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Less than an hour's sail from New Orleans' French Quarter and Bourbon Street, passing the 24-mile-long continuous Causeway over cobalt blue Lake Pontchartrain waters, preside thousand-year-old cypress in cathedral silence over fields of wild iris. Here in the heart of New Orleans' Northshore, the 14-ft. "El Whoppo" awaits you.

The Big Easy—America's unrepentant citadel of hedonism—may be closer to nature than any metropolis on the continent. This wildlife area remains little changed from the days when the area's first settlers, French and Spanish explorers, first Navigated the landscape. This handful of Acadian French settlers (Cajun) descended from a French community, thrown out of Nova Scotia by the British, making their way south to Louisiana some 400 years ago. In New Orleans terms, they were outsiders, outnumbered by the Creoles, the heirs to the original French and Spanish settlers in the city.

The city took root on a small speck of land deep in the delta of North America's greatest river surrounded by a vast wetland, the largest of its kind on the continent. The big river flows through lands dominated by expansive cypress swamps, freshwater marshes with acres of waving cane fields, winding bayous of rusty water as dark as gravy, crossing lakes and bays, along the many fingers of the mighty river.

New Orleans Northshore, the Louisiana parish that proudly bears the official title of "Where New Orleans Comes to Play," is located in the New Orleans metropolitan area on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, and has been a resort destination since the 1800s, when wealthy New Orleanians sailed here to escape the oppressive heat of the city as well as yellow fever epidemics. They crossed the lake by boat and later by train to their summer homes on the lakefront until the causeway, one of the world's longest, was built in the '50s. Travel from the Northshore into the city became a 35-minute journey, and many of these families decided to move permanently to the Northshore.

As we sailed to this bedroom suburb of New Orleans, leaving the mighty Mississippi behind us, the city skyline, bulging with that great eggshell of the Superdome, lay just a short distance away and was the only hint we had of not having totally slipped the bonds of civilization. Sailing towards New Orleans Northshore, towards the swamps, was like traveling through a disaster zone of decomposing vegetation, with stumps of dead trees rising from murky brown and green glassy waters. This trip was Rob's first glimpse of the world of Cajuns, and this odd landscape, flat and featureless from the airplane and marvelously atmospheric at close quarters. Basically, Louisiana is one GREAT swamp.

Have you ever sailed to stare at gators and turtles sunning themselves on a log, seen a tree so full of egrets that when they decide to take wing the feathers fall on you like swamp snow? Have you ever heard a wild boar roar or listened to the sounds of frogs and thousands of invisible insects? Neither had we.

So I decided we'd leave Reston, Virginia to find true nature, dragging my reluctant husband along with me, to a place where fur, scales and feathers rule. I thought a combined swamp, gator and marsh sail of Dr. Paul Wagner's Honey Island and Pearl River wildlife area would show us Louisiana's swamp country in one of the wildest, least altered and most beautiful swamps left in America, where the primitive beauty of this ecoscape is preserved in all of its pristine grandeur. However, you really have to get out on these waters to experience its full spectrum. Our knees were a bit shaky as we left the boat and climbed into a dugout pirogue (Cajun trapper's boat) which took us into this ancient, watery world to explore the swamps like a local. The ride felt so motion-free it was like the scenery was moving, not us.

We glided into the beautiful channels and bayous that serpent through this forest of trees for a closer look at the abundant wildlife. Everything was so real it was almost scary. Even within the safe, secure and dry confines of the pirogue, we felt alert to what we didn't see -- very alert. Standing at the edge of the swamp's bayous (little creeks), trees surface engulfed by low-hanging curtains of Spanish moss that drape weblike to the water, suggesting shadow life below.

There's so much in these wetlands. Crisscrossing the swamp we saw snakes slither, gators sun, cranes and great blue heron flap slowly towards the horizon. A snowy egret swooped through the air and stopped on a wooden log just in front of us. This is a retreat for ducks and the permanent home for deer, mink, otters, pelicans, eagles, the not so loved, beaverlike South American rodent: "nutria" and of course alligators. Soon, we were mesmerized. The effect is simultaneously so restful and menacing that you want to grab a camera and try to capture that deep, earthy green. The ribbon of water covered by clouds of green duckweed coated the water, giving the swamp the quality of a land that time forgot. It had such a dense layer of algae that it could be confused with garden lawn, a sea of green shattered only by violet islands of iris.

Gator Alert

Something moved beneath the surface. Rob retreated to a respectful distance without needing to be told that nature's feared killers were in the offing. He sighted the first snout gliding towards him and the first unblinking stare of a gator as it slithered out and took up its position on the bank. Rest assured, you will see lots of gators, including a 14-ft. giant of Biblical proportions called "El Whoppo." Hopefully, you won't run into the legendary "swamp thing," our guide said. Dr. Wagner's staff of naturalists teach visitors about gators as well as the many animals who make the swamps their home.

We had an alligator's-eye view of this world. We were so close to the marshmallow-eating fellas we could almost smell their sweet breath. We couldn't believe how spoiled these critters are, preferring marshmallows above all. Undulating his bony prehistoric body alongside our boat, the gator suddenly rose up, cutting through the glassy water. This toothy monster with long snout and amber eyes was looking for our gator bait. He didn't looked shy, he looked hungry, so we tossed a few marshmallows.

"The thing about gators," our guide explained, "is that they lay lots of eggs. We found over a thousand eggs last year, 32 in one nest alone. There are over 500,000 gators in Louisiana, and the population is growing." He described how locals catch live gators in the South -- a procedure involving dangling a dead chicken from the branch of a tree. You can quite understand why we didn't' want to be in the vicinity when a gator took a bait. Croc hunter Steve Irwin, eat your heart out.

If you're more interested in sailing and photographing gators than wrestling them, like we were, here dozens of American gators snooze, writhe and hiss in familial contempt. They're cute when they're little. Snubby nose, big watchful gaze in their eyes, blissful baby smile. Gators here can be seen in all stages of life, from egg to monster. The bayou beast El Whopoo is so big they call him "the largest American alligator," but no one dares to get close enough to measure that fella. We were fortunate to get excellent close-up photos of him. Our guide paused to let us see what was under the surface. As the pirogue penetrated deeper into the tangled labyrinth, he pointed out more wildlife: small gators gliding along the surface watching our progress from moss beds with predatory grace; others swimming several yards ahead. We met turtles sunning on logs, and another great blue heron with wings arching four feet across. Small fish stirred ahead, more gators slithered away and snakes watched from the sidelines. Three mallards circled overhead, perhaps wondering if the open water amid the hyacinths was a safe landing spot. But not another living soul in sight, save the members of our sailing expedition.

Floating on this pirogue silenced by a kaleidoscope world of emerald mangroves, gators basking in the sun and black cormorants peering into the water, we felt as if we were far from civilization... sailing the Amazon River perhaps? In fact, we were only 35 miles north of New Orleans. Who would imagine this pristine, untamed wilderness could exist such a short distance from a major city?

After a morning of gator encounters in the Northshore, we spent the rest of the day peacefully on deck, with no billboards, cars, shops or boom boxes, just birds chattering. Maybe this is what the world was like before it was born?

As we sailed off we kept saying if the same fun-seekers we'd seen in the French Quarter and Bourbon Street actually thought about sailing less than an hour in any one direction, they might slip out of the twentieth century and into a world that would be quite recognizable to the French and Spanish explorers who first sailed this area some 400 years ago. These wetlands have survived because for generations New Orleans' founding fathers didn't have the technology to conquer them, and by the time they got the know-how, federal laws protected what is left of them.

As our weekend-long sail came to a close, it was apparent that New Orleans is much more than fine food and shopping. The murky waters and gators seeped into our soul, now knowing the feeling of being knee deep in a swamp and having had a taste of Louisiana's natural diversity. This is a region that once you visit, it echoes in your dreams and you are bound to return.

Bon Voyage!

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