Places of refuge

Southern Living, Jun 2003 by Young, Dianne

This year marks the centennial of America's National Wildlife Refuge System. Savor the natural beauty of these Southern landmarks.

A century ago, each of us was presented a gift beyond measure. We were awarded marshlands dotted with statuesque herons and awash with rafts of ducks. Our skies were filled with skeins of geese, the proud flight of eagles, and migrating shorebirds by the thousands. We inherited prairies brightened by wildflowers and populated by bison grazing free.

Such priceless scenes play out daily across our country's National Wildlife Refuges. On a spring afternoon in 1903, Teddy Roosevelt set aside a postage-stamp preserve on the East Coast, penning its protection into law. From that single site has grown a complex of more than 500 refuges, administered by the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service and dedicated to conserving wild lands and wildlife. We visited four Southern refuges where America's diverse natural glories still thrive.

Florida's Island of Hope

A small, ragged triangle of land, Pelican Island floats low in Florida's shallow Indian River Lagoon, near Sebastian. It seems an unlikely birthplace for the world's largest system of wildlife refuges.

Steering his boat through the wind-roughed waters of the Pelican Island National Wildlife Refuge, refuge manager Paul Tritaik explains that what started as a mere 5 1/2-acre holding now includes 5,000-plus acres of waterways, islands, submerged islands, and tracts of barrier islands. Nearing the refuge centerpiece, he cuts the engine. As the boat drifts, he recounts how Roosevelt, with the help of wildlife warden Paul Kroegel, saved the island's resident brown pelicans from slaughter for their feathers and eggs.

Pelican Island itself has actually dwindled in size, eroding over the decades to a mere 2.2 acres. Still, it rates as a waterbird home without equal. Whereas in 1903 only brown pelicans nested here, today, depending on the season, you can see more than 30 different species of birds, including herons, egrets, roseate spoonbills, pelicans, and wood storks. "It's amazing," allows Paul, shaking his head. "They have all these other islands to choose from, and they all flock to this one."

Cued by the setting sun, birds pour in from all corners of the sky: white ibis, snowy egrets, great blue herons, brown pelicans by the score. Cormorants and white pelicans carpet the narrow, sandy fringe, and the tight clumps of mangroves, full of ibis and egrets and herons, look as if they've erupted in huge blooms.

Paul lifts his eyes to the clouds above, stained lilac, orange, and coral pink. "I feel good about what we've accomplished," he declares, glancing back at the island, bathed in blue twilight. "It's been critical to protect America's first refuge. We're trying to save a small oasis in a sea of development. Pelican Island is little, but it's a big deal."

A Mississippi Haven for Cranes

Travelers barreling between Mobile and New Orleans likely never realize that I-10 bisects an undiscovered jewel of nature. From the highway near Gautier, Mississippi, the level land looks scruffy at best, but back off the road, within earshot of traffic, lie remarkable sights.

The Mississippi Sandhill Crane National Wildlife Refuge was founded in 1975 to protect and restore the last breeding colony of its endangered namesake. Biological technician Tracy Grazia came to the 19,000-acre refuge for a six-month stint-that was six-and-a-half years ago. "This wet pine savanna is one of the richest habitats in North America in terms of ground species diversity," she says with a smile. "When you come onto the refuge and see what the coastal plain used to look like-with the wildflowers and the cranes-it's just mind-boggling."

Stopping her truck, she hops out and strides down a sandy dirt road. The open fields on either side wear a display of blossoms that puts to shame most wildflower walks. Pitcher plants, some yellow-green and others ruby colored, poke up everywhere. These and other carnivorous plants grow so plentifully that there's nary a mosquito to swat. Shading her eyes, Tracy gazes across the wide flower-spangled fields. "There is," she muses, "just a sea of miniature plants here."

A few minutes later she pulls out radiotelemetry equipment and begins checking on the refuge's sandhill cranes. Shy and wary, these resident birds were declared a distinct subspecies some 30 years ago. They are rarely spotted by anyone not hidden in a refuge blind. Adult cranes are unmistakable in appearance. Nearly 4 feet tall, they are a mottled gray color except for their almost clownlike faces. Each one sports white cheeks, a red mask, and piercing amber eyes. They step with the slow, measured grace of tai chi, advancing methodically as they feed.

The birds here are the ultimate symbol of environmental quality; if the cranes are faring well, so is the rare land that supports them. Numbers testify to success: The crane population has grown from 35 in the 1970s to almost 120 today. The landscape, too, has made its own comeback, thanks to controlled burns and careful management. "When people come here, they just can't believe it," says Tracy. "This place is really beautiful, and you'd never even know it was here."