Scientist Seeking

At the beginning of the summer I was sure I was supposed to be here. That the swamp had things to teach me, the Universe keeping me in state rather than heading West. I was sure that though I felt movement aching in my soul, I needed to stay. The swamp had something to teach me.

I could perhaps paint you a picture, with enough words you might almost be able to envision a day at Great Dismal. Our waders sloshing through thigh high “swamp tea,” tannin dyed waters swirling with decaying leaves and log debris. Blackberry and Greenbrier’s spiny fingers catching at our clothes. Cattails and Sawgrass towering over my 5’8” frame, while Wool Grass’ fruiting head brushes the top of my head like an anointing. Our steps are careful and slow, so as not to disturb the Bladderworts and St. John’s Marsh. In the drier areas, where mud only reaches our ankles, patches of Sphagnum moss create miniature forests in the shade of the waxing Myrtles, Sweetgums, and Red Maples. 

Oh, the Red Maples. Where the swamp isn’t full sun—dominated by grasses and Virginia chain fern—it is shaded by young Red Maples, Acer rubrum. It’s why we’re here. After a fire, the burn scar began healing, and Red Maples infested the newly opened lands, choking out the Bald Cypress seedlings the refuge wants to repopulate, the original population long decimated by humans.

I stand in the plots we’ve created, 15X15 meter squares, and I send my carbon fiber telescoping pole skyward. Sensors on the pole measure the light coming to the plot and we’ll use some of this data to figure out where to thin Maple stands and plant Bald Cypress, giving them the best chance of growth. 

It’s hot. It’s really hot. Sweat seeps out every pore of my body, in places I forget can sweat. Light measurements have to be taken when the sun is at its zenith, when it is the hottest. I reflect on the odd jobs I’ve had in my life that seemingly have prepared me for this time: when I worked as a costume character in central Florida, when I learned to stand still in the sun for ceremonies with the Coast Guard. Unwittingly, I’ve been training myself for this work. But it’s still miserably hot. 

We’re all so hot, we are silent as we work. There’s a light breeze, and the tall blades of the herbaceous plants around me tickle my neck, one of the few places skin is exposed. Grateful for the whisper of wind, I lean against the pole and remind myself to breathe.

I watch dragonflies dart through the grasses. Listen as our “bumble bros” hover near me—my bug spray smells like bananas and this always confuses them temporarily; but I like being confused for a flower. I hear frogs croak, “gump gump.” Sometimes I think they laugh at us, especially when their little “gumps” follow as one of us falls forward into the swamp. I have observed many things this summer. 

But I leave without a new lesson.

We blaze a new trail back to the car. Our path to this plot is so well worn the mud is giving more; calf high holes now sink us to our thighs. I think about the irony of humanity. How we stir the pot and cause damage then ask, “How do we fix this?” I think about how things get broken before they get fixed, but there’s always a scar. But this isn’t a new clarity. This isn’t a lesson my soul is unfamiliar with. 

I have two days left in the swamp. And my soul feels as muddy and swirly as the water itself. Maybe the time of work does not leave time for reflection leading to lessons. Maybe clarity comes after. When the scientists leave and the swamp returns to itself. Maybe my soul is a swamp thing, just waiting for me to settle.