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.
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