Post by L Roebuck on Jun 18, 2006 8:09:59 GMT -5
What's wrong with Wakulla Springs?
It suffers from ailments plaguing Florida springs as civilization closes in on them. If things don't change, experts say, we could lose them.
By Jennifer Portman
DEMOCRAT SENIOR WRITER
Water so blue, indigo pales in comparison. Water transparent as atmosphere, so clear you could read the date on a coin 100 feet below. A river's worth of water, bursting from the earth without a ripple, creating a wild and primitive place splashing with life.
That's what Tom Kennedy's great-great-great-granddad saw 160 years ago when he looked into Wakulla Springs. That's what Kennedy saw as well. Until about 10 years ago.
Things started getting murkier.
"We never had to clean the mastodon bones at the bottom of the spring," said the biology doctoral student, who began volunteering at the spring in 1988 when he was 14. "Even when I was there in 1993, it was crystal-clear."
Not anymore.
Today, the luster of one of the world's largest and deepest springs is dulled by a tangle of supercharged aquarium weed and algae, tamed only by an annual dose of weed killer that allows about 150,000 people a year to enjoy the park's popular river boats and swimming hole.
More days than not in recent years, its diamond water is turned a tannic iced tea. The only place to find the spring's signature bird, the limpkin, is on the state-park entrance sign. The rare wading bird split in 2000 when its favorite snack, the apple snail, disappeared.
Some area residents, who add to the $22 million the springs pump into the local economy each year, are becoming scarcer, too.
"Now, it's depressing to go there," says water-quality expert Sean McGlynn, 50, who grew up swimming in Wakulla Springs, dreaming he was a mullet gliding through the native eel grass. "I can't even bear to see it."
Among the culprits blamed for the deteriorating water quality are Tallahassee's spray field, where treated sewage irrigates crops; urban runoff; and septic tanks in the area that drains into Wakulla Springs.
If there's any good news in this tale, it's that unprecedented research is under way in an effort to undo the damage - and that everyone who lives in the basin plays a part in the solution.
The centerpiece of the Edward Ball Wakulla Springs State Park, 15 miles from Florida's state capital, has become a poster child for imperiled springs throughout the state. It's now a symbol of growth's real and immediate impact on the environment.
"Each spring basin is a little bit different, but what is occurring here in the Wakulla Spring basin is also happening in Silver Springs, Ichetucknee Springs and others," said Jim Stevenson, coordinator of the Wakulla Spring Basin Working Group.
Here's what's happening: Sewage from treatment plants and septic tanks, runoff from city streets and stripped land, fertilizer from farms and shamrock-green lawns are rushing through thin, sandy soil, channeled by subterranean caves carved in honeycombed limestone straight into the Floridan Aquifer - which millions of people rely on for drinking water every day.
That water comes back to the surface at our springs, direct openings to the aquifer and windows into that elemental world.
Full Article:
www.tallahassee.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20060618/NEWS01/606180313
It suffers from ailments plaguing Florida springs as civilization closes in on them. If things don't change, experts say, we could lose them.
By Jennifer Portman
DEMOCRAT SENIOR WRITER
Water so blue, indigo pales in comparison. Water transparent as atmosphere, so clear you could read the date on a coin 100 feet below. A river's worth of water, bursting from the earth without a ripple, creating a wild and primitive place splashing with life.
That's what Tom Kennedy's great-great-great-granddad saw 160 years ago when he looked into Wakulla Springs. That's what Kennedy saw as well. Until about 10 years ago.
Things started getting murkier.
"We never had to clean the mastodon bones at the bottom of the spring," said the biology doctoral student, who began volunteering at the spring in 1988 when he was 14. "Even when I was there in 1993, it was crystal-clear."
Not anymore.
Today, the luster of one of the world's largest and deepest springs is dulled by a tangle of supercharged aquarium weed and algae, tamed only by an annual dose of weed killer that allows about 150,000 people a year to enjoy the park's popular river boats and swimming hole.
More days than not in recent years, its diamond water is turned a tannic iced tea. The only place to find the spring's signature bird, the limpkin, is on the state-park entrance sign. The rare wading bird split in 2000 when its favorite snack, the apple snail, disappeared.
Some area residents, who add to the $22 million the springs pump into the local economy each year, are becoming scarcer, too.
"Now, it's depressing to go there," says water-quality expert Sean McGlynn, 50, who grew up swimming in Wakulla Springs, dreaming he was a mullet gliding through the native eel grass. "I can't even bear to see it."
Among the culprits blamed for the deteriorating water quality are Tallahassee's spray field, where treated sewage irrigates crops; urban runoff; and septic tanks in the area that drains into Wakulla Springs.
If there's any good news in this tale, it's that unprecedented research is under way in an effort to undo the damage - and that everyone who lives in the basin plays a part in the solution.
The centerpiece of the Edward Ball Wakulla Springs State Park, 15 miles from Florida's state capital, has become a poster child for imperiled springs throughout the state. It's now a symbol of growth's real and immediate impact on the environment.
"Each spring basin is a little bit different, but what is occurring here in the Wakulla Spring basin is also happening in Silver Springs, Ichetucknee Springs and others," said Jim Stevenson, coordinator of the Wakulla Spring Basin Working Group.
Here's what's happening: Sewage from treatment plants and septic tanks, runoff from city streets and stripped land, fertilizer from farms and shamrock-green lawns are rushing through thin, sandy soil, channeled by subterranean caves carved in honeycombed limestone straight into the Floridan Aquifer - which millions of people rely on for drinking water every day.
That water comes back to the surface at our springs, direct openings to the aquifer and windows into that elemental world.
Full Article:
www.tallahassee.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20060618/NEWS01/606180313