Everglades Journal, 1991
With annotations on more recent happenings at Everglades
I hardly slept last night. I have heard of this Everglades, this River of Grass, all my life. I left Chattanooga just as the redbud tress announced the spring bloom. The dogwood wasn’t open yet, and the wildflowers just begun to carpet the forest floor.” (March 23)
We twelve changed planes at the Atlanta airport with its numerous gates, moving walkways, and baggage cars, Not used to air travel, I decided that the old saying must be true, “You can get to heaven, but you have to change planes in Atlanta.” The Miami airport seemed just as busy and crowded.
Touchdown was a welcome relief. When I must spend extended portions of time in the labyrinths of shopping malls, airports, or office buildings, I get the queasy feeling of being swallowed by a large machine. I have no desire to be assimilated by or integrated into such mega machines.
I was happy to see that our professional guides were there to greet us at the gate. We loaded our luggage, boarded the van, and were bound for Everglades National Park.
Our guides were young, muscular, tan, and constantly sipping on water, obeying the dogma of keeping the body and brain well hydrated. I got to know them somewhat over the next few days, although they always maintained a professional decorum.
As much as I love the wilderness, I am happy to leave the more athletic aspects of wilderness recreation to others. I am more likely to set up my tent and explore the surrounding area than to engage in a fifty-mile backpacking trip or a solo climb up a rugged peak. Our guides worked for an organization that stated this philosophy.
I soon realized that their interpretation of this description called for more vigorous activity than I had anticipated. Many of the other participants were even less prepared. This could have led to problems, but we all pitched in with good nature and effort.
The first day did not require vigorous exercise. We made a stop to pick up a trailer loaded with canoes. We then proceeded to the main entrance, a place that resembles a tollbooth on an expressway more than an entrance to a national park.
Lights in each lane told the drivers which tollbooths were open. Drivers paid the entrance fees for themselves and their passengers. Since our group had a prepaid permit, the wait time was shorter. Not so for other vehicles.
Once inside the park, we made a stop to view the exhibits at the visitors’ center. Dusk was approaching as we walked the Anhinga Boardwalk. The boardwalk’s namesake, an American Anhinga, also known as a water turkey, landed in the grass just off the walkway. It squawked like a banshee, waving its head from side to side.
The American Anhinga swam immersed in water with only neck and head exposed. This is the bird’s classic defensive pose. When we returned on this path, the bird sat on a nest in a low bush. Its noisy behavior was an attempt to distract us from the nest.
One alligator swam near a roosting night heron that neither moved nor even gave the huge reptile a passing glance. I had heard that the distance from an alligator’s eye to its nostril in inches was equal to the animal’s full length in feet. By visual inspection from a safe distance, these alligators seemed to conform to this belief. I was not tempted to field test this lore with a tape measure.
It was late March, still the dry season. The land on either side of us did not resemble the River of Grass, as described in the book with that title. The grass, unlike the towering stalks above our heads that I expected, was even shorter than the grasses of the Kansas and Illinois prairies that I remembered.
The grassy growth was brown, dormant in appearance. From our seats in the van, the surrounding soil appeared to be dry. I would later learn that this appearance was deceptive. The aquifer below the surface still held water that slowly worked its way toward the sea. Underfoot, the ground would be more like a sponge than solid land. It is a type of habitat known as wet prairie.
That night, we checked into our rooms at the Flamingo Lodge. The stucco walls of the lodge were much like those of a motel from 1950, with basic accommodations. The all-important air conditioner was more than functional, an especially pertinent factor since cooling the room helped to keep the mosquitoes in check. Our guides resided in a cabin nearby where we also prepared and ate our meals.
Annotations
Everglades facilities may slowly reopen as the Covid-19 crisis winds down.
Information on The Royal Palm Visitor Center and Anhinga Trail are here: https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/anhinga-trail.htm
Flamingo Lodge was destroyd by Hurricanes in 2005. A guide to current ammenities appears here:
https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/flamingo.htm
A Visit to Mrazek Pond (March 24)
The second day out we saw a White-crowned Pigeon. The bird had the shape of a mourning dove, with a distinctly white patch on the top of its head. Although not impressive in appearance, the White-crowned Pigeon is a rarity. Some bird watchers travel to Florida solely to view its unique avian fauna. Their list of birds to see is sure to include this unique individual.
The limestone caprock around this pond is incredibly tough but riddled with solution holes. These holes held water-loving plants such as scouring rushes (Equisetum hymale) and arrowhead. One hole provided a home for a spider whose web held a center that looked very much like a flower. The spider was lying in wait for any insect fooled by its web.
The land around the pond is home to sawgrass and dwarf cypress. The sawgrass has a tough leaf with a serrated edge that can cut the unwary traveler. The biologist in me took note of this adaptation that protects the plant from grazing.
The dwarf cypress was once thought to be a separate species from the taller cypress found around the open ponds. They are simply a different growth form. On this rocky land, the growth form is an expression of the abundance (or lack) of soil and water.
In the sawgrass and dwarf cypress forest, a variety of pink and white orchids bloomed. I did not know the species, but their flower parts included a stamp. The stamp is a part of the flower that rises above the petals and bends down to stamp pollen on visiting insects.
Our walk led us to a cypress dome, one of those low hills that surrounds open water and results from the accumulation of decaying vegetation. With each step, we heard the squishy sounds of mud beneath our shoes. We sank a bit further with each forward step, and a bit more water seeped into our shoes each time. When we reached the cypress dome, the soil was dry.
Stiff-leaved bromeliads, with their resemblance to miniature pineapple plants, adorned the cypress trees. They were blooming with tiny red sepals and purple petals and were very pretty under the appropriate magnification of a field microscope.
The center of such cypress domes is generally a ’gator hole, with the opening maintained by a resident alligator. It is home to fish and other water animals during the dry season. The alligator provides them with living space and collects a tax in the form of occasional meals.
The center of this dome was about nine inches deep, marshy and choked with aquatic vegetation, indicating no resident gator. The aquatic plants known as arrowhead filled the center with their emergent notched leaves and brilliant purple flowers. The water thrived with dragonfly larvae, predacious diving beetles, and smaller aquatic insects. A tiny fish, possibly gambusia (mosquito fish), was abundant.
Farther into the glades we approached a second cypress dome and saw the resident ’gator disappear into the water just as we got close. Unlike its relatives near the boardwalks and visitor centers, this lively fellow did not remain close by for us to observe. The results of its residence were evident in the open water of the ’gator hole.
At this dome, as at the first, the stiff-leaved bromeliads were blooming. Spanish moss and Bell’s moss (both of which are actually bromeliads and not truly mosses) hung from cypress branches.
That evening the guides presented a lecture on the geologic history of Florida and the Caribbean.
Annotation
Flamingo Visitor Center and Mrazek Pond https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/flamdirections.htm
Mahogany Hammock Trail https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/mahogany-hammock-trail.htm
Eco Pond, Mahogany Hammock, and Nine Mile Pond (March 25)
The bird life at Eco Pond included diverse number of species and the sheer numbers of birds told me that this was a special place. That morning we saw an American Anhinga, Great Egret, Snowy Egret, Purple Gallinule, and Osprey. I photographed a male painted bunting with its red, blue, and yellow plumage. We returned several times since this pond was close to the hotel.
The Mahogany Hammock supported the lush, dense growth of the tropics. Aside from the large mahogany, we saw white stopper, poisonwood, needle-leaved wild-pine, and several species of ferns. I paused to consider the disappearance of mahogany and other tropical hardwoods for consumption by industrial countries.
When we ate lunch at the Mahogany Hammock, a raccoon came out of the woods to beg for food. He was very light in color compared to raccoons of the more northern latitudes that I call home. For some reason, these little wash bears (the literal meaning of their name in German—waschbar) get lighter in color as the observer travels closer to the tropics. Those in the Florida Keys are almost blond.
At Nine Mile Pond we made our first trip by canoe. White Pelicans, also known as river pelicans, perched in the trees along the canoe trail. Roseate Spoonbills were common and turned the sky pink when they all flew at once. This area was clearly a transition zone, with fresh water spikerush and predatory bladderwort plants growing among the roots of mangroves, a low tree generally limited to salt and brackish water.
The going got tough through the shallows. Navigating a canoe across shallow mud is mainly an exercise in brute strength, but we were rewarded with a view of incredibly diverse plant and bird life. A rare Swallow-tailed Kite flew overhead, the broad forks of the tail making it impossible to misidentify. Soon after the kite passed, an osprey carrying a fish flew overhead.
We saw several cacti among the mangroves. They seemed out of place in this wet setting. I usually associate them with the deserts of the arid southwest. One of the species had strongly ridged stems that ran laterally through the mangroves, growing on them and fences like an epiphyte.
That evening we made another trip to Eco Pond. Squirrel frogs were calling. We saw a leopard frog near the viewing platform. The pond was the setting for the real show. The bright red eyes of alligators glared from the water. They swam fast and bellowed, for it was their courtship season.
A bull ’gator in the center of the pond raised his head and slapped it against the water, creating a noise like thunder and an incredible splash. No doubt the lady ’gators were impressed with his antics. The alligators’ actions that night assured the future of their species, at least for a few more years.
Annotation
Information on anoe trails and hiking trails is available https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/trailguides.htm
Some of the trekking described in this article requires a professional guide service.
Canals and Lakes (March 26)
The wind was stiff and the canoeing difficult on Mud Lake, Coot Bay, and Bear Lake. The whitecaps added a sense of discouragement. Two of the participants had to be rescued and split up. When we reached them at the shore, one was standing on the prop roots of the red mangrove trees that lined the shore, and the other was swimming quite near an alligator. She had grown up in Mobile and claimed to be familiar with the behavior of ’gators. Why she went for a swim is beyond me, except perhaps because of the lack of any bathrooms in the immediate vicinity.
With these two participants placed in the bows of canoes steered by strong paddlers in the stern of each, we continued our journey. Thus, we faced the stiff winds, which carried one benefit —they sent the usually ever-present mosquitoes elsewhere.
The canal between Mud Lake and Coot Bay was so dense with mangroves that we had to make sudden turns to avoid the growth. Nevertheless, we saw several Bald Eagles and yet another Swallow-tailed Kite.
Vultures circled the Bear Lake Canal as we approached. One member of our party predicted a dead alligator in the canal. This prediction accurate. The alligator was badly bloated, with skin stretched tight by the gases that must have been building up inside the decomposing body. The gas-filled carcass floated high in the water.
The alligator was male, a bull gator, with reproductive organs distended not by hormones but by the gaseous products of decomposition that now controlled its body. One of our guides wanted to further investigate the gator, but the other reminded him that rupturing the body could result in the expulsion of gas and decaying flesh.
The winds and waves conspired to prevent much wildlife observation that day, so we returned to our rooms. We heard that an American Crocodile had been spotted in the boat basin, and I was anxious to see this endangered animal.
The American Crocodile is quite different from the American Alligator, its abundant distant relative. Where the alligator lives solely in fresh water, the crocodile is quite at home in brackish water, sometimes even salt water. It has a pointed, angular snout, where the alligator has a rounded one. The crocodile’s lower teeth protrude outside the upper lips.
The greatest difference, though, is in the level of danger presented by encountering a crocodile as opposed to an alligator. The alligators of wild lands, such as the ’gator holes out in the wet prairies, are elusive. They swim or run from approaching humans. The alligators of boardwalks and highly traveled waters are habituated to humans, lounging on banks and emergent vegetation as they pass by. Some have even been fed by humans. This familiarity makes them more dangerous, especially when hungry or accompanied by young.
Encountering a crocodile is an entirely different proposition. Crocodiles are downright aggressive, prone to attack under many circumstances. We observed this crocodile from the opposite shore and saw no movement on its part at all. It could very well have been a log, except for the baleful green eye that remained open, regarding us with no expression whatsoever.
Florida Bay (March 27)
We canoed out into Florida Bay. It was the wrong time of year to search for manatees and sea turtles, but several stingrays kicked up sand and moved on as we approached them.
The bird life was more than impressive. White Pelicans perched on mud flats next to their brown cousins. The difference between white and brown pelicans is more than color and is truly apparent when they are seen together. The White Pelican is gigantic next to its brown cousin.
A large number and variety of sandpipers also populated the mudflats. Dunlin, Dowitcher, Marbled Godwit, and Willets were everywhere. The shallows near these mudflats must have been filled with fish, for osprey fished near us much of the time. Two Bald Eagles circled overhead.
With a strong landward breeze, we concluded the trip by joining the canoes and hoisting our rain ponchos onto the canoe paddles as sails. As we approached the shore, more and more people came out on the dock to see the strange craft coming toward them. Their wonderment gave way to laughter when we were close.
Previous evenings had been devoted to informational sessions on the geology, hydrology, and life forms of the Everglades, but this evening was one for rest and relaxation before the following day’s drive to the Miami airport and the flight home.
Owls of Springtime
This story from Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge Previously published in The Art of Living
Humans alone seem limited in their sensory abilities at this time of day. An owl has no trouble seeing the mouse it searches out for dinner. A fox follows with ease the trail of a quail or a rabbit.
I stand in a patch of moonlight opened by the fall of a live oak that grew in the too soft soil of the island. The opening is bathed in the shadowy moonlight.
My trained eye picks out the individual branches of the live oaks and red maples; even the Spanish moss draped over the branches. With time, our eyes adjust to moonlight. The night world is one of sharpness and clarity, but without color.
Beyond the island stretches the water and cypress world of Okefenokee swamp. Maps tell me that this water world has boundaries, but my senses tell a different story. My eyes and ears tell me I could get in a canoe and travel forever. At the end of that journey the swamp would go on.
In early March the cypress are already green with new growth. The maples are in bloom with their diminutive red flowers and the light barely penetrates to the water. American poet James Weldon Johnson used a land much like this as an analogy for the darkness present before the creation of the sun. He referred to that time as “…blacker than a hundred midnights down in a cypress swamp.”
Nothings seems to be moving out on the swamp. No bull gators bellow their amorous intentions now. No heron is spooked from its roost with such hoarse squawking to make me believe that the ghosts of nearby Billy’s Island have come to life.
I step back from the clearing, keenly aware of the incomparable alertness of the nighttime creatures. The wondering raccoon needs no flashlight to find the remnants of our evening meal. The owls in the treetops have seen and heard our small party before we even thought of looking for them. How many times have I cursed a missing tent stake, despite my good night vision, only to find it beside my tent in the morning, not four inches from the wooden stake I cut from my firewood as a substitute?
The sense that I most associate with nighttime though, is hearing. The crickets chirp, the tree frogs trill and the pig frogs grunt. I cup my hands beside my open mouth and softly hoot into the darkness. So my mentor did before me and so his before him. With a low call at first, I imitate the eight syllable call of the barred owl. As I increase the volume, an owl answers in the distance, and then another. The woods are home to a nesting pair, defending their territory from me, the intruder.
Owls are made that way. They will not tolerate any strangers wandering into their territory. The island has just enough mice, voles, and cotton rats to support them and one year’s progeny. The hoot of an intruder is a query of a traveler looking for a home. The answer is the equivalent of “scram.”
Later that night I awaken. Something has stirred the owls in the 3:00 AM darkness. Always vigilant, the pair defends their Island home.
Request a copy of Southern Swanmps from Ray Zimmerman, znaturalist (at) gmail.com The zene contains this article, another previousoly publised article about Photographic Opportunities in OIkefenokee, and Ray's journals from Okefenokee and Everglades.
With annotations on more recent happenings at Everglades
I hardly slept last night. I have heard of this Everglades, this River of Grass, all my life. I left Chattanooga just as the redbud tress announced the spring bloom. The dogwood wasn’t open yet, and the wildflowers just begun to carpet the forest floor.” (March 23)
We twelve changed planes at the Atlanta airport with its numerous gates, moving walkways, and baggage cars, Not used to air travel, I decided that the old saying must be true, “You can get to heaven, but you have to change planes in Atlanta.” The Miami airport seemed just as busy and crowded.
Touchdown was a welcome relief. When I must spend extended portions of time in the labyrinths of shopping malls, airports, or office buildings, I get the queasy feeling of being swallowed by a large machine. I have no desire to be assimilated by or integrated into such mega machines.
I was happy to see that our professional guides were there to greet us at the gate. We loaded our luggage, boarded the van, and were bound for Everglades National Park.
Our guides were young, muscular, tan, and constantly sipping on water, obeying the dogma of keeping the body and brain well hydrated. I got to know them somewhat over the next few days, although they always maintained a professional decorum.
As much as I love the wilderness, I am happy to leave the more athletic aspects of wilderness recreation to others. I am more likely to set up my tent and explore the surrounding area than to engage in a fifty-mile backpacking trip or a solo climb up a rugged peak. Our guides worked for an organization that stated this philosophy.
I soon realized that their interpretation of this description called for more vigorous activity than I had anticipated. Many of the other participants were even less prepared. This could have led to problems, but we all pitched in with good nature and effort.
The first day did not require vigorous exercise. We made a stop to pick up a trailer loaded with canoes. We then proceeded to the main entrance, a place that resembles a tollbooth on an expressway more than an entrance to a national park.
Lights in each lane told the drivers which tollbooths were open. Drivers paid the entrance fees for themselves and their passengers. Since our group had a prepaid permit, the wait time was shorter. Not so for other vehicles.
Once inside the park, we made a stop to view the exhibits at the visitors’ center. Dusk was approaching as we walked the Anhinga Boardwalk. The boardwalk’s namesake, an American Anhinga, also known as a water turkey, landed in the grass just off the walkway. It squawked like a banshee, waving its head from side to side.
The American Anhinga swam immersed in water with only neck and head exposed. This is the bird’s classic defensive pose. When we returned on this path, the bird sat on a nest in a low bush. Its noisy behavior was an attempt to distract us from the nest.
One alligator swam near a roosting night heron that neither moved nor even gave the huge reptile a passing glance. I had heard that the distance from an alligator’s eye to its nostril in inches was equal to the animal’s full length in feet. By visual inspection from a safe distance, these alligators seemed to conform to this belief. I was not tempted to field test this lore with a tape measure.
It was late March, still the dry season. The land on either side of us did not resemble the River of Grass, as described in the book with that title. The grass, unlike the towering stalks above our heads that I expected, was even shorter than the grasses of the Kansas and Illinois prairies that I remembered.
The grassy growth was brown, dormant in appearance. From our seats in the van, the surrounding soil appeared to be dry. I would later learn that this appearance was deceptive. The aquifer below the surface still held water that slowly worked its way toward the sea. Underfoot, the ground would be more like a sponge than solid land. It is a type of habitat known as wet prairie.
That night, we checked into our rooms at the Flamingo Lodge. The stucco walls of the lodge were much like those of a motel from 1950, with basic accommodations. The all-important air conditioner was more than functional, an especially pertinent factor since cooling the room helped to keep the mosquitoes in check. Our guides resided in a cabin nearby where we also prepared and ate our meals.
Annotations
Everglades facilities may slowly reopen as the Covid-19 crisis winds down.
Information on The Royal Palm Visitor Center and Anhinga Trail are here: https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/anhinga-trail.htm
Flamingo Lodge was destroyd by Hurricanes in 2005. A guide to current ammenities appears here:
https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/flamingo.htm
A Visit to Mrazek Pond (March 24)
The second day out we saw a White-crowned Pigeon. The bird had the shape of a mourning dove, with a distinctly white patch on the top of its head. Although not impressive in appearance, the White-crowned Pigeon is a rarity. Some bird watchers travel to Florida solely to view its unique avian fauna. Their list of birds to see is sure to include this unique individual.
The limestone caprock around this pond is incredibly tough but riddled with solution holes. These holes held water-loving plants such as scouring rushes (Equisetum hymale) and arrowhead. One hole provided a home for a spider whose web held a center that looked very much like a flower. The spider was lying in wait for any insect fooled by its web.
The land around the pond is home to sawgrass and dwarf cypress. The sawgrass has a tough leaf with a serrated edge that can cut the unwary traveler. The biologist in me took note of this adaptation that protects the plant from grazing.
The dwarf cypress was once thought to be a separate species from the taller cypress found around the open ponds. They are simply a different growth form. On this rocky land, the growth form is an expression of the abundance (or lack) of soil and water.
In the sawgrass and dwarf cypress forest, a variety of pink and white orchids bloomed. I did not know the species, but their flower parts included a stamp. The stamp is a part of the flower that rises above the petals and bends down to stamp pollen on visiting insects.
Our walk led us to a cypress dome, one of those low hills that surrounds open water and results from the accumulation of decaying vegetation. With each step, we heard the squishy sounds of mud beneath our shoes. We sank a bit further with each forward step, and a bit more water seeped into our shoes each time. When we reached the cypress dome, the soil was dry.
Stiff-leaved bromeliads, with their resemblance to miniature pineapple plants, adorned the cypress trees. They were blooming with tiny red sepals and purple petals and were very pretty under the appropriate magnification of a field microscope.
The center of such cypress domes is generally a ’gator hole, with the opening maintained by a resident alligator. It is home to fish and other water animals during the dry season. The alligator provides them with living space and collects a tax in the form of occasional meals.
The center of this dome was about nine inches deep, marshy and choked with aquatic vegetation, indicating no resident gator. The aquatic plants known as arrowhead filled the center with their emergent notched leaves and brilliant purple flowers. The water thrived with dragonfly larvae, predacious diving beetles, and smaller aquatic insects. A tiny fish, possibly gambusia (mosquito fish), was abundant.
Farther into the glades we approached a second cypress dome and saw the resident ’gator disappear into the water just as we got close. Unlike its relatives near the boardwalks and visitor centers, this lively fellow did not remain close by for us to observe. The results of its residence were evident in the open water of the ’gator hole.
At this dome, as at the first, the stiff-leaved bromeliads were blooming. Spanish moss and Bell’s moss (both of which are actually bromeliads and not truly mosses) hung from cypress branches.
That evening the guides presented a lecture on the geologic history of Florida and the Caribbean.
Annotation
Flamingo Visitor Center and Mrazek Pond https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/flamdirections.htm
Mahogany Hammock Trail https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/mahogany-hammock-trail.htm
Eco Pond, Mahogany Hammock, and Nine Mile Pond (March 25)
The bird life at Eco Pond included diverse number of species and the sheer numbers of birds told me that this was a special place. That morning we saw an American Anhinga, Great Egret, Snowy Egret, Purple Gallinule, and Osprey. I photographed a male painted bunting with its red, blue, and yellow plumage. We returned several times since this pond was close to the hotel.
The Mahogany Hammock supported the lush, dense growth of the tropics. Aside from the large mahogany, we saw white stopper, poisonwood, needle-leaved wild-pine, and several species of ferns. I paused to consider the disappearance of mahogany and other tropical hardwoods for consumption by industrial countries.
When we ate lunch at the Mahogany Hammock, a raccoon came out of the woods to beg for food. He was very light in color compared to raccoons of the more northern latitudes that I call home. For some reason, these little wash bears (the literal meaning of their name in German—waschbar) get lighter in color as the observer travels closer to the tropics. Those in the Florida Keys are almost blond.
At Nine Mile Pond we made our first trip by canoe. White Pelicans, also known as river pelicans, perched in the trees along the canoe trail. Roseate Spoonbills were common and turned the sky pink when they all flew at once. This area was clearly a transition zone, with fresh water spikerush and predatory bladderwort plants growing among the roots of mangroves, a low tree generally limited to salt and brackish water.
The going got tough through the shallows. Navigating a canoe across shallow mud is mainly an exercise in brute strength, but we were rewarded with a view of incredibly diverse plant and bird life. A rare Swallow-tailed Kite flew overhead, the broad forks of the tail making it impossible to misidentify. Soon after the kite passed, an osprey carrying a fish flew overhead.
We saw several cacti among the mangroves. They seemed out of place in this wet setting. I usually associate them with the deserts of the arid southwest. One of the species had strongly ridged stems that ran laterally through the mangroves, growing on them and fences like an epiphyte.
That evening we made another trip to Eco Pond. Squirrel frogs were calling. We saw a leopard frog near the viewing platform. The pond was the setting for the real show. The bright red eyes of alligators glared from the water. They swam fast and bellowed, for it was their courtship season.
A bull ’gator in the center of the pond raised his head and slapped it against the water, creating a noise like thunder and an incredible splash. No doubt the lady ’gators were impressed with his antics. The alligators’ actions that night assured the future of their species, at least for a few more years.
Annotation
Information on anoe trails and hiking trails is available https://www.nps.gov/ever/planyourvisit/trailguides.htm
Some of the trekking described in this article requires a professional guide service.
Canals and Lakes (March 26)
The wind was stiff and the canoeing difficult on Mud Lake, Coot Bay, and Bear Lake. The whitecaps added a sense of discouragement. Two of the participants had to be rescued and split up. When we reached them at the shore, one was standing on the prop roots of the red mangrove trees that lined the shore, and the other was swimming quite near an alligator. She had grown up in Mobile and claimed to be familiar with the behavior of ’gators. Why she went for a swim is beyond me, except perhaps because of the lack of any bathrooms in the immediate vicinity.
With these two participants placed in the bows of canoes steered by strong paddlers in the stern of each, we continued our journey. Thus, we faced the stiff winds, which carried one benefit —they sent the usually ever-present mosquitoes elsewhere.
The canal between Mud Lake and Coot Bay was so dense with mangroves that we had to make sudden turns to avoid the growth. Nevertheless, we saw several Bald Eagles and yet another Swallow-tailed Kite.
Vultures circled the Bear Lake Canal as we approached. One member of our party predicted a dead alligator in the canal. This prediction accurate. The alligator was badly bloated, with skin stretched tight by the gases that must have been building up inside the decomposing body. The gas-filled carcass floated high in the water.
The alligator was male, a bull gator, with reproductive organs distended not by hormones but by the gaseous products of decomposition that now controlled its body. One of our guides wanted to further investigate the gator, but the other reminded him that rupturing the body could result in the expulsion of gas and decaying flesh.
The winds and waves conspired to prevent much wildlife observation that day, so we returned to our rooms. We heard that an American Crocodile had been spotted in the boat basin, and I was anxious to see this endangered animal.
The American Crocodile is quite different from the American Alligator, its abundant distant relative. Where the alligator lives solely in fresh water, the crocodile is quite at home in brackish water, sometimes even salt water. It has a pointed, angular snout, where the alligator has a rounded one. The crocodile’s lower teeth protrude outside the upper lips.
The greatest difference, though, is in the level of danger presented by encountering a crocodile as opposed to an alligator. The alligators of wild lands, such as the ’gator holes out in the wet prairies, are elusive. They swim or run from approaching humans. The alligators of boardwalks and highly traveled waters are habituated to humans, lounging on banks and emergent vegetation as they pass by. Some have even been fed by humans. This familiarity makes them more dangerous, especially when hungry or accompanied by young.
Encountering a crocodile is an entirely different proposition. Crocodiles are downright aggressive, prone to attack under many circumstances. We observed this crocodile from the opposite shore and saw no movement on its part at all. It could very well have been a log, except for the baleful green eye that remained open, regarding us with no expression whatsoever.
Florida Bay (March 27)
We canoed out into Florida Bay. It was the wrong time of year to search for manatees and sea turtles, but several stingrays kicked up sand and moved on as we approached them.
The bird life was more than impressive. White Pelicans perched on mud flats next to their brown cousins. The difference between white and brown pelicans is more than color and is truly apparent when they are seen together. The White Pelican is gigantic next to its brown cousin.
A large number and variety of sandpipers also populated the mudflats. Dunlin, Dowitcher, Marbled Godwit, and Willets were everywhere. The shallows near these mudflats must have been filled with fish, for osprey fished near us much of the time. Two Bald Eagles circled overhead.
With a strong landward breeze, we concluded the trip by joining the canoes and hoisting our rain ponchos onto the canoe paddles as sails. As we approached the shore, more and more people came out on the dock to see the strange craft coming toward them. Their wonderment gave way to laughter when we were close.
Previous evenings had been devoted to informational sessions on the geology, hydrology, and life forms of the Everglades, but this evening was one for rest and relaxation before the following day’s drive to the Miami airport and the flight home.
Owls of Springtime
This story from Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge Previously published in The Art of Living
Humans alone seem limited in their sensory abilities at this time of day. An owl has no trouble seeing the mouse it searches out for dinner. A fox follows with ease the trail of a quail or a rabbit.
I stand in a patch of moonlight opened by the fall of a live oak that grew in the too soft soil of the island. The opening is bathed in the shadowy moonlight.
My trained eye picks out the individual branches of the live oaks and red maples; even the Spanish moss draped over the branches. With time, our eyes adjust to moonlight. The night world is one of sharpness and clarity, but without color.
Beyond the island stretches the water and cypress world of Okefenokee swamp. Maps tell me that this water world has boundaries, but my senses tell a different story. My eyes and ears tell me I could get in a canoe and travel forever. At the end of that journey the swamp would go on.
In early March the cypress are already green with new growth. The maples are in bloom with their diminutive red flowers and the light barely penetrates to the water. American poet James Weldon Johnson used a land much like this as an analogy for the darkness present before the creation of the sun. He referred to that time as “…blacker than a hundred midnights down in a cypress swamp.”
Nothings seems to be moving out on the swamp. No bull gators bellow their amorous intentions now. No heron is spooked from its roost with such hoarse squawking to make me believe that the ghosts of nearby Billy’s Island have come to life.
I step back from the clearing, keenly aware of the incomparable alertness of the nighttime creatures. The wondering raccoon needs no flashlight to find the remnants of our evening meal. The owls in the treetops have seen and heard our small party before we even thought of looking for them. How many times have I cursed a missing tent stake, despite my good night vision, only to find it beside my tent in the morning, not four inches from the wooden stake I cut from my firewood as a substitute?
The sense that I most associate with nighttime though, is hearing. The crickets chirp, the tree frogs trill and the pig frogs grunt. I cup my hands beside my open mouth and softly hoot into the darkness. So my mentor did before me and so his before him. With a low call at first, I imitate the eight syllable call of the barred owl. As I increase the volume, an owl answers in the distance, and then another. The woods are home to a nesting pair, defending their territory from me, the intruder.
Owls are made that way. They will not tolerate any strangers wandering into their territory. The island has just enough mice, voles, and cotton rats to support them and one year’s progeny. The hoot of an intruder is a query of a traveler looking for a home. The answer is the equivalent of “scram.”
Later that night I awaken. Something has stirred the owls in the 3:00 AM darkness. Always vigilant, the pair defends their Island home.
Request a copy of Southern Swanmps from Ray Zimmerman, znaturalist (at) gmail.com The zene contains this article, another previousoly publised article about Photographic Opportunities in OIkefenokee, and Ray's journals from Okefenokee and Everglades.