Everglades National Park - River of Grass returning

Unlike many western parks—defined by granite drama, alpine passes, and jaw-dropping canyons—Everglades National Park was set aside to protect something quieter and far rarer: an ecosystem found nowhere else on Earth.
It is the largest designated wilderness in the eastern United States, sheltering endangered manatees, the elusive Florida panther, the threatened American crocodile, and hundreds of species that depend on this slow-moving river of grass.

Yet the Everglades has always existed on a knife’s edge. Beyond recent headlines and controversial proposals that threaten to weaken protections for groundwater—jeopardizing both wildlife habitat and the drinking water supply for millions—this landscape has long been under pressure. Development, agriculture, invasive species, and altered water flow have reshaped what was once an unbroken natural system. Standing here now, it’s impossible not to feel both awe and unease.

Years ago, when my boys were teenagers, we loaded our bikes onto the back of the Suburban and drove out to Shark Valley off the Tamiami Trail. We rode the 15-mile loop road and climbed the 65-foot observation tower, which offered a sweeping 360-degree panorama of the Everglades—the Shark River Slough drifting south at roughly two feet per minute. The park rents bikes and runs a tram tour, but pedaling it ourselves felt like the right choice.

That spring day was teeming with life: alligators draped across the pavement, birds everywhere, turtles, snakes, hardwood hammocks rising unexpectedly from the marsh. It was a perfect way to spend a day—especially with two teenage boys who somehow found the combination of wildlife and mild danger endlessly entertaining.

Everglades National Park, vast as it feels, represents only about one-fifth of the greater Everglades ecosystem. Over time, large swaths of natural landscape have disappeared, and the underground aquifer that supplies drinking water to nearly eight million people—from the Florida Keys to Palm Beach—has been compromised. Concern over this degradation led to the Comprehensive Everglades Restoration Plan (CERP), a multi-billion-dollar effort spanning 18,000 square miles. And there is good news: the flamingos, once absent for decades, are back.

Returning now with Alan and Kodi, we planned a slightly different route.

We reached Homestead around noon, turning onto Southwest 344th Street and then west on 192nd, stopping at Robert Is Here, the legendary family-owned fruit stand.
“One banana and mamey sapote milkshake, and a Cuban sandwich to go, please.”

Inside, the shop was an explosion of local flavor—hundreds of varieties of honey, jams, syrups, mustards, hot sauces. You get the idea. Out back, there’s a small animal farm with goats and birds. I photographed a flamboyant rooster and a male red-headed agama lizard—an invasive species, but striking, resembling an anole or skink with a flair for drama.

After our obligatory entrance-sign photo, we rolled into the Ernest F. Coe Visitor Center. The exhibits were museum-quality, the film well done, and the ranger conversation helpful. We picked up a hiking map, bought two T-shirts and an Everglades tote—small acts of support that felt meaningful.

There are four main visitor centers scattered across the park, along with smaller sites like the HM69 Nike Missile Base, where you can collect additional passport stamps. From there, we drove to Royal Palm to hike the Anhinga Trail.

It’s the park’s most popular trail for a reason. The 0.8-mile boardwalk delivers wildlife sightings with almost no effort. We moved slowly, cameras raised, photographing an anhinga drying its wings, a great egret, a yellow-crowned night heron, red-bellied cooter turtles, and countless American alligators basking in the sun. These days, we get our kicks through our lenses.

I insisted on one more stop: Mahogany Hammock. I had visions of rolling up my hiking pants, slipping on water shoes, and wading into the marsh between towering cypress trees. February, however, is dry season—no muck, no wading. Still, the trail was moody and atmospheric, mostly boardwalk threading through the hammock.

A young couple sat on a bench filming themselves with a tripod, while an older couple leaned over a railing, quietly identifying tree snails clinging to the branches. I was slightly disappointed—okay, more than slightly—but we pressed on.

At the Flamingo Visitor Center, a modern pink-and-aqua building with silver railings, we climbed upstairs to the wide glass windows overlooking Florida Bay. Two massive binocular scopes pointed toward the mangrove islands. A ranger showed me exactly where to look.

There they were—flamingos—gathered just beyond the island, standing together on a sandbar, pink as could be. Like celebrities at a party, unmistakable once spotted.

I immediately asked about crocodiles.
“Yes,” the ranger said. “They’re here.”

Apparently, I just needed to walk next door to the marina. An old guy named Fred had been hanging around for days and might have a mate. The American crocodile—lighter gray than an alligator, with visible teeth on both jaws and a narrower snout—is found in the U.S. only here, around the Everglades and Biscayne Bay’s brackish waters.

I practically ran to the marina with Kodi while Alan circled the van. Kodi was equally enthusiastic, nearly dragging me to the dock where a small crowd had gathered. A marina employee explained that Fred had mated the day before—a big event involving loud vocalizations—and the female was now resting in the mangroves, safely cordoned off.

We snapped photos as Fred lay there, grinning, completely uninterested in Kodi.

We ended the day at the amphitheater, where a volunteer ranger spoke about early development, Henry Flagler, and how Royal Palm became Florida’s first state park. She led us to the water’s edge for sunset.

It was the most spectacular sunset I’ve ever seen. A glowing orange orb sank behind the mangroves, lighting their twisted roots from below and throwing purple and amber streaks across the sky. I wanted dinner at the café. I wanted a night in one of the yurts.

But Alan reminded me—gently—that this is a dark-sky park. Once the sun drops, it drops hard. So we headed north, already knowing there’s more to return for: island tours, bobcats, bears, Burmese pythons…oh my.