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On a recent camping trip to South Carolina, we
had the good fortune to visit Francis
Beidler Forest in the Four Holes Swamp. This is the largest remaining
virgin bald cypress swamp forest in the world; it's run by the Audubon
Society. What an amazing place. Many of the towering cypress are over
1000 years old, replete
with "knees" poking up to as high as 7 feet from the forest floor.
While they don't know for sure what the purpose is of these knees, it is
supposed that at least one of their functions is to contribute stability to
the roots and trees. It would certainly make sense, considering that
Hurricane Hugo's eye passed right over this ancient wood, yet all that was
lost was one lone cypress tree. The fact that recent droughts had
temporarily left the swamp too dry for canoe passage was of no consequence,
as the
 extensive
boardwalk trail proved more than sufficient at penetrating the deeper
pockets of the ecosystem. We saw (besides the requisite squirrels and deer)
white ibis, a golden crowned night heron, prothonotary warblers, a barred
owl, a hummingbird, an ovenbird, a Carolina wren,
 yellow-billed
cuckoos, lizards, spotted and painted turtles, and a cottonmouth snake.
Oh, and of course, an alligator. Meanwhile, we heard the hoots of barred
owls, the taps and reprimands of pileated woodpecker, frogs whose calls
ranged from a cricket-like loop to the pluck of a banjo, and of course, a
cacophony of bird calls (to hear some of these birds, plus the barred owl
hoots,
click here). We also
enjoyed sounds of another origin: those of the cello and guitar.
A concert featuring the Adams Duo
proved a soothing and inspiring addition to the dusky swamp symphony.
Following this artful presentation, we were led on a night hike by a
naturalist named Mike, who instructed us not to use our flashlights unless
absolutely necessary. He also warned us that eventually, without the
benefit of moonlight, things would become pitch black. Indeed, at some
point, the only way to visually detect the presence of fellow hikers was if
your gaze fell within four feet of an individual wearing a white t-shirt.
Soon after, even the white t-shirts completely disappeared. It
was right about this point that the best leg of the hike occurred.
Mike asked that we break up into groups of no more than two, preferably
solo. Then, one by one, he released each of us individually to begin our
25-minute hike back to the visitor's center alone, in total darkness,
leaving what seemed an interminable amount of time in between hikers. His
idea was to allow the amplification of our senses and internal awareness,
giving a sense of just you and nature. My husband, Dan, nudged me (by
now I couldn't see him at all) and asked if I wanted to take the trip by
myself. I answered yes. At the last second, however, Dan decided
to join me. Which was just as well.....try to imagine being in a swamp, all
by yourself, when you literally can't see ANYTHING, your hands just sort of
groping the air in front of you. Spooky! . The boardwalk, thankfully,
provided us with at least a sense of direction, but while I was preoccupied
with trying not to imagine what mysterious animal I might stumble upon, I
learned later that Dan kept thinking he heard footsteps echoing right behind
us. On a return trip the next morning, we discovered the source: a
delayed "rebound" of the wood planks we were walking on.
It's amazing how drastically heightened your
senses are when faced with so little light. The lightening bugs,
already profuse, literally looked like flashing, dancing Christmas lights,
and every now and then, one would flash within a foot of me, making me think
I was seeing the blaze of someone's flashlight. Every sound, however
far away, was detected, not the least of which was the pounding of my own
heart. Everywhere you looked, you could not see a thing; only when you
lifted your eyes did you catch glimpse of the trees' outline against the
starred sky. At least you could verify "up" from "down."
When at last, the beaconing lights from the
visitor's center came into view, there was a surprising disappointment.
As one might feel climbing out of a roller coaster, our fear was replaced by
relief, which was then quickly replaced by that "I wanna do that again!"
feeling. Alas, given that midnight was right around the corner, we
were politely ushered back to our car. No matter; we will return very
soon.
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