Читать книгу Snake in the Grass - Larry Perez - Страница 8

Introduction

Within the confines of a wooden box, most pythons find comfort in collecting their coils and sitting motionless in a corner. So still do they remain that, were it not for the nearly undetectable inflation that accompanies breath, they would appear altogether lifeless. Though strange and slightly disconcerting to us as observers, this knack for deceptive immobility no doubt serves them well in the wild.

Today, however, Damien squirms nervously in his enclosure. Through a pane of Plexiglas I watch as the eight-foot Burmese python elongates his heavy body and slowly probes every crack and crevice of the white-washed box in which he resides. He methodically surveys the walls around him, seemingly intent on finding any available exit. He performs this show for hours—unwittingly providing entertainment for both me and a non-stop gaggle of gawkers who visit my traveling display.

Years of working as a ranger for Everglades National Park have rewarded me with a truly varied career. Working in one of the most dynamic landscapes on the planet offers an endless procession of new challenges, adventures, and duties. Winters usually find me escorting throngs of visitors along narrow trails festooned with hundreds of alligators, birds, and turtles. The arrival of spring brings the possibility of wildfires and a chance to don safety gear and battle fast-moving blazes. Summer spawns foes both big and small—from hordes of ravenous mosquitoes, to the daunting power of tropical cyclones.

Fortunately, this muggy Sunday in April offers a more sedate assignment. Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, a popular attraction in southeast Florida, is hosting its inaugural “Everglades Day” and Damien and I are in attendance to provide information about the park to potential visitors. We have been provided a table in a prominent location in the garden, upon which I’ve thrown a colorful tablecloth emblazoned with the National Park Service logo. On display is a full array of maps, stickers, and literature addressing all manner of present-day issues from restoration to climate change. Behind us I’ve erected three large banners, custom printed with eye-catching graphics, intended to convey the park story at a glance. All the while, Damien remains in constant motion in his cage at the end of the table.

Before meeting me, Damien was yet another nameless python captured by the park’s resource management staff. Now he is being used temporarily for the benefit of public education. I christened him this morning when one of the park biologists dropped him off to me at Fairchild, complete with his sealed enclosure. “I don’t think you’ll need to get in there,” he assured me while showcasing the hefty padlock securing the tank, “but if you do, the code is 6-6-6.” With that, I could only guess as to what the snake’s temperament was at the time of capture.

Throughout the day, in a conference room not far from my display, scientists from Everglades National Park deliver presentations about Florida panthers, prescribed burns, seagrass scarring, American alligators, and hydrology. Between talks, participants stroll leisurely around my area, where various community organizations have also set up shop. As they mill between tables, I notice nearly everyone is compelled to stop and chat with me. Most are gregarious and eager to learn about my display—but not thanks to my colorful exhibits and handouts. Damien, with flicks of his tongue and an occasional flash of his belly, has easily stolen the show.

Burmese pythons like Damien are a hot topic of conversation for the south Florida community, and they’re a growing concern for biologists here and elsewhere. As early as 2000, speculation surfaced that a breeding population of alien pythons had become established in the wilds of Everglades National Park. As these snakes commonly grow to lengths of 16 feet in their native range, the mere thought of such large constrictors invading the wilderness is unnerving at best. As years progressed, theory became fact with the discovery of pythons of various ages, egg-bearing females, and nests. Today, pythons are captured by the hundreds annually, and researchers believe that tens of thousands may now be saturating the area. Necropsies performed on recovered pythons reveal their hunger is satisfied by consuming a wide variety of birds and mammals. And beyond south Florida, scientists and policymakers weigh the odds of invasion by similar species elsewhere.

While his brethren exert untold effects on one of the crown jewels of the American national park system, Damien continues luring the attention of adults and children alike. His charisma is, of course, far from isolated. Everyone loves to talk about snakes and, after years of public presentations, I know everyone has a story to tell. That’s not to say that everyone loves snakes, or that stories of encounters always have a happy ending. But for whatever reason, people share a universal fascination for reptiles like Damien. The history of the Sunshine State is rife with examples of how people have tried to capitalize on our interest in snakes—using them as stage props and marketing gimmicks for tourist attractions, zoos, wildlife shows, and the like. And they’ve been successful, largely because few of us are truly ambivalent about reptiles. Love them or hate them, an attraction exists that I would never profess to understand.

Perhaps it is this attraction, though, that manifests itself as concern on this day. Throughout the event, several people inquire as to when Damien ate last. “I’m not sure,” comes my reply. “We captured him only last week in the park.” Conversation then shifts to inquiries about when I expect to feed him in the future. “Never,” comes my admittedly heartless reply. My guests seem puzzled at first, but comprehension quickly sets in. Presumably just to be certain, they then ask me what I intend to do with Damien.

There are some things that I would rather not do in the course of my job, but am expected to do nonetheless—and carrying forth such conversations certainly counts as one. After all, I spend the majority of my time extolling the virtues of a treasured landscape, attempting to instill an appreciation for south Florida’s cultural and natural heritage. I usually do so in full “park ranger” regalia—green pants, gray shirt, hiking boots, shoulder patch, and gold-plated badge. The flat hat that sits gingerly upon my head casts me as an iconic symbol of environmental stewardship and protection. I am among the ranks of thousands of rangers around the country who work daily to protect some of America’s most precious resources. And with any luck, I can encourage others to adopt a similar ethic of conservation.

Yet, the issue of invasive species can sometimes cast us in a different light. The truth, as I share with my visitors that day, is that Damien is simply not long for this world. After our display at Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, one of two things may happen to Damien. A select few of the pythons captured from the Everglades are implanted with radio transmitters and again released into the park. These few become living experiments that help scientists learn a great deal about how these animals move and behave in the Glades. They are also instrumental in helping track down additional pythons in the field. To date, of the more than 1,700 pythons that have been captured and documented by park biologists over the last decade, only a handful of snakes have been used for this purpose.

Thus, odds are that Damien will find himself in the company of those much less fortunate. Like the vast majority of pythons recovered alive, he will be euthanized. Once expired, he might then be taken to a nearby lab, stretched across a large, cold table and eviscerated. His limp remains will be used to populate a growing data set that feeds our knowledge of the species and informs management decisions. It is a gruesome, yet necessary, reality—one that seldom sits well with the likes of those presently ogling my display.

And so a familiar round of well-intentioned questions begins. “Couldn’t you put him up for adoption, or sell him to someone for a pet?” comes one suggestion. “Why can’t they be captured and sent back to their native Asia for release? Aren’t they endangered there?” returns another. “With so many running around out there right now, what’s one more?” resounds another compassionate plea. Their inquiries are clearly motivated by genuine compassion for the living, sentient being stirring helplessly in its cage, unaware that a day of reckoning draws near.

A poignant testament to his future fate lies before him for all to see: covering the full length of a wooden banquet table, and cascading down either side, I have unfurled the preserved skin of a nearly 15-foot python recovered from the park only a year before. As my visitors sample the rough texture of the mottled brown hide with their fingers, I answer their queries with a rhetorical thought of my own: is it realistic to suppose that thousands of 15-foot pythons could be readily adopted, or transported and transplanted overseas, or rereleased into a landscape we are spending billions of dollars to restore? Any such endeavor would necessarily entail significant risks, considerable costs, or potentially unintended consequences.

What has led us down the path that now mandates the wanton destruction of strikingly beautiful creatures like Damien? Why must organizations and individuals, in benevolent service to our land and resources, now serve as judge, jury, and executioners to thousands of living pythons? And why, despite the size and fearsome reputation of such large snakes, does it wrench the gut, tug on the heart strings, and—for some—seem to generate nothing but bad karma? Indeed, what brings us to this unfortunate crossroads, where every avenue results in a loss?

By two o’clock, the day’s scheduled talks have finished. On either side of me, my fellow exhibitors begin to break down their portable exhibits and pack up their materials. I take a cue from them and begin to collect my own goods, packing them away in a neat, methodical manner as I’ve done so many times before. Though I am certain to find myself at another similar event again in the very near future, I’m equally certain that Damien, my alluring assistant for the day, will not be joining me.