The Legend of I'on Swamp

I awakened with a start … the sweat poured from my brow and my heart pumped violently. It had happened again. The dream. The Swamp Fox dream. Every night, the same thing. Francis Marion stands facing his men … horror written across his face. But it is not his men facing him there in the swamp. Black hoods glistening … fiery red tongues flicking in and out … beady eyes staring … the sound of hissing penetrating the silence of the swamp.

And suddenly, I am awake. Before me, the smiling faces of family. Anticipation of our Swamp Fox Adventure written across happy faces.

But I know the swamp … I know what lurks beneath its black waters. I remember. "Dad, will there be snakes?" "Do we need insect repellent?" "Whew, I am already hot!""What about alligators?"

I know the swamp. I know how quickly the steaming heat can melt plastic faces … plastic smiles.



And reveal what lies just below the surface. Waiting for me.


Single file, we head into the swamp … its darkness enfolds us … wraps its arms around us … starts to unravel us. The smiles were the first to go. Silence embraced us, but for the sounds of hands fanning the still air and shooing away mosquitoes with a thirst for blood. Eyes once shining, now reflecting thoughts of malaria and murder.

                               

I am overcome with with foreboding, darker than the swamp itself. Messages written in the history of the swamp speak to me.



However, for a brief moment … the sun shines once more … thanks to an overturned tree. All aboard! And for the briefest of moments, thought of torture and suffering melt away. It was like finding an albino fawn. We snapped a photo. Rare moments must be preserved for future generations.


                                 

And in the snap of a camera lens, things were back to abnormal as usual.



Denizens of swamp again made their presence known.



Where there should be water … mud holes and innumerable tracks of ferocious, herds of feral hogs.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   

                       

Peeking from behind cypress knees … strange creatures, too hideous to describe.



And then, without warning … gaters … eleven of them to be exact. Little ones to be sure, but mom could not be far away. We scurried away only to see the trail disappear in a dense tangle of tall grasses briars and sweet gums … the perfect scenario for an attack by mama gater.

Pandemonium ensued followed by severe character assassination aligned solely at me.


"Stop it" I screamed. Perhaps I may have slapped a few faces … I can't be sure.  One thing for sure though …

I took control.

I whipped my trusty (perhaps rusty) machete from my pack. Without thought one for my personal safety, I plunged into the thick of it. No thought about cotton mouth moccasins … no care for gaters … poo on feral hogs. The lives of 5 whining, sniveling, crying, complaining, bleeding fellow hikers were in my hands. Their mouths said, "We hate you", but their eyes said, "Save us Bruce, you can do it".

Under my breath, I began to hum, "Swamp Fox Swamp Fox tail on his hat …"












And that is exactly what I did. Save them.




My thanks. The smiles on their faces would be more than enough reward for me.