Читать книгу Snake in the Grass - Larry Perez - Страница 9

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Snakes on a Sawgrass Plain

I remember being tired, and a bit bored, by late afternoon on May 22, 2001. It had been a typical spring day at the Ernest Coe Visitor Center, the main contact station in Everglades National Park. During the morning hours, I had spoken with literally hundreds of folks who intended to spend the day touring the Glades by car, foot, and boat. Sporting my usual gray and green uniform, I spent most of the morning greeting the arriving masses, handing out maps and brochures, swearing in Junior Rangers, and answering the most common question in national parks across the country: “Where’s the bathroom?”

By midday, as the relentless south Florida sun swaddled the marsh in oppressive warmth, the arrival of visitors became predictably slow and sporadic. By late afternoon, only a trickle of hearty souls ventured in to take advantage of the waning daylight. During such times, I would often keep myself occupied by cleaning exhibits, stocking publications, or, more often than not, reading a book recently purchased from the visitor center gift shop. While I don’t recall the details of what I had been doing that day, I remember my boredom palpably giving way to curiosity as a young couple dragged a very large plastic container into the building.

The container itself would have been unremarkable, were it not bound tightly with light rope and perforated by crudely made holes in its top—cues that hinted something was alive inside. Despite well-publicized legal prohibitions on the capture, damage, harassment, or removal of plants and animals found in the park, it is not unusual to have some individuals innocently tote entire plants into the visitor center hoping for a positive identification. Children, in particular, are often blissfully unaware of their transgressions as they innocently pick flowers or scamper to capture the strange lizards and insects they encounter. And visitors have also been known to occasionally bring injured wildlife found in the park to the visitor center, under the erroneous assumption that the park is in the business of rehabilitation. I expected to be greeted by a similar situation as the pair of twenty-somethings made a beeline towards me.

Resting his heavy load awkwardly on my desk, the young man greeted me with a smile and proceeded to relay, in detail, how he and his girlfriend had stumbled upon and captured a large Burmese python earlier in the day near Mahogany Hammock—a popular walking trail located in roughly the dead center of the park. Recognizing that such a discovery was (at the time) a fairly odd occurrence, the pair had stopped at the visitor center before leaving the park to report the incident. It was their intention, they explained, to take the snake into town to an acquaintance in the business of breeding that particular species—no doubt a service to the park from their perspective.

Though the couple was well-mannered and seemingly acting in good faith, a great deal of suspicion immediately, and perhaps unfairly, stirred within me. Years of working in public parks has cultivated in me a healthy distrust that prompts me to be alert for people entering protected areas with pillowcases, nets, snake hooks, or probing questions that could be used to poach plants or animals. Though relatively few in number, there is a pervasive and passionate culture shared by many individuals that derives either personal pleasure, economic profit, or both, from collecting rare wildlife. Whatever the catalyst, orchids, butterflies, and artifacts have historically been pursued with great fervor by enthusiasts. Reptiles have the capacity to evoke in some a similar fanaticism that, for the truly passionate, can overshadow concerns about legality, ethics, and political boundaries. The truly zealous will often risk a great deal in the thrill of the hunt.

In this light, the pair before me had earned two strikes: having proven both their desire and ability to capture large serpents, and conveniently having had the foresight to bring along a large, empty, porous Rubbermaid container with ample rope to bind it. Such gear is not standard fare for a typical outing to a national park—and it seemed evident that the pair was actively hunting reptiles in a park well-known for hosting a diversity of cold-blooded fauna.

Despite my suspicions, I expressed a heartfelt thanks to my would-be volunteers and, without the slightest suggestion of wrongdoing, proceeded to provide a primer on park regulations prohibiting the removal of wildlife. All plants and animals, regardless of classification as either “native” or “exotic,” are protected from capture and harassment by park visitors—a necessary stipulation that safeguards critically threatened and endangered species against potential harm resulting from cases of mistaken identity. Permitting a free-for-all on the capture of nonnative constrictors in Everglades National Park could, for example, prove detrimental to the myriad native species for which they are often confused. “I’m really glad you guys caught it, but I can’t let you take this animal,” I remember saying. The lesson, as I recall, was a tough sell. After some deliberation, the young man reluctantly replied, “You can have the snake but . . . we want to keep our container.”

An impromptu search for an appropriate enclosure resulted in a large Rubbermaid vessel of our own. Both containers were placed side by side on the floor. The young woman watched silently as her companion slowly unwound the line, removed the perforated top, and quickly landed a grip around the neck of the thick serpent. Using both hands, he slowly hoisted the snake’s massive bulk head-first from one enclosure and deposited him tail-first into the next. Only when the eight-foot snake was coiled tightly in the new container did I bravely offer my services—in near unison, I secured the cover as the young man quickly released his hold on its head.

The transaction now complete, I thanked the couple once again for the service they rendered. Having successfully confiscated the large serpent, I bantered lightheartedly with the pair as we slowly sauntered out to their car in the parking lot. My purpose for the escort was more than mere chivalry—I was eager to note the make, model, and tag number of their vehicle. Shortly thereafter, I would pass this information along to our law enforcement division with a recommendation to be alert for suspicious activity.

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Prohibitions that guard against the damage or removal of wildlife in national parks protect nearly all living organisms within their borders—regardless of whether they are plentiful, endangered, native, or from another part of the world altogether. Though such regulations find their authority in governmental policy, they find ultimate justification in our modern understanding of basic ecology. With every new investigation, scientific observation reveals in greater relief how intricately all biological organisms are bound to the living and nonliving agents around them. Each, though clearly discernable from one another, acts as a critical strand in the proverbial web of life we are taught about in grade school. When one strand is pulled, stretched, twisted, or broken, the effects are felt to varying degrees across all its connections. Thus, maintaining the historic integrity of entire landscapes usually requires that each individual component from the largest predator to the smallest piece of wood, be allowed to fulfill its function in its natural place of origin.

Figuring out exactly what constitutes the natural state of a given ecosystem, however, can often prove difficult. Generally, our measure of wildness varies inversely with the proximity and influence of people. That is not to say, of course, that we are not an important cog in earth’s biological machinery. Over tens of thousands of years, human cultures have surely lived upon and exerted their influence over nearly every acre of the Americas. Yet only our most recent centuries have brought wholesale change to the landscape. Our relatively newfound ability to harness supplemental sources of energy now permits the total conversion of forests, deserts, and wetlands into permanently managed, artificial environments that cater largely to human comfort and efficiency. The irrevocable conversion of vast swaths of land has been accompanied by a growing realization that urbanization disrupts cycles and processes that directly and indirectly benefit all species—including city dwellers. Today, landscapes devoid of obvious human alteration are typically interpreted as “pristine,” and are afforded ever-increasing value for their preservation of natural resources, biodiversity, environmental processes, and recreational pursuits.

As our built environments continue to grow in unprecedented speed and size, greater appreciation is felt for preserving the historic integrity of what wild landscapes remain. It is that same lofty goal that inspired the designation of our first national parks, and continues to drive their management even today. In 1916, the United States Congress formally created the National Park Service. The fledgling agency was to assume stewardship of some of America’s most iconic landscapes, including Yellowstone, Yosemite, Crater Lake, and Mount Rainier. As guidance, Congress charged the new agency with a specific mission—preserving landscapes “intact for the benefit and enjoyment of future generations.”

Currently, the United States boasts nearly 400 distinct units managed by the National Park Service. They range in size from the 13.2 million-acre Wrangell–St. Elias National Park and Preserve in Alaska to the .02-acre Thaddeus Kosciuszko National Memorial in Philadelphia. Collectively they span more than two dozen management designations, including national seashores, recreation areas, military parks, cemeteries, lakeshores, scenic rivers, historic trails, and battlefields. Without a doubt, however, those that have received the greatest fame, and have etched themselves most clearly upon our consciousness, bear designation as national parks.

Indeed, the Grand Canyon, the redwood forests of the Pacific Northwest, and the Great Smoky Mountains all evoke images of larger-than-life landscapes that boggle logic and common sense with their scope and grandeur. The early years of our national preservation movement focused largely on the attractively textured terrain of the rugged American West, which often afforded vistas of such overwhelming scale they practically begged for protection in perpetuity. Every American, whether living or unborn, deserved a chance to witness the surging froth of Old Faithful, gaze upon the snow-capped peak of Mount Rainier, or marvel at the austere granite face of El Capitan. Such aesthetic marvels are often cited as catalysts in the creation of the national park idea. But in time, priorities would take a radical turn, leaving mere scenic beauty to take a backseat to new considerations of ecology, sustainability, and the preservation of wilderness.

For some, a first glimpse of the celebrated Florida Everglades can prove spectacularly underwhelming. The Everglades, after all, enjoys a worldwide renown similar to that of Yellowstone, Yosemite, and the Grand Canyon. But whereas these popular destinations might greet visitors with picturesque mountain ranges, glimpses of charismatic fauna, or a palette of brightly colored foliage, the Everglades presents itself as a visually monotonous landscape sheathed in drab, muted tones. Unlike the conspicuous herds of bison, deer, or elk that have come to characterize some of our best-known landscapes, mosquitoes are often the most abundant fauna to be encountered in the sticky, hot environs of south Florida. And while parks in the American West boast landscapes so imposing they reduce visitors to insignificant specks of carbon, the Everglades suffers so slight an elevation that reaching its tallest peak requires one only to stand up. From such a vantage point, it is easy to look down one’s nose at what some have seen as little more than a miasmic, pestilence-filled swamp worthy only of reclamation.

Roughly 6,000 years ago, the workings of a dynamic climate and rising sea level began to forge the familiar south Florida land mass we recognize today. Over time, this mantle would support colonization by a bevy of plants largely from the south, animals largely from the north and, eventually, people from everywhere. The Everglades, in its present form, is a precocious infant—a youthful ecosystem only several millennia old, yet maturing quickly into an energetic, productive environment capable of surviving the harshest adversity while simultaneously providing generously for its innumerable dependents. To meet these demands, however, the Everglades itself depends upon the most basic of all necessities—a predictably cyclic supply of fresh water.

Fortunately, the extreme southern reaches of peninsular Florida stretch close enough to the Tropic of Cancer to be amenable to this request. While winter months bring mild temperatures and a relative paucity of rainfall, the hot, humid days of summer are routinely punctuated with powerful afternoon thunderstorms that infuse the marsh with water. Every year, the clouds overhead are wrung dry—delivering over five feet of water to the thirsty landscape below. Much of it falls on the open face of massive Lake Okeechobee—a seemingly boundless natural reservoir whose true capacity is limited sharply by its surprising lack of depth. As the wet season continues to unfurl, unrelenting storms fill both the lake and the Everglades to capacity, spilling waters on a path of least resistance that courses nearly one hundred miles to the south on an overland march to the sea. This lengthy journey is somewhat aided by a steady, though nominal, loss of elevation totaling only around nineteen feet. The waters of the Everglades, though slow and almost imperceptible, are always on the move.

Whereas swamps are usually characterized by the occurrence of stagnant water, the Everglades is truly a river in its hydrology. Unlike the raging rivers that find their origins in the confluence of mountain streams, the waters that wind their way through south Florida’s marshes and forests do so at an almost imperceptible rate. In the absence of obstruction and constraint, the sluggish waters do not keep to a single riverbed, but rather, reach out broadly on the landscape to inundate millions of acres along the way. All told, 4,000 square miles are said to have been touched by the waters of the historic Everglades. And though slight, the presence of a detectable current in those waters provided the necessary grounds for author and activist Marjory Stoneman Douglas to christen the system with its other familiar moniker—the River of Grass.

Though the peculiarities of the Everglades may not always bend to our liking, they have—over thousands of years—proven hospitable to an astoundingly diverse collection of life. Early naturalists gave the area high marks for the breadth of rare Caribbean plants found growing along the subtropical coast. The waters of south Florida teem with an assortment of fresh- and saltwater life that has proven central to the people of historic and present-day cultures. Yearly congregations of migratory birds provide spectacular testimony to the nearly 400 species that have been recorded in the Everglades. And joining these is a motley crew of threatened and endangered creatures that have, over time, served to both define the area and infuse the River of Grass with character.

The chance of sighting a manatee, Florida panther, or the rarest of butterflies entices some to spend their lives exploring the wilds of south Florida. Yet, ironically, the promise of near-certain encounters with wildlife also prompts others to shun the Glades entirely. The Everglades have received legitimate fame for hosting dense congregations of critters of ill repute. They are home to innumerable snakes, including four venomous species. They are the only location in the world where both alligators and crocodiles thrive side by side. And insects can be so copious in the summer, some have said you need to throw a rock through the bugs just to get a decent view.

For some, it is probably fortunate there is no other Everglades in the world. Yet as unremarkable as it might seem, it is perhaps the relative scarcity of places like it that lend it truly remarkable value. Perched delicately between earth’s temperate and tropical biomes, the Everglades have amassed an unparalleled wealth of resources worthy of preservation. Recognizing an important opportunity, the United States Congress authorized creation of Everglades National Park in 1935 with the stipulation that the park “be permanently reserved as a wilderness, and no development of the project or plan for the entertainment of visitors shall be undertaken which will interfere with the preservation of the unique flora and fauna and the essential primitive conditions now prevailing in the area.”

Since that time, the park has been recognized for the wealth of resources it protects. Within its borders can be found the largest sawgrass prairie in North America, an estuary of national significance, and the largest protected mangrove forest in the Northern Hemisphere. Dozens of rare species are found within the park, and no doubt many more yet await discovery. Quietly and without fanfare, the orchestrated interplay of the living and non-living drives the uninterrupted continuance of vital ecological processes—gas exchange, nutrient cycling, water filtration, erosion control, carbon sequestration, and the like. And though underappreciated as a repository of human culture, the park preserves the ancestral homeland of remarkably advanced civilizations that have long since gone extinct.

Everglades National Park has received global recognition for its inherent values and enjoys protection under three distinct, international accords as a World Heritage Site, Wetland of International Importance, and a Man in the Biosphere Reserve. True to the intent of the park’s enabling legislation, the National Park Service has worked diligently to spare the landscape from further physical modification. And in 1978, roughly 1.3 million acres of the park were designated the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Wilderness Area—affording them the highest level of federal protection currently possible.

Given these efforts, the natural world should find refuge in the confines of Everglades National Park. Here the biological and chemical processes that forge life should continue to run wild and unimpaired. In the absence of synthetic materials, internal combustion engines, impermeable surfaces, chemical pollutants, and artificial lights, native populations of plants and animals should continue to thrive and interact as they have for thousands of years.

Yet despite decades of struggle to protect the Everglades against development, the south Florida wilderness has been dammed, diked, and drained nearly to death. For well over a century, well-intentioned water management schemes have successfully yoked the formerly intractable waters of the Everglades watershed. Today, an intricate system of canals, spillways, pump stations, levees, and wells provides a deceptively dependable supply of fresh water that has fueled the explosive growth of industry and population centers in the southern peninsula. Today, nearly half the original extent of the Everglades has been supplanted by agricultural fields and urban subdivisions, which are afforded flood protection through the deliberate and wasteful redirection of “excess” water to the sea in staggering quantities.

Billions of gallons of fresh water are shunted to the coast annually, plaguing the ecological health and vitality of the estuaries that receive them. And while oysters, shrimp, and shorebirds are forced to contend with unnatural gluts of fresh water, other organisms are condemned to suffer lengthy droughts further downstream. For decades growers, politics, and the occasional tropical storm have governed how and when south Florida’s accumulated rains were distributed. At virtually any time of the year, without regard to Mother Nature’s historical preferences, the flip of a switch could send a deluge north, south, east, or west. Rarely were south Florida’s natural areas the beneficiaries of such technological prowess. Rather, some years, Everglades National Park was denied any inflow of life-giving water whatsoever.

Circumventing the very cycles with which the furred, feathered and photosynthetic denizens had become attuned proved disastrous. Wading birds, no longer privy to the gradual draw-down of water that pooled the prey necessary to nourish their young, saw precipitous drops in their populations. Snail kites and Cape Sable seaside sparrows were driven to near extinction, subjected to artificial flooding that drowned their respective prey and young during consecutive dry seasons. Wildfires, historically hampered in marshlands by long periods of inundation, ran rampant in areas that lay parched for months. And further downstream the estuaries of Florida Bay and the coastal fringe, denied periodic infusions of fresh water from the north, saw pronounced changes in salinity, seagrass, and species composition.

Our efforts, though triumphant in bending the flow of waters to our wishes, showed little mercy towards the creatures that once thrived when the river ran wild. While some advocated boldly for the voiceless denizens of the marsh, they were often outliers among a populace that sought to capitalize on newly available lands. During subsequent decades, however, expressions of anger and compassion would become far more popular. Fueled by the crippling degradation wrought not only upon the Everglades but upon landscapes across the United States, communities began to reconsider the price of economic prosperity. During the 60s and 70s the United States passed some of the most progressive environmental legislation in the world, testimony to the dawning of a new age of consciousness regarding our relationship to the biosphere. This nationwide awakening extended to the furthest reaches of the country—including south Florida.

The last two decades of the twentieth century brought radical changes to our relationship with the River of Grass. Conservation organizations worked feverishly to salvage iconic species from near extinction, including the American crocodile and the Florida panther. Legal battles raged over water quality issues as pollutants streamed into the Everglades from agriculture upstream. Water wars became increasingly commonplace as communities jockeyed for supply during times of drought and fought angrily to keep floodwaters off their interests during the wet season. The south Florida flood protection system, originally built to service a population of around two million residents, was now in service to six million. And through it all, some areas were housing triple-digit population growth in a never-ending sea of suburban sprawl.

The inescapable reality that south Florida was growing unsustainably spurred new discussions on how to steward the area’s resources in less damaging ways. State and federal interests began crafting projects and strategies for returning flows of clean water to what remained of the Everglades—in patterns and quantities reminiscent of the historic system. And rather than focusing on individual tracts of land, restoration partners advocated for a holistic overhaul of the entire management system that regulated the Everglades watershed. The broad-scale effort was formalized in 2000 with the authorization of the Comprehensive Everglades Restoration Plan (CERP), a multi-decade, multi-billion-dollar commitment to return America’s Everglades to their long-lost glory—while, of course, accommodating the water needs of an ever-burgeoning population. After a century of ruling the Everglades watershed with an iron fist, the time had come to extend an open palm and strike a friendly accord.

Over twenty billion dollars are expected to be invested towards the revitalization of the remnant Everglades. The anticipated completion of CERP will mark nearly a century of conservation efforts—one hundred years of toil in an effort to protect the River of Grass for generations to come. And yet as our community labors to right the wrongs of our past, and curb the disturbance and pollution that has marred portions of a treasured American landscape beyond all recognition, we must be ready to face an unfortunate reality. Even in the midst of restoration, the Everglades is increasingly suffering from biopollution—an ill that grows worse every year and has proven immune to traditional conservation efforts. Though well protected from layers of asphalt and concrete, public lands are seemingly defenseless against the onslaught of foreign organisms that routinely penetrate, populate, and overtake native ecosystems. In the decades to come, should restoration successfully return life-giving waters to the River of Grass, it may be to the benefit of a wholly unrecognizable Everglades.

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In looking back at the series of photos taken in 2001 showing me holding the Burmese python I received in the visitor center, I can’t help but realize I was smiling in every picture (Figure 1). It’s not surprising—I chose to be a park ranger primarily out of a sense of wonder for the natural world in general, and an appreciation for south Florida ecology in particular. To me, Burmese pythons are as worthy of admiration as any alligator, orchid, or egret. I am fascinated by reptiles of every shape and size. While some people feel an affinity for birds or plants, I hold a special place in my heart for anything scaly—particularly snakes. In my mind, any creature capable of climbing so high on the food chain unaided by limbs deserves more than a modicum of respect.

Yet it was also a genuine lack of understanding that allowed me and others to easily dismiss the seriousness of such a seemingly random occurrence. Beginning in the 1970s, several isolated encounters with large constrictors had been recorded in the park. Individual specimens of both the red-tailed boa (Boa constrictor) and the ball python (Python regius) were captured, as were several reticulated pythons (Python reticulatus). As each of the aforementioned species was commonly—and cheaply—available for purchase at local pet stores, it seemed likely that the animals being recovered in the park were releases by overwhelmed owners seeking to relieve themselves of pets for which they could no longer provide care or no longer wanted.

In 1979, a lone Burmese python was found dead along the Tamiami Trail, a two-lane highway that skirts the northern boundary of Everglades National Park. At nearly twelve feet in length, the snake certainly fit the profile of other suspected releases. As is customary in parks and preserves, the observation was recorded as part of the expansive database that provides long-term documentation of the area’s natural history. Thereafter, more than 15 years lapsed before another Burmese python was collected.

In 1995, on a chilly mid-December day, a park employee driving along the main park road encountered not one, but two Burmese pythons basking on the asphalt. Both individuals were captured in close proximity to one another in an area just north of Flamingo—a remote outpost and visitor facility at the southernmost terminus of the 38-mile-long road that traverses the park. Since the 1980s, park rangers had occasionally reported seeing pythons in this area, but physically collecting two within only ten minutes provided park scientists with considerable fodder for thought. And that one of the serpents was a relatively young juvenile measuring only two feet added to the curiosity of the day’s events.

Subsequent years saw a surprising upswing in observations of pythons in the park. Whereas only one python had been collected between 1979 and 1994, eleven pythons were removed from the park between 1995 and 2000. Of these, eight were found in areas near Flamingo—an increasingly evident hotspot of invasion (Figure 2). All but one were longer than four feet, generally considered a length at which Burmese pythons are no longer juveniles. The trend caught the attention of park biologist Bill Loftus and Walter Meshaka, the park’s curator and an avid herpetologist. In 2000, the pair penned a herpetological inventory of the park in which they noted that the collection of multiple Burmese pythons of various sizes from a very specific region near Flamingo—coupled with the existence of voucher specimens carefully preserved in the park collection—provided ample evidence to consider the species to be established in the Everglades. Although some criticized their conclusion as being premature, Loftus and Meshaka would ultimately enjoy substantial vindication for their assessment.

Reports and captures of pythons by park staff and visitors continued to increase in ensuing years. Three were captured in 2001, with several more reported. The following year, an unprecedented 14 were removed. Among this number were several juveniles, which seemed to provide stronger evidence of a reproducing population. After all, owners of such small and manageable snakes would have little need to release their captives in the wild.

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The Anhinga Trail is perhaps one of the most popular visitor areas in Everglades National Park. On a typical winter day, the trail hosts literally thousands of pedestrians hoping to catch a glimpse of everything for which the Everglades is known. The network of deep water canals and lakes in the area remain wet even during the harshest droughts, providing an irresistible draw for the aquatic denizens that call the Glades home. Thousands of fish, snakes, birds, turtles, and alligators crowd the area, providing visitors the opportunity to witness interactions reminiscent of a National Geographic special—and all from the relative safety of an elevated boardwalk. A popular trail spur, known informally as Frankie Point, overlooks a relatively small patch of elevated ground, allowing visitors to feast their eyes on the dozens of alligators that routinely compete for prime real estate.

Visitors to the Anhinga Trail got an unusually exciting spectacle in January of 2003. At first glance, the gaggle of people looking out over Frankie Point might have considered the sight before them rather ordinary for the Everglades—a conspicuously large alligator approached, swimming toward them with a snake held tightly in its jaws. But as the fearsome predator drew near, it was apparent his early-morning snack was rather extraordinary. The snake, still very much alive, was roughly 10–15 feet in length and coiling the remainder of its linear mass tightly around its captor. (Figure 3)

Though appearing somewhat compromised, the alligator managed to lumber onto a nearby patch of dry ground. Now exposed, the details of the duel were easier to discern. Though the alligator had grabbed the python just behind the head in its toothy jowls, the remainder of the snake snugly girdled the trunk of the now static alligator several times around. There the pair remained locked in battle for approximately 24 hours, before a rotating cavalcade of hundreds of wide-eyed visitors and park staff. Little seemed to change during that time, save that the snake seemed to grow increasingly limp with every passing hour. By the morning of the next day, observers had written off the serpent, as it lay motionless and still—no doubt punctured to deflation by the alligator’s piercing grin.

When threatened, alligators will sometimes open their mouths and hiss loudly in an impressive defensive display. Opportunities to observe this behavior are plentiful along the Anhinga Trail. Thus, when a slightly larger alligator arrived in the area that morning and pulled close to investigate the scene for itself, it was almost expected that such a display would ensue. That the successful hunter began to open his jaws wide to avert a confrontation was not surprising. What was surprising, however, was the near-instantaneous resurrection of the snake everyone had given up for dead. In the blink of an eye, the serpent tensed its sinewy muscles and darted like a shot into nearby vegetation—never to be seen again. Though speculation ensued about whether or not the python was mortally wounded, this much was known for certain: the snake had tangled for 24 hours with the monarch of the Everglades marsh, and somehow, it had ended in a draw.

Visitors to the trail that day were privy to history—the first time ever that an Old World python had ever been observed tangling with a New World American alligator. The size of the animals, the prolonged nature of the duel, and the ultimate outcome helped stoke healthy media interest. Amidst the ensuing interviews with local reporters, park scientists were left to wonder if anything in the Everglades could successfully kill and consume a fully grown Burmese python.

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Exactly where alligators and pythons ranked in the Everglades food chain would remain unclear for nearly two years. A second alligator/python encounter was captured in a series of photographs along the main park road in June of 2005. In the open marsh of Taylor Slough, the alligator was clearly photographed pointing its snout upwards, repeatedly throwing back remnants of a large python like a bucket of raw oysters.

The 2005 encounter, unlike that at the Anhinga Trail, failed to garner any significant media attention—perhaps because it did not seemingly defy the natural order in the River of Grass. Still, it was of significance to the park. Before the encounter recorded in Taylor Slough, it appeared the only organism capable of purging Burmese pythons from the Everglades were people who, like those I encountered in the visitor center, came armed with Rubbermaid containers and questionable motives. Confirmation that at least one alligator had successfully taken its rightful throne as the apex predator in the Everglades was cause for some optimism. Perhaps there was hope that the natural system might self-regulate, that a biological means of control might be found to keep pythons numbers in check. Perhaps there was some reason to suspect the Everglades, having survived a century of unrelenting change, might also be capable of surmounting this latest plague. Unbeknownst to park staff, such guarded optimism was destined to last only four short months.