Swamp Things Chatter unlike anything I’d ever heard.The cute little calls weren’t bugs, toads, or birds.I was standing in a nest of baby alligators!

Swamp Things
By Kurt Z


Chatter unlike anything I’d ever heard.
The cute little calls weren’t bugs, toads, or birds.
I was standing in a nest of baby alligators!
Leopard frogs and crickets couldn’t compete with a cicada’s drone, but they tried.
It was fall in the Green Swamp, over 50,000 acres of Florida’s vital aquifers. Swampy, wild, and untamed. We were camping.
Sweetgum, oak, and “squaw wood” campfires shrouded the canopy of century-old trees, smoldering through the camp shared by Brother Terry, a gent named Jimmy The Fox, and a marksman called The Dini. These reputable sportsmen rolled out of their tents, ready to hunt. Terry hoped I’d whip up his favorite hunt meal: Who-Hash—canned corned beef hash mixed with scrambled eggs, piled high on burnt toast. I couldn’t stomach the smell, so I insisted he do his own cowboy cooking. He fumbled for the flint lighter, sparking the Coleman stove to life. The flame illuminated heavy black stains around the burners, dents and dings telling more stories than I could ever recall—a treasured item indeed. After breakfast, Terry reminded me to grab the “G.A.L.S.”:
Guns. Ammo. License. Snacks.
The campground buzzed with camouflaged hunters awaiting daylight. Some dragged deeply on cigarettes, chattering among themselves. Others looked sleep-deprived and overserved. Old pickup trucks, rifles hung in back windows, coughed and struggled to stay running. (Why do Floridians think they need to warm up a car?) The gates to the management area were about to open, and the positioning began.
The old cattle bridge over the Little Withlacoochee River had no guide rails—just a dozen 2-inch pipes spaced 3 inches apart. Cows wouldn’t cross it; it was barely wide enough for off-road tires. Tannin-stained water flowed swiftly just below, proof the two-year drought was over and the swamp’s watershed was full.
Check station attendants, local volunteers with tobacco chew and thick Southern drawls, were some of the most colorful characters in Florida’s management areas. They checked licenses and handed out permits, rarely eager to share local knowledge with city boys passing through “their” swamp. But you’d do well to slow to their pace—a step faster than a snail—and listen carefully. Otherwise, “pallet fire” might sound like “pilot far.”
The station was a small, sheltered concrete slab with a wash-down hose hanging below a scale. A nightstand held an old gallon pickle jar filled with natural lard—used bacon grease and sugar water—a good ol’ fashioned flytrap brimming with blowflies. Old skulls, antler sheds, turkey feathers, and occasional arrowheads or fossils lay scattered about. The station had replaced 50-gallon barrels for entrails with brain and jaw samples to test for chronic wasting disease, alongside records of sex, weight, antler points, and harvest date. The biggest draw was the progress board—a chalkboard tallying the season’s kills: 23 deer, 65 hogs, and 125 squirrels, signaling room for a few more deer by season’s end.
The bone-jarring 8-mile drive ended at Bull Barn Road. Facing east, it’s 45 miles of Florida wilderness to the next hard road. Stories of lost hunters—some barely escaping, others like the warden who vanished with his truck—lurked in our minds. True or local yarns to guard secret spots? One look across the vastness, and you could believe it.
The half-mile walk to our favorite spot passed quickly, Terry and I silent. Our pace slowed, steps cautious, as we paused to savor daybreak. The sun peeked through tall pines beyond low-growing palmettos, just past our cypress head. Spanish moss draped heavy in scattered old oaks. Small flocks of curlew passed overhead, great herons stood in the shallows, and morning fog framed a scene most Floridians or visitors would never know outside Disney.
Last year’s controlled burn left black slashes across our shins as we traversed new growth. Spiders, geckos, skinks, and small snakes scurried from underfoot. A startled armadillo reared on its hind legs, hopping through the brush like a kangaroo—far from the usual southern speed-bump slump.
Palmetto growth thickened near the swamp’s fringe, a tangle of thorny vines, scrub oak, cabbage palm, and slash pine. Moist black earth, freshly tilled by feral hogs, revealed roots and bulbs—their favorite snack. We split up, planning to slip into the swamp’s core without spooking its inhabitants. Crawling through low wildlife tunnels, the first 10 yards were brutal—2-inch thorns tore at my skin and clothes. Eventually, it gave way to cypress knees and ankle-deep water, revealing the hammock’s heart. I knelt in soft muck, stretching to glimpse a pair of wood ducks spinning nervously in an open pond. With a thrust, they whistled through the shaded canopy, the sun catching the male’s vibrant colors and distinctive hood. Their ripples tickled hyacinth and set water lilies dancing.
My legs sank deeper into the muck. Air pockets from decaying vegetation released heavy gases. The swamp soon resumed its unspoiled rhythm: cardinals chased through underbrush, warblers bobbed nervously, and scrub jays chatted in the treetops before moving on for fallen acorns.
My eyes locked on palms across the pond—something big was feeding in the heavy cover. Terry noticed it too. He savored these moments as much as I did, moving low around the pond’s edge, using foliage for cover. I waded left, where a bottomless pit of muck tested my plan and patience. Water rose to my waist, lilies unperturbed. Cypress knees bumped my shins as I toed across submerged logs, balance and courage waning. Then, an eerie presence froze me. The pond’s ripples stilled. The hair on my neck stood erect. A chirp below wasn’t a bird. A croak behind wasn’t a frog. A squeak from the lilies at my knees wasn’t a bug. Then, in unison, they cried. I shifted, nearly fell, groping for balance. The chatter—unlike anything I’d heard—was baby alligators screaming for help.
My mouth went dry. My knees buckled, stomach knotted. My heart pounded, mind racing. Fear kept me from calling out; my body froze. A submerged log against my leg moved. The “phoby” hit Force 5. Lilies heaved and retreated—once, twice, within arm’s reach. A low growl and nasty hiss broke me. I don’t recall my first steps but imagine I walked on water.
I cried out. Birds scattered. Frogs and minnows fled as my legs churned the pond into white lather. Mud boiled as I neared shore—the scariest moment. Was he behind me, plotting a death roll? At the water’s edge, palmettos exploded with movement. Fronds and branches flew as if trucks plowed through. A white-tailed deer’s flag flashed goodbye.
Terry approached, frowning. Maybe it was the lilies on my head, the mud speckling my pale face, or my shaking like a palm frond in a hurricane. We saw crushed grass where a big alligator had been, but never the gator itself. Later, I learned that during droughts, alligators dig holes that become ponds, attracting fish and birds—their prey. Luckily, I wasn’t the meal.
“Phoby?” Terry asked.
“Force 5 phoby!” I corrected stoutly.  
Phoby, a term Terry and I coined, describes the thrill or fear of our adventures, modeled on the Saffir-Simpson hurricane scale:  

• Cat 1: Hunt prep excitement or seeing a deer cross the road.  
• Cat 2: Spotting a buck from a tree stand or a cockroach on your toothbrush.  
• Cat 3: Prey near, a shot possible but missed, or walking into a spider web at night.  
• Cat 4: Heart-pounding, senses sharpened—facing a deer or finding a snake in your sleeping bag.  
• Cat 5: Rationality falters, physical and mental chaos. Spine-tingling euphoria or terror, like standing in a nest of baby alligators.

Minutes later, a rifle’s report and a cheer signaled another hunter’s victory. We’d pushed a big deer to them. Back at the check station, hunters crowded the scale, blocking our view of the hanging buck. “Weee-doggy! Possible state record!” the warden announced. The crowd roared. The board showed it was the only deer killed that day in the Green Swamp. We stayed in the truck, silent, wet, and disgruntled.
At the river, another hunter’s luck sank—his truck missed the cattle bridge, plunging into the water. Men stood hip-deep, struggling to free it, but it was a job for more than hands. Darkness fell as more joined in. I stood on the bridge, hesitant to wade in, knowing the Green Swamp’s gators spread phoby like no other.

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