Shark Valley in Everglades National Park doesn't have sharks and isn't a valley, but it is an ideal place to spot Florida's favorite reptile.

A friend recently asked (no doubt expecting to lead a tour of visiting relatives): Where is the best place to see alligators?

Following the full moon of Dec. 19, I now have the answer - the Shark Valley tramway in Everglades National Park.

Located on Tamiami Trail about 18 miles west of the Dade Corners intersection (Tamiami Trail & Krome Avenue), Shark Valley has neither sharks nor is it a valley. This section of Everglades National Park features a flat, paved 15-mile loop road through the Shark River Slough, a sawgrass prairie that is home to untold numbers of gators.

To view the abundant reptiles, you can ride the tram, a bike, or walk.

Last month, I joined a group of six from the Sierra Club Broward chapter in bicycling the entire loop under the full moon. The action got underway the moment I arrived in late afternoon.

After paying my $4 entrance fee and bicycling about 10 feet into the park, I came upon a 9-footer resting beside the road.

"Hello!'' I greeted the gator idiotically, and stopped my bike to snap a photo. But the seemingly languid reptile acted as if I were paparazzi and lumbered into the canal next to the road before I could get off a shot.

"Booger!'' I said mean-spiritedly, and continued into the park.

Fortunately, just a short distance ahead sat another, slightly smaller gator. This one posed cooperatively as a group of Japanese tourists took turns photographing it. It held still for me, too, and even flexed its mighty jaws in a wide yawn. I got its picture and rode away before it could demand a talent fee.

Just before dark, the rest of the group arrived and we set out on the loop road on bicycles, passing a resting alligator about every quarter-mile or so. The sight became so commonplace that, after the first one or two, no one bothered to take photos.

On both sides of the road, a variety of birds flapped, called and roosted. We saw great blue and white heron, anhingas, purple gallinules and a half-dozen endangered wood stork.

About an hour into the ride, group leader Michelle Kelleher spotted the last tram of the day heading toward us, and bade us to stop on the roadside until it had passed.

As we waited, I noticed a commotion about a quarter mile up the road between us and the slowly-moving tram. All I could make out was the shape of something huge and dark thrashing across the narrow road. If it were an alligator, it certainly moved a lot quicker than the ones we had seen so far. The tram, driven by a park ranger and half-full of tourists, went by, apparently not having seen whatever had happened on the road.

We continued riding, and soon came upon the torn remains of what once must have been an anhinga. One dark wing lay beside the road, with the other on the opposite side. Next to the canal sat a very satisfied-looking, 8-foot gator.

"Ah, it was you!'' I said triumphantly.

By now, speaking to alligators was becoming accepted practice, and the Sierra Club members ignored me. I got off my bike to snap a photo of the bird-eating reptile. It never moved.

It was dark when we arrived at the spiraling, 65-foot observation tower that marks the halfway point in the loop road. But from the top, we could make out four large gators and a white-dotted marsh. A bicyclist who had arrived there before dark told us the white dots consisted entirely of resting wood storks. When you see that many at one time, it's hard to believe it is an endangered species; nevertheless, it's true.

The remainder of our bike ride was uneventful and chilly. The moon did not rise till after 8:30 p.m., and it failed to illuminate much of the open marsh on either side of the road.

So we really didn't see much on our return to the park entrance.

Occasionally, there was the squawk of birds, but no roaring of alligators. I guess they save their voices for mating season in spring.