Thanksgiving Weekend - Dream Yr Update (part 2)

GREGORY.B.MILLER@bge.com
Thu, 3 Dec 1998 12:26:29 -0500


     Satisfied, I looked at my watch.  8:30am.  Wow.  It's early.
 Flamingos, here I come!  I drove south on Rt 1 through town down
through Homestead.  In Florida City I turned west on 9336 and
headed toward the Everglades.  I gulped the last of my orange
juice, chasing down the remains of an Egg McMuffin while watching
all the Eurasian Collared Doves.  I made a few notes to myself.
They perch on top of lamp posts and telephone poles, unlike
Mourning Doves.  I also noted how they very often sat at sharp
angles on the telephone lines like Kestrels.  The chunky,
squarish look of this bird in flight reminded me of a
White-winged Dove.  Speaking of which, hey, there is one!  And a
Hill Myna on another telephone pole.  I passed by Robert's and
thought someday I'll stop for a Key Lime Milkshake.
     The farmed fields soon gave way to the great grasslands of
the Everglades.  I paid my $10 entrance fee and noted that the
motel in Flamingo was full.  I figured as much.  It was the
holidays.  The 38 miles to Flamingo seems longer than it should
as there are always fewer birds than I anticipate.  There were
however, good numbers of Great and Snowy Egrets, Red-shouldered
Hawks, and a few gangly Wood Storks perched awkwardly in short
trees.  A couple of Broad-winged Hawks were a reminder to me of
the small population that winters in south Florida.  A Tricolored
Heron flew over the road in front of me.  I drove past Snake
Bight Trail--home to kajillions of tiny, ferocious, Saltmarsh
Mosquitoes.  I smiled to myself and then as if to taunt the
biting insects, "I'm renting a canoe today to go see the
flamingos", I proudly announced out loud.
     I crossed the little canal and drove into the tiny town of
Flamingo and took the first left to the marina.  At the little
store, I inquired about the Flamingoes, but received a barrage of
disparaging replies.  Undaunted, I rented a canoe for half a
day--10:30am to 2:30pm for a mere $22.  While in line, I saw a
dark phase Short-tailed Hawk sail right over the marina!  Wow!
*That* doesn't happen everyday.  I bought a turkey sandwich, some
pretzels, and 1.5 liter bottle of water for my journey.  I
boarded my little canoe, a little wobbly, but too proud to ask
for help.  Properly situated I paddled out into Florida Bay,
feeling just a tad bit smug for my smart decision not to hike
down Snake Bight Trail.  Out of the marina, I paddled due east,
toward Snake Bight.  At no point was the water ever deeper than
2-3 feet.  My paddle could always reach the bottom.
     The water was a brownish blue and every now and then, it was
shallow enough to see the clay-like mud on the bottom, with small
mud-covered weedy vegetation, an occasional crab, and many
whitish fish breaking the surface of the water all around the
boat.  Unfortunately, I didn't know what kind they were.  This
has to be one of the most relaxing things I've done this year.
There was only a mild chop in the Bay and I drank in the warmth
of the sunshine, and the beauty of the egret-filled trees along
the shore.  Ospreys, Bald Eagles, and groups of both Brown and
White Pelicans filled the lazy, blue skies above me.  Flocks of
White Ibis flew by with shallow wing beats.  A Roseate Spoonbill
passed in front of me in all its brilliant, rosy splendor.  This
was truly an idyllic setting.
     A couple miles out, however, I was beginning to think I was
not so wise.  I had nothing to cover my head and my skin was sans
any SPF protection.  I didn't think anything more of it though,
as I passed the point and could actually see the shoreline on
both sides of Snake Bight Trail.  Now I was really getting
excited.  The sunlight was in the right direction, too, something
I had not thought about earlier.  This area of Florida Bay is
very shallow--maybe 18 inches at the deepest with several very
long shoals peppered with hundreds and hundreds of egrets.  Birds
were everywhere.  Groups of thousands of shorebirds were visible,
but unidentifiable in the distance.  A Reddish Egret was canopy
feeding not 50 feet in front of me.  I watched the unique display
with interest.  Along the westernmost shoreline, I scanned the
egret-filled trees and came across not one, but two Great White
Herons, the large white race of the Great Blue Heron.
Impressive.  I paddled further, noting a fairly large group of
pink birds along the shore, just west of Snake Bight Trail.  I
was optimistic.
     Twenty minutes later I was still paddling toward the pink
birds and was still out range for my 10x binoculars for a
positive identification.  I worked hard crossing one of the
diagonally shoals.  The water was only 4-6 inches deep and the
canoe would scrape bottom often.  I scooted myself through the
mud, fueled by the pink birds before me.  Another twenty minutes
passed.  The birds were just barely identifiable.  Unfortunately,
I could see there whitish heads as they raised up from feeding.
I also saw that these birds were more rosy pink than the orangish
pink of a flamingo.  I counted 25 birds in the tight flock.  I
could tell, too, that they were not tall birds by noting their
reflections in the water.  The birds were beautiful.
     Surprisingly, I found it hard to keep the canoe pointed in a
single direction to look for the flamingos.  Even a small breeze
would easily turn the canoe in a different direction.  I paddled
west and got snagged on a shoal.  I backtracked and headed out at
an angle.  I got stuck again.  I backtracked and tried headed
back the way I came into this area.  Stuck again.  What was going
on?  I pushed through the mud and shallow water.  My skin was
starting to feel tight and my head was already warm.  I was also
starting to feel uncomfortably tired, too.  I looked at my watch.
 It was almost 1:00pm.  I would have to turn around and head back
to the marina soon.  I decided to wind drift out further into the
Bay while I ate my lunch and drank my water.  Ten minutes later,
I was still scanning all the visible shoreline without any
success.  Where were the flamingos?  I found myself in the shade.
 Shade?  I looked up.  A huge cloud was above me.  Let's see now.
 The breeze was blowing from the North, but the cloud was
expanding to the South.  Hmmm.  It made me think about a
thunderstorm, which, an hour and a half from the marina, is not a
particularly pleasant thought.
     I hurriedly paddled back toward the point.  It was much
easier paddling with the wind at my back.  I round the point and
made a beeline for the marina.  I checked my watch.  I might even
be a few minutes early.  For some reason, the water seemed much
more shallow.  Had I not followed this route on the way out?  I
figured I must be slightly off my original course.  I steered my
canoe a little further from land.  It was still not deep...and
getting shallower by the moment.  I looked at my watch again.  I
realized that the time was within two hours of low tide.  Doh!  I
quickened my pace, but to little avail.  Within a quarter mile of
the waters for the marina I was grounded in two inches of water.
Less than a hundred yards in front of me, a shoal perpendicular
to me was visible with wading birds feeding all over it.  I had
scooted through at least 100 feet of mud and was tired.  To my
right, Willets were wading in the water.  The water was not deep
there.  In front of me, Snowy Egrets were feeding in ankle-deep
water.  No-go there either.  To my left was a White Ibis, also in
ankle-deep water.  Only one direction without any indicators--the
way I came into this mess.  I used my oar like a pole to turn my
canoe around with great difficulty.  I scooted myself back to the
beginning but it was more shallow than when I had started.
     I could see the current flowing out into the Bay.  Now I
knew I was in trouble.  I was maybe 200 yards from shore.  A
couple of young fishermen were amusing themselves with my antics
now.  One of them finally called out, "You might as well head
back in this way", he said as he motioned for me to move in
toward shore.  Should I believe him or was it a prank?  I thought
if I could at least get to shore, I could walk my canoe back to
the marina.
     I was running out of time for my half day rental.  Being
spontaneous sometimes has its drawbacks.  Today happened to be
just one of those days.  I got out of my canoe.  This was NOT a
smart thing to do.  The first foot sank quickly in the soft,
mushy, grayish muck.  Quickly, I removed my other foot from out
of the canoe to keep the boat from tipping over and it sank
equally as fast.  I paused for a second.  I was in this slimy,
putrid mud that was well over my knees.  With great effort and
care (so as not to lose a shoe), I took a step hoping quite
vainly that I might step into *less* mud.  But this did not
happened.  I slogged on for maybe 50 feet.  This was immensely
difficult work.  I was already breathing hard, my heartbeat was
raised, and I was perspiring.  Time kept on ticking.
     I managed to pull my canoe another 30 feet or so.  Suddenly,
my left foot sank with frightening speed.  I felt myself losing
my balance as I lurched forward in the quagmire.  Hastily, I
threw my right arm over the front of the canoe and gripped the
far side ferociously.  The canoe slid forward in the mud as I
grasped the front with my left hand and prayed it would slip any
more.  Both legs were now in thigh deep mud.
     I was gasping uncontrollably for air.  Each breath I inhaled
my throat would make a sickening, asthmatic wheeze.  I don't have
asthma, but the combination of overexertion and fear was having
some ill effects.  I was feeling queasy and light-headed and my
head felt hot.  The sun was taking its toll, too.  Altogether, I
was overwhelmed with unreasonably fearful thoughts.  Were there
any alligators here?  I saw one last year in the canal along
Snake Bight Trail?  I made a hasty scan of the waters around me.
     I calmed myself purposely.  "This was *salt* water.  No
alligators.  Don't panic.  Besides, it's only $8 more dollars for
a *whole* day of canoe rental.  Why are you risking a heart
attack for $8 dollars?", I reasoned with myself.  On the outside,
I was still taking in huge gulps of air.  The other me still a
little panicky whined, "What if the mud is over your head?".  I
stifled the whiney little voice by mustering all the energy I
had, and hoisted my two-ton, mud-caked, putrid smelling body out
of the water and plopped myself down in the boat.  Gross globs of
mud and pungent smelling water covered the bottom of the canoe,
on my bag, and splattered my binoculars.
     I didn't care what I looked like right now, nor did I care
what the fisherman or any passing boat thought.  I closed my
eyes.  I still felt light-headed.  I regained my composure and
reassessed my options.  The shore was still 100 yards in front of
me.  I was not getting back out of the boat.  I didn't care how
long it took.  I plunged my oar into the mud at a forward angle
on my left until it completely covered the paddle and part of the
handle.  I placed both hands on the top and grunted as I pulled
the canoe forward over the mud maybe two feet.  I reached back
and pulled the oar out causing my canoe to move backwards another
foot.  I continued.  Forward two feet.  Backwards one foot.
Forwards two feet.  Backwards one foot.  One of the fishermen on
the dock hollered out, "You're making progress".  I managed a
meager laugh and thanked him.  I continued the monotonous
struggle.
     Within 50 feet of the shore, I found myself in 8-10 inches
of water--enough in which to paddle freely.  Immensely relieved,
stiff, sore, and exhausted, I paddled feebly toward the marina.
Amazingly, I was only 10 minutes late returning to the boat dock
and was happily not charged the additional $8.  I hosed myself
down on the dock.  Tourists got a good laugh as they watched the
spectacle of this goofball hosing all the mud off his clothes.
     I waited on the 4:00pm Bald Eagle boat tour on the remote
chance of seeing the Flamingos at low tide.  The low tide was so
severe however, that the last boat cruise was canceled.
Physically exhausted and emotionally spent, I headed back up to
Florida City for the evening.

---end of part 2---

Greg Miller
Lusby, MD