Now that I’m a Louisianian, I get to explore my bizarre fascination with swamps. I don’t know how it spawned: a young Jersey girl intrigued by murky ecosystems and the movie Swamp Thing. Maybe it started with frequent elementary school trips to the New Jersey Meadowlands, where my class learned of bird-watching, salt marshes and wildlife refuges. Or perhaps it blossomed during college visits to the Great Dismal Swamp in Virginia. Or maybe it’s simply an incongruent cultural interest in bayous, swamps and marshland. Seriously, how many Jersey girls like swamps? Regardless, I never thought I’d have an opportunity to live near bayou country.
The fascination ran so deep that not even two weeks after my husband and I moved here, we set out on an exploratory drive out of New Orleans. He wanted to explore the surrounding areas. I wanted to see swamps, swamp things, river shacks, mystic villages and alligators. So we drove off in our car sporting out-of-state plates, without a map or any forethought as to where we were headed. He’d heard Houma was ripe for sightseeing; I wanted to go somewhere between the Big Easy and Cut Off, almost certain there’d be swampland somewhere between.
There’s no need to continue the story because you probably know how it turned out: We ended up driving for hours through Houma, shady back roads, dozens of oil refineries. And amid my desperate attempts to spot alligators on roadsides and beneath overpasses, somehow we ended up on I-10 just as my cell phone died and restlessness started setting in. In all, it wasn’t a trip worth remembering.
I wish we’d asked someone beforehand where to experience swampland without having to go on an official tour. Ironically, two weeks after our twisted adventure, we had to evacuate to Houston for Gustav, and during the drive out there — a few miles past Baton Rouge — we discovered the Atchafalaya Basin, the largest river swamp in America. The discovery was a nice surprise after our initial dalliance into nowhere.
My eerie interest in swampland has been reignited recently by heightened talk of coastal wetlands restoration, so much that I spent this past weekend at Audubon Zoo’s annual Swamp Fest. Who knew I’d have so much fun in my own backyard?
Although there are hundreds of local festivals devoted to Cajun culture, Swamp Fest was particularly fun because it seamlessly blended Cajun food, music, culture and “swamp things.” Cajun and zydeco bands played onstage throughout the day as people ate crawfish bread; danced the “Cajun jitterbug”; bought Cajun creations and art; and strolled around the swamp exhibit, which showcased various wildlife, demonstrations and white alligators. After experiencing a tribute to swamps, albeit on a small scale, my fascination appears temporarily sated.
If the swamps and wildlife refuges of New Jersey are worth visiting (Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge in Morris Country, Edwin B. Forsythe on the coast), the ethereal ones down here should never disappoint –– as long as they don’t disappear.
