Brushstrokes on protected land

Special to Alachua Chronicle

BY MARIE FISHMAN

I pulled on my Merrell hikers, laced them up, grabbed my backpack with water, some snacks, and my camera. I headed out the door, excited to connect with nature and leave behind the day’s drama. My car knew exactly where to go. It headed to one of the numerous undeveloped land areas residents enjoy thanks to Alachua County Forever’s land conservation program. This program, now marking its 25th year, has ensured that the residents of Alachua County will have access to these lands indefinitely.

Undeveloped land areas are vital resources, both protecting our natural habitats and giving residents the chance to disappear into the oaks like I am doing today.

Alachua County Forever (ACF) is the reason places like this are still here for us. Twenty‑five years ago, the people who live here made a choice that still matters today: they voted to protect the natural lands that make this part of Florida feel like home. Because of that decision, more than 36,000 acres of wetlands, forests, prairies, and quiet oak hammocks have been set aside — not for development, but for wildlife, water, and anyone who needs a place to breathe for a while.

These preserves aren’t just pretty backdrops. They protect our aquifer, give animals room to move, and offer all of us a chance to step out of our lives and into something older and quieter. When you walk into Barr Hammock, you’re stepping onto land that was saved on purpose — land that will stay open and untouched because the community decided it should be.

This event hosted by ACF at Barr Hammock is called “Plein Air Painting at Barr Hammock Preserve–Levy Loop.” When we walk into this beautiful area, we are reminded that not only are we protecting this land and enjoying it, we also are stewards of it.

The artists coming out today are showing us that stewardship, each in a unique way. Each artist will bring to life their own experience here. This parallels the unique experience each of us has when we disappear into these oaks. Although most people will not document their visit with art, everyone entering these oaks will be touched in their own way by these pristine undeveloped nature preserves made available by Alachua County Forever’s land conservation program.

I arrived at the Levy Loop early. Seconds after exiting my vehicle, my eyes were pulled into focus onto the red‑shouldered hawk who flew over my head and soared to perch on a tree across the prairie. As I strained to see the bird of prey, two pileated red woodpeckers piped “cuk‑cuk‑cuk” directly above me, swooping around the upper branches in a dogfight. The morning felt alive before I had even taken a full breath.

Milo smiled and greeted the three of us who were already in the parking lot. I had just met Pat and Laurie. We entered the preserve through the driving gate, which Milo unlocked, and the noise of the outside world faded behind us as if someone had gently closed a door.

Karie joined the others who headed for the trail that curved south. Each artist carried a chair, hydration, and, most importantly, their art supplies. Pat and Laurie set up toward the beginning of the trail, adjusting a little bit from time to time until they settled on a spot. Karie went a little further down the trail, finding her own angle on the prairie.

She pulled her sketchpad out quickly. I saw her standing, facing the prairie, her left hand grasping her sketchpad in front of her as she penciled the first features of the beauty she hoped to capture. There was an urgency in her posture, as if the landscape might have shifted if she didn’t catch it fast enough.

Karie greeted me cheerfully, asking my name, and then, mid‑sentence, pointed off into the distance. “There’s a White Ibis, there’s a Carolina Wren. No, two of them!” I told her my name, and she immediately shifted back to the landscape, reflecting on how many variations of green ran through the prairie. She finally pointed out the light green willow in the distance, pleased to have located the exact shade she’d been trying to describe.

More artists arrived, a couple at a time, spreading out along the trail. The morning fog had cleared. The heat was threatening, but there were still traces of cooler air brushing my skin in one direction then another, like strokes of art. Artists continued to arrive, mostly choosing the side of the trail that would retain the most shade, while only a couple ventured onto the other path.

As the trail filled with quiet concentration, a different kind of awareness emerged. Several of the artists were obviously birders. When birds flew over or sang a definitive tune, even these focused artists looked up from their work. The artists here today seemed to know about much more than the skill that brought them here. They seemed to be Audubon experts, compasses, wind gauges, and weather forecasters.

As I spoke to one artist, telling her that this venue was perfect, she asked me where I was from. I vaguely pointed, telling her that I was from South Florida. She immediately redirected me with her finger and pointed south, and I laughed at how confidently wrong I had been.

One artist was facing away from the prairie, which was still heavy with gray hues. Her subject was a group of Spanish‑moss‑draped trees, their stillness a contrast to the shifting greens behind her.

The artists worked quietly, each absorbed in their own view of the preserve. I shared a moment with Milo, who had bright watercolors in front of him. He told me how the watercolor he was using had natural pigment without any plastic in it. I appreciated that someone had taken the time to make a product with no plastic and that Milo was using it. He reflected, “I’m still learning how to work with them,” and the humility in his voice matched the gentle patience of the morning.

The event continued, but sprinkles of rain sent me on my way a little early. Soon the trail would go quiet again, the artists taking their finished pieces, with each one shaped by a different corner of the preserve. As I headed back toward the car, a little dusty and a lot calmer than when I arrived, I felt the shift that only a few hours in a place like this can create.

Barr Hammock reminded me of something simple and essential: protected land doesn’t just shelter wildlife or safeguard water. It shelters us, too. It gives us room to breathe, to reset, to remember who we are when the noise falls away.

Walking back through the oaks, I understood why this land was worth fighting for twenty‑five years ago — and why it’s worth protecting for the next twenty‑five. Places like this don’t just stay wild on their own. They stay wild because a community chooses them.

Today, Barr Hammock chose me right back.