Tag: nature

The Bodhisattva of the Bay

The mullet are jumping this summer morning in August. It has not rained in days and the water looks relatively clear, almost green in the early sunlight. I am sitting on a bench under a live oak overlooking Mobile Bay with Jimbo Meador, in front of his house in Point Clear, not far from the hotel. We are drinking coffee and the way these mullet are jumping it’s clear they’ve been drinking it too.

This is the house where Jimbo has lived most of his adult life with his wife, Lynn, and where he raised his two children, Bo and Carolyn. Prior to that it was the house of his wife’s parents. Built in the 1850s, it typifies other coastal cottages of that time period along the Bay with its long galleries and low-form broad roofs which were designed to enhance ventilation in the long, hot summers. It reminds me of another antebellum house along the boardwalk, where I lived one July without air-conditioning at the age of eight, a time punctuated by the sound of a rickety ceiling fan and a black-and-white television tuned constantly to the videos of MTV.

From the bench to the right stands Jimbo’s wharf, where he has cast his fly rod and bait net over the decades and stood sentinel over one of his greatest loves: the Bay. He has seen it change greatly over time. He remembers the days when the water was always clear and seagrass covered its bottoms and gigging flounder with a spear was a daily pastime.

I don’t think there’s anyone who personifies Mobile Bay more than Jimbo. Like those people who seem to blend into the land from which they come and take on its colors and topographical features, Jimbo almost seems to be a natural extension of the water, as much so as a blue heron that melts into the marshes and muddy bottoms of the Delta.

Save for a stint working for Beretta gun company, every job Jimbo’s held has been water-related: shrimping, tug-boat captain, a designer of fishing kayaks, seafood distributor, eco-tour guide in the Delta, the list goes on. 

For some time this certified Master Naturalist has been a sort of spiritual godfather to Mobile Baykeeper, having in recent years developed a keen friendship with our director William Strickland. Jimbo knows the watershed as well as anyone and his memories and knowledge of the Bay and Delta are crucial to draw from as we work to build a better future for our waters.

An icon in the world of fly fishing, Jimbo defies any clichés associated with the “sportsman” or “outdoors-type.” He is a true Southern eccentric: a storyteller and natural-born humorist with a deep interest in Eastern spiritual practices. He has counted among his friends such luminaries as Jimmy Buffett, Guy de la Valdène, Tom McGuane, and Jim Harrison.

Winston Groom dedicated the book Forrest Gump to Jimbo, and it seems Groom’s hero shares more than a few characteristics with our interview subject. Jimbo’s voice was somewhat famously the model for Tom Hanks in the film version of the book. And the fact that we’re sitting here, chatting on a bench under an oak tree hung with Spanish moss is, well, a little uncanny.

As the morning unwinds our talk drifts over a continent of subjects, almost all having to do with the water. What shines through in hearing Jimbo’s tales is his deep sense of spirituality, and the life-affirming quality of his time spent in harmony with our natural world. Our talk only scratches the surface, but there is plenty more where this came from. This fall will see the publication of his long-awaited book, Short Stories From a Life Well-Lived: Stories by & about Jimbo Meador. It can be pre-ordered at JimboMeador.com, and is sure to be a must-read for any lover of the water. 

Until then, we’ll let Jimbo talk.

Early lessons
I was into nature probably more than anybody my age. I had a trapline and I wanted to be a mountain man. I sold furs. I took a correspondence course in taxidermy when I was about ten. I found a mail-order catalogue and I ordered everything I could find about trapping and the outdoors. I was just always fascinated with it. I’ve been blessed with all of that. In fact, the Bible tells us to take care of this—that God created this for us and we should take care of it.

Master naturalist
I took tours up in the Delta for a good while. One time I pulled up in a little bayou, and the lotuses were blooming. I had some women in the boat. We pulled in there and one woman stood up and she said, “There is a God.” I’d take those tours and show people all the vegetation and talk to them about it. I’d show them the invasive species and say, “You know what the worst invasive species is?” And they’d say, “What?” I’d say, “Us.”

The vegetation up there in the Delta is really important. It holds the land, you know. It also supplies a lot of life. People don’t realize how much life there is under the water that they don’t see. I once had some nets made, and I’d take kids up there and let them scoop down in the water and show them all this stuff. I had these little plastic goldfish bowls and we would see all the life that was in there in just one scoop.

And those little bowls I had, I’d let them keep them and watch the stuff and then release it. It said “Catch and Release” on the thing. I’ve forgotten where I got those things. But yeah, kids loved it. And their parents did, too. Parents enjoy seeing their kids enjoy it. But yeah, it’s a pretty unique place.

But this whole Bay—I mean, see how it’s brown? We once had seagrasses all in here. And the seagrass is a habitat for all marine life—crabs and shrimp and all kinds of fish. So we’ve destroyed a whole habitat with muddy water. For example, if I tell people, “If you put a tarpaulin over your grass, without photosynthesis, how’s it going to live?” Well, the Bay’s the same way. Muddy water is a tarpaulin, and as long as the water’s muddy we can’t have vegetation. So it’s like putting a tarpaulin over your garden, you know. You’re not gonna produce much.

Read the rest from CURRENTS (Fall 2026) here. Photo by Courtney Mason.

A Covenant Older than Clocks

Mobile is one of the nation’s oldest cities, and its allergy to modern sheen accounts for a lot of its charm. The rich architectural fabric in neighborhoods like Oakleigh and DeTonti Square leaves visitors agape, and the city’s arboreal character — most notably on display in the live oaks that canopy Government Street like great triumphant arches — eclipses even the Garden District of New Orleans.  

But even for such a deeply historical city, much has been lost. The erection of Interstate 10 through downtown Mobile in the early ’70s, and the opening of the George Wallace Tunnel, squashed remnants of the rich Creole culture that took root in the late 1800s in the Down the Bay community, an area that was previously home to Native Americans as far back as 2,000 years. And while Mobile’s Black history is well documented and celebrated at the Africatown Heritage House and Historic Avenue Cultural Center, it is a history that is often sidelined when, in fact, it should be standing front and center.  

This issue’s cover story looks at Baykeeper’s holistic oyster restoration project and our effort to revive the reefs that once flourished in our watershed. This is a story of history as much as ecology. Much of the restoration work is happening in Heron Bay near Dauphin Island, a pristine body of water that was once home to indigenous populations that sustainably harvested oysters for centuries. 

Our ecological history is a living thing. It is not taught in history classes, but its lessons are essential.  

Recent research suggests Native American tribes along the southern coasts had highly complex management practices when it came to oyster harvesting. These tribes harvested oysters at great levels and still the reefs thrived. And yet since 1950, we’ve managed to destroy an estimated eighty-five percent of the reefs in the Mobile Bay watershed — a sad and alarming metric brought on by stressors like predation by drills (small predatory marine snails), unsustainable harvesting practices, shell-dredging for construction materials, and ship-channel dredging.  

The scientific literature indicates Native Americans had hierarchical systems in place about best management practices for oysters, and even pooled resources. Clearly, they worked together for the greater good to protect what was vital, even as there were competing interests — something the modern era has often failed to achieve. 

Baykeeper’s reef restoration is hoping to turn the tide and bring the community together for a common goal. “One of the encouraging aspects of the Oyster Restoration Project is that it is community-driven and led by a variety of stakeholders,” says Baykeeper’s Dr. Kayla Boyd, who heads the initiative. “This project is not only restoring ecosystem functionality, but it also provides support for the commercial oyster fishery.”  

That communal understanding comes with an appreciation of the sacredness of the natural world, and how critical its protection is to our own survival. It’s an unspoken bond that goes back to a time before there were even words for it. 

This issue closes with Susan Rouillier’s poem, “Purple Martins Return to Bahia del Espiritu Santo.” In the poem, she writes, “February twenty-eighth, precise and unannounced/ a covenant older than clocks, truer than our forecasts.” 

These are the covenants we are bound to and have a duty to protect. 

— from Mobile Baykeeper’s CURRENTS, summer 2026

Peter Frank and the Great Loop

What drives a person to climb Kilimanjaro or swim the English Channel? Why did Alexander Supertramp light out for the territories, only to meet his demise after ingesting the seeds of a toxic plant in the Alaskan wilds? Why did Huck Finn set sail on the Mississippi — was it to get away from the Widow Douglas and his abusive father, or was it something much deeper that called him down the river? Why do locals like Ryan Gillikin and Joseph Bolton kayak the Alabama 650 every year, pushing their bodies and minds to the point of exhaustion and delirium? And why did Forrest Gump decide to just start running?

It’s a mystery, folks. The biblical Cain was our first Great Wanderer, but he had little choice in the matter. After slaying his brother out in the boonies one fine autumn day, he was cast east of Eden, condemned to walk the Earth for eternity, branded with God’s own tattoo. 

Unlike Cain, today’s explorers will tell you they do have a choice — at least some of the time. But what drives them to set sail upon the dark waters and traverse the barbarous lands remains somewhat of a mystery, even to them. For its part, America has a long tradition of explorers and wanderers. The conquistadors of Spain got the ball rolling in the name of gold, God, and glory. Lewis and Clark (along with Sacagawea) traversed the western frontier at the behest of Jefferson, while Mason and Dixon settled some important boundary disputes with their jaunts. Voyaging is a big part of the national character, from Kit Carson in the Rockies to more intellectually prone seekers like John Muir and Edward Abbey. And then there are the cultural titans like Jack Kerouac and the Grateful Dead, whose legions followed in the literal footsteps of their journeys, forging a new kind of adventurer along the way.

Today’s explorers seem to be as much about the spiritual quest, and not as much about clapping eyes on new lands. For them, it’s a test of will, a feat of the heart. Perhaps this is because today’s voyages can’t help but look and feel a little different, now that we live in the time of GPS and mobile phones. Alaska may still be the last terrestrial frontier, but in the age of satellites, civilization is never out of reach in the way that it once was. What about that Mars trip we’ve heard so much about? Well, that might be a while. So perhaps it is that after centuries of settlement and industrialization, the American wilderness is all but erased, but the wilderness within remains.  

One of America’s great modern explorers is not a household name. He is a gentleman by the name of Verlen Kruger. A native of Indiana who lived in Michigan for much of his life, Verlen, who died in 2004, is credited with canoeing more miles than any other American — in excess of 100,000 miles. Somewhere in between the time of his relentless voyaging, he managed to design a specialty canoe, the Savage Loon, a thirteen-and-a-half-foot craft specifically tailored for long voyages. Reminiscent of a kayak, the Loon has all the tell-tale features of a traditional canoe in that the boat features a hollow shell with a raised seat and lacks the keel or fin found on most kayaks. With a cockpit more than eighty inches long, it was designed to be able to navigate rough conditions on extended treks. In canoe circles, the Loon is known as a “decked canoe,” meaning that the deck covers a portion of the cockpit — and indeed it is often mistaken for a kayak. 

In addition to his contributions to design (he funded his voyages by leasing his patent to commercial canoe-makers like Savage), Verlen Kruger is known for having logged one of the longest canoe jaunts in human history, a 28,000-mile odyssey across North America that came to be known as the Ultimate Canoe Challenge. This was a feat that found Verlen and his son, Steve Landkin, paddling the length of the Mississippi and Colorado rivers upstream as part of The Great Loop. That’s a pretty long haul against the current when you are clocking a 6,000-mile route. In 1981, Verlen and his son became the first to canoe the Great Loop in reverse, or clockwise, as one sees it on a map. 

“I’ve often thought about the results of making some of these big trips,” Verlen once said. “I haven’t done anything great for humanity; it was more that I’ve done something great for myself. But I do hear from other people who say they’ve been inspired by my travels. Hopefully, I can get them to look a little farther, a little deeper into themselves, into what they can do.”

The Great Loop is a circumnavigational route that winds through the eastern half of the United States (15 states) and parts of Canada (two provinces), taking “Loopers” through the Intracoastal Canal, the Great Lakes, the Gulf of Mexico, the Mississippi River, and a byzantine network of canals and rivers in between. Most undertake the voyage with a motorized craft, taking on average about a year to complete the journey, though it has been done in as little as six weeks. The great majority of voyagers elect to travel in a counter-clockwise direction, which allows them to move along with the currents, which can be especially helpful on powerful rivers like the Mississippi and Ohio. For the motorized set, the trip is typically one of leisure. The starting point is a matter of choice, but many opt to start in Chicago in the fall, which allows them to wind around Florida in the winter, when many parts of the northern route are closed. 

Read the rest at Mobile Baykeeper.

Hippie Beach

Hippie Beach is not on any map. Tucked away in the woods along Halls Mill Creek, this small stretch of sand is a place where folks beach the boat, ride jet skis and kick back with friends.

The waterside area, about a mile northwest of where the creek meets Dog River, made headlines the weekend of July 4, when a Mobile man critically injured himself after falling from a tree.

Wade Findley, 32, had intended to jump from the tree into the creek, Mobile police said. A rope swing, which dangles from one tree, is a favorite pastime at Hippie Beach. But Findley slipped while climbing and landed headfirst on the ground, police said.

Findley was taken by helicopter to the University of South Alabama Medical Center, where he was listed in critical condition the day of the fall. The hospital declined to release updated information. Attempts to reach family members were unsuccessful.

Greg and Chris Motes, who live close by near the Cypress Shores community, harbor fond memories of afternoons spent on Hippie Beach. Greg, 19, recalls the time he and his girlfriend swam with manatees, the endangered marine mammals that have begun cropping up in Alabama waters. “A family of five came up behind the boat,” Greg said. “(My girlfriend) said, ‘Baby, I want to go swimming.'”

Last week, the brothers rode their four-wheeler though a network of dirt trails behind the beach. To cool off, Greg performed back flips off the rope swing into the creek.

Hippie Beach has long been a haven for local river rats. Faye Haas, who visited the beach with her family last week, said she had been coming since the mid-1970s, back when people called it Hippie Hole. “Because we was hippies, ” she said.

“We used to come and camp out and stay here all weekend,” continued Haas, 52, who soaked up rays while her daughter and granddaughter splashed about in the water. “I remember a couple of friends skinny-dipping.”

A few years ago, Hippie Beach was a well-known party spot for high-school students, said Krys Bolton, visiting last week with her family.

Bolton, 18, spun tales about female mud wrestling and frequent fights. Broken bottles, trash and a burned couch testify to the bedlam she described.

As high school students, Alex Joy and his friends said they partied at Hippie Beach many a night. Last week, they beached their boat and went swimming, if only to reminisce.

Colin Hartery, 18, remembers seeing a shiny brand-new Ford Mustang parked on the beach one night. That was not the case when he returned a week later. “It was burned from top to bottom,” he said.

The parties drew patrons from several area schools, said Joy, 19. The revelry would begin in August, he said, and continue through the school year.

Then the cops caught on. But that didn’t immediately put a stop to the partying, Joy said.

“You could get a few hours in before the cops came,” said Joy, adding that several of his friends got arrested there.

The police drove four-wheelers and SUVs back in the woods to catch those fleeing on foot, Joy said.

Mobile police have made arrests in the area after responding to calls complaining of disorderly conduct and minors in possession of alcohol, said spokesman Officer Eric Gallichant.

Gallichant said police could not specify how many arrests have occurred on Hippie Beach, because the spot does not have an address. He said police consider the beach private property but don’t know who owns it, adding that the beach is largely inaccessible by car.