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News & Stories
June 20, 2026

Rain Frog Ranch: How a Family’s Land Led to a Voice for the Corridor

Reflections from Gretchen Hoke, a seventh‑generation Floridian, on roots, responsibility, and connection. Photos provided by Gretchen Hoke.

Imagine a place where the land speaks before anything else does.
A place where you can hear it long before you see it, where the sound of water rising after rain and the first call of a frog tells you more than any map ever could.

That is where this story begins.

After a good rain, the low spots fill and the ditches rise. The air turns thick and still, and then it starts. One frog calls, then another, until the whole pasture hums. That chorus is how Rain Frog Lane got its name. Before there was a mission or a nonprofit, there was simply this land and the life that has always moved through it.

Rain Frog Ranch has been in my family for more than fifty years. My grandfather chose it when it was just good agricultural ground in a part of Florida where working lands and wild places have always lived side by side.

Like much of Hillsborough County, this land holds layers. Beneath the grass is the memory of phosphate mining, ground once stripped and slowly brought back. Just beyond our fence line, Edward Medard Park stretches wide, its water and wetlands helping wildlife move through this region. Our land sits right alongside it, part of that quiet, living network.

Over the years, the property has changed with our family. Cattle, nursery, blueberries. Before it was Rain Frog Ranch, parts of it were called Rainbow Farms. When my dad ran the blueberry operation, he named it Chuck’s Blues after the music he loved. He played in a band for years, and the barn would fill with sound, concrete under the musicians and dirt under the dancers, dust rising into warm air as music drifted across the pasture.

People came from everywhere. Sometimes riders would pause along the edge of the property on the trails, sitting quietly on horseback beneath the trees and listening from a distance. Watching that as a kid, the way people gathered without needing an invitation, made the land feel alive in a way I never forgot.

Next door, my uncle still works his palm tree farm. On our side, it is pasture again, home to horses, a donkey, bees, and the steady rhythm of daily care. Nothing fancy, just the work that comes with it.

I did not expect to step into this role when I did. But as my parents grew older, I took on more, and I began to really know the land. I learned the way it softens after rain, the paths wildlife use again and again, and the feeling that something is nearby even when you cannot see it.

In 2021, we established Rain Frog Ranch as a 501(c)(3) to show Christ’s love through nature and to create a place where people can slow down and reconnect.

That same year, the Florida Wildlife Corridor Act passed. I did not realize it then, but our paths were already starting to cross.

Then came the letter.

It looked ordinary, but it was not. A proposed widening of Highway 60, an eminent domain notice. It would take all of my uncle’s land and cut into part of our pasture.

Standing out there, looking over the same ground I had ridden and walked my whole life, it felt like something that could actually be lost. It did not feel like lines on a map but like something that could change the shape of this place for good.

This was not just land. This was movement. This was habitat.

I had seen Florida panthers move through here, moments that stop you in your tracks and remind you that what looks like open pasture is part of something far larger.

Not long after, my husband and I attended a screening of Path of the Panther at the Tampa Theatre. We met Carlton Ward Jr. that night. Later, at another showing on the Brighton Reservation, I met Jason Lauritsen.

We showed up because we cared about our land. What we found were people who helped us understand how it connects to something bigger.

After reaching out to the governor’s office, we heard back from FDOT leadership. A least cost pathway analysis confirmed that this area overlapped with a wildlife movement route, based on research led by Daniel Smith.

Eventually, the plan shifted. The impact moved away from our homestead and out of that pathway.

It was a win for our family, but it made something clear. This is not just about one property. It is about the wholistic network of connections.

Not long after, I attended the Florida Wildlife Corridor Foundation Summit. I found myself sitting at a table with a map of Florida spread out in front of me, tracing lines across a landscape that suddenly felt familiar.

At that same table, with that same map, I met Daniel Smith, the researcher whose work had helped protect our land. Being able to thank him face to face felt like everything coming full circle.

The land. The science. The people.

I never set out to become an advocate. I simply loved this land and knew it mattered. Everything that followed came from paying attention, asking questions, and being willing to learn. Through that, I gained knowledge, access, and a seat at the table, but more importantly, I gained clarity.

No one protects these places alone. We do it by finding the people who care about what we care about and by standing with them when it matters most.

Rain Frog Ranch gave me roots.
The Corridor gave me direction.
And somewhere along the way, I found my voice and a community that helped me use it.

My hope is that others find theirs too. Look to the place you love, and the people who love it with you. That is where community begins.
That is where action takes shape. And that is how we protect the places that make us who we are.

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