Stunning photos of the endangered Everglades

So I've had the great privilege

of traveling to some incredible places,

photographing these distant landscapes
and remote cultures

all over the world.

I love my job.

People think it's this
string of epiphanies

and sunrises and rainbows.

When in reality,

it looks more something like this.

(Laughter)

This is my office.

We can't afford the fanciest places
to stay at night,

so we tend to sleep a lot outdoors,

as long as we can stay dry,

that's a bonus.

We also can't afford
the fanciest restaurants.

So we tend to eat whatever's on
the local menu.

And if you're in the Ecuadorian Paramo,

you're going to eat a large rodent
called a Cuy.

(Laughter)

What makes our experiences, perhaps,

a little bit different
and a little more unique

than that of the average person

is that we have this gnawing thing
in the back of our mind

that even in our darkest moments,
in those times of despair,

we think, "Hey, there might be
an image to be made here,

there might be a story to be told."

And why is storytelling important?

It helps us connect with our cultural
and our natural heritage.

And in the Southeast,

there's an alarming disconnect
between the public

and the natural areas that allow
us to be her win the first place.

We're visual creatures,

so we use what we see
to teach us what we know.

Now the majority of us
aren't going to go

way down into a swamp.

So how can we expect those same people
to advocate

on behalf of their protection?

We can't.

My job, then, is to use photography
as a communication tool

to help bridge the gap
between the science and the aesthetics.

To get people talking,

to get them thinking,

and to hopefully, ultimately,

to get them caring.

I started doing this 15 years ago
right here in Gainesville,

right here in my backyard,

and I fell in love with
adventure and discovery.

Going to explore
all these different places

that were just minutes from
my front door step.

There's a lot of
beautiful places to find.

Despite all these years that have passed,

I still see the world through the eyes
of a child

and I try to incorporate
that sense of wonderment

and that sense of curiosity
into my photography

as often as I can.

And we're pretty lucky
because here in the South,

we're still blessed with a relatively
blank canvas

that we can fill with
the most fanciful adventures

and incredible experiences.

It's just a matter of how far
our imagination will take us.

See, a lot of people look at this
and think,

"Oh wow, that's a pretty tree."

But I don't just see a tree,

I look at this and I see opportunity.

I see an entire weekend.

Because when I was a kid,

these were the types of images
that got me off the sofa

and dared me to explore,

dared me to go find the woods

and put my head underwater
and see what we have.

And folks, I've been photographing
all over the world

and I promise you,

what we we have here,

what we have in the Sunshine State

rivals anything else that I've seen.

But yet out tourism industry is busy
promoting all the wrong things.

Before most kids are 12,

they'll have been to Disney World

more times than they've been
in a canoe

or camping under a starry sky.

And I have nothing against Disney
or Mickey,

I used to go there, too.

But they're missing out on those
fundamental connections

that create a real sense of pride
and ownership

for the place that they call home.

And this is compounded by the issue
that the landscapes

that define our natural heritage
and fuel our aquifer for our drinking water

have been deemed as scary and dangerous
and spooky.

See, when our ancestors first came here,

they warned, "Stay out of these areas,
they're haunted.

They're full of evil spirits and ghosts."

I don't know where they came up
with that idea.

But it's actually led to
a very real disconnect,

a very real negative mentality

that has kept the public disinterested,
silent,

and ultimately, our environment at risk.

We're a state that's surrounded
and defined by water.

And for centuries,

swamps and wetlands have been regarded

as these obstacles to overcome.

And so we've treated them as
second-class ecosystems

because they have
very little monetary value

and of course, they're known
to harbor alligators and snakes,

which I'll admit, these aren't
the most cuddly of ambassadors.

(Laughter)

So it became assumed, then, that
the only good swamp

was a drained swamp.

And in fact, draining a swamp
to make way

for agriculture and development

was considered the very essence
of conservation

not too long ago.

And now we're backpedaling,

because the more we come to learn
about these silent landscapes,

the more secrets we're starting
to unlock

about interspecies relationships

and the connectivity of habitats,
watersheds and flyways.

Take this bird, for example:

This is the prothonotary warbler.

I love this bird because
it's a swamp bird,

through and through,
a swamp bird.

They nest and they mate and they breed
in these old grown (?) swamps

in these flooded forests.

And so after the spring,
after they raise their young,

they then fly thousand of miles
over the Gulf of Mexico

into Central and South America.

And then after the winter,
spring rolls around

and they come back.

They fly thousands of miles
over the Gulf of Mexico.

And where do they go,
where do they land?

Right back in the same tree.

That's nuts.

This is a bird the size
of a tennis ball.

I mean, that's crazy.

I used a GPS to get here today,

and this is my hometown.

(Laughter)

That's crazy.

So what happens, then, when this bird
flies over the Gulf of Mexico

and into Central America for the winter

and then the spring rolls around
and it flies back,

and it comes back to this:

A freshly salted golf course.

This is a narrative that's
all too commonly unraveling

here in this state.

And this is a natural process
that's occurred for thousands of years

and we're just now learning about it.

So you can imagine all else we have
to learn about these landscapes

if we just preserve them first.

And despite all this rich life
that abounds in these swamps,

they still have a bad name.

Many people feel uncomfortable
with the idea of wadding

in Florida's black water.

I can understand that.

But what I loved about growing up
in the Sunshine State

that for so many of us,

we leave with this latent,
but very palpable fear

that when we put our toes into the water,

there might be something much more ancient

and much more adapted than we are.

Knowing that you're not top dog
is a welcomed discomfort, I think.

How often in this modern and urban
and digital age

do you actually have the chance
to feel vulnerable,

or consider that the world may not
have been made for just us?

So for the last decade,

I began seeking out these areas
where the concrete yields to forest

and the pines turn to cyprus

and I viewed all these mosquitos
and reptiles,

all these discomforts,

as affirmations that I'd found
true wilderness,

and I embraced them wholly.

Now as a conservation photographer
obsessed with black water,

it's only fitting that I'd eventually
end up

in the most famous swamp of all:

The Evergaldes.

Growing up here, in North-Central Florida,

I'd always had these enchanted names,

places like Loxahatchee and Fakahatchee,

Corkscrew and Big Cypress.

I started what turned
into a five-year project

to hopefully reintroduce the Everglades
in a new light,

in a more inspired light.

But I knew this was going to be
a tall order

because here you have an area

that's roughly a third the size
the state of Florida, it huge.

And when I saw Everglades,

people are like, "Yeah, yeah, yeah
the national park."

But the Everglades is not just a park,

it's a watershed, an entire watershed.

It's started with the Kissimmee
chain of lakes in the north

and then as the rains would fall
during the summer, these downpours,

it would flow into Lake Okeechobee,

and Lake Okeechobee would fill up
and it would overflow its banks

and spill southward, every slowly
with the topography

and get into the river of grass,
the Sawgrass Prairies,

before moving into the Cypress Slews

until going further south into
the Mangrove swamps

until finally, finally reaching
Florida Bay,

the emerald gem of the Everglades,

the great estuary,

850 square-mile estuary.

So sure, the national park is
the southern end of this system,

but all the things that make it unique
are these inputs that come in,

the fresh water that starts
100 miles north.

So no (longer) are these political
or invisible boundaries

protect the park from polluted water
or insufficient water.

And unfortunately, that's precisely
what we've done.

Over the last 60 years,

we have drained, we have dammed,
we have dredged the Everglades

to where now only one third
that used to reach the bay

now reaches the bay today.

So this story is not all
sunshine and rainbows, unfortunately.

For better or for worse,

the story of the Everglades
is intrinsically tied

to the peaks and the valleys
of mankind's relationship

with the natural world.

But I'll show you these beautiful pictures

because it gets you on-board.

And while I have your attention,

I can tell you the real story,

is that we're taking this,

and we're trading it for this,

at an alarming rate.

But what's lost on so many people

is the sheer scale of what
we're discussing.

Because the Everglades is not
just responsible

for the drinking water
for 7 million Floridians,

today is also provide agricultural fields

for the year-round tomatoes
and oranges for over 300 million Americans.

And it's that same seasonal pulse
of water in the summer

that built the river of grass
6,000 years ago.

Ironically, today, is also responsible
for the over half a million acres

of endless river of sugarcane.

These same fields that are responsible
for dumping

exceedingly high levels of fertilizers
into the watershed

are changing the system.

But in order for you guys not just
to understand how this system works,

but to also get personally connected to it,

I decided to break the story
down

into several different narratives,

and I wanted that story to start
in Lake Okeechobee,

the beating heart of
the Everglade system.

And to do that,

I picked an ambassador,

an iconic speices.

Now, this is the Everglade Snail Kite.

It's a great bird,

and they used to nest in the thousands,

thousands,

in the northern Everglades.

And then they've gone down
to about 400 nesting pairs today.

And why is that?

Well, it's because they eat
one source of food,

an Apple Snail,

about the size of a ping-pong ball,
an aquatic gastropod.

So as we starting damming up
the Everglades,

as we started diking
Lake Okeechobee

and draining the wetlands,

we lost the habitat for the snail,

and thus, the populate of the Kites declined.

And so, I wanted a photo that would
not only communicate this relationship

between wetland, snail and bird,

but I also wanted a photo
that would communicate

how incredible this relationship was

and how very important it is

that they've come to depend on each other,

this healthy wetland and this bird.

And to do that, I brainstormed
this idea,

I started sketching out these plans
to make a photo.

And I sent it to a wildlife biologist
down in Okeechobee --

and this is an endangered bird,

so it takes special permission to do.

And so I built this submerged platform
that would hold snails

just right under the water.

And I spent months planning
this crazy idea.

And I took this platform down to
Lake Okeechobee

and I spent a week in the water,

waiting waist-deep,

9-hour shifts from dawn until dusk,

waiting to get one image

that I thought might communicate this.

And here's the day that I finally worked:

Video:

"After setting up the platform,

I look off and I see a Kite coming
off of the cattails,

and I see him flying and searching.

And he gets right over the trap,

and I see that he's seen it,

and he goes straight for the trap.

And in that moment, all those months
of planning, waiting,

all the sunburn, mosquito bites,

they're all worth it.

Oh my gosh,

I can't believe it."

You can believe how excited I was
when that happened.

But what the idea was is that for someone
whose never seen this bird

and has no reason to care about it,

the idea is that these photos,
these new perspectives

will help shed a little new light on

just one species that makes
this watershed so incredible,

so valuable, so important.

Now, I know I can't come
here to Gainesville

and talk to you about animals
and the Everglades

without talking to you about gators.

I love gators, I grew up
loving gators.

My parents always said that I had
an unhealthy relationship with gators.

But what I like about them is that

they're like the fresh water equivalent
to sharks.

They're feared, they're hated,

and they're tragically misunderstood.

Because these are a unique species,

they're not just apex predators.

In the Everglades,

they are the very architects
of the Everglades,

because as the water drops down
in the winter

during the dry season,

they start excavating these holes
called gator holes.

And they do this because
as the water drops down,

they'll be able to stay wet and they'll
be able to forge.

And now this isn't just affecting them,

other animals also depend
on this relationship,

so they become a keystone species
as well.

So how do you make an apex predator,
and ancient reptile,

at once look like it dominates the system,
but at the same time,

look vulnerable?

Well, you wave into a pit
of about 120 of them,

then you hope that you've made
the right decision.

(Laughter)

I still have all my fingers, it's cool.

But I understand,

I know I'm not going to rally you guys,

I'm not going to rally the troops to,
"Save the Everglades for the gators!"

It won't happen because
they're so ubiquitous,

we see them now,

they're one of the great
conservation success stories

of the US.

But there is one species in the Everglades

that no matter who you are,

you can't help but love to,

and that's Roseate Spoonbill.

These birds are great,

but they've had a really tough time
in the Everglades

because they started out with thousands
of nesting pairs in Florida Bay.

And at the turn of the 20th century,

they got down to two -- two nesting pairs.

And why?

That's because women thought they
looked better on their hats

then they did flying in the sky.

Then we banned the plume trade,
we banned it,

and their numbers started rebounding.

And as their numbers started rebounding,

scientists began to pay attention,

they started studying these birds.

They started studying these birds.

And what they found out is that
these birds behavior

is intrinsically tied to the annual draw-down
cycle of water in the Evergaldes,

the thing that defines
the Everglades watershed.

What they found out is that
these birds started nesting in the winter

as the water drew down

because they're tactile feeders,

they have to touch whatever they eat.

And so they wait for these
concentrated pools of fish

to be able to feed enough
to feed their young.

So these birds became
the very icon of the Everglades,

an indicator species of the overall health
of the system.

And just as their numbers
were rebounding in the mid-20th century,

shooting up to 900, 1,000,
11,000, 12,000.

Just as that started happening,

we started draining
the southern Everglades.

And we stopped two thirds of that water
moving south.

And it had drastic consequences.

And just as those numbers
started reaching their peak,

unfortunately, today,
the real spoonbill story,

the real photo of what it looks like
is more something like this.

Now we're down to less than
70 nesting pairs in Florida today

because we've disrupted
the system so much.

So all these different organizations
are shouting, they're screaming,

"The Everglades are fragile,
they're frágile."

It is not.

It is resilient.

Because despite all we've taken,

despite all we've done and we've drained
and we've dammed

and we've dredged it,

they're still here,
waiting to be put back together.

And this is what I've loved about
South Florida is that

in one place, you have this
unstoppable force of mankind

meeting the immovable object
of tropical nature.

And it's at this new frontier
that we're forced with this new appraisal:

What is wilderness worth?

What is the value of biodiversity
or our drinking water?

And fortunately, after decades of debate,

we're finally starting to act
on those questions.

We're slowly undertaking these projects

to bring more freshwater
back to the bay.

But it's up to us as citizens,
as residents, as stewards

to hold our elected officials
to their promises.

What can you do to help?

It's so easy.

Just go outside.

Get out there.

Take your friends out,
take your kids out,

take your family out.

Hire a fishing guide.

Show the state that protecting wilderness

not only makes ecological sense,
but economic sense as well.

It's a lot of fun,
just do it -- put your feet in the water.

The swamp will change you, I promise.

Over the years, we've been so generous

with these other landscapes
around the country,

cloaking them with this American pride,

places that we now consider to define us:

The Grand Canyon, Yosemite, Yellowstone.

And we use these parks
and these natural areas

as these beacons and these
cultural compasses.

And sadly, the Everglades is very commonly

left out of that conversation.

But I believe it's every bit as iconic
and emblematic

of who we are as a country

as any of these other wildernesses.

It's just a different kind of wild.

But I'm encouraged,

because maybe we're finally
starting to come around.

Because what was once deemed
this swampy wasteland,

today is a World Heritage site.

It's a wetland of
international importance.

And we've come a long way
in the last 60 years.