learned how to drain chunks of the swamp to get at the rich eons-old 

 soil that lay beneath the disappearing trees. That's why less than half 

 of the original Dismal is still swampland. The remainder nourishes 

 everything from tobacco to wheat. As the swamp retreated to the slice 

 of the iron plow, so did the number of animals that inhabited the area. 



In 1973, the Union Camp Company, the last major corporation 

 to cut trees in the swamp, donated 49,100 acres of the Dismal to The 

 Nature Conservancy. The U.S. Fish and Wild- 

 life Service agreed to manage the land as a 

 wildlife sanctuary and nature preserve. Union 

 Camp's gift, added to land that the government 

 had purchased in the swamp, created the 

 107,000-acre refuge. 



I'd boned up on this wonderland by read- 

 ing Bland Simpson's The Great Dismal, but 

 I'd never seen the swamp from beyond the 

 highway. George and I feel a tinge of excite- 

 ment. What would we find in this mysterious 

 patch of spongy earth? 



We walk to the counter at Johnnie's to pay 

 our tab. A sign at the cash register announces 

 the owner's philosophy and is an omen of sorts 

 to two strangers in the Great Dismal. "Today's 

 Menu: Two Choices. Take it or leave it." 



Drizzling rain greets us at Arbuckle Land- 

 ing on the Virginia side of the swamp. As we 

 canoe into the Great Dismal Swamp Canal, a 

 flock of geese honks overhead, clipping low- 

 lying clouds, heading east toward the ocean in 

 a near-perfect chevron. Their racket drowns 

 out traffic on U.S. 17, which parallels the 

 canal. As we turn onto the Feeder Ditch a few 

 minutes later, the geese return, making a turn 

 toward Lake Drummond, a good three miles 

 up the ditch. 



The Feeder Ditch was dug in 1812 to 

 provide water for the canal and to simplify 

 travel to Lake Drummond. The 3-mile ditch is 

 about 3 feet deep and shoots straight through 

 the heart of the Great Dismal. It's the only 

 direct route to the lake and to a campsite 

 nearby that hosts about 10,000 visitors a year. 



Overhead, a large blue heron lopes out of a high tree and heads up 

 the canal. As we make our way into the swamp, the majestic bird flies 

 a few hundred yards, alights in a tree and waits for us to catch up. It 

 never allows us to paddle closer than 50 yards before taking off again. 



Paddling the ditch is easy, smooth. In less than an hour and a half, 

 we step out of the canoe and onto the Lake Drummond Campground, 

 run by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. The drizzle has subsided, 

 and things aren't as gloomy. 



Abandoned 

 hunting lodge on 

 Lake Drummond 



4 NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 1994 



