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Dispatches From the Gulf Coast – The Honey Island Swamp

FOR ME THE RESEARCH ALWAYS STARTED AT THE END OF CIVILIZATION. In most cases, one must step back from the neon signs and golden arches and fully exit the concrete jungle to find wilderness. Generally, if I have even one bar on my cell phone, I haven’t roamed enough. Most populated places in America are trying to integrate wilderness into civilization in the form of “green spaces” – manicured plots of lawn 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 cut a sense of civilization into vast, untamed wildernesses. Even larger suburbs seem strained to keep creeping wilderness at bay.

Slidell is a New Orleans suburb that lies under a canopy of loblolly pine on the northeast shore of Lake Pontchartrain. It’s an area saturated with rivers and coves, where small gravel roads lead to stylish home neighborhoods deep in the marshes, where you wouldn’t think neighborhoods would or could be. It’s a lowland so low (3 feet, to be exact) that the term “terra firma” doesn’t really apply. And unlike most places in the country, here you can be deep in the wilderness and a stone’s throw from Waffle House at the same time.

Slidell is bordered on the east by the West Pearl River, which flows from its sources in the area of ​​the Nanih Waiya Indian Mounds in central Mississippi and drains into the Rigolets and then into the Gulf of Mexico. The Pearl is home to the Honey Island Marsh, one of the most beautiful and least altered river marshes in the United States. It takes its name from stories of abundant wild honey made by renegade bees that escaped their beekeepers.

MARSH BOUND

We didn’t make any hotel reservations. There was nothing on the route. We had no plan other than to drive lonely roads and explore forgotten corners of this subtropical wonderland. We drove slowly down Hwy 190, trying to take it all in. I soon saw that graves were not the only objects stolen by Katrina’s flood waters. A large tugboat loomed just off the highway, miles from any open water. I went out to take some photos and was immediately attacked by swarms of what looked like oversized flying ants. These little monsters came in mating pairs, and I was amazed that they would take time out of their breeding ritual to sink their teeth (or fangs, or pokers, or whatever) into my forearms. My only option was to run until I got close enough to take a few pictures, then hurry back to the car. It’s amazing how fast an out-of-shape thirty-year-old can run when being chased by hordes of two-headed devil bugs.

A few miles and several more beached boats later, we pulled into a seashell lot in front of a swamp museum on the banks of the Pearl. A wooden walkway led out to the bank where we met two swamp tour captains, both with heavy Kjuni accents. It was early afternoon and both captains had finished their tours for the day. The swamp tour business was good before Katrina, they told me. Honey Island Swamp guides are now lucky to have one full boat a day, and it would be a waste of gas and time to take just us on an after-hours tour. As we turned to walk back to our car, another tour boat floated by and offered to take us aboard.

Ah, the swamp. Something I’ve seen in many movies but never experienced for myself. It was surprisingly quiet for an area so rich in wildlife. The setting was right out of the boat launch scene on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland- except that particular ride scene was probably taken directly from here. Old ramshackle boathouses lined the shore across from the launch, and I half expected to pass a fisherman strumming ‘O Susanna’ on his banjo before plunging down a waterfall into the world of swaggering pirates. But this was the real thing. It was obvious that Katrina was here. Rows of houseboats floated abandoned along the shore. Across the launch one medium-sized houseboat rested on a much smaller outhouse. A smaller houseboat floated next to the first one, apparently untouched by the storm.

DEAD RIVER

“I’m going to turn on a little AC,” said Capt. Neil Benson, owner of Pearl River Eco-tours. “Oh good,” I thought. “I’m dying here!” It turns out that he just meant that he was going to drive the boat very fast. It felt good though. After speeding along the main waterway for about a mile, Captain Neil stopped to turn into a narrow channel leading into a swamp, which he called Dead River. A marsh is a shallow isolation lake system that parallels the main bayou waterway. The Honey Island Marsh is a 70,000 acre maze of these marshes.

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

Neil Benson grew up in the swamp. He first set out alone in a pirogue at the age of 10 and owned his first motorized flatboat at 12. “I know some people here who are quite strange. Everyone who lives in the swamp is running from something – either the law or the voices. in their heads.”

This caught my interest. I asked him later for more details.

“The swamp is a place to lose yourself- sometimes on purpose, sometimes by accident. If you run away from life, the swamp will easily accept your request and take everything you had and hide it in its waters and under its canopy of trees. .”

We were about a mile into the Dead River maze before I realized I hadn’t been bitten by any bugs since we left the car. Not a single mosquito which surprised me as we were on an open boat deep in the swamp. In fact, aside from our toddler’s repeated attempts to jump off the ship, this was the most peaceful boat ride I’ve ever been on. The swamp is an awfully beautiful place. Knobby knees of bald cypresses seem to float on the murky surface. The still, dark waters combine with the impenetrable wildlife and moss-draped tupels to cast a haunting, yet enchanting spell. Wikipedia defines a swamp as “a wetland that presents a temporary or permanent flooding of large areas of land by shallow bodies of water.” Neil defines it as an “underwater forest.”

CRITERIA

Neil killed the engine when the marsh opened up into a bowl lake or billabong, created when a wide meander of the river is cut off. I noticed a small green tree frog standing on the railing next to my elbow. Although the swamp is densely populated with wildlife, it takes a trained eye to actually spot most of it. After I saw that frog, I started noticing them everywhere. The swamp is like a 3-D Where’s Waldo book. The best way to see wildlife is to think of one type of animal and scan the banks until you see it.

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

What worries me in this swamp is the wildlife you can’t see, the animals that hide 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 the occasional bull shark mixed in with the alligators and snakes. I feel so calm!

MARSH RATS AND GATORS

A bit 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 has evolved into a passion for this delicate ecosystem, and he has been leading swamp tours for over a decade. A few days after Hurricane Katrina nearly stripped life from the marsh by tearing off its canopy and flooding it with salt water, Neil ventured outside to survey the damage with reporter Ben Montgomery of the Tampa Tribune.

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

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

Back in open water, we saw our first gator. Once we spotted one, we started seeing them everywhere. As we passed, alligators swam toward the boat fishing for the marshmallows that Neil would throw to them. He even reached out to pet the one he calls Big Al.

In the swamp, you see many things out of the corner of your eye. A frog or a snake here, an alligator or a wild boar there. Stories abound of an elusive creature affectionately called “The Thing.” Of the many reported sightings, no intelligible photograph has ever been taken of the animal. But there are many believers. The Honey Island Swamp monster is more than a myth to fishermen and swamp dwellers. Over the years several investigators have produced plaster casts of the supposed footprints of the monster. Neil owns one of those casts. He preferred not to discuss it during the tour, “because I would like to have some credibility.” His official position? “I believe in the Honey Island Swamp Monster and therefore, it exists. If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him.”

We did not witness this mythical creature that day. But then again maybe we were only taken to the “tourist friendly” areas of the swamp where the animal is less likely to sneak around. Looking at a satellite image of the swamp I’m amazed at how little of it we saw. The next time I go down that road, I plan to convince Neil to introduce me to the more hidden grottoes of this mysterious and wonderful place.

Neil tells me that he does take people out on extended private tours, but he requires clients to sign a “sign over your life” waiver.

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

Sign me up, Neil!

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