Swamp Quest - ecology of Bradwell Bay, Apalachicola National Forest, Florida

American Forests, Summer, 2001 by Doug Alderson

Searching for big trees amid mosquitos, bear scat, and water up to your chest.

A Forest Service employee smiled when I told him of my plans to hike into Bradwell Bay. The 24,600-acre wilderness area in North Florida's Apalachicola National Forest features two national co-champion Ogeechee tupelo trees (Nyssa ogeche) along with huge slash pine, pond cypress, and swamp tupelo (Nyssa sylvatica var. biflora). Sometimes it also features wet, swampy, almost impenetrable conditions.

"You're a month too late," he assured me. "You'll be swimming in there."

It was early October 2000 and Tropical Storm Helene had hit two weeks before, eliminating drought conditions in a matter of hours. It hadn't rained since the storm and the weather had been warm and sunny; I was hoping that the floodwaters might have subsided. There was only one way to find out.

As I began negotiating the Florida Trail through pine flatwoods in an effort to traverse the three miles to Bradwell's "big tree area," a huge pile of seed-filled hear scat greeted me after going a scant 20 yards. Bradwell Bay and its adjoining areas are one of the last strongholds of the Florida black bear, a threatened subspecies of the American black bear.

Bear signs are everywhere in Bradwell Bay, from fresh footprints to scat to mauled trees, marked by hears to show territorial boundaries. The bears are shy around humans, however. At least, that was my past experience.

Another key component of Bradwell Bay's welcoming committee is the mosquitoes. In fact, I'd wager that Bradwell Bay on that day had more of the pesky critters per square meter than any place north of the Everglades. As I pushed and climbed my way through countless bleached and charred remains of titi trees--testament to intense wildfires that swept through the upland and wetland fringe areas in the summer of 1998--mosquitoes swarmed over my sweaty skin as if I wore a "bite me" sign around my neck. Long-dormant eggs in the once-dry swamps had hatched after the big storm, and the insects were taking advantage of this new, albeit temporary, warm-blooded addition to the food chain.

At the first little dip in the trail, I encountered my first wet obstacle. The water was dark and I couldn't see the bottom, hut since I had often found this area dry or holding maybe 2 or 3 inches of water in the past, I ventured forth. Water was well past my knees after only a few feet. I stopped and stared at the mirror-like corridor before me.

The mosquitoes whined louder. I waved and blew them out of my nose and eyes. I could deal with mosquitoes, black hears, blow-downs, and, quite often, water moccasins, but I knew that if water were this deep along the swamp's perimeter, it would be chest high in the swamp's heart. In other words, swimming conditions. I turned around. There are some places you just don't venture into during high water. Bradwell Bay is one of them.

As I hiked hack to my car, I didn't feel terribly disappointed. After all, the same impenetrability that kept me out had repelled both turn-of-the-century loggers and intense wildfires. It was the swamp's integral self-defense against threats, and one that keeps out hordes of Sunday strollers as well. Bears probably use the Florida Trail through Bradwell Bay more often than people.

Even during relatively dry periods, Bradwell Bay is a challenge. Stepping into small pools of swamp water only 3 or 4 inches deep can result in sinking down past your knees in black muck. It's not exactly quicksand, but it can still suck off a boot. Then there is the swamp itself, where everything seems like a metaphor for struggle. Countless vines weave death grips around trees. Plants and saplings fight to dose openings made by fallen giants. Shadows seem to devour sunlight.

Everything in Bradwell Bay seems to be choking, swallowing, or crowding something else. A human path through the swamp is carved with a machete, although the resulting trail often seems like a feeble attempt at penetrating the hidden blackwater ponds and the massive jungles of titi, smilax, gallberry, cypress, and gum. Except for the orange blazes, a summer's growth can almost obscure the path.

Besides providing a sense of adventure, the major reward for plunging into Bradwell Bay is simply to admire the trees. Many are massive. Delicate shafts of light often slant through the thick overstory, highlighting bright green moss that has wrapped around swollen buttresses of gum and cypress. Dragonflies flit in the air. Unseen birds sing from high above. And a sweet smell, from a source I can never quite ascertain, seems to permeate this perennially damp green place.

In 1993, two national co-champion Ogeechee tupelo trees were verified in Bradwell Bay by Robert Simons, Daniel Ward, Dale Allen, and Gary Hegg. For a species that rarely exceeds 60 feet in height, the tallest of the champions was about 93 feet with a circumference of almost 14 feet. Two other trees nearby were only slightly smaller. The champion tupelos have immense, gnarled bulbous bases--each with hollow sections. Good places for hobbits, it seems.