Mile 75.7 - Louisiana Resources Pipeline

75.7 Louisiana Resources Pipeline

Primitive Camping in the Marshes & Swamps

Camping (and picnicking) in the half-submerged Cypress-Tupelo Gum Swamps and Coastal Marshes of the Atchafalaya River Basin can be very challenging. You might end up on spongy ground with half your camp in water, half on nothing but masses of vegetation held together by interlacing and interlocking roots, tubers and mud. It would be wise to pack a hammock. This could be considered a semi-tropical jungle, after all. It would also be wise to pack an extra tarp or two for extra protection on wet spots. Be sure to set your tent on a tarp for extra protection from below. Other useful items to pack specific to the Atchafalaya include: machete, water filter, small camp stove, mosquito netting, GPS, and as already mentioned: hammock and extra tarp. But like all challenging situations, there are many possible great rewards that accompany life in extreme situations, and the sometimes painful experiences. Below is an excerpt from a wetlands camp in the Wax Lake Delta, which could be similar to camping in the wetlands anywhere below Krotz Spring:

We camped at the junction of an oil pipeline canal and a curvy waterway we have been following which connects the Wax Lake Delta with the Atchafalaya. We are maybe two-thirds of the way back across the coastal wetlands to Morgan City. Swampy marshes surround us as far as the eye can see. There is no dry land to be found, even the solid mass where we are camped is a wet composition of tangled roots, mud and grasses just solid enough to support our weight, erect our tents, and even build a fire. Dry land is a thing of the past. Terra cognita is nowhere to be found. The marsh is a rich mixture of roots, leaves, and sulfurous soil, half of this world, half of another. Like peat moss, it exists somewhere between life and decay. As you move around your footsteps are accompanied by lots of sucking sounds, squishing, gollumping, gollashing sounds. And in the stillness of the pre-morning darkness those wet rubbery sounds seem to be emulated by the frogs, and are punctuated in the sighs and moans of the nutria. The sonic atmosphere rings with wetness of the place. Later after sunrise the swampy symphony comes to a crescendo when the squeaks, whistles and shrieks of various birds, rodents and insects add their voices. And us... what does the guttural bubbling monotone clunking of man’s tongue-speak sound like to the natives of the swampland? Crickets join the morning chorus of grunts, squeaks and squishing noises, like rubber rubbing against rubber. The plaintive cries of the nutria and Mark River adding in his own grunts and moans from his tent to the choir. A lone songbird, a cardinal, makes a burst of song and then falls silent. More sounds resound off the muddy channel: bankside thrashings, something crackling through the bullrushes, some violent splashing, then silence. That was ominous. A gator thrashing a nutria? Frogs make all kinds of sounds, some coughing, some re-running short drum beats of jumbled snatches of snoggles, some grinding their gums and making that squishing rubber sound, a bullfrog bellow, a repeated chirping staccato like a giggling lamb, and then another cardinal. David’s light flashes on in his tent. And then Mark River’s. Mark River can be heard stomping through the crackly bankside mattress of bullrushes, ferns and dried greens. The far-off moan of a boat engine adds an accent. One frog can be heard hiccuping like an amused old man clucking his tongue. The whining of mosquitoes and at least two different kinds of crickets can be heard intertwining their rhythms, clicks, rasps and squeaks, maybe male and female? And then a clan of coyotes far away cries and cries. (John Ruskey)

I step outside my tent and to my surprise the water has risen to a point just below my tent tarp. The night was full of sounds of nature. The swamp filled with yellow rockets came alive as we laid our heads after a long day of paddling. Crawfish fishermen checked their traps deep into the night, as bullfrogs bellowed sounds that resembled yapping dogs. Raccoons fought in the trees, eventually falling to the depth of the swamp, sounding like an unplanned belly flop. A beaver downed a tree in the distance. Various owls hooted in a-cappella as if to be competing for originality. The acoustic campsite entertained throughout the evening. A few raindrops teased me to the point were I left my cozy tent to reassure my fly. The fog clears and the sky opens, as we prepare to pack the canoe for our journey to the gulf. We leave our campsite, which is sliver of land between Bayou Butte and the American Pass. We enter Bayou Big Joe headed to Flat Lake. The cypress trees spanish moss is getting thicker and darker in color. Entering Flat Lake, we noticed a large eagle high in the trees. This is a good sign. Our morality rose to a high level as we start to synchronize our paddle strokes and attack the flat freshwater lake. As we glide across the lake, I notice more bald eagles lining the channel, as if to direct us back to the Atchafalaya River. (Mark River)