After an inordinate amount of time spent gawking at Old Man Cypress, we continued on past Hutson Lake, bound for the east bank of the Pascagoula. It seemed like a good idea, at the time; and the presence of a couple of shirtless, shoeless guys fishing made us eager to be gone. They had canoed in to the lake from somewhere to the south.
Before leaving the lake, we passed this tree, not too long dead, with some impressive scaling. There are numerous chisel-like marks upon the sapwood on this one, as can be seen in this photo:
We made our way slowly for the better part of an hour through some very difficult terrain, before coming out on the (wrong) side of the River.
The sandbar was, of course, mercifully clear of the wild tangle we'd been working through. But we may as well have stepped onto the surface of Mercury. The noonday sun blasted the white sand and reddish clay. Warm winds off the River and barely cool water provided little solace. However, a duel on the opposite bank between a snowy egret and a juvenile tricolored heron offered a distraction from the oppressive heat; the heron withdrew to our side, and proceeded to give us some of our best birding photos of the year.
There was no question as to whether or not we should investigate.
Before leaving the lake, we passed this tree, not too long dead, with some impressive scaling. There are numerous chisel-like marks upon the sapwood on this one, as can be seen in this photo:
The scaling went up the bole of the tree for several feet.
Extreme southwestern end of the oxbow.
We made our way slowly for the better part of an hour through some very difficult terrain, before coming out on the (wrong) side of the River.
On the "cut" overlooking the Pascagoula. We almost always seem to come out on the damned cut, where the descent to the water is near impossible, as well as impractical.
Nice sandbar. Over there.
We followed the riverbank northward, as best we could, hoping to get to the inviting sandbar that showed up on Brian's Google Earth map.
Typical terrain along this part of the River. This is what separates the Men from the Boys. Or the serious from the casual birders. Or the idiots from the rest of y'all.
Wildflowers. Don't know what kind. They were between us and our sandbar, so I was not as appreciative as I should have been.
We have not yet identified them.
Maple and sycamore comprised much of the forest near the riverbank.
Near the sandbar, a grove of black willow.
At last.
The sandbar was, of course, mercifully clear of the wild tangle we'd been working through. But we may as well have stepped onto the surface of Mercury. The noonday sun blasted the white sand and reddish clay. Warm winds off the River and barely cool water provided little solace. However, a duel on the opposite bank between a snowy egret and a juvenile tricolored heron offered a distraction from the oppressive heat; the heron withdrew to our side, and proceeded to give us some of our best birding photos of the year.
The heron finally grew tired of us, and flapped off. We washed the grime off our arms and faces, and Brian tested his new hiker's water filtration device. But the heat and glare proved unbearable; and we had been hiking for six hours. I was feeling very weak, and slightly dizzy, and there were small purplish swirls in my field of vision. We both felt we should find shade, and quickly, so we made for the willow grove. Our goal was to cut northeastward, across country again, hoping that our route would bypass Hutson Lake and take us back near the trailhead, to the truck, and to air conditioning.
In the grove I felt I could go no further. My heart was racing, and I knew I was in very dangerous condition. We stopped, and I laid down my backpack and walking stick, and stretched out on the ground in the shade.
Several Mississippi kites were present over this part of the River, and at times I saw one wheeling about above the willows:
Perhaps you can see him, near the middle of the photo. I thought, "I can think of worse things to look upon with my last sight," and said as much to my brother. We both laughed, maybe a little too hard.
After a few minutes rest, I attempted to go forth again; but we had not gotten far before the weakness returned, and I had to lay down upon the forest floor. This time, I lay there recovering a long time, maybe a half hour. Finally, I felt genuinely better, and was able to go forward at a decent pace once more. I guess it could have been worse. It could have been raining.
A huge red oak.
It started raining a few hundred yards from the River, in full sunlight. I don't know what folks in other parts of the country say when this happens, but down here they say that the Devil is beating his wife. For some reason, this Infernal spousal abuse is referred to with a kind of endearment, and for some reason equally inexplicable to me, I find it endearing as well.
Domestic disturbances in Hell notwithstanding, the rain stopped after a few minutes, leaving the forest loudly dripping, and more humid than ever. But we soon found another old logging road, one that led fairly due North.
We had not gone far, before we saw him, meditating in a bottom off to our left: the Ancient of Days.
There was no question as to whether or not we should investigate.
His mighty knees.
The Ancient of Days is approximately 34 feet in circumference, making him over eleven feet wide. My conservative estimate of his age is -- I still have difficulty grasping this -- over 500 years old.
"Monumental agedness." That is how one writer described an old cypress in this same area. I do not know if it was this one he wrote about. But it fits the Ancient of Days perfectly. What creatures, now long vanished from the Earth, sought refuge among his branches? What terrific storms, born off the coast of Africa, ravaged the lands round about his knees, down through the centuries? How many generations of humans have passed him by, going about their timeless human errands in his titanic shadow?
I did not want to leave him. But my strength is not his strength. So, at length, we turned our backs to the Ancient, and took our leave of him, for now.
There was still quite a long way to go before we got back to Brian's truck; and the exhaustion set upon me yet again, not two hundred yards from it. But we made it, my brother and I.
We made it. And then we went to Angel's Quik-Stop for chicken fingers and a half gallon of Dr. Peppah.
Conclusions: No kents, no double-knocks. A lot of bark peeling, most of it undoubtedly the work of mammals. But those and other signs gave me hope; and most of all, the magnificence of the habitat itself. I do hope there are Ivory-billed Woodpeckers here. Without them, it would seem just a smidge sad.
I have never walked among such impressive trees before.
You know, it is a curious thing: for all the negativity one hears about Mississippi (a good chunk of it well-placed), I am glad that I am here. I love this land, with its heat and its hogs and its snakes and its jungle spiders. There are such gems here, such richness of life, that one may feel humbled, as a child in a museum; only, this museum welcomes the child, tests it, and in making the child feel that it is Home, makes it feel loved.
(Photo: Brian W. Carlisle)
