No Road to These Trees

Into the hidden swamps of the Altamaha River, Part 1.

Near my home in the valley of the Altamaha River, in its delta with the Ohoopee, a large tract of wild land has remained in private hands. It belongs to a family-owned lumber company based in Savannah. For generations, this land has been used for hunting.

Although the property begins less than a mile from my farm, I never set foot on it.

Then I got lucky.

I met the land manager. One day, Honeybun, as people call him, and his wife, Angie, knocked on my door. A dog had shown up at their home, and they were trying to figure out where he belonged.

Honeybun is an inch or two taller than me, with broad shoulders. His face is tanned from work outdoors. In the year I’ve known him, I can attest to his generosity, his kind-heartedness, his vision of community. Angie is blonde, friendly and capable, someone you’d want on your team, whether it’s chess or trivia. You won’t meet nicer people.

Honeybun offered to show me the property.

When the (nature) writer and my friend Chris Fink visited in early April with his family, I needed a few excursions for them. I texted Honeybun. “Would you take six of us to see the woods?”

“I’d be happy to give you all a tour,” he said.

You, reading this, won’t be able to see this property, not easily. You won’t see these sights from any road. No public trails will take you down among these trees. So I want to open up the photo album and show you the wild coastal plains of the southern U.S., a strange and fantastical place, mysterious and alluring landscape.

We started in the pine uplands in an all-terrain buggy, threading our way along sloughs, headed south to the Altamaha River a few miles away. (The property is thousands of acres.)

Chris Fink is a tree man. When I worked with him last winter at Beloit College, Wisconsin, where he’s a professor, a few times we walked the campus, looking at trees. He knows trees not only by leaf shape, but also by bark and tree form (round, pyramidal, weeping).

Now he was among millions of trees, trying to identify everything he saw. “Is that a beech?” he’d ask me. “River birch? Red maple?”

Some trees I knew, some I didn’t.

Old-growth cypress and tupelo in an oxbow slough.

We rode a long time before we got to the river. We’d stop to hop out and look at things. The sloughs got deeper and richer.

Called blue-eyed grass, really an iris.

Down along the oxbows on this amazing property, cypress trees tower. Bald cypress are often surrounded by knees, thick and tall,

What a strange form of tree, one that produces knees

a great unresolved mystery in botany. An article from the Harvard Arnold Arboretum called cypress knees an “enduring enigma.”

Perhaps the knees assist with aeration or oxygen transfer. Perhaps they are supports—anchors. Perhaps they trap sediment or protect trees from the dynamic energies of moving water,

Old-growth cypress and Ogeechee tupelo.

the element that dominates this territory. Although the water has fallen away now, after weeks without rain, water’s presence is recorded on trunks,

high-level marks stained into the bark by potions of concentrated tannin, like bands of gray-brown light.

Finally, we reached the source of these fluvial energies, the grand old Altamaha,

a sedimentary river that starts in the foothills of the Appalachians, where it goes by other names. Two main rivers come down the state of Georgia—the Ocmulgee and the Oconee—and these converge in rural Telfair County, Georgia to become the Altamaha. From The Forks, as it’s called, the river travels 100 miles to the Atlantic Ocean, where it divides into braids that empty around Darien and Brunswick.

In times of drought, such as we’ve had this spring, large sandbars

When water levels in the river are high, the sandbars are not visible.

become exposed along the Altamaha. With little danger of flash flooding, these bars turn into beaches and camping areas.

Sandbars are cuneiformed with the tracks of egrets, herons, rails, bitterns, and wild turkeys. Increasingly, there are wood storks, white ibis, even roseate spoonbills. A bald eagle has been nesting nearby. The skies can whirl with Mississippi and swallow-tailed kites.

The Finks, birding.

Bird life is rich and satisfying.

So is life with friends,

Here are Breja and Chris Fink under a black willow, a small tree that grows happily along the banks of the river. In early April, the tree is just budding out.

like these

Now that she’s walking, I’d like to take my little tyke back to this place.

Our friend Honeybun loves children. Little Fawn holds a sweet gum ball.

I am honored to be trusted and loved.

After a lovely hour on the sandy banks of the delicious Altamaha, we piled into Honeybun’s buggy and circled slowly back out of the swamp,

past sloughs thick with old trees, past blooming woodbine and wood violets, leaping deer and running turkeys, a field of Atamasco lilies and a barred owl swiveling its head to grimace at us.

That night we dream of diving so deep into blackwater that we emerge into the vast blue sky on the other side.

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I Am Wondering

Is this landscape foreign to you? Or are you intimate with blackwater swamps? Where have you seen one? What wonderful thing has happened to you in one of them?

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Free Copy of Chris Fink Book

I have an extra unsigned hardback copy of Chris’s short story collection Add This To the List of Things That You Are. It is described as “dark and stunning.” Richard Bausch said, “Chris Fink is writing some of the best stories being written today.” I only have one copy, so I can only send this to one person. If you would like it, make a case (in the comments) for it finding a home in your library.

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Last Six Days to Register for My Summer Memoir Course

At a glance, the course is:

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• Wednesdays 1-2 pm Eastern US/Canada Time

• Weekly for 12 weeks

• Twelve 1-hour sessions on writing structure, technique, and craft

• June 3-Aug. 19, 2026

• Live via Zoom, webinar style (chat is open)

• Recorded

• $300 ($355 if you want the course bundled with Craft & Current and more)

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• Access to online extra Office Hours, Coworking Sessions, Q&As, Guest Speakers, Listening Sessions & Critique Groups

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Session dates are June 3 / June 10 / June 17 / June 24 / July 1 / July 8 / July 15 / July 22 / July 29 / Aug. 5 / Aug. 12 / Aug. 19.

An Open Mic Night is currently set for Thursday, Aug. 20, 2026, at 6 pm ET.

It’s important to know that participant numbers are not limited in Memoir Summer. Each of the twelve sessions is webinar-style, designed to save you time. I am the only one speaking. I pack the hour with writing prompts, exercises, good information, advice, inspiration, and challenges. This eliminates “light” activities like introductions or questions that have no bearing on your needs.

You are encouraged to set a goal and commit to a time to write outside course sessions.

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Thank You

Thank you for your continued support of my writing and writing life. I’ll see you back here next Wednesday afternoon. Have a great start of summer.