This article is from the fall 2024 edition of Mobile Baykeeper’s print quarterly, CURRENTS. The magazine is mailed to active members who have given more than $50 in the past year. To get on the magazine’s mailing list, donate here.
by Nick Williams | Photos by Caine O’Rear
Anybody who is familiar with the Mobile-Tensaw Delta knows that it is not a special place. It is many special places, all distinct but complementary to each other, and united by an underlying theme like the courses served at a fine-dining restaurant.
Borders don’t really exist in nature, but for practical purposes many consider the Causeway to be the dividing line between the Bay and the Delta proper. To its south is open water peppered with cruise ships, barges, and shrimp boats. To the north lies mostly marsh habitat. The “dry” ground, such as it is, holds cane-cutter rabbits and a few whistling ducks that perch in scraggly trees. The phragmites hide rails, bitterns, nutria, and, of course, alligators.
A distant treeline hints at a different Delta. Motorists crossing the delta via I-65 can ride almost through the canopy of the Delta’s mixed forests. It’s hard to tell at 70mph, but you’re getting a good sample of tupelo and cypress, with a little oak, maple, hickory, willow, and the occasional sycamore thrown in. The boats you see here are after catfish and crappie instead of speckled trout and redfish, and beneath the canopy feral hogs rustle through the palmettos that make up much of the underbrush.
Millions of motorists see these sides of the Delta every year. But another facet of the gem exists, one that is visible by car, but just barely. During the dry summers, sightseers coming from Mobile can take exit 34 off of I-65 and hang a left. Travel Highway 225 north to the sleepy town of Stockton and take another left onto Highway 59. Drive past the Stockton Presbyterian Church (Baldwin County’s first established Presbyterian Church, chartered in 1847), and over Watson, Halls, Ferris, and Red Hills Creek. Pull over for a sip of cold water from the artesian well at Red Hills Spring, then continue until you see the big, green state-sign pointing the way to the Upper Delta Wildlife Management Area. If the rivers are low and the roads are dry, you’ll soon come to a big gate that leads to what a smaller green sign simply calls “The Swamp.”
Immediately past the gate, the road dips and is lined with cypress knees. But within a few hundred yards the road rises almost imperceptibly, and you will find yourself in a vast and beautiful hardwood forest. Oaks and hickories dominate the landscape, with the familiar tupelos and cypress trees constrained to a few swampy regions.
The understudy is relatively bare, even in the summer, which makes it easier to spot wildlife. Deer become more plentiful here, and if you’re lucky you may catch a glimpse of a turkey dashing across the gravel road that laces through the upper regions. As you cross Globe and Bear Creek, you’ll flush wood ducks, ibises, and limpkins. The latter are newcomers to the Delta, who have expanded their range northwards as temperatures climb.
In the summer, it’s possible to drive for miles through this charming woodland. I’ve taken a Honda Accord almost to the Mobile River when the Swamp Road was dry and in good condition. But in the winter, the floods completely submerge that road, and the only way to travel it is by canoe. Paddlers confident (or maybe foolhardy) enough to brave miles of flooded timber will see deer, hogs, and other wildlife marooned upon narrow strips of high ground along the roadside, and the swamps ring with the squeals of thousands of wintering wood ducks. It’s an incredible experience.
This hardwood habitat makes up a small percentage of the publicly-accessible Delta. There are a little over 90,000 acres of land encompassed by the Mobile-Tensaw Delta and Upper Delta WMAs. Out of that, maybe 10,000 acres is prime hardwood habitat. Not nearly enough in the eyes of myself and many other outdoorsmen, who love nothing more than a cold day beneath the flooded oaks.
Earlier this spring, I was thrilled when The Nature Conservancy announced that they had purchased 8,000 acres of land lying between the Alabama and Tombigbee rivers; prime bottomland habitat. So thrilled that I made a few phone calls so that I could go see it.
Caine O’Rear and I left the McIntosh boat ramp to see the “Land Between the Rivers” under the care of Jason Throneberry, Director of Freshwater Programs for The Nature Conservancy in Alabama. With an M.S. in Biology and more than twelve years of experience in watershed restoration (recently he’s been working with The US Army Corps of Engineers on a project to add fish bypass channels to dams on the Alabama River system), Jason is an important player in the fight to protect and restore one of the most ecologically significant riversheds in the world. To be honest, I was a little nervous to meet a man who, according to his bio, possesses “Rosgen fluvial geomorphology, river stability, and river assessment and monitoring training – Level 1 – 4.”
But my apprehension was soon laid to rest. When we pulled up, Jason was unstrapping a camouflage, center-console jon boat from its trailer. If it wasn’t for the absence of spider-rig rod holders and the presence of a TNC logo on the boat, you could be forgiven for assuming that the man with long hair, a sandy beard, and a working man’s tan was going crappie fishing. An Arkansas native, Jason’s deep appreciation for nature started with days in the deer stand and duck blind, and he can talk about deer rut and duck migrations as easily as he can discuss riparian forest restoration and endemic aquatic species ecology.
“I get some friendly grief from some of the guys at the deer camp,” he admits as we cruise down the Tombigbee. “‘Hey Jason, you still savin’ the world out there?’ they’ll ask. What do you say, you know?” he chuckles. “I guess, yeah … still trying to!”
As we ride, Jason occasionally points out local wildlife or interesting riverbank features. Soaring ospreys and jumping spoonbill cats compete for my attention as he tries to educate me on channel dredging and the effects it has on riverbank erosion. Eventually, we detour off of the Tombigbee and into Hal’s Lake, which runs through the center of the property. Hal’s lake has a colorful bit of local history tied to it. Supposedly, its namesake was an escaped slave, who established “Hal’s Kingdom,” a refuge for other escapees, on its banks. The community subsisted on game and fish, supplemented by the occasional raid on nearby plantations. Legend has it that the kingdom fell when Hal was betrayed by one of his subjects, who led a vigilante group to his hideout.
Jason idles down the big jon, and conversation picks up. As Prothonotary Warblers and Blue Gray Gnatcatchers flit through the willows and oaks, the topics shift from coal ash, to family fish camps, to The Grateful Dead.
We pass several fishing boats anchored up alongside blowdowns.
“What do y’all think they’re fishing for?” Caine asks.
“Hmm … probably bluegill,” Jason replies. “Look there!”
We turn to watch an older fellow in a wide-brimmed sun hat lift up sharply on a long pole, deftly swinging a small, wriggling fish into his hand and then into an ice chest.
“This is a really popular place,” Jason tells us as we exchange a nod and a wave with the angler. “Always folks fishing back up in here.”
“Does it hold any ducks when these willows flood?” I ask.
“Oh gosh, yes! Lots of wood ducks in the winter,” he answers.
We come to a bend in the lake, where Jason eases the boat into the shade and kills the engine. Riding down the river with the wind in our hair, the summer heat was tolerable. But in the backwaters, the air is oppressively still and humid. As we dig cold drinks out of a cooler and watch gar drift below the muddy waters’ surface, Jason explains how The Nature Conservancy acquired this property.
It’s a bit of an odd tale. The property, owned by Mobile River Sawmill Division LLC, went up for sale. Rumor has it that among the prospective buyers was a European company that wanted to convert the hardwoods we were admiring into pellet stove fuel. Pellet stoves are often billed as an eco-friendly heating source, but I’m skeptical as I stare out at the Delta forest. (As an aside, after learning about the potential impacts of a graphite mining project on the Coosa River, I’m somewhat less enthusiastic about lithium batteries as an alternative to gas engines.)
A foreign entity purchasing this tract would not have been odd, since Alabama ranks among the top states in the nation for out-of-state and out-of-country land ownership. Instead, luckily, the land was sold to The Nature Conservancy, who bought the property with (this is the odd part) funds partially provided by the Holdfast Collective.
The Holdfast Collective, for those unfamiliar, was created in 2022 when Yvon Chouinard (best known for founding the outdoor lifestyle clothing company Patagonia, but more interestingly known as a rock climber, falconer, and fly fisherman) transferred ownership of Patagonia to ensure that all profits would go towards combating climate change and protecting undeveloped lands worldwide. This move was part of Chouinard’s broader vision to use Patagonia as a force for environmental good, reflecting his lifelong commitment to conservation and sustainable business practices.
Patagonia was one of several financiers involved in the purchase, contributing $5.2 million towards the acquisition of a piece of what is increasingly being recognized as, in Jason’s words, “The most important place in the universe when it comes to freshwater conservation.” While it may seem odd for a West-Coast clothing company to take an interest in an Alabama swamp, no matter how diverse it is, it’s worth noting that Yvon’s wife’s (Malinda Pennoyer) family originates from the Gulf Coast area.
After a half-hour of note-jotting and picture taking, Jason fires up the outboard and begins the journey back to the ramp. As we rode, I digested what I’d learned, and ruminated on the future of the tract.
As an amateur conservationist, I’m thrilled that such a large tract of special habitat was preserved. As a hunter, well, I won’t lie. I’d be thrilled if I could chase deer and ducks on the property at some point in the future. I’ve hunted a good bit of land that TNC transferred over to the Forever Wild Land Trust. I’ve spent a lot of spring mornings listening to turkeys on the Splinter Hill Tract, which in addition to offering good deer and turkey hunting also offers wildlife photographers, cyclists, and hikers chances to view rare and beautiful pitcher plants in the spring. I’ve also dragged a few feral hogs off of the nearby Red Hills Tract, which hides the endemic Red Hills Salamander in its surprisingly steep topography.
Ultimately, though, what I really hope is that what I’ve seen today continues to happen. I want to see more Arkansas duck hunters turned fisheries biologists. More private landowners who would rather sell to conservation-minded organizations instead of profit-focused ones. More business owners focused on preserving instead of exploiting resources. In an increasingly tribal world, where “environmentalists” and “conservationists” don’t necessarily see each other as allies, it’s nice to imagine that one day, a boat full of Deep South duck hunters in Mossy Oak Bottomlands might get to enjoy a day in the woods courtesy of profit margins derived from the sales of what they would consider to be “yuppie” clothes.
