Everglades Trip

We slide into a greasy booth at Denny’s, the only joint open on New Years’ Eve in breezy, slightly sleazy, Homestead, poised to eat our last supper before we get lost in the wild. Tonight we’ll crash at the youth hostel and tomorrow hit the Evil Empire for supplies, the only place open on New Years’ Day.

We explode into our tiny rented room, and, chatting distractedly, pack the backcountry essentials in water-tight dry bags. Inspired by Peter Menzel’s Hungry Planet, we snap a photo of our food provisions for the week. The air conditioner strains in the background. The temperature is unseasonably warm, made warmer by the fact that we just left two Colorado blizzards in our wake.

Me: So are you freaked out about the heat and the bugs and the gators?

Casey: A little.

Donning white-long sleeved shirts, broad-brimmed hats, and khaki pants, we resemble a team of bumbling missionaries as we put in at Hell’s Bay the following morning. Over one-hundred white poles pepper the trail but we lose our way in the snaking mangroves until we spill out into the bay and feel the gentle exhale of a southeast wind. Back at the helm, Casey uses the GPS to pinpoint the chickee’s location and inwardly I marvel at the range of his skills. That night, we awaken to the sound of a porpoise scouring the waters for a midnight snack. His breath is deliberate and unhurried; spellbound, we drift back to sleep.

Day 2 we head toward Robert’s River and fool-heartedly dive off the chickee for a refreshing afternoon swim. Two hours later a 5-foot alligator emerges and a second paddles across the channel as if on cue. He stations himself just a few feet from the canoe awaiting his nightly handout. A stare-down contest ensues. He’s got a brain the size of a walnut but his gaze commands respect.

By Day 3, we are downright smitten with the glades and now understand why Marjory Stoneman Douglas worked so hard to safeguard its future. At North River, an osprey shields his spiky nest from aloft and surveys the brackish waters for fish. We paddle past sticky gumbo limbo trees and limber strangler figs and downed cypress logs. Everywhere, everywhere, the mangroves spread their roots into the thick oozing mud, the world’s largest living Twister game.

The days pass but the notorious swamp angels never appear, though the no-seeums provide a one-night show at Joe River. The ranger told us that last year’s hurricane all but wiped out the mosquitoes but I refuse to mourn their loss. After a quick gator scout at North River, we bathe for the first time in days at the chickee’s edge and prepare an early dinner of ranch beans and rice followed by a shot of single malt whiskey. Millions of stars glitter across the evening sky like mica fragments and again we hear the slow, labored breath of the porpoise. I could get used to this life, like the Calusa Indians and the rumrunners and the escaped slaves, only I'll need a supply of chocolate at the ready.

Casey: So what’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home?

Me: Join Friends of the Everglades. Such a simple New Years' resolution.