A Roaring Lion, Hungry Tigers and Me

So I do what any stylish zoo-bound six-year-old would do: slip into my scuffed sneakers and cargo pants (the ones with the grass stains on the knees), and load up my backpack with provisions: a sweatshirt against the cool night air, chocolate chip cookies, water and an apple.

The zoo is closed for the night, but clearly I’m expected. A smiling woman unlocks the front door and ushers me through the turnstile and onto the path to Safari Canyon Theater, the setting for daily wild animal presentations. With water bottle in one hand and notebook in the other, I feel a bit like Safari Jane herself. Real name: Nancy Jane Tetzlaff; she and her late husband Lawrence Tetzlaff founded the zoological garden attraction 38 years ago. Jungle Larry, Safari Jane and Cargo Pants Karen. I’m psyched.

Instantly I find myself staring into 50 pairs of eyes, but they’re anything but wild. It seems I’ve landed smack in the middle of a garden party for patrons, board members and friends of the zoo. Spit-polished gentlemen in Tommy Bahama shirts and ladies in florals and linens are strolling the lush botanical gardens and chatting over a buffet piled high with fresh fruits and imported cheeses that complement the fine African wines.

Hostess Sally Woliver, zoo consultant and an icon among Southwest Florida conservation leaders, welcomes me as graciously as if I hadn’t dressed for dinner with the hyenas. Other well-known movers, shakers and social register types are mingling with Tim and David Tetzlaff, sons of Jungle Larry and Safari Jane.

It’s a big night, Sally says. They’re celebrating the accreditation of the zoo—a big deal because out of 2,800 U.S. Department of Agriculture-licensed wildlife exhibitors, only 216 are accredited zoos. They’re also celebrating the successful campaign to save the park from extinction, its new nonprofit status and—thanks in great part to the guests now assembled—its full recovery from the wrath of Hurricane Wilma. Safari Jane herself is here. From the top row of bleachers in Safari Canyon, she’ll listen proudly as David, now executive director of the zoo, gives a sneak preview of the new master plan, which will put the Naples Zoo on the cutting edge of zoos worldwide.

I accept a name tag, planning to write my name very, very small, only it’s already printed on there, in screaming 48-point type. Since there’s no turning back now, I ditch my water bottle for a wine glass and turn my attention to the big guy with the bigger voice. "Ladies and gentlemen," Doug Rickenbach booms out, "step this way. The next sneak preview of our newest habitat, Leopard Rock, is about to begin."

8 p.m. Party’s Over

Night watchman Jeff Williams has finished his CIA-style sweep to secure the zoo and flush out potential stowaways. All’s clear. Glamorous? Well, right now he’s mopping up random, sticky glops of melted ice cream.

Tim Tetzlaff is off social duty now. I happily notice he’s dressed for the sleepover: deck shoes, zoo shirt and yes, cargo pants. Soon it will be just the three of us: Tim, Jeff and me—oh, and 240 wild animals—locked up tight for the night. A six-year-old’s fantasy.

Before clocking out, Doug produces two Marine-pro infrared night vision scopes, just like in the movies. 650 feet at 5x magnification. We’re going on a night stalk!

9 p.m. It’s Dark

... Really, really dark. Sometimes Tim and I follow the paved path; sometimes we pick our way along a dirt road that’s not on the zoo map. Through the scope everything is in surreal black and white like a vintage film. Things rustle. Something squeaks—maybe a small rodent or snake that chose an unfortunate shortcut home. Trees and bushes make grotesque, spooky-movie shapes. Then comes the roar. So deep and so close it vibrates through the soles of my feet. Tsavo the African lion knows an outsider—and possibly dinner—is in his back yard.

Tim senses activity. I point my scope through a wire fence and scan the horizon. Nothing. "Look down," says Tim, so I zoom in near my feet, until a pair of white eyes fills the entire lens, fixed directly on me. Red river hog. Alpha male for sure. Not smiling.

Down the path, another habitat. Lots of shadowy movement within arm’s reach. Porcupines! Unlike the adorable little spike-balls I recall from children’s books, these giant rodents are 60-pound watermelons on steroids with, I later learn, up to 30,000 saber-sharp quills. They’re pacing as I lean with my scope over their wall. Not smiling either. Clearly waiting for me to fall in.

Since porcupines are nocturnal, it’s rare to see them this close during zoo hours.

10 p.m.

I can’t tear myself away from Bamboo Corner, where some kangaroos and adorable young wallabies are romping around in the cool of night. Tim patiently waits.

Loving this scope! The zebras seem a bit spooked; the wild dogs are definitely on alert. Tsavo is pacing back and forth, cold eyes on me. The tigers are less blatant about it. Of them all, the hyenas look the scariest.

Midnight

There’s new howling now, but it’s outside the park. Emergency vehicle sirens seem really close.

1 a.m.

Tim and I take a break, and my six-year-old self has fun playing with the toys in the dimly lit gift shop. A percentage of stuffed animal sales go to wildlife conservation causes. Tim talks about the endangered wildlife in Madagascar, which the Naples Zoo helps support, especially the young fossa (pronounced foo-sa and related to the mongoose), which is on its way to the zoo. The Naples Zoo is involved in breeding and protection programs to maintain purebred species of endangered animals. Tim and David are recognized in conservation and preservation circles as visionary leaders in the worldwide paradigm shift in the zoo concept. For example, the zoo still has its African parrots and macaws, Tim says, but they don’t ride bicycles and do silly tricks anymore.

"These birds are majestic creatures, and they shouldn’t be used that way. That was another generation," he says, "where going to a zoo meant throwing peanuts at bears. We’re all about preserving the species, and sharing the wonderment of the natural world."

2 a.m.

Watchman Jeff says the animals have settled in for the night. I’m sleepy too, and those benches don’t look too comfy. My inner six-year-old wants to count gator eyes glowing in the dark, but my outer grownup yearns to slip away to a real bed, just for a couple of hours. Alas, I have failed Sleepover 101.

6 a.m.

In the half-light of dawn, Jeff makes final rounds and writes his nightly report. No news is good news, and this is typical for the zoo. The news just outside last night wasn’t so good. A traffic fatality. One car on the road or 240 wild animals. I was safer in the zoo.

7:45 a.m.

8 a.m. David

David Tetzlaff strides through the back gate, but he doesn’t see me. He’s on the phone with the Florida Fish & Wildlife Commission, reporting a dead coyote on a busy commercial street. Rare, so close to civilization, but not so rare as the bear he had to lasso in a back yard near Coastland Mall a couple of years ago.

Of all his responsibilities as zoo director—fundraising, public relations, business management, species survival programs and long-range planning, his passion is still the big cats and his Planet Predator shows. When he’s too long away from his beloved cats, David says, he gets cranky. Enroute to my private viewing of the lions’ and tigers’ breakfast ritual, we pass the habitat of Shasta, a sleek black leopard in the show. Shasta gets very agitated and follows us the length of the cage. "Oh, see, she’s jealous of me with you," I exclaim. "No, trust me," David deadpans. "She wants to eat you." Moving on.

8:30 a.m. Tarah

I’m trying to focus through two layers of chain link, and now I’m the cranky one.

Now David has evil in his eye. "You want to go for one layer? Come back tomorrow, and I’ll see you in." He’s testing me, and I’ll eat a bloody candy cane before I back down.

8:45 a.m. Dr. Jan

Dr. Jan Abernathie, resident botanist off and on for half a century, drives in through the back gate. Busy day ahead: Someone has offered a large euphorbia (like a cactus) if the zoo will dig it up and haul it away. Recently a nursery closed and donated 10 trailer-loads of plants he must get into the ground, and the bananas need fertilizer. "Plenty of that, compliments of the zebras and cougars," he calls, waving, as his van disappears down a back road.

9 a.m. Monkey Business

David is having monkey withdrawal—too much time behind a desk—so we commandeer a creaky old service boat and putter around the islands inhabited by primates. Breakfast is still being served. A young African colobus monkey drops its corn on the cob from atop his tree. Mama (his or someone else’s) retrieves it. What a gorgeous day! David rolls his eyes at the lecture from his staff for taking out the old boat.

9:30 a.m. Doors Open

People are already waiting. Observation: on the excitement scale it’s kids, six; grownups, 10.

10 a.m. Tsavo

… Lazing on his sunny platform looking all sweet and innocent. A plane flies low overhead, and he tracks it with open-mouthed curiosity like a kid watching lions at the zoo. Huh. He’s calculating the lunging distance.

10:30 a.m.-3:30 p.m. Showtime

Visitors are consulting their agendas for today’s shows: "Meet the Keeper" at the leopard, kangaroo and tiger habitats, dramatic serpent and big cat shows in the Safari Canyon Theater, and for real chills, the gators will devour their lunch at 1 p.m. in Alligator Bay.

11:45 a.m. Seventh Graders Descend

A man is sitting at a folding table, stacked with notebooks and serious looking scientific instruments, in the shade of a West African rubber tree. Nothing was there an hour ago. Turns out that’s Duane Waber, the Collier County Schools math and science specialist, awaiting the arrival of a dozen or so seventh graders and teachers from Golden Gate Middle School. It’s a dry run for next year’s countywide middle school program, which will bring all seventh-grade science students to the zoo as part of their curriculum. How cool is that?

3 p.m. Dr. Jeff

8 a.m.

Back for a second pass at the tiger feeding frenzy. This time through a single layer of chain link fence. There’s about three feet between me and the bloody feast, and six inches between my lens and a massive pair of jaws. Tarah places the food, locks herself out, and opens the gate for Dua. David stands beside me, every muscle taut, sensing the animal’s very thoughts. I know he’s prepared to lunge in a nanosecond. The tiger knows it too. He chooses his breakfast over my camera. I focus and shoot.

8:04 a.m.