the sand and watched the night.

Dad pointed out the missing deer skeleton and blessed our good fortune. Then he laughed,

“Well boys it’s good to be on dry land again. Next trip we’ll bring a weather radio.”

That’s my Dad - Always looking for adventure in the great outdoors.

The truck coasted into Nobleton on a sweltering summer morning. The air loomed heavy over the bridge offering glimpses of the enthusiastic canoers that stirred at the outpost. Scurrying like worker ants the paddlers prepared for the first shuttle trip to nearby Silver Lake. The filtered view of the river revealed no secrets as we passed over the silent flow.

What mystery lay ahead as we idled through the final turn onto the long narrow drive? Oh what excitement lives just beyond the headlights beam, in the fog that grew thicker near the river. The overhanging willows, oaks and cypress trees stood as proud guardians hanging over tin roof of the old log cabin. My dormant childhood excitement spiked… I was at home… in the swamp again!

John Morris, a retired big league ball player from New Jersey was my guest for the day. He’d heard my stories about the swamp and wanted to see for himself why I was so drawn. We moved quickly from the car to avoid the throng of mosquitoes that took fancy to his sweet smelling skin and hair.

I welcomed Johnny to the swamp and wondered what he was thinking. He didn’t need to say a word, he let me know instantly by swatting frantically at the buzzing pests.

I tried to make him as comfortable as possible by offering bug spray, but somehow I knew that “comfort” – in a swamp - might be impossible to a newcomer. It’s likely that my advice of “a few welting bug bites add to the outdoor experience” didn’t help matters!

After a nice breakfast cooked over the wood stove we unpacked our gear and moved to the porch. Daylight was approaching and the fog played hide-and-seek with the shadows and low laying areas of the yard. My ears were full of city noise pollution and for the first five minutes we heard nothing but ringing. We watched the river slip by and waited patiently for our eyes & ears to adjust to the outdoors.

The frogs were first to pierce the barrier followed harmoniously by the crickets … then it all came together. The swamp critters formed a wooded orchestra that performed their songs in the shifting shadows of the Oaks. Bullfrogs as big as cream buckets belched out mating calls with billowing pops and cracks. Tree frogs provided the harmony and the gators threw in a few bass growls. The Chick-a-dee’s provided the lyrics with there Chick-a-dee-dee-dee, chick-a-dee song.

The gray squirrels wasted no time. When they got a whiff of John’s city boy smell they sent a warning cry through the canopy, Chuk,chuk,chuk, chukka — squeeeek.

My memory flashed back a few years to the time my dad taught us kids how to build a squirrel call. He did it with an old peanut butter lid that he cupped it in his left hand. He fished around in his pocket and pulled a two-inch stove bolt and held it in his right hand. With quick, short strokes he’d drag the bolt along the edge of the lid. Dad’s raspy call would lure ‘em within range on a regular basis. I still use one today.

We moved off the porch and stepped quietly to the river. A light breeze carried the earthy smell into the air and it blended with a patch of wildflowers that massaged my nasal airways and stimulated relaxation. The river’s high water marks stained the trees well above where we stood and told stories of record rainfall and recent floods — nature’s way of eliminating the weaker entities that live in the swamps..

Startled by a wheezing cough I turned and caught a glimpse of something stirring down stream. I bobbed my head like an old barn owl and tried to get the visual advantage of what turned out to be Joe, the neighbor, standing inside the base of a granddaddy cypress.

His silhouette against the fog moved with an eerie quickness and before I could blink he was upon us. His raspy Marlboro voice returned my greeting as he grabbed my hand shaking it with the authority of a steel worker. He offered his hand to Johnny and commented on his nice smell. He knew the smell would attract the winged biters and he kindly offered a solution. “A nice dip in the river’d do ya good.” He then spat a gob of Red man off to the side that trickled down his chew-stained beard.

Johnny’s comment on being a “wilderness rookie” got Joe’s attention and he took the opportunity to show the city-boy a few things.

He told a story of an alligator that he’d been ‘baitin up’ for the past few weeks and wanted to know if we wanted to see him. Johnny surprised me with his enthusiasm and spoke up, “Hell yes! Where’s he at?”

Joe responded, ” Well. The best place to see him is out on a shallow sand bar in the middle of the river.” I shuddered when Johnny called the charge, “Let’s go!”

Joe’s face lit up with a toothless grin that showed the deep cracks his aged cheeks. “Now he’s about a ten footer. We shouldn’t have a problem with him as long as we keep a safe distance.”

“What would that distance be Joe.” I asked nervously.

“I’d think you’d be safe around twenty feet.” He said confidently.

I wondered where he got his information. I had heard somewhere that gators were impossible to train — always have been…always would be. That’s why they’ve been around for tens-of- thousands of years.

Johnny was quick to shed his Polo shirt and $150.00 Nike’s. He followed Joe (who remained fully clothed) toward the center of the river.

Not for one minute did Joe seem concerned about what we were doing. “Gets a little deeper here. May have to swim a bit out to the middle.” he said.

The sun was just skimming the treetops and it pressed the fog down onto the river. The temperature of the water was… invigorating, especially when it reached my tender midsection. The three of us swam toward something I hadn’t planned when I left St. Petersburg…a game of fear extraction!

“I spoke to Joe about it briefly a few weeks later and I came to the conclusion that he knew what he was doing all along — giving us a chance to look primitive death in the face.”

With every stroke I questioned what we were doing and why we needed to go to the middle of the river to see a gator. I’ve seen hundreds of gators and they were no big deal…from the shore. John on the other hand had never seen a gator and I wanted to be there with him for the experience of it all.

My toes scuffed the soft bottom sending a chill down my spine for the possibility of what else lurks below the surface that I couldn’t see. The muck turned to hard sand and I dug my toes in and leaned heavily into the current to keep from being swept away toward the Gulf of Mexico.

We shivered uncontrollably in water up to our armpits. I noticed Joe had a beer with him and he sipped quietly and watched our expressions as we nervously looked about expecting a gator to appear any moment. Seconds later it did. Twenty yards down stream a large head appeared motionless in the surging current. The fog slid over his aerodynamic head in waving sheets of white. He was floating in an oily slick that appeared to come from John’s body. Fancy body oils, shampoo & bug spray combined with Brut proved to be a great gator attractant!

“OK I’m out a here.” Joe said as he dropped his beer and headed immediately toward the shore. John was close behind riding in his wake. I, on the other hand, couldn’t move. Something was keeping me from moving. At first I was mesmerized by how much bigger they look at eye level. He slowly moved in for a closer look and I stood my ground.

John called from the shore, “Don’t be stupid Kurt, get the hell out of there.” Joe stood with his arms crossed not offering any suggestions.

I couldn’t help but to wonder just how dangerous this situation was. Every fiber of my being wanted to believe that I was as safe as being with a Golden Retriever. I felt content as the gator moved in. His eyes looked compassionate and friendly as a pup. That’s when I realized his approach — he lulled me into a false sense of security with the trademark of a big gator — swim silently and carry big teeth!

Now within ten feet Joe expressed concern. “Time to go Kurt…start movin’ boy!”

I couldn’t move. I waited too long and now I was afraid that he might attack. I watched the gator’s eyes quickly change from peaceful blue, to a demonic red leer of a prehistoric hunter. Then he submerged out of site.

There’s a theory about gators. To measure up their prey they must move within visual distance below the surface. In this pitch water that meant moving within inches of me. Suddenly I cracked. As if being hit with a baseball bat loaded with common sense I kicked my muscles into gear and headed back. The moment I turned my back on him was the most frightening moment that I can ever remember. I felt my vocal cords squeal for help. I could feel him moving closer as I struggled to cover the short distance in the heavy current. Time stood still as I gulped water and splashed like wounded duck. My mind was very convincing in telling me that he was within biting range.

When I reached the shallows I tripped and fell face-down in the mossy mud. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a huge wake moving toward my feet. I lunged toward dry ground and grabbed a powerful hand that nervously pulled me to safety.

The gator slid into the shadows and turned sideways exposing his enormous ten-foot body. His armor was thick, glossy black and heavily plated with ridges and spikes. For a moment he just floated there. Then his eyes rolled back and he disappeared into the river.

Joe was smiling from ear to ear from the satisfaction that another “City boy” has been initiated into swamp school. Jersey John realized that the gator is a fearless predator that demands respect. I headed back to city-life a little wiser too - packing a new appreciation for Florida’s swamps and the creatures that patrol the murky depths of the Withlacoocheee River.

For the photographer, sightseer, bird watcher and nature lover, or if you just like to paddle around, look and listen, KAYAK NATURE ADVENTURES will open up new avenues of enjoyment for you and all who would come to enjoy its treasures!

  I rigged a Coleman stove on a branch of a gigantic oak while Peter built a small fire. We sipped a few cocktails and talked about last year’s catch and this year’s plans for a top water assault. We played show and tell with lures and teased each other about the secret lure that would  land the big one. 

  We chuckled about knuckle-headed jokes and listened to John Cougar Melancamp until  around midnight when we were drawn to the water’s edge.  The surface of the lake  was lit up and alive in the full moon light. The Mayfly  hatch was in full swing and they were  tickling  the lake  with their dainty legs  causing  giggling ripples that lured the fish into a feeding frenzy…they were everywhere!.

 
  Within minutes our boat was in the water and loaded down with gear.   The 12′ John-boat drooped low in the water, it had the feeling of trying to hold a beach ball under water…you know the wiggles… this left  no room for shenanigans or horseplay. I rowed toward the center of the lake through a huge swarm  of bugs while Peter rigged a Hoola Popper, his favorite plug. Forever so eager  to throw the first cast he carelessly snagged his collar on the back swing. Frustration mounted for both of us and it got worse when I suggested that he turn on the lantern so he could see. Honestly I didn’t think he‘d bite at such a simple lure but he did.  When he moved the lantern close to his face and flipped the switch a  swarm of flies decended upon him like Moses himself conjured it up!  Peter’s head and face were completely covered with the crawling creatures and he panicked. His arms thrashed wildly and he dropped the light into the bottom of the boat.   He shifted,  we tipped and water poured in.  The flies kept coming! Mouth and nose clogged with tiny tickling wings. Screams-n-coughs, cursing-n-cussing…..he hit the switch and all went dark. I suppose laughing didn’t help, but  I didn’t think he’d take it personally. I was wrong.

  “Let’s move to a different spot.” he demanded.  I grabbed the oars and worked  the calm surface of the lake  into heavy lather, but oddly made very little progress.  Peter barked out the proper technique of rowing and insisted I move faster, so I did. Ten minutes later  I was completely exhausted and we only went a hundred yards! Peter’s belly busted with laughter as  he retrieved the weed-covered anchor that I’d been dragging around the lake - score settled! 

  We threw a few baits and even tried  a Mayfly to catch fish, but nothing  could compete with Mother Nature, so we  called it a night.  We stretched out in the  Scout and just when I was beginning to doze  Peter sat up and freaked out. “There’s someone out there!”
“Shut up and go to sleep. There’s no one out here but us.” I argued
“I saw someone! He ran across the parking lot. He was wearing a white suit.” He was clearly startled, which startled me. I sat up to take a look just as  a big feral cat jumped up onto the hood!  His yellow eyes and shiney teeth glowed in the moonlight as he hissed at us through the windshield. I jerked the covers over my head and tried to ignore it all, but he was relentless! So I told him that if he gathered all the gear we’d leave.  The  door flung open in a flash I was being pelted by fishing rods, oars, tackle boxes, a stove and the live nightcrawlers that spilled  on my legs. “OK. Screw the boat! Let’s get out of here fast.” I said.
  

  Peter was visibly shaken up as he continued to check his rear view mirror and chew his fingernails like a woodchuck.  We headed for Fox Lake, a small town about 7 miles away when a news flash interrupted the radio. Warning residents to be on the lookout for a dangerous convict that escaped from the local prison. Our hearts leapt into our throats as he described the man’s prison issue clothing and the position that he was last seen. The DJ scornfully added that he was considered armed and dangerous and no one should try to apprehend him.

  Daylight broke about an hour later and we headed back to the lake to get the boat. When we turned down the narrow drive  to the lake we were met by a barrage of police cars all heading in the opposite direction.
The radio updated the report with a capture. They said he was apprehended while trying to make his get away in a small boat on Lake Emily! We stared at each other slack-jawed, and then looked into the back seat and discovered…we had the oars!  Silence in the truck was deafening. Then a Mayfly circled Peter’s head and came in for a soft landing on the bridge of his nose.

When the Mayfly’s dance on the ponds in the full moon light I  can still hear Peter’s  laughter in the buzz of  tiny wings!

The Catch

By Kurt Z

Why do I feel like a snook today
It’s not you that bothers me in any way
It’s the lure that you use
Calling action to my ruse
That sends me upstream a-searchin’

The chum bucket life has nothing but strife
For the fisherman that uses too few
Don’t play the same game
That keeps my world the same -
A trait only known by a few

All my lines are now tight
And the world has turned bright
By a fisherman who knew how to cast
From the darkness I came — it’s no longer the same
Let’s hope this one will last…

Was it George C Scott that said?  “I love the smell of bird poo in the morning, it smells like… victory!”

Well, maybe not… but if he’d have  kayaked in St. Petersburg with me the other day  to an  island  between St Pete and Treasure Island  where the great Blue herons nest along- side pelicans, egrets, spoonbills & cormorants he might have!

Approaching the shallow, smelly, shelly, shoal (say 3 times fast) from the downwind side ranks high on my list of “bad ideas”.  I slammed into the invisible stinkwall nearly 100 yards from the island. The pungent smell of bird poo  literally took my breath away! My lungs burned as the last breath of fresh air was replaced with amonia vapors. My head spun and twisted as I ghasped & thrashed for air. Then oddly enough, in a spastic moment of clarity, I found relief in my armpit!

Drifting quietly past the heavily painted & active nests I closed my eyes and it sounded remarkably like a recent picnic I attended;  The chatty volume of several families huddled together rose to  a dull roar. In the playground above the older osprey boys  were playing  arael tag with a mullet and the whining  gulls tagging along  screaming “fowl, fowl, fowl!”   The ladies  discussed the finer techniques of plumage protection, chick care, and where to get fresh fish. Mrs. Heron was very passionate on describing how Jr. over there nearly choked to death on a tailbone of a pinfish. “Little missy is one thing, but that boy over there is nothing but trouble!”

Oh sure, they talked about the fine weather were having and the fresh Spring breeze, but one topic was unanimous -   “How a fresh rain could really benefit the Pelican boys who are in serious need of a bath!”  Oh and don’t forget about the grand opening of the dead oak tree just over yonder cause it’s all the rave for new nesting products - certainly the Ikea store of the bird world. Every rookery picnic has a proud parent that brags about their kids  too - “how fast they’ve grown & how handsome they’ve become” and “oh my little Suzie spoonbill is just so talented with her new spoon and… OMG…  just look at her new pink plumage!” And in the rookery  they have friends that use wing-and-feather gestures to help to communicate, just like us right?(if you don’t have a friend like this…you are the friend)  Here  it’s the Snowy egret.  They bounce through the canopy waving and feathering frantically to anyone who gets near and a loud squak with a beak pinch is never too much to get the point across.

There’s also the quiet cormorants in the corner. I heard that they fling poo  to protect their nest.  No wonder they’re alone in the corner!   I once had this friend….oh never mind that.   The point is; if you come across a stinky neighbor in your life, be considerate and keep in mind that in the bird world it’s just the smell of success!