Mari Ness - So, the alligator story...

This is badly out of sequence, but since a lot of you apparently wanted to hear the alligator story....

So Memorial Day I woke up bright and early, which was just wrong. Memorial Day is intended -- indeed, I believe that an Act of Congress decrees this -- for a nice, leisurely morning in which we all wake up very very later.

But this particular Memorial Day was actually Swamp Day, or more specifically, the day I joined two marine biologists to go out and look at Big Cypress Swamp Park. They had been told that they needed to see something besides coral reefs and mangrove forests, and I had been told that I had a driveable car, which is how all of us got together.

Big Cypress, for those of you unfamiliar with the area, can be reached in one of two ways by car: the infamous Alligator Alley or the even more infamous Tamiami Trail. Since Alligator Alley is now a nice four lane highway that's a relatively easy drive, we didn't take it. We instead took the Tamiami Trail, which meant driving down through Miami-Dade county and heading out past the nice new gambling resort out there that overlooks the Everglades.

"I bet they have Starbucks," I said, in my very best "I'm dying for coffee" voice.

"They probably don't have any tree snails."

Marine biologists are nuts.

But anyway.

So off we drove down the Tamiami Trail, also known as The Road That Should Be One of Florida's Most Scenic, but Isn't. It isn't because on one side you have a big dike preventing you from seeing the Everglades (and not incidentally helping to destroy the Everglades, but that is a different entry) and on the other side you have a lot of ugly scrub, until finally you more or less get out of the national park part of the Everglades and into Big Cypress, which is mostly a preserve and partly owned by various private owners. It's a bit disconcerting to watch construction going on in the middle of what are supposedly federally protected wetlands.

We spent the morning visiting various parts of the swamp, and looking at things. ("Things" is as scientific as I got. They were colorful things, though.) We ate, and then it was time for our big expedition down Loop Road.

Loop Road is called a "scenic drive" by the federal government; a "nice resting spot" by various alligators; "a paradise for insect life" by those in the know; and "not recommended for driving purposes by a Civic" by the Honda Corporation. (Frankly, I don't know for certain that the Honda Corporation actually has any knowledge of Loop Road, but I am certain that they didn't plan on having a Honda Civic drive on it.)

We were assured by various people at the Info Site that the road was, indeed, safe, if we didn't mind a little adventure.

"Couldn't we find adventure off of Loop Road?" I suggested.

But this was not adventurous. So, armed with sodas, cookies, and Off SunTan Lotion with Bug Spray, we trundled onto Loop Road.

Loop Road has various signs saying "Speed Limit 25 miles per hour." Aside from occasional little bits, these are quite unnecessary signs, at least at the end of May. We drove along nice and slowly, which did at least give us plenty of time to look at the insects (lots of insects) and look at --

"I think we may have a problem," I said.

"It might not rain," said one of the marine biologists hopefully.

"Yeah, but if it does, we do not want to be in this car on this road when it --"

It started to rain.

The road now became interesting. It had been fairly interesting before (it's like driving on a dirt road through Dagobah, really, and I'm not kidding) what with all the hanging trees and swamp feel, but now I could not help noticing the small problem that the gravel was sinking into the mud. This was in part because --

"They're doing CONSTRUCTION here?"

"They kinda need to. The road's out of gravel."

This was apparent. We crept forward in the rain, watching as it started raining harder and harder, trying to figure out what the chances were of the car slipping off the road or sinking when all of a sudden I saw The Alligator. I'm capitalizing it, because it was the sort of alligator that needs to be capitalized.

It was, I suppose, an ordinary enough looking alligator, with but two small flaws: one, it was about nine feet long, and two, it has stretched itself across this one lane mud and gravel road.

"Can you drive past it?"

"If I drive on its tail," I said cheerfully.

"Hmm."

The alligator didn't move. I honked the horn. This did nothing to rouse a response in the alligator.

"Maybe it's dead."

"How can you tell?"

"You two are the marine biologists!"

"We can detect dead fish."

This was all very unhelpful. I honked the horn again. Still no movement from the alligator.

"Maybe we can wrestle it or something."

Nobody felt inclined to wrestle it.

"You'd think it would want to be resting in the water or something."

"It kinda is," one of the marine biologists pointed out, truthfully enough, as the rain continued to belt its way down.

"I may have to back up," I said, in a not very cheerful tone of voice. (This would have meant going in reverse, through the rain, on a muddy/gravel road surrounded by water, in the rain.)

"Honk again."

I honked, and then opened the window and yelled. "Hey, you! You're not endangered anymore, you know!"

This did not seem to impress the alligator.

"You wouldn't really --"

"It would damage the car."

So we ate some cookies.

Eventually, and I do mean eventually, the alligator decided that the road wasn't fun anymore, so it slithered off, and we were able to continue driving along.

All this said, I wouldn't mind exploring Loop Road again when it's drier -- as long as I have more cookies on hand to help me wait out the alligators.