Somewhere New December: Everglades and Keys and Alligators, Oh My!

Florida is nowhere new for me really but in every place there are nooks and crannies left unexplored and waiting for discovery. It turns out that I had left about 1,500,00+ acres unexplored. 

The Everglades are a wild and winding beast, shifting with the tides and aptly referred to as "a river of grass flowing imperceptibly from the hinterland into the sea."

The name Everglades is said to have come from the explorers to the area but the indigenous cultures would have called it Pa-hay-Okee, meaning grassy water. 

Whatever you call it, it's immense.

Just outside the boundaries of the National Park are little locally run airboat companies that give tours of the grasslands. We hemmed and hawed and read a lot of reviews giving opposing opinions about taking a tour, but at the recommendation of our host Justin we decided to do it after all. 

Airboats have been around since the early 1900's when Alexander Graham Bell got tired of inventing telephones and moved to hydrofoils and aeronautics. The first airboat to be registered in the US was right here in Florida in 1920. So if you're going to ride an airboat anywhere, here is where you should ride it. 

 "Now I'm from this area," our barrelchested boat captain growled into his headset mic,

 "lived not twenty miles from here my whole life."

He passed out cotton balls for us to gingerly manuever into our ear canals as he fired up the 15 foot fan behind him. The blades swooshed to life and we slowly eased forward into the dense canals that lead out to the grasses. 

"Now keep your hands and feet in the boat and hopefully you'll still have them when we get back," he cackled as he pushed the throttle, excellerating us towards a wall of tall grass. I panicked, he turned sharply and the underside of the boat floated out from underneath us, tilting us towards the soupy water as we slid around the bend. 

Phil laughed and unpried my fingers from his leg. 

"You were in the bathroom when he warned us that there would be some sliding involved."

"Oh good because I thought we were just dying already," I replied with a little angry nudge at Phil for not passing said warning along.  

Boattailed Grackle joining the tour 

After some more acrobatics and some high speed touring, little islands of densely matted ferns and trees appearing and disappearing as we wound deeper into the maze, we slowed down to a purr and entered a thin channel. 

"Here Nubs. Where you at Nubby?" 

The captain cut the engine and we floated in silence. 

"We've got a couple a males that live round here," he explained as he slapped the boat hull with a stick and called out to Nubby. "Now males are real territorial. Sometimes they'll take up acres and acres of land and all the females in that area are his and he'll drive out the other males, even his sons. Our little Nubby here was stubborn and got in a tangle with Bubba, the dominant male here. And that's how he got his name, because he's missing the end of his tail." 

Nubby

Just as we were getting ready to push off in search of another alligator to ogle, Nubby swam out of the grasses towards us, swinging his petit tail in slow arcs. 

"You would think these guys are indestructible and I guess if you aren't another gator they kinda are. This here is called a scoot, its what's under those plates that run down the gators back," he said, passing us a little square piece of bone that could more easily been mistaken for a piece of coral. 

After visiting Bubba, who hissed at us from his grassy sunbathing mat we ended the tour by visiting some of the babies in captivity and the alligators who had become so hurt or mangled that they were kept in enclosed pools. 

As a rule I don't really like zoos and aquariums and even ecotours, which often proclaim their respect for the natural scenes and animals on display, can set my morality meter swaying.

I can't say if it was in the best interest of these animals to be in captivity or even to be accustomed to humans the way Nubby obviously was, but I chose to engage in the tour and just remain mindful of how I was feeling and let that guide my future interactions with nature. 

According to our tour guides alligators live anywhere from 30 to 50 years. As babies for the first few years of their lives they are susceptible to poaching by large birds and other alligators and spend most of their time hiding in the grasses, or in this case pools, until they are large enough to find their own territories to dominate.

The little guy that we held was over two years old, and still so tiny! Having held one baby alligator, who really I was tempted to cradle but had to follow instructions on how to hold it "properly," I don't see much need to do it again. It was an interesting experience though to come skin to skin with one of those predators that men fear. 

Humbling, even as a vulnerable infant. 

 

The next day we headed down past Key Largo with Justin to snorkel and live the good life by the ocean. The water in December is definitely brisk and a wetsuit was welcome as we spent the afternoon floating past waving purple sea fans and brightly tinged sea whips and star coral and little clusters of pufferfish and clownfish. 

I heard tell there was a barracuda but I didn't see it. 

On the way back Justin insisted we had to stop in Islamorada to feed the tarpons and check out the artist shacks of painted driftwood, cheesy tourist postcards and straw hats. 

Robbie's is where you belly up to the bar, order your bucket of french fries and then a bucket of tiny fish so you can walk down to the end of the dock and hold them out for the sport of feeding the bigger fish. The tarpon don't have teeth but they DO jump almost completely out of the water and wrap their gummy lips around your hand in an attempt to swallow the minnows you offer. 

I screamed a lot of course. 

On another day we visited Niki at work at the Fairchild Tropical Botanical Garden. 

And pretty much died and went to heaven. 

I was so absorbed in the Rainbow Eucalyptus, and Beobab, the Sausage Tree and all the amazing flowers and plants that I actually didn't even take pictures, I just soaked it in. I've been learning trees for over a year now but this expansive living museum taught me I have a long way to go as Fairchild is the host to one of the world's largest collection of palms and cycads

We took the tram tour around the grounds with the most amazing tour guide. Well actually to anyone else on the tram he might have been the very worst tour guide but we found his monotone humor and creaky old man jokes so endearing.

I did take one picture of the butterflies enjoying their tropical treats. 

Thanks to Niki, Justin and his mother for sharing their lovely house and pool so we could come to Florida for a warm weekend in December!

Where to Drink Like a Local: Portland, Maine

I'm not a drinker really. The occasional glass of wine after work has even disappeared to be replaced with herbal teas I brew and then put by the bed to cool, always left half-forgotten until the morning finds me parched and ready. 

But Mainers are proud of their local products and a tourist is obliged to sample the wares of the state.

So John directed me down to Anderson Street in East Bayside. The houses and shops become blips on this side of town giving way to long factories and abandoned buildings. 

Tandem Coffee Roasters is crisp and white with the only major adornments seeming to be the polished steel of the old Probat roaster and the sleek La Marzocco espresso machine - shining totems to the coffee deities allowed to shine amid the sterile absence of clutter so prevalent to small, local coffee shops. There is very much a feeling of ritual and worship that attaches itself to the roasting and brewing of coffee and while I don't seem to have the palate or appreciation for coffee that many do, I can still lap up the zen rolling off these carefully poured cups of (yucky) bean water. 

Next door is Maine Craft Distillery doing what they call "farm to flask" whiskey production that displays the unique terroir of Maine. If you drop by in the evening for a tasting you can get a tiny shot of each of their brews and ask questions like:

 "so there are carrots in this spirit?!"

In addition to sourcing local flavors MCD also sources locally inspired names like their botanical spirit named Chesuncook - the Abenaki word for "where the waters meet," or their spiced rum named QueeQueg named for the famous harpooner of Moby Dick lore. 

I dutifully tasted each one searching for "the taste of Maine" before passing the rest of my shot to John who was enjoying his free high.

Next jump another building down and visit the Urban Farm Fermentory or UFF as it's known around town and sidle up to the bar for a locally fermented kombucha. After the kombucha crackdown scare of 2010, many feared their precious bubbles would be lost to the government's foam but UFF is doing just fine for itself years later. 

12 taps of kombucha and hard "cidah," as they call it, grace the tasting room swathed in boozy browns and tans and a long wooden bar.

With flavors like Blueberry and Ginger to Chaga Chai and Cascade Hopped, Basil Mead and every variation of cider, it was easy to knock back a half and hour tasting and talking. 

Many thanks to my drinking companion for not only finishing all my shots but also introducing me to the little seen side of Portland!

Things to do in Portland, Maine: Gilsland Farm Audubon Center

Traveling alone is not only liberating in a cripplingly social way, its also sometimes just necessary for me. Who else wants to get up on their "vacation" to hang out with strangers and watch birds? 

Wherever I travel now I'm sure to scout out nature centers and arboretums and I was lucky enough to land upon Gilsland Farm - Portland's Audubon Center and they just happened to be having a birding walk that Thursday morning of my trip. 

As I pulled into the parking lot I spied a tiny gathering of birdies, bundled and swathed against the wind, hugging their binoculars tight. They looked up curiously as I stepped out of the car. 

"Is she lost?" I could feel them thinking. 

I don't know if it's a lack of patience that seems to naturally push youth from the scene. Or perhaps the intimidation of trained eyes and ears that soar to identifications quicker than one's fingers can type out a Google. Or is it just a lost art, like so many others, that has slipped from the forefront as technology took center stage, usurping sticks and stones, in the lives of youth?

Whatever the case, you can't help but feel a little out of your element when you show up to your first birding walk. All the bells and whistles of a bingo game don't even begin to compare to how disorientingly seductive this art they call birding can be to the uninitiated. 

I sidled up to the tiny group and acted nonchalant as I waited for the magic to unfold. 

They noticed.

"Oh just visiting. I go somewhere new every month and this month it's Portland," I explained, smiling weakly back at the surprised stare I received. "No I don't have any binoculars, this is kinda my first time doing this." I stomped my feet for warmth and again cursed my decision to come to Portland over the welcomingly warm arms of the lower laying lands down the coast. 

"Well we've actually got a nice little group out today, this is great," came a voice from behind us. I turned to see another fledgling join the group, his plumage still youthful and vibrant against the peppered whites and grays of the rest of the group. 

"Our fearless leader," one of the gray's quipped, "last week it was just the two of use out here and it was colder than today. Let's see how long we all last today."

Fearless leader? He can't be any older than I am! How did he happen to master this retiree ridden past-time before acquiring achey joints and a walking stick?

Doug led us through the woods and out to the first blind where he panned the scope out over the water.

Mergansers, Buffleheads, Goldeneyes, Double Crested Cormorants - despite the frosted temperatures the count started to climb and more bizarre, outlandish names were called out and the scope swung and trained quickly under Doug's direction.

As with anything, the first time is always a bit harry, a bit awkward. As I looked through the scope I asked questions to help establish some parcel of association for my brain to form a memory around.

"So the mergansers are the ones with the bad hair day?"I asked.

The woman next to me laughed, "I hadn't thought of it that way but yes," she replied. 

"So you're here all alone?" she asked as we followed Doug and the scope to the next spot. 

I imagine she inaccurately but endearingly perceived me as a duckling on my first adventure away from home pond.  We walked and chatted about the benefits of ample free time and hobbies that require that life. 

"Oh look out there in the grass. A Flicker. Didn't expect to see him today!"

The speckled dot flit and fluttered away from the scope before I could see him. 

Patience and acceptance are truly honed virtues in this trade. 

My feeble attempts to photograph a bird through the scope resulted in an artful bum shot. 

Eventually we wound completely around the grounds and back to our cars and my first taste of professional list making and ear bending was at a close. 

Bittersweet - Celastrus orbiculatus 

Judy, my walking companion

Check out the Center and walk the beautiful grounds if you ever make it to the Portland area. 
Doug and his followers walk to trails every Thursday morning from 7 to 9am.

20 Gilsland Farm Road, Falmouth, ME

207-781-2330

Somewhere New: Portland, Maine

I got off the plane in Boston and just couldn't contain my smile. Boston, oh Boston, what fond memories we have together. I rented a car and hurried over to Veggie Galaxy to dig into a warm breakfast of pancakes and found myself thinking about how cute and quaint Portland was bound to be. A mini Boston I imagined. I was eager to get to my tiny Boston and so I jumped on the most direct route, the dreaded 95.

The two hour drive up through Massachusetts and into Maine is a long stretch of bland highway. My buoyancy wavered as I searched for grander scenes. Phallic sumac pierced the sky and densely bordered the roadside, occasionally giving way to tiny man made lakes and catchment pools. 

"Where is the mystery? Where is the wild? Where are the lobstermen?" I thought to myself. 

I saw signs for Kittery and pulled off, desperate to see a glimpse of the ocean to restore my faith. I wound over to Route 1 and into Kittery. Strip malls greeted me moments after passing the 'Welcome to Kittery' sign. Wild, mysterious strip malls. Where were the crumbling light houses? The white sailor shacks on the cliffs? How far would I have to drive to see something beautiful.

I gave up and turned back, disappointed in my own impenitence. 

Soldiering on I finally pulled up to my host's house on Mellen Street. After a quick tour around Ellen's beautiful little apartment she was off again and I was alone to plan out my day.

But I kinda didn't feel like it. 

I don't really know why I was being so sour. I just wasn't enthused. I sat on the bed with my bag wishing I had just stayed in Boston for the weekend. While this type of obstinate mood doesn't befall me often, this isn't the first time my Somewhere New has encountered the melancholy, naysaying Lacey, whom I shall henceforth refer to as Macey.

The best course of action that I've found is just to ignore her until she's done pouting. So I plodded around the house changing my clothes and unpacking my toiletries and the bundled up and headed out into the city while Macey muttered derisively in my ear.

"Well aren't we smart, coming to Portland in the fall when it's 2 goddamn degrees outside. 

Brilliant idea. How far are we going to have to walk before we find anything worth finding?"

She mumbled and muttered and I just kept walking in search of lunch until I found Local Sprouts and sat down with a giant salad and a bowl of vegan macaroni and cheese. 

When ignoring doesn't cure Macey, food does.

After lunch I walked, as I often do on my first day in a new city, just to explore and see what there is to see. It turns out, when I'm not being grumpy, that Portland, while not the mini Boston I envisioned, is rather cute. I ducked into a second hand store and bought a sweater to add an extra layer to the mix and found that this too helped to reduce the Macey and open up my mind to the possibility of liking Portland.

Later that night I met up with a couch surfer who had reached out to me. We met at the month's green drinks and he ended up being my long weekend friend and almost constant companion for the rest of the trip. While perhaps I might have kept Macey at bay on my own, I credit John with really being able to show me a side of Portland that was much deeper than I would have expected.

It's funny, because as I write this post I am just recently returned from a second trip to Portland. Thinking back to my first trip to Portland and my impressions, and reading what I wrote about Portland in my most recent travel journal, the opposition of feelings could not be more stark. While my first trip started begrudgingly and almost forced, my second trip was like visiting a long distance lover, with all the expectation and excitement therein. 

I can't wait to share the next few posts of the quirky touristing I happened into during the rest of my stay in Portland.

Peaks Island from the lighthouse

Somewhere New: Glacier National Park, Montana

We had been talking about Glacier for months and drooling over pictures of lakes and valleys and ridiculous mountainscapes. The anticipated day of our trip to Glacier came, drizzling and cold. I've long since learned to push past crummy weather when it comes to traveling. Rain happens. Cold is inevitable. The best part about both of those things? It drives less determined tourists away.

Route 93 will take you all the way up to Kalispell, around Flathead Lake with it's mysterious Wild Horse Island. We pulled into Kalispell to find fuel cells and stretch our legs. Blocky brick buildings line Main street with a surprisingly vibrant mix of stores. After getting the goods at Rocky Mountain Outfitters we crossed the street to duck into Sassafras and browse antiques. At the back of the store we stumbled upon A Fresh Start, a vegetarian cafe hugged to the back wall. 

Montana was full of little surprises like this. In a tiny town before Kalispell we stopped to use the bathroom and get coffee at a little hole in the wall. I asked the waitress if she had an non-dairy milk with obvious doubt laced in my tone and she cheerfully responded with:

"Soy, almond or hemp?" to which I laughed and then cried a little inside.

That's not a thing in DC. You can't just go to a coffee shop, let alone a sandwich place like this joint and even expect them to have soy milk. 

Our spirits heightened, we drove to Glacier and stopped at the visitors center to ask for camping advice.

"There's a storm coming in tomorrow. You can only go so far up Going to the Sun Road before you have to turn back. Your options are camp here at Apgar, or leave the park and drive around to the other side and camp over there at Many Glacier," the ranger advised. 

We stared at the map, willing the weather to change.

The day was already getting away from us and our miles were already racking up so we decided to choose Apgar and settle for driving up Going to the Sun Road as far as we could for the day to take in the mountains.

The fog had rolled in thick, suffocating the view from the visitors center so we drove a little ways out and then stopped on a purple stone beach to stare at the cloaked mountains in the distance.  

Tiny Phil

Fog has a gentle way of humbling you. You may come with your camera equipments and your ego and your aspirations to leave with the quintessential Glacier shot, but fog does't care. 

Besides, fog is kinda romantic for your first big trip away with the boyfriend.

The road started winding up and slimming, like stripes on a maypole that wind finer and finer as they stretch into the sky. We watched out the windows, slowing to creep by cracks in the trees and catch glimpses of misty vistas.

We burst out of the trees and found ourselves in the Lorax. Wildly tall trees had been replaced with toothpicks, some white and peeling and some charred and brittle. 

Surprisingly, it wasn't unpleasant, the bareness, the obvious destruction. 

The cooling clouds that hung low on the mountains seemed so serene and calming that it just felt like the mountain was sleeping, not bruised. 

We turned back for the night to get to Apgar and set up our tent. I had seen a sign for a local bird talk given by the ranger at 7 so we figured we could set up camp, grab our dinner and little cook stove and enjoy dinner and story outside. 

6:45 and we were at the pavilion waiting for the ranger. 

"Where do you think the lights to this place are?" I asked. 

We were standing next to the concrete slab that made up the stage in the ever quickening darkness. We heated our soup and stood waiting. 

7 came and went.

"Maybe they canceled it because people didn't sign up? Sometimes that happens," Phil said.

"We would have been listening to the talk in the dark and rain anyhow," I replied. 

Phil had filled my head with stories of bears and I tried to casually peer into the bushes and listen for grumbling without him catching on.

No one showed up and the sun set.

 So we ate our instant lentil soup standing up, in the drizzle, passing a loaf of bread back and forth to grab bites, swaying to keep warm.

Just a couple of head lamp wearing nerds on a rainy picnic.

The next morning came and we crawled out of our tent and threw on sweaters and long underwear and set out for the day.

My knee was still on strike so we opted for a short hike to Avalanche Lake. The hike is four and a half miles round trip but part of it is a flat boardwalk and the rest is a gentle slope at most. 

The hike starts on the Trail of the Cedars where western red cedars, hemlocks and cottonwoods line the walk that leads to the waterfall and then way back into the forest where the lake awaits. 

For all the rain we were getting the lake was actually quite low but still lovely and mysterious. 

Back at Apgar we decided to get in out of the cold for while and head over to the lodge for a drink. 

Heads of every shape and size stared from the walls of the lodge, which is very much a thing in Montana, and Native American inspired lampshades hung from the cathedral ceilings. 

Cut out balconies overlooked the sprawling foyer with the giant fireplace and cozy chairs. We headed up to the second story and grabbed a couch to listen to the violin player entertaining the lodge patrons. The couches were warm and dry. The fire kept the air tight and comforting.

We didn't relish the idea of climbing back into our soggy tent.

"Let's get a room for the night," Phil suggested.

We went down to the desk to inquire about rooms. Well, yes, there were plenty of rooms available. Well, no, we didn't want to pay that much.

Oh a motel? That will do.

Just a short walk away from the sumptuous lodge there was another property up for grabs. Your typical open hallway, double decker motel layout, just, you know, in Glacier National Park.

We moved all of our things to the room and stretched out on the bed, admiring our comforts and cranking the heat as high as we could stand to dry our wet tent and clothing.

"So we singed a waiver saying we wouldn't cook in here, how are we going to make dinner?" I asked.

"It didn't say anything about cooking outside," Phil grabbed the stove and headed for the door. 

 He made it to the top of the stairs and stopped. Fat raindrops had started to fall and another step would take us beyond the protection of the roof. So we sat right there and opened up our pasta and tomato sauce and made dinner, squirming nervously whenever a car would pull up or someone would leave their room, walking by us with suspicious glances at our little dinner operation. 

Just a couple of nerds eating dinner at the top of the stairs. 

Inside we set up the ironing board and I poured some water into our cups and we sat on the bed and ate and then lounged until sleep overtook us. 

The next morning we woke up and the mountains across the water that had been swathed in clouds had awoken with fresh powdered heads and had thrown off their blankets to welcome the sun. 

It was time to leave and we felt like we hadn't even scratched the surface, hadn't even gotten more than half an hour away from the visitors center even!

But as I always say, I never like to see it all in one go. Leaving things undone gives one a reason to return.