Where the crawdads live

Pamela Wade explores the hauntingly beautiful wetlands of Atchafalaya with guides who – thankfully – keep a close eye on the swampy waters.

Living in Middle Earth, we know better than most how movie locations work. No matter how meticulously the writer of an original text describes the setting, when the producers come along, there are other factors at play besides geographical authenticity.

So Australia’s latest Mad Max was filmed in Namibia, the Vietnam jungle in Full Metal Jacket was actually beside the Thames, Chicago took place in Toronto.

But for the latest novel adaptation, Where The Crawdads Sing, the hauntingly beautiful wetlands that deserve equal billing with star Daisy EdgarJones are almost genuine.

Author Delia Owens set her story in North Carolina, but filming took place just five states over, in Louisiana. The northern shores of Lake Pontchartrain supply the locations for main character Kya’s solitary existence; but to experience that same environment with added extras, nearby Atchafalaya is the place to go.

Sited conveniently alongside the I-10 highway, halfway between Lafayette and Baton Rouge, this forested wetland and swamp, leading to a river delta, totals 5700m2, and is the largest such habitat in the United States.

It is crossed by the impressive 29km Atchafalaya Basin Bridge, and it was at the welcome centre beside those twin carriageways that I met Coerte and Kim Voorhies, father and son guides for my three-hour cruise around the waterways.

Coerte, a classic Southern gentleman with his neat white goatee and waxed-tip moustache, seemed far too refined to make obvious jokes with about Colonel Sanders. A retired geologist with a long experience of the swamp, he set up the tours about 30 years ago. They are now run by Kim, who mirrors his father’s environmental enthusiasm and extensive knowledge.

Explaining that their simple aluminium outboard boat – a larger version of Kya’s – would allow us to creep into parts of the swamp that were off-limits to the fancier airboats used by other operators, they loaded us without fuss before buzzing away under the bridge and out over the still, tannin-dark waters.

Every tour is different, they said, depending on the conditions; we were met by unusually high water levels, thanks to a storm that had passed over. This meant the mud banks where alligators like to sun themselves were mostly underwater.

But we did nose up to one where sharp-eyed Kim had spotted some babies, and we were met by a startlingly big splash as the mother swept them into their nest and disappeared into the water. Creeping gingerly onto the slippery bank, in a vain attempt to flush them out again for us to see, he said in explanation of his caution,

‘‘I once saw a cottonmouth snake on this bank. That’s a graveyard bite right there.’’

Much easier to see were the birds, which were everywhere. The swamp is full of trees, safe sites for nesting and roosting, which are well-used by many species. Stands of big old live oaks draped with silvery shawls of Spanish moss, and gnarled bald cypresses each with a fringe of knobbly knees, are threaded through by bayous, where the calm waters reflect their sculpted shapes.

Many trunks are shattered stumps, having been struck by lightning, a common occurrence, and others show the evidence of early logging. They make the perfect base for the twiggy nests of ospreys where we saw youngsters stretching their wings as they waited for their next feed.

Flocks of flamingo-pink roseate spoonbills made a glorious sight, their doubles in the

glossy water below set off by white cloud reflections between mats of floating hyacinths dotted with purple flowers.

White wood storks, piebald ibis and grey herons, elegant egrets, darting hawks and harriers, and even a disapproving owl, were all easily spotted as we cruised quietly around the swamp, into distant reaches where crawdads (small, freshwater crayfish) lurked in the dark waters.

Kim was impressively good at imitating bird calls, bringing them, curious, close enough to please the photographers on board. A sudden splash made us jump, and a flash of silver validated the netting barrier fitted to the boat: jumping carp, an invasive species, are well-named.

Much cuter were the turtles we saw trailing ripples through the water; less welcome would have been the black bears that live in the forest.

As we floated along, we listened to swamp stories from Coerte, as Kim, tutting, scooped litter from the water, blown in from the distant motorway. It was reassuring that they were so clearly at home in this maze of waterways.

Drifting past isolated and primitive wooden swamp shacks tucked under the trees, we could see that other people were too, though hopefully with backstories less dramatic than Kya’s.