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John N. Felsher's Other Adventures
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Jim Nolan, a professional bass angler from Flippin, Ark., shows off a
bass he caught in a flooded swamp full of cypress trees festooned
with Spanish moss.
bass he caught in a flooded swamp full of cypress trees festooned
with Spanish moss.
Probably no other plant more closely epitomizes the Deep South than
Spanish moss. Movies, books, paintings and television programs depicting
the Southern way of life go to great lengths to show stereotypical oak trees
festooned with the wispy gray plant.
Paintings of old plantation houses always portray Spanish moss
dripping from stately trees. Along coastal wetlands, cypress trees draped
in the mysterious gray threads warn intruders not to enter unprepared.
Today, the plant blankets hardwoods across the Deep South from east
Texas to Virginia, although modern urbanization and pollution took a toll on
the delicate plant.
Despite its common familiarity, Spanish moss suffers from an “identity
crisis.” Largely misunderstood, it is neither “Spanish” nor a “moss.” It is an
epiphyte, or air plant with the scientific name of tillandsia usneoides. Of the
family of Bromeliaceae, or a bromeliad, it is closely related to orchids and,
oddly enough, pineapples.
The only species of the pineapple family indigenous to the continental
United States, it attaches itself to tree trunks and branches, especially live
oaks, and hangs in long, gray strands. Slender, threadlike stems can
reach lengths up to six feet. Not usually thought of as a leafy, flowering
plant, it does not root in the soil, preferring to cling to supporting trees. It
does grow small leaves and inconspicuous minuscule yellow flowers. It
even bears a small capsule-like fruit.
Not parasitic, it absorbs necessary moisture directly from the air
through scales in its “stem.” Its presence on the tree does not harm its
host, nor does it compete for food with its host. It gets nothing from the
tree, except a sturdy place to hang around.
To survive, it needs a strong host, sunlight, moisture and clean air.
Like octopus tentacles, it wraps itself around suitable branches and hangs
in the sunlight, absorbing nourishment directly from the air. Therefore, it
cannot tolerate airborne contaminants or cold temperatures. Increasing
pollution and urbanization reduced the abundance of this delicate plant
across much of its range.
One would think that such a hairy plant would host its own swarming
insect populations. Quite the contrary, something about Spanish moss
repels insects, although other small creatures, such as tree frogs, seek
refuge within its protective cocoon. Instead of draining its host of food, it
actually provides a degree of protection from creepy crawly pests that might
damage trees.
Long ago, fishermen, hunters and trappers wrapped themselves in
Spanish moss when mosquitoes became too annoying. Even today,
sporting men and women sometimes drape themselves with Spanish moss
when sitting on a deer stand or in a duck blind. Not only does the moss
protect them from insects, but also provides excellent native camouflage.
Its propensity to repel bugs made Spanish moss fibers an excellent
stuffing material for mattresses and upholstered furniture. Two centuries
ago, insect-borne diseases killed thousands of people in the warm, wet,
semi-tropical wilderness of the Deep South.
Until the early decades of the 20th century, Spanish moss not only
protected people from the ravages of insects, but also from the ravages of
poverty. Commercial moss harvesters operated lucrative enterprises
throughout the once vast swamps and forests of south Louisiana. They
used long poles to pull moss clumps from tall trees. They baled their
“catch” into great heaps and transported them by boat or wagon to
processing gins.
Processing gins turned the gray scaled strands into black fibers similar
to horsehair. These fibers constituted the backbone of a thriving
upholstering industry. Some of the best furniture in stately old homes still
contains this symbol of the South.
Today, with cheap, synthetic fibers readily available, few people still
make their livelihoods from the hard, back-breaking labor of gathering or
ginning Spanish moss. The great wilderness areas where the moss thrives
largely disappeared. Those wild areas that remain sit mostly on private
land or in highly regulated refuges, wildlife management areas or other
sanctuaries.
Some people still make small, stuffed objects and handicrafts from the
moss. One can still purchase small quantities for large sums in hobby or
craft stores. These remnants of a once-great industry usually go into
making decorative ornaments.
While few people still stuff Spanish moss fibers into furniture or
mattresses, the plant remains the stuff of legends. The Attakapas Indians,
who ruled the swamps of southern Louisiana, had many ideas of how the
odd-looking plant arrived in the South. Two of their more romantic legends
attribute the moss to either the short-lived love affair of two young Indians
or to the death of a lusty Spaniard.
According to the first legend, long before the first white men penetrated
the swamplands of future Cajun Country, an Attakapas princess fell deeply
in love with a brave from another village. Her choice of a mate outside the
clan greatly angered her father, a powerful war chief. The chief prohibited
her from seeing her lover. Simply unthinkable, marriage to an outsider
would disgrace the chief, the village and the tribe.
As often happens, especially with teen-aged girls, love proved more
powerful an influence than parental authority. The princess obeyed her
father, at least publicly, but secretly rendezvoused with her forbidden lover
deep in the swamp.
Also, as often happens throughout history, the lovers could not keep
such an illicit affair secret for long. Soon, the chief learned about the
clandestine assignations. Enraged, he swore to end such disobedience
immediately. He hid near an oak tree that marked the secret meeting place.
When the lovers arrived, the chief hurled himself at the surprised
young warrior. They grappled in a deathly embrace. The brave warrior
fought like a lion, but his strength was no match for the chief’s blistering
paternal hatred. The old man cut the young warrior to pieces with his
knife. Heartbroken, the princess then grabbed the knife and thrust it into
her own stomach, killing herself as the legend goes.
This tragedy so saddened the Great Spirit that he placed the lovers’
long, ebony hair high in the oak tree where all could see it blowing in the
wind. Forever, it would remind all who passed beneath of the power of love
and hate. After many years, the hair turned gray and spread from branch
to branch, then tree to tree as a lasting memorial of the affection between
the princess and the young warrior.
A second legend evokes the bitter rivalry between red natives and
white explorers. In the early history of Louisiana, Spanish explorers roamed
the swamps in search of gold. Months at sea without female
companionship burdened these men with overflowing hormones. When
they landed and discovered beautiful, scantily clad young Indian maidens,
their boiling hormones erupted.
One Spanish explorer fancied a certain Attakapas Indian maiden. She
did not return his affection. Spying her fetching water one day, he fell
hopelessly in love – or at least in lust with her! He approached the young
maiden who fled through the swamp in terror. Not being able to outrun the
larger, stronger man, the girl tried to escape by climbing into a giant oak
tree, but the Spaniard saw her and climbed after her. She climbed higher;
so did he.
Soon, she had no place else to go. As the Spaniard reached for the
beautiful woman, she jumped to the ground. Injured, she limped away,
disappearing into the vast unknown that marked the primordial Bayou
Country swamp. She never returned to her village.
The Spaniard suffered a worse fate, according to the legend. He
lunged after the maiden, but entangled his long gray beard in twigs and
tree branches. Hopelessly enmeshed in the high branches, the Spaniard
became the prisoner of the tree. Trapped deep in the swamp, he never
returned to his shipmates either.
Nature took its course. Eventually, nothing remained of the lusty
Spaniard except his beard. By supernatural force, it propagated from tree
to tree as a reminder of the explorer’s sin. Soon, nearly every oak tree in
the South sported some “Spanish Beard.”
Doubtful though this origin may seem, the name “Spanish Beard”
caused considerable real friction between competing French and Spanish
settlers. The plant reminded French explorers of the long, flowing gray
beards worn by Spaniards. They called it Barbe Ethanol, or “Spanish
Beard.” Highly insulted, the Spanish retaliated against their European
rivals by naming the plant Cabello Frances or “French Hair.”
Although both Spain and France each controlled Louisiana at various
periods in history, the French culture prevailed more prominently than that
of the Spanish. Therefore, a variant of the French version stuck – more or
less.
Today, Spanish moss survives as a reminder of the time of legends,
when rival tribes and nations fought for honor, riches and glory in the new
land, eventually called America and as a symbol of the Deep South.
Spanish moss. Movies, books, paintings and television programs depicting
the Southern way of life go to great lengths to show stereotypical oak trees
festooned with the wispy gray plant.
Paintings of old plantation houses always portray Spanish moss
dripping from stately trees. Along coastal wetlands, cypress trees draped
in the mysterious gray threads warn intruders not to enter unprepared.
Today, the plant blankets hardwoods across the Deep South from east
Texas to Virginia, although modern urbanization and pollution took a toll on
the delicate plant.
Despite its common familiarity, Spanish moss suffers from an “identity
crisis.” Largely misunderstood, it is neither “Spanish” nor a “moss.” It is an
epiphyte, or air plant with the scientific name of tillandsia usneoides. Of the
family of Bromeliaceae, or a bromeliad, it is closely related to orchids and,
oddly enough, pineapples.
The only species of the pineapple family indigenous to the continental
United States, it attaches itself to tree trunks and branches, especially live
oaks, and hangs in long, gray strands. Slender, threadlike stems can
reach lengths up to six feet. Not usually thought of as a leafy, flowering
plant, it does not root in the soil, preferring to cling to supporting trees. It
does grow small leaves and inconspicuous minuscule yellow flowers. It
even bears a small capsule-like fruit.
Not parasitic, it absorbs necessary moisture directly from the air
through scales in its “stem.” Its presence on the tree does not harm its
host, nor does it compete for food with its host. It gets nothing from the
tree, except a sturdy place to hang around.
To survive, it needs a strong host, sunlight, moisture and clean air.
Like octopus tentacles, it wraps itself around suitable branches and hangs
in the sunlight, absorbing nourishment directly from the air. Therefore, it
cannot tolerate airborne contaminants or cold temperatures. Increasing
pollution and urbanization reduced the abundance of this delicate plant
across much of its range.
One would think that such a hairy plant would host its own swarming
insect populations. Quite the contrary, something about Spanish moss
repels insects, although other small creatures, such as tree frogs, seek
refuge within its protective cocoon. Instead of draining its host of food, it
actually provides a degree of protection from creepy crawly pests that might
damage trees.
Long ago, fishermen, hunters and trappers wrapped themselves in
Spanish moss when mosquitoes became too annoying. Even today,
sporting men and women sometimes drape themselves with Spanish moss
when sitting on a deer stand or in a duck blind. Not only does the moss
protect them from insects, but also provides excellent native camouflage.
Its propensity to repel bugs made Spanish moss fibers an excellent
stuffing material for mattresses and upholstered furniture. Two centuries
ago, insect-borne diseases killed thousands of people in the warm, wet,
semi-tropical wilderness of the Deep South.
Until the early decades of the 20th century, Spanish moss not only
protected people from the ravages of insects, but also from the ravages of
poverty. Commercial moss harvesters operated lucrative enterprises
throughout the once vast swamps and forests of south Louisiana. They
used long poles to pull moss clumps from tall trees. They baled their
“catch” into great heaps and transported them by boat or wagon to
processing gins.
Processing gins turned the gray scaled strands into black fibers similar
to horsehair. These fibers constituted the backbone of a thriving
upholstering industry. Some of the best furniture in stately old homes still
contains this symbol of the South.
Today, with cheap, synthetic fibers readily available, few people still
make their livelihoods from the hard, back-breaking labor of gathering or
ginning Spanish moss. The great wilderness areas where the moss thrives
largely disappeared. Those wild areas that remain sit mostly on private
land or in highly regulated refuges, wildlife management areas or other
sanctuaries.
Some people still make small, stuffed objects and handicrafts from the
moss. One can still purchase small quantities for large sums in hobby or
craft stores. These remnants of a once-great industry usually go into
making decorative ornaments.
While few people still stuff Spanish moss fibers into furniture or
mattresses, the plant remains the stuff of legends. The Attakapas Indians,
who ruled the swamps of southern Louisiana, had many ideas of how the
odd-looking plant arrived in the South. Two of their more romantic legends
attribute the moss to either the short-lived love affair of two young Indians
or to the death of a lusty Spaniard.
According to the first legend, long before the first white men penetrated
the swamplands of future Cajun Country, an Attakapas princess fell deeply
in love with a brave from another village. Her choice of a mate outside the
clan greatly angered her father, a powerful war chief. The chief prohibited
her from seeing her lover. Simply unthinkable, marriage to an outsider
would disgrace the chief, the village and the tribe.
As often happens, especially with teen-aged girls, love proved more
powerful an influence than parental authority. The princess obeyed her
father, at least publicly, but secretly rendezvoused with her forbidden lover
deep in the swamp.
Also, as often happens throughout history, the lovers could not keep
such an illicit affair secret for long. Soon, the chief learned about the
clandestine assignations. Enraged, he swore to end such disobedience
immediately. He hid near an oak tree that marked the secret meeting place.
When the lovers arrived, the chief hurled himself at the surprised
young warrior. They grappled in a deathly embrace. The brave warrior
fought like a lion, but his strength was no match for the chief’s blistering
paternal hatred. The old man cut the young warrior to pieces with his
knife. Heartbroken, the princess then grabbed the knife and thrust it into
her own stomach, killing herself as the legend goes.
This tragedy so saddened the Great Spirit that he placed the lovers’
long, ebony hair high in the oak tree where all could see it blowing in the
wind. Forever, it would remind all who passed beneath of the power of love
and hate. After many years, the hair turned gray and spread from branch
to branch, then tree to tree as a lasting memorial of the affection between
the princess and the young warrior.
A second legend evokes the bitter rivalry between red natives and
white explorers. In the early history of Louisiana, Spanish explorers roamed
the swamps in search of gold. Months at sea without female
companionship burdened these men with overflowing hormones. When
they landed and discovered beautiful, scantily clad young Indian maidens,
their boiling hormones erupted.
One Spanish explorer fancied a certain Attakapas Indian maiden. She
did not return his affection. Spying her fetching water one day, he fell
hopelessly in love – or at least in lust with her! He approached the young
maiden who fled through the swamp in terror. Not being able to outrun the
larger, stronger man, the girl tried to escape by climbing into a giant oak
tree, but the Spaniard saw her and climbed after her. She climbed higher;
so did he.
Soon, she had no place else to go. As the Spaniard reached for the
beautiful woman, she jumped to the ground. Injured, she limped away,
disappearing into the vast unknown that marked the primordial Bayou
Country swamp. She never returned to her village.
The Spaniard suffered a worse fate, according to the legend. He
lunged after the maiden, but entangled his long gray beard in twigs and
tree branches. Hopelessly enmeshed in the high branches, the Spaniard
became the prisoner of the tree. Trapped deep in the swamp, he never
returned to his shipmates either.
Nature took its course. Eventually, nothing remained of the lusty
Spaniard except his beard. By supernatural force, it propagated from tree
to tree as a reminder of the explorer’s sin. Soon, nearly every oak tree in
the South sported some “Spanish Beard.”
Doubtful though this origin may seem, the name “Spanish Beard”
caused considerable real friction between competing French and Spanish
settlers. The plant reminded French explorers of the long, flowing gray
beards worn by Spaniards. They called it Barbe Ethanol, or “Spanish
Beard.” Highly insulted, the Spanish retaliated against their European
rivals by naming the plant Cabello Frances or “French Hair.”
Although both Spain and France each controlled Louisiana at various
periods in history, the French culture prevailed more prominently than that
of the Spanish. Therefore, a variant of the French version stuck – more or
less.
Today, Spanish moss survives as a reminder of the time of legends,
when rival tribes and nations fought for honor, riches and glory in the new
land, eventually called America and as a symbol of the Deep South.
Spanish moss remains the stuff of
legends throughout the Deep South
legends throughout the Deep South
