As the sun rises over the beach, Dawn Fisher pours half a bottle of Budweiser on the sand.

Fisher, 74, scans the ground, on the lookout for more offending brews. None. She speeds off, trailing a garbage stench.

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For 15 years now, Fisher has woken at daybreak to pick up litter from the beaches, parks and streets of Gulfport, Fla. She dons latex gloves and wields an arms-length plastic claw. She hauls a wire cart lined with a garbage bag. She says one acclimates to the rank odor.

Cigarette butt. Stop and grab. Fast-food wrapper. Stop and grab. Beer bottle. Stop, pour and grab.

"Madam, thank you so much," a jogger tells her. Fisher looks up and waves. She turns back to the ground on Shore Boulevard South.

This morning is but one skirmish in one woman's three-decade war on litter. While she admits annihilating litter is impossible, she says she hopes she can make a dent and set a good example. It's part of a larger life philosophy of community service. It's also good exercise.

"Fact is, I've been picking up litter most my life," she says.

Fisher launched her crusade in the 1970s, when she began walking near her home in Colorado. She started slowly, picking up a few pieces here and there. Now, in a single outing around Gulfport, she fills and empties her rolling trash car about five times.

For many years she rose at 5:30 a.m. Now that she is older, she has cut her start time to 7 a.m. She stays out until noon.

She struggles to pinpoint an exact reason for doing what she does. Fisher says her parents instilled a sense of community pride in her. And she blames her mother for being a neat freak.

"You always had to fold the towels just so," Fisher says. "She inspired us to be very nitpicky."

Fisher has received praise and media attention for other civic activism, most recently her donation of $250,000 from the sale of family land to the Gulfport Community Players theater group. She gave them the money two months ago anonymously, but then decided to come forward to set an example for others.

Less attention comes for the garbage collecting, though some others have followed her lead.

Fisher buys plastic claws, or grabbers, in bulk from a distributor in Denver. She hands them out to anyone willing to join her cause.

Art Trinque, 76, joined Fisher's battle in 2000. He rides a motorized scooter around the Gulfport marina, using a plastic claw to pick up garbage.

"I thought, 'Gee, if she could do it, why don't I do it on the cart?' " says Trinque, who uses the scooter because of health problems.

Midge Wayland, 86, is a recent recruit. She walks on the beach in Gulfport with a plastic bag, picking up the litter Fisher misses.

An 8-person parks crew combs city property on Mondays and Fridays, says Bob Williams, Gulfport's parks and maintenance supervisor. City workers pick up soda bottles and other more noticeable trash, but don't bother with the small stuff because they have a whole town to clean.

Fisher does her work every day. And she doesn't overlook the little bits -- cigarette butts and bottle caps. She canvasses alleys. She walks on front lawns and patios. Everywhere.

She wears a baseball cap and blue-tinted glasses. She keeps her eyes cast downward and doesn't smile. Her morning rounds keep her fit, and it shows. Unlike the joggers and dog walkers, she stays quiet. No headphones. No humming.

Fisher grew up on a farm in Illinois. After she married, she moved around the Midwest and West, following her former husband's livestock business. While raising three children, Fisher says she fixed things around the house, held seats on school boards and stayed active in every community the family lived in. Fisher, who holds a master's degree in fine arts from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, has published poetry, and she decorates her walls with her own paintings.

She continued her activism after she divorced and moved to Gulfport, in the early 1990s, to take care of her aging parents. She won a seat on the Gulfport City Council in 2000 and held office until 2005 when she says she quit so she could travel more.

She brings a plastic bag with her when she leaves town.

"We took a cruise to Alaska a couple years ago, and I picked up litter there," she says. "I pick up little junk everywhere I go."

Fisher's son Glen, 47, remembers his mom keeping the house spotless. He says most days she made their beds before they could get around to it. Her son Jack, 44, would let his son Dustin join her on trash walks when the family lived in Colorado.

"Sometimes I think she's a little on the fanatic side," Glen says in a telephone interview from his home in Tulsa.

Dawn Fisher shares an apartment in the Town Shores adult community with her partner of 10 years, Cathy Kaiser, 46. Nothing is out of place and the carpet is spotless.

Kaiser once joined Fisher for a litter walk, but couldn't keep up. "Dawn moves at a pretty good clip," she says.

Fisher's daily route would cover about 5 miles if she walked a straight line. But she weaves back and forth across the street when garbage catches her eye to make sure she catches it all.

She has found wallets and cell phones. She once picked up a credit card outside a bar on Shore Boulevard South. It belonged to a man in Lakeland, Fla. She mailed it to him and he called to thank her.

"Some people think I'm a little crazy," Fisher says. "Sometimes people think I'm just a bag lady."

City manager Tom Brobeil hears from Fisher now as often as when she sat on the council. She sends him cell phone pictures of leaky pipes. She calls him to report fallen trees after a bad storm. She talks to the people along her route and relays their problems.

She usually apologizes for bothering him. Brobeil says he doesn't mind.

"It's good to have another set of eyes telling me what should be looked into," he says. "She doesn't give me complaints. She gives me reports."

Fisher keeps a strong pace on a recent Saturday morning. She picks up garbage on the length of Shore Boulevard South, then works her way behind the strip of restaurants and bars facing the beach. Next it's up Beach Boulevard South and around the Gulfport dog park. She cuts over to 58th Street South and heads back toward her apartment.

Sweat soaks her bright orange knit shirt. She plans to shower and eat lunch when she gets home. She's one block away when her cell phone rings.

"Hello?" she says. She leans over the landscaping wall around Town Shores. She reaches for a Pepsi bottle with her claw.

"I'm out doing my rounds," Fisher says. She walks down the street as she talks, picking up cigarette butts. "OK, I'll call you later." She hangs up.

Fisher heads toward her apartment, leaving the street a bit cleaner behind her. Her morning routine satisfied, now she can relax.

"I don't get paid for this," Fisher says. "I do get paid in self-satisfaction."