Tripartite Survey: Hutson Lake, Davis Eddy, Deaton Preserve; 19 August 2014

IBWOh's:  Brian Carlisle, Christopher Carlisle.

Summary:  It's too damn hot to hike, so Brian brought his 12' johnboat, which I have named the Lindsey in honor of Brian's wonderful wife.  We spent much time boating today, surveying Hutson Lake, then Davis Eddy, a smaller lake to the north, across the highway, yet still within the Pascagoula WMA.

We plied the waters of Hutson Lake at dawn.  Prothonotary warblers were abundant, present in numbers I have not seen since our foray into the Leaf Wildnerness some miles to the north.  The place was teeming with woodpeckers:  red-heads, red-bellieds, Pileateds.  The air rang with the raucous cries of redheads.  We observed several different Pileateds, of which Brian was able to get some nice photos.  Woodpecker drumming was nearly constant, and several times we were startled by what sounded like possible double-knocks in the distance.

The Lindsey at the Hutson Lake launch. 

 The water of Hutson Lake is a nice, deep brown, not muddy at all.  We would have a fairly clear view of a 14' alligator before being devoured.

 I fingered my knife from time to time, thinking of Brad Pitt's character at the end of the film Legends of the Fall.  A bear got him.

 An osprey, our first catch of the day.

 The Lindsey's trolling motor aided us tremendously.

Brian steered us swiftly past the cypress and water tupelo.

We soon found this tree with bark scaling, in deep water.

The tree is very much alive.

 The bark is tight, and is beginning to heal.

 Remains of an old cypress.

 Nice gouging work on a dead snag.

Dawn on the north end of Hutson Lake. 

Brian took me to the cavity he'd discovered on his prior boating trip. 

I am still impressed by this cavity.

 Anhingas, a common sight on the lake that morning.

 Yeah.  Time to turn the boat around.

 Double-crested cormorant, another common species on Hutson Lake.  Observing their flight, I could see perhaps how they might be mistaken at a distance for an ivorybill, especially as the sunlight shines on their glossy black wings.

 Cormorant, pre-poop.

Cormorant, post-poop.

We left Hutson Lake, and proceeded north to Davis Eddy, a lake deep in the north end of the Pascagoula WMA.  There we found a trail, which we hiked for less than a mile before the heat and humidity became unbearable, around 11 o'clock.  The forest seems to get younger the farther north one goes from the highway, so that on the trail by Davis Eddy we were in mostly third-growth woods; but there were initially impressive stands of older growth, with some individuals of note.  The ground was deeply rooted in places by hogs, particularly near the oaks and hickories, which comprised the majority species.  Live oaks and willow oaks were especially common, as were groves of American holly.  Cypress of course dominated the lakeshore.

Trailhead near Davis Eddy.

 

Large river birch.

 Scaling on upper trunk of a living red oak.  This was 30-40' up.

Live oak.  17'4" circumference.

We returned to the boat ramp, and launched the Lindsey.  The waters of Davis Eddy are a muddy brown, unlike the clearer tannin-stained waters of Hutson Lake.  Here dwell white ibis, belted kingfisher, and great egret.

Gator (right) and gator bait. 

A small one.

With Davis Eddy offering nothing more save rising temperatures, we departed for Angel's Quick Stop for chicken fingers and Tater Wedges.  We drove on to Lucedale, then took Highway 98 West, which would take us back to McLain.  On an impulse, we stopped at the Charles Deaton Preserve near the Chickasawhay River, and drove through some pretty unimpressive cutover land until reaching a nice oxbow (with alligator), with some impressive-looking stands of mixed bottomland beyond.  We drove on, until we reached the Chickasawhay itself, probably only a couple of miles before it joins the Leaf River to form the Pascagoula.

The Chickasawhay is a wild, rugged Southern river, his headwaters up above Meridian.  I have crossed and recrossed him many times to the north, in Wayne County, where I grew up. 

 A small, clear stream empties into the Chickasawhay from the Deaton Preserve, along its east bank.

The stream flows from at least one oxbow, deeper in the Preserve.

Conclusions:  I am very encouraged by Hutson Lake.  Based on our boat trip and our prior survey, I believe the area warrants a close study over the next several months, especially when cooler weather sets in and the leaf-fall may expose signs of peeling.  I was very impressed by the peeling upon the red oak near Davis Eddy, but the area is not high on my list due to the tapering of mature forest so soon beyond the lakeshore.  I was initially disappointed with the Deaton Preserve, as it encompasses the important Pascagoula headwaters area, until we reached the oxbow; beyond it loomed a mighty belt of mixed bottomland that begs exploration.

Time constraints may keep me out of the field for at least a week, which may be no bad thing, considering we are in the "dog days" of the Mississippi summer, which can be brutal.  Hiking times are limited, from early to mid-morning; and the gloom of the swamp lingers long after the dawn, limiting visibility somewhat.

Every foray into the swamp and forest strengthens my faith that the Ivorybill yet lives.

Singing River Swamp Pilgrimage

Tomorrow, I return to the Pascagoula River Swamp with Brian Carlisle -- my brother, my longtime companion in many adventures, and my friend.  Clock is set for 3:30 a.m., so that I may meet him in McLain by 5:15, so that we may be among the great trees as they welcome the dawn.

Whatever the swamp will ask of me tomorrow, I will give.  You can't cheat the swamp, to paraphrase a famous philosopher; it's got its own ways.  But whatever it takes of the flesh, it returns to the spirit tenfold.

Lord God Bird himself.

Update to the Project Coyote Site

Mark Michaels weighs in on his Project Coyote site with some advice for those involved in the search for Ivorybills.  

ADDENDUM to the Hutson Lake Expedition: Brian Carlisle Boats It, 10 August 2014

IBWOH:  Brian W. Carlisle

Summary:  I may not have mentioned here previously that my brother is, in addition to being a fine photographer, a rather driven fisherman.  He decided to take his small boat down to Hutson Lake this morning to test the waters.  What he found, in addition to an old crappie fisherman with stories of alligators, was this:

Oval-shaped cavity in a cypress.  Unfortunately, while Brian brought his boat, he forgot the SIM card for his camera, so the photos are with his phone camera.  Nevertheless, the cavity can be clearly seen, and from these other images as well:

 Side view.

I can't tell what kind of tree that is, or if it is scaling, or the bark simply sloughing off.

Conclusions:  Obviously, more work is needed around Hutson Lake.  Oh, and check your camera equipment before heading out into IBWO country.

Scouting Expedition: Hutson Lake, Pascagoula WMA, 7 August 2014 (Part 2 of 2)

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:

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)