River of Grass

So my sister of another mother Mirta has become quite the biker. No, no the kind with leather and piercings (at least that I know) who rides Harleys and drinks beer -- but the kind who pedals all over Miami. Yesterday we decided to ride through the northern entrance to Everglades National Park -- Shark Valley. The Shark Valley trail is 15 miles -- 7 one way, down a straight road, and 8 on the way back -- curving, through hammocks. The day was perfect -- 60 degrees when we started, with gentle warming to 70. We glided past gators and birds and turtles. At the end of the trail there's an observation deck -- built by WPA workers in the 30s, and we climbed to the top for the panoramic view. A sweet, older park volunteer was there -- from Oklahoma. She was in her late 60s and retired -- she and her husband parked their RV for free in exchange for volunteering, and she explained when the weather gets too hot, they head north. Mirta thought this a great way to spend retirement -- but then she remembered her devotion to her grandkids, and how she's happily stuck in South Florida. I've been the Shark Valley many times -- we always take visitors there. Wifey used to do the ride, too, until her back became an issue. I told Mirta the tale of a trip in the mid 80s -- before we had the Ds. Wifey and I rode the 8 miles to the tower, and were easily into the short trip 5 miles more. It was getting dark. A 10 foot gator was sprawled across the path, completely blocking it. If we turned back, we'd have a long trip, and never make it before dark. We plotted, and finally agreed I would toss a rock at the he-reptile, hoping to annoy him into the culvert next to the path. Before I could toss the rock, he got up and crawled away. Wifey and I sped past -- yelling and laughing. Ah -- we had fun when we were young. So we rode, and I shared with Mirta all I learned about the ecology of the Glades from my days as a Bio major at the U. She didn't know it was actually a river -- a slow moving one from Lake Okechobee to Florida Bay, and the billion dollars being spent to restore natural water flow. We both knew it was a gorgeous day, and shared tales of our friends and families... At the end of the road, we racked the bikes, and headed for the Pit Barbecue -- just east of Krome Avenue. The Pit has been there forever, although it used to be run by crackers, and now by Cubans. Salsa music played, and the Havana born folks drank Heinekins and made believe they were guajidos, or country folk. I brought some leftover ribs home for Wifey. If there's a better place to be in January than SoFla, I don't know where it is, and yesterday brought that sentiment home. I'm glad Marjorie Stoneman Douglas recognized the land west of Miami was worth saving...