Traveling Okefenokee

Okefenokee Journal  

A weekend trip is not a complete exploration of this vast wildlife refuge. Okefenokee is bigger than the refuge boundaries and part of a much larger ecosystem. Janisse Ray explored this story in her book Pinhook, which I highly recommend. UGA researchers say this Southern blackwater swamp may face decreasing water supplies in future years, and conservationists are alarmed by nearby mining. These developments were far in the future when I briefly visited there.

March 9, 1991 

We arrived at about 3:00 p.m. and immediately went on a tour with the park naturalist. The pontoon boat slowly moved away from the dock and into the canal and Minnie's Lake. The red maples were in bloom on the dryer parts of the islands. Their tiny red flowers delighted me with the delicate touch of color they added to the dominant brown of cypress trunks and the tannin black swamp water. 

The bald cypress trees had not yet leafed out but were covered with the Spanish moss in luxuriant growth from their branches. It waved and billowed with each breeze, and one of my fellow travelers said it "looked decadent." 

The Park Naturalist pointed out a patch of water lilies, yet to bloom but covering the surface with their spreading leaves. He pulled up one of the tuberous roots, locally known as a "gator tater., and said they were edible. Being somewhat dubious of the palatability, I did not harvest any for our evening meal. 

It was nearly dark when we set up camp and prepared our dinner at the Pioneer Campground, a group campsite at Stephen Foster State Park. The park is nestled on an island within the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge. 

That evening I led a short night hike and called the barred owls out of the swamp. One answered with its "Who cooks for you" call. Then another, and another, and yet another answered. We were right on the edge of the territories of two pairs. They continued well into the night and generated comments that I should not call them the following night. 

Audio recordings of bard owls appear on several websites, but the Cornell Laboratory of Ornithology has links to an extensive collection of recorded bird calls, including the Barred Owl https://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Barred_Owl/sounds. In my personal history, I had become proficient at making barred owl calls and getting them to answer.

Owls were plentiful at Okefenokee, but otters were only a possible sighting. I hadn't given otters a thought while driving there. However, in his initial talk with us, the park naturalist said that views of otters were more possible in winter than at any other time of year because the alligators were sluggish. The otters were more active in winter. They might be like mice playing while the cat is asleep. 

Despite this assurance, the otters were good at remaining hidden. The two times I have seen them in the wild, I have felt a prompting to thank them for their presence. Rare sightings like this are for me as the burning bush must have been to Moses. Take off your shoes. This is holy ground. 

I believe it is fortunate that most nature observations aren’t always delivered on demand despite the expectations of park visitors. The otters retained their privacy and remained unobserved during our trip. 

This lack of otters reminded me of Peter Matthiessen’s book The Snow Leopard. He traveled well into an isolated valley, hoping to meet the Buddhist Lama who resided there and to view the Snow Leopard. He accompanied the researcher George Schaller who studied Dahl sheep. At the journey’s end, he said, “Have you seen the snow leopard? No. Isn’t that wonderful?” Two readings and years later, I understand his sentiment.

Alligators, however, were plentiful and thankfully inactive, as expected. We later got close-up photographs which would be unlikely and possibly dangerous in warmer weather.

One gentleman shot a video of a giant alligator from the back seat of a canoe. As he approached the alligator, the woman in the front seat told him to turn around immediately. If he wanted to be that close, he was welcome to back his end of the canoe right up to the alligator's snout. Despite the dispute, he got some great videos of an alligator that never moved.

March 10

We returned to Minnie's Lake by canoe on our only full day at the refuge. We crossed it to Billy's Island, where we saw several relics of a vanished town and a sawmill. As we canoed that morning, several cranes, ibis, and the ever-present vultures flew over. 

A pair of red-shouldered hawks circled and called in their courtship ritual. One small alligator, about four feet in length, took its ease on the emergent vegetation and allowed me to take several photographs. The vultures perched in the cypress and floated on the wind. 

I wore plenty of sunscreen and a hat despite the overcast sky. I know of the sun's damage to the skin, even on a cloudy day. Paddling to the island was strenuous. We glistened even in the cool weather, but I was glad to see the sun come out as we reached the island and equally happy to stretch my legs. 

A train track crossed the swamp on a trestle to the island in bygone days. It served as transport for the cypress logs in the days of harvest. I photographed a tank from an old locomotive boiler, a large chain, and a bicycle, all rusting among the saw palmettos of the island. 

The island also boasted a small cemetery, but I refrained from photographing the markers to maintain the patience of my companions. The community that once resided here included about 600 people, a movie theater, a store, and other amenities. Lest I give a false impression, I should say there is no ghost town. Ruins are limited to odds and ends.

I have seen photographs of Okefenokee during the era of cypress logging. Some areas were a panorama of cypress stumps. The wildlife likely declined through death and outmigration but later rebounded. 

Cypress logs are valuable. The trees grow in water, and cypress boards can get wet without rotting. The lumbering provided construction materials for a growing country and a sound economy on Billy's Island. 

As a conservationist, I am horrified to think of that beautiful swampland-laid waste. I think of the bears' homes and the winter roosts of ibis and cranes. Nevertheless, total preservation with no development and no extraction is also unlikely. At the same time, no conservation, perhaps the industrialists' dream, is too little. So, where do we draw the line? I am uncertain of the answer when the debate rages around me, but I mourn to see wild areas despoiled. 

The good news for the swamp creatures is that the logging economy put itself out of business. They cut enough cypress that the cost of finding and cutting more exceeded the profitability. The forest grew back to cast shadows on the last remnants of the town. 

Long before the sawyers and the railroad, Billy Bowlegs is said to have been the last chief of the Seminole in Georgia. He gave his name to the island where sawyers and their families lived. He is a symbol of the Seminole nation.  

Some residents told of seeing a long line of "Indians" leaving the swamp on a southward journey, perhaps to join kin in Florida. True or not, this legend creates a mythos of vanishing wilderness, much like Faulkner's story of "The Bear." 

The Seminoles speak a Muskogean language almost identical to the Creek language. Many were "removed" when the Cherokee went on the Trail of Tears. The Creek, Chickasaw, and Choctaw were also forcibly removed to Oklahoma. 

Unlike the cypress and the wildlife, the Seminole did not return to Okefenokee. Remnants of the tribe live in Florida and Oklahoma. The Seminole nation has a reservation and a treaty with the United States Government, making them a federally recognized tribe. A few are scattered throughout the southeast. 

March 11

The day began with a chorus of barred owls calling in the trees above our tents. I unzipped the flaps of my tent and gazed at the stars above in the 5:30 a.m. darkness. The wind whipped the pines above from side to side. 

I always enjoy meals prepared while camping, and breakfast at the campsite was excellent. I have heard that hunger makes the best sauce, but there is more to the fireside breakfast than satisfying an empty stomach. The smell of coals and the setting in the forest is most pleasing to me. 

The camaraderie of our group as we canoed, cooked meals, and washed dishes kept my spirits high.  On our final day at Okefenokee, we drove through part of Florida to the east entrance of Okefenokee and the refuge headquarters. Once there, we saw excellent interpretive exhibits that told the story of the swamp and its inhabitants. 

A commercial operator gave us a tour of the wet prairies by boat. They stretched for miles of open land populated by grasses, sedges, rushes, and sphagnum moss and were dotted with cypress islands.

I have seen the mangrove swamps of south Florida, the salt marshes at Assateague Island and Cape Cod, the tide pools of New England's rocky shores, the peat bogs and red maple swamps of northern lands, and one Atlantic white cedar swamp on Cape Cod. None were like Okefenokee. Over the past century, these wetlands have received limited protection. Even so, the acreage dwindles with each passing year. 

We walked the boardwalk and saw the insectivorous pitcher plants almost submerged in high water. Two alligators sunned on a submerged grass island. One unconcerned Pond Slider (a turtle species) sunned himself near the larger of the two 'gators. Although the sun was bright on this cloudless day, a cold wind blew, and the reptiles were torpid—still as statues. 

As we approached the tower, the high rattling call of Sandhill Cranes became louder with each step. From the top, we looked down on miles of sloughs with grass, cypress, and a few birds. One northern harrier (a.k.a. marsh hawk) cruised over the land in search of a meal. 

A few great egrets stood in the water, and a pair of red-tailed hawks patrolled the airways. Only a few cranes dotted the landscape. I had seen a large flock at the Hiwassee State Wildlife Refuge near Chattanooga earlier in the year. 

As we drove the exit route from the refuge, we stopped at a culvert where we had seen a giant alligator on the way in. We had stopped to photograph the 'gator earlier, but only patient for a few minutes; she had risen to her full height and run off the pipe and into the water, demonstrating her species' speed, which I had only heard of until then. 

Our companions complained about the lack of an opportunity to view and photograph the alligator. Their comments changed to exclamations of delight when we noticed several small reptiles swimming beside her, babies we had missed while focusing on the mother. 

On the return trip, the mother alligator was not to be seen, but we stopped anyhow. She was far out in the water. When I looked down at the base of a tree, I saw what looked like three striped lizards, alternate bands of black and yellow running across the bodies. They were baby alligators.

Mother alligators have no body heat to warm their young or to incubate their eggs. These babies had begun their lives in a nest of mud and sticks. The decaying vegetation kept them warm. 

Then the hatching babies emerged from the leathery shells and gave their gulping calls. Mother had remained close by, and soon she gently pulled the nest apart, extracting the babies. The eggs are leathery and lack the calcified shell of bird eggs. 

My colleague and co-leader for the trip made a good imitation of the gulping distress call of a baby alligator. I thought that attracting the attention of the mother alligator was a bad idea right then, but the three babies slid quietly into the water and swam to the mother, emitting distress calls. We hoped to see them crawl onto her back, but she moved out into the wetland slowly enough to allow her brood to keep up. 

This close encounter with the alligators remains etched in my memory, as does any last view of a place. We began our ride home.