triumphant in bending the flow of waters to our wishes, showed little mercy towards the creatures that once thrived when the river ran wild. While some advocated boldly for the voiceless denizens of the marsh, they were often outliers among a populace that sought to capitalize on newly available lands. During subsequent decades, however, expressions of anger and compassion would become far more popular. Fueled by the crippling degradation wrought not only upon the Everglades but upon landscapes across the United States, communities began to reconsider the price of economic prosperity. During the 60s and 70s the United States passed some of the most progressive environmental legislation in the world, testimony to the dawning of a new age of consciousness regarding our relationship to the biosphere. This nationwide awakening extended to the furthest reaches of the country—including south Florida.
The last two decades of the twentieth century brought radical changes to our relationship with the River of Grass. Conservation organizations worked feverishly to salvage iconic species from near extinction, including the American crocodile and the Florida panther. Legal battles raged over water quality issues as pollutants streamed into the Everglades from agriculture upstream. Water wars became increasingly commonplace as communities jockeyed for supply during times of drought and fought angrily to keep floodwaters off their interests during the wet season. The south Florida flood protection system, originally built to service a population of around two million residents, was now in service to six million. And through it all, some areas were housing triple-digit population growth in a never-ending sea of suburban sprawl.
The inescapable reality that south Florida was growing unsustainably spurred new discussions on how to steward the area’s resources in less damaging ways. State and federal interests began crafting projects and strategies for returning flows of clean water to what remained of the Everglades—in patterns and quantities reminiscent of the historic system. And rather than focusing on individual tracts of land, restoration partners advocated for a holistic overhaul of the entire management system that regulated the Everglades watershed. The broad-scale effort was formalized in 2000 with the authorization of the Comprehensive Everglades Restoration Plan (CERP), a multi-decade, multi-billion-dollar commitment to return America’s Everglades to their long-lost glory—while, of course, accommodating the water needs of an ever-burgeoning population. After a century of ruling the Everglades watershed with an iron fist, the time had come to extend an open palm and strike a friendly accord.
Over twenty billion dollars are expected to be invested towards the revitalization of the remnant Everglades. The anticipated completion of CERP will mark nearly a century of conservation efforts—one hundred years of toil in an effort to protect the River of Grass for generations to come. And yet as our community labors to right the wrongs of our past, and curb the disturbance and pollution that has marred portions of a treasured American landscape beyond all recognition, we must be ready to face an unfortunate reality. Even in the midst of restoration, the Everglades is increasingly suffering from biopollution—an ill that grows worse every year and has proven immune to traditional conservation efforts. Though well protected from layers of asphalt and concrete, public lands are seemingly defenseless against the onslaught of foreign organisms that routinely penetrate, populate, and overtake native ecosystems. In the decades to come, should restoration successfully return life-giving waters to the River of Grass, it may be to the benefit of a wholly unrecognizable Everglades.
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In looking back at the series of photos taken in 2001 showing me holding the Burmese python I received in the visitor center, I can’t help but realize I was smiling in every picture (Figure 1). It’s not surprising—I chose to be a park ranger primarily out of a sense of wonder for the natural world in general, and an appreciation for south Florida ecology in particular. To me, Burmese pythons are as worthy of admiration as any alligator, orchid, or egret. I am fascinated by reptiles of every shape and size. While some people feel an affinity for birds or plants, I hold a special place in my heart for anything scaly—particularly snakes. In my mind, any creature capable of climbing so high on the food chain unaided by limbs deserves more than a modicum of respect.
Yet it was also a genuine lack of understanding that allowed me and others to easily dismiss the seriousness of such a seemingly random occurrence. Beginning in the 1970s, several isolated encounters with large constrictors had been recorded in the park. Individual specimens of both the red-tailed boa (Boa constrictor) and the ball python (Python regius) were captured, as were several reticulated pythons (Python reticulatus). As each of the aforementioned species was commonly—and cheaply—available for purchase at local pet stores, it seemed likely that the animals being recovered in the park were releases by overwhelmed owners seeking to relieve themselves of pets for which they could no longer provide care or no longer wanted.
In 1979, a lone Burmese python was found dead along the Tamiami Trail, a two-lane highway that skirts the northern boundary of Everglades National Park. At nearly twelve feet in length, the snake certainly fit the profile of other suspected releases. As is customary in parks and preserves, the observation was recorded as part of the expansive database that provides long-term documentation of the area’s natural history. Thereafter, more than 15 years lapsed before another Burmese python was collected.
In 1995, on a chilly mid-December day, a park employee driving along the main park road encountered not one, but two Burmese pythons basking on the asphalt. Both individuals were captured in close proximity to one another in an area just north of Flamingo—a remote outpost and visitor facility at the southernmost terminus of the 38-mile-long road that traverses the park. Since the 1980s, park rangers had occasionally reported seeing pythons in this area, but physically collecting two within only ten minutes provided park scientists with considerable fodder for thought. And that one of the serpents was a relatively young juvenile measuring only two feet added to the curiosity of the day’s events.
Subsequent years saw a surprising upswing in observations of pythons in the park. Whereas only one python had been collected between 1979 and 1994, eleven pythons were removed from the park between 1995 and 2000. Of these, eight were found in areas near Flamingo—an increasingly evident hotspot of invasion (Figure 2). All but one were longer than four feet, generally considered a length at which Burmese pythons are no longer juveniles. The trend caught the attention of park biologist Bill Loftus and Walter Meshaka, the park’s curator and an avid herpetologist. In 2000, the pair penned a herpetological inventory of the park in which they noted that the collection of multiple Burmese pythons of various sizes from a very specific region near Flamingo—coupled with the existence of voucher specimens carefully preserved in the park collection—provided ample evidence to consider the species to be established in the Everglades. Although some criticized their conclusion as being premature, Loftus and Meshaka would ultimately enjoy substantial vindication for their assessment.
Reports and captures of pythons by park staff and visitors continued to increase in ensuing years. Three were captured in 2001, with several more reported. The following year, an unprecedented 14 were removed. Among this number were several juveniles, which seemed to provide stronger evidence of a reproducing population. After all, owners of such small and manageable snakes would have little need to release their captives in the wild.
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The Anhinga Trail is perhaps one of the most popular visitor areas in Everglades National Park. On a typical winter day, the trail hosts literally thousands of pedestrians hoping to catch a glimpse of everything for which the Everglades is known. The network of deep water canals and lakes in the area remain wet even during the harshest droughts, providing an irresistible draw for the aquatic denizens that call the Glades home. Thousands of fish, snakes, birds, turtles, and alligators crowd the area, providing visitors the opportunity to witness interactions reminiscent of a National Geographic special—and all from the relative safety of an elevated boardwalk. A popular trail spur, known informally as Frankie Point, overlooks a relatively small patch of elevated ground, allowing visitors to feast their eyes on the dozens of alligators that routinely compete for prime real estate.
Visitors to the
