A Southern Swamp Story
How I came to learn about Alabama’s surprising biodiversity
I grew up playing in open fields with plenty of dappled sunlight, bodies of gray-blue water, and time to bask in the sounds of babbling frogs and rhythmic crickets and cicadas, just forty-five minutes north of Birmingham, the largest metropolitan area in Alabama. In my childhood, the natural world became the landscape for my imaginary ones: downed trees became ships, treks through the woods became expeditions, a swim in the lake became a tale of mermaids, and buying wiggly minnows for fishing was family time.
Growing up in a culture so intertwined with the natural world, I came to have a subconscious appreciation for what’s always been there. Trees. Waterways. Birds. Insects. Fish. Fauna.
One of the ways we measure the health of our planet is through measuring its biodiversity — or the abundance and variety of species, plants, and ecosystems that keep us alive — and in that, Alabama is an anomaly.
A state stereotypically known for hospitality, barbecue, racism, and abortion bills is also number one in the East for biological diversity.
Yes, the amount of biodiversity in our state is comparable to our SEC Football National Championship wins.
Then, like every teenager who grew up in the boonies, I wanted OUT. Alabama no longer had anything for me. Not the right culture. Not the right kind of cities. All the wrong music. None of the cool jobs.
It seemed to care more about religious persecution than self-expression, silencing truth in favor of tradition; but after one glance at out-of-state tuition, I woke up to reality.
Enter the University of Montevallo, a small town liberal arts school in Shelby County where my fascination with biodiversity began.
Montevallo isn’t the sort of town you’d expect to find in Alabama. For one, Mayor Hollie Cost, Professor of Special Education, drives around in a golf cart to cut down on CO2 emissions, and while I was there, it wasn’t uncommon to see students go barefoot across campus.
My most memorable class was “Principles of Biology” taught by Professor Mike Hardig. Students describe him as “condescending,” “abrasive,” and “awful, yet interesting” on RateMyProfessor.com. That’s not too far from the truth.
Hardig appeared to be a no-nonsense, middle-aged, academic that didn’t care about looking the part. He easily outpaced the college students in his class during our walking field trips, and if you fell asleep in class, you might be startled awake with a chalk eraser to the head or a book dropped heavy on your desk.
One of his rants sticks out in my mind, an aggressively passionate one toward commuters who sat in their cranked vehicles with the AC blasting to avoid the summer heat between classes. But even for students like me who hated his comprehensive tests and condescension, I couldn’t deny he loved his field of study.
The course was divided into two sections, one a combination of lectures and applied learning — which included trips to the landfill, the water filtration plant, the Ebenezer Swamp Ecological Preserve that protects the town from flooding — in lieu of traditional labs. The second half was a study of Aldo Leopold’s famous work of conservation science, policy and ethics, A Sand County Almanac and involved just a bit of nature writing.
“There are some who can live without wild things, and some who cannot. These essays are the delights and dilemmas of one who cannot.” — Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac.
The Ebenezer Swamp is about six miles from campus and houses various plants — Sycamores to Tupelo gum trees — animals — creative beavers, wild turkeys, red-shoulder foxes — and abstract sculptures formed from recycled steel by University of Montevallo art students. A wonderland of ecology, the swamp is often the gracious host of environmental science classes, and it’s where I was first introduced to the beauty of biological diversity.
The Montevallo swamp is a shelter to various species, like the endangered Tennessee yellow-eyed grass that could live nowhere else in the surrounding area if the swamp was demolished for residential or commercial use.
The trouble with places like Houston and New Orleans is they’re wetlands disguised as cities, so they continue to do what comes naturally. They flood, but wetlands aren’t a one trick pony. In addition to preventing floods, they also function as a water filtration system, collecting sediment and pollutants, and are sanctuaries for plants and animals including many endangered species, and prevent flooding through the storing and slowing of stormwater.
To learn more about biodiversity, I turned to Southern Wonder: Alabama’s Surprising Biodiversity written by Scot Duncan, professor of biology at Birmingham-Southern College. Within, Duncan describes Alabama as an ecological anomaly.
Alabama is a “Goldilocks” state — not too hot and not too cold. But it shouldn’t be. By all accounts, according to Duncan, it should be a cactus-freckled, sagebrush-covered desert. This is because, in places that share the state’s latitude (distance from the equator — a chief determining factor of biodiversity), “sunlight is abundant, water is scarce, and arid deserts, grasslands, and scrublands prevail.” Instead, we’re one of the wettest regions on the continent and home to more species than any other state east of the Mississippi River.
Possible reasons for Alabama’s surprising biodiversity:
- Climate: the state’s warm, wet climate is great for productive ecosystems
- Geology: topographically diverse terrain expose various rock and soil types
- Evolution: biological evolution due to the state’s radically changing climate over millions of years
These factors could be why so many distinct species live nowhere else but here.
The sad part is the majority of Alabamians are unaware of this fact, not to mention denied a feeling of pride for their state and desire to protect it, even when our economy thrives on a $14 billion outdoor recreation industry.
Alabama’s water is the “second most contaminated in the country,” according to Environmental Working Group (EWG). Thanks to coal ash, toxic dumping, and sewage run-off, more than 450 fish species among other animals, including humans, are threatened.
“Seen or unseen, Alabama’s thousands of native species play important roles in the ecosystems sustaining the state’s economy and culture…. Ultimately, biodiversity protection is people protection.” — Scot Duncan, Southern Wonder.
Inside and outside the state, we destroy unprotected, ecological havens like Ebenezer Swamp — one of the fastest disappearing wetlands in the state, we burn coal to light empty offices, and we lose the chance to discover the deepest depths of the ocean before plastics.
What can you do to help?
Take at least one actionable step:
- Spend time in nature
- Visit Alabama rivers like the Cahaba
- Take the Plastic Pledge
- Join the #Trashtag
- Make sustainable choices as simple as cutting out fast fashion
- Eat less meat, drive less, use less unnecessary electricity, and recycle more
- Help local environmental non-profits
- Create big, green dreams for our world
- Educate others about conservation efforts and climate disaster
“The objective is to teach the student to see the land, to understand what he sees, and enjoy what he understands.” — Aldo Leopold, “The Role of Wildlife in a Liberal Education.”
Professor Hardig may have been a hard-ass, but he full-heartedly believes that mission. Now I believe it, too.
