Three Women, One Screwdriver, and a Plan...sort of.

 

I recently went on a trip to the Everglades to visit my bestie, Carol, who spends part of the year in a luxurious resort several months each winter. Me? I was rubbing elbows with mosquitos the size of pigeons, but it helped alleviate the stress of taking care of my 92-year-old father, lifting off me in sheets with each nature experience.  And nature was all around us.

Now, Carol and I have a long history of Everglade adventures. One of our favorite activities was to drive the Loop Road. This is known to the locals as a great animal viewing spot – a ten-mile dirt road with canals and untouched water areas on either side of you.  A get your camera-ready kind of place. And the sounds of the birds while you are there…well, it’s  a bit magical.

On this visit, Carol asked me what I wanted to do. We don’t do tourist traps, but she pointed out a boat ride to the gulf in one of those platform party-barge boats and I immediately said yes. Anything to get out on the water because I love looking for gators. In truth, I’d rather be fishing, but either ranks way up there on the happiness scale.

The ride was great-- seeing nesting birds, raw beaches cluttered with oyster beds, dolphins and always scanning for any ripple on the surface, because my active cryptid-hunting monster stories are always just under the surface. The boat captain was quite chatty about the history of the area, and we learned more about the cypress, fauna, and storm history.

Then, it happened…he told us a kicker. His First Mate? Holder of killing the third-largest  Burmese python in the state – eighteen feet long. Whoa… that made Carol, and I raise an eyebrow. His photo was quite impressive. It was the length of two Shaquille O’Neal.

Carol looked at me with eyes lit up. “We should go out python hunting with him.”

I nodded quickly. Carol is a very talented photographer and has a good camera and lens. What better adventure than watching a big Bubba of a man wrestle a giant snake while we documented it? We were in. I had visions of him single-handedly grabbing the snake. He was fully booked during my visit. So, we did the next best thing.

We decided to go python hunting by ourselves. How hard could it be? Cue the research phase. Did you know that they have decimated the mammal population in the Everglades – now 90% of the mammals are gone, all thanks to the voracious appetite of the pythons. Best way to kill them is with a knife or screwdriver to the back of the head. Check.

At this point, we considered just running them over with Carol’s big-ass truck. Problem solved, right? But what if it was a tracker snake? What if we accidentally squashed a government-sponsored reptile? Was there a fine for that? Could we shoot it?

Instead of talking ourselves out of it, we roped in another over-60 daredevil named Patty and set off into the wild armed with flashlights and a screwdriver.

Our plan consisted of:

·         Knowing the dew point – pythons come out at a certain humidity-level. Check.

·         It has to be on the road. None of us were willing wandering into the tall grass. Check.

·         We will be bad-ass. Absolutely.

 

At 10 p.m., we hit a lonely dirt road, flashlights in hand, creeping along in the truck like we were starring in a special “Golden Girls Take on Florida’s Apex Predators”.

Our first area had us in a terrain that was flat – almost looking like an African savannah in the dim light. We learned how to use the night view app on our phones and got some great photos. The stars were brilliant above us. Waterway canals were on one side of us and comments from Patty had us giggling. She was practically hanging out the window trying to catch the  glare of gator eyes with her torch. “OMG, OMG…I see something,” she’d shriek, and Carol would hit the brakes and then back up so we could double-check. At some points on the road, she’d squeal every minute.

We decided that we needed to get a flashlight with a higher luminance next time.

I started talking about the Skunk Ape, panthers, and kept my eyes on the road.

Carol stated, “I’m the driver, I’m not getting out if we see one,” several times—at least once an hour. We chatted, and watched…yup, an opossum took a stroll with us at one point.

We saw our first snake about an hour in…. but it was just a big stick. “I’m not getting out,” I said, and it was repeated by each of us. “Then, who is going to kill the real snake?”

Silence.

“…I’ll do it, but I’m not going into the tall grass to do it. The snake must be on the road.”

More silence. Mutual agreement. Zero bravery.

We continued on….my adventure spirit was singing in glee. We didn’t know what we would see around the next bend. I had visions of us getting t-shirts with quirky sayings, “Bad Ass Python Hunters”. Patty thought we needed to have a name for the excursions out into the dark… we threw around cleaver names quietly as we searched. Hours passed. One other car slowly passed us, doing the same thing. Sure, why not---a lonely dirt road, midnight, in the Everglades.

Que the scary music. Patty took a hit on her vape with some wacky weed derivative.

Then, it was there. A five-foot python…caught in the glare of the headlights. Carol hit the brakes. No one said a word, until Carol whispered, “I can’t tell if it has an antenna.”

“Run over it,” I said deadpan. “Might even have to back up over it.” This python had a lump in it… probably the last raccoon in Florida digesting in its stomach. We all screamed as she hit the gas. A barely perceptive rise was felt as it was flattened. She backed up and hit it again…we screamed louder.

Then, the car stopped and we sat there for a minute looking at each other. “Okay, I’ll go look,” I said, and all the windows went down. Patty handed me the best flashlight – her hand was shaking. Carol just nodded to me from the driver’s seat.

I looked down at my tennis shoes, wishing I had big ass hiking boots and stepped over to the snake that still wiggled a bit on its tail. It was hissing. I could hear my breathing.

No antenna. No government-issued tracking device.

I grabbed a stick, pinned its head down, and stabbed it with the screwdriver.

Yeah, I did it…feeling totally bad ass. “Seventy-five eggs in a clutch,” I repeated in my head. “No predators.” Yeah, I did that. Me. The over-60 woman with a dad at home who still doesn’t know how to change the sound on the television. I had stabbed a python in the Everglades.

I looked up triumphantly, holding up my slightly bloodied hand. Carol and Patty were looking at me wide-eyed. “I called out,” it’s dead!”

They approached very gingerly, Carol keeping her back to the truck, constantly scanning the tall grass fields around us. A strong smell of something blooming filled the air—almost sweet. The snake, beautiful dark striping standing out in the glare of our flashlights. We took photographs of it.

“OMG…OMG…” Patty repeated breathing heavily.

The screwdriver was still embedded in its head.

Then we heard it—the deep, guttural growl of a gator nearby. A big one.

We broke the world record for fastest sprint back to the truck.

Left the screwdriver. Left the crime scene. Just floored it.

The ride back was silent for a long time. Finally, Patty exhaled. “So, uh. We’re doing this again, right?”

Carol, staring at the road like she had PTSD, gave a slow nod.

I grinned. “Only if we get t-shirts.”

And that’s how three women with questionable survival instincts became unofficial python hunters of the Everglades.