I can’t help myself, I love a good swimming hole. It was a bad joke though, the splashing around and pretending that something was pulling me under. I knew that even before I followed Rachael’s stare to an alligator, its powerful tail propelling it across the pond in my direction, just the eyes and snout protruding from the surface, clearly attracted to my movements. I was about to get out anyway, so I just did it a bit more quickly. I suppose there is a reason I wasn’t seeing people swimming in the backwaters. I could stick to the seawater areas of Everglades National Park but then again we did see a monstrous crocodile while kayaking earlier and they prefer the saltier waters.

These prehistoric creatures aren’t at all interested in attacking people and there is no need to pretend you’re the late Steve Erwin to get a wildlife experience in the Everglades. The animals are abundant, as are wet places to visit them. The water table is generally somewhere above your ankles in this place. You may think you’re standing on dry land but cut any hole in the ground and it soon becomes a pond. This is exactly what the alligators do in the dry winter months to give themselves some watery space.

With water and land so intertwined and sometimes hard to differentiate the best way to explore is by boat and the quiet paddling of a kayak or canoe keeps the wildlife from scattering. It’s also more reliable than larger boats with less worry about getting caught on a sandbar at low tide or finding yourself hung up in a mangrove thicket. Occasionally however, especially in these dry winter months, the river of grass is more grass than river and you might find your butt dragging

Rachael and I took the opportunity to spend several days paddling here. Inland we found a tightly winding water trail through red mangrove tunnels, tree limbs drooping with bromeliads and scattered with the sounds of mysterious birds. This area is the only place where the American alligator and the American crocodile coexist. Squeezing through a gap in the foliage Rachael inadvertently whacked a hidden alligator with her paddle who then unhappily hissed at me as I hurried by. In the next pond was a locally famous 14-foot croc smiling at us mischievously from the bank. Our route opened onto the freshwater marl prairie. With less than a foot of water and sawgrass at eye level it had the surreal feeling of kayaking across a Kansas wheat field accompanied by dragonflies and a marshy fragrance.

Our bigger adventure was kayaking for a few days into the Ten Thousand Island Wilderness and camping out on a couple keys next to the Gulf of Mexico. I was reminded of the rewards of putting in a little human powered effort toward getting oneself into a wild place. We saw dolphins by the dozen circling and feeding in the channels between islands. At one point, startled by a snort just off the stern of my boat, I turned to see the whiskery snout of a large and gentle manatee bobbing behind me for a few moments. Our eyes scanning the water we learned to distinguish the flotsam from the critters and a few times caught sight of furtive sea turtles, their heads periscoping above the calm waters showing a beaked overbite then discreetly sinking away at the sight of us humans.

Out in these mangrove islands are other creatures including sharks and stingrays scanning the shallows near our campsites and a small breed of raccoon that has managed to swim it’s way out here and make a go of it in the overlapping roots, oyster shells and scattered sand bars than make up what little ground there is. They’ve also learned that paddlers can be a source of snacks and fresh water which are tough to come by, so we were awakened by them examining our gear in the dark and also caught them munching on the horseshoe crabs that wash up with the tides. Probably the most abundant animal out here is the sandfly or no-see-um. Kept at bay most of the time by the steady sea breeze we awoke one morning to still air and were reminded that we don’t need to taunt alligators to become part of the food chain. Simply stepping outside to the acid sting of a thousand tiny bites puts one’s flesh directly into the ecosystem. Thankfully we had that breeze most of the time and the quick relief of plunging into the Gulf for a soothing saltwater rinse.

Not all the tiny organisms were horrifying pests. Late one night, awoken by our raccoon visitors and attracted from our tent by a rich, star-filled sky, a blue glow at the waterline caught my eye. I’ve seen fireflies and I’ve heard of bioluminescent water creatures but this was unexpected and something easily missed with the intrusion of a flashlight or lantern. Innumerable tiny and barely tangible organisms were glowing in the gentle ripples of the rising tide, lighting briefly with each jostle. Mesmerized I went to take a closer look and as I ran my fingers through the warm waters, a sparkling trail of spots traced out my movements. I gently scooped up handfuls of water tossing them outward into the bay instigating dazzling flashes of blue-green light across the surface. The mysterious chemistry of these creatures was a powerful magic to me.

The constant flow of vehicles was clear evidence that I’m not the only one who finds the end of the road compelling. When that road ends at a Caribbean Island with a romantic history of pirates, rumrunners, Cuban exiles and Ernest Hemingway the 100-mile conga line of RVs, convertibles and a heavy preponderance of Harleys is not surprising. What I found hard to imagine was where all those vehicles were going to end up given that the island of Key West is no more than 4 miles long and maybe 2 miles at it’s widest. I was wondering if drivers dazzled by the sun dappled, turquoise waters, foreheads sticky from the humid air just kept driving off the southernmost point of the continental U.S. into the Florida Straights. Given the identical character of the returning traffic it’s clear that March is a massive game of musical chairs, all those Massachusetts and Minnesota license plates taking turns at escaping the northern winters, the dockside thatch bars filled by Bermuda short clad refugees scoffing at the silent loop of the Weather Channel showing the latest snow-pocalypse back home.
With Rachael’s gracious assistance I was able to ditch my gear and hop on my bike for the long arcing ride from Key Largo to Key West. Formed over 100,000 years ago the Keys are a chain of coral reef outcrops linked by a series of bridges and causeways built on the skeleton of Henry Flagler’s hurricane wrecked Overseas Railway. With a small bit of effort it would be a world-class bike route, the paths and wide shoulders not very contiguous yet. As it stands it’s a pretty great ride if you’re comfortable having a steady flow of cars just off your hip. Being on a bike allowed me to see the mangroves and tropical waters close up. It also meant that in the steamy sun my forehead and everything else was sticky and hot when I reached roads end, so I went ahead and dove off the southernmost point into the reviving waters of the Florida Straights.

The Keys have island ecology issues. Islands, by their physical separation, have a high rate on endemism – plants and animals unique to that place. By attaching these islands to each other and to the mainland with a road, aggressive, non-native species start to show up. Being this far south everything was exotic to me so it’s difficult without prior study to know what is native. The hundreds of big Green Iguanas scampering into the mangroves as I rode by, not native. The attractive, grey-green palm trees, also not native. In fact the warm frost-free climate that has attracted folks for all these years also means it’s a place where exotics can thrive and some of those folks brought exotics with them with that in mind. On many islands essentially all life is invasive. On a brand new volcanic rock rising from the sea there is going to be that first coconut that floats in and takes root or that first colorful songbird that gets blown way off course and makes a home. Over generations these creatures adapting to local conditions can become new and unique species. Our modern dilemma is the much-accelerated rate that a highly mobile and somewhat careless humanity brings to these changes. The biodiversity that is essential to a healthy and adaptable ecosystem is diminished each time a Norway Rat jumps ship or a oversized pet Python gets dumped in the Florida swamp. Some newcomers can wipe out whole classes of native life.

Nature is well at hand in the Keys once you find your way off the main drag. There are mangroves filled with unique birds you can’t see elsewhere in America and those alluring waters are rich with fish. I suppose that to the vast majority of travelers, on that narrow strip of congested pavement, nature is the tarpon they hope to hook on their half day fishing charter or the conch fritters they wash down with a rum punch. If they were lucky like I was they might have spotted the diminutive Key Deer that was grazing behind some secluded mobile homes. Like a lot of island mammals it is much smaller than it’s mainland cousin the white tailed deer and is found only on a few Keys towards the end of the line. Endangered and protected with a special reserve on Big Pine Key it’s hoped that they can coexist within the laid back Keys lifestyle. Unfortunately, with over 30 deer killed so far on the busy highway it looks like this year might be worse than the last. Paradise can be irresistible and with so many crowding in to get a taste, both the lifestyle and the deer can suffer. With our feet up on a chunk of coral and an improvised rum cocktail in our hands while watching the sun set into Florida Bay I guess I was grateful for a chance to get our little piece of this paradise.