The smell of scorched wood is still fresh, and a ribbon of orange pine needles winds again through a black carpet of sooty ash, amid mileposts of tall longleaf pines with blackened stalks. Now and again I step over a thick white stripe lying across the trail, the chalk outline of a fallen tree’s final resting place, reminding me of photographs of a crime scene.
This expanse that had been a lush green patch of mesic flatwoods ten months ago has now become a land of desolation, razed by fire. But everywhere there are signs of rebirth.
Scorched earth in the Green SwampI have returned to the east tract of the Green Swamp on the second weekend of March, determined to finally complete my first point-to-point hike through its nearly 14-mile stretch of the Florida Trail, after an aborted attempt not long ago.
I had been here three weeks earlier, one day after a large stretch of the southern half of the east tract had been reopened after a controlled burn. Three miles into my hike on that day, I discovered that the forest had not stopped burning.
An ashen landscapeAs I crossed from a berm beside a cypress swamp through this patch en route to the oak hammock where I had planned to camp, I scrambled among smoldering palmetto and several fallen pine boughs that were still in flames, sending thin smoke signals west toward my campsite.
One particularly large longleaf pine, clearly dead before the fire began, was smoldering and smoking from its roots like a pizza oven, inches from my path. The scene was surreal, like marching through the remains of a village destroyed by war.
Of course, that’s not why I turned back—my negligence in mindlessly forgetting my tent afforded me the pleasure of dashing home to my car, making double-time back through the charred landscape before the sun set, to avoid having to navigate through open forest in the dark with fatigued legs and fading lucidity. But when I returned home that night and saw that the Mott Prairie campsite was available again on a Saturday shortly thereafter, I knew I had to return.
I have been retreating to the Green Swamp now for eleven months, smitten by its plants and animals, seeking my own rebirth while coping with ghosts from the past. It was here that I learned just how healing the serenity of the forest can be, sleeping beneath the live oaks and the longleaf pines on carpets of pine needles and oak leaves, listening to owls echoing each other’s calls while gazing on my back at stars through the transparent mesh of my tent canopy. As my own stability at times seemed to incinerate, the self-reliant pride I gained by learning to persevere through longer and longer hikes carrying thirty pounds on my back to backcountry campsites seemed to restore me.
And now, here, among the smoky ash, the forest was also regenerating. Patches of vibrant grasses were already sprouting from the forest floor. Tiny fans of palmetto were also springing to life, their roots having survived the inferno—some with fronds that had been singed gold by the blaze now having emerald knuckles, like the undyed roots of growing blond-bleached hair. The deeper I hiked into the war zone, the more the scene turned from brown and black to yellow and green.
New life sprouts from charred groundAnd, of course, the majestic longleaf pines were unfazed. Having adapted to fire, they welcome fires that clear the forest floor of competition for their growing saplings. With thick armored bark and boughs elevated high above the forest floor, only the youngest and the already dying succumb to the blaze. The longleaf remain guardians of the landscape, quick to welcome back the songbirds and woodpeckers, then eventually the deer and other wildlife that will soon feast on the growing shrubs and grasses.
After rain returns with regularity in the summer, little will remain to remind us of the catastrophe other than the scorched bark on their trunks. The forest will thrive again, a cacophony of fluttering scrub jays, hammering woodpeckers, and rustling palmetto in an ocean of amber and jade.
So I pause on the trail and take a deep breath, before continuing to the live oaks at my oasis in the ash, knowing that I will once again awaken the next morning to peer through the mesh of my tent past the oak bows, watching another golden sun rise over the crests of these pine trees. I savor the smoky aroma. It is the scent of an outdoor maternity ward.
Taking in the sensory blessings of this hike
- Trail To The Past - September 29, 2026
- Sunrise at Kissimmee Prairie - August 7, 2025
- A Forest is Reborn in the Green Swamp - April 8, 2025