When I was 10 years old my parents packed up our California home, stuffed our family into a Mazda minivan, and drove east. We knew our destination, Tennessee, but we didn’t know much more than that – we were filled with uncertainty and we loved it.
In early march of this trip we had just finished driving through the boring, flat desert that is Texas and we were overjoyed to see trees growing alongside the highway and ivy overgrown and hanging like curtains off the limbs as we entered Louisiana.
We parked in a small gravel lot and jumped out of the car, glad to have a chance to stretch. My father led us down a path and into a clearing right by a smooth part of the swamp. The trees hung wild overhead and there were two weatherworn wooden shacks nearby. There were all sorts of tacky tourist merchandise in front of the one on the right, obviously the gift shop. My brother pulled out his Gameboy while I poked through the mood-necklaces shaped like swamp animals and my parents entered the shack on the right that housed the “Information Center.”
My parents emerged from the Information Center with a strange man in khaki shorts and a green button down. He had a vest with bait lined across the shoulders that I thought made him look like a swamp prince. My parents introduced my brother Chris and me to this man, Mr. Cal, who leaned down and looked us in the eyes.
“You ready to go spot some gators?” He smiled and spat the words in a thick country accent as he tossed a wink to my brother.
“Yeah!” I said, always the enthusiastic one. My brother shuffled along, rolling his eyes.
We boarded a pontoon boat that Mr. Cal said would take us around the swamp right after we made a quick stop. We puttered along for a while, the water looking thick right beyond the rail.
The pontoon pulled onto a small shore on the side of the swamp and Mr. Cal opened the door for my family and the two or three other families to follow him onto a covered walkway. The walkway extended out into a small pond and had a tall chain-link fence on either side that was almost red with rust.
“The gators.” My brother said, now failing to hide his fascination and fear. There were dozens of them in this pond, some lying in the water, some crawling up on sandy peninsulas, and some creeping closer to us on the walkway.
“You folks came at a good time,” Mr. Cal said, picking up a red bucket “It’s time for their lunch.”
A middle-aged lady nearby audibly gasped which I felt was a bit much. Obviously, we were going to see gators.
“Want to help me feed them?” Mr. Cal asked my brother and held out the bucket that I could now see was filled with raw chicken breasts.
“N-no. I’m okay.” Chris said, taking a step back.
“I’ll do it!” I said and grabbed the bucket handle. Mr. Cal looked to my parents for approval and when it was given opened the door from the walkway to an island in the pond. Mr. Cal guided me a bit further onto the island until we were several yards away from the safety of the walkway.
“Now, I’m actually going to toss the chicken from this bucket,” Mr. Cal said, “You come on out and grab the tail, okay?”
I nodded, determined to prove my bravery to Mr. Cal and the rest. A 10-foot-long alligator climbed up onto the island and Mr. Cal threw chicken in his face as I wrapped my hands around the cracked, slippery surface of his tail. We did this once or twice more before Mr. Cal handed off the duty to another gator farm employee and led us back to the pontoon.
We glided along and watched the serene beauty of the swamp around us as we listened to Mr. Cal talking about the environmental impact of pollution on spaces like this. He spoke for a while before pulling a nutria out of nowhere and telling us about its lifestyle and how pollution affects the species.
“Come on over here, I’ll let y’all feed him.” Mr. Cal said and pulled out a bulk bag of Dum-Dums. I rushed over and picked out my favorite flavor – cotton candy at the time – and pet the nutria’s coarse fur while Mr. Cal held him. I unwrapped the lollipop and timidly fed the animal until my mom called me back over to my seat. Eventually, the boat tour was over. I dragged myself off the boat and we were back in the clearing, preparing to leave.
“Stay behind for a few minutes, I’mona show y’all something.” Mr. Cal said quietly to my parents and put a finger over his lips. My mom looked suspicious but my dad was intrigued so we stayed until the other families had filtered out.
“C’mon, over this way.” Mr. Cal said and led us on a path behind the Information Center that I hadn’t noticed before. We walked for a little ways, my father and Mr. Cal making small talk for a few minutes before we reached a large, concrete silo.
Mr. Cal pulled out a large key ring and unlocked a huge deadbolt on the door to the silo. He tuned around sharply.
“What I’m about to show you is illegal in the state of Louisiana so you all have to promise not to tell a soul.” Mr. Cal’s voice was low as he made eye contact with each of us. “We’re working on getting the proper permits, but I wanted to show y’all while you were here.”
We nodded, feet bouncing with excitement and fists clenched in concern. Mr. Cal opened the door and revealed piles of dirt packed onto the sides of the silo and an open top from which I could see the now-pink sky overhead. There were straggly plants growing out of the sides of the hill and bobcats sitting on top of rocks near the bottom. Actually, there were bobcats everywhere. They were on the hill, on the ground a few yards away, lounging beneath the plants. My father asked a few questions about the bobcats that I don’t remember and my brother furrowed his brow as one on a rock nearby hissed at him. We stood for a few minutes and admired the many bobcats, then thanked Mr. Cal and walked back out to our car still parked in the gravel lot.
This experience was one of the few times in my life when I have spent time in America’s wetlands. Perhaps I think about it so much because of that, or perhaps because of the danger of the gators or perhaps because of just how odd it was to see an illegal bobcat exhibit. The road trip from California to Tennessee was a period very important to my growth as a person, and this was one of the experiences that made it so.
