The Howling Ape and the Angry Gator

Swamps sorely are underappreciated. Though vaunted, the vast swathes of land in America’s middle are largely desolate. The sprinkling of rocky landmarks across these states hardly makes up for their endless expanses of dullness. Florida’s wetlands are brimming with sounds and sights. The liveliest of forests seem still by comparison.

With adolescent abandon at our backs, my friend and I embarked on a search we suspected would end in joyous disappointment. A friend’s uncle claimed to have seen a Skunk Ape on a nearby trail. Knowing that gorillas, okapis, and giant squids were once considered mythical, I was open to the possibility of a large primate lurking in my backyard.

The beginning of the forest at the trail’s end, our destination, clasps the mainland with two long arms surrounded by water. They are narrow and covered by vegetation on either side which, depending on one’s mood, can give a feeling of coziness or claustrophobia. Although smaller than its northern cousins, the Skunk Ape is more aggressive. Its odor is also worse. In any case, I was more concerned about cottonmouths.

Our measured footsteps were met by turtles unceremoniously plopping into the water. The songs of the bullfrogs and birds intermingled and, as neither of us were apex predators, only became louder. It was not clear whether they wanted to greet us or warn us. The next splash was too substantial for even an overfed snapper. The dark snout moving toward a dusty island showed us that the lake held more than turtles.

We started too late. This is not wise in the middle of December, but this only made our mission more challenging. There is nothing more intoxicating to youth than the impossible and there was nothing more mysterious than the many small but perfectly elliptical holes lining the path.

Perhaps he was not afraid. Maybe the poor fellow wanted to sunbathe before nightfall. Alligators are generally indifferent to everything, so it was strange to see one slink away. I have seen hundreds over the years. Two had even managed to slip into my yard, back when the city itself was overrun. None of them had ever actively avoided me or bothered to recognize my presence.

Then again, the sun was setting and they may not have liked the way we smelled. Winter days are short, but the afternoons are still hot. Near the end of the first arm, at the outskirts of the Skunk Ape’s shaded abode, was a log someone had thoughtfully placed for hungry hikers. After inspecting it for anything deadly or itchy, we sat down to savor our sandwiches, processed snacks, and the shared relief of safely crossing the lake.

It was wonderful. Maybe it, the need for danger, is something best gotten out of our systems sooner rather than later. There is nothing wrong with an ambling stroll through the woods. Calm is something we all need, but what is more natural than to live by our wits? Yes, we may have been too proud of ourselves.

We had heard the rumbling earlier, but dismissed it as distant thunder or a bullfrog hidden in plain sight. What we heard again had the same ineffable timbre, but was close enough to shake the log. It was anguished. It was strange. It was almost human. As perturbing as it was, we could not turn back. After all, we had already commended ourselves for our courage. Though no words were spoken, our smiles of satisfaction would not be washed away by the bellows of an unidentified animal.

The woods welcomed us with no fanfare as the melodies behind us began to fade. We could not even hear the squirrels scampering. There were no signs advising against our intended course, but it was clear the paths had not been used for years. My friend, a recent transplant from Wisconsin, hated mosquitoes as passionately as any Floridian. We were both amused and shocked by their absence on this particular outing.

This overwhelming quiet was soon impinged upon by that bellow - that awful bellow. It was dusk and the sonorous screams stirred up the mosquitoes. Shaken but still skeptical, we began to make our way down the second arm. As the beast emitted another thunderous moan, we picked up our pace until we were moving as quickly as we could without looking like we were fleeing in terror.

The holes that had perplexed us were inhabited by hornets. We were both stung several times. Though, to their chagrin, we did not slow down.

We continued until the next blast, in a sense the final blast, hit our ears so squarely that we could tell its direction definitively. I pulled back the leaves of a berry bush to behold a group of cows grazing across the lake. Maybe they were being milked? Maybe the bulls were being castrated? Why would someone keep cattle by a lake full of gators?

We laughed and finished the fried okra.

Having our bearings and having evaded all dangers, real and imagined, we started to saunter. The vegetation was thinning on both sides and the rest of the way looked hospitable. We would have, had it not been for his girth, noticed the alligator climbing onto the shore. I don’t believe he had ever missed a meal, but there was something unusual about the way he stared at us - the fact he was paying us any mind made me uneasy.

I snapped a picture, believing he was just going to the other side. This expectation was shattered when he began crawling towards us. His initial slowness did not give us any hope. Alligators are faster than they look and zigzagging will do nothing but make you look like an idiot. My stomach sank and we backed away. We continued to backstep for several minutes, not turning around to run as it appeared he was losing interest.

He eased himself into the water and we, once he had swum far enough, dashed back to the car.