Be they Spanish, French, or English, the first colonizers of the incredible coast stretching from Virginia to Louisianne found before them a land of unexpected beauty. They were greeted by towering trees which stood like the columns on a portico alongside numerous, easily accessible waterways that often flooded the surrounding lowcountry to further enrich some incredible soil the likes of which they could only dream of back in fallow Europe. The winters were also quite pleasant, those further south being hardly what one would call a winter except in coastal and southern Spain. Life looked promising, especially in comparison to the deserts which the Spanish found north of Mexico, the extreme vacillation of seasons which the English found in New England, and the Platonic form of winter which the French got schooled by in Quebec. Then, of course, there was the summer...
Even the baking wastes of Extremadura had nothing on a bad summer in this place. Heat worse than that of the tropics, humidity to match, and either torrential rainstorms or an oven-like drought would complete the idea that maybe this new paradise was an illusion. Even the promise of refreshment from the Atlantic seemed far away under the bath-like summer conditions provided for by a generous Gulf Stream. And then, worse than the weather, oh, much, much worse... mosquitoes. Let me tell you a story.
Picture a 30 year old, say, from Northern Ontario. Imagine he is on the botanical thrill ride of his life exploring a region he had not seen since he was a young teenager, about to step into what he considered to be one of the most amazingly underrated national parks anywhere in the world. A cypress swamp, old growth even, awaits him. He sees a sign by the start of the boardwalk which will take him into this emerald cathedral, a sign which has a warning: "Mosquito alert: War-zone". He laughs! What are mosquitoes but annoying insects he has grown up with in the Canadian Shield wilderness. Up there, every June, there are swarms of them, and worse yet, swarms of black flies which seem to block out the sun! These Southerners surely jest, for just as they make this "sawmill gravy" which they consider to be something special even in the face of superior Poutine gravy, surely they wish to think that their mosquitoes are worse than any in the world. So there he goes, walking on, admiring the trees. Then he starts to realize that things are much hotter and stickier than they were back in pleasant Charleston. He swats a few bugs.
And then from the maw of hell itself comes the mother swarm of all mosquitoes!
His friend starts racing back to the safety of the higher ground and the high and dry pines. He himself admits defeat and stares longingly back into the majestic buttresses of a forest that is sometimes on land, sometimes pretty much in water, and for all the tolerance he has thus far given to this beloved land of his, he has found that this is a climate alien to his own native specifications. He has been humbled by Congaree National Park, and by extension, the rest of the lowcountry South. Doubtless to say, many more before him probably were as well. The South was the slowest to find colonial domination by any foreign born people, probably because the reality behind the lushness and beauty naturally occurring here is that of a rather thick climate. Yes, every region does have its ups and downs, so this place is no different really, and the trade offs of vegetation, insanely wonderful length of growing season, etc. are totally worth the price of admission, but it does serve as a potent reminder that as in much of North America, preindustrial existence here took determination and a respect for the living world to be possible. That said, even while June might not be the most comfortable time to visit, it may just be the most fitting, akin to seeing the Mojave during the heat peak in late July.
But hey, what's so special about Congaree, and why do I keep bringing it up? Let's find out in our next full-length post.
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