Fontainebleau State Park was once a sugar plantation. Located on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain the park attracts picnickers, campers, hikers, kayakers, cyclists and in warmer weather swimmers. We visited on the last day of January.
As we pulled into the campground, Joe rolled the van window down and said, “Can you hear that? Something’s wrong with the engine.”
Without a hint of worry in my voice, I said, “The engine’s fine. That noise is tree frogs.”
“I’ve never heard frogs sound like that.”
Neither had I. A chorus of frogs, hundreds strong, were thrilling a five-note scale in overlapping rounds, completely saturating the air with sound. I wasn’t sure if the frogs were a welcoming committee or just delighted by the recent rains. Earlier in the afternoon when we crossed into Louisiana, we noticed the Bayou State looked like it was trying not to drown. Overflowing rivers encroached on roadways, immersed tree trunks in water, and flooded fields.
The campground loop had the same feel. Some sites were completely underwater. As we looked for our assigned spot, I noticed the air smelled like charred beef. Children, outfitted in rubber boots, ran from site to site as if they’d just been released from an overlong stay indoors.
As Joe parked the van, I was tempted to say, “Let’s move on.” But I’ve learned to wait a beat and see what a place has to offer before rendering judgement. Before we lost the last of the day’s light we decided to go for a stroll. I did my best to encourage Molly to stay out of the mud.
I love weekends in state parks. Families gather around fires to share stories, laughter and meals. Children practice their negotiation skills as they ask for just one more S’more. While retirees, like us, walk their dogs as they look for conversation mates.
When we ambled out of the campground into the day use area, we stumbled upon a grove of live oak trees draped in Spanish moss as if they were dressing for a ball. Oak trees with branches spread out so far, they gave me the impression their job was to hold onto the history of our country. Joe pulled out his camera, but I just stood there and marveled at trees that looked like living works of art. A pair of deer wandered out of the woods and munched their way across the park, without giving us a second glance.
We followed the grove of trees down to the shore of Lake Pontchartrain and walked out onto the pier. An onshore breeze chilled the air and I zipped up my coat. As the sunset we caught a glimpse of New Orleans’ lights on the southern shore. Before dark, we made our back to the campground.
At bedtime a hooting owl took up residence at a nearby campsite. I suspect she was eyeing dogs, ending the evening sitting by the fire with their owners, as if they were on the tonight’s dinner menu. The owl’s hoots were a more welcome sound than the pack of coyotes that howled at four in the morning.
A startling silence, not the sun woke us up in the morning. The tree frogs stopped singing. An unexpected dose of quietness filled the campground.
We spent the day walking around every paved surface in the park. Each trail we tried to hike was clogged in mud. I’ve learned a lesson or two over the years and know muddy paws and a shared sleeping space is a recipe for at least one unhappy camper.
As we roamed, we watched a couple setup white folding chairs for an afternoon wedding under a live oak tree, while their photographer searched for a spot with perfect lighting. The afternoon sunshine warmed up the day, but the frogs opted not to sing. Fontainebleau was first state park we visited this winter inhabited by more local residents than out-of-state visitors. Yet, I’m glad we stayed.
