Alligator Park (20 page)

“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. There 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.

“You do see the gator,” I
say.

“What of it?” he says, without
missing a stroke.

“We’re heading right for it.”

“He’s got no interest in us.”

Suddenly, the gator’s eyes
open and he looks right at us.

“He sees us,” I say, with a
sense of urgency.

“I know that gator; this is
his territory. Don’t make any fast movements and he’ll pay us no mind.”

“He might be hungry.”

“See how he’s just lying there,
on that log, taking in the sun?”

“Yes,” I say.

“If he was hungry, he
wouldn’t be doing that, he’d be in the water looking for food.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for
something appetizing to drift by.”

“On the bank, yes,
I’d say you’re right. He’d be stalking a deer, or a boar, or a bird, or any stray
animal that was unlucky enough to wander within his strike. But how would that
happen out here, on a log? It can’t... and they’re smart enough to know that. This
gator’s already had his fill, but he needs to get his body temperature up, to digest
his meal properly.”

“How can you be
sure?”

“This time of
year, when the water’s cold, he’s not going to spend any more time in the water
than he has to. So unless you give him a reason to feel threatened, he’s not
moving off that log.”

I put the camera away and
keep as still as possible as we glide by the gator, not wanting to provoke him
in any way. I see his massive foot twitch a couple of times as he gets himself ready
to leap into the water lest he feels threatened. But we get by without incident
and as he recedes into the distance, I observe him close his eyes again,
probably feeling a sense of self-satisfaction that he has maintained his
dominance and driven off the intruders.

I notice the water getting
dramatically clearer as we progress deeper into the swamp. I can now see the
bottom to a depth of maybe five or six feet and there are fish, big ones, all
around. I take out my camera and snap some pictures.

“Let’s catch some fish,” I
say.

“Later,” he says.

Up ahead, about fifty
feet away, I notice something black on a low-lying branch which juts out over
the water. As we get closer, I can see it’s a snake, about as thick as my
wrist, and appears to be about four or five feet long. I instinctively snap a
few pictures before it slides off the branch and into the water. I scared it, I
think, but then it slithers along the surface in our direction creating a fantastic
photo opportunity. I hastily snap more pictures as it gets closer to the canoe.

“Stay back,” says
Fargo.

I slide to the
opposite side of the canoe just as the snake startles me by popping its head
above the gunwale. Fargo springs into action using his oar to push the snake
back into the water. But it is undeterred. In seconds it is back, sliding up
the side of the canoe and attempting to join us inside the boat. Fargo swings
his oar at the snake-head; it snaps at the oar sinking its fangs deep into the
wood. He attempts to shake the snake loose, but it clamps down even tighter. Fargo
slides his machete out of the leather sheath and with one elegant swipe slices
the snake in two. The tail drops into the water creating a red cloud of blood
and then slowly sinks to the bottom.

“What is that?” I
say franticly.

“Cottonmouth. Very
dangerous.”

The remaining half
of the snake writhes violently, wrapping itself around the handle of the oar. Blood
droplets splash everywhere. Fargo shakes the oar, tries to dislodge the snake,
but the head will not let go. A few minutes pass and then the writhing subsides.
Fargo slides his razor-sharp machete between the snake’s teeth and the oar, pries
open the fangs, and then allows the head to slip off the end and into the
water. I watch the doomed snake-head sink to the bottom leaving a trail of
blood behind, like a downed jet fighter leaving a trail of smoke as it streaks
towards the ground and towards certain death. Fish come out of nowhere and
start pecking at the carcass, competing for the best parts. Normally, the sheer
violence of it all would gross me out, but somehow the incident, and indeed the
surroundings, seem surreal to me, like I’m watching a movie.

“Something’s
wrong with that snake,” he says.

“Why do you say?”

“Cottonmouth’s
don’t usually attack a boat.”

“Maybe he’s
territorial.”

“No, I come here
often. He was out to kill.”

“Why do you
think?”

“Don’t really know.
Could be something he ate... or maybe he lost his mind.”

“Or it could be
something else,” I say.

“Something else?”

“Yeah, something
in the water, a chemical.” I say.

Fargo cups his
hand, scoops up some water, smells it, and then allows it to drain through his
fingers.

“Seems fine to me.”

“It could be a very
small amount, measured in parts per million. It takes special instruments to
detect it,” I say, as I dip a specimen jar into the water and fill it to the
brim.

Fargo peers at
the snake carcass in its watery grave as blood trickles into the clear water.

“Well, whatever it
is, he won’t be doing that again,” he says.

Actually, I never
felt I was in danger, what with Fargo around, but the incident has shaken my
plane of awareness to a new level. I have now come to realize Florida is a very
different place than Pennsylvania, my former home. Even in the midst of the New
Jersey Pine Barrens, miles from civilization, I never had to worry about deadly
snakes. Oh sure, technically there are a few Rattlesnakes and Copperheads
around, but their numbers are so small they are even on the endangered species’
list. The chances of randomly coming across one are miniscule. But down here
it’s different. It’s not only alligators I have to fear, but a laundry list of
spiders, and snakes, and who knows what else that could kill me. I try not to
think about it and focus on the task at hand.

I place the specimen jar back
into the lunch bag and Fargo resumes his paddling. He heads for some dry land about
a half-mile ahead covered with a diverse assortment of vegetation including
some tall pines. He maneuvers towards a sandy bank allowing the keel to contact
the bank with a slight thud bringing us to an abrupt halt. He jumps into the
shallow water and then drags the frontal third of the canoe up on land. I don’t
know where we are, but it’s so remote I have to wonder how many people have
actually even been here before. If I ever got lost, I wouldn’t have a clue
which direction to walk. I could be wandering around for days, eating whatever
I could find. But what if I got injured or passed out from dehydration? The
underbrush is so dense they may never find me. The reality was disconcerting; out
here, in this vast wilderness, I was totally dependent on Fargo.

I gather my things, put on
the moccasins, and then step over the side onto the sand carrying my backpack
and the lunch bag containing the specimen jars.

“It’s better you leave those
here. I need you to carry this instead,” he says, and hands me a grocery-bag
sized leather pouch with a shoulder strap attached to it.

“What’s it for?”

“For the food.”

I place the backpack and
lunch bag back into the canoe and then step back to give Fargo some space. He drags
the canoe further up the bank so it is completely out of the water. He then
reaches into his backpack and takes out a small wooden container about the size
of a bar of soap. He pries off the lid revealing some type of white paste
inside. He scoops up a small amount of the paste with his index finger and then
makes a short white line on each side of his face just under each eye. He then gets
another container with blue paste and makes a blue line under the white one.