2006-04-30
river of grass
In Shark Valley, the grass flowed like a river. Swamp lilies and cattails bloomed along the banks.
We picked out our bikes as if choosing a pony for the trail.
As soon as we pushed off, I spotted a gator snoozing in the wide canal near the road. He (or she) blended well with the stones and sawgrass. The dark water was swarming with gators the size and shape of fallen logs. They never quit watching us.
Sometimes they would snap open their jaws, exposing smooth, rubber-pink tongues, as if saying, "Danger."
The signs warned us to keep "fifteen feet" away from "wildlife." Still, everyone stopped to take pictures.
After an hour, my legs began to burn. I could see nothing on the horizon except mountains of bleached white clouds. Turkey vultures dangled on the breeze like a pair of commas.
The bike creaked in 4/4 time as I pedaled. The same withered pines kept passing, as in a cartoon. I saw a little sunburned girl hitch a ride on the back of her brother's ten-speed, her arms latched around his waist. She couldn't pedal anymore.
The grass looked thirsty. Zebra-striped butterflies mazed the air. Tiny armored locusts (or "lubbers" as Dad calls them) crawled into the road. I wondered why they didn't burn up in a puff of smoke.
The spiraling lookout tower at the end of the path reminded me of futuristic farm, straight out of Disney's Epcot.
I wanted to climb the ladder, but it was locked with a rusty chain.
Loggerhead turtles poked their snouts through the lily pads. Did those tangled vines ever bloom? Gators and turtles sat side by side, sharing the same rocks. "Old friends," I whispered.
On the way back, a lean gator stretched across the road, blocking our path. A few people in shorts and baseball caps gathered in a circle around him. Nobody dared to step any closer.
Minutes later, he raised himself up on stubby feet and waddled into the water. I watched him curve snakelike across the canal.
In the cement, you could still the damp outline of his silhouette.
We decided to take the wider, curvier bike trail. The ponytailed woman at the front desk had said, "The way up is easy. The way back will kick your ass." At first, I didn't understand. Then I realized she meant the wind, which pushed us like a fist.
The Everglades had sucked in its edges, crisscrossed with dried mud. I didn't see as many gators. Those I spotted were spackled with a sugary coat of dust. They hid in small stagnant-looking pools, always watching in silence.
At last, I spotted tall birds--anhinga, heron and wood storks--drying their wings like dancers taking a bow.
Inside the park's gift shop was a display of old-fashioned hats decked with egret feathers. Thousands of birds in the Everglades were butchered for the hat craze. I stared at a photo of a gun-toting woman with avalanche of dead birds at her feet. Her smile made my stomach churn.
Empty shells gleamed under glass. They once belonged to Florida apple snails.
The gator skull kept all 400 of its pointy teeth. If a tooth falls out, they simply grow another.
Who would dare molest an alligator?
We stopped at a gas station for cold drinks. In the back, they sold live bait in buckets, along with souvenirs---all kinds of tropical junk, from collector's plates decorated with dolphins, to withered gator heads (stacked above the plastic toys), to pirate snow globes and mugs shaped like nipples and bikinis.
I saw no fishermen in the parking lot (though plenty were casting lines in the weedy canals near the highway).
I bought cafe con leche and pastries from a corner stand. Bearded men on Harley Davidson bikes pulled up for coffee. They never took off their sunglasses.
On the way home, I saw a trio of horses clopping through a parking lot. The riders trotted past a dentist's office as cars swerved around them. I waved and they waved back. They must've lived nearby---maybe in one of the gated communities that have sprouted near the Miccosukee casino. Every time I visit Shark Valley, the cypress trees seem thinner. McMansions stretch on for miles and the birds keep circling, looking for a place to land.
f-i-n at 7:29 p.m.