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September 2006

By Michael T. Dolan

The Creek tribe certainly had it right when it named the eerie expanse of cypress and snake-infested land on the Georgia-Florida border the Okefenokee Swamp – land of the trembling earth. Though the origin of the word draws upon the unsteady nature of the cypress swamp’s floor, I believe something might have been lost in translation. As far as I can tell, Okefenokee should mean land of the trembling knees.

When my brother and I first heard of the Okefenokee Swamp, we knew it held the ultimate experience of manhood. Un-chartered wilderness. Alligators. Snakes. Alligators. Canoes, campfires and compasses. Alligators. Survival knives. Alligators. Tents. Alligators.

Perhaps we were a little over-zealous in our fervor when we decided to tackle the swamp as teenage suburbanites with a less than moderate amount of outdoors experience. So it was that we picked two scorching weeks in July to journey from our safe abode outside Philadelphia to the not-so-safe abode of Georgia’s Okefenokee Swamp.

After a week of driving south along the Appalachian Mountains, we arrived at the swamp the evening before our scheduled embarkation. It was nearing dusk when we decided to stop by the departure dock for a sneak peak. Walking from the parking lot to the dock, we could see boats and canoes lined up around the small inlet. A few boats were just returning from afternoon tours of the swamp and a few tourists strolled the docks.

It was then, looking down at the murky water for the first time, that I met the eyes of an alligator just in front of me in the water.

My heart raced in excitement. We’d only just arrived and what luck to spot a gator so quickly!

Then my brother pointed out another gator nearby.

What luck!

But then we spotted another.

Hmmm.

And another.

I felt our luck beginning to turn.

The longer we canvassed the water, the more eyes we saw protruding from its surface. Excitement quickly turned to apprehension.

The ride to the motel that night was pretty quiet, as was dinner at the local diner.

“So what do you think,” my older brother would occasionally prod, trying to get a sense of my preparedness for the excursion.

What do I think? That swamp is home to some 5,000 alligators and we’re just going to mosey on through it in a tiny canoe!

Fear and nerves kept me silent. I don’t believe either of us got much sleep that night.

The following morning, we arrived at the docking station at 7:00 A.M. to get our instructions from the ranger before we set off on our three-day excursion through the Okefenokee.

Pulling out a rather primitive map, the ranger ran through his well-rehearsed litany of warnings and advice.

“Okay, you’re here,” he said, pointing to the ranger station. “First you wanna go down this canal for an hour or so, then head northwest . . .”

I stopped listening. I couldn’t believe what we were actually about to do. I was used to hiking along trails dotted with those rare trees that have orange or red or yellow markings on them to help guide the way – pinus spray-painticus and abies navigatio. I knew the swamp and its cypress trees would be providing no directional signs for us.

“You’re both experts with a compass, right? Okay, here we go. You need to direct yourself to this 8 x 8 floating dock by 1:00 this afternoon, where you’ll spend the night. We’re gonna have nasty thunderstorms all afternoon for the next few days, so you have to be at your destination as early as possible.”

An 8 x 8 floating dock? I wondered if it was painted with a bull’s-eye or the word “sucker” so that lightening strikes and alligators alike could find us easier.

“Day two, head out at dawn and make it to Floyds Island early in the afternoon. There you can set up camp on the beach. There’s one cabin there, but rattlesnakes like to call it home, so you’re best bet is to just use your tent. Make sure you check for rattlesnakes under the tent before you go to sleep, though, cause they like to hang out under there for shade. Oh, you’ll see sardine cans on the beach too, but ignore those. We’re conducting a study on the black bears.”

Camp on an uninhabited island? Next to rattlesnakes and sardine cans put there specifically to draw black bears? I studied the ranger’s face for some sign that he was joking. Alas, he simply continued.

“Guys, a few pointers before ya leave off. Try not to canoe under any cypress branches. Snakes have a tendency to hang out over the water and drop down into your canoe to hitch a ride. Bees. Hope you guys aren’t allergic to bees. You’ll see beehives two to three feet in diameter throughout the trek. You might wanna stay clear of ‘em. One last word, fellas – keep your hands out of the water.”

With that last line, the ranger smiled. He handed us release forms to sign.

With dry mouths, nervous stomachs, and trembling knees, my brother and I began our journey. We knew we were in trouble when the ranger had to “scoot” a gator away from our canoe just so we could load up our supplies.

Minutes later my brother and I quietly paddled through a tight tributary in the swamp which wasn’t much wider than the length of a canoe. The grunting of alligators hidden in the cypress trees just a few feet away muffled my pounding heartbeat. Accustomed to chirping crickets back in our suburban world, we weren’t prepared for this cacophony of alligators.

It was then that an alligator appeared directly in front of us. Perched in the front of the canoe, I was the spotter. It was a redundant job, for in a swamp with a reptilian density of 5,000 gators, anyone was a spotter. We slowed the canoe and, with little room to paddle around him, sat there and waited for the gator to move.

He remained still.

There was no breeze in the swamp on that still July morning, but something pushed the canoe slowly forward. It inched toward the gator, which lay motionless just two feet in front of us. Just as we were about to meet nose to nose, the creature quietly sunk below the surface.

I held my breath for a strike of retaliation from the gator for intruding upon his sunbathing spot. It never came. Still, our paddles never seemed to break the surface of the water again. We traveled from that point forward paddling in the air, exercising the old scared-of-our-boots paddle-fan method.

The ranger seemed a bit annoyed when we showed back up an hour later to return our rented canoe. For not the first time, I am sure, his speech had been wasted on two ill-informed suburban cowards.

In fairness, I am certain my brother was willing to continue the trek through the Okefenokee. Being a tad bit younger, a tad bit inexperienced, and more than a tad bit chicken-shit, I longed for solid ground.

I’ve since learned that the alligator is actually quite a docile creature. The crocodile, its narrow-nosed and toothier cousin, is a different story, but I didn’t know that distinction at the time. Rather, I saw death in those alligator eyes. Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, would have appreciated our respect and deference for the gator, but he'd have broken what tiny balls we had for knowing so little about the creature's true nature.

The ranger simply shook his head. I’m sure he cursed us as we left the dock, tails tucked between our legs. We just hoped he didn’t see us sneak into the Visitor’s Center video room to watch the National Geographic special on the Okefenokee Swamp.

In the air-conditioned theater, with alligators and other reptiles safe on the screen, our trembling knees began to still themselves.