Alligator Park

by R. J. Blacks

  “We go by foot now,” he says.

  CHAPTER 18

  “Where are we going?” I ask.

  “The trail,” he says, pointing to a narrow gap in the vegetation.

  Fargo sits on the gunwale, then lowers himself into the water. It reaches to his waist. He drags the airboat closer to the beach until it will go no farther. He then uncoils a rope attached to the front and ties it securely to a sturdy pine about thirty feet from the water’s edge. He reenters the water and approaches me.

  “Here, hold on,” he says, extending his arms to carry me.

  “It’s okay, I can manage,” I say, lifting my backpack up onto the seat. Fargo winces, then sloshes through the water to the other side of the airboat without saying a word. He uncoils another rope and attaches it to a different tree up on the bank. I suddenly regret not accepting his kindness; perhaps I offended him. I throw the backpack over my right shoulder and the lunch bag over my left, and then recall Will’s words of wisdom about how flip-flops disrespect Indian land. I slip them off, store them under the seat, and place the moccasins into the backpack. I then sit on the gunwale, just as Fargo had done, and lower myself into the knee-deep water. I make my way to the shoreline, and then wander around aimlessly examining the vegetation. Occasionally a lizard runs by my feet or jumps from leaf to leaf on the Saw Palmettos, but I pay it no mind. They are everywhere and completely harmless.

  Fargo wades back to the airboat, climbs back in, and gathers his things together. I use the opportunity to take out the moccasins and put them on. I glance over at him to see what type of footwear he’s bringing, but he doesn’t appear to have any. I wonder: Should I follow his example? Should I go barefoot?

  Going barefoot outdoors is kind of foreign to me. It’s not the kind of thing a typical mid-city apartment dweller would do, even in the heat of summer. For one thing, there’s practically no grass to walk on and the sidewalks have degenerated into a toxic minefield of the most disgusting dross. Who among us would be inclined to submit our bare feet, our delicate under-soles, to the endless barrage of discarded gum flattened into tiny pancakes, quarter-sized wads of dried-up saliva, and the nauseating remains of dog waste, ground into the concrete by the unfortunate missteps of unsuspecting out-of-towners? Certainly not I.

  In fact, the only time I’ve ever gone barefoot outdoors is at the Jersey Shore, and that’s only on the beach. The security guards don’t allow it on the boardwalk, I guess, in case we pick up a splinter or something. But I’m determined to do whatever is necessary to fit into this way of life. I don’t want to be labeled with the stigma of an outsider. I make up my mind; I’m doing what the locals do. I’m going barefoot.

  I slip off the moccasins and place them back inside my backpack. Fargo leaves the airboat, and then joins me on the bank. He points to some Saw Palmetto leaves that have grown into the trail, partially blocking our path.

  “Don’t let these slide over your skin. They’re razor sharp.”

  He turns and begins walking at a brisk pace. I follow close behind trying to keep up. From this vantage point, I can’t help but notice the scar on his back. I’m dying to ask him how he got it, but Will’s warning, “Some things are better left untold,” restrains me. Perhaps someday he’ll feel the inclination to tell me, or perhaps someday I’ll get the courage to ask him, but for the present, it will have to remain his secret.

  About a half-mile down the trail I feel a sharp pain in my foot.

  “Ouch!” I say.

  “What’s the matter?” he asks.

  I lift up my foot to expose a thorn stuck in my skin. Fargo takes a look.

  “It’s nothing. Just pull it out.”

  I grab the thorn with my nails and ease it out, drawing a few drops of blood. I apply some hand sanitizer to the wound to deter any infection.

  “Maybe you should wear shoes.”

  “How come you don’t need them?”

  “I’ve been going barefoot since I was two. The bottom of my foot is as tough as your shoe.”

  Any illusion about me going barefoot suddenly evaporates. I remove the moccasins from my backpack and put them on. Fargo seems keenly interested.

  “Nice moccasins. My mother had a pair just like them.”

  “They are your Mother’s.”

  I explain how Will gave them to me because I didn’t have anything appropriate to wear. I glance at him briefly, out of the corner of my eye, hoping he doesn’t find anything offensive in that.

  “Well it’s about time someone put them to use,” he says, and then turns and continues along the trail.

  The moccasins feel wonderful on my feet. The deerskin is soft and supple and wraps around my feet with such precision, it’s as if they had been made especially for me. The soles are also deerskin but of a different kind, tough enough to prevent stones and thorns from damaging my skin but flexible enough to allow me to experience the subtle changes in texture of the earth beneath my feet. I’m overwhelmed by a certain feeling of oneness with nature.

  “Where does this trail go?” I ask.

  “Hunting grounds,” he says.

  “Where you bring your clients?”

  “No, no clients. This is sacred land, for Indians only.”

  “I’m not Indian.”

  “That’s okay... you’re with me.”

  “Is it far?”

  “A couple of miles.”

  A couple of miles? The moccasins are a joy to walk in and I have no trouble keeping up, but a couple of miles? That’s more than I had expected.

  “I don’t know if I can keep up this pace for that long,” I say.

  “You won’t have to,” he says.

  What does that mean? Is he going to leave me here, in the woods, all alone, with all those deadly creatures around, while he goes off hunting alone?

  “I want to stay with you,” I say.

  “You will,” he says.

  This is making no sense to me and I start to panic. But I decide to keep quiet and plod along... until which time I can no longer keep up. We come to a clearing and I can see several trails branching off in different directions. Fargo takes the one on the left and I follow close behind.

  I notice the vegetation starting to change as the Saw Palmetto becomes replaced by low lying bushes of no particular variety. Then the firm white sandy soil on each side of the trail becomes damp and eventually marshy, turning into this black goo. The tall pines which protected us from the relentless Florida sun are now thinning out and we are drifting into a completely new environment.

  Up ahead I see the telltale sheen of water and then the trail abruptly ends. We stop at the water’s edge and I find myself at the onset of a huge swamp. Throughout the swamp is an endless assortment of Cypress trees, in every direction, as far as I can see, rising out of the tea-colored water to a height of one-hundred feet or more. Overhead is a thick canopy of vegetation which blocks much of the daylight. Gaps in the canopy allow the sunlight to coalesce into bright beams, shining down through the dense humidity and producing the most surreal effect. The lower parts of the Cypress trunks widen to about five feet in diameter and then disappear into the sandy bottom four feet below the surface. It suddenly occurs to me why the trunks of these strange trees are so wide at the base. If it were not so, the soil beneath the water is so soft these massive trees would topple at the slightest provocation from the wind. It’s amazing how nature adapts to the challenging demands of its environment.

  “Is this part of the reservation?” I ask.

  “No, not reservation. This is Indian land... always was... always will be.”

  He declares this with such conviction it’s obvious how much this land means to him. Even though it belongs to the entire Seminole nation, he cares for it as if it were his own. It was the land of his forefathers, and he would defend it to the end.

  Fargo stands by the edge of the water and peers into the distance. I see nothing that would remotely qualify as food so I start wondering if this was all for not
hing.

  “What now?” I say.

  “Stay here,” he says, then edges his way along the bank until he is out of sight. I back away from the water and retreat to the middle of the trail, putting as much distance as possible between me and the bushes in case some snake or spider or any other ugly thing gets the inclination to jump on to me.

  About twenty minutes have passed and I’m starting to get antsy, still no sign of Fargo. I peer along the bank in the direction he was last seen hoping to see him on his return, but there’s no one, only bushes and swampland. I look in every direction thinking he might be coming back a different way, but there’s nothing. It’s now well after lunch time and I’m getting really hungry. The only food I’ve had all day is a half a bowl of cereal eaten in haste. Did he forget about me? Is he leaving me here? Am I supposed to fend for myself?

  Fend for myself? How could he do this to me? I have no experience in these matters. What if some rogue alligator were to pass by looking for an easy meal? Here I am, dressed only in a swimsuit, with large areas of bare flesh exposed; I would be a temptation no hungry alligator could overlook. What would I do?

  I scan the swamp for alligators. Suddenly I hear a plop and then see those telltale concentric circles propagating outward across the mirror smooth surface. Something just ducked under water. Was it those eyes of death, those little bumps that appear just above the waterline, the eyes of an alligator stalking me? Or was it just a harmless turtle?

  I’ve got to be prepared, I think to myself. If it’s an alligator, once he gets his sights on me, I won’t have much time to do anything. I recall a recent article in a scientific journal where researchers concluded that alligators have far more intelligence than anyone ever imagined. The scientists were amazed to see alligators observing their prey for hours, even days, planning the best strategy to capture the animal and drag it into the water. Then, at the appropriate moment, they would leap out of the water and grab the victim before it realized what was happening.

  And forget about running away. Alligators have the advantage of surprise, and in the heat of the chase, can gallop as fast as a horse. By the time I turned to run, it would already have me in its jaws and my chance of survival would fall rapidly to zero. It’s clear, I have to do something now.

  Climb a tree, I think. Alligators can’t climb trees, at least, not the tall ones. I look for a suitable tree to climb, but the ones nearby are only saplings that would collapse under my weight. I suddenly realize that all the trees large enough to support my weight are either strangled by underbrush teeming with spiders and snakes or have their lower branches, the ones within my reach, rotted off from insufficient sunlight. Okay, maybe I can’t climb a tree; I’ll defend myself instead. I search for a large rock but see none; this is Florida after all where sand is ubiquitous and rocks are the exception. A stick, that’s it, I can use a stick to drive it away. I search the bushes and manage to find a branch about four feet long. Perhaps I can ram it into its mouth if it attacks me. I pick up the stick and retreat to the middle of the trail scanning the water one more time.

  “Fargo, where are you?” I say to myself. “What’s taking you so long?”

  Frustrated, I look back up the trail in the direction we originally came from, getting on my toes, and straining my neck, to see as far as possible, desperately searching for a glimpse of him, but I see nothing.

  Then, right behind me, I hear something that sounds like moving water. I turn my head slowly towards the sound, and in my peripheral vision pick up the vague outline of a long green object in the water. I gasp, and then snap my head around to get a better look. It’s green alright, and it’s in the water, but it’s not what I thought it was.

  It’s Fargo, sitting in a canoe. He’s grinning from ear to ear and rustling the water with his oar.

  “How long have you been there?” I ask.

  “Long enough to see you sweating,” he says.

  “I hate you,” I say, and then give him the most intense scowl I can muster. Fargo laughs with more intensity than I’ve ever seen him laugh before. I fold my arms and look away determined to punish him for making a fool of me.

  “Hey, lighten up,” he says.

  But I’m not about to give in so easily. Secretly though, I’m amazed he could sneak up on me so easily and without a sound.

  “Look, I brought you something,” he says, and holds out his hand.

  I snap a glance in his general direction and see him holding a reed basket filled with fruit.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I promised you lunch and here it is.”

  I look away again maintaining my scowl.

  “Would it help if I said I was sorry?” he says.

  I don’t respond.

  “Look, I intended to come right back. But I knew you were hungry so I figured I’d get you something right away.”

  Fargo reaches into the basket and starts eating something.

  “What is that?” I say, glancing at him again.

  “Swamp Apple, he says. “Some folks call ‘em Alligator Apples, because the gators like to swallow the ones that fall in the water.”

  “What’s it taste like.”

  “Well... kind of like Honeydew Melon, but not exactly.”

  A Philly Cheese Steak would really hit the spot about now, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have one, so I resign myself to snacking on whatever tasteless sustenance he has been able to forage from the swamp.

  “Can I have one?” I ask.

  “Sorry, that was the last one. But there’s other good stuff in here,” he says, as he thumbs through the contents of the basket. “Let’s see, we’ve got Tallow Plums, Sea Grapes, these are Pine Nuts, there’s some Saw Palmetto Nuts, Blueberries, Wild Passion Fruit and ... oh yes, and a couple of Mangos.”

  “You found all that in the swamp?”

  “This, and more. Here, have some Mango,” he says, cutting it in half and holding it out for me to take.

  Well, I absolutely love Mango. I’d never heard of it until I came to Florida, but it only took one bite and now I’m addicted. I shuffle over to the bank, trying to avoid eye contact, and hold out my hand. Fargo hops into the water, drags the canoe up onto the bank, and then hands me the Mango. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted, probably accentuated by my overwhelming need to fill the void in my stomach. I finish the Mango then scour the basket for something else to eat.

  “Try the Passion Fruit,” he says.

  “Which one is it?”

  Fargo points it out and I proceed to devour it with the fervor of a rescued castaway having his first meal in a week.

  “Take your time,” he says, and hands me a bottle of water from an insulated bag. “At one time, our people used to drink directly from natural springs. The water bubbled up from deep in the ground and formed pools that were so clear you could see the bottom forty feet down. Then, about 30 years ago, it started to taste funny so they stopped drinking it. They had to either drop a well or truck in water. Everyone knew it was contaminated with runoff from big agro, but of course, no one could prove anything.”

  “Can you show me the springs?” I ask.

  “Sure, there’s one on the way back.”

  Fargo pushes the canoe back into the water.

  “The water’s a bit murky. I’ll carry you if you want,” he says, and holds out his arms.

  “No, I want to learn how to do it myself.”

  I slip off the moccasins, place them into the backpack, and then wade towards the canoe.

  “Sit in the front,” he says.

  I place my backpack and the lunch bag into the canoe and then attempt to climb into it.

  “Keep to the center, or you’ll tip it,” he says, and holds tightly to the side, keeping it steady. I do what he says and manage to plop into it with a thud. I see Fargo roll his eyes. Okay, I don’t have the grace of an Indian, but at least I didn’t fall into the water.

  Inside, the canoe has more room than I expected. T
here are no seats so I sit cross-legged on a mat on the floor. Near the back I see a wooden bow and a deerskin quiver with a dozen arrows in it. The bow and quiver are handmade with the most extraordinary craftsmanship, a work of art. Next to it is a long thin spear—almost as long as the canoe—with a sharp metal tip that rests only a few inches from my leg.

  Fargo reaches into the canoe and retrieves a leather pouch about the size of a camera case. He opens the pouch and removes some brown shavings between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Tobacco,” he says.

  “What’s it for?”

  “I’ll show you,” he says, and turns towards the swamp. He whispers some Indian words which I can’t make out and then takes the tobacco and sprinkles it over the water.

  “It’s an offering, for a safe hunt,” he says, and then slips into the canoe without even the slightest wobble. He gets up on his knees and begins paddling, skillfully maneuvering the canoe between the Cypress trees and deeper into the swamp.

  “Do you want me to help paddle?” I ask.

  “No, it’s actually quite easy.”

  The canoe glides through the water with scarcely a sound and with little interruption to the glassy smooth surface. Up ahead on the left, I see the remains of a partially submerged tree trunk that is now serving as a convenient platform for eight turtles basking in the sun, all lined up and facing the same direction. I scramble to get my camera, but before I can take a picture, the first turtle spots us and plops into the water, followed by the second, and then the third, one after another, in perfect synchronization, until all eight turtles have disappeared under the water. Oh well, missed a good one. It’s what happens when you’re not prepared.

  Fargo steers the canoe around a group of towering Cypress trees directly in our path. As we clear the last one, another partially submerged log comes into view, except it’s not turtles on it but an alligator, a big one, maybe twelve feet from nose to tail. He appears to be sleeping, so I quickly snap a couple of pictures expecting Fargo, at any moment, to change course. But he doesn’t.