Two wild turkeys run past me on the left, and field birds of every variety continue their mad aeronautical display. There are several more freshwater ponds dotting the vast grassy plain and thickets of shrubs and small trees. For a moment, I imagine myself on an African savanna and have no wonder how our fair city got her name. Just beyond the airfield, the auto route dips back into the forest. Deep and verdant, it beckons me once again from my jeep, and I saunter down a path strewn with rusty pine straw, leaves and dappled sunshine.
Woodpeckers are audible then visible.
A deer races away from my footsteps. I look down and discover a square of pavement peeking through the thick carpet of organic matter, and I find myself surprised once more at the rapidity with which something so seemingly permanent as a paved road sinks into oblivion. The auto tour ends about a mile east of the entrance. Jet skis are prohibited. From the high bluff over the river, the proximity of the islands to one another startles me anew.