Rebirth

Word spread slowly among those familiar with the place, probably because nobody much wanted to talk about it. When news of the carnage nally reached me, it arrived in whispered tones upon the lips of my fellow hunters, all of us a few drinks deep into banter that only seems to happen around a deer camp repit.

Did you hear what happened? Has anyone been down there?

Surely, they were mistaken. Surely, Smith Lake Swamp had not been ravaged as though it were a monoculture forest of planted pines. Surely, it remained untouched.

Surely.

I’ve been. You don’t want to see it.

So it was true. Flattened and gone, an old growth river bottom of moss-bearded cypress and towering hardwoods now relegated to photographs and memories.

Gut punch.

Farming is a business, I reminded myself. And part of that component is harvesting timber. Such is the reality when it comes to some of the places we fancy o limits, only to learn they’re just as vulnerable as anywhere else. e hard truth is that damned few are safe from the ravages of harvest, development or redesign. Our world is nothing if not a landscape of perpetual transition.

Even Mother Nature is prone to dramatically altering that which man does not. More than 30 years later, I still recall the devastation heaped upon South Carolina’s Lowcountry by Hurricane Hugo.

e Francis Marion National Forest with nary a tree unbroken, most laying down in the same direction and snapped 20 feet above the trunk, as far as the eye could see. e Santee and Great Pee Dee Rivers, where I’d cast streamers to spawning white bass only a few short months before, rendered unnavigable by fallen debris, countless sh oating dead due to oxygen depletion borne of leaf decay. Coastal islands that formerly sheltered freshwater lakes full of iridescent pan sh now buried beneath the salt. All images burned upon my mind by a force no less ruthless than chainsaws and far more e cient. at nothing remains the same is the only certainty in life, the lone variable a matter of methodology. ere’s the turkey hen running full speed with a dozen poults following along in a straight line behind her. ey came and went in but an instant before vanishing into the high grass, an image now frozen in time, a scene I’d have never seen at all had I not been looking in just the right place at precisely that moment. en I lowered my ri e to watch it become invisible.

Yet for nearly two decades, I could leave my o ce and precisely one hour later nd myself parked atop the two-track at the head of Smith Lake Swamp. Supplies might include a ri e or shotgun, snake boots, water and a skinning knife. And always—always— more ammo than I thought I might need. If there were pigs about, sometimes it still wasn’t enough.

I would stalk the soft, sandy road at a snail’s pace, delighted in the wonderment of what I might see along the way. Two miles distant would come a respite, courtesy of an artesian spring that bubbled from the earth before owing into a long, narrow lake, its clear water contrasting with the oxbow’s tannic brown. I would re ll my canteen and enjoy a smoke, poking around the edges of the pool, allowing time for things to settle down before my slow walk back along the same now dimming road that brought me in. If I timed things perfectly, legions of wood ducks would still be zipping through the darkening sky as I walked the last few steps back to my truck under the faint light of a rising moon.

Looking back, what parts of our existence do we truly recall? What gets lost along the way? Children’s recitals. Fishing trips. Four-day weekend escapes. e mundane and the celebratory, all of it enveloped in what becomes the blur of life. But a part of me always knew there was something special about those late afternoon strolls through Smith Lake Swamp. I made a point of trying to pay attention. So that I might always remember.

I once slipped within throwing distance of a whitetail buck, oblivious to my presence thanks to the trickling blackwater stream and rustling cane that covered the sound of my approach. Scoped and mine for the taking, I chose instead to let it walk.

I’ve stepped over pygmy rattlesnakes, leapt across ditches full of baby alligators, and waded through a recently ooded creek bed to rescue a giant cat sh stranded in the pothole of a fallen sycamore. ere were bobcats on the prowl and families of river otters. Quail ushing on higher ground, and enough wading birds to leave the pages of my Peterson’s Field Guide ragged and worn.

Gorgeous and untouched. Perpetually wild and pure. at’s how I chose to remember Smith Lake Swamp. It’s why I never ventured back. Something in me just couldn’t face it again, as though the memories might disappear with the lumber trucks.

Fast forward a decade. No short time to you and me, but the blink of an eye in the natural world. Long enough for me to have learned my recollections cannot be stolen. ere were turkeys here before, perched along the ridge overlooking the vast swamp, and springtime curiosity has nally brought me back. I will spend the morning hunkered down within the thin line of oaks that remains along the outer edge, and it is here that I will await sunrise, dreading to see what horrors daylight may bring.

As the sun peeks over the horizon, my view through the morning mist reveals that Smith Lake Swamp has indeed become something far di erent than the place I remember. But with dawn comes gobbling, booming and closing fast, leaving little time for re ection. Here, I could regale you with details of my morning hunt, but that’s not what this story is all about. A few yelps from my box call brought a pair of gobblers into range and that, as they say, was that. e second bird ed, while the other was soon draped over my shoulder. Seems we’d be taking this walk together.

I found the road still intact, its slope and bends through the swamp identical to before. ere’s more water now, the massive cypress no longer around to soak up excess moisture. It’s di cult to see much from the road due to an impenetrable wall of young gum and tupelo obscuring what was formerly a clear view beneath the lofty canopy. But the animals are still here, and perhaps in larger numbers than before if tracks along the road are any indication. Well-worn game trails are abundant, albeit impassable unless you’re willing to crawl. I won’t be doing that today, but give it a few more years and the trees will again be tall enough for me to hunt these woods standing up.

A careful glance around the next corner reveals a half dozen wood storks wading along the side of the road. A doe and two fawns cross 50 yards ahead. e sound of more gobblers echoes in the distance. Wood ducks catapult from hidden sloughs; I couldn’t sneak up on them then, and I can’t sneak up on them now. And there, where the road comes to an end beside the ancient oxbow, I nd the spring. Still gushing and delicious. Flowing as it always has. is place will never again be what it was. Not in my lifetime, anyway. And probably not ve generations hence. But there are new adventures afoot as the swamp comes back to life. e elbow in the road would make a ne spot for a tower stand. e turkeys and ducks are here in full force. e pigs probably never left. In time, as the hardwoods begin to take over, even the squirrels will return.

All of which remind me…I need to make it back over to the Great Pee Dee sometime. Rumor has it the white bass run is stronger than ever. S

Mike Floyd is editor and associate publisher of Gray’s Sporting Journal. He admits to being a little teary-eyed at rst, but when that big gobbler landed like a lawn dart less than 40 yards away, he set his sentimentality aside. If only for a moment.