Dry Tortugas

Charged with protecting a clustered seven-key archipelago, Dry Tortugas National Park lies in the Gulf of Mexico, seventy nautical miles west of Key West, Florida. Six keys sit halo-like above Garden Key, where Fort Jefferson, majestically alone, remains a mulish testament to 19th-century engineering. With ninety-nine percent of the park underwater, the red-bricked, formerly iron shuttered fort dominates, but shares the shimmering green-blue landscape. Magnificent coral reefs ring Garden Key. Fish flit and slice, colors popping against the pot marked backdrop. Above, winged transients forage in the shells, nesting in the scrub. Ponce de Leon discovered Las Tortugas – The Turtles – in 1513. Since then, man has come and gone. Only their works and nature remain.

IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE FORT JEFFERSON ON THIS SPIT OF LAND SEVENTY MILES FROM CIVILIZATION AND NOT BE HUMBLED BY THE DETERMINATION, LABOR AND SKILL REQUIRED TO CONSTRUCT. IN CONTRAST, I LOST ABOUT 60% OF MY LEGO’S WITHIN THE FIRST TWO DAYS.

Yankee Freedom III, the 150 passenger catamaran departs Key West promptly at 8:00 am. Before boarding a young guide instructs us in the ‘do’s’ and don’ts’ of the 2 1/2 hour trip. I’m listening for two vital pieces of information. What time is breakfast served and what time is lunch served. The rest is self explanatory. Don’t fall overboard (wouldn’t have thought of that), don’t put man made items in the toilet (darn, I was looking forward to that) and when returning to the boat for departure, make sure to check-in (I gave them an alias, just to mess up the manifest). As is my custom, I’m the last person to board and by the time I reach the top deck, all the seats are gone. I casually lean against the rail as if I had no intention of sitting. Sitting is for the weak. Standing for 2 1/2 hours on a broncking boat, now that’s for the strong. It’s also for incredibly slow boarding speds.

STANDING IN THE WAAAY BACK OF THE BOAT.  CAUGHT A YOUNG GUY SNEAKING A SMOKE. HE HAD QUARTER SIZE HOLES IN HIS EARS. WHY DO YOU WANT SOMEONE TO SEE THROUGH YOUR EAR LOBES? I’M LOST.

About 45 minutes into the trip, I’m still leaning against the rail as if I had brought it on-board with me, when a gentleman approaches and says hello. We introduce ourselves. “Greg.” Smitty. Before I tell you what he then asked me, I think it is only fair to issue a disclaimer. Let’s just say I still can’t believe he asked me what he asked me. I wouldn’t believe you if you told me this story. But it’s true. He looks at me with a serious gaze and said, “Are you visiting all 59 National Parks?” I’m stunned. I look around to see if I recognize someone who knows me and of course see no one. I reply, I am. Stuttering now, how did you know that? “You look like a man on a quest.” These are actual quotes dear reader. What does a man on a quest look like? “You.”

Greg and Nikola (I asked if she was a Russian asset) are from Athens, Georgia. For his last birthday, Nikola gave Greg the gift of traveling to National Parks across the country. We sat together for much of the trip over and virtually all the way back. Two intelligent, passionate people. We got to know each other a bit. I was fortunate to have met them and hope our paths cross again. As for how Greg knew I was visiting all 59 parks – I still don’t have a clue how he did that.

GREG AND NIKOLA. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMPANY AND CONVERSATION. LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT. AND FOR THOSE OF YOU WONDERING – A HAVE ON WHAT ARE COMMONLY CALLED FANCY SWIMMING TRUNKS.

Once docked, you have about five hours to explore the 14 acres that make up Garden Key. I had everything I needed in my backpack – camera, water, fancy bathing trunks, a few snacks and bug spray (which I didn’t use and never use, so I have no idea why it is still in my backpack other than to loan to others). Walking the outside perimeter of the fort allows you to get a sense of scale. On one side is the vast Gulf of Mexico, leading into the Straights of Florida. Colored like the waters of an old map, it brushes the pavers as it has done for 150 years. Turning to the fort, surrounded by Coke-bottle green water, lazily resting, contained and waiting. Your eyes move up along the walls until you see the straw grass top that once held gaze over all ships that passed. You are again awed by the mass. By the labor that brought it to be.

EVERYONE WHO VISITS WALKS THE EXTERIOR WALL THINKING IT WILL LEAD YOU AROUND THE FORT, BEFORE REACHING THE MISSING SECTION IN THE BACK AND TURNING AROUND. I STILL THINK I COULD HAVE JUMPED THE MISSING 18 FEET. THEY HELD ME BACK.

Crossing the moat and entering the fort, you are immediately stuck by the open space of the interior grounds and understand how this was once home to hundreds of men, women and children. 62 men of the Second U.S. Artillery Regiment, under the command of Major Lewis Golding Arnold, called the fort home at the beginning of the Civil War. In 1861, the first prisoner soldiers appeared, sentenced to confinement and hard labor for acts such as mutinous conduct. President Lincoln then substituted imprisonment on the Dry Tortugas, in lieu of execution, for those found guilty of desertion. By 1864 the number of military convicts peaked with 882, guarded by only 583 soldiers and several escaped. Not sure where they went.

On July 24, 1865, four civilians who were convicted of conspiracy in the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln arrived. They were held in the fort’s dungeon, which carried the words, “Whoso entereth here leaveth all hope behind” (from Canto III of Dante’s Inferno). In 1867, one of the four, Dr. Mudd, cared for several soldiers during an outbreak of yellow fever and was later pardoned by President Andrew Jackson. In 1902 the property was transferred to the Navy Department, but abandoned in 1906. Two years later the archipelago was set aside as a Federal bird reservation and until 1934, Garden Key and the crumbling fort were merely a rendezvous for fishermen and tourists (Fun Fact: jorts hadn’t been invented yet). During WWI,  a wireless station and naval seaplane facility was operational, comprising the last official use of the key.  And now you know more than 99.99% of the US population with respect to Fort Jefferson. You’re welcome.

AN INNER CORRIDOR OF FORT JEFFERSON. TO THE LEFT IS THE OUTER COURTYARD.  TO THE RIGHT ARE FORTIFIED GUN EMPLACEMENTS.  STRAIGHT AHEAD IS OUR ENTERTAINMENT CENTER AND DIRECTLY BEHIND US IS THE SHUFFLEBOARD COURT.

VIEW FROM THE TOP OF FORT JEFFERSON. I COULD SEE RUSSIA.

LOOKING DOWN INTO THE YARD OF FORT JEFFERSON.  THIS ROOM HAD A COURTYARD VIEW AND COST LESS THAN ROOMS ON THE OTHER SIDE.  NEITHER INCLUDED BREAKFAST.

A winding stone staircase brings you to the upper floors of the fort. A worn dirt path leads you along the top of the fort where cannons stand ready in the sun, bracketed by wildflowers. Several of the park’s other keys are clearly visible from this height. Small lumps of sand, golden white in the sun. A few sailboats bob in the offshore current, their sails twinkling as if sending Morse code. In the distance the low hum of a seaplane is heard before she comes into view. Gliding effortlessly, she tilts her wings, circles with grace, skimming the tips of playful waves before soundlessly touching down. I wait for Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall to descend the short ladder. I’m rewarded with a man in jorts and a woman who obviously wasn’t told it may be warm where you’re headed. I really could have used Bogie at that point. Or more precisely – Bacall.

IN MY HEAD THE SOUNDTRACK FROM CASABLANCA IS PLAYING AS I WATCH A COUPLE DEPLANE. “A KISS IS JUST A KISS, A SIGH IS JUST A SIGH…”  AND THEN JUNIOR AND DAISY APPEAR.  #OUTLAWJORTS #HEHAW

Over 300 species of birds have been spotted in the Dry Tortugas. At the far tip of Garden Key is a stand of old windswept trees, which from afar appears to be home to all of them. Hundred of birds hover above the trees, still wings gliding on the soft wind. It’s a quiet walk across hard-packed, seaweed specked sand. Just above the narrow beach, sedges and sea grass stand rigid or swaying. The land narrows the closer I get to the end of the key. Small trails lead between the scrub. You can hear waves rolling up on both shores. Along the way, I stop to photograph some of the most beautiful sea shells I’ve ever seen. Large pink conchs. Perfectly shaped and intact whelks. It’s like being in one of those tacky sea shell stores, but without the tacky. Mounds of perfect, unbroken shells. I find a shell with a bluish hue. Paper thin sponges lie next to swirled smooth wood. Orphaned feathers skittle along the sand. When I reach the spot where beach fades back into the sea, the sound of birds competes with the water. Two songs in two distinctly different keys. I sat down on the sand, closed my eyes and selfishly imagined the sweet serenade was just for me.

SOMEONE TOOK THE TIME TO GATHER THESE SHELLS AND PLACE THEM ON A PIECE OF DRIFTWOOD. 

Walking back to the boat to pick up snorkeling gear, the skies began to change. Dark clouds lounging on the horizon, sat up and in an act of defiant jealousy, gathered to cover the sun. Like most clouds, they failed to think it through. Instead of blocking the sun, they created a radiating display of color. Again the clouds gathered. We will cry they said. We will overshadow the sun and weep. And for a single moment, I felt their warm tears. The sun laughed. Surely you jest, said the sun. I am a God, you are but mere clouds. Wind, said the sun. Chase these hapless clouds away. A breeze moved across the water, giving the unfurled sailboats hope. Helpless to resist the unseen, the dark clouds began to scatter and retreat. The sun boastfully smiled, not realizing that the clouds had made him more beautiful.

SOMETIMES CLOUDS DO THE SUN A FAVOR. THEY ARE MINDLESS CREATURES AND DON’T KNOW ANY BETTER. BUT THE SUN, HE SHOULD HAVE FIGURED IT OUT BY NOW.

I can sum up me and snorkeling in one word. Not good. I’m just not an under the water guy. I think it stems back to my childhood. We didn’t have a pool. We never went to the beach. I vaguely remember driving past a lake and wondering what that blue liquid was. So there’s that. When I was finally introduced to water, it was traumatic. Thrown off the diving board as a 9th grader. I played baseball, basketball and football (I was a stud), but suddenly I was the kid in the shallow end. It was humiliating, but I understand it was also wildly entertaining. Then there was the Hawaiian snorkeling incident. They gave us small bags of food to slowly feed and attract fish. As soon as I entered the water I was attacked by thousands of lidless fish, pecking at me with their slippery little fish lips. One even slapped me across the face with his tail and gave me the stink eye. Unbeknownst to be, the bag of food in my pocket had ruptured, turning me into an underwater blob of feeding frenzy. Naturally, my snorkel went underwater and naturally I kept breathing. Naturally everyone around me thought this was the highlight of the day. As for me, I was scarred. I’m fragile.

“What size,” the young lady in the snorkeling booth asks. Eleven. Twelve on a good day. She smiles, hoping I don’t say another word. But I can’t help myself. You know what they say about men with big feet? “No.” A look of horror crosses her face and then I see a distinct look that says, ‘Maybe he will have stroke and go away.’ They wear big socks. She smiles and memorizes my face for the next episode of Cops, before handing my my gear. I tell myself I’m an idiot and hike over to the old ravaged docks to snorkel among the remaining wooden pilings.

The water is clear and I venture out after repeatedly tripping over my fins. Snorkel in place, let’s go. Beautiful fish dart into coral, seemingly at ease moving backward. In my head I’m singing ‘Under the Sea’. Fish with colorful vests stare at me and then smoothly move along. It’s like a Crayola commercial under here. Suddenly several fish that apparently weren’t present when color was passed out, decide to swim along side. One fish, two fish, blowfish, bluefish. I’m relaxed. I’m breathing normally. Ha, ha, no food in my pocket today. A school of deeply marked fish perform what has to have been a choreographed ballet. Then it happens (cue theme from Jaws). As soon as I get near the pilings I see the outline of a large fish. By large I mean roughly the size of me. Breath… breath… breath. I calmly turn around and head for shore. Except I am swimming against the current and staying in place. The large fish gets within about five feet of me and then with a single silent swish, turns and swims away. On the boat I was told that it was a nurse shark. “They rarely attack humans.” And thus ends my snorkeling career.

EVERY PARK I VISIT HAS ONE PLANT THAT JUST REFUSES TO FIT IN. INDIVIDUALISTS. CONTRARIANS. THIS ONE TOLD ME TO MOVE OUT OF WAY – “YOU’RE BLOCKING MY VIEW OF THE WATER.”

THIS PELICAN HOLDS THE WORLD RECORD FOR STANDING ON ONE FOOT. TWO DAYS, EIGHTEEN HOURS AND FIFTY-SIX MINUTES. RECENTLY BEAT THE PREVIOUS RECORD HELD BY PERRY ‘PEG-LEG’ JOHNSON OF ST. AUGUSTINE.

TWO AND ONE HALF HOURS ACROSS OPEN WATER, TRAILED BY A GORGEOUS SETTING SUN. BACK TO KEY WEST, MALLORY SQUARE, FIRE EATERS AND A CUBAN SANDWICH.

MY HOME FOR A FEW NIGHTS IN KEY WEST. I MAY HAVE ANGERED A FEW BIRDS WHO DECIDED TO TAKE IT OUT ON THE VAN. THEY WERE ARRESTED AND ARE REQUIRED TO PERFORM 12 HOURS OF COMMUNITY SERVICE.

Everglades

The water’s murmur is the voice of my father’s father – Chief Seattle

As I entered Everglades National Park from the east, my mind wandered to Peter Matthiessen’s brilliant book, Shadow Country. Set in the late 1800’s on a fringe of the everglades during a period of frontier exploration, Matthiessen describes an other-worldly place of primal brutality. A land of water and sky inhabited by exotic creatures, desperate explorers and those who have come to the end of land seeking refuge from ghosts only they knew were chasing them. As I drove into a broad sun trying to imagine such a place, the great river of grass welcomed me into her arms and I felt strangely at home.

DRIVING BACK TO BIG PINE KEY CAMPGROUND ONE EVENING I SAW THE SKY REFLECTED IN AN EXPOSED POOL OF WATER.  EVERYTHING ELSE TO THE HORIZON WAS BLACK.

Hurricane Irma took a toll on the Florida Keys. A drive that many consider one of the most beautiful in the country, has become a mile after mile testament to suffering. Spoils of destruction brought into the open along the road’s edge. Boats, RV’s, pieces of homes, pieces of lives, mingle with mighty palms and underbrush. All waiting to be lifted into steel jaws and taken to a final resting place. The drive through the Keys is still beautiful. But you can’t help but be moved by the sadness resting in the sun.

I ONLY TOOK ONE PHOTOGRAPH OF THE COUNTESS MILES OF DEBRIS ALONG ROUTE 1.  I FELT LIKE AN INTRUDER INTO PRIVATE LIVES THAT HAD BEEN RIPPED OPEN AND PUT ON PUBLIC DISPLAY.

Irma also paid a violent visit to the everglades. Two of the three visitors centers and campgrounds are closed. Many of the hiking trails and interior roads are underwater or covered in debris. Great pathways sliced through banyans and pines. Lush thickets cleared, leaving only root systems grounded in sand. To the north, the Kissimmee River runs into an overflowing Lake Okeechobee, traveling south into the Shark River Slough, flooding freshwater prairies. This is a land of water and the fingerprints of Irma smear the landscape.

A SECTION OF BOARDWALK TWISTED INTO THE DARK BROWN WATERS.

When Everglades National Park was dedicated in 1947, it wasn’t to protect its scenic beauty. As a clear victory to conservationists, it was intended to preserve one of the most diverse ecosystems on the planet. A land charged with the delicate balance of nine distinct habitats and an ecosystem so interwoven into each species that the slightest change in one causes an outward ripple. However, like so many of our greatest natural treasures, this dynamic system, so impenetrable, yet so open and accessible, lies at the mercy of mankind. Just as this park is dedicated to preserving nature’s precarious balance, so should we be ever vigilant in helping her do so.

ROSEATE SPOONBILLS FEAST IN THE SLOWLY MOVING WATER.  THIS PARTICULAR GROUP HAD JUST RETURNED FROM A VERY COMPETITIVE GAME OF SHUFFLEBOARD.

Since Everglades and Biscayne National Parks are only twenty six miles apart, Long Pine Key in the everglades was to be my home for several days while I explored each. By the time I left the visitor’s center and set up camp, light was fading. I settled in for the night and quickly fell asleep. Around 1:00 AM, something brushed up against my tent. I lay still and waited for a noise that would tell me what type of animal was on the other side of a thin slice of nylon. Something brushed up against the tent again – above my head. I slowly eased off my cot, trying to be as quiet as possible. More movement as I reached for the hatchet I had used to pound tent stakes a few hours earlier. Standing in the middle of the tent, hatchet raised, heart pounding – another slight brush of the tent. This one about chest high. My mind is jumping through a list of animals tall enough to brush my tent at that height. Deer, bear, panther, human. Humans being the scariest. I turned on my headlamp and shouted, who’s there? Nothing. No movement. After a moment, slow movement away from the tent. I still can’t tell what it is, but I’m certain it’s not human. After about 15 minutes of standing in the middle of the tent, hatchet raised, I ventured outside and looked around. Nothing. It wasn’t damp, so there were no footprints in the thick bladed grass. I lowered the hatchet, walked back into the tent and moved my cot to the middle. I brought my chair next to the cot and placed the hatchet within arm’s length. I fell asleep with my hand resting on the blade.

A GREAT EGRET FLOATS ABOVE THE WATERY PLAINS. TRYING TO PHOTOGRAPH EGRETS FELL INTO TWO DISTINCT CATEGORIES.  SKITTISH AND POSERS.  I FOUND THIS TO BE IN DIRECT CORRELATION WITH MY REAL LIFE.

A walk along the boardwalk of Anhinga Trail is a microcosm of the park. A proud red-barked gumbo limbo tree stands sunburned at the edge of the trail. Moving toward the boardwalk, long grasses of Taylor Slough sway gracefully beneath the water. Dwarf cypress trees hold soil-less bromeliads in their branches, as bright green ferns lean into the smooth spotted breach of a black mangrove. In the distance, pinelands and hardwood hammocks give height to the flat prairie and marsh. Water lilies bursting in yellow, rest on clear bright blue water, while turtles swim silently beneath. A peregrine falcon drifts on the wind. Somewhere in the mangroves an alligator’s slow guttural moan can be heard, as it slides through the tangled roots. Above it all, an ever-changing sky of white batten clouds resting on a canvas of blue.

THE DEEP BLUE WATER OF A LILY POND, FLOWS INTO THE GRASSY WETLANDS.

WHITE WATER LILY.

Coastal Prairie Trail leads you west out of the Irma damaged and closed Flamingo Visitor Center and initially hugs the coastline of Florida Bay. As I approached the trail I ran into a park ranger who said the trail was closed. “Most of it is covered with debris from Irma. Some of it is still underwater. It’s also a breeding ground for mosquitoes.” So I can’t access the trail from here? “Well, I can’t tell you not to access the trail. I would just tell you that most of it is not really a hike you want to take.” Thanks for the head’s up. I appreciate it. When do you think Flamingo will be back up and running? “Hard to tell” he says with a slight chuckle. “The funds have been appropriated. Or so we’ve been told. Of course the funds are always appropriated.” And here he makes air quotes with his fingers. “We’ll just have to wait an see.” Times are tough for a new budget. “Yep.” And again he chuckles, shakes his head and walks off. I turn and head to the debris littered trail.

At my age you would think I would be able to know common sense when it rudely slaps me in the forehead. Perhaps it’s more than a slap that is needed. Climbing over debris to get down a pathway partially underwater didn’t do the trick. One billion mosquitoes that suddenly found me attractive and decided to show their love by eating my skin didn’t deter me. Nope. It took a Florida cottonmouth sliding by my leg and off into the brush as I opened my mouth the scream like a 12 year old schoolboy – only to find out that my lungs wouldn’t let air escape. In that moment I kind of wished the ranger had told me the trail was closed and smacked me in the forehead. But I know I would have gone anyway.

A FISH CROW HUNTING IN THE SHALLOW WATER COVERING THE ROAD.  ODDLY, HE HAD ONE EYE AND CLAIMED HE COULD SEE THE FUTURE.  AS I WAS WALKING AWAY I HEARD HIM DISTINCTLY SAY, “WHO LOVES YA SMITTY?

Each National Park I visit leaves its mark on me. Most overwhelm you with beauty, while others speak to you in subtle undertones. Everglades is a sly seducer. She unveils the threat of violence, then blankets you with a serene Mediterranean blue sky. One visual discovery quickly opposes the next causing your senses to cautiously react. There a stillness while water moves under and through everything – a subtle grace to her diversity of life. Soundless birds float above the rising chorus of hymns from an earthbound choir. Everything is at odds, yet in complete harmony. Perhaps it was just the constant movement of water that drew me in. Knowing that life flowed under everything I walked upon and touched. Maybe it was just that simple – I don’t know. I do know that something profoundly spiritual happened in the everglades. A small piece of me changed and I will never be the same.

THIS JUST CRACKED ME UP.  I KEPT WRITING CAPTIONS AND LAUGHING TO MYSELF – WHICH FOR SOME REASON PEOPLE FIND ODD. FINALLY SETTLED ON, “MOM?”

A HERON DESPERATELY TRYING TO BLEND INTO THE BACKGROUND IN ORDER TO AVOID BEING JUST ANOTHER PHOTOGRAPH.

NINE MILE POND. THE CLOUDS LOOKED LIKE THEY WERE LINING UP INTO PERFECT MARCHING BAND ORDER. I ALSO HAD THE IMPRESSION THAT THEY LIKED LOOKING AT THEMSELVES

YOU DIDN’T THINK I WOULD DO A PIECE ON THE EVERGLADES AND NOT HAVE A PHOTO OF A GATOR DID YOU?  THIS WAS TAKEN MOMENTS BEFORE HE BIT OFF THE SECOND TOE OF MY LEFT FOOT.