Bogue Chitto Wildlife Refuge, a Louisiana Bayou in Polaroid

“You have arrived.”

Led to the middle of a highway right at the border of Mississippi and Louisiana by a confused maps app.

Swiftly, the destination is changed back to the hotel I left in New Orleans an hour behind me. I was quickly directed to exit 11A Service Road, following a lowrider in chrome and denim blue. Shown one way and told another, I followed the electronic’s voice direction to my right, slowly following the apprehensive truck driver. I was going the wrong direction. “Fuck.”

The truck turned and I continued on, turning around at the end, and was facing the sign of the Bogue Chitto National Wildlife Refuge. A sign not visible from the highway I just came off of, a sign along a road at the bottom of a hill.

Stepping out of a station wagon with Northerner plates, wearing an L.L. Bean dad shirt over yoga shorts with a Saint’s cap and Y2K era Polaroid clutched by soft white nails, I was certainly not from around here and didn’t look prepared for a walk through the trees. Lined up at water’s edge, just past trucks with Mississippi plates, were men fishing in white T-shirts, sturdy denim shorts, and work boots. They looked over curiously, relaxing when it was clear I wasn’t looking to break their quiet on a beautiful, still day.

In the water stands a tree’s sun-bleached remains, alone and stark in its whiteness against glimmering water and the treeline beyond it. A bird perches, a long necked long beaked anhinga, stretching its wings. The lone tree remains in sight as I walk along the dirt path beside the water and still peeks through as the sun does on the walkway over lazily rippling, green tinted bayou waters.

A trill of insects unseen hangs in the still air in constant oscillation. At the observation deck, the dead tree is in clear view; the anhinga stretching its wings once more as it eyes the water. It lunges, slicing into the water’s surface to stalk prey unseen to us. I turn back to the shaded walkway.

The water moves slow, coming seemingly from the body of water, curving around the trees’ broadened base and their protruding knees looking as stakes thrust out of the dirt. The shadows of leaves shift in the breeze. The insects are still calling; a frog joins in at its leisure, name and image unknown to me. The only other sound is my own footfall against wood as I slowly walk back and forth, searching for a glimpse of the creatures singing. These aren’t the same sounds of the New England wetlands. It’s a foreign space and I’m walking alone among bugs and amphibians unseen.

The trees are less comforting; signs of hunting warnings nailed to a tree here and there. A large branch with crisp, brown leaves lies both hidden in the pine needle strewn dirt and in contrast to the green leaves above. I don’t recognize these trees, and the treaded paths fade into least travels spaces before it’s no more.

It’s time to return to the bayou.

The thin, tall trees reflect in the quietly moving waters, dark bars across the surface further obscuring the fishes and others moving around. The cypress trees stand thin, apart and clustered — thin branches nontheless encroaching each others’ personal space. Peering down, down between the trunks and scattered smatterings of green leaves there is more water and more trees. It’s hard to believe a highway runs parallel to this place.

A stop at the viewing platform shows the anhinga has remained on its perch, eyeing the water. It goes still. Slowly, the wings move and shoots into the water with precision. After a moment, two, three — the bird is still underwater and the sun has beat me long before the anhinga’s lungs will be outmatched for the water.

I set back to the trail that led me here. The trees form a barrier between the dirt path and the large pool of water holding the dead tree and, I now observed, a small island of stunted trees far outgrown by the hardwoods surrounding it. I realize there is no true end to this pool - the water threads through the trees into the wetlands. All I am doing is walking along the parallel edge that helps give structure to this place and makes way to forest interrupted by development.

Before getting to my car I see a new truck has arrived with Mississippi plates and a woman finishing up laundry in the truck bed. She waves and I compliment her dress. We chat for a bit. She speaks fondly of her husband, lying a bit always in the grass to take in some sun before they move on. Between houses at the moment, they couch surf and live from their truck. We exchange worries on housing prices and agree on how beautiful the weather is today. Her Mississippi accent is distinct and easy follow once I got used to her cadence and how different her vowels sound from mine. A neighboring state, this woman right on the border of two, and she sounds distinct from the New Orleans generational residents.

But it’s time to return to my friend and I have an hour to drive. I’m not the best with company and feel bad for wanting to get away from someone sweet and friendly, but I’m already sun drunk and the heat is reaching its zenith.

Before returning to the violently rushing highway, I stop at the entrance sign to get a Polaroid with the last of my fouled film. While driving, the exposure slipped out of its dark spot while developing and into the sun, resulting in a red cast clashing with the near cyan flare of the light leak. It looks a relic, reflecting on the 1980 establishment date of the refuge.

I spent more time in my car than in this sliver of Bogue Chitto. It was worth the experience and a welcome balance to the tightness of New Orleans’ mapping.