by Tim Homan
Spring 1975, my first canoe trip in the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge. I had signed up for a Sierra Club trip to the swamp, an introductory one-nighter from Steven C. Foster State Park to the designated campsite on Cravens Hammock. Our group of five would begin paddling at the park well within the western boundary of the refuge. Our three canoes would glide half the length of Billys Lake, follow the Suwannee River to the dredged canal butted up beside the Suwannee River Sill, a long and low earthen dam. We would turn right onto the canal and head north beside the sill, then follow the North Fork Suwannee River to Cravens Hammock. Ten and a half miles out, the same distance right back in: simple, nearly impossible to become lost, the swamp water deep and tea dark all the way.
After supper back at camp, we went for a longer walk, this time along the narrow canal leading to the open water of Billys Lake. Dusk and the daily blood quest of the mosquitos had already eased out of the surrounding swamp forest by the time we reached the boat basin. A functionally full moon one night before full round cleared the eastern tree line as we reached the parking-lot end of the pavement and our turn-around point.
Almost immediately after we began our backtrack, we spotted what looked like the black silhouette of a head with prominent ears sticking up and somewhat outward to a pair of rounded points. Whatever it was seemed to be standing atop a deadfall log about 10 to 12 feet into the forest diagonally to the left across the canal. My first and only verbalized guess: if it isn't an oddly shaped stump, it might be a cat-eared owl, a great horned, perched on the log.
I ran back to camp and fetched a powerful flashlight. The eared silhouette was still there, hadn't moved a muscle, so I took aim. I thought I was going to light up a Great Horned Owl, but my second surprise of the day was staring right back at me: a good-sized bobcat, calm and confident of his safety across the canal. My first bobcat was sitting behind the deadfall so that just a short portion of its underside torso, neck, and head showed above the log. I never dreamt my first Lynx rufus sighting would be so easy and so close, maybe only 45 to 50 feet away after we walked down to the water's edge.
The wildcat's ears were cupped directly toward us, listening as intently as we were looking. We plainly saw its greenish-yellow eyeshine and the distinctive cheek ruffs that both widened and lengthened his face. The rounded, bottom-most fringe of his split beard hung down below his white chin to either side of his jawline. We turned off the light to give him an opportunity to pad silently away into the moonlit darkness further in the forest. After what felt like five mosquito-pestered minutes, but was probably closer to three, we shined the light again. He was still right there behind the log. We reveled in one more good long look before clicking off the light.
The next morning the five of us loaded our canoes and set off for Cravens Hammock. The swamp water flowed wide and slow, deep and dark, through the 3-mile stretch of the Suwannee known as the narrows. Slender cypress and tupelo stood shin deep in the blackwater. No knees broke the surface. Alligators, a few in the 7- to 8-foot range, lay like corrugated logs along the earthen edges of the sill, basking in the bright sunlight. Wading birds, including the first-year white phase of the Little Blue Heron, became more common as we canoed up the North Fork.
At camp, we pitched tents, took a walk on the former logging tramway, ate simple suppers, then started a fire as the day dimmed to early dusk. About an hour past full-moon dark, after we had rim-rolled our upended log rounds closer to the flames, we heard a splashing in the water to the right of the dock. The sound was far louder and more prolonged than the quick swirls of bass rising to the surface on the hunt.
We stopped talking, spun around on our seats, and watched as the largest alligator of the weekend-head long and heavy through the jaw-hinge, body powerfully thick-slowly finished coming ashore, the tail's two rows of serrated ridges stretching out its length to around 8 and a half feet. The gator paused for a few moments after gaining dry ground, then started rumbling forward with slow but steady reptilian strides directly toward our position. We stood up and awaited instructions from the incoming alligator. The big crocodilian's course did not waver; it continued straight ahead on the tram, its trajectory right toward the fire.
All five of us scattered into the dark forest and out into a Pleistocene night audibly humming, almost vibrating, with the maddening blood need of mosquitos. We crept back toward the firelight, curious hunter-gatherers, and watched as the gator passed to the left of the flames. The alligator looked larger, more alien and ancient and other, in the firelight. The giant reptile made a half-loop detour around the fire, only 4 feet to the side of the flickering flames. He was unfazed by the heat and light and his proximity to danger.
The male gator (1) worked his way between two seats then split the wider gap between two tents. We filled in behind the big crocodilian's swaying dinosaur tail to follow his progress away from camp. The alligator continued to travel with steadfast purpose right down the raised single-track of the former tramway. We followed the gator's darkening form with our eyes until it dissolved into the blacker night of the hammock's interior.
Right after Thanksgiving, 1992. Five of us-Steve, Ralph and Deb, Page and I-paddled three canoes around the long, often narrow route in the northern half of the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge: a four night-five day, 46-mile loop beginning and ending at Kingfisher Landing along the northeastern perimeter of the swamp. Off to a sluggish start on day three, we paddled down the wide blackwater run of the Suwannee's Middle Fork-a beautiful stretch known as Big Water-to the south through a forest of cypress, tupelo, and bay, the branches of the cypress bearded with Spanish moss waving softly in the wind. We turned left into the canal that skirts the southern fringe of Floyds Island Prairie before bending toward the island and its old hunt-camp cabin. We carted the first load of dry bags and assorted other gear to the large rustic cabin and went inside for a look around.
A sheet of paper laminated against the chewing of mice was tacked to the wall above the mantle. A black-and-white photocopy of a well-drawn bobcat caught and held our attention. Below the stub-tailed cat a capitalized command: ATTENTION. Below the command, two blurbs:
A bobcat frequents this area. Please do not encourage its presence by discarding any food scraps around the cabin and do not try to feed it.
The less fearful it becomes of man, the greater the possibility of having to remove this bobcat. We see this as an excellent opportunity for you to view this beautiful, secretive animal. Do not ruin this experience for others that follow by trying to tame the wild.
We cooked and ate supper at the picnic table near the fire ring. After dusk had filled in around the cabin, we gathered around the fire and began drinking our nightly rations of wine, beer, and amber hooch. About a half hour after we sat down, short-day dark now, Steve said, "Tim, look over your right shoulder." I replied, "You're trying to make me think there's a bobcat back there, aren't you?" He didn't say another word. I looked around at their four faces for the tell. They were all still, lips slightly parted, eyes wide and laser focused at a point diagonally back and to the right from my right shoulder. I torqued my torso and looked behind me … right into the eyes of a bobcat looking right back at me. No one had observed the newcomer bobcat enter the circle of the campfire's second-hand sunlight.
At the darkening edge of firelight, about two stretched out strides away, a large bobcat sat quiet and still. He was close enough that I could see his pointed ear tufts. The sixth mammal at the campfire looked quite large from my on-the-ground vantage point. This felid was definitely big for its breed, so it was probably a male, a big tom bob with long legs and big paws compared to a male housecat. Early on I glanced back at his unmoving presence every minute or two, a visual pinch to verify that a big male bobcat really was sitting close behind me while I sat next to a campfire and listened to Barred Owls hooting out their persistent, eight-note culinary questions. After all, sharing a campfire in the close company of a ruff-faced wildcat was a serendipitous present none of us had ever considered a possibility. As far as I could tell, he calmly and patiently sat in the same place, still but no doubt watchful. He was probably waiting for one of us to toss him a chunk of meat. But we had no intention of further taming the wild.
Later, as we let the fire ebb to pulsing orange coals, the obligate carnivore turned into an inanimate black silhouette, the exquisite grayish-brown camouflage coloring gone from his coat. I obviously forgot about him as our heads nodded toward sleep and the talk occasionally sagged to silence. Shortly after nine I stood up slowly for the inevitable trip to the bushes. I took a single short step away from the fire in the wrong direction. I was immediately and harshly reprimanded for my mistake. The fireside feline gave wild voice to the Okefenokee night, a loud and emphatic yowl: a drawn out one-word imperative sentence easily understood. Stop! I had entered his personal space on his territory. I backed up, turned around, and crossed to the other side of the fire ring. I came back the same way and apologized for my indiscretion before sitting back down on the ground.
We added fuel to the fire a final time, so we could see the bobcat again before heading to our bedroom tents. This time I made sure to walk away from our local landlord. No one saw him again, either late at night or during early dawn.
We had kept very close company and shared a campfire with the wildcat for perhaps two and a half hours, a gift of grace that still brings smiles to our faces all these years later.
Page and I have paddled back to Floyds Island and its cabin six times since 1992 and have never seen a bobcat again. The last time we camped on the front porch of the cabin, mid-December of 2018, the bobcat memo was still there, tacked up on the wall opposite the fireplace.
(End of Part 1; to be continued next week)
1. Male alligators grow substantially longer and heavier than females. Mature males can be readily identified by their noticeably large jowls, which are significantly larger than those of mature females of the same length. Today, male alligators attain the maximum length of approximately 14 feet 6 inches; females top out at around 9 feet. The longest documented lengths for the American alligator in recent history are between 14 and 15 feet.
