Lost in the River of Grass (2 page)

2

The open-sided tram does a fifteen-mile loop to a concrete observation tower. I slouch in the seat behind the others, put my knees on the bench in front of me, and stare at the flat expanse of saw grass with my right hand cupped over the bird in my pocket. His warm body feels as soft as a wad of cotton against my palm.

The road is just inches above the water level, and the tram moves slowly as Mr. Vickers points out the different birds we pass, turtles sunning on logs, and a couple of alligators.

“What kind is that?” someone shouts and points at a tall white bird with a black, bald head.

Mr. Vickers puts a finger to his lips. “That's a wood stork—North America's only stork.”

The tram stops, and the stork lifts its crinkle-skinned head to stare at us. It has black legs and Pepto-Bismol– colored feet. It had been walking slowly and shaking its pink feet beneath the surface before we interrupted it, but it quickly loses interest in us and returns to sweeping its bill back and forth like a blind person's cane through the water.

The bird in my pocket moves slightly. He's waking up. I smile to myself.

I promised Dad to take lots of pictures, and the stork is really close. I unzip the bottom of my backpack quietly, so as not to disturb the bird in my pocket or the stork, and take out his camera—a 1952 Leica IIIf Red Dial range-finder he bought on eBay for a week's salary. He treasures this camera, and when he said he wanted me to take it on the trip, I almost cried.

“I'll be really careful with it, Dad. I promise.”

“I'm not worried about it. This baby's the toughest camera in the world, and who knows, maybe this will launch your career as a
National Geographic
photographer.”

Dad and I spent last evening together, with him showing me how put film in and take it out, blow dust off the lens, use a special, soft cloth to clean off any fingerprints, and how to focus the image. When I look through the lens, there are two wood storks. To get a sharp picture I have to turn the focus ring until the two images become one. He had me practice so that I'd know how to focus quickly. I bring the two images of the wood stork together, take its picture, then wind the film to be ready for the next shot. The other kids have cameras that click and beep and chirp, but the Leica is almost completely silent.

“They don't hunt what they see like herons and egrets,” Mr. Vickers is saying about the stork. “They catch what they feel as they run their bills through shallow water. That means they need a high concentration of fish in a confined area. When the Everglades was a natural system, the winter dry-down left shallow pools full of fish.”

The stork shakes to fluff its feathers and pulls out a loose one, which seesaws in the air as it drifts down to float on the water.

“Remember that wall of dirt and shells on the far side of the canal as we drove out? Those are levees built to hold the water inside so-called conservation areas. And all the pumping stations we passed. Those are there to supply our water needs. The storks usually nest in March when the water is low, so there is plenty of food for their young.”

The bird shifts in my pocket. I feel his sharp toenails in my hand.

“Another problem for all the species out here is that the nitrogen from the fertilizers the sugar industry uses makes the saw grass grow much denser, and in deeper water, impenetrable stands of cattails. That makes it hard for everything to find food.”

I slide the bird out of my pocket and cup a hand over his back. His tiny heart flutters against my palm. I glance at the backs of the other kids' heads. I'm tempted to say “watch this,” but decide I don't want to share with them.

Mr. Vickers glances at me. I hesitate, then decide that he won't be mad that I disobeyed the ranger. I un-cup my hands and hold the bird up for him to see. He nods. The bird doesn't move. For a full twenty seconds, he sits there looking at freedom. I wonder if he thinks it's another illusion, like the reflection of a tree in the window. I even touch the top of his head, where the feathers he left on the window came from. He still doesn't move. Maybe something's broken so he can't fly.

“Oh my God!” Courtney cries and grabs the arm of the boy sitting next to her. “There's a snake.”

I look where they are pointing and feel the bird leave my hand.

“Is it a cottonmouth?” Adam says.

My warbler lands on the ground a few feet away at the side of the road and just sits there. I look from it to the fat black snake and feel myself shudder. I don't like snakes, and this one is creeping me out by zigzagging right toward us—and my bird.

“Looks like it,” Mr. Vickers answers. He's seen where the warbler landed and is watching too.

Adam's hand is waving. Mr. Vickers points to him. “Yes, Philip?”

Philip, not Adam.

“Is its bite always fatal?” he asks.

The snake slows, then stops. Its forked black tongue slides out.

“No,” Mr. Vickers says, “but it's a good question.”

“Oh,” one of the girls says. “There's another one of those little yellow birds.”

The snake is maybe two yards away. Its head turns toward the warbler, and its tongue slides in and out twice before it moves again. It's seen the warbler and is headed right for him.

I clap my hands together, and the bird bolts into the air.

“Bummer.” One of the boys gives me a dirty look.

Mr. Vickers smiles, then turns and nods for the driver to move on. I like him best of all my teachers. He has red hair, a gazillion freckles, and lots of wrinkles. His smile crinkles his face.

“So?” Philip says. “Is its bite always fatal?”

“It depends on the size of the person bitten, how much venom is injected, and whether there is treatment nearby,” Mr. Vickers says. “I don't want you to be freaked out by snakes. Most are not poisonous. I just want to scare you enough to make you think about where you're walking. This field trip is not a stroll through the shops at Dadeland. In the water, there are cottonmouth moccasins and alligators. Coral snakes and scorpions hide under logs, pygmy rattlesnakes enjoy sunning themselves on the levees, and diamondbacks prefer the pinelands. No place is completely safe.”

The backs of my knees tingle. What—I wonder yet again—am I doing in this hot, hideous place, and nearly ground-level with things that want to kill and eat you? Why would anyone ever want to come here?

 

…

The observation tower is a concrete spiral that curls up and around a central core. The map the ranger gave us says it's sixty-five feet tall. The boys push and shove as they race each other up the ramp to the top. The four other girls trudge after them, and I bring up the rear.

From the top, the view is 360 degrees and the same scene at every degree: saw grass puncturing the surface of a continuous sheet of water as far as I can see in any direction. The only break in the monotony is an occasional clump of trees. Even in the ninety-eight-degree heat, I feel a sudden chill prickle my skin. The sameness is frightening—a wasteland covered by a shallow layer of scummy water. I wonder how the animals find their way around without anything, anywhere, that looks even a little different from any other thing.

The tower is on an island with a canal nearly all the way around the building. The deep water, edged by cattails, is full of fish. A great blue heron stands ankle-deep in the water, staring down as if in a trance. Mr. Vickers points out a green-backed heron, looking hump-shouldered with its head drawn in tightly between its wings, but I can't take my eyes off the alligators. They are enormous things, basking in the sun like lumpy, gray logs. There are five of them, one of which is sleeping with its mouth wide open, exposing a pale pink throat and lots of big, round teeth.

On top of the tower there is a nice breeze. I lean with my elbows spread apart on the railing so my underarms get maximum exposure to the wind. We all smell of sweat and Deep Woods Off, which keeps the mosquitoes from biting but not from whining nearby, searching for an unprotected square inch of skin.

The boys are daring each other to go down and pet a gator. Two of them pretend to drag Courtney, who screams in mock terror, to the edge as a sacrifice. I stand off to one side, watching, kind of smiling. I wouldn't want Mr. Vickers to think I'm as silly as they are, but I don't want the others to think I'm a stick-in-the-mud, either.

The girls take turns taking pictures of themselves with their cell phones held high, so that the alligators are in the picture too. I have a Tracfone for emergencies. It doesn't take pictures, but I can't imagine a phone could take a picture as good as Dad's Leica.

“I have my dad's camera,” I say. “Would you like me to take your picture all together?”

Brittany gives me a look like I've just asked them for a blood donation, but the lead Amanda says yes. They line up against the wall, their arms around each other's waists, and flash their brilliant, bleached white teeth at me.

“How old is that thing?” Courtney says.

“It's a
1952
Leica,” I say with pride as I turn the focus wheel, bringing the eight of them down to four.

Courtney puts her hand behind Brittany's head to give her horns. “Does it take color pictures?”

“Sure.” I take the picture. “I'll have a copy made for each of you.”

“Whatever,” the other Amanda says.

The boy who wanted to see the moccasin eat the warbler takes a quarter from his pocket and throws it at a gator. It misses. He digs for another. Philip and two of the other boys root in their pockets for coins, wind up, and pitch them in unison so they rain down on one of the gators.

Mr. Vickers sees them and explodes. “If I see one more thing like that, I'll call your parents to come get you, and you
will
receive a failing grade for the semester. Is that clear? If you're going to act like children, you should be home with your mommies and daddies.”

Another tram arrives, this one full of tourists. Mr. Vickers, still plenty mad, herds us down the ramp. I lag behind, hoping he'll notice that I'm not part of the group he's mad at.

I take a last look at the scene below in time to see the great blue heron strike and skewer a fish. I raise the camera as the bird turns and takes a step up onto the grass. I turn the focus wheel at the same instant the surface of the water erupts. An alligator, mouth open, launches itself out of the water, catches the heron by a leg, and drags it

flapping, but unable to squawk because of the fish impaled on its beak, back into the water. Mud boils as the gator drags it under and spins beneath the surface.

I guess I screamed, because the entire class charges back up the ramp, but by the time they reach the railing, it's over. Muddy water rolls into the cattails, wave after wave, but there's nothing else to see. Nature has taken its course.

“What happened?” Philip asks.

“A gator killed that beautiful heron.”

“Cool. Did you get a picture of it?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, look.”

“This is a film camera. I won't know until I get it developed.”

“Boy, that's a bummer.”

3

Our destination is the Loop Road Environmental Center. We pull in a little after one. I'm waiting for the others to gather their stuff when through the front windshield I see a guy. He's in a shed beyond the screened-in building marked Dining Hall, working on the engine of a small airboat: one with two seats, not benches like the one at the Miccosukee place. He turns to watch the bus unload, and I guess he's about fifteen. He's tall—taller than the boys on this trip, and a lot cuter. His hair is straight, dark brown with long bangs that fall over one eye. He pushes them aside and shields his eyes against the sun.

I watch him until everyone else gets off, then I step down and look around, smiling as if I'm happy to be here. I wait a moment before I let myself glance in his direction. He's moved into the sunlight and is staring at me. I'm getting used to that, but his is a nice kind of stare, and I feel the blood rush to my face. I turn away, hoist my duffel bag, and walk straight toward our assigned cabin. Just before I start up the steps, I sneak a final peek. He's working on the airboat again, so his back is to me.

The cabin is pitch black compared to outside, which means I have to stand in the doorway and wait for my eyes to adjust. The other girls were shrieking and laughing when I came up the steps, but now they stop and stare.

“What?” I throw my duffel and sleeping bag onto an upper bunk by the door, since they've taken all the bottom bunks.

“Nothing,” one of the Amandas says. She's giving Brittany a French braid.

This Amanda is the bell-cow. Mom says in every herd there's a lead cow, and they put a bell on her so when she moves and her bell rings the others follow. Mom says I should try to make friends with the bell-cows at school. I'm not having much luck with that.

They're in their bras and panties, changing into designer swamp-tromping outfits for this afternoon's field trip. I don't feel like getting undressed in front of them, so I go back outside to sit on the top step to wait. They start to whisper as soon as I'm out the door. I can't make out what they're saying except that's it about me.

I'm plucking leaves off the vine that's growing up the banister when they come out in an all-blonde triangle— the bell-cow in the lead, followed by the other Amanda, Brittany and Courtney. Courtney bumps me as they troop down the stairs but doesn't say sorry, kiss my butt or anything. The idea of an entire weekend trapped here with them makes me want to scream or cry or both. They glance back and giggle. I tell myself I don't care enough about them to get my feelings hurt. I only wish it worked that way.

Mr. Vickers told us to meet in front of the dining hall at two for the field trip to a sanctuary across the road to see the endangered banded tree snail. It makes me feel sorrier for myself to know that even snails have a safe haven.