Greetings from Congaree National Park

As a record-breaking ice storm headed toward Virginia in early 2026, I packed up and hurried to Florence, South Carolina. The next morning I meandered west along state and county roads to Congaree National Park. I’d seen it on the map and looked it up. Once I learned it was the largest old growth forest in the South, I wanted to visit the park.

Musty, moist air welcomed me as I got out of my car and stood among the majestic trees. I headed toward the visitors’ center.

Little did I know that Congaree, named for a tribe of long displaced Native Americans, had been the secluded home to numerous runaway slaves, bootleggers and their distilleries during Prohibition, and the refuge of hiding criminals. Its density and isolation proved an ideal sanctuary for them all.

Equally fascinating was the pattern of the landscape. The park encompassed an enormous floodplain bordered by the Congaree and Wateree Rivers and criss-crossed by Cedar Creek. Several “guts”, or narrow passages, cut into the park. Together they flooded the park during the winter creating a vast swamp. The courses of the waterways have changed over the centuries, leaving younger woods and newer grassy areas as well as a few ponds in their wake.

A reverence crept over me as I walked down the boardwalk to the edge of the floodplain and along to the swamp. Soaring trees lifted my spirits and invited me into their own solemn place. Their grandeur erased my concerns about life on the outside; their longevity reassured me that life continues beyond us mortals — and our foolishness.

I didn’t see any birds and heard only a few as they hid in the canopy. It was midday in mid-winter after all.

Walking along, I came to a massive bald cypress tree encircled by its knees, then another and another. Grand tupelos thrived at the edges of the swamp. Loblolly pines with their distinctive checkerboard bark stood tall, their long green needles lilting in the breeze and hinting freshness to the air. When loblollies died and lost their bark, their pimpled wood was exposed. How strange it looked!

Occasional fallen trees littered the ground; some piled onto other fallen trees and a few leaned on standing ones. The wet environment devoured them over time, the water shaping mysterious forms. As the different types of trees decayed, their inner colors and texture were subtly revealed, yet their stories remained inscrutable.

I imagined animals and people abiding among the living and dead trees. What secrets did they hold? Had they known the Congaree or the escaped slaves? I sensed they had lessons for me.

Soon I came upon a long pond; I hoped to see a loon, or beaver, or turtle, but they were holed up in their nests and dens. The fish were hidden beneath the breeze’s gentle chop.

I continued my trek and turned off the boardwalk to a trail on dry land. I passed a nearly vacant campground and spartan staff quarters. I had reentered the realm of human habitation. It intruded into the sacred while the mysteries remained in the swamp. I preferred to remember its intimacy and the obscurities of its ancient, towering inhabitants.

Smiling to myself and immersed in my experience, I walked more slowly to my car and took one more deep breath before entering.

I left Congaree along quiet country roads through younger woods, retired cotton fields, and simple houses in small communities. The peaceful sense of the park remained with me.

Then, before long I had returned to the the busy world.

Sincerely,
Martha