Scouting the swamp for signs of a ghost orchid

IN THE FAKAHATCHEE STRAND, Fla. - We're barely out of our cars before the chorus starts: "I just want to see a ghost orchid!"

The ghost orchid is among the world's rarest flowers, the star of the popular book The Orchid Thief and the movie Adaptation and is the biggest lure to the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park in southwest Florida.

The preserve has been the scene of numerous orchid thefts, but park biologist Mike Owen promises to lead our group of orchid enthusiasts within arm's reach of the delicate plants during a four-hour swamp walk.

There are 315 ghost orchids scattered across the Fakahatchee's 85,000 acres, according to Owen. The odds of spotting one aren't good. They don't bloom until summer and, without their white flowers, they're likely to blend into the swamp's lush shades of green and brown.

Nevertheless, we line up behind Owen and set off down a dirt trail.

The park lies about 70 miles west of Miami, across the Miccosukee Indian Reservation and a five-mile stretch of road marked with "panther crossing" signs and a roadside stand called the "Skunk Ape Research Headquarters," the local equivalent of Big Foot hunters. The straight shot across the Tamiami Trail only seems flat; the road is gradually sloping toward sea level.

The Fakahatchee is part of the Everglades ecosystem that streams down from Lake Okeechobee to the Florida Keys. It's the largest strand swamp in the world: a 19-mile long channel cut 2- to 3-feet deep into a limestone bed for more than 5,000 years.

Low streams called sloughs flow throughout the strand, and Owen is leading us into one recently filled with rainwater.

He raps on two culverts that serve as steps down from the trail. He says he's trying to scare out any alligators or snakes that might be hiding inside. Nothing slithers out, though, so we wade into the cool water.

Owen takes stock of the bromeliads around us. He tallies the various plant and animal species we encounter during the walk, penciling the names into a waterproof notebook. His notes document the locations and conditions of endangered plants.

He keeps the pace slow as we trudge through the water, trying to feel out obstacles with our feet.

We spot our first orchid just a few minutes later. The flat green roots of a ribbon orchid wind around a tree limb above our heads.

Soon a palmful of petals sprouting off a tree branch catch the eye of one woman. "It's got a beautiful yellow blossom!" she says.

She's found a blooming orchid that Owen calls the "roller-coaster orchid."

"It's really called the 'dingy-'" -- he exaggerates spitting into the water -- "'flowered star orchid'," he says. "Don't call our flowers 'dingy'!"

He freely renames the plants we see if he doesn't like their common names. A university botanist once told him that common plant names are worthless, so Owen sees no reason to keep calling an orchid dingy if it isn't. He calls the dingy-flowered star orchid a roller-coaster orchid because its curled leaves remind him of an amusement park ride.

He's trusting our group not to come back and swipe the plants we see. Past visitors have not been so courteous. Owen temporarily stopped taking tours into this particular slough after several orchids went missing.

He's overjoyed to find tiny helmet and night-scented orchids growing in a blank patch in the moss on a tree -- the scar of an orchid theft.

Their remote habitat and fear of the unknown protect the orchids that remain from all but the most determined thieves, Owen says.

"People are afraid of swamps. People are afraid of venomous snakes, alligators and water," he says. "They also don't like heat, humidity and mosquitoes. That's what keeps them from taking more."

After more than three hours in the water, we've seen 10 different orchid species on this walk -- but not the ghost orchid. The closer we get back to the trail, the more wistfully we peer at the trees.

Owen's hands suddenly go up in victory. A thin green ribbon with white dash lines appears to be tied around the rough bark of a pond apple tree.

It's a young ghost orchid.

We splash through knee-deep water for a look, no longer worried about hazards hidden by the murky, muddy rainwater. All eyes are on this rarity.

Owen is encouraged to find three active growing tips and deems the plant generally healthy. He's been watching it since 2003, and guesses it could be another decade before it blooms -- if no one steals it.

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