The Alligators, or A Journey to Paradise. Part Two.

 

The Alligators,

or

A Journey to Paradise.

Part Two. 

When my daughter heard I was dying to visit a park in Boca Raton to see live crocodiles in their natural habitat, she was genuinely puzzled: "Why? Why do you even need that?"

It’s hard to explain. Even to myself. A general zest for life, perhaps? Indeed, crocodiles are about as far from the Russian language and literature I taught for the first half of my life as they are from the Montessori kindergarten I’ve run for the last twenty-five years. 

Though, for starters, I should probably figure out what I actually wanted to see: crocodiles or alligators? Don't ask me why I needed this. I just did.

So, we’re visiting a friend in Boca Raton, and her daughter Anechka (who is also my daughter’s friend... staying with me so far?) takes us to Wakodahatchee Wetlands. (Want me to repeat that? Sure! Wakodahatchee. Didn't help much, did it?)

It’s actually a unique place. A swamp. A marshy lake. Have you ever walked through a swamp? You’re right not to; it’s a dangerous business.

May I indulge in a memory? Once in my life, I did walk through a swamp! A friend from my youth (don't get any ideas, we just shared a school desk) was picking water lilies for his sister—just for your information—and I got a bouquet too. The sensation of a "carpet" of grass, branches, and leaves shifting under my feet still haunts me, even though it ended happily: he gathered plenty of lilies, and they floated in a crystal fruit bowl at my house for a week.

But in Boca Raton, this isn't just any swamp—it’s man-made. (As if Florida didn't have enough swamps, they had to build one... Just grumbling for the fun of it. It’s the age. Are you smiling, or taking me seriously?)

They created this wetland using treated wastewater, then built a boardwalk just over a kilometer long. The brochure claims that "thanks to the elevated wooden boardwalk, you can observe alligators from a very close but safe distance while they bask in the sun or swim right under your feet."

And people actually went to see it! I felt better immediately: I wasn't the only one who wanted to see this predator. 

Anechka did warn us, however, that it was a bit chilly for reptiles in December; we’d be lucky to spot even one.

For now, there are no crocodiles, no alligators...

but even on a cloudy day, the park is incredibly photogenic.

One beautiful scene replaces another. It’s a pity the sky is overcast—not for me, the day was wonderful—but I feel for you, the readers. After the colorful butterfly photos from the first story, these might seem a bit dull.

It looks like an ordinary swamp, but the place is poetic. And surprisingly crowded with residents.

Near the entrance, we met a Common Moorhen. In English—basically a "swamp chicken." In Russian, we call it a kamyshnitsa.

Against the grey-black backdrop of the swamp, their red beaks and the little "shields" above them looked especially bright. They behaved exactly like chickens in a backyard: pecking around for anything edible—duckweed, crustaceans, algae, seeds, worms, snails, tadpoles... you name it.

Their coloring is clever: it blends in but stands out at the same time, shimmering with blue and purple.

I didn't manage to get a separate shot of their incredibly long toes without webbing, which fascinated me, but you can see them a bit in this zoomed-in photo.

I found some fun facts: when a moorhen feeds its chicks, it often softens a piece of greenery in its beak before handing it over. Also, older chicks from a previous brood often help the parents feed the younger ones. A rare bird behavior called "cooperative breeding."

If you were to live in Florida and head out to the swamps with a pair of binoculars—especially in the spring—you could see so many incredible things with your own eyes, without having to scoop up bits of knowledge from the internet. Not to mention the kind of photos you could take!

But for now, we move on... and still, no crocodiles, no alligators.

Instead, we stumbled upon a massive Great Blue Heron.

An bird of surprising style—Art Nouveau, I’d say. The plumage is a classic white-grey-black with a yellow accent on the beak. Small eyes are highlighted by long black "brows" ending in an elegant, thin plume. You can see it quite well in this photo.

And those flowing feathers on the breast! They look just like the fringe on 1920s dresses (I’ve watched too many old American movies; I love those "flapper" style dresses with the multi-layered, delicate fringe that comes alive with every movement).

There is even a perfect French word for these feathers: aigrettes!

The herons sit with such dignity, calm and unhurried, with only their feathers swaying in the breeze.

As we were leaving the park, one of these beauties "escorted" us, walking through the marsh with a deep sense of self-importance.

This heron is huge—over a meter tall, she’d reach my shoulder!  

In a different light, her plumage didn't look grey, but a soft blue-grey. 

It’s a good thing we didn't hear her cry; the internet says they have a loud, harsh, and very low "KRRRAAK!" that sounds like someone is being strangled. It’s a pity—such an elegant bird with such a coarse voice.

By the way, these herons suffered greatly because of those very aigrettes: they were hunted for their feathers to decorate ladies' hats and fans. How anyone could kill such a creature, I cannot imagine.

We walk on... but there are no crocodiles, no alligators. 

Or rather, they are supposedly here, somewhere, but they aren’t visible—they might as well not even exist.

But there are Ibises everywhere! Noisy, social, living in large colonies on island trees. They are easy to distinguish by their long, thin, and sharply downward-curving red beaks.

I’ve seen them on my friends' lawn, too. Americans call them "Florida Chickens" because they aren't afraid of anything and are constantly poking around in the grass for larvae and beetles.

In Florida folklore, the ibis is a symbol of bravery and wisdom. Native Americans believed the ibis is the last bird to hide before a hurricane and the first to emerge after the storm has passed.

Before nightfall, the ibises gathered in one spot.

While taking photos, I noticed a group of dark brown birds, almost black. I thought to myself: I'll find out what they are when I get home.

It turned out they were the very same ibises! It wasn’t a different species; they were just teenagers!

Young ibises stay brown for almost their entire first year of life. This helps them camouflage in the thickets until they are fast enough to fly away from predators.

Only gradually do they "molt," white spots appearing on their wings, until eventually, they become completely white like the others.

While my companions—level-headed people—walked calmly and looked around...... I was lagging three hundred meters behind. I was alternating between pure wonder and waiting for the perfect shot, choosing the right frame, then zooming in for a photo... 

In short, I fell behind. 

And there they were, about three hundred meters ahead of me, when they saw him first! "Alligator!" 

I ran! 

Well, you actually have to see him first! This isn't a zoo; it’s nature! There he is, between the trunks! 

Now that’s what I call masking—that is true camouflage! While you look, it’s the perfect time to settle the "Croc vs. Gator" debate. (Don't ask yourself why you need to know; just read.) 

I remember learning the difference for the first time at a very respectable age, from a children's book I was reading to my preschoolers. All that stuck in my head was that an alligator has a wide, blunt snout, and when its mouth is closed, you can only see the upper teeth. A crocodile, on the other hand, has a pointy snout shaped like the letter V, and it’s a bit lighter—more olive—while the alligator is grey, leaning towards black.

Fine distinctions, indeed... In the book, the reptiles were drawn side-by-side, so the differences were crystal clear. But in real life? Are you really going to stop and ponder who you’ve just run into?! Right...

(I can see it now: I walk up to him and say, "Shut your mouth, you animal, I need to see if your teeth are sticking out!" And he’ll shut it, alright. 

Oops! Maybe not the best joke.)

Would you be able to tell from a photo? It turns out it’s very simple. Even though South Florida is the only place on Earth where they live together, this specific park is a freshwater marsh—the perfect home for alligators. Crocodiles prefer the saltier water near the ocean. The "secret box" of nature opens quite easily sometimes. It’s almost a pity it was that simple.

Oh, if only there were a blue sky here! 

Although no, with the clouds, it looks even more "swampy."

Is it possible that in all this vast space, there isn't a single soul to be seen?!

My friends pulled ahead again. 

And once again, they spotted an alligator! 

I had to run to catch up.

(It’s hard to see in the photo, so I’ll circle it for you.)

This one was classic, just like the picture in a children’s book; he lay quite close to the boardwalk and looked exactly like a sunken log. But his tiny eyes were fixed clearly on us.

An unpleasant gaze. 

Cold. 

Evaluative. 

Even though they say alligators here don't perceive humans as food—since we are high up, out of their line of sight and reach, essentially just background noise—it’s still an eerie feeling.

By the way, feeding alligators is strictly forbidden here for that very reason: so they don’t develop an association between tourists and food. Still, it’s not the most pleasant sensation.

Actually, perhaps it’s not a bad thing at all that we visited this park in the winter. We didn't see alligator nests or mating dances, nor did we see tiny hatchlings or massive adults, like this one, over three meters long.

And it’s a good thing it is forbidden to enter the park after sunset; I have no desire to see the glowing red eyes of these predators in a flashlight beam. At night, they see me just as well as during the day, but I can't see them! This one lying so close to me, waiting for its next victim, and that giant hiding on the island—that was enough for me.

Let’s move on... What beauty. 

Take another look, in a different format.

And you thought it was just a swamp! (And I thought it was just a swamp!) 

That’s it, we’re done looking for alligators.

I realized how incredibly lucky we were the moment I saw this bird.

It was clearly not a flamingo: the neck was short and powerful, the legs were shorter than a flamingo's, and it sat (or stood?) alone on a branch. In short, definitely not a flamingo. Only when I walked around did I see that long spoon-shaped beak.

The name, of course, I had to Google: Spoonbill. The Roseate Spoonbill. They get their stunning color from their diet, just like flamingos; they eat tiny crustaceans and shrimp rich in carotenoids (natural pigments). The more "right" food they eat, the brighter and more saturated the pink of their feathers. Does that mean there is plenty of good food for birds in these waters (which, I remind you, are treated wastewater)? Wonderful!

The most striking detail is that long, flat beak that expands at the end like a spoon. (Oh, I really need to buy a good camera; a phone photo can't be zoomed in with quality, and the beak still isn't clearly visible.) There is a fascinating story behind that beak: the bird dips it into the water and sweeps it from side to side, like someone mowing grass with a scythe. There are thousands of nerve endings on the inside of the beak. As soon as a tiny fish or crustacean touches it, it snaps shut instantly. The spoonbill doesn't even need to see its prey; it catches it "by touch."

The luck of seeing a spoonbill lies in the fact that not long ago they were on the brink of extinction: they were mass-slaughtered for their beautiful feathers, which were used to decorate those same ladies' hats and fans. Thankfully, the population has been restored.

The feeling of encountering her is breathtaking: you walk along the brown boardwalk, looking at the grey, mirrored water reflecting an equally grey, overcast sky, seeing the black branches of trees and bushes...

and suddenly, there sits a PINK spoonbill.

(That is exactly how it feels.) 

There is a lot of different wildlife here: a duck just swam by.

In the green of the marsh, the shell of a Florida turtle appeared.

 I stood for about five minutes, waiting for the turtle's head to pop out so I could photograph it—until I realized that the head was appearing regularly, and it was already in the shot! It just wasn't where I expected: it was about ten centimeters away from the body!

(I’ll show you with an arrow again.)

I must say, the walk through the swamp and lake was a success.

In fact, this isn't a swamp at all, but a communal apartment: everyone lives in cramped quarters, they argue, they make up, they try to seize someone else’s territory or steal food, and from time to time, they eat each other... they survive.

Alligators swim below. The birds know that predators (like opossums and raccoons) that might eat their eggs and wipe out the entire bird colony in one night won't climb trees over water teeming with these very alligators. Under the "protection" of alligators, the survival rate of chicks is much higher, as raccoons and opossums smell the predator and don't even try to swim to the island. It’s nature’s dark humor: from time to time, the alligators "snack" on chicks that fall from the nests or dropped fish, and they are much fatter than other alligators who aren't "working" in security.

What the alligators don't eat, the turtles and catfish—the local janitors—pick up. The result is clean water, which is surprising given the amount of living things and waste products (if you know what I mean). We walked for a long time, and I didn't smell anything except the freshness of the breeze.

And from above, from the most comfortable branches, the Great Blue Herons watch over this entire kingdom. They are among the few who can afford the audacity to stand just a couple of meters from an alligator while remaining on high alert! Because of its size, the heron is the first to notice danger—be it a hawk or a human—and gives a loud alarm signal. All the other birds follow its lead: if the Great Blue Heron takes flight with a cry, it’s time for everyone to leave. The heron is the "respectable neighbor" whom everyone respects and fears a little. It provides passive protection for the colony with its height and vigilance, though it won't miss a chance to steal building materials or even snack on a neighbor’s chick. I'm telling you—communal living, and not in its worst form.

Boca Raton. 

Wakodahatchee Wetlands. 

Looking back: life is a success! I did see the alligators!

Thank you to the friends who organized it, drove us, found that very alligator (two of them, even!), took photos for memories, and brought us home safe and sound (us, us—not the alligator!!), fed us, and tucked us in... And that wasn't all! The next morning they were ready for the next excursion! But that’s another story. Tomorrow.

P.S.

1. I found some information about ibis eyes and I’m a bit doubtful. If you see an ibis on your lawn or in a supermarket parking lot, look at its eyes. They say they have stunningly beautiful blue eyes, which is rare for birds. I find it hard to believe...

2. Want to play a game? Find the grey heron in the photo.

It looks like it’s not there. 

But it’s there!

3. I had almost finished the story when I was inserting photos, including a low-quality video of a bird sitting on a tree with its tail fanned out.

This bird was drying its wings.

It wasn't possible to get better video there at the swamp: too much distance, and the bird was blocked by branches. I wasn't going to include the video, but I hoped as I was writing that it was a bird unfamiliar to me—an Anhinga (American Snakebird). But after looking at many photos, I decided it was a cormorant. Oh well, I thought, it’s a shame I didn't see that Anhinga. And then...

In one photo with an alligator, there was a bird. I thought, let me zoom in. I zoomed in. Now I think that was the very same Anhinga-Snakebird. 

(I should have looked closer and not been so distracted by the alligators.)

Fun fact from the internet: when an anhinga hunts, it submerges its body completely, and only its long, thin, curved neck with a sharp beak remains visible. In that moment, it looks exactly like a swimming snake. Unlike ducks, the anhinga doesn't have an oil gland to waterproof its feathers. The soaked feathers make the bird heavy. This allows it not to float on the surface like a cork, but to dive easily and move quickly underwater. But after every hunt, the bird comes ashore absolutely drenched. It cannot fly until it dries. That’s why anhingas sit on the shore with their wings spread, just drying in the sun, just like cormorants. An anhinga doesn't grab fish with its beak like a heron; it spears them. Its beak is very sharp and serrated. It makes a sharp lunge with its "spring-neck" and literally impales the fish. Then it surfaces, tosses the fish into the air, and swallows it headfirst. The word "Anhinga" comes from the Tupi language in Brazil and means "devil bird" or "evil spirit of the forest."

So I even saw the evil spirit!

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