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Wanda and I met in New Orleans back in 1972, where we spent the first two years of our relationship. Across the river, at the very end of Barataria Boulevard, is the sublime Jean Lafitte National Park.
There are three wonderful trails in the park. One is a path along the bank of a bayou. Another is a long boardwalk through a Palmetto swamp. The third features a narrow single-plank boardwalk through a cypress swamp. We loved the park and often went there to watch alligators slink through the bayou; gawk at the Spanish moss dripping from the tree limbs; marvel at the huge lush palmettos; and revel in the utter uniqueness of the cypress trees, with their fat bottoms and scores of “knees” surrounding their trunks. Nothing says “the deep South” like cypress.
So, when we took an early morning hike around Glendale Lake and came across a small circle of cypress “knees” supporting a couple of adolescent cypress trees in a low-laying spot, I was a bit surprised, but not completely. I had read about a swamp, formed by the Cache River some 30 miles away, that had some stray cypress trees. A short boardwalk is supposed to take you into the swamp to view the trees. I even had the spot circled in my gazetteer map as a possible stop.
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