Paddling through a Florida jungle to the sea

Turkey buzzards circle overhead, speculatively, it seems to me. It turns out they come here from all over the country to spend the winter. In December, the trees are black with them.

The 54-mile-long Hillsborough River begins its journey to Tampa Bay in the Green Swamp area in the middle of Florida. Tampa lies just to the southwest, but we may as well be in the middle of nowhere, roaming through an area that has managed to retain its blissful quietude despite being within squawking distance of Busch Gardens. The only sounds we hear from our canoe are calls and squeaks and whisperings of the jungle, thick with life all around us.

The Hillsborough has served as a water highway for thousands of years; it formed a border of sorts between the peaceful, agrarian Tamuca Indians to the north and the fierce, death-worshiping Calusa Indians to the south.

The first Europeans arrived in the 1500s and began two centuries of hacking their way through the mercilessly tangled jungle, losing themselves in labyrinthine waterways and enduring the hellish torments of bloodthirsty insects. By turns, they befriended, battled, and enslaved the natives. By the mid-1700s, the area was claimed by a handful of land-hungry crowns of Europe, and the name of an English earl replaced the river's Seminole moniker, "Lockcha-popka-chiska," or "River-where-one-crosses-to-eat-acorns."

Today, the river is the well-protected watershed and source of drinking water for Tampa. We are floating as slowly as possible through what is the 2,990-acre Hillsborough River State Park, which includes miles of hiking and biking trails.

"Most of our trees are mixed hardwood," says Nunn, as a great black-crowned night heron tiptoes into the shadows. "We've got maple, cedar, palm, oak, and those things hanging from the trees are vermiliads, or air ferns. You get up close and you can almost always find a tree frog in 'em."

He explains that the woody knobs sticking out of the water are cypress "knees," or roots, that serve as the arboreal equivalent of a snorkel.

A skein of white ibis flows overhead, feathers rustling. The birds spontaneously attach themselves to a treetop, instantly filling it.