In our own back yard

      Yesterday, two birder friends and I explored an area I had not known was there, a tidal flat returning to mangroves. Obviously, we knew the land existed, as the Merida-to-Progreso highway runs right alongside it, but the idea that this nondescript space a few hundred feet from a big-box store was a biodiversity hotspot had not occurred to us.

     Home to a restaurant (highly recommended but unfortunately not open yesterday morning), Progreso's Longboat and Canoe Track (fenced off and blocking our way to what looked like a mirador), and a lot of mangroves and mud, the area was one where our taxi driver was reluctant to leave two sixty-something women. We of course assured him that all was well, and he left us his cell phone number just in case we felt stranded. He need not have worried; the friend who joined us by bicycle had discovered that the path behind the restaurant led directly to downtown.

     And all was more than well. The parking lot mangroves hosted migrating warblers, and a semi-hidden trail led to this hidden paradise.

     Most of the wading and shore birds were beyond my camera's range, but the day's species list was cause for delight: besides the usual gulls, terns, and cormorants, the ria was hosting white pelicans, great and reddish egrets, tricolor and great blue herons, and even a wood stork. Roseate spoonbills and a dozen flamingos chose the morning to fly overhead, the flamingos' raucous noises so out of character with their graceful appearance in flight. A prehistoric-sounding racket and a burst of flight revealed at least one yellow-crowned night heron, the behavior of which led to speculation that there may be heron nests in the mangroves. We can hope.

Photo courtesy of Kate Fitzgerald

     The presence of so many birds of course indicates the presence of insects and other creatures that serve as bird food. We were unplagued by mosquitoes, due in part to a healthy dragonfly population.

Photograph courtesy of Kate Fitzgerald

     Besides the mangroves colonizing the flats (cue celebratory noises), this little plant was spreading enthusiastically.

A photograph sent to some plant experts revealed it as a Salicornia species, a genus of plants sometimes called pickleweeds or saltworts. Most are edible, and some have traditionally been applied externally as painkillers for arthritis. Perhaps next time we will sample some.

     And there will definitely be a next time. This much biodiversity within walking distance of downtown Progreso is a treasure to be appreciated--repeatedly.

Gifts from the Sea

     A wild Norte that lasted for something like 36 hours ended with a  clear, cool morning and a very low tide, a perfect time for beach walking.

It was also, evidently, the perfect time for something else, as the exposed sand flats were hosting several people busily gathering something and placing the items in buckets and reinforced bags. (If you look closely, you can see a person in this photo.)

Remembering what was called the shell-hunting posture from my long-ago Florida youth, when one of my jobs was collecting particular species that washed up so that the shells could be sold in the gift shop owned by my mother and aunt (no one suspecting in those days that such creatures could become endangered), when I ran across someone close enough to engage in conversation, I had enough Spanish to do exactly that.

    As I suspected, these folks were gathering molluscs, particularly the conchs washed in by the Norte's high tides, but not for their beauty or tourist value (though the variety most commonly found on the beach here is a lovely and non-endangered member of the conch family). Instead, they were harvesting what would be very expensive seafood if purchased in a restaurant. My informant's plan for his was ceviche, the ubiquitous Latin American dish of raw fish or shellfish cured in lime juice and spices. (Not something I eat, having heard too many stories of parasites lurking in such things, though most people here seem to consume the stuff without a problem.)

    These particular conchs were doomed, having been stranded in a place where getting them back to their sea-bottom habitat was not among the choices. I suspect that the people who have lived on this coast for the last few thousand years have always viewed the post-storm conch inundation as one of the sea's many gifts.