NIGHTTIME IN THE SWAMP

Swamps never really go to sleep; they only wake up.

Campfire in Dragon Run Swamp. Photo by Matt Reilly.

    I was a few paddle strokes into one of Virginia’s own when this thought came to mind. I could feel it.

    The aroma of black swamp water--of cypress and tannin--burned like incense as a fiery sun yielded to the chill of night over Northern Neck farm fields, behind a labyrinth of crowns and tangles.

    Noises grew as their sources disappeared under cover of darkness. Red-winged blackbirds whistled gurgling shrills in staggered succession. A choir of spring peepers, and its baritone bullfrogs, sounded off eternally. Dragon Run, trickling audibly as thick roots and channel tighten its course, rounded out the background.

    A blue heron made its last flaps of daylight across the landscape, breaking limbs, pushing air, and emitting a raspy squall as it found a roost in a cypress crown. Odd screams--from bobcats, foxes, or something else altogether--broke the rhythm, but went unquestioned, as part of the age-old awakening song that commences every day as dusk turns out the lights.

    The horizon blazed orange, and I intended to keep it alive as long as possible, but craved nightfall. With a heavy-footed boot, I carved out a wide circle in the leafy understory—six feet wide, about. With a strong stick, I dug a shallow pit into the dirt--through humus, mud, and veiny roots—just two feet wide, enough to harbor a modest pile of sticks.

    It didn't take long, or much roaming, to ascertain a healthy collection of wood—twigs and branches of increasing thickness. Each size went into its own pile, ready for application. From an undisturbed site, I took handfuls of leaves from the floor—dry ones, untouched by the dampness of the swampy ground. In an airy ball, they represented my last ditch effort to retain light, with the sun gone, light fading quickly.

    A match brought it back, slowly. It caught as a glowing edge on the finger of an oak leaf, smoked, smoldered, and grew to engulf the pile. One by one, I added small twigs, then larger ones. As the flame gained strength, I invested a pile of arm-thick branches, leaning them to rest against each other over the blaze, hopefully to catch, and keep the light on.

    But the swamp is old. The wood that was readily accessible was punk—rotten, flaky. It burned through in minutes, making upkeep a chore. It was a happy chore, though.

    Fire has long been a symbol of civilization, of life—the only thing that sets humans apart from animals. It grants hope and comfort. A fire illuminates more than just the night.

    If ever there was an old-world essence surrounding my activities, it disappeared the moment I bit into an imported mango. Dinner was finished off with a handful of cashews.

    After a final fueling of the fire, I lashed rope to two old oaks, and hung a hammock, from which to become, with the fire, the only thing fading away in the swamp.

    For the time, the fire granted enough light to read by--A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean's masterpiece--and the shadows it cast made the plot all the more dramatic. In the swamp, a river runs through the forest—is the forest--save for a few firm spots where the oak trees grow—a long way from the glacial canyons and bustling logging camps of western Montana. Maclean probably never saw the likes of a southern Virginia cypress swamp, but the drama, and the haunting, he knew is rich here, too.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian.

SCIENCE AND WONDER IN NATURE

If ever I were to sojourn in nature and not wonder, not revel in the mysteries hidden by daylight, overridden by my intrusive presence, I fear I would no longer value my experience there. For it is the integral fondness for such intoxicating musings that I have come to realize to forebode and upkeep a fervent outdoor passion and adventurous spirit.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    However, naturally, the inquisitive, scientific minds of humans, and the wonder that pours from the heart of nature into our own, raises a great contradiction. Science, both as published field work, popular concepts, and the citizen science today so easily conducted, slowly chips away at the unknown, replacing raw wonder, then, with known, factual truths. Scientific tools, like trail cameras, scuba gear, and fishfinders, enable us to explore the natural world beyond our human limitations, comfortably. Mystery dissolves.

    Before the advent of popular science, natural mystery ran deep in local lore and culture. “Monsters” were regular literary characters. Indeed, many place names are colorful results.

    Virginia folk lore recounts the naming of Dragon Run, one of the Chesapeake Bay Area’s more ecologically significant ecosystems, as occurring more than two centuries ago. A man was spending the afternoon fishing from his canoe among the cypress knees of the peaceful coastal swamp, when a winged beast, spewing a devilish, raucous warning, tore through the understory on a chariot, erupting thunder and lightning. Knowing he had seen a dragon—a manifestation of the devil—the man was so startled, it’s recorded, that he paddled furiously to shore and was found dead in his bed the following morning.

    This literary account of an airborne, thunderous chariot brings to mind the emotions associated with an unforeseen flushing of a grouse or bobwhite. My experience with coastal swamp dragons, however, suggests the identity of one of the many heron species native to Virginia’s Coastal Plains, and the rasps they shout through the swamps.

    Nevertheless, the legend persisted, and still does in the toponym. For in that day, the existence of dragons had not yet been discounted.

    One of my own experiences brought about a similar emotion. I arrived to an empty home one late night in mid-February, after dark. Before I could open the front door, a blood-curdling scream erupted from just inside the treeline at the edge of the back yard—the likes of which I would have assigned a vengeful spirit or a witch, had I been born in the 17^th century. After banishing the image of a frightened little girl from my mind, I recognized its source as a bobcat in heat.

    For the same reason that outdoorspeople today relish in the mystery of nature, it was once feared by those who faced its overwhelming uncertainty every day. Thankfully, we have, in this day and age, come into understanding of the natural world, and overcome the fearfulness that led to violent reactions against several apex predators, and the irresponsible utilization of available resources.

    So what has been lost? Largely, personal discovery and the novelty of unanticipated encounters, I might offer.

    To celebrate discovery and ponder this idea, I sacrificed the comfort of indoors for the foreign moods of a nocturnal forest one fall night. A large moon shed light on my experiment. I brought a light, albeit just a backup, in case of an emergency. Nothing else burdened me, as I took a seat against an ancient oak tree in a creekbottom as the last slivers of daylight burned out.

    Watching darkness fall is a dramatic experience. Light recedes from optical interpretation, until a certain level of darkness is achieved, at which point there is no more light to be lost, and the eyes have adjusted to brave the situation. The world is quiet, and then, by imperceptible degrees, it’s not.

    On this particular night, the moon rose early. A few moments passed after base darkness was achieved, and then moonlight began to wax the woods, enlivening a neighborhood of slender shadows.

    Soon almost inaudible clues gave away bulges emerging in the tops of several trees. Moments passed, and they began to descend, as shadows. Many more moments passed, and there was a community of bulges riffling through the leaves adjacent to the creek, occasionally bumping into one another and hissing. Raccoons, I gathered.

    A form I can only attribute to a fox amble by, keeping out of the commotion, tight to the foot of a ridge, apparently unaware of my presence.

    In my eyes, Eden danced in the moonlight.

    And in this, I was romanced. I came to realize that, in nature, the more you come to know, the less, you realize, you really know. Mystery and wonder persist, and only in chasing the desire to know, do we come to appreciate what we have.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian