Of Sandhill Cranes and longleaf pines: A world of animals, birds, and plants thrive along America's most diverse estuary.

They were like trained sentinels. Two Florida sandhill cranes, almost 4 feet tall, stood defiantly in the middle of the dirt entrance to St. Sebastian River State Buffer Preserve. They peered at my stopped car, then proceeded to feed on grasshoppers, unmoved.

As I tried to pass around them, the calm birds suddenly unleashed a piercing cry that was a cross between a garbled laugh and an underwater scream. So much for my hoped-for quiet arrival. My presence was now known to every critter within honking distance.

Threatened sandhill cranes are only one of 28 state or federally protected wildlife species found on the 22,000-acre sanctuary along Florida's southeastern coast. Established in 1995, the preserve was set up primarily as an upland buffer for the St. Sebastian River, which feeds into the Indian River Lagoon--considered North America's most diverse estuary. The Preserve protects 24 different habitat types from oak scrub to wet prairie and includes the rare longleaf pine ecosystem. Longleaf once covered 70 minion to 80 million acres in the southeastern United States; today only a small fraction remains, mostly on public lands.

Within minutes of walking through one of the Preserve's many longleaf tracts, I scared up a deer, then a wild turkey. A covey of quail took off, too, and I began feeling like Attila the Hun tromping through the forest. Then a large gopher tortoise came racing down the sand path toward me. "Racing" may sound like an odd term to describe a tortoise, but gopher tortoises are faster than you might think. Those legs are strong from digging burrows anywhere from 12 to 48 feet long and 6 to 9 feet deep. As it drew close, I momentarily wondered if it was an emissary for the sentinel sandhill cranes until I saw its burrow directly to my left. I stepped aside, and he disappeared down the dark tunnel.

Gopher tortoises are considered a keystone species in longleaf habitat. More than 100 different species of animals and insects--including a variety of snakes, frogs, mice, and beetles--seek refuge in gopher burrows. For animals that can neither fly, climb, nor sprint, burrows provide protection from severe weather, predators, and fire.

Fire is a catalyst in longleaf habitat. Plants and trees depend on it to open up soil for seed germination, and many wildlife species such as gopher tortoises rely on succulent grasses and legumes available only in an open forest environment with plenty of sunlight. In one area of the Preserve where a lightning fire had recently burned several hundred acres, the understory of grasses and palmetto displayed bright green new growth reminiscent of early spring, even though it was late summer.

There was little evidence of plants having been killed by the fire; roots were still alive and most had resprouted. Even foot-tall longleaf pines, still in the "grass stage" (when they resemble large clumps of grass), stood undamaged by the flames. During fire, burning green needles create a type of moisture shield for the plant's terminal bud. Generally only a very hot fire, one fueled by drought and a heavy buildup of fallen leaves and pine needles, will kill a longleaf pine.

In presettlement times, lightning fires spread over great expanses of upland forests, sometimes for weeks, until reaching a river or large wetlands. In the pine flatwoods, these low-intensity fires occurred every one to eight years; other types of ecosystems would burn at different intervals. But with human development, agriculture, and fire suppression, natural environments and fire cycles became fragmented. Uplands managers, such as those at the Preserve, must carefully ignite periodic prescribed fire to mimic natural fire regimes, that is, unless lightning saves them the trouble.

Continuing my walk through a slightly different habitat type, one that contained several small oak trees and thick shrubs, a blue and gray Florida scrub jay flitted into my path, grabbed an insect, and flitted back into the brush. Although a threatened species on the federal endangered species list, the Florida scrub jay is relatively common here, where about 70 families comprise the state's fourth-largest concentration of the bird. Habitat loss and fire suppression have caused their demise, and the jays now face a new threat, West Nile virus, to which they have no natural immunity.

Sunrise on the Preserve brings a new array of images and animals. Flowers and spider webs stand out, dew-covered and glistening. The air is filed with bird songs that alternate with the throbbing chirps of crickets and katydids as the louder cries of eagles, osprey, and sandhill cranes echo across the land. These are the sounds of natural Florida.

If quietly poised in the right spot at first light, you're rewarded with a glimpse of endangered red-cockaded woodpeckers leaving their cavities in the oldest longleaf pines for a day of foraging. The preserve harbors about 30 red-cockadeds in nine active clusters. Since there are more males than females, preserve officials don't mind playing matchmaker by moving females from other locations. Biologists have also created artificial nest cavities, and the birds are responding favorably.

It's inspiring to envision what the Preserve will be like in the future. Since purchasing the first tract in 1995 and adding another sizeable chunk in 2000, officials have been able to target several areas for restoration, including 2,500 acres of improved pastureland. Thanks to a Global ReLeaf Forests grant from AMERICAN FORESTS, preserve officials have kicked off restoration efforts by planting more than 300,000 longleaf pine seedlings. The last batch of 60,000 will be planted this winter to help begin restoration of 500 total acres.

"The grant allowed us to start the restoration much quicker," says Preserve manager Keith Fisher. "It is difficult to find funding for large-scale restoration projects."

The pines were planted close together in the dense bahia grass in hopes that they will eventually shade out the grass and open the way for groundcover restoration. Native grasses such as wiregrass, a thick bunchgrass with blades that resemble baling wire, along with an array of ferns and wildflowers will complete a restoration effort.

"You know, in 60 to 80 years, there could be red-cockaded woodpeckers right here," Fisher says, standing in a recently planted pasture where longleafs pop their bright green heads over the bahia grass.

Besides wildlife benefits, the restored land will improve water filtration to the river--part of the idea behind a buffer preserve--and visitors to the preserve's southern entrance will be greeted with an aesthetic tree line rather than open pastureland.

The Preserve also hopes to fill in ditches to reestablish natural water connections to the north and south forks of the still largely unspoiled St. Sebastian River. A third fork, Sebastian Creek, was severely altered by an Army Corps of Engineers-built canal in 1968. Ironically it is at the canal's water control structure that you find the most manatees on a cool winter's day. Sometimes more than a hundred of the endangered sea cows, between 10 and 15 percent of the entire East Coast population, have been seen there in a single day.

That's because water depth exceeds 14 feet and is not as affected by cool air. Other wildlife such as river otters, wood storks, white ibis, great blue herons, limpkins, and great egrets can be spotted in the canal and at the many marshes, ponds, and wet prairies within the preserve and along the eight miles of Sebastian River frontage. The sandhill cranes, numbering around 4,000 in the state, prefer shallow freshwater marshes adjacent to upland environments, a mix of habitats commonly found at the Preserve.

Appropriately enough, on my last hike through the Preserve I found a spot where several old-growth longleafs had formed a natural ring less than a hundred yards from the Sebastian River. Many were bonsai-shaped, twisted and bent by coastal storms; one had been "cat-faced" by turpentiners to collect sap in the 30s or 40s. Long, gray diagonal slash scars completely covered one side of the trunk, yet the tree still appeared vigorous. It was here that I sat and waited out the afternoon's heat. Gentle breezes, spawned by the nearby Atlantic Ocean, soothed my tired body and swayed the shimmering fans of pine needles overhead. I lay back on a bed of fallen needles and closed my eyes.

These old sentinels have witnessed droughts, hurricanes, logging, turpentining, and development across the river. These habitats have been shaped by thousands of summer wildfires, drenched by countless rains, scorched by desert-like sun, divided only by streams and rivers making a slow continuous journey to the Atlantic. It is land once revered by native Americans, long coveted by land speculators, and now appreciated by modern day visitors for what it is and what it yet can be. It is symbolic of the course we need to chart through an oft-confusing world where our species has difficulty maintaining equilibrium.

As preserve manager Keith Fisher put it: "I was born and raised in Florida. I spent a lot of time in the woods growing up, and a lot of those woods aren't there any more. I want to do what I can to preserve, restore, and manage what's left."

Perhaps other animals will find their home again at St. Sebastian Preserve; the panther, for one, and the Florida black bear. Even the red wolf and bison could be reintroduced one day. As sprawl touches more of Florida, we can take heart that some of it can be restored--we can give back to the land--and it has already begun at the St. Sebastian River State Buffer Preserve. If you visit, just don't expect a quiet greeting from the sandhill cranes at the entrance. AF

To contribute to this or other Global ReLeaf Forest projects or to plant trees through AMERICAN FORESTS' Wildfire BeLeaf ecosystem restoration program, visit www.americanforests.org.

Doug Alderson is a freelance writer and photographer near Tallahassee. Florida.