_l_ his is the best 

 thing F ve ever done 

 in my life as a scien- 

 tist. That we here at 

 Arkansas could have 

 contributed somehow 

 to the preservation of 

 this important place 

 makes me very 

 happy. 



David Stahle, 

 dendrochronologist, 

 U niversity of 

 Arkansas at 

 Fayette ville 



A good 30 river miles south, I am 

 preparing to introduce the Black to a 

 few new friends. We are a dozen miles 

 downriver from Jackie Landing and a 

 couple of miles from Ivanhoe, but it is 

 still familiar territory. My father helps 

 us unload two kayaks and two canoes 

 beneath the state road that crosses the 

 river at Beatty's Bridge. In my mind, I 

 recall the voices of children and teen- 

 agers swimming here on a hundred 

 summer Sundays. I hear my oldest 

 brother Fil assuring me that our 

 splashing will keep the cottonmouths 

 at a distance. And I remember Rich- 

 ard, my other brother, diving from the 

 bridge into the water, sacrificing three 

 of his permanent front teeth to the 

 concrete guard rail. 



This favored swimming hole 

 made the big screen in 1991, when a 

 sweaty, sultry Laura Dern slinked 

 across the bridge on her way to the 

 nearby Corbett mansion in the movie 

 "Rambling Rose." 



It is warm enough for mosquitoes 

 and moccasins, but today is merely 

 Jan. 6. The snakes are asleep beneath 

 stumps and logs. If they knew of the 

 70-degree forecast for tomorrow, they 

 might sneak out for a sunbath. 



Richard Cecelski has led 30 trips 

 on this stretch of the Black, mostly 

 during his days as an educator with the 

 N.C. Aquarium at Ft. Fisher. Along 

 with his brother and dog Amber, 

 Cecelski enthusiastically agreed to 

 help us chart the narrows of the 

 old-growth cypress swamp. My other 

 companions, science educators from 

 Raleigh and a Beaufort photographer, 

 are new to the Black. As we paddle 

 west around the bend that is the turn- 

 around point for most water-skiers, I 

 too slip into virgin territory. 



At normal water, the river is as 

 broad as 500 feet in some spots. But 

 we are headed toward the "narrows," 

 where the river's flow leaves the chan- 

 nel and seems to disappear in the cy- 

 press swamp. By the next morning, 

 when we leave our camp at Squalling 

 Bluff about five miles downstream, 



we'll know why early settlers called 

 this the Stumpy River. In spots, the 

 channel is only as wide as the length of 

 our canoes, and we dart among fallen 

 trees and duck low-hanging limbs. 



The bone-gray woods are striking 

 in winter. Resurrection fern — in a 

 cycle of shrinking and hydrating — 

 clings green to bare tree boughs; 

 clumps of pearl-berried mistletoe hang 

 on branches high and low. Occasional 

 pines and the mossy crowns of cypress 

 knees — the trees' aerial roots — also 

 infuse color. 



When the wind is still, the river's 

 reflective quality can induce vertigo in 

 the steadiest of paddlers. It's as if you 

 could fall overboard into the sky. The 

 molasses-colored water derives its hue 

 from dissolved organic matter and tan- 

 nic acid, giving the Black its name. 



On our first day, the mirrored sur- 

 face is seldom disturbed. We are sur- 

 prised only once, as we see and feel a 

 front push through the treetops and 

 dissipate like a ghost upstream. A 

 red-shouldered hawk cuts a soft circle 

 overhead. 



As we near the spot on which 

 we'll pitch our tents for the night, two 

 Clinton fishermen anchored near the 

 bluff show off their prizes — a shim- 

 mering, jade-colored crappie, a popular 

 winter fish, and a redfin trout or rac- 

 coon perch, so named for its brown and 

 white stripes. The Black is also 

 well-known for its abundant sunfish. 



The east bank of the river here is 

 known as Cone's Folly after the 

 Greensboro family that owns the land. 

 It is hard to believe that anyone could 

 consider this purchase an unwise ven- 

 ture. But it was frequently flooded terri- 

 tory, and logging was certainly hin- 

 dered. As the channel shrinks east of 

 Three Sisters Swamp about a mile 

 downstream, the cypress were even 

 more elusive. The geography of the 

 river made it difficult to navigate and to 

 float logs downstream. 



"Those areas are more remote and 

 less vulnerable to the ax," says 

 Cecelski. "That, probably more than 



anything else, saved those trees from 

 being cut." 



Cecelski also notes that there was 

 more money to be made from resources 

 of the prolific longleaf pines on the 

 upper Black. Unlike lumber, the valu- 

 able tar, pitch and turpentine products 

 could be transported through the nar- 

 rows in smaller vessels. 



There was also a notion — per- 

 ceived if not real — that many of these 

 cypresses were defective timber. There 

 are "shakes" and twists and burls in the 

 wood. And many of the ancient trees 

 are hollow. They also are not very 

 large, says Stahle, noting that the cy- 

 presses' longevity was achieved under 

 adverse conditions. 



"This is a starved-out blackwater 

 system with low nutrients," he says. 



The trees became as big as they are 



Continued 



COASTWATCH 7 



