Don't confuse that with staying the same!
It's in constant flux to a rhythm all its own.
Here's a look back at the same cypress dome over the course of the past half year.
April 2009
September 2009
November 2009
Nov 30, 2009
Tick of a timeless clock
One allure of the swamp is its timelessness. It has a primordial feel that defies a date and is immune to the tick of any clock.
Don't confuse that with staying the same!
It's in constant flux to a rhythm all its own.
Here's a look back at the same cypress dome over the course of the past half year.
Don't confuse that with staying the same!
It's in constant flux to a rhythm all its own.
Here's a look back at the same cypress dome over the course of the past half year.
Nov 29, 2009
Fresh-squeezed fall
Labor Day is a now three months behind us,
Is it safe to finally say that fall has arrived in south Florida?
Consider the evidence:
Labor Day of course marks the “unofficial” start of fall on the continent, even if by celestial standards the autumnal equinox doesn’t occur until September 22nd.
Both are mute points on the peninsula:
Summer rains were still going strong through the start of October.
Eventually we got our first blast of “cool” air, but it was a short lived whimsy – the weeks that followed ramped back into a “hot and humid” malaise that wouldn’t shake free.
Finally here at the end of November I’m starting shake off the summer cobwebs:
Skies grow dark early, weather has turned more reliably cool, and perhaps most tellingly the cypress needles have almost completely fallen.
And if that weren’t enough:
Today marks the official end of hurricane season.
So, can we finally claim victory and proclaim fall has officially arrived?
It’s sort of a mute point now that the Navels oranges and Ruby Red grapefruits are in!
Here in Florida that’s our first sign of winter!
Is it safe to finally say that fall has arrived in south Florida?
Consider the evidence:
Labor Day of course marks the “unofficial” start of fall on the continent, even if by celestial standards the autumnal equinox doesn’t occur until September 22nd.
Both are mute points on the peninsula:
Summer rains were still going strong through the start of October.
Eventually we got our first blast of “cool” air, but it was a short lived whimsy – the weeks that followed ramped back into a “hot and humid” malaise that wouldn’t shake free.
Finally here at the end of November I’m starting shake off the summer cobwebs:
Skies grow dark early, weather has turned more reliably cool, and perhaps most tellingly the cypress needles have almost completely fallen.
And if that weren’t enough:
Today marks the official end of hurricane season.
So, can we finally claim victory and proclaim fall has officially arrived?
It’s sort of a mute point now that the Navels oranges and Ruby Red grapefruits are in!
Here in Florida that’s our first sign of winter!
Nov 28, 2009
Melaleuca in full bloom
Melaleuca trees are in full bloom.
Beautiful yes, but don’t be deceived:
They have a reputation as one of the most meddlesome invasive exotic plants in the Everglades.
Upon arriving to Big Cypress, I didn’t so much see things with new eyes – as the saying goes – as I “didn’t” see things clearly because my eyes were new … in addition to also being myopic:
I wear glasses for distance.
A long-time ranger offered to give me a tour of the Addition Lands, up along the preserve’s northern outskirts.
From a distance the Melaleucas were easy to spot:
They had "puffy" white flowers, or so they seemed, until we stepped out of the truck to take a closer look and their true shape was revealed:
Elongated white bristle brushes.
“These trees shouldn’t be here,” he scowled. “Somebody brought them in from Australia and now they’ve spread everywhere.”
He went on to explain that most of the Melaleuca forests had been cut down on preserve lands, “but you’ll see them everywhere else … especially in the fall when they are blooming. That blows the seeds right back into the preserve.”
“Do they bloom in fall because it coincides with spring in Australia?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders dismissively then looked at his watch. We were on a schedule and had to go.
Near sightedness had precluded me from ever becoming serious birder, or so I thought:
I was quickly discovering in Florida that wading birds were impossible “not” to notice.
They were lengthy, conspicuously feathered, and quite ostentatious – whether wading in the water or perched in a tree:
Spotting one (or many) from a distance was quite commonplace.
A quarter mile up the levee, as we approached a confluence with another canal, I spotted what appeared to be one of those peculiar unwanted trees with the puffy white flowers.
“Is that another Melaleuca?” I asked, pointing straight ahead.
He fell silent for a moment – probably half wondering if I was making a joke – then dead panned in disbelief:
“That’s a cypress tree with a bunch of egrets perched on it.”
So it was.
(Birding and botany were never my strong suites.)
Beautiful yes, but don’t be deceived:
They have a reputation as one of the most meddlesome invasive exotic plants in the Everglades.
Upon arriving to Big Cypress, I didn’t so much see things with new eyes – as the saying goes – as I “didn’t” see things clearly because my eyes were new … in addition to also being myopic:
I wear glasses for distance.
A long-time ranger offered to give me a tour of the Addition Lands, up along the preserve’s northern outskirts.
From a distance the Melaleucas were easy to spot:
They had "puffy" white flowers, or so they seemed, until we stepped out of the truck to take a closer look and their true shape was revealed:
Elongated white bristle brushes.
“These trees shouldn’t be here,” he scowled. “Somebody brought them in from Australia and now they’ve spread everywhere.”
He went on to explain that most of the Melaleuca forests had been cut down on preserve lands, “but you’ll see them everywhere else … especially in the fall when they are blooming. That blows the seeds right back into the preserve.”
“Do they bloom in fall because it coincides with spring in Australia?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders dismissively then looked at his watch. We were on a schedule and had to go.
Near sightedness had precluded me from ever becoming serious birder, or so I thought:
I was quickly discovering in Florida that wading birds were impossible “not” to notice.
They were lengthy, conspicuously feathered, and quite ostentatious – whether wading in the water or perched in a tree:
Spotting one (or many) from a distance was quite commonplace.
A quarter mile up the levee, as we approached a confluence with another canal, I spotted what appeared to be one of those peculiar unwanted trees with the puffy white flowers.
“Is that another Melaleuca?” I asked, pointing straight ahead.
He fell silent for a moment – probably half wondering if I was making a joke – then dead panned in disbelief:
“That’s a cypress tree with a bunch of egrets perched on it.”
So it was.
(Birding and botany were never my strong suites.)
Nov 27, 2009
Secret of winter sunsets
Are winter sunsets over the gulf more spectacular than the other seasons?
In my opinion – yes,
But that’s only because I’m out there on the beach to see them “first hand”.
I can’t say the same for spring, summer and fall – especially before we’ve dropped back an hour for daylight savings:
We’re never out on the beach late enough in those seasons to see the sun touch down.
(It’s still way up in the sky by the time we leave.)
In a perfect world we’d set our schedule to sunsets.
But you know how it is:
Our lives are run by clocks instead.
The secret is to take advantage of what moments time allows:
Come winter, one of those moments for me is the early arrival of sunsets.
(Nothing against summer sunsets for any late birds out there!)
In my opinion – yes,
But that’s only because I’m out there on the beach to see them “first hand”.
I can’t say the same for spring, summer and fall – especially before we’ve dropped back an hour for daylight savings:
We’re never out on the beach late enough in those seasons to see the sun touch down.
(It’s still way up in the sky by the time we leave.)
In a perfect world we’d set our schedule to sunsets.But you know how it is:
Our lives are run by clocks instead.
The secret is to take advantage of what moments time allows:
Come winter, one of those moments for me is the early arrival of sunsets.
(Nothing against summer sunsets for any late birds out there!)
Nov 26, 2009
Sip responsibly from the aquifer!
Like any other hydrologist out there, I get thirsty.
That’s the reason I carry around a translucent green water bottle wherever I go. It holds 16 ounces. That’s a handy size. The downside is that I have to fill it up pretty regularly – a couple times per day.
I could save myself the effort (of my regular refilling regime), by finding a container that fits a full year’s worth of drinking water in it.
Granted, that’s not all that practical –
Who has the space or strength to carry around six 42.5 gallon water barrels, let alone one, let alone keeping it semi-cold and fresh?
That is what’s amazing about Florida’s giant "water barrels" in the ground:
Our aquifers are constantly refreshed.
Even at 179 gallons per day per person (Palm Beach County’s per capita demand), it would be impossible to pump them completely dry.
But what if we could?
Where would we put all that water?
As big as Lake Okeechobee is, we’d need 750 similarly sized giant bowls to store it all.
Better yet:
Let’s just keep it in the ground …
And only take out as much as we need.
Think "16 ounces" at a time!
That’s the reason I carry around a translucent green water bottle wherever I go. It holds 16 ounces. That’s a handy size. The downside is that I have to fill it up pretty regularly – a couple times per day.I could save myself the effort (of my regular refilling regime), by finding a container that fits a full year’s worth of drinking water in it.
Granted, that’s not all that practical –
Who has the space or strength to carry around six 42.5 gallon water barrels, let alone one, let alone keeping it semi-cold and fresh?
That is what’s amazing about Florida’s giant "water barrels" in the ground:
Our aquifers are constantly refreshed.
Even at 179 gallons per day per person (Palm Beach County’s per capita demand), it would be impossible to pump them completely dry.
But what if we could?
Where would we put all that water?
As big as Lake Okeechobee is, we’d need 750 similarly sized giant bowls to store it all.
Better yet:
Let’s just keep it in the ground …
And only take out as much as we need.
Think "16 ounces" at a time!
Nov 25, 2009
Warm Thankgiving memories
Warm memories of Thanksgivings past, buttressed by simmering stoves and roasting ovens on the inside, are counter balanced by equal "outside" servings of chills to the cheek and toes that just won’t seem to get warm.Not that Baltimore, Maryland was the icy arctic (or even the rolling woods of its outer hinterlands – better known as Kingsville, USA), but still:
It was routine practice to store the bushels of beverages and oysters on the porch out back, and at times – during the night – bringing them back inside for fear of them freezing.
Here in Naples, Florida the concern is just the opposite:
Food spoils and liquids turn lukewarm if left in open air unattended.
This year temperatures are expected to drop below 60 in the pre dawn hours before rising into the 70s by turkey carving time.
Yes that’s toasty warm for the northern folks up the continent, but it’s splendidly cool a peninsular Floridian:
Four of our past 10 Thanksgivings have risen into the 80s.
Even our coolest Thanksgivings (i.e., 2000) find a way to rise into the low 70s by mid day.
Whatever the temperature, and wherever you may be:
Happy Thanksgiving!
Nov 24, 2009
11 months of rain
We still have a month to go on the calendar
before we can call it a year,
But here in Florida, December (3 inch avg) is a dry month.
That has me thinking:
How has 2009 (so far) stacked up to previous rain years?
The rainiest year goes to 1947 – topping the list at over 70 inches – thanks in large part to the Ft Lauderdale hurricane which, among other things, pushed waters up in Lake Okeechobee to 20 ft above sea level and inspired a 25-year redesign of the canal and levee system throughout the Everglades.
The driest years on the list include 1954-56, 1990, 2000 and 2006, each of which registered less than 45 inches, and the last two of which dropped the lake below 9 ft.
This year is on the verge of breaking above 50 inches (rains in December willing),
But who says a single number for all of Florida is any good anyhow?
The more accurate picture is a bit more complicated.
This year the western panhandle was the wettest (thanks to Ida) and the space coast has been the driest. Tampa is hoping the winter El Nino will break it out of a four year drought.
For that to happen we’ll need a change in the weather:
It’s been a dry fall so far down on the peninsula.
before we can call it a year,
But here in Florida, December (3 inch avg) is a dry month.
That has me thinking:
How has 2009 (so far) stacked up to previous rain years?
The rainiest year goes to 1947 – topping the list at over 70 inches – thanks in large part to the Ft Lauderdale hurricane which, among other things, pushed waters up in Lake Okeechobee to 20 ft above sea level and inspired a 25-year redesign of the canal and levee system throughout the Everglades.
The driest years on the list include 1954-56, 1990, 2000 and 2006, each of which registered less than 45 inches, and the last two of which dropped the lake below 9 ft.
This year is on the verge of breaking above 50 inches (rains in December willing),
But who says a single number for all of Florida is any good anyhow?
The more accurate picture is a bit more complicated.
This year the western panhandle was the wettest (thanks to Ida) and the space coast has been the driest. Tampa is hoping the winter El Nino will break it out of a four year drought.
For that to happen we’ll need a change in the weather:
It’s been a dry fall so far down on the peninsula.
Nov 23, 2009
Mystery of the "moving" baseline
How can the deepest spot in the Everglades be at a record low,
But historically speaking – if you go back decades – also be pretty deep?
Call it the mystery of the Moving Hydrologic Baseline.
As their name would suggest, the Water Conservation Areas were designed in the 1950s to “conserve” water. In southern WCA 3A, that general concept – plus limitations on how and when water can be delivered into downstream Everglades National Park – has resulted in the Everglades biggest pool.
Currently the sloughs north of the levee (in 3A) are around 2.5 ft deep.
That’s extreme high water for any other part of the glades or adjacent Big Cypress Swamp … even during the heart of the wet season,
But it’s a full foot lower than the same time last year,
And 9 inches below the long-term median for mid November.
The big shocker – in contemporary times anyhow – is that current water levels have inched below where it was at the same point in November 2007.
That was the so-called Year without a Wet Season.
What happened?
This year we did have a wet season:
It started early in May, but also ended early – and abruptly – in October … and it hasn’t rained since. A dry October is relatively common in southwest Florida (baring tropical systems) making it our opening month of the dry season.
By contrast, October tends to stay rainy across the pond in Miami, and thus is traditionally clustered as a wet season month ...
Just not this year.
But don’t be fooled by a hydrograph!
It’s a stretch to call 3A “dry.”
Just a few hundred feet across the levee (as the wading bird flies), sloughs in Everglades National Park are half as deep, and don’t forget that 3A is still the deepest spot you’ll find anywhere in the glades ...
And not just this year:
If your rewind the hydrologic clock back through the decades, this year’s current stage may scrape the bottom of the twenty-year hydrograph, but it’s smack dab in the middle of the normal line for the 1970s and 1980s.
This decade and last, 3A has been running a half foot higher than the previous two.
The twist is land subsidence.
The topography of the glades has been slow-motion sliced away at by fire, farming, and over drying – most drastically in the sawgrass plain south of Lake Okeechobee (where land surface has sunk over ten feet from the primordial "Pre-Drainage" condition,
But also in virtually every other corner of the remnant glades (baring possibly Loxahatchee) on the order of at least a foot or two ... sometimes more.
Thus, the fuller reason on why the Conservation Areas levees were built was, yes, to conserve water, but also to preserve the peat by keeping them hydrated ...
And preventing them from vanishing (i.e., burning) into thin air.
If it were possible to rewind the clock back two centuries into Pre Drainage,
Today’s current water stage would be very close to how high the land was then, prior to subsidence.
.jpg)
My point is that baselines move in ways that are hard to fathom in the present, fantastical to try to recollect the past, and fairly certain to change in the future.
About the only certainty there is in the Everglades is “change" ... through the seasons, decadal cycles, and centuries.
We wish we had some of that "change" back, but that’s water under the bridge at this point.
The change we need are the waters that lie ahead ...
Also known as Everglades restoration.
But historically speaking – if you go back decades – also be pretty deep?
Call it the mystery of the Moving Hydrologic Baseline.
As their name would suggest, the Water Conservation Areas were designed in the 1950s to “conserve” water. In southern WCA 3A, that general concept – plus limitations on how and when water can be delivered into downstream Everglades National Park – has resulted in the Everglades biggest pool.
Currently the sloughs north of the levee (in 3A) are around 2.5 ft deep.
That’s extreme high water for any other part of the glades or adjacent Big Cypress Swamp … even during the heart of the wet season,
But it’s a full foot lower than the same time last year,
And 9 inches below the long-term median for mid November.
The big shocker – in contemporary times anyhow – is that current water levels have inched below where it was at the same point in November 2007.
That was the so-called Year without a Wet Season.
What happened?
This year we did have a wet season:
It started early in May, but also ended early – and abruptly – in October … and it hasn’t rained since. A dry October is relatively common in southwest Florida (baring tropical systems) making it our opening month of the dry season.
By contrast, October tends to stay rainy across the pond in Miami, and thus is traditionally clustered as a wet season month ...
Just not this year.
But don’t be fooled by a hydrograph!
It’s a stretch to call 3A “dry.”
Just a few hundred feet across the levee (as the wading bird flies), sloughs in Everglades National Park are half as deep, and don’t forget that 3A is still the deepest spot you’ll find anywhere in the glades ...
And not just this year:
If your rewind the hydrologic clock back through the decades, this year’s current stage may scrape the bottom of the twenty-year hydrograph, but it’s smack dab in the middle of the normal line for the 1970s and 1980s.
This decade and last, 3A has been running a half foot higher than the previous two.
The twist is land subsidence.
The topography of the glades has been slow-motion sliced away at by fire, farming, and over drying – most drastically in the sawgrass plain south of Lake Okeechobee (where land surface has sunk over ten feet from the primordial "Pre-Drainage" condition,
But also in virtually every other corner of the remnant glades (baring possibly Loxahatchee) on the order of at least a foot or two ... sometimes more.
Thus, the fuller reason on why the Conservation Areas levees were built was, yes, to conserve water, but also to preserve the peat by keeping them hydrated ...
And preventing them from vanishing (i.e., burning) into thin air.
If it were possible to rewind the clock back two centuries into Pre Drainage,
Today’s current water stage would be very close to how high the land was then, prior to subsidence.
.jpg)
My point is that baselines move in ways that are hard to fathom in the present, fantastical to try to recollect the past, and fairly certain to change in the future.About the only certainty there is in the Everglades is “change" ... through the seasons, decadal cycles, and centuries.
We wish we had some of that "change" back, but that’s water under the bridge at this point.
The change we need are the waters that lie ahead ...
Also known as Everglades restoration.
Nov 22, 2009
"Plan B" when monsoons fail
Florida doesn’t have monsoons,
although the summer showers are often mistaken as such.
What makes them different?
Florida’s summer convective showers are fed by “low atmosphere” lows (caused by daytime heating), stoked by upper atmosphere instability and super charged by colliding landward-flowing peninsular sea breezes.
The key here is that the winds – like clockwork – “reverse directions”.
Come wee nighttime hours – while the fine citizenry of the state slumbers – the winds grow aimless and U-Turn there way back out to sea.
That’s in contrast to India:
Its sea breeze blows nonstop – 24 hours around the clock – funneling maritime air into a giant “upper atmosphere” low that perches itself over the peninsula all summer long.
My point?
Florida doesn’t have monsoons, but it does gets monsoonal-worthy rain totals,
And in some cases even makes monsoons look minuscule!
Summer rains are also “officially” described as monsoonal in the American Southwest, despite being a small fraction of Florida’s summer wet-season drenching.
Turns out those miniscule monsoons were complete “no show” in the Sonoran this summer.
That has its perennial-flowing San Pedro River – a thread-like riparian ribbon of florescent green in an otherwise cactus strewn basin – running at a historic low.
The word is it may very well run dry.
The hope on the horizon is the El Nino.
It’s late fall surge has meteorologists now classifying it as a moderate to strong event.
That could make it a wet spring in the Sonoran Desert.
That’s what I call a good Plan B!
(Not that Plan A was much anyhow ... at least compared to Florida’s "non-monsoonal" wet season.)
although the summer showers are often mistaken as such.
What makes them different?
Florida’s summer convective showers are fed by “low atmosphere” lows (caused by daytime heating), stoked by upper atmosphere instability and super charged by colliding landward-flowing peninsular sea breezes.
The key here is that the winds – like clockwork – “reverse directions”.
Come wee nighttime hours – while the fine citizenry of the state slumbers – the winds grow aimless and U-Turn there way back out to sea.
That’s in contrast to India:
Its sea breeze blows nonstop – 24 hours around the clock – funneling maritime air into a giant “upper atmosphere” low that perches itself over the peninsula all summer long.
My point?
Florida doesn’t have monsoons, but it does gets monsoonal-worthy rain totals,
And in some cases even makes monsoons look minuscule!
Summer rains are also “officially” described as monsoonal in the American Southwest, despite being a small fraction of Florida’s summer wet-season drenching.
Turns out those miniscule monsoons were complete “no show” in the Sonoran this summer.
That has its perennial-flowing San Pedro River – a thread-like riparian ribbon of florescent green in an otherwise cactus strewn basin – running at a historic low.
The word is it may very well run dry.
The hope on the horizon is the El Nino.
It’s late fall surge has meteorologists now classifying it as a moderate to strong event.
That could make it a wet spring in the Sonoran Desert.
That’s what I call a good Plan B!
(Not that Plan A was much anyhow ... at least compared to Florida’s "non-monsoonal" wet season.)
Nov 21, 2009
Fall "state of mind"
What is it about fall --
Whether up on the "continent" ...
Or down here on the south Florida "peninsula" --
That makes it such a nostalgic season?
Whether up on the "continent" ...
Or down here on the south Florida "peninsula" --
That makes it such a nostalgic season?
Nov 20, 2009
Pioneer trail
Trips down Loop Road are few and far between,
Flights above are even rarer.
Here’s a view of that road and its main hamlet -- Pinecrest -- from the sky.
The back story on the 8-mile eastern spur of this lime rock road is that Monroe County had aspirations of it becoming part of the Tamiami Trail.
At least that was the plan in 1915 when the idea of the road was conceived.
By the 1920 work on the project had stalled:
In stepped Barron Collier – an advertising mogul (railways placards, not internet ads!) who found riches in New York City – to pick up the pieces:
As largest landowner in the region – he had accumulated 900 thousand acres (larger than the modern day Big Cypress Nat’l Preserve) in the hey day of his Florida operations – he had a vested interested in getting economic activity up and rolling in the swamp.
His plan detoured the Trail to the north, away from Pinecrest, straight from Dade into eponymously-named Collier County instead.
That left Monroe County – and its unofficial “inland” capital – off the main drag.
I say “inland” because Monroe County is better known for its Florida Keys, not its thin sliver of mainland glades and swamp.
The road to Pinecrest wouldn’t remain a “spur to nowhere” for long:
It was extended deep into the swamp an additional 18 miles instead, until it eventually got “somewhere” – which was right back to where it started: the Tamiami Trail (aren’t journey’s like that!),
But at a an aptly named new spot called “Monroe” Station.
.jpg)
Today we call that 25 miles of lime rock Loop Road,
Many have noted that “loop” is “pool” spelled backwards,
That’s fitting – it has a storied history of flooding during high water years.
Or in other words:
There’s a lot of water “over” that road.
Flights above are even rarer.
Here’s a view of that road and its main hamlet -- Pinecrest -- from the sky.
The back story on the 8-mile eastern spur of this lime rock road is that Monroe County had aspirations of it becoming part of the Tamiami Trail.
At least that was the plan in 1915 when the idea of the road was conceived.
By the 1920 work on the project had stalled:
In stepped Barron Collier – an advertising mogul (railways placards, not internet ads!) who found riches in New York City – to pick up the pieces:
As largest landowner in the region – he had accumulated 900 thousand acres (larger than the modern day Big Cypress Nat’l Preserve) in the hey day of his Florida operations – he had a vested interested in getting economic activity up and rolling in the swamp.
His plan detoured the Trail to the north, away from Pinecrest, straight from Dade into eponymously-named Collier County instead.
That left Monroe County – and its unofficial “inland” capital – off the main drag.
I say “inland” because Monroe County is better known for its Florida Keys, not its thin sliver of mainland glades and swamp.
The road to Pinecrest wouldn’t remain a “spur to nowhere” for long:
It was extended deep into the swamp an additional 18 miles instead, until it eventually got “somewhere” – which was right back to where it started: the Tamiami Trail (aren’t journey’s like that!),
But at a an aptly named new spot called “Monroe” Station.
.jpg)
Today we call that 25 miles of lime rock Loop Road,
Many have noted that “loop” is “pool” spelled backwards,
That’s fitting – it has a storied history of flooding during high water years.
Or in other words:
There’s a lot of water “over” that road.
Nov 19, 2009
Proposed name change
Florida is full of water bodies with “catchy” names –
Ichetucknee, Caloosahatchee, Withlacoochee, Apalachicola, Okeechobee, Loxahatchee, Suwannee … the list goes on.
Does the same apply to Florida’s roadways?
Tamiami Trail comes to mind.
Promoters dubbed it so, with its lyrical ring, to “sell” the crazy idea of building the “first ever” road from Tampa to Miami – south Florida’s two major population hubs in the 1900s – through the impenetrable swamp land that lay between.
As good as it “sounded” back then – and yes, 13 years later the road opened for business – nobody in “sound” mind today uses the Tamiami Trail to travel between those two points:
They take the modern-day Alligator Alley instead.
Alligator Alley is the east-west running southernmost stretch of the I-75 interstate, which lays overtop the “original” Alligator Alley, Trail-sized Route 84.
Today’s super-sized alley swings north on the outskirts of Naples and from there runs 1700 miles clear up to Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan on the rocky shores of the St. Marys River.
Or in layman terms, about halfway to the Arctic Circle.
By way of Alligator Alley, a drive from Tampa to Miami will take you 5 hours.
Plan on twice that if you take the Trail!
Does that make Tamiami Trail obsolete?
Between Naples and Miami it’s actually the way to go.
It’s a snap of the fingers two hour drive, baring midway stops to watch the alligators, getting stuck behind a Winnebago or a Tractor Trailer (it’s single lanes each way) … not to mention the motorcycle cavalcades on weekends and watching for panthers at night.
The scenery is delightful: conservation lands straddle the Trial on either side … Everglades and Big Cypress as far as the eye can see.
That’s why I propose we rename the Naples-to-Miami stretch to keep up with the times:
How about the “Namiami" or Tamiami "Parkway” instead?
Ichetucknee, Caloosahatchee, Withlacoochee, Apalachicola, Okeechobee, Loxahatchee, Suwannee … the list goes on.
Does the same apply to Florida’s roadways?
Tamiami Trail comes to mind.
Promoters dubbed it so, with its lyrical ring, to “sell” the crazy idea of building the “first ever” road from Tampa to Miami – south Florida’s two major population hubs in the 1900s – through the impenetrable swamp land that lay between.
As good as it “sounded” back then – and yes, 13 years later the road opened for business – nobody in “sound” mind today uses the Tamiami Trail to travel between those two points:
They take the modern-day Alligator Alley instead.
Alligator Alley is the east-west running southernmost stretch of the I-75 interstate, which lays overtop the “original” Alligator Alley, Trail-sized Route 84.
Today’s super-sized alley swings north on the outskirts of Naples and from there runs 1700 miles clear up to Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan on the rocky shores of the St. Marys River.
Or in layman terms, about halfway to the Arctic Circle.
By way of Alligator Alley, a drive from Tampa to Miami will take you 5 hours.
Plan on twice that if you take the Trail!
Does that make Tamiami Trail obsolete?
Between Naples and Miami it’s actually the way to go.
It’s a snap of the fingers two hour drive, baring midway stops to watch the alligators, getting stuck behind a Winnebago or a Tractor Trailer (it’s single lanes each way) … not to mention the motorcycle cavalcades on weekends and watching for panthers at night.
The scenery is delightful: conservation lands straddle the Trial on either side … Everglades and Big Cypress as far as the eye can see.
That’s why I propose we rename the Naples-to-Miami stretch to keep up with the times:
How about the “Namiami" or Tamiami "Parkway” instead?
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