Florida wildfire sends smoke over Alligator Alley, tests evacuation plans for ‘Alligator Alcatraz’ detention center

Smoke drifted low across Interstate 75 on Florida’s Gulf Coast this week, turning the usually fast-moving expanse of Alligator Alley into a slow, hazy crawl. State troopers used flashing lights to guide drivers through patches of poor visibility as fire crews set defensive burns along the road’s edge to hold back a wildfire chewing through Big Cypress National Preserve.

Roughly 20 miles to the east, behind layers of fencing and concertina wire at the South Florida Detention Facility, hundreds of migrants watched the same yellowed sky and tried to piece together what the smoke meant for them.

The blaze, known as the National Fire, has burned about 35,000 acres since it was discovered Feb. 22 in Big Cypress, a vast expanse of cypress swamps and pinelands about 25 miles east of Naples. Federal officials reported the fire was 38% contained as of March 2 after days of rapid growth fueled by extreme drought, frost-killed vegetation and gusty, dry winds.

The wildfire has already triggered temporary lane closures on I‑75, the highway that bisects the northern edge of the preserve, and sent a smoke plume arcing across much of South Florida. It is also providing the first real-world test of how Florida will protect—or move—detainees at its controversial immigration detention center built in the middle of the preserve.

State emergency officials say the facility, widely known by its nickname “Alligator Alcatraz,” is not in immediate danger.

“The fire is situated 20 miles to the west of the facility and is burning in the opposite direction,” Stephanie Hartman, communications director for the Florida Division of Emergency Management, said in a statement last week.

Hartman said increased humidity had helped “faster fire recovery and containment” and that the state would receive at least 24 hours’ notice from fire managers if an evacuation became necessary.

“We have well-rehearsed evacuation procedures in place,” Hartman said.

Hartman declined to specify how many people are currently housed at the site. Court filings in January indicated about 1,500 detainees were being held there at that time, in a complex designed to hold 3,000 people and expandable to 5,000.

A fast-moving fire in a dry winter

The National Fire began during what federal drought monitors describe as the worst dry spell to hit South Florida in roughly a quarter-century. Months of below-average rainfall left wetlands parched. A hard freeze in late January killed off grasses and shrubs, creating a thick layer of dead fuel. When winds strengthened in late February under a red flag warning, the fire spread quickly.

By Feb. 24, the blaze had grown to about 15,000 acres and remained 0% contained, prompting smoke advisories along I‑75, State Road 29 and U.S. 41. Within a day, it had expanded to more than 25,000 acres. Satellite imagery later showed a broad smoke plume stretching northeast toward Lake Okeechobee and beyond.

The National Park Service, which manages Big Cypress, described the preserve’s vegetation as an “unusually heavy and highly receptive fuel bed” after the drought and frost, contributing to “active fire behavior across the preserve.” Fire crews shifted from traditional suppression to defensive firing operations—intentionally setting low-intensity burns along roadways and natural features to starve the main blaze of fuel and keep it within a network of control lines.

Those efforts have focused on holding the fire within a broad box south of I‑75 and away from major infrastructure. So far, that strategy has largely worked: the fire has blocked some visibility and slowed traffic, but it has not jumped the interstate.

Wildfire meets a remote detention complex

The South Florida Detention Facility sits at the Dade‑Collier Training and Transition Airport, a former Cold War–era airfield carved into the middle of Big Cypress. The location, miles from the nearest town and surrounded by swamp and sawgrass, was a selling point for the project’s backers.

When Florida officials unveiled the plans in 2025, they portrayed the site as a secure, cost-effective way to help the federal government carry out large-scale deportations. Florida Attorney General James Uthmeier said the facility was intended to “support President Trump and Secretary [of Homeland Security Kristi] Noem” in efforts to “fix our illegal immigration problem once and for all.”

Supporters embraced the “Alligator Alcatraz” label, and state promotional materials emphasized the remoteness. One video featured slow-motion footage of snapping alligators, with Uthmeier remarking that “Mother Nature does a lot on the perimeter.”

From the outset, the project drew strong opposition from environmental groups, the Miccosukee Tribe and civil liberties organizations. Critics argued that building a massive detention complex—along with new roads, floodlights and wastewater systems—inside a national preserve threatened endangered species and violated federal environmental review laws. The Miccosukee consider the surrounding wetlands sacred and say the facility was built near villages, ceremonial grounds and burial sites.

In June 2025, Friends of the Everglades, the Center for Biological Diversity and the Miccosukee sued the Department of Homeland Security, ICE, Florida Emergency Management and others, alleging violations of the National Environmental Policy Act and other statutes. A second lawsuit led by the American Civil Liberties Union challenged the conditions and remoteness of the camp, arguing that detainees were effectively cut off from courts and legal services.

U.S. District Judge Kathleen Williams ruled in August that the government had not fully complied with environmental laws. She ordered operations at the facility wound down by the end of October 2025, pointing to acres of new pavement and industrial lighting installed within a preserve slated for ecological restoration.

But in September, the 11th U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals put that order on hold while the case proceeds. The decision allowed Alligator Alcatraz to stay open even as legal battles continue over who is responsible for its environmental and human impacts.

Concerns inside the fence

Long before the National Fire, detainees and advocates raised alarms about living conditions at the camp.

In interviews with reporters, migrants held at the facility have described spoiled food—“a meal once a day and it had maggots,” one said—constant mosquitoes and other insects, and bright lights left on around the clock. Others reported limited access to showers and toilets and said air conditioning and electricity sometimes cut out despite the subtropical heat.

“They’re treating us like rats in an experiment,” one detainee told a reporter last year.

Another said a Bible and religious items were confiscated, and that staff told him “there is no right to religion.”

State officials have disputed those accounts. A spokesperson for the Division of Emergency Management said at the time that “bugs and environmental factors are minimized,” that plumbing is operational, and that visitation and religious practice are allowed under facility rules.

The arrival of a major wildfire nearby has added a new layer of concern for advocates. Amnesty International and other groups campaigning to shut down Alligator Alcatraz say the fire highlights the risks of keeping thousands of people in a low-lying landscape that can swing from flooding and mosquitoes in wet years to drought, smoke and fire in dry ones.

Hartman said contingency plans include relocating detainees if needed, but Florida has not publicly released a detailed, facility-specific wildfire evacuation plan. Advocacy groups note that the same roads already affected by smoke—including I‑75—would be the main routes for any large-scale movement of detainees by bus or convoy.

“Moving 1,500 or more people from a remote airfield in the middle of a wildfire zone is not the same as evacuating a neighborhood,” said one lawyer involved in the ongoing litigation, who spoke on condition of anonymity because of the pending case.

Fire-adapted, but under strain

Wildfire is not new to Big Cypress. The preserve and the broader Everglades are what ecologists call fire-adapted ecosystems. Pine forests dominated by South Florida slash pine and saw palmetto and open prairies rely on frequent, low- to moderate-intensity fires to keep hardwood trees from taking over and to recycle nutrients.

For decades, the National Park Service has used prescribed burning across tens of thousands of acres in Big Cypress to mimic those natural cycles and reduce the risk of severe wildfires near roads and structures. In some habitats, natural fire historically returned every few years.

This winter, however, park officials suspended prescribed burns as drought deepened. When the National Fire ignited, managers had to pivot quickly to defensive tactics, using fire to fight fire under less-than-ideal conditions.

What is different now, scientists and land managers say, is the combination of climate pressures and new development. Prolonged drought, more intense swings between wet and dry periods and land-use changes have all made parts of the Everglades more combustible. The presence of new infrastructure—including I‑75, oil and gas exploration pads, and the detention complex at Dade‑Collier—gives firefighters more to protect when fires do start.

An unresolved test

As of early March, the National Fire’s front lines remain many miles from the South Florida Detention Facility, and fire officials say prevailing conditions continue to push flames away from the camp. Air quality there is not being independently monitored or publicly reported, and the state insists it can move detainees quickly if the outlook changes.

For now, daily life at Alligator Alcatraz continues much as before, according to lawyers and family members who have been in contact with detainees. The main reminder of the fire is the smell of smoke and a hazy horizon.

How the state and federal government would respond if a future blaze moved closer—or arrived with less warning—remains largely theoretical. The legal fights over whether the facility should exist inside a national preserve at all are still unfolding in federal court.

On recent evenings along Alligator Alley, the glow of the fire has been visible beyond the sawgrass as traffic creeps past signs warning of low visibility. Beyond the road and miles of swamp, the floodlights at Dade‑Collier still cut a bright rectangle out of the darkness. Between the two, the landscape that once was promoted as a natural barrier is also the terrain officials now must navigate to keep people safe when it burns.