Author’s note: To get the most out of this story, I recommend you first read the previous blog about the place. Thanks!
The moment ten-year-old Opal Pagenet saw a photograph of bald cypress trees in the Everglades—a double spread in National Geographic – she fell in love with the skirted trees perched in inky water. They stirred in her something magical.
With her mother’s help, she sliced the picture out of the magazine and tacked it on a bulletin board in her room, where it remained throughout her school years, ready to transport her to the faraway place at a moment’s notice.
Every summer, she begged her parents to take the family – Opal and her two brothers – to the Everglades, and every summer they refused.
“It’s too far to drive from Indiana,” her father pointed out, “and besides, summer isn’t the time to visit southern Florida. It’s hot and muggy.”
“A sauna,” her mother concurred. “Winter would be lovely. That’s when the rich people go.” Left hanging was the inference the Pagenets weren’t rich.
The years went by, and Opal graduated from high school. In the summer before college, she worked in the office of a construction company until mid-August. That left her with two weeks of holiday time. She planned to spend it in the Everglades.
Her parents nixed the idea, only relenting when her older brother Bill volunteered to go with her. “I’m sick of hearing about those trees,” he grumbled. “I’ll go if you promise never to mention them again.”
A long bus ride got them to Miami. Stepping off, Opal felt heat so thick it made her dizzy. She looked at Bill. Sweat coalesced in droplets on his face and neck. “Whoa,” he said.
After a night in an air-conditioned motel room, they set out the next morning in a half-filled tour bus. Opal wore the items she’d bought expressly for the trip – a floppy hat, short-sleeved shirt, khaki shorts, and hiking sandals. Bill wore jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Both carried backpacks with water bottles, snacks, sunscreen, and mosquito repellent – all as of yet untouched.
The driver stopped at a site he promised ideal for viewing bald cypress trees. “This time of year they look awfully pretty, surrounded by water from the summer rains. Awfully pretty, if you can stand . . .” He left the sentence unfinished. “Remember, last bus at 6:00. Don’t miss it,” he warned.
Outside, the sun throttled them, and muggy heat wrapped them in a steamy cocoon. Opal found it hard to breathe and wished, in vain, for a breeze.
A boardwalk stretched across water to a gathering of bald cypress. She sucked in her breath. The trees stood tall and straight, scattered randomly several feet apart. Pleated buttresses fanned into water so still it created a mirror image of each tree. Bouquets of plants clung to the trunks, and birds flitted from branch to branch. Sparse needle-shaped leaves dappled the sunlit water with shadows.
At last . . . Opal dashed along the boardwalk. So engrossed in the setting, she didn’t notice a prickly feeling on her skin until it was way too late. When she looked down, her bare arms and legs were blackened masses of writhing, bloodsucking mosquitoes. With a cry of distress, she jerked around in a frenzied dance, attempting to dislodge the bugs. They only sucked deeper, and others joined the fray. Swatting wildly with both hands, Opal couldn’t even get the backpack off, much less open it, pull out the repellent, and spray it on. “Bill, help!”
But Bill was doing his own crazy dance. The mosquitoes appeared to be swarming an inch thick about their heads, arms, and legs. Opal’s swatting plastered a hundred dead bugs to her skin, but thousands upon thousands remained, mini-vampires zooming in for the bite.
Slipping off her backpack, she jumped into the water. It was waist deep. Taking a breath and closing her eyes, she submerged until only her hat floated on the water. They’re gone . . . But of course she had to surface. When she did, a family came running toward her on the boardwalk.
“Alligators!” the father shouted.
Terrified, Opal struggled to get out. “Where?”
“I don’t see any, but this water is full of them.”
At that moment, a forest ranger strode toward her. “Out of there!” he shouted. “No swimming permitted.”
“I’m not swimming! I’m being attacked by a gazillion mosquitoes.”
The ranger extended his hand and pulled her up onto the boardwalk. He looked at her backpack. “Don’t you have spray?”
“I didn’t have time to get it out.” Everything she said ended an octave higher. The mosquitoes were returning with a vengeance.
The ranger found the repellant in Opal’s pack and sprayed it on her, then turned to Bill and sprayed him, too. The buggy hordes dispersed.
“What were you thinking? Mosquitoes aren’t bad in the winter, but in the summer . . .” His ranger hat wagged. “And this summer we’ve had more rain than usual, which means a bumper crop of bugs.” He looked at her skin. “They also love fresh flesh. Didn’t your tour driver tell you any of this?”
Bill and Opal exchanged perplexed looks.
Back at the motel, Opal and Bill took turns bathing in cold water and slathered their skin with calamine lotion, then slipped under the sheets of their beds so they wouldn’t be tempted to scratch.
“Well,” Bill said, “I guess this has cured you of those damn trees.”
Opal looked at him and smiled. “Not at all. I just plan to get rich so I can come here in the winter.”
