How I stumble upon this place has its own back story but all I will say for now is that with a little pig-headed stubbornness on my part, followed by a declaration that we would have to be bloody unlucky to come across a serial killer in this backwater, I find myself stepping into a place that challenges the imagination.
A virtual curtain closes. I’m thrust into a world that extends from the sky above to unimaginable depths below the glass-like surface of the water beneath the timber boardwalk that I am standing on. For as far as I can see, trees as straight as rods and very tall compete with one another to reach the sky. My eyes travel from the leafy canopy down the length of the trees to try to find the point where the real tree becomes a reflection, but I fear that much of what is in front of me is an illusion. I wonder whether I can lean over the rail, without falling, to see how far the water extends. But all I can see is a bottomless abyss that provides a perfect mirror image of what is above.
Only when my eyes become accustomed to the gloom, do I take notice of the sounds that echo through the trees. Unique sounds. Ones I cannot recognise, although they are most likely to be birds. I hear the hammering of a woodpecker occasionally, and the screeching of something or other. Birds seem to be having a long-distance conversation as when one calls from over here, another answers from over there. The longer I stand still, the louder the sounds become. I wish I was able to identify the different bird calls. My newly heightened senses detect a hint of a florally fruity scent that wafts above the usual swampy odours of brackish water and rotting leaf litter. Perhaps the excited birds are telling their friends of newly ripened fruits or seeds high up in the trees. I listen carefully for other sounds, but all I get in response to standing still and listening are piercing nips from mosquitoes that want to sample new blood.
I find out by reading the various information boards that are posted along the way, that most of the trees are water tupelo, native deciduous trees that thrive in the swampy water. There are other deciduous trees here, all of which contribute to the rich but mysterious ecosystem. I’m glad that I am here in the height of the summer as the dappled light casts an air of humid intrigue, an atmosphere that would be lost when the trees are bare, and the swamp is open to the world.
In a clearing, at the end of the 290 metre boardwalk a stone marker, erected in 1926, identifies the point from which the lands of the Louisiana Purchase were originally surveyed in 1815. Just beyond the marker and the edge of the swamp I can hear sounds of human and domesticated animal life. I am not too far from civilisation after all.
I’m amazed by how different the swamp looks as I make the return journey. The sun is higher now, and small streaks of rainbowed light hover above the water. I see new things, hear new noises and, with a little help from the information boards, identify some trees. I haven’t seen any of the listed mammals or reptiles. Whilst I think I could cope with seeing a snapping turtle, I would be a screaming mess if I spotted an alligator’s eyes beneath the water’s surface.
Why didn’t it occur to me that alligators could be lurking here?
I emerge from this enchanted swamp with a sense of wonder and gratitude that this is a protected place, one that can no longer be drained and used for agricultural purposes. I’m also glad that it is off the beaten track, a little known secret place where I am sure magic happens when no humans are around.
Back in the car, my travel mate concedes that the Louisiana Purchase State Park had been a worthy detour, despite its isolation and its suitability as a serial killer’s disposal site. Personally, I think snapping turtles and stalking alligators pose a greater threat.
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