| About three quarters of the way down Rose Garden | | | | engine. Nothing but gentle breezes, rustling leaves, |
| Road in Cape Coral there's a small, usually empty, | | | | mating birds and snapping twigs. The audible pulse of |
| parking lot off to the left with a sign reading, "Glover | | | | nature. |
| Bight Trail". The "trail" is actually one of Cape Coral's | | | | I cross a raised area in the boardwalk, the only |
| newer boardwalks. At 1500 feet, it meanders through | | | | stretch with high sides. I slow down and look around. |
| saltwater wetlands and exposed mudflats towards | | | | Why have they built sides onto the boardwalk here, |
| an observation deck with views of Glover Bight. The | | | | but nowhere else? Up on my tiptoes, and peering |
| bight, itself, is a small bay and anchorage at the | | | | down into an area most people would never look, I |
| mouth of the Caloosahatchee River. It's also one of | | | | see a pile of trash. Who would cart all this trash out |
| the few remaining ecosystems supporting smalltooth | | | | onto a nature trail to dump it? |
| sawfish, a dwindling species listed as endangered | | | | Closer investigation reveals the pile of trash as an |
| since 2003. | | | | upended shoebox containing handfuls of addressed |
| The Glover Bight boardwalk begins at the immediate | | | | and stamped envelopes, hand drawn pictures and a |
| edge of the parking lot, marked by the only opening | | | | few small trinkets. Who uses these places? |
| the tightly-knit mangroves afford. Leaving my | | | | Curiosity piqued, I press slowly onward. Around |
| lonesome car behind, I entered the verdant hallway | | | | another bend I reach an observation tower and a set |
| of trees. Nature's temple is found beneath a canopy | | | | of steps I assume are for kayak portaging. I begin |
| of leaves. Sun and shadows bounced and crawled | | | | my ascent of the tower, reading the myriad vulgar |
| against each other, across my skin, as living | | | | graffiti and declarations of love others have etched |
| vegetation rubbed shoulders with the mid-spring | | | | into the railings and floors. Torn letters and envelopes |
| breeze. Brilliant white sunlight found its way through | | | | litter the surrounding dark marsh, written in the same |
| crowded, clustered branches, falling in mosaic | | | | hand as those in the shoebox. A brokenhearted |
| patterns across everything in sight. | | | | adolescent mourns the end of a puppy-love |
| Southwest Florida boardwalk-walking is a pleasant, | | | | relationship amidst the trees and sky? |
| though predictable, experience. Having journeyed the | | | | The top of the observation tower rests above the |
| complete lengths of dozens of protected wetland | | | | mangrove canopy. A surface of leaves stretches out |
| boardwalks, I usually know what to expect going in. | | | | in every direction. The only significant mark of human |
| Always the same, gray, slip-free material underfoot. | | | | existence is the hulking fortress of the Tarpon Point |
| Lots of trees. A few flying insects. Invisible spider | | | | Marina high-rises currently under construction to the |
| webs wrapping around your face. I wonder where | | | | southwest. |
| the hell the spider ended up. Noxious-scented mud in | | | | Fiddler crabs click and dart back into their holes as I |
| the dry season. Alligator water in the wet season. | | | | continue the remainder of my short journey to the |
| Mystery noises in the thicket and the unlikely | | | | end of the boardwalk. Mission accomplished, I stand |
| snapping of twigs in all directions. What makes those | | | | on the deck overlooking Glovers Bight. A couple |
| noises? And, most importantly, no other people...even | | | | covered benches grace the wooden platform. A set |
| when the weather's perfect. | | | | of stairs descends into the water. And a sign |
| This lack of pedestrians makes the whole boardwalk | | | | adorning one of the wooden posts asks visitors to |
| concept enigmatic to me. I think of modern | | | | call if they see any smalltooth sawfish while they're |
| commercial and residential development. I think of | | | | here. |
| suburban sprawl. I think about how hard it is to get a | | | | But this walk hasn't been about the bight for me. It's |
| government, even city government, to do anything | | | | been a meditation on the identity of my fellow |
| for the good of nature or the enjoyment of | | | | boardwalk-walkers, a question on the soul and |
| conservationists. I think of the emotionless | | | | purpose of sacred places and the people who visit |
| bureaucratic systems we've willingly put into place. | | | | them. Who are they? Why do they come? What |
| Then I look at the miles of little-known but | | | | does this place mean to them? |
| immaculately maintained nature-based boardwalks | | | | As I turn back the way I came, I realize I can't just |
| crisscrossing this part of our state, labyrinths of | | | | allow the shoebox and letters to die their slow death |
| mindfulness, reminders of how much we've already | | | | in the mud. They revealed themselves to me as |
| lost and inspirations of how important it is to save | | | | evidence, a story needing to be told, an unmasking |
| what we've got left. | | | | of my invisible companion boardwalkers and their |
| All these thoughts leave me wondering how any of | | | | unseen intentions. |
| these boardwalks ever got built in the first place. I'm | | | | The well-hidden cache of correspondence proves |
| not naïve...I realize most parks and conservation | | | | nearly inaccessible. I try to utilize sticks and other |
| areas are the token public-relation tithes local | | | | crude tools to facilitate their collection...all to no avail. |
| governments force money-hungry developers to pay | | | | It becomes apparent I will need to leave the safety |
| before they're allowed to rape and pillage much larger | | | | of the boardwalk in an effort to consummate their |
| parcels of natural beauty. But, who are they were | | | | retrieval...down into gator central. Why have they built |
| built for. Who uses these places? | | | | sides onto the boardwalk here, but nowhere else? I |
| I mean, I've never been a big fan of other human | | | | shudder at what might be living beneath the very |
| beings, so it's completely logical for me to frequent | | | | stretch of boardwalk I'm standing on, but cannot |
| these shrines of people-less-ness. But where is | | | | allow my petty fears to stop truth from being |
| everyone else? Am I the only visitor? | | | | revealed. Trembling at the foul set of teeth I envision |
| I often see evidence of others having walked before | | | | clamped onto the flesh of my leg, I pull myself over |
| me. I read their journeys in the empty beer cans, | | | | the railing, hop off of the edge and land on the |
| candy bar wrappers and scattered pieces of clothing | | | | surface of the marsh with a dull, squishy thud. |
| they've left behind. Why do I find single shoes and | | | | I whisk up the papers in a blur of blinding adrenaline |
| pairs of pants in the wilderness? | | | | and scramble back up to dry sanctuary, fistfuls of |
| I'm not always completely alone. I do occasionally see | | | | soggy parchment in my hand. Wouldn't it be |
| other people out there. The divorced dad with his | | | | awkward if the original owner of these letters |
| weekend child. The determined dog-walker. The | | | | showed up now? I head back to the trailhead at a |
| outdoorsy middle-aged woman with her well-worn | | | | quick clip, jump into the only car in the parking lot, |
| walking stick. All taking mute, insistent steps and | | | | lock the doors and head for home. |
| adhering to their self-imposed vows of silence. We | | | | Once home, I fan the moist paper and smudged ink |
| cross paths, hushed and suspicious, barely making | | | | out across a wide table. Pages on top of envelopes, |
| eye contact...shaken back to surface consciousness | | | | on top of drawings, on top of more envelopes. All |
| until the rogue footsteps fade and our deep | | | | dated and signed, with full names, addresses, and a |
| communion with nature pulls us back beneath its spell. | | | | postmarked stamp on every single one. Putting |
| We come to the boardwalks and nature trails to be | | | | myself into forensic detective mode, I began |
| alone, away from other people. Some of us are | | | | analyzing the records, searching for their plot line, |
| answering a primal call towards the small pieces of | | | | looking for the revelation I was surely meant to |
| landscape that money and pollution haven't changed | | | | receive. |
| or ruined yet. Some of us need a place away from | | | | Slowly, a gritty and harrowing drama of family |
| parents, spouses and other authority figures. Some | | | | problems, legal troubles and love gone wrong came |
| of us need a safe place to exercise. Some of us are | | | | into focus. Letters postmarked six years ago, but |
| looking for a place to drink underage beers and | | | | wished away into the marsh within the past two |
| smoke illicit substances. Some of us need a quiet | | | | days. Why now? The recent journey these letters |
| place to think or heal. Today, I've come looking for | | | | had taken opened more questions than their written |
| the words to fill this unwritten idea of a personal | | | | contents revealed. |
| essay. | | | | What did I learn? |
| Walking into the mangroves instantly takes me | | | | Who uses these places? People a lot like the rest of |
| elsewhere. The scents change, from car exhaust and | | | | us. People who need to think about new things and |
| hot pavement to plant-released oxygen and | | | | forget some of the old. Why do they come? For the |
| compost. Memories tied to my sense of smell | | | | same vague reasons we all do. What does this place |
| electromagnetically crackle their way into visual | | | | mean to them? What does it mean to me? What |
| existence. Scenes from my adventurous childhood | | | | does it mean to you? I suppose our personal |
| organically montage across my thoughts. | | | | meanings are similar as snowflakes...all pretty much |
| After-school hours and weekends allowed me ample | | | | the same, but no two exactly identical. |
| time to explore all the nooks and crannies of my | | | | I gathered up the letters, paper debris of a human |
| hometown. I'd set off on foot and follow whatever | | | | life, and gave it all a proper disposal. My mind |
| trails and paths revealed themselves to me. | | | | throbbed, freshly imprinted with old memories |
| Back in the future, a sharp contrast exists between | | | | someone else was actively attempting to erase. I |
| my childhood and adult perceptions of the places I | | | | should have let my fellow traveler's secrets |
| found. Knee deep in creek mud...septic runoff. On a | | | | decompose undisturbed in their shallow watery grave. |
| wide, clear path through the woods...high tension | | | | I can't think of a more fitting setting...a memory |
| power line right-of-way increasing my odds of | | | | cemetery right in the middle of the place we go to |
| childhood cancer. Climbing fences and investigating | | | | be alone. What secrets have I let the boardwalk |
| unused factory buildings...unlawful trespassing. | | | | keep? |
| Excavating an intriguing depression in a small patch of | | | | Every childhood and town has these kinds of lonely, |
| forest, possibly a Native American firepit...shuddering | | | | empty places. Abandoned houses. Paths in the |
| at the look on the old man's face when he angrily | | | | woods. Corners of empty baseball fields. Boardwalks |
| told us we were digging up a grave containing the | | | | through the wilderness. Places with no admission fee |
| charred remains of several of his previous pet dogs. | | | | and no supervision. Places with no entertainment and |
| As I turn the corner, swooning somewhere between | | | | no other people. Places that don't judge. Places that |
| narcotic memories and the omnipresent-now, an | | | | accept and forgive. |
| awakening comes to me. I stop and stand still...all at | | | | Strange, how these forgotten places are the ones |
| once realizing I cannot hear the sound of a single gas | | | | we remember most. |