Bicyle country

Here's a short video clip of some scenic biking country in Belgium.



Of course if you get tired of pedaling you can always hop a train.

Rain on the roof

How many water barrels would you need to collect all the rain water that fell on the roof of your Florida home?

Answer: Just under 150 barrels.



As shocking as that is, the numbers don’t lie:

Two thousand square feet of roof area (an average house) times 50 inches of rain (an average year) equals 830 cubic feet.

Or in the proper Floridian unit of water measurement:

A little under half the volume of my pool.


The irony of it all is that at several points in the spring I had to “add water” to my pool, from the hose – which pulls water from the “aquifer” – because “evaporation” kept dropping the water line kept below the skimmer.

(When that happens, the pool pump sucks in air.)


In total, I probably added 6 inches of water to the pool.

Or, in “rain” barrel terms: around fifty …


Unfortunately it was “aquifer” water instead.

Photos are from Belgium.

Rules of the road

Some things in life you never forget:
Top on that list would be riding a bike, as in the cliché.

A close second would be driving a stick shift.



It’s been almost 10 years since I last drove a “manual drive” vehicle, but I was pleasantly surprised … without missing a beat … as if it were yesterday … to hop in a manual drive car and have it all come back instinctively.

And it’s much more fun than an automatic.


But here’s the catch:

In Belgium “manual drive” is an absolute necessity.


It being the first time I drove a car in Belgium, I was flabbergasted to find that in traveling from point A to point B, I quite literally never stopped: rather, it was a car in constant motion … shifting up, shifting down, then up, and back down … and a driver (me) in a state of heightened awareness.

The reason for this, and in stark contrast to driving in Florida, or anywhere else in America for that matter, is the alarming absence of stop signs.



Instead they have the “rule of the right.”

It gives the “right of way” at intersections to the road that enters on right, no matter how small … or hidden from view.

And where many roads converge, “rotaries” are the rule … stop lights the exception.



Every time I passed a church, usually while rounding a rotary, and in constant vigilance for hidden roads on the right, I thought to myself:

“Surely the footwork on the church organ pedals couldn’t be any more complicated than the toe tapping I was doing on the clutch, break, and accelerator.”


And each time I arrived at point B, it gave me pause for thought:

“Next time, maybe I should opt for the bike instead.”


After all, it’s top on the list of “things you never forget” …
Plus, it gives me more time to “stop” to soak in the scenery.

You won’t find any “signs” for that either.

Shrinking "islands"

The cypress have gone under, now the water line is creeping up into the "pinelands" -- or "pine islands" -- as we call them.



They are wetlands to be sure, but we call them "islands" because they are the last patches of land to get swallowed up by the encroaching rise of the summer water line.

That usually happens sometime between August and October in Big Cypress Nat'l Preserve, but this year -- thanks to a rainy early start to July -- the islands have already begun their summer shrinking act.


Swamp stage is about 4 inches above the 15-year early July average, and about 4 inches below the early July high-water record (set in 2005).



And can you believe it:

We have wildland fires too during the wet season. That's what explains the singed canopy, although some trees escaped seemingly untouched.

Like water, fire has a mind of its own.


By the way, the photos were taken in late June before the islands started to shrink.

"Latitudinal" lag

I can handle the jet lag.

The time difference between Florida and Belgium is only 6 hours.

But no one warned me about the “latitudinal” lag.


My mind is still running at 4 o’clock in the afternoon Florida time, but the clock on the wall shows 10 o’clock at night (Belgium time) – and here’s the important thing:

It’s still bright as day outside.

Needless to say, I’m not tired.



Twilight is considerably longer in Belgium (46 minutes) than on the peninsular outskirts of the Tropic of Cancer (26 minutes). (The above photo was taken 10 pm at night.)


As for the nighttime sky:

It only reveals itself for 6 hours in Belgium. Compare that to over 9 hours south of Okeechobee.



All that light is good for a garden, but difficult for sleeping … at least if you are a recent arrival from Florida.

Patriotic view

Here's a short photo tour of "Henri Chapelle" American Cemetery in Belgium.

Six decades ago it served as a pivotal turning point during WWII, better known as "the Battle of the Bulge."


Today it commemorates that moment and those soldiers, and also provides one of the most scenic overlooks I've found. The view from the hill into the valley below is breathtaking.

If you look closely, you'll see the state seal of Florida on one of the pillars of the monument, as are all the other state seals ... or territories as they were at the time.

July 4th lull?

The June rainfall numbers are in!



By my calculations, the Upper Kissimmee has raced off to its fasted start of the wet season in the past 50 years.

That's moving water down the river (3000 cfs as of yesterday) and into the Lake (now a few inches over 12 ft).


The July 4th holiday marks an informal milestone of Florida's summer wet season:

The upper atmosphere tends to become more stable, thus causing a momentary lull in rain intensity, before ramping back up into full gear in August and September with full flowering of the sea-breeze fed "convergence" storms and increased tropical activity.


It's been a soggy start to July, but don't worry about that:

It should be clear for the 4th!

(... At least in the morning for the Independence Day parades.)

Photo is from the Henri Chapelle American Cemetery and Memorial in Belgium. It is located on top of a hill at a pivotal turning point in WWII fight to free Europe, called the "Battle of the Bulge."

Hare leaps Tortoise

Sometimes stories don’t get a proper ending,

Or rather, you think you know the ending … but do you really?



Case in point is the Tortoise and the Hare.

The Hare (rainfall) sprints off to an early – seemingly insurmountable – lead, then (at a high-water mark of overconfidence, say, at the end of the wet season in October) falls asleep only to have his lead slowly eroded and finally erased by the steady pace of the Tortoise (evaporation), who, from that point forward, widens a lead to the finish line (in late spring at the end of the dry season).


End of story … right?

When it comes to Mother Goose, the answer is “yes,”

But if in fact we are talking about the water cycle (and I think we are), the answer is a decisive “no!


You see, in the water cycle, since there is no finish line,

The Hare reawakens with the return of the summer rains.


That’s when the Hare jumps over the Tortoise!

(Talk about a surprise ending for the reader, a comeuppance for the Tortoise, and a new moral to the story – “never count the water cycle out!”)

Tale of two drops

Is all water created equal?

That depends on what side of the levee you fall on … or rather, “end up.”



Take the case of an unwitting storm cloud blowing across Florida’s southern peninsula:

One of its drops falls in Fisheating Creek up near Palmdale.

The second falls a few miles to the south, in a field of sugar cane.


The first drop meanders east over some of the most beautiful river bottom the southern peninsula has to offer. Then it spills out into Okeechobee,

From where it inherits one of the Everglades most tainted labels: “Lake water.”

The second drop skates by scotch free in comparison: it saunters virtually unnoticed into the Caloosahatchee mid reach.



Both drops could eventually meet again at the S-79 (or in the estuary below), but the difference couldn’t be more stark.

And to think they came from the same cloud.

Night-time relief?

Does night bring relief from the Florida heat?

That’s a “yes” if you are counting on the Fahrenheit scale … about 15º worth. Night time lows dip into the 70s on most summer nights.



But don’t be fooled by those numbers:

The true metric is humidity. It increases into the 90 percent range – keeping the air “very warm” … and sticky.

That’s why if you listen outside in Florida on a quiet summer night, among other things, you’ll hear the low rumble of running air conditioners.


In that way, yes, night does bring relief from the Florida heat.

In search of monsoons

Does Florida have monsoons?

While I am not one to sit on the fence (as I am not a politician by nature, but rather a hydrologist): my research keeps leading me up on the same fence post – a semi-definitive and inconclusive “yes” and “no.”

It depending on how you look at it.



The evidence – or lack there of – is seemingly in favor of “no”:

The term “monsoon” is simply not part of Florida’s water lexicon, in both speech and written word. I can’t find it mentioned once anywhere in any of my book on my Florida book shelf.



But that raises my curiosity even more:

“Yes” it’s not mentioned, but “no” it’s not outright refuted either … that keeps me digging.

And after all, South Florida has a distinctly seasonal rainfall pattern.


Could this just be a case of regional nomenclature, as in American “TV” versus the British “Telly” … same thing, just different words?

Let’s take a look.



First a couple things about “monsoons.”

Monsoons aren’t defined by precipitation, but rather by a “shift in the winds."

Winter in India is dominated by a desiccating northerly wind blowing off the Himalayas and Siberian plateau. Come summer, the desert of western India (Rajasthan Desert) heats up and forms a low pressure.



That pulls in moisture laden air from all sides of the Indian peninsula.

Thus form the monsoonal – or seasonal – storms of the India. They account for roughly 80 percent of India’s rainfall.


Sounds familiar, right?

That’s the same pattern we have here in south Florida.


A big difference between Florida and India is geographic distribution:

India ranges from 15 to over 100 inches of annual rainfall, depending which part of the country you are in. Compare that to Florida fairly narrow range of between 40 and 60 inches of annual rain.


But that’s hardly proof one way or the other:

The American Southwest is famous for its “monsoons” – a firmly embedded term of the desert lexicon (I lived there) – despite a paltry 15 inch annual total.



As you can see, I’m still sitting on the fence … but also still digging.

Left behind

If you've ever been left behind,
then you can relate to this crab:

It got caught on the wrong side of the sand bar during low tide.

Face to a number

It’s one thing to look at hydrologic data,

But it’s quite another to see a water control structure up close in person.



As with many water ways of Florida, I got to know the data of the S-77 before I ever laid eyes on its “lock and dam.”

Its data sets are discrete, add together nicely on a spread sheet, fit neatly into a graph on a single sheet of paper … and above all – rolls in day after day (… after day after day), right to the doorstep of my computer.

It’s as tidy as hydrologic number crunching comes in south Florida.



Years passed until I finally had a chance to see the S-77 first hand, face to face.

It’s no small task: It took hours to drive to, an equal time to drive back from, plus the time we spend on the water. I was giddy with anticipation to see the structure – as, say, meeting a long lost relative – but upon seeing it, I was stupefied by the giant sprawling conglomerate of concrete, steel, earth, and electric my eyes looked out on.

It was nothing like I’d imagined.


I drove away a changed hydrologist: never would I look at the S-77 data quite the same way.

I am a man of water, but not “a man on the water” as often as I’d like. To be a hydrologist in the Everglades, it’s important to take that time …

Otherwise it’s just numbers.

String lily

Have you ever heard the expression:

“The rose isn’t beautiful because the rose is beautiful: the rose is beautiful for the time you spent with the rose?”


That’s from the “Little Prince,” but to be honest, I’m not sure the saying has anything to do with a “real" rose, let alone a whole field of them, as is the case with these string lilies (Crinum americanum) growing alongside Upper Wagon Wheel Road in Big Cypress Nat'l Preserve.


There were simply too many of them to spend much time with any single one:

I took the photo instead.