West of Everglades:

Naples Beach

Western Everglades?

Where are the Everglades?

When you’re wading knee deep in the sawgrass there’s no mistake –

They are right there where you are standing.


But how about when you’re bouncing along in a buggy under the cypress swamp next door?

They call that the “western Everglades.”

Then again I’ve heard the Caloosahatchee – 70 miles away – called the same.


Texas has the same conundrum with the Big Thicket,

Or just “the thicket” for short.


You can point to it on a map, and along the side of the road signs will point you to Big Thicket Nat’l Preserve, but where its heart lies and how much land (and water) to include – not to mention the acreage that’s been lost to farming, logging, and population growth – is intermittently debated (as occasion allows), but rarely resolved.


Back home in the Everglades I know when I’m leaving the Water Conservation Areas because there’s a levee that tells me so.

It’s called the L28:

Everglades proper is on side and its western cousin – Big Cypress Swamp – is on the other, even if to the untrained eye they may look the same.


You won’t run into the same problem on the East Coast Perimeter Levee!

It’s river of grass to the west (not to be mistaken with the “western Everglades”) and a sea of houses to the east, in what once was the Everglades.



Where then lies the heart of the western Everglades?

If you stick me in a swamp apple forest waist deep in the Fakahatchee, the term “Everglades” doesn’t so much conjure up images of an infinite marsh, as it does that of an old lime rock road – called Everglades Boulevard – which cuts through the old Florida heart of the Big Cypress Swamp.


And on a recent trip to East Texas along the banks of the Neches River, within the bounds of Big Thicket Nat’l Preserve, and possibly near the ambiguous heart of “the thicket’s” elusive core, I wasn’t thinking “Everglades” then either, although I must admit the hardwood forests (called the bottomlands) of the swampy floodplain infused me with a soggy sense of déjà vu:



It would be a stretch too far to call Texas's Big Thicket the "western Everglades," even if yes, it lies west of the Everglades and oozes a similar look and feel of the swamplands that lie adjacent to and west of the Everglades.


Can’t we just call it The Big Cypress instead?

(Texas's Big Thicket Nat’l Preserve and Florida's Big Cypress Nat’l Preserve were both created by Congress on the same day back in 1974.)

Outward bound

Tidal flows

Tides rise and fall:

The up and down and up and down cycle happens twice daily.


That makes knowing the chart (as in tidal) as important as knowing a map (as in coastal) if you venture out to sea by boat from Everglades City …

Not to mention wind direction and wave height.



And don’t forget the tides don’t just rise and fall …

They flow!

(Freshwater paddlers rarely opt for “upstream,” whereas brackish water counterparts sometimes don’t have a choice.)



Freshwater flow season in the swamps is drawing to a close just as winter moon tidal flows are moving in fast.



It’s the sun that’s the difference maker though:

In a few weeks it will be 3.5 million miles closer than during the lazy days of summer when – among other things – lazy days were whiled away on the beach … tides as they may.

sun sets on swamps

November's national reputation

Don’t be fooled by its “national reputation” as the last official month of Florida’s hurricane season.

November is better known “locally” as our first full month of the “winter” dry season.


And technically speaking your right:

We don’t have winter as a “season” here in south Florida …

(Although do get brief incursions of cold air that feel winter-like for a “few days.”)


The map displays a rainfall overview state-wide for November.

The Treasure Coast jumps out as being particularly dry (shaded as blue on map), otherwise rains generally fell within range of normal for the rest of the state,

For south Florida that meant mostly “blue” sky.


November did bring one official “day of winter” to Naples.

That happened on Saturday when daytime highs didn’t break above 70º F.


Yes, I know:

It’s us against the elements down here on the south peninsula.

cypress swamped

Lake of ages

It’s easy to get lost in a hydrograph.

You want to include all the years, only to discover that the more you add the less you see … and the hungrier you get:

All those lines start to look like a bowl full of spaghetti!


That’s when it’s good to step back, take a drink of water, and look at decadal trends instead.

That’s especially timely now since we’re coming up to the end of another ten.

(How time flies!)



Mark this one as the decade “the bottom fell out” for the Lake.

Water quality is a problem (total phosphorus concentrations of 200 parts per billion), and discharges to the estuary continue to be a concern when waters rise high (2003-2005), but the decades most memorable threat was perhaps its repeated plunge into record drought territory.


Everyone’s resigned to the end of the glory days of a 22 ft high “pre-drainage” lake (today, stage levels higher than 17 ft are a threat to the levee),

But no one contemplated the lake's tumble to half that level.

At one point the lake spent 511 consecutive days below 11 ft. That alarmed water supply interests, but was hailed environmentally for allowing shoreline muck removal, regenerating wetland plants, and minimizing estuarine discharges.


Inquiry into what caused its fall – was it a climactic shift, did operations come into play, or was it an increase in water usage? (consecutive years of low rainfall on the Kissimmee were a big factor) – was diluted by the unexpected deluge of a more pressing question:

Namely, what happens when "drought of the century" meets an epic flood?

Or more simply stated –

Tropical Storm Fay?


Fay didn’t get “official” credit for breaking the 511 day streak – it arrived a week too late – but it does go into the record books for spurring the fastest 4 foot rise of the century,

And also single handedly reframed the debate:

It’s the swings between drought and flood, not either alone, that is the major water supply and restoration challenge.



Back in antiquity at 22 ft above sea level, the Lake had more water to give (during drought) and more space to over flow (during floods).

Or in other words, we didn’t need the “perfect” rain year to get its water right.


I hereby raise a toast (water of course) in hope that restoration plans in the upstream Kissimmee and wetland conversion of sugar land to the south puts the Lake on a steadier flow path in the decade to come.

(More in ten years!)

sky and cypress

When swamps freeze over

The fine citizenry of Fargo, North Dakota have been enduring an unseasonably warm November:

They are still waiting for the lakes to freeze. (see article)


Somehow I just don’t see them walking around in shorts and long-sleeve T-shirts,

Which was the case this weekend in Naples, Florida despite the arrival of a pretty stout cold front.


That front dropped the nighttime low into the 40s, and for the first time this winter didn’t see the daytime high break the 70º F plane.

You know it’s a cold day in south Florida when that doesn’t happen!


Before it got cold, the front did funnel in some rain.

Hopefully we’ll make it through the winter without a hard freeze, however.

That’s bad for the oranges you know!

S-333

Tick of a timeless clock

One allure of the swamp is its timelessness. It has a primordial feel that defies a date and is immune to the tick of any clock.

Don't confuse that with staying the same!

It's in constant flux to a rhythm all its own.



Here's a look back at the same cypress dome over the course of the past half year.

April 2009

September 2009

November 2009

Florida navel oranges

Fresh-squeezed fall

Labor Day is a now three months behind us,

Is it safe to finally say that fall has arrived in south Florida?


Consider the evidence:

Labor Day of course marks the “unofficial” start of fall on the continent, even if by celestial standards the autumnal equinox doesn’t occur until September 22nd.

Both are mute points on the peninsula:

Summer rains were still going strong through the start of October.


Eventually we got our first blast of “cool” air, but it was a short lived whimsy – the weeks that followed ramped back into a “hot and humid” malaise that wouldn’t shake free.

Finally here at the end of November I’m starting shake off the summer cobwebs:

Skies grow dark early, weather has turned more reliably cool, and perhaps most tellingly the cypress needles have almost completely fallen.



And if that weren’t enough:

Today marks the official end of hurricane season.



So, can we finally claim victory and proclaim fall has officially arrived?



It’s sort of a mute point now that the Navels oranges and Ruby Red grapefruits are in!

Here in Florida that’s our first sign of winter!

Big Cypress Nat'l Preserve

Oasis Visitors Center

Melaleuca in full bloom

Melaleuca trees are in full bloom.

Beautiful yes, but don’t be deceived:

They have a reputation as one of the most meddlesome invasive exotic plants in the Everglades.


Upon arriving to Big Cypress, I didn’t so much see things with new eyes – as the saying goes – as I “didn’t” see things clearly because my eyes were new … in addition to also being myopic:

I wear glasses for distance.


A long-time ranger offered to give me a tour of the Addition Lands, up along the preserve’s northern outskirts.

From a distance the Melaleucas were easy to spot:

They had "puffy" white flowers, or so they seemed, until we stepped out of the truck to take a closer look and their true shape was revealed:

Elongated white bristle brushes.


“These trees shouldn’t be here,” he scowled. “Somebody brought them in from Australia and now they’ve spread everywhere.”

He went on to explain that most of the Melaleuca forests had been cut down on preserve lands, “but you’ll see them everywhere else … especially in the fall when they are blooming. That blows the seeds right back into the preserve.”

“Do they bloom in fall because it coincides with spring in Australia?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders dismissively then looked at his watch. We were on a schedule and had to go.



Near sightedness had precluded me from ever becoming serious birder, or so I thought:

I was quickly discovering in Florida that wading birds were impossible “not” to notice.

They were lengthy, conspicuously feathered, and quite ostentatious – whether wading in the water or perched in a tree:

Spotting one (or many) from a distance was quite commonplace.



A quarter mile up the levee, as we approached a confluence with another canal, I spotted what appeared to be one of those peculiar unwanted trees with the puffy white flowers.

“Is that another Melaleuca?” I asked, pointing straight ahead.



He fell silent for a moment – probably half wondering if I was making a joke – then dead panned in disbelief:

“That’s a cypress tree with a bunch of egrets perched on it.”



So it was.

(Birding and botany were never my strong suites.)

orange flash

Secret of winter sunsets

Are winter sunsets over the gulf more spectacular than the other seasons?


In my opinion – yes,

But that’s only because I’m out there on the beach to see them “first hand”.


I can’t say the same for spring, summer and fall – especially before we’ve dropped back an hour for daylight savings:

We’re never out on the beach late enough in those seasons to see the sun touch down.

(It’s still way up in the sky by the time we leave.)


In a perfect world we’d set our schedule to sunsets.

But you know how it is:

Our lives are run by clocks instead.



The secret is to take advantage of what moments time allows:

Come winter, one of those moments for me is the early arrival of sunsets.


(Nothing against summer sunsets for any late birds out there!)

Gulls at sunset

Naples, Fla