I kneel before a gravestone near Thicket, Texas, attempting to absorb the spirit of a legendary forest warrior gone 54 years. “Mr. Big Thicket,” the stone proclaims beneath a photo of a gentle-looking man wearing a felt cap. Longleaf pines were at the center of his battle; now two carved images of the endangered trees protectively cradle his image. This is the last resting place of Lance Rosier, who passed away four years before the Big Thicket National Preserve was signed into being.

It feels tragic that he did not live to see the victory he and so many others fervently fought to achieve for 45 years. I have come with my family to the Big Thicket to discover the magic that two generations of activists saw in this tangled woodland, often called “America's Ark” for its immense biodiversity, as well as to discover how the land is recovering since it came under the stewardship of the National Park Service 50 years ago. While the Big Thicket region originally encompassed more than 3.5 million acres of Southeast Texas, fewer than 300,000 acres of its fabled forests remain. The national preserve protects 113,000 of those acres in nine distinct land units connected by six water corridor units.

Native-born and a self-taught naturalist, Rosier was considered by many people to be the ultimate Big Thicket guide. Now at his gravesite, I ask him to be my guide — to show me the beauty and to parse out the desperate need to save this wild place from annihilation. So, with Rosier's spirit riding shotgun in my heart, I set off to immerse myself in the Big Thicket of East Texas.

The Vanishing Longleaf Kingdom

There was once a deep, great forest stretching over 90 million acres over to Florida and up to Virginia. This forest was ruled by the kings of the region, Pinus palustris, or longleaf pine. The longleaf ecosystem defined the southeastern United States landscape, but has now been reduced to under 5 million acres. Clearcutting, fire suppression and human encroachment have been the biggest culprits. In the Big Thicket, unabated logging commenced in the late 1800s. By 1930, there was no virgin timber left. The primeval forests were gone, never to be seen by my generation or the next.

I meet up with Megan Urban, chief of interpretation and education at Big Thicket National Preserve, to discuss the preserve's conservation work. She reflects on the preserve's legacy and upcoming anniversary: “Given what we see could have happened with the expanding timber [operations], I think in the past 50 years we've done a great job of protecting what we have, realizing the importance of what we have, the uniqueness. It's part of the big American story that we get to learn about.” Urban emphasizes that the preservation and reforestation of the longleaf pine ecosystem is the preserve's greatest conservation achievement to date and will likely be the “legacy we leave behind.”

Longleaf pines are a remarkable ecosystem species. More than 30 endangered and threatened species, including red-cockaded woodpeckers and Louisiana pine snakes, rely on longleaf pines for their habitat. The trees are resilient and long-lived. With their various adaptations, they can withstand severe windstorms, resist pests, and tolerate wildfires and drought. In fact, longleaf pines have a special relationship with fire: They not only survive it but rely on it for survival.

An easy place to view the preserve's reforestation efforts is the Solo Tract next to the visitor center. Periodic fires — historically ignited by lightning, but now in the form of controlled burns — keep the ecosystem healthy while also controlling the overgrowth of shrubs and invasive species. The tract shelters longleaf pines in various stages of growth, and though it may take 200 years to reach old growth status, the process is at least underway and protected.

I take a morning walk, noting the rich birdlife and variety of animal tracks on the old logging road. About midway up the trail I hear a snort and see six white-tailed deer, their white flags bouncing up and down as they bound away. Pink smudges on the ground catch my eye. Bending over to take a closer look, I realize I am looking at dwarf sundew plants, one of four carnivorous plant species growing in the thicket.

Big Thicket Whispers

“Big Thicket whispers to you,” Nathan Pattee, an interpretive ranger, explains to participants of our bloom walk. “It's fleeting; it's temporal. You have to listen. They're small interactions.”

We must look at Big Thicket through different eyes than most other national parks. There are no sweeping vistas; the gifts here are intimate. Plants and creatures from the Appalachian Mountains and eastern coastal forests mingle with those of the desert Southwest and midwestern prairies, while arid sandy ridges stand just feet above murky swamps. The preserve hosts a grand convergence of flora and fauna unique in all of North America and requires close observation to appreciate fully.

Immerse yourself in the Big Thicket
while reading this article! Follow
this QR code to find a Big Thicket soundscape. Additional sounds are available at nps.gov/bith/learn/photosmultimedia/sound-library.htm

The star of this walk along the Pitcher Plant Trail (in the Turkey Creek Unit) is a pale pitcher plant bog, and during our visit the carnivorous plants are in full bloom. Beneath their large, upside-down flowers are the fantastical “pitchers,” ready to trap unwary insects. The Pitcher Plant Trail and other trails along Turkey Creek provide a comprehensive introduction to the Big Thicket. Winding through a prime slope forest down to a swamp harboring gnarly bald cypress trees, the smallest changes in topography and soil result in an ever-changing array of plant communities.

We cross the footbridge over Turkey Creek, passing dark baygalls and sloughs until we reach the desert section of the park. The bottom is heavily shaded, supporting moisture-loving mayapples in the understory. A short rise in elevation later, we emerge into an arid environment, where sand-loving plants, such as yucca, prickly pear and hairy puccoon, survive beneath a sparse cover of longleaf pine and bluejack oak. The sand we are walking on was deposited by ancient seas and streams dating back to the Pleistocene Epoch. Desert plants thrive here despite heavy East Texas rainfall because these old dunes don't hold water. It's a whole new world from the swampland we left behind minutes ago, and I am beginning to comprehend why some call the Big Thicket “America's Ark.”

No Rest For Those Who Care

Other Sanctuaries are part of the mosaic of Big Thicket protected areas. It is our lucky day when we pull up to the Watson Rare Native Plant Preserve, as Pauline Singleton happens to be there. Singleton is the president of the nonprofit organization that looks after the preserve, and she cheerfully takes us on a tour. First up are carnivorous butterwort plants, topped in lavender blooms. Nearby is a spectacular patch of pale pitcher plants and towering royal ferns. Tropical-looking golden clubs nestle in a shady spring.

The preserve's founder, Geraldine Watson, passed away in 2012. Growing up in the region, Watson battled alongside Lance Rosier, Ned Fritz, Maxine Johnston and other environmentalists to establish the Big Thicket National Preserve, later becoming its plant ecologist. It was Watson who defined the diverse biological communities of the region.

She and her family endured a decade of terrible harassment while advocating for establishment of the preserve, and in her 2003 book, Reflections on the Neches, she laments, “Perhaps there is no rest as long as one lives in this world and cares what happens to it and its inhabitants.” Singleton and I discuss the future of the planet, and she offers up a practical contribution that each of us who “cares what happens to it” can make: “I just wish people would set aside a corner of their yard for native plants — you know, a redbud instead of a crepe myrtle, that sort of thing.”

Closer Than We Thought

There are no established trails in the Canyonlands Unit of the preserve, but we are able to enter on an old logging road. The birdsong is loud, with hooded warblers and white-eyed vireos lining the path like parade spectators. The woods are thick, suggesting a primitive jungle.

In Rosier's time, this place was teeming with snakes and birds, including the elusive ivory-billed woodpecker. Black bears, too, once made their home here, although they have long been killed or driven out by overhunting and habitat change.

A bobwhite quail calls to us. Wild turkeys, however, have been silenced, victims of habitat degradation due to heavy logging. Urban mentioned that in addition to repopulating longleaf pine, the National Park Service is working on understory restoration to improve the entire ecosystem for the return of turkeys and other species. “We're actually working on the potential of reintroducing red-cockaded woodpeckers. Through research and studies, we realize that we are closer than we thought we were.”

Logging is still prevalent in the surrounding areas, and as we wander the thicket, there is no shortage of fully loaded timber trucks barreling past us along county roads. Shortly before the Big Thicket National Preserve was signed into being, many timber companies owning land in some of the proposed units embarked on a catastrophic logging spree before relinquishing their tracts. By saw and skidder, the ancient forests intended for preservation were laid waste.

The contrast between the national preserve and the surrounding land is stark in the Lance Rosier Unit, the largest at 24,000 acres, a luxuriant paradise and a fine example of palmetto hardwood flats. We are lured across the so-called “Bridge to Nowhere” over Little Pine Bayou by the sight of a vigorous bottomland teeming with dwarf palmettos. Prothonotary warblers sing as we skirt a willow lined wetland.

As I stand before the Rosier unit's large swamp, the bright spring leaves of water tupelo and bald cypress reflect in its still water. Jack-in-the-pulpits and three-lobed violets adorn the banks. It takes no effort to comprehend the grief that Rosier, Watson and the other activists felt as the forests fell around them.

Hope, Optimism and a Precious Ideal

We head out for an evening farewell stroll along the Pitcher Plant Trail. A sweet scent rests in the air. The pines sing and dance in the soft breeze, while a black swallowtail sallies over the understory. Here, quietly observing, I come to understand that the most important reason to save the Big Thicket differs for every individual. Hikers, birders, anglers, hunters, naturalists, children, people who care about the planet, people who crave solitude and natural beauty, people with cultural connections, creatures that need wide territories or old-growth trees, migratory birds, game species, and all manner of botanical treasures — we all need sanctuaries like the Big Thicket to mitigate the vanishing of our precious wild spaces.

I am stopped in my tracks by a flurry of American holly blossoms falling like snow around us. It is a magical experience that continues unabated, and soon the blossoms are adorning our hair and carpeting the ground. This is followed by a chorus of coyote calls. Then I hear it, the lonesome voice of a barred owl at trail's end — just a deep, singular note riding the air of twilight.

I am standing near the very spot where ranger Pattee had remarked on our first day, “The story of the Big Thicket is one of hope and optimism, and of the ideals of the National Park Service.” Indeed, it very much is.

Carnivorous Plants of the Big Thicket

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