Back to the ‘Glades

View from Shark Valley Visitors Center, Everglades National Park. There are two alligators in this photo. February 2026.

Technically we re-entered the Everglades National Park at the end of our day in the Big Cypress National Preserve, stopping at the Shark Valley Visitors Center at the end of the afternoon. We didn’t want to take the tram ride to the actual Shark Valley viewing tower, which left us little to do there. Another hour brought us to Homestead, FL. I discovered a Cuban restaurant next door which delighted me a great deal. But first, where are those alligators in the photo above? Look up that slough in the center of the photo. On the far bank? Just above the light-colored shoreline? Here’s a zoomed in photo:

Alligators at Shark Valley Visitors Center. February 2026.

We hit up the Cuban restaurant for breakfast, easily besting the hotel’s “continental” offering, then headed to what I still regard as the heart of the Everglades—the Ernest F. Coe and Royal Palm Visitor Centers and the road which leads deeply through the park until it reaches Flamingo where one can stare southward at the Florida Keys. We arrived just as the Coe center opened then headed southward.

Huevos rancheros, Cuban-style: plantain pancake under the egg and a fruited salsa atop. February 2026.

After spotting a half dozen or so school buses in parking lot, we decided to visit Royal Palm at the end of our day, on the way back out of the park. Quietly spotting wildlife with a hundred or so elementary students alongside (we checked) seemed to be mutually exclusive. We stopped at some of the major sights on the way south, a few on the back out.

A juvenile heron. Not sure which one. Looks like a Black-crowned Night Heron, but those don’t have the yellow/orange beak. Closest I can come would be a Tricolored Heron but it doesn’t seem to be quite like this patterned brown. February 2026.

Small drainage creek at the Pa-Hay-Okee Lookout Tower, Everglades. February 2026.

My wife spotted a heron jumping in and out of the darkness of a creek at Pa-Hay-Okee Lookout (left and above). I needed a telephoto to see what she was talking about!

We spotted a barred owl at the Mahogany Hammock walk. While watching him (nearly positive this was a male), we were treated to a call-and-response with an owl we couldn’t locate. This apparently is classic barred owl behavior between a male and female. A sharp-eyed teenager pointed out a snail which I had difficulty locating even after she had described the location. Other attractions at this stop included huge root systems seen from underneath because hurricanes had blown them over in the past.

Barred owl at Mahogany Hammock. February 2026.

Tree snail at Mahogany Hammock. Approximately two inches. Everglades, February 2026.

We arrived at Flamingo a bit tired. Thankfully the best thing to do there involved sitting and staring at the shallow waters leading out to the Keys—unless you wanted to take a boat charter which we had done in the past. We spotted an osprey flying back and forth over the shoreline waters, and we saw the near-ubiquitous flock of White Ibises. Then we drove north again.

A stylized view of the Keys. Flamingo, Everglades. February 2026.

Osprey at Flamingo, Everglades. February 2026.

We turned around and drove north toward the Royal Palm Visitors Center, hopefully now without the youngsters. Royal Palm deserves its own post, however, so we’ll bring this to a close.

Big Cypress National Preserve

Ever had a day when it’s too damned much trouble to brush a leaf off of your face? (Yeah, I’m having one today.) Oasis Visitor Center, Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

One of oddities about some of the Everglades-area areas for observing nature lies in the feeling one isn’t so much looking at Nature but more that one is looking at a ditch into which some Nature just happened to fall. The Oasis Visitor Center to the Big Cypress National Preserve on US-41 has a largish ditch running parallel to the highway. No more than 15 feet wide and likely much less, it delights the gator-gapers and folks like me who don’t mind looking at big reptilian laze-abouts who don’t offer much of a challenge to the person seeking them out. Here are a few to illustrate my point:

“I don’t care if you can see me. I’m just judging how close you are…and how slowly you move.” Oasis Visitor Center, Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

Alligator with rocks. Oasis Visitor Center, Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

Stilllife with gators. (Redundant.) Oasis Visitor Center, Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

Implication. Oasis Visitor Center, Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

Lest one think the only denizens of this ditch were the alligators, I present some other residents. On the far side of said ditch stood a Great Blue Heron in full breeding plumage. He didn’t seem to mind the nearby highway.

Great Blue Heron. Oasis Visitor Center, Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

I trust guardrails less than this heron. Oasis Visitor Center, Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

Turning back toward the Visitors Center proper, another birding couple pointed out a Red-bellied Woodpecker which frustratingly couldn’t locate a lizard. Said lizard had moments before been on the fence but had since retreated to the top of the fencepole.

I wonder how a lizard knows it’s much safer at the top of the pole? He waited until the woodpecker finally left, then returned to his original position.

Leaving the Oasis Visitors Center, we backtracked four miles to the turnoff for the Big Cypress Loop Road Scenic Drive. We’d been told the road was rough “but you’ll be okay in your SUV” but really any vehicle could take this road except for perhaps a tiny thing like a Fiat or Smart Car. Suspension would be the main issue here, since the road consists of hard-packed dirt, rocks, and a LOT of dust. Driving slowly through the first miles, we had watery land on either side of the raised roadway. This boded well:

Great Blue Heron. Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

Great Egret. Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

…and then we hit the birding jackpot…a waterway on both sides of the road, darkened by overhanging limbs from a variety of trees and such. Numerous birds congregated there.

A female Anhinga surveys the swamp…or maybe the nearby males? Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

The wetlands stretched into the distance on the right side of the road where we spotted the Anhinga. We saw several male Anhingas, two or three species of egrets, and tri-colored herons.

An Anhinga dries its wings in the center while two Tri-colored Herons, left and right, work the shallow waters for prey. Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

Turning to the left side of the road, a largish bit of standing water showed many birds. The Wood Stork eluded a sharply focused photo, but the others cooperated.

A Great Egret watches a White Ibis. Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

Ultimately my impressions far exceeded my ability to capture them….

White Ibis, reflected. Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

While two other cars of bird-loving folks like us spent time photographing and watching these avian wonders, a large vehicle pulled up and stopped. It seemed the driver wanted something so I walked over. I cannot remember what the vehicle was, but I had to look up, and I mean UP! Either a jacked 4-wheeler or something in its ballpark. The driver lowered his window and asked what we were looking at. “Gators?” he said emphatically. I replied that no, we were looking at birds. He said, “oh” in a disappointed way, raised his window and pulled around us, heading up the road to find “gators”. I wondered why he took this out-of-the-way road when gators hung around the ditches of every road in southern Florida. They jump out of pools and eat pet dogs, and they loll in copious numbers on slopes of I-75 where anyone driving through Alligator Alley could see several hundred. Then again, to be fair, the birds I thought were so interesting mostly could be seen at any reservoir in any typical Florida housing development. Who’s the idiot? As we left the scenic loop, I hoped the guy managed to stop and look around as he left Big Cypress. If he had, he might have seen the “elusive” alligator:

They’re just so gosh-darned difficult to spot! “Wish I could see me some ‘gators!” Big Cypress National Preserve. February 2026.

To the Everglades

One of a good-sized group of brown pelicans we watched while we ate lunch in Tin City, a group of shops located in old tin buildings on Naples Bay. Naples, FL, February 2026.

We had brought the frigid temps of the Carolinas and Georgia with us to Tampa, and my wife’s sister lamented the loss of her typical 70’s and 80’s. It warmed a bit on our second day there. I bundled up in the warmest things I’d packed and walked to a nearby reservoir to see what bird life I could find. Driving south the next day, we arrived at the Tin City shopping mecca early afternoon, and tucked into a late lunch. The food and the bird life entertained; the shops did not. Tin City seemed a poor and miniscule version of Seattle’s Pike Street Market. Most shops sold typical tourist trinkets which said “made in China” on the bottom. Combined with the exorbitant hotel rates—$300+ for a Springhill Suites on the outskirts of greater Naples?—I doubt we’ll be back in Naples. One saving grace? We’re not exactly foodies but we’re kissin’ close, and discovering that the Cracklin’ Jack’s just up the road from the hotel had recently been featured on Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives sure put a fine end to the day. Best fried catfish I’ve ever had! We looked forward a bit more eagerly to entering the Everglades and surrounds the next day.

Although the westernmost entry to the Everglades National Park, the Marjory Stoneman Douglas Visitor Center, purported to not be open until the end of February, we decided to chance it on the 26th. We were rewarded with an open, brand-spanking-refurbished center….but not much else because it’s a jump-off point for visitors who want to boaters and to those who want to hike/camp in the Ten Thousand Islands. We are neither of those types. We traveled east on US-41, a.k.a. the Tamiami Trail, the southern route across the Florida peninsula which parallels I-75 a.k.a. “Alligator Alley”. I planned the US-41 route; it became a wise decision when a fire broke out between the two and officials closed sections of the interstate. (It also precluded driving very far north from the US-41.) The southern tip of Florida is a patchwork of state parks, state forests, national preserves, and the national park. We stopped first at the Big Cypress Swamp Welcome Center in the Big Cypress National Preserve. After that, a stop at the H.P. Williams Roadside Park gave us our first good glimpse of alligators, and some nice views of the bird denizens.

A Tri-Colored Heron stalks its prey. Big Cypress National Preserve, February 2026.

It’s not “oh, look, there’s a gator.” It’s more a find-the-gator experience. Sure they’re swimming up and down the minor canal you’re looking at. Can you spot the one hanging out under your nose? Big Cypress National Preserve, February 2026.

“like ships passing in the night…” Some gators were easier to spot. Big Cypress National Preserve, February 2026.

Sometimes, though, the subtropical plants grab one’s attention…

“Moses-in-the-cradle”??? That’s what my plant ID program says, but it seems doubtful. Regardless, it created a stark contrast to the water’s edge. Big Cypress National Preserve, February 2026.

Technically, the final photo of the plants was taken at the Oasis Visitor Center for the Big Cypress National Preserve. If you’re traveling “to see the Everglades,” I would highly recommend US-41 and the Big Cypress route, because it’s basically the northern environs of the Everglades. When one leaves the eastern boundary of the preserve, it’s less than a mile before the Everglades’ Shark Valley Visitor Center. As good as our day’s beginning had been, we had much to look forward to, it turned out.

Kinglet

I finally identified a little bird this morning which had been zipping all around our feeder while ignoring it all the same. He mostly seemed interested in getting into our kitchen. The cool thing about him is the crown: when a bit agitated, he flips it up as it is in the photo above. When he’s calmer, it’s down and more difficult to see, as shown below.

Ruby-crowned kinglet with crown feathers in the ‘down’ position. Both photos shot less than 60 seconds apart. Unless you are looking down at the bird, the red crown is very easy to miss. At first I thought I was looking at a warbler. (The bird is barely 4 inches long.) January 2026.

What’s wrong with this picture?

Our yard on the left, neighbor’s on the right. Photo is unretouched. January 2026.

Last October we paid to have our back yard replanted with plants native to North Carolina, the American Southeast, and the Atlantic seaboard. As in colder climes, the vast majority of native plants drop their leaves and enter dormancy for the colder winter months. We also “leave the leaves” which allows them to decompose into the soil as they should, creates cover for the little creatures to stay warm (and avoid hawks), and supports the lives of little bugs which in turn provide food for the ground-feeding birds. Thus, the predominant color of our back yard and our front yard is brown.

Our neighbor’s yard represents most yards around us. The green of English ivy covers the ground and the trunks of the trees. Saplings of non-natives take advantage of the warmer winter weather much as sunbirds head for Arizona or the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. Some keep their summer foliage—no need to drop leaves and protect a plant conditioned to far colder climes. It’s not that leaves fall only in our yard; there’s an oak or two and some poplars over there. It’s that the ivy manages to conceal somewhat the leaves in my neighbor’s yard.

In winter, therefore, brown is good, and green is at best questionable. (Before my southern readers chime in, yes, there are plenty of Southern evergreens, but not many around here consciously cover their yard with them.)

Our natives, once established, should have staying power also. It’s kind of defined by the word “native” is it not? I will need to wage constant war, though, on the ivy, the Virginia creeper, the japonica, and the various saplings which will inevitably attempt to broach the property line. It’s a battle I freely take up. For the time I live on this speck of the Earth, it will bring forth those plants which grew here naturally and nurtured the birds, mammals, insects, reptiles, and amphibians which depend on them for healthy populations.

moon, fire, and trees

One day from full, says the Moon. What’s this silly stuff about calendars? New Year’s Day, 2026.

We gathered with friends to welcome the New Year with simple Southern fare: ham, boiled potatoes, boiled cabbage, biscuits. After loosening our creaky social graces with applications of Belgian beer, my Southern brother of a different mother lit up his new chiminea and we talked of things ponderous and trivial. The moon stared us down, afraid to blink for missing our ephemeral lives. Oak hissed and crackled in the fire.

Radiating warmth in all directions. New Year’s Day, 2026.

At one point we paused to look at the pretty effects of his neighbor’s light pollution…

Finally we admitted our backsides were too cold and our frontsides were getting quite toasty. We headed indoors, while tarted up versions of the trees danced in our heads…

Hold-outs

I seem to be on a leaf and garden kick. Though two short cold snaps have sent 99% of the plants into dormancy (unless they’re evergreen), a few brave stalwarts instead focus on the above-average warm weather to pop one last bloom out. November 3-9 ranged 65-75F with just a dash of rain the final two days. And then the 12th through 16th blessed us with sunny days of 64-73F. Look at these little troupers:

The blue mistflower who refused to die. All of its nearby compatriots are brown. Interestingly, the broad leaf or two at the top are from a purple coneflower, also still green. November 2025.

Another purple coneflower with living on its mind. All of the originals have gone to see on the right, but no matter. Let’s make more! A nascent bloom can be seen to its immediate left (the little white spiky one). November 2025.

Black-eyed Susan: you can see dead plant everywhere but it decided to come up again when the weather warranted. November 2025.

I keep falling for you

I took a walk this morning as the newly risen sun filtered through the tops of trees. The ethereal lighting isn’t quite captured here, sadly. Nice to see the natives doing well.

American beech, a.k.a., Carolina beech. November 2025.

White oak…maybe…looks different than our white oak. November 2025.

I need a new song…

Blue-eyed grass and blue mistflower. October 2025.

With all apologies to Huey Lewis & and The News, I need a new song. Its lyrics will borrow from the Rolling Stones: “You can’t always do what you want,….but if you try sometimes, you just might find—you do what you need.” Yeah. That. We were told once to pay attention to our Inner Child, and I’ve done that far, far too much in my life. That little pouty bastard gets everything he wants to my usual detriment. I’m going to start listening to my Inner Parent. Maybe I’ll graduate to Inner Adult. (transactional analysis—I can’t escape the cultural references.)

Anyway, it’s fall y’all. The dusky red of the dogwood illumines in direct sunlight and dances a colored jig with the wind-bestirred poplar leaves behind them.

Today in the garden

While weeding something moved, just a bit, and I spied this Southern toad. I haven’t seen one around this house since we moved in over 8 years ago, but saw them regularly at our former house on a pond. Pretty lethargic—it’s a nocturnal creature. September 2025.

One month ago today we woke in our own bed after flying in from Belgium the night before. Only now am I catching up to yardwork, which these days consists of staying ahead of the interlopers in our all-natives garden covering the front yard and hacking away at plants in the back before they can seed. Their days are numbered: two weeks from now we hope to start the replanting of the backyard. I question, at times, why we paid so much to plant perennials which should natively grow here but there ya go. A complete and pleasant shock has been seeing the blue mistflowers explode in size and coverage. These beautiful and late-blooming plants had for years volunteered amid the purple coneflowers I’ve showcased many times on this blog. Most of them were taken out to facilitate the new landscaping plan, but the architect of that plan instructed his crew to transplant as many as possible. Given that it was a week into October, he also sprinkled any seed heads he encountered. I think the much better soil helped them out a little bit:

This bank of blue mistflowers looked reasonably modest in size when we left for Europe on August 7, 2025. They’ve now taken over this segment of the yard, overwhelming several plants underneath them. September 2025.

Detail from a much larger photo of another bank of the blue mistflowers, showing how small flowers form much larger clusters. This photo is unretouched except for a slight amount of sharpening I added to see the flower petals better. September 2025.

I had to transplant two which ‘volunteered’ at the edge of the walkway to our front door and by doing so, obstructed most of the sidewalk. One withstood the shock and has many buds on it. The other has stood with severely wilted (but green!) leaves for almost four weeks. I keep telling it, “hang in there! You don’t need to bloom! Just live!”