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