“The most interesting thing
about a postage stamp is the persistence with which it sticks to its job.”
Napoleon Hill
A week ago, we set out for New
Iberia, Louisiana on a photography mission – that of taking shots of various
scenes to accompany poems in my new book, A
Slow Moving Stream. Since that
time we have done a mini-tour of most of the tourist spots in and around New
Iberia, and Dr. Victoria Sullivan has taken most of the photos needed for this
volume. However, the subject for one photo did elude us for a week, and today
we finally located the subject for a poem entitled “The Kingdom”: an American
alligator…or a Cajun alligator, that is… fresh from a habitat you readers will
never guess from whence he came.
As we aren’t watchers of the TV
show, “Swamp People,” we hadn’t mastered the technique of locating the elusive ‘gators
before setting out on this great hunt, but Dr. Sullivan was once a naturalist
in the Everglades (about 45 years ago), so I felt confident that, if called
upon, she might know how to wrestle
with this armored reptile if we accidentally stepped on one that was sun-bathing.
We set out on our first hunt to Lake Martin
near Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, turning down a road that threw up huge clouds of
white dust as we spun toward the lake. The weather was at a sultry 88-degree
peak, and I sorta’ hoped that I wouldn’t have to exit the AC in the car to get
a good look at a ‘gator taking a sun bath. We stirred up dust along the ‘gator
trail for twenty minutes before I spied something looking like an oversized log
in a lagoon covered with floating Salvinia.
“Hey là-bas!” I exclaimed. “Got
one on first try.”
“Too far away,” my naturalist
friend said. “I’ll put on my wellies and try to get a closer shot.”
I envisioned what I’d tell
the Acadian Ambulance workers when they showed up and found me in a tree
overlooking the lagoon where the ‘gator was cleaning his teeth.
But my intrepid friend didn’t
get into the water, and the ‘gator nosed away without lifting his head enough
for a clear shot so I was spared a 911 call. We continued down the dusty road
until I began one of my allergy coughing spells and decided to hunt apace at
Avery Island, Louisiana.
By then, the idea of exiting
the car in the soaring heat and humidity had caused me to begin rethinking the
photo shoot. Unfortunately, years ago someone told me that my biggest character
trait was persistence, and I felt a little pull of disappointment when I
considered turning back.
Back in the 80’s when I first
visited Avery Island, I had seen alligators almost swarming beneath the
platform of Bird City on this island, and had shivered as I climbed the steps
to the platform overlooking the nests of American egrets. Yesterday, as we began the climb to the top
of the platform, I looked around the first step and not one ‘gator dozed in the
murky water. At the top of the platform I looked down again and spied a cluster
of four turtles on a log — but no ‘gators. After a half hour of staring into
the sun and watching all the birds make their graceful landings to feed their
young on the nesting platform, we spied one alligator nosing his way into a
clump of rushes, but he was still too far away to photograph with any success. By that
time, I had begun to experience something I hadn’t felt in the three months of
spring I had spent on The Mountain at Sewanee, Tennessee – I had begun
perspiring.
“I’ve broken a sweat,” I
informed Dr. Sullivan. “Time to look elsewhere.”
“You know, I saw a sign
advertising an 18-ft. replica of a ‘gator named Monsurat tacked to the wall on
the front porch of the ticket office,” she said. “Maybe it would do for a
picture to accompany the poem.”
“I’m not going in and ask
about that thing,” I told her. “But if it’s the best you can do…”
We got in the car and drove
back to the ticket office. When she came back from her shoot, she said she had
asked where the alligator was, and the clerk in the office told her, “It’s out
on the back porch,” as if the animal was still alive and entertaining tourists.
Dr. Sullivan showed me a photo of this stuffed critter with its mouth open wide
enough to hold a small pirogue, and I laughed derisively. “Won’t do,” I told
her. “This is a serious book of poetry.”
We spent an afternoon
tweaking the photos we had, trying to make a ‘gator rise out of the Salvinia large enough for a good picture,
but it became so pixilated, we had to give up.
This morning I got up at 6:30
with ‘gators on the brain again. Suddenly, the light dawned. Zoo of Acadiana!!! We telephoned Zoosiana, as it's called, and were told that they owned several American
alligators. Within fifteen minutes we had joined a line of people holding the
hands of little people and pushing strollers into the small zoo that is the answer
to the question every parent in Acadiana asks come the week-end: “What will we
do with them on Saturday.” We circled through a maze and came upon a small
cabin within a fenced off area where three long, fat alligators lay dozing. Ten
minutes later, we were spinning homeward, seven or eight photograph shots of
Louisiana alligators in hand.
“From Tennessee to Louisiana,
$50 worth of admission fees and four tanks of gas later, we have a photo of
something we might have found in the coulee behind the house here in New
Iberia,” Dr. Sullivan quipped.
“Well, this beats that
caricature at the Avery Island ticket office,” I retorted. “Besides, I’ve
always wanted to see Zoosiana. Remember that Buckskin Bill Show
where the guy at the end had to close his show with ‘Baton Rouge needs a zoo!’ all
the time he was on the air? At least, we didn’t have to hound people to donate
to a zoo here in Cajun country.”
“Yeah, but what happened to
all the ‘gators that lived on 5,000 acres of lowland E.A. McIlhenny donated so
they’d be protected?” she asked.
“They must have let the
performers in ‘Swamp People’ ashore,” I said. “Besides, we didn’t need the three
we found in the zoo. And I’m glad you didn’t have to wade into the water
looking for a good angle to shoot the picture. I read that a child can walk
faster than an alligator can run on land, but in water they move faster than
the swiftest fish. I thought I heard a clucking noise in the sedges at the island…”
