Snake in the Grass. Larry Perez

short work such as this requires the assistance and attention of numerous supporters—usually over a span of years. I am extraordinarily grateful that this project has made me—both personally and indirectly—familiar with the remarkable group of individuals who leave their indelible impressions upon these pages.

      I would like to thank Jeremy Conrad, Jeff Carter, Clayton and Ralph DeGayner, Jane Dozier, Dennis Giardina, Cheryl Metzger, Tony Pernas, Joanne Potts, and Skip Snow for generously sharing their time and stories with me. You have all left me in awe of your passion and efforts.

      I would like to also express my gratitude to Jessica Demarco, Jim Duquesnel, Alexander Pyron, and Tim Taylor for their generous contributions to the imagery in this work. Special thanks also to Captain Jeff Fobb and Paul Marcellini for kindly giving of their time in helping capture the striking images that grace the front of this book.

      I would like to thank those who took time from their busy schedules to review portions of my manuscript and provide their invaluable comments. In alphabetical order they are Mark Davis, Michael Dorcas, Jason Goldberg, Frank Mazzotti, Walter Meshaka, Christina Romagosa, Stephen Secor, and Kristina Serbesoff-King. I would also like to express my heartfelt thanks to both Bob Reed and Tom Lodge for reviewing large portions of this book and providing insightful comments that resulted in a much-improved experience for the reader.

      I am indebted also to Richard Grant of the National Park Service for his thoughtful and attentive review of this project.

      I also cannot thank enough June Cussen, my editor, and the entire Pineapple Press family for their support of this title and their tireless efforts in the final preparation of this manuscript.

      And finally, this work would simply not have been possible were it not for the boundless patience and loving support of my family. In the course of writing this book, I feel I have shortchanged my beautiful wife and two incredible children far too many hours and days. So enough about snakes, kids . . . let’s go out and have some fun!

Introduction

      Within the confines of a wooden box, most pythons find comfort in collecting their coils and sitting motionless in a corner. So still do they remain that, were it not for the nearly undetectable inflation that accompanies breath, they would appear altogether lifeless. Though strange and slightly disconcerting to us as observers, this knack for deceptive immobility no doubt serves them well in the wild.

      Today, however, Damien squirms nervously in his enclosure. Through a pane of Plexiglas I watch as the eight-foot Burmese python elongates his heavy body and slowly probes every crack and crevice of the white-washed box in which he resides. He methodically surveys the walls around him, seemingly intent on finding any available exit. He performs this show for hours—unwittingly providing entertainment for both me and a non-stop gaggle of gawkers who visit my traveling display.

      Years of working as a ranger for Everglades National Park have rewarded me with a truly varied career. Working in one of the most dynamic landscapes on the planet offers an endless procession of new challenges, adventures, and duties. Winters usually find me escorting throngs of visitors along narrow trails festooned with hundreds of alligators, birds, and turtles. The arrival of spring brings the possibility of wildfires and a chance to don safety gear and battle fast-moving blazes. Summer spawns foes both big and small—from hordes of ravenous mosquitoes, to the daunting power of tropical cyclones.

      Fortunately, this muggy Sunday in April offers a more sedate assignment. Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, a popular attraction in southeast Florida, is hosting its inaugural “Everglades Day” and Damien and I are in attendance to provide information about the park to potential visitors. We have been provided a table in a prominent location in the garden, upon which I’ve thrown a colorful tablecloth emblazoned with the National Park Service logo. On display is a full array of maps, stickers, and literature addressing all manner of present-day issues from restoration to climate change. Behind us I’ve erected three large banners, custom printed with eye-catching graphics, intended to convey the park story at a glance. All the while, Damien remains in constant motion in his cage at the end of the table.

      Before meeting me, Damien was yet another nameless python captured by the park’s resource management staff. Now he is being used temporarily for the benefit of public education. I christened him this morning when one of the park biologists dropped him off to me at Fairchild, complete with his sealed enclosure. “I don’t think you’ll need to get in there,” he assured me while showcasing the hefty padlock securing the tank, “but if you do, the code is 6-6-6.” With that, I could only guess as to what the snake’s temperament was at the time of capture.

      Throughout the day, in a conference room not far from my display, scientists from Everglades National Park deliver presentations about Florida panthers, prescribed burns, seagrass scarring, American alligators, and hydrology. Between talks, participants stroll leisurely around my area, where various community organizations have also set up shop. As they mill between tables, I notice nearly everyone is compelled to stop and chat with me. Most are gregarious and eager to learn about my display—but not thanks to my colorful exhibits and handouts. Damien, with flicks of his tongue and an occasional flash of his belly, has easily stolen the show.

      Burmese pythons like Damien are a hot topic of conversation for the south Florida community, and they’re a growing concern for biologists here and elsewhere. As early as 2000, speculation surfaced that a breeding population of alien pythons had become established in the wilds of Everglades National Park. As these snakes commonly grow to lengths of 16 feet in their native range, the mere thought of such large constrictors invading the wilderness is unnerving at best. As years progressed, theory became fact with the discovery of pythons of various ages, egg-bearing females, and nests. Today, pythons are captured by the hundreds annually, and researchers believe that tens of thousands may now be saturating the area. Necropsies performed on recovered pythons reveal their hunger is satisfied by consuming a wide variety of birds and mammals. And beyond south Florida, scientists and policymakers weigh the odds of invasion by similar species elsewhere.

      While his brethren exert untold effects on one of the crown jewels of the American national park system, Damien continues luring the attention of adults and children alike. His charisma is, of course, far from isolated. Everyone loves to talk about snakes and, after years of public presentations, I know everyone has a story to tell. That’s not to say that everyone loves snakes, or that stories of encounters always have a happy ending. But for whatever reason, people share a universal fascination for reptiles like Damien. The history of the Sunshine State is rife with examples of how people have tried to capitalize on our interest in snakes—using them as stage props and marketing gimmicks for tourist attractions, zoos, wildlife shows, and the like. And they’ve been successful, largely because few of us are truly ambivalent about reptiles. Love them or hate them, an attraction exists that I would never profess to understand.

      Perhaps it is this attraction, though, that manifests itself as concern on this day. Throughout the event, several people inquire as to when Damien ate last. “I’m not sure,” comes my reply. “We captured him only last week in the park.” Conversation then shifts to inquiries about when I expect to feed him in the future. “Never,” comes my admittedly heartless reply. My guests seem puzzled at first, but comprehension quickly sets in. Presumably just to be certain, they then ask me what I intend to do with Damien.

      There are some things that I would rather not do in the course of my job, but am expected to do nonetheless—and carrying forth such conversations certainly counts as one. After all, I spend the majority of my time extolling the virtues of a treasured landscape, attempting to instill an appreciation for south Florida’s cultural and natural heritage. I usually do so in full “park ranger” regalia—green pants, gray shirt, hiking boots, shoulder patch, and gold-plated badge. The flat hat that sits gingerly upon my head casts me as an iconic symbol of environmental stewardship and protection. I am among the ranks of thousands of rangers around the country who work daily to protect some of America’s most precious resources. And with any luck, I can encourage others to adopt a similar ethic of conservation.

      Yet, the issue of invasive species can sometimes cast us in a different light. The truth, as I share with my visitors that day, is that Damien