Shipping from the Gulf Coast: The Honey Island Swamp

FOR ME, EXPLORATION HAS ALWAYS STARTED AT THE END OF CIVILIZATION. In most places, one must retreat from the neon signs and golden arches and step out of the concrete jungle altogether to find nature. Generally, if I have even a bar of reception on my cell phone, I haven’t gotten far enough away. Most populated places in the United States try to integrate wildlife into civilization in the form of “green spaces” – manicured patches of grass and picnic benches that are supposed to convey a sense of nature and openness. In the Deep South, it’s the other way around. Here, small towns carve a sense of civilization into the vast and untamed wilderness. Even the largest suburbs seem to struggle to keep a creeping wilderness at bay.

Slidell is a suburb of New Orleans that sits under a canopy of loblolly pine on the northeast shore of Lake Pontchartrain. It’s an area saturated with rivers and swamps, where little gravel roads lead to neighborhoods of stilt houses deep in the swamps where you wouldn’t think neighborhoods could exist. It’s such low-lying lowland (3 feet, to be exact) that the term “mainland” doesn’t really apply. And unlike most places in the country, here one can be deep in nature and a stone’s throw from a Waffle House at the same time.

Slidell is bounded on the east by the West Pearl River, which flows from its headwaters in the Nanih Waiya Indian Mounds area of ​​central Mississippi and empties into Rigolets and eventually the Gulf of Mexico. The Pearl is home to the Honey Island Swamp, one of the most beautiful and least disturbed river swamps in the United States. It takes its name from tales of abundant wild honey made by rogue bees that had escaped their beekeepers.

DRIVEN THROUGH THE SWAMP

We had not made hotel reservations. There was nothing on the itinerary. We had no other plan than to drive along lonely roads and explore forgotten corners of this subtropical wonderland. We drove slowly down Highway 190, trying to take it all in. I soon realized that graves were not the only objects stolen by Katrina’s flood waters. A large tugboat appeared just off the road, miles from any open sea. I went outside to take some photos and was instantly attacked by swarms of what looked like large flying ants. These little monsters came in mating pairs, and I was surprised that they took time out of their rite of procreation to sink their teeth (or fangs, or pokers, or whatever) into my forearms. My only option was to run until I was close enough to take a couple of photos and then go back to the car. It’s amazing how fast an out-of-shape thirty-year-old can run when he’s chased by hordes of two-headed devilish insects.

A few miles and several more beached boats later, we stopped at a clam lot across from a swamp museum on the shores of the Pearl. A wooden walkway led to the bank where we met two swamp tour captains, both with thick Cajun accents. It was early afternoon and both captains had finished their runs for the day. The swamp tour business was good before Katrina, I was told. Honey Island Swamp guides are now lucky enough to have a full boat a day, and it would have been a waste of gas and time to take just us on a tour after hours. As we turned to walk back to our car, another tour boat floated by and offered to take us aboard.

Oh the swamp. Something I have seen in many movies but never experienced for myself. It was incredibly quiet for an area so rich in wildlife. The setting was taken directly from the boat launch scene on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland, except that particular ride scene was probably taken directly from here. Dilapidated old boathouses lined the shore in front of the launch, and I half expected to walk past a fisherman playing ‘O Susanna’ on his banjo before plunging down a waterfall into the world of swashbuckling pirates. But this was the real deal. It was obvious that Katrina had been here. Rows of abandoned boathouses floated along the shore. In front of the launch, a medium-sized boathouse rested on a much smaller outhouse. A smaller boathouse floated next to the first, apparently untouched by the storm.

DEAD RIVER

“I’m going to turn on some air conditioning,” said Capt. Neil Benson, owner of Pearl River Eco-tours. Oh good, I thought. “I’m dying here!” Turns out he just meant that he was going to drive the boat real fast. However, he felt fine. After speeding along the main waterway for about a mile, Captain Neil stopped to turn into a narrow channel that led to a swamp he named Dead River. A swamp is a shallow, backwater lake system that parallels the main waterway of the swamp. The Honey Island Swamp is a 70,000-acre maze of these mudflats.

“Watch out for the giant grass clippings as we go,” Neil warned as he pointed out the thick patches of tall, broadleaf grass that brushed the sides of the boat as we drifted past. “That’ll cut your fingers pretty good.”

Neil Benson grew up in the bayou. He started out alone in a dugout canoe for the first time at age 10 and owned his first motorized flatboat at 12. “I know some people here who are pretty weird. Everyone who lives in the swamp is running from something, whether it’s of the law or of the voices”. in their heads.”

This caught my interest. Later I asked him to explain.

“The swamp is a place to get lost, sometimes on purpose, sometimes accidentally. If you are running from life, the swamp will easily accommodate your request and take whatever past you have had and hide it in its waters and under its canopy of trees. .”

We had gone a mile into the maze of Dead River when I realized I hadn’t been bitten by a bug since we got out of the car. Not even a mosquito, which surprised me, given that we were in an open boat deep in the swamp. In fact, other than our toddler’s repeated attempts to jump off the boat, this was the most peaceful boat ride I’ve ever been on. The swamp is a hauntingly beautiful place. Gnarled knees of bald cypress trees seem to float on the murky surface. Calm, dark waters combine with impenetrable wildlife and mossy tupelos to cast a haunting yet enchanting spell. Wikipedia defines a swamp as “a wetland that features temporary or permanent inundation of large areas of land by shallow bodies of water.” Neil defines it as an “underwater forest”.

bugs

Neil turned off the engine as the quagmire opened up into a billabong-shaped lake, created when a wide bend in the river is cut. I noticed a small green tree frog perched on the handrail by my elbow. Although the swamp is densely populated with wildlife, it takes a trained eye to spot most of it. Once I saw that frog, I started noticing them everywhere. The swamp is like a three-dimensional book of Where’s Wally? The best way to spot wildlife is to think of one type of animal and scan the shoreline until you see it.

We don’t have many critters in Utah. I sleep on the forest floor and dive into lakes and rivers without a second thought. My Texas-raised wife nearly went into cardiac arrest the first time she saw me swim in the Provo River. In Utah there is a noticeable lack of animals that can hurt, maim or kill you compared to the Deep South. The most dangerous creature for hikers in Utah is the rattlesnake, and even they will give you fair warning before they strike.

What makes me uneasy in this swamp is the wildlife you can’t see: the critters that lurk beneath the rusty surface of the water. Neil says that swimming in the swamp is no more dangerous than swimming in any other river. “Yes, we have alligators, snakes and the occasional bull shark in the river. However, like most animals in their natural ecosystem, the animals are more afraid of humans than humans are of them.”

Well I guess if it’s just an occasional bull shark mixed with alligators and snakes. I feel so calm!

SWAMP RATS AND CROCODILE

Something of a political anomaly, Neil is a serious environmentalist who drives a pickup truck with an NRA bumper sticker. His love of exploration and adventure blossomed into a passion for this delicate ecosystem, and he has been leading tours of the swamps for over a decade. A few days after Hurricane Katrina nearly killed the swamp by ripping off the canopy and flooding it with saltwater, Neil ventured out to survey the damage with reporter Ben Montgomery of the Tampa Tribune.

“This is amazing,” he told Montgomery. “For the life of me, I never would have guessed. He’s gone. Everything.”

“It was the first time I was back in the swamp after the storm,” Neil tells me over the phone two years later, on the second anniversary of Katrina’s arrival. “It was heartbreaking. I’m not an emotional person, but I have to tell you I was crying.” A couple of hours on a boat with Captain Neil reveals his enthusiasm for this place.

Back in open water, we saw our first alligator. Once we saw one, we started seeing them everywhere. As we passed, alligators swam toward the boat in search of the marshmallows Neil tossed at them. He even reached out to pet the one he calls Big Al.

In the swamp, you see a lot of things out of the corner of your eye. A frog or a snake here, an alligator or a boar there. Stories abound about an elusive creature affectionately called “The Thing.” Of the numerous reported sightings, no intelligible photo of the beast has ever been taken. But there are many believers. The Honey Island Swamp Monster is more than a myth to fishermen and swamp dwellers. Over the years, various researchers have made plaster casts of the monster’s supposed footprints. Neil owns one of these molds. He preferred not to talk about it during the tour, “because I would like to have some credibility.” Your official position on him? “I believe in the Honey Island Swamp Monster, and therefore it exists. If God didn’t exist, he would have to be invented.”

We did not witness this mythical creature that day. But then again, maybe we were just taken to the “tourist-friendly” areas of the swamp where the beast is less likely to hide. Looking at a satellite image of the swamp, I am amazed at how little we saw. The next time I’m there I plan to convince Neil to introduce me to the most secret caves in this mysterious and wonderful place.

Neil tells me he takes people on extended private tours, but requires clients to sign a “sign your life” waiver.

“Because when you get that far out in the middle of nowhere, no one can predict what’s going to happen.”

Sign me up, Neil!