“The Everglades: Nature’s Strangest Show”

Now let me tell you something, kid. Have you ever been to the Everglades?

No, not just driven through with the windows up, AC on, and a podcast about unsolved crimes playing so loud you can’t hear your own common sense. I mean really been there — boots in the muck, air thick as soup, gators watching you like you owe ‘em rent.

Because let me tell you, the Everglades ain’t just a swamp. That’s like calling the ocean a puddle.

The Everglades is Florida’s own fever dream — a 1.5-million-acre tangle of water, grass, creatures that shouldn’t exist, and mosquitoes bold enough to demand identification at the park gate.

You want strange? You want wild? Sit down, pour a glass of whatever keeps your blood thin, and let Grandpa spin you the yarn of Nature’s Strangest Show — the Everglades.

Everglades Ain’t Just Water and Grass, Kid — It’s a Breathing Beast

The first time I wandered into the Everglades, I was 22, full of fire and foolishness, thinking I was gonna "find myself in nature." What I found was a water moccasin that almost found me first.

See, what most folks don’t realize is that the Everglades is not a swamp — not really.

It’s a slow-moving river, flowing from Lake Okeechobee south to Florida Bay. And when I say slow, I mean you could beat it in a three-legged race while blindfolded.

They call it the River of Grass, but that doesn’t capture it. It’s like nature tossed a salad and forgot to drain the water.

This river moves through sawgrass plains, mangrove tunnels, hardwood hammocks, and cypress domes — each part of it a different room in nature’s big,

messy mansion. It’s hot, it’s humid, and it smells like life and death had a wrestling match in the mud. But it’s alive. Every inch of it. It hums. It buzzes. It breathes.

Gators, Birds, and Other Performers in the Everglades Freak Show

You ever seen an alligator sleep? They look like old boots someone forgot to throw out — until you realize the boots are watching you.

Alligators rule the Everglades like cranky retirees with time on their hands and no tolerance for nonsense. And they’ve earned it — those leathery reptiles have been here longer than your family tree, and they’re still going strong.

They dig these “gator holes” in the dry season, little backyard pools that other animals rely on for water. Gators don’t even eat them all. They just like having options. That's what I call passive-aggressive apex predation.

Now you’d think that was weird enough, but then comes the roseate spoonbill.

Lord help me, the first time I saw one, I thought someone’s flamingo Halloween costume had blown into the marsh. Bright pink, with a bill shaped like it belongs in a kitchen drawer.

They feed by swishing their weird little beak back and forth, scooping up dinner like they’re making marsh stew.

And if you look up — way up — you’ll catch the anhinga, also called the “snakebird.” Why? Because when it swims, only its long neck sticks out, like a periscope with opinions.

It’s got no oil in its feathers, so it can’t waterproof itself like a normal bird. After a dive, it has to perch on a log, wings out, looking like a soggy Dracula having a breakdown.

I once watched one stand like that for a full hour, soaking wet, motionless, while a heron judged it from across the way. Nature is drama, son. Pure, petty drama.

Now Lemme Tell You About the Pythons

You think gators are the kings of the swamp? They used to be. But then someone in the ‘80s had the bright idea to buy Burmese pythons as pets. And when those snakes got too big — and buddy, they will get too big — people just dumped ’em.

Now, these snakes are everywhere, and they don’t give a hoot about your native wildlife. They eat raccoons, deer, birds, even the occasional gator. That’s right — snake vs. gator. Nature’s equivalent of an MMA fight in a mud pit.

The government even started the Python Challenge — a contest to catch and remove the big ones. That’s right. We had to turn the Everglades into a game show to thin the herd.

Everglades: Where Even the Plants Get Weird

Have you heard of the ghost orchid? Rarest flower in these parts. Grows up in the trees where no one can reach it. Blooms maybe once a year. No leaves. No scent. Just hangs there like it’s too good for the rest of us.

And it kinda is.

These orchids are pollinated by one specific moth, which is so rare, that scientists throw actual parties if they manage to spot one doing its job.

You also got cypress knees — no, not a medical condition, though I’ve got those too. These are weird root growths that stick up like gnarled fingers from the ground around cypress trees.

No one entirely agrees with what they’re for, but they make the swamp look like it’s full of wooden gremlins reaching up from the mud.

Why the Everglades Matters More Than Your Beach House

Now pay attention, because this part’s important.

The Everglades isn’t just some wild, funny, strange place. It’s essential. It filters fresh water for more than 8 million people in South Florida.

It acts like a sponge when hurricanes hit, soaking up floodwaters and keeping them from swallowing towns whole.

It provides habitat for dozens of endangered species, from the elusive Florida panther to the slow-motion sea potato we call the manatee.

And despite everything we’ve thrown at it — highways, pollution, sugarcane farms, golf courses — the Everglades hangs on.

Folks are finally trying to fix what we broke. The Comprehensive Everglades Restoration Plan is the biggest of its kind in the world, working to restore water flow, clean up pollution, and give this place half a chance at survival.

But it’s a long road. And the gators? They’re not waiting around for us to figure it out.

Visiting the Everglades: Bring Bug Spray and Leave Your Ego

If you’re thinking of heading down there yourself — and I recommend you do — remember this: the Everglades doesn’t care about your expectations.

You won’t always see what you came for. The panther won’t pose for pictures. The birds won’t perform on command. You might hike five miles and all you’ll get is a sunburn and a story about a squirrel that stole your granola.

But every time you come back — and you will come back — the Everglades gives you something different. A glimpse. A growl. A bird call that sounds like your ex in therapy.

And once in a while, if you’re real quiet, you’ll hear it breathe. You’ll feel the weight of something ancient, older than our roads, our towns, or our ideas about how nature should behave.

And it’ll laugh at you. Gently. Like an old man who knows better.

So don’t come looking for a sanitized nature experience. Come for the weird. The wild. The beautiful mess.

Come see the Everglades.

Just don’t wear flip-flops and call it a swamp. It hates that.

Earl LEE