Titan Swamp and Woodpecker Island: To the Farthest Reaches, 10 December 2015

IBWOH:  Chris Carlisle.

Summary:  Try as I might to fully take in the Wild when I am in it, I cannot help but feel Time pressing on me.  It limits my wanderings in search of the Ivorybill to those places I can get to and explore within the span of a few hours.  I suppose it is a good thing, in its way, requiring me to focus on a single region -- in my case, south Mississippi -- instead of, say, falling into the trap of briefly visiting promising habitat, then moving on to another state, rather than giving the habitat in question the benefit of a close survey, or multiple surveys, as warranted, through the seasons.

At roughly 100 miles from my home, the Wade-Vancleave Road is my mental and geographical limit.  To the north of it is the greater mass of the Pascagoula Wildlife Management Area, including Big Swamp; south of the road, the bottomlands increasingly give way to true swamp, as the Pascagoula River, swollen by then with the waters of Black Creek and Red Creek, regularly breathes fresh water out into the streams and sloughs.  Only a few miles further south, in the Ward Bayou Wildlife Management Area, the looming swamp forests dwindle to wider waters and small cypress domes, until the swamp fails altogether and is gradually replaced by marshland.  The community of Wade, at the east end of the road, lies about thirty miles to the west (as the crow flies) of Mobile, Alabama.

I have only been on the Wade-Vancleave Road twice that I recall.  The first time was last year, and I was struck by the large number of houseboats lining the River; I noted also the substantial second-growth bottomland forest along the Road.  My brother Brian and I passed along that road again last month, and I was again impressed by the woods there.  With drier weather of late here in south Mississippi, I decided to take my chances with that far country, even though Google Earth shows water covering the WMA road through the middle of the forest.  As insurance, I loaded up my kayak, the Kuhn, into my truck the night before, and was on the road by 5 a.m. the next morning.  I did not have high hopes for a successful day of exploring.

Sunrise was at 6:45 on December 10, with temperatures in the low 50's (Fahrenheit) and only a few passing clouds, forecast to increase through the day.  As the stars faded with the coming dawn, I turned off Highway 57 onto Old River Road, heading for the Wade-Vancleave Road; then I decided, on a whim, to check in on the flooded road that Brian and I had kayaked last month, and to see if I might if Cypress Creek, that odd overflow stream of the Pascagoula River, still overran the surrounding bottomlands.

To my delight, the road to Cypress Creek was almost completely high and dry.  I was able to drive all the way to the boat launch, where two older gentlemen were struggling to get their boat motor cranked.  We chatted a few minutes about fishing, and squirrel hunting, and about how I was not quite from those parts; but I was eager to get started.  I got the Kuhn into the gentle current as the sun rose, intending to paddle upstream and visit the mouths of first Red Creek, less than half a mile away; then, that of his brother, Black Creek, another 1 1/2 miles further up; and then, time permitting, to follow Cypress Creek roughly two miles farther, to where it breaks off from the Pascagoula River.

 Several rather large cypresses in the forest near the launch.

Downstream view.  Cypress Creek rejoins the Pascagoula River after some 4 1/2 miles. 

 The view upstream.

 Can you see the Pileated Woodpecker?  I passed almost directly under the bird before it flew off.

I paddled for a few minutes before the roar of the boat motor downstream broke the early morning silence of the forest.  Soon enough, the two hunters/fishermen passed me, headed upstream towards Red Creek.  I sat bobbing in their wake a while, listening to the waves slap the muddy banks. 

 The mouth of Red Creek is in almost the exact middle of this photo, just to the left of the cypress.

Woodpecker activity, and bird activity in general, was high.  Squirrels bounded along the banks, and I could hear them rustling among the leaf-litter out of eyesight in the forest beyond, along with other creatures which remained hidden.

As I paddled, my thoughts dwelled a bit upon the layout of the area.  I came to realize that land to the east was actually an irregularly-shaped island, created by Cypress Creek, though it is not named as an island on any of the few maps of the area I've seen.

I passed the mouth of Red Creek.  A fine expanse of old mixed bottomland and swamp forest beckoned beyond and to either side of it -- hints of Red Swamp, of which I have only tread the periphery; but I paddled on, eager to see what Black Creek had to show me.  Shotgun blasts from deep within Red Swamp sealed the deal.

Cypress Creek bends this way and that in its course.  Past one bend above Red Creek, a beautiful swamp of very big cypresses and tupelos came into view on the left bank of Cypress Creek.  Floating nearer, I saw that the swamp floor was mostly a fairly open expanse of drying mud.  I quickly beached the Kuhn at the mouth of the swamp and set out to explore it on foot.  It turned out to be one of the loveliest, most magnificent natural areas I've yet experienced.

Cypress Creek, as seen near the edge of the swamp.

 A large, hollow cypress (center) guards the gateway.

 Woodpecker activity was highest here.  I counted no less than six species passing from this swamp to the island across the creek:  Downy, Red-headed, Red-bellied, and Pileated Woodpeckers, along with Yellow-bellied Sapsuckers and Northern Flickers.

 To walk among so many great trees is a truly humbling experience.

 Perhaps a tree's shape and way of growth reflects, to an extent, its inner spirit.  If so, I imagine a sylvan dancer's soul dwells within this tupelo.

 I discovered a number of titans beyond the guardian at the swamp-gate.

 My only companion:  a lone great egret, who suffered my brief sojourn in his hunting-grounds.

 Strange fungus on a tree in the nearby bottomland.

As I walked, my thoughts formed a name for that place:  Titan Swamp. 

 I do not know how it is with others, but I find the trunks of the great cypresses mesmerizing; the fissures and folds seem the rough pages of a great book, whose language we have lost the ability to understand.

 There are a number of immense baldcypresses there, all hollow.  These two I named Atlas (left) and Prometheus (right).

 A shallow cave formed by where Atlas squats in the mud.

 A fiery finger of sunlight shines through hollow Prometheus.

Hyperion strains towards the sky. 

Titan Swamp is less than ten acres in area, I believe, so I was able to explore much of it rather quickly.  I exited the swamp past its guardian cypress, who I named Kronos; and as I stood near the Kuhn, still savoring the experience, I realized an argument had begun overhead.  A Red-headed Woodpecker had intruded into the personal space of a family of flickers:

Standoff in the crown of Kronos.

The argument ended with the Red-head yielding, flying westward.  I sat down for a snack and some water, and launched the kayak again, making upstream for the mouth of Black Creek.

I continued to note the high concentration of woodpeckers as I went, particularly in the bottomlands on the island to the east.  Though it is not named as such on the few references I have -- and is not actually named at all -- I decided to call it Woodpecker Island, as much for the many species I spotted there as for the hope of the One we have yet to find.

It took a bit longer to reach Black Creek; and when I finally saw its mouth, I saw also that my attempt to reach the Pascagoula by that route would have to wait for another day, for a fallen tree blocked further passage.

 The mouth of Black Creek (center).  Black Creek figures importantly in the history of more recent Ivorybill sightings:  there occurred an audio encounter by Ronald Sauey, late co-founder of the International Crane Foundation, and Charles Luthin, executive director of the Natural Resources Foundation of Wisconsin.  Sauey described a call that "sounded every bit like the historic Ivory-bill recording of Allen and Kellogg."

The wind had begun to pick up, the clouds increasing.  I turned away from the mouth of Black Creek, which I had desired to see for myself for so long, and let the current take the Kuhn.

 Floating back south along Cypress Creek.

Nearing Red Creek again, I edged near the mouth, drawn once more to the large trees I saw to the east; however, a light rain suddenly and unexpectedly began to fall.  I shoved off, paddling quickly with the current.

Luckily, the rain ended after a few minutes.  Soon the Kuhn's hull ground against the gravel of the boat ramp.  The hunters/fishermen were nowhere to be seen.  I had only been gone about three and a half hours.

Feeling rather satisfied with myself, I decided to drive on southward, and explore by truck the area of the WMA north of the Wade-Vancleave Bridge, where I had originally intended to go that day.  Crossing the Pascagoula over Cumbest Bridge, I found the road into the WMA with little difficulty.  Luckily, it was not flooded, as the Google Earth images had led me to fear.  I found myself in some very nice bottomland forest, very similar to that in the north of the WMA, around Hutson Lake.

 View of the bottomland from the road.

I drove roughly 2 1/2 miles past several lakes and sloughs:  Brewton Lake, Sandy Slough, Tucker Lake, Boggy Slough, Fletcher Lake, and Cane Lake, until I saw the River through the trees.  I continued on to the road's end, at unfortunately-named, small, and very still Lice Lake.

 Perhaps in naming this lake, someone had wished to discourage visitors.  If so, I imagine "Mange Lake" or "Lake Typhus" might have been more effective.

 As it was, I experienced only vague unease at Lice Lake, and no itching.

 I did not touch the water, though.

 A foot path continues beyond Lice Lake.  I hope to trek it in the coming year; less than a mile away lies massive John Goff Slough, an isolated slab of bottomland and swamp forest.

On the drive back, I turned off the main road to look at a couple of the lakes and sloughs I'd passed on the way in.

 A number of cypresses here sported a vivid pink covering of lichen.  My camera photo honestly does not do it justice.

Sandy Slough.

One road followed really beautiful Sandy Slough towards Brewton Lake.  Driving along, leaning out the window, trying to scan the canopy and not slide off the road into the swamp, I suddenly slammed on the brakes (only afterwards checking the rear-view mirror for other traffic):  a huge cavity, some twenty feet up in a tupelo near the road had caught my eye.  I parked the truck right there in the middle of the road and hauled out my camera and binoculars.

This cavity was unlike all the many others I'd seen that day, in that it was oblong, and not more circular.  I believe it is a natural cavity that has been hollowed out.

 This is easily one of the biggest cavities in a live tree that I have ever seen.  Scrutiny of the surrounding trees yielded no traces of woodpecker work, aside from a low snag near the opposite shore; I could draw nothing conclusive.

It was by then well after noon (Central Standard Time).  I gave Brewton Lake a quick glance, and headed back to paved road to begin the long drive home.

Conclusions:  It is difficult for me to explain the feeling of exhilaration when exploring promising new habitat, and everywhere I went that day qualified as such.  I saw no scaling on live trees in either the Cypress Creek area or the forest farther south, and heard no kents or double-knocks; I should add that while floating Cypress Creek, I was afforded long periods of quiet in which to listen to the sounds of the forest, free from the usual noise of my passage.  But I cannot overstate the quality of this habitat -- the thought that "If there aren't Ivorybills here, there should be" ran regularly through my mind.  

The next few weeks will find me busy with work, and the holidays, and dreaming of dark waters, great trees, and what could (and ought to) be.

The Unfathomed: Big Swamp and Big Lake, 22 November 2015

IBWOH's:  Brian Carlisle, Chris Carlisle.

Summary:  I'll be honest:  sometimes I study the Google Earth views of the Pascagoula Basin with much the same level of scrutiny I studied Christmas toy catalogs as a kid.  I see woods and lakes and creeks I have not yet explored, I look for points of access, I wonder about the movement of waters.  Often, the reality is different than Google Earth would indicate; and sometimes I find myself standing bewildered in deep woods weeks or months later, wondering why and how my understanding of the Swamp came up short.

In our search for Ivorybills in south Mississippi, we have only walked a fraction of Big Swamp, the area between the Pascagoula River and its tributaries, Red Creek and Black Creek.  Google Earth names a third waterway, Cypress Creek, whose name I have not come across elsewhere.  It is a peculiar stream in that it seems to be a kind of overflow channel of the Pascagoula -- beginning at a southeastward bend of the River, Cypress Creek flows more or less directly south, taking in the flows of both Black Creek and Red Creek from the west before rejoining the Pascagoula roughly eight miles downstream.  On Google Earth, the heavily forested land to the east of Cypress Creek (between it and the Pascagoula River itself) appears a formidable maze of ponds, small lakes, sloughs, and shrinking paths, all far from a paved road, and likely forbidding enough to deter the more easily daunted.  In my latest attempt to understand this place from my desktop computer, I discovered what appeared to be a narrow public road leading through private land to a telltale patch of white on Cypress Creek -- a boat launch in the midst of the Wildlife Management Area (WMA).  The launch, I theorized, could be used as a base on Cypress Creek, allowing exploration by kayak of the labyrinthine swamp nearby.  The only difficulty looked to be in the road itself, which appears flooded on Google Earth; strangely enough, it appeared we would have to kayak a flooded road to access the boat launch, in order to kayak Cypress Creek.

I messaged Brian, who was at work at the time.  He soon shared my interest in the site, and our excitement at the possibilities built, until we finally found ourselves with our kayaks at dawn at the end of the flooded road leading to the launch, in an area much farther south in the Pascagoula Basin than we have yet explored.

It was the coldest morning of the season so far, with temperatures in the low 30's (Fahrenheit).  Strong winds raked Big Swamp under a clear blue sky.  There were other trucks parked back up the road, and we heard the baying of hounds out in the Swamp; but of other human activity there seemed to be none.

Cypress-tupelo swamp along the road.  I believe this is the southernmost end of Red Swamp, so called because of its proximity to Red Creek, a tributary of the Pascagoula.  Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

 The flooded road leading into the WMA.  A beaver crossed it farther up, while we readied the kayaks.  Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

Photo:  Brian Carlisle. 

We decided to leave the truck there, believing no one else would attempt to drive through the tea-colored water.

The flood was only just high enough to allow the kayaks passage, and in places our hulls scraped gravel.  We had a mile to kayak from the truck to the launch on Cypress Creek.

I wore a hunter-orange cap, expecting to find a great increase in deer hunting activity.  Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

Not quite halfway to the launch, the road rose above the cold waters; two trucks were parked nearby.  We decided that apparently we could in fact drive to the launch, so we kayaked back to the truck, loaded up the kayaks again, and Brian drove his truck into the flood.  It wasn't long before I heard the muffler burbling under water, so we decided that in fact we could not drive to the launch, and Brian put the truck in reverse.  This time, we parked off the road to allow easy access for any more resolute travellers.

Kayaking again, we made it back to the parked trucks, portaged the kayaks about a hundred yards, and once again put in, still headed towards Cypress Creek.

Flooded bottomland forest.

What began as youngish cypress-tupelo swamp forest changed to respectable second-growth bottomland forest as we kayaked northeastward, though there were no trees that I saw comparable to those of the Hutson Lake sector, in the north of the WMA.  Presently, the road rose above the flood again, obliging us to portage the remaining hundred yards or so to the Cypress Creek launch.

Several trucks were parked there, along with a couple of buses that had apparently been converted to campers.  A number of hunting dogs greeted us, but there were no humans about.  We set down the kayaks and walked to the creek bank.  My heart sank.

 Cypress Creek, as seen from the boat launch.

What is probably a perfectly tame, slow-moving creek in summertime was now a churning wall of water, foaming about the bent trees along its submerged banks.  The thick woods to the east, which I'd hoped we could kayak at a leisurely pace, looked to me like a flooded Amazon rainforest.  I knew that the current was too strong for us.

Big Swamp won.  Again.

We portaged and kayaked back to the truck.  From there we drove east, across the Pascagoula River along the Wade-Vancleave Road, and then north along River Road.  Our next stop:  Elephant Man Swamp, miles to the north, where we hoped to re-install the game camera upon an especially large tupelo with some intriguing cavities.  Luckily, Brian had on his previous solo trek in the area found a shorter route, so that it should have only been a matter of a hike of less than a mile or two to get the camera set back up.

One may find Peace and Love along River Road.

We parked near the trailhead and hiked the short distance through mature pine forest to Elephant Man Swamp.  As we expected, the bottomland was flooded, so we decided that we would kayak to the tupelo and set up the game cam.  Brian took out the camera, going through the plastic bag I had carefully put it in, along with the instructions, fresh batteries, and the bungee cords which hold the camera in place.

"Where's the memory card?" he asked.

I stared.  "Uh.  Still in the computer at home, probably," I said, stream-of-consciousness-like.  We sat there a minute, chewing on bacon jerky.

"Need a checklist."

"Yeah."

The morning had gotten on somewhat, but we still had some hours to kill.  There are several lakes in that area, and we settled on kayaking Big Lake, which I'd wanted to do for some time.  The area around Big Lake -- which lies north-east across the highway from the Hutson Lake sector -- is difficult to explore on foot, so the lake has remained mostly mysterious to me.  A bit dejected, we drove on northward.

Big Lake is not really an oxbow, like many of its siblings along the Pascagoula; it's more like a kind of lazy " ~ ".  We drove along the WMA road through old, impressive bottomland to the launch on Big Lake, passing an orange-clad old woman glaring at us from beside a travel trailer.  We put in, kayaking into the wind (I would have windburned cheeks and forehead later).  

 Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

 Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

 Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

Nearing the far end of the lake, we continued onward along the stream that fed into it.  Later, Brian would realize that he had hiked this area in a drier month.  Navigation was difficult in places, but we continued to kayak on nearly two miles.

Deer and birds did not seem too threatened by our presence in the stream.  Brian got this shot of a yellow-bellied sapsucker.

Eventually, the stream opened up onto Davis Eddy, a kind of overflow lake along the Pascagoula.  I was amazed at how far through the forest we were able to kayak.  It was now after noon, so we turned around and headed back downstream to Big Lake.

 Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

 Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

 Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

Great egret (lower right).  Photo:  Brian Carlisle.

Conclusions:  The bottomlands of Big Swamp beyond Cypress Creek may have to wait for the dry season, when we will merely have to deal with insects, cottonmouths, and possibly alligators.  So far, although the south of the WMA holds great promise (due in part to its mystery, no doubt), it is in the northern sector that we have found the most impressive, and extensive, habitat.  I hope we can install the game camera somewhere in that area soon.

I feel a bit defeated by Big Swamp.  For all my schemes and efforts, it remains largely enigmatic.  I mulled this while paddling beautiful Big Lake, and I recalled my most recent correspondence from my friend, the artist and poet Dean Hurliman.  Perhaps anticipating a frustrating day like this, Dean wisely passed along the following quote from Henry David Thoreau:

At the same time that we are earnest to explore and learn all things, we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable, that land and sea be infinitely wild, unsurveyed, and unfathomed by us because unfathomable.  We can never have enough of nature... We need to witness our own limits transgressed, and some life pasturing freely where we never wander... There are no larger fields than these, no worthier games than may here be played.

I suppose I will have to let Big Swamp remain mysterious to me... at least, for now.  It is but a piece of a larger field in this worthy game.

A game which should include a freakin' checklist.

The IBWO Has Landed

Yesterday, I came home after work to find a work of art in a very large box on my carport.

The carving is by poet and artist Dean Hurliman of Iowa, with whom I have had the great pleasure of corresponding this autumn.  Dean shares the hope and optimism of many regarding the Ivorybill, and it is reflected in the determined, even defiant look of this carving.

As I grow older I have come to prize most that art which is given to me freely by family members and friends, both of which I am blessed to have in abundance.  Dean, your gift is an honor, as is your friendship, neither of which I could have forseen when I began this endeavor.  It's all a bit humbling, to be honest.

Here's to hope, and faith, and the Quest.

Loose Ends: 3 November 2015

IBWOH:  Chris Carlisle.

Summary:  I made a solo trip back to the Hutson Lake sector of the northern Pascagoula Wildlife Management Area (WMA), walking through the bottomlands along Hollow Man Road.  I also retrieved the game camera my brother Brian had set up in the swamp near the old Elephant Man cypress; lastly, I explored the forest along the far edge of the WMA, on the opposite side of the slough from the titan cypress we call Lord God Tree.

I started out about a half hour after sunrise.  The woods were mostly still and muggy, with temperatures topping out in the low 70's (Fahrenheit) under an overcast sky.  Mosquitoes were out in force.  Woodpecker activity was high; I observed multiple individual flickers, red-headed woodpeckers, red-bellied woodpeckers, and especially pileateds, whose laughter and absurd clucking kept the forest lively all morning.

Not far from Hollow Man, I passed a young man still hunting by one of the elongated fields maintained by the WMA personnel, putting me on edge; I wore no orange.  After retrieving the game camera, I headed northeast, passing through a narrow, heavily wooded strip between Lord God Tree's slough and private property.  I had high hopes for this place, since it encompasses three forest types in a relatively small area:  cypress-tupelo swamp forest, bottomland hardwoods, and mixed pine-hardwood upland forest.  The latter included mature pines, beech, magnolia, and dogwood.  The bottomland hardwood and swamp forest was much younger, however, and dense undergrowth and rising waters made the going difficult in places.  Eventually, after a couple of hundred yards, I came out upon a high hill thick with briars and young pines, the legacy of recent logging, and knew I was on private property and had come too far.  My return hike was much quicker, and I passed the young hunter on the trail, now accompanied by an older gentleman I assumed was his grandfather.  We exchanged pleasantries as we headed in opposite directions; but I am not used to encountering strangers in those woods, and continued on my way feeling a bit unsettled.

The first field one encounters going south on Hollow Man Road.  Behind the line of trees lies the northern part of a slough complex that empties into an eddy south of Hollow Man's lake, which in turn feeds into the Pascagoula River.  I always pause at this field and scan the tree line, hoping to see a flash of black and white wings. 

 Mast:  in this case, acorns of the swamp chestnut oak.

 Typical view along Hollow Man Road.

 View from within the bottomland hardwood forest near Elephant Man Slough.

 Very heavy bark stripping on a baldcypress in Elephant Man Slough.  I have seen and documented several instances of this particular kind of bark stripping, and have yet to find a definitive explanation.  I am almost 100% certain this is not woodpecker work, as I can find no marks upon the sapwood that would indicate bill strikes.  If squirrels are responsible, I would like to know what end:  do they use the strips of bark for nesting material?

 Cypress-tupelo swamp forest near Lord God Tree, thick with young cypresses.

 Lord God Tree himself, as seen from the east.  He seems a shy colossus, difficult to photograph.

I came upon several places in the area of the three forest types that had been ravaged by hogs. 

This cannot be good for the forest.

The slough just below the first field, as photographed on my return hike.

Conclusions:  I heard no kents or double-knocks, and saw no large birds I could not identify.  I will have to wear orange in the woods for the next several months.  The game camera results are inconclusive, so we will set it up again in Elephant Man Slough upon the cavities in question, and leave it for a longer time.  I expect to make only one more search effort during the month of November.

The days are turning colder here in the Deep South, and the waters are rising.  Each season brings new challenges, new opportunities to learn, and new revelations.

I'm thankful to be here.