Snake in the Grass. Larry Perez

Botanic Garden, one of two things may happen to Damien. A select few of the pythons captured from the Everglades are implanted with radio transmitters and again released into the park. These few become living experiments that help scientists learn a great deal about how these animals move and behave in the Glades. They are also instrumental in helping track down additional pythons in the field. To date, of the more than 1,700 pythons that have been captured and documented by park biologists over the last decade, only a handful of snakes have been used for this purpose.

      Thus, odds are that Damien will find himself in the company of those much less fortunate. Like the vast majority of pythons recovered alive, he will be euthanized. Once expired, he might then be taken to a nearby lab, stretched across a large, cold table and eviscerated. His limp remains will be used to populate a growing data set that feeds our knowledge of the species and informs management decisions. It is a gruesome, yet necessary, reality—one that seldom sits well with the likes of those presently ogling my display.

      And so a familiar round of well-intentioned questions begins. “Couldn’t you put him up for adoption, or sell him to someone for a pet?” comes one suggestion. “Why can’t they be captured and sent back to their native Asia for release? Aren’t they endangered there?” returns another. “With so many running around out there right now, what’s one more?” resounds another compassionate plea. Their inquiries are clearly motivated by genuine compassion for the living, sentient being stirring helplessly in its cage, unaware that a day of reckoning draws near.

      A poignant testament to his future fate lies before him for all to see: covering the full length of a wooden banquet table, and cascading down either side, I have unfurled the preserved skin of a nearly 15-foot python recovered from the park only a year before. As my visitors sample the rough texture of the mottled brown hide with their fingers, I answer their queries with a rhetorical thought of my own: is it realistic to suppose that thousands of 15-foot pythons could be readily adopted, or transported and transplanted overseas, or rereleased into a landscape we are spending billions of dollars to restore? Any such endeavor would necessarily entail significant risks, considerable costs, or potentially unintended consequences.

      What has led us down the path that now mandates the wanton destruction of strikingly beautiful creatures like Damien? Why must organizations and individuals, in benevolent service to our land and resources, now serve as judge, jury, and executioners to thousands of living pythons? And why, despite the size and fearsome reputation of such large snakes, does it wrench the gut, tug on the heart strings, and—for some—seem to generate nothing but bad karma? Indeed, what brings us to this unfortunate crossroads, where every avenue results in a loss?

      By two o’clock, the day’s scheduled talks have finished. On either side of me, my fellow exhibitors begin to break down their portable exhibits and pack up their materials. I take a cue from them and begin to collect my own goods, packing them away in a neat, methodical manner as I’ve done so many times before. Though I am certain to find myself at another similar event again in the very near future, I’m equally certain that Damien, my alluring assistant for the day, will not be joining me.

      1

Snakes on a Sawgrass Plain

      I remember being tired, and a bit bored, by late afternoon on May 22, 2001. It had been a typical spring day at the Ernest Coe Visitor Center, the main contact station in Everglades National Park. During the morning hours, I had spoken with literally hundreds of folks who intended to spend the day touring the Glades by car, foot, and boat. Sporting my usual gray and green uniform, I spent most of the morning greeting the arriving masses, handing out maps and brochures, swearing in Junior Rangers, and answering the most common question in national parks across the country: “Where’s the bathroom?”

      By midday, as the relentless south Florida sun swaddled the marsh in oppressive warmth, the arrival of visitors became predictably slow and sporadic. By late afternoon, only a trickle of hearty souls ventured in to take advantage of the waning daylight. During such times, I would often keep myself occupied by cleaning exhibits, stocking publications, or, more often than not, reading a book recently purchased from the visitor center gift shop. While I don’t recall the details of what I had been doing that day, I remember my boredom palpably giving way to curiosity as a young couple dragged a very large plastic container into the building.

      The container itself would have been unremarkable, were it not bound tightly with light rope and perforated by crudely made holes in its top—cues that hinted something was alive inside. Despite well-publicized legal prohibitions on the capture, damage, harassment, or removal of plants and animals found in the park, it is not unusual to have some individuals innocently tote entire plants into the visitor center hoping for a positive identification. Children, in particular, are often blissfully unaware of their transgressions as they innocently pick flowers or scamper to capture the strange lizards and insects they encounter. And visitors have also been known to occasionally bring injured wildlife found in the park to the visitor center, under the erroneous assumption that the park is in the business of rehabilitation. I expected to be greeted by a similar situation as the pair of twenty-somethings made a beeline towards me.

      Resting his heavy load awkwardly on my desk, the young man greeted me with a smile and proceeded to relay, in detail, how he and his girlfriend had stumbled upon and captured a large Burmese python earlier in the day near Mahogany Hammock—a popular walking trail located in roughly the dead center of the park. Recognizing that such a discovery was (at the time) a fairly odd occurrence, the pair had stopped at the visitor center before leaving the park to report the incident. It was their intention, they explained, to take the snake into town to an acquaintance in the business of breeding that particular species—no doubt a service to the park from their perspective.

      Though the couple was well-mannered and seemingly acting in good faith, a great deal of suspicion immediately, and perhaps unfairly, stirred within me. Years of working in public parks has cultivated in me a healthy distrust that prompts me to be alert for people entering protected areas with pillowcases, nets, snake hooks, or probing questions that could be used to poach plants or animals. Though relatively few in number, there is a pervasive and passionate culture shared by many individuals that derives either personal pleasure, economic profit, or both, from collecting rare wildlife. Whatever the catalyst, orchids, butterflies, and artifacts have historically been pursued with great fervor by enthusiasts. Reptiles have the capacity to evoke in some a similar fanaticism that, for the truly passionate, can overshadow concerns about legality, ethics, and political boundaries. The truly zealous will often risk a great deal in the thrill of the hunt.

      In this light, the pair before me had earned two strikes: having proven both their desire and ability to capture large serpents, and conveniently having had the foresight to bring along a large, empty, porous Rubbermaid container with ample rope to bind it. Such gear is not standard fare for a typical outing to a national park—and it seemed evident that the pair was actively hunting reptiles in a park well-known for hosting a diversity of cold-blooded fauna.

      Despite my suspicions, I expressed a heartfelt thanks to my would-be volunteers and, without the slightest suggestion of wrongdoing, proceeded to provide a primer on park regulations prohibiting the removal of wildlife. All plants and animals, regardless of classification as either “native” or “exotic,” are protected from capture and harassment by park visitors—a necessary stipulation that safeguards critically threatened and endangered species against potential harm resulting from cases of mistaken identity. Permitting a free-for-all on the capture of nonnative constrictors in Everglades National Park could, for example, prove detrimental to the myriad native species for which they are often confused. “I’m really glad you guys caught it, but I can’t let you take this animal,” I remember saying. The lesson, as I recall, was a tough sell. After some deliberation, the young man reluctantly replied, “You can have the snake but . . . we want to keep our container.”

      An impromptu search for an appropriate enclosure resulted in a large Rubbermaid vessel of our own. Both containers were placed side by side on the floor. The young woman watched silently as her companion slowly unwound the line, removed the perforated top, and quickly landed a grip around the neck of the thick serpent. Using both hands, he slowly hoisted the snake’s massive bulk head-first