"I paddle slowly as I silently glide along in the labyrinth of channels that meander around and through towering stands of cattails, bulrushes, and wild rice. This marsh is immense, stretching back to the horizon."
Anita Carpenter, Essence of the Marsh, 1999

This article by Anita Carpenter appeared in the museum’s newsletter in the winter of 1999. An Oshkosh resident, Carpenter is familiar to many as a local pharmacist. She is a naturalist, author and lecturer, whose research and nature travels have taken her throughout Wisconsin as well as other areas in the wild both near and far.

ESSENSE OF THE MARSH

By Anita Carpenter

In the predawn chill of an 1849 summer’s day, I slip my birchbark canoe into the shallow water of the marsh that in future years will be transformed into Lake Butte des Morts. I paddle slowly as I silently glide along in the labyrinth of channels that meander around and through towering stands of cattails, bulrushes, and wild rice. This marsh is immense, stretching back to the horizon. I could become lost.

Soon I am serenaded by the awakening chorus of unseen avian vocalists greeting another day. Staccato, ki-dick, ki-dick, ki-dick of Virginia rails, skulking among the reeds, opens the performance. Soon sora rails, eight-inch long, chicken-like birds with yellow beaks, respond to the broken silence by releasing their downscale whinnies. Perky marsh wrens bubble while clinging to the tallest stems in their chosen territory. The eastern sky lightens and glows a salmon pink as the sun rises over Oshkosh-the growing town I call home.

The symphony continues with swamp sparrows, dressed in camouflage gray-brown feathers and highlighted by reddish caps, trilling slowly. Red-winged blackbirds are everywhere, displaying their crimson epaulets as they "konk-la-reeeee” to their neighbors. Awakening American coots and pied-billed grebes laugh at morning's arrival. In the marsh's interior, yellow-headed blackbirds croak their drawn out unmusical squawks. They sound as if something is choking them.

As the exuberant chorus fades with the transition from night into day, crisp breezes arise to rustle cattails. I pull my wool coat a little tighter to ward off the chill. I eat a slice of bread, jerky and wild strawberries for breakfast. Water is my beverage.

Pairs of blue-winged teal slip quietly around cattail edges and disappear as I approach. A great blue heron flies in on giant wings and gently lands in the shallow water. He ruffles his blue-gray feathers, then assumes his fishing stance, long neck leaning forward and head cocked, peering for fish or an unsuspecting northern leopard frog.

Deeper in the marsh, I see pied-billed grebes, each sitting low on a nest, incubating a clutch of eight whitish eggs. Each wet-looking nest appears as if it might float away, but it is securely anchored underneath. Rednecked grebes nest here also on similar-looking platforms.

Great colonies of Forster’s terns breed in the marsh. Each sleek-looking tern, resplendent in its snow white plumage, gray pointed wings and black cap, takes to the sky, calling "kyurr" as I drift nearby. Their flimsy, floating nests of bulrush and cattail stems are protected from damaging wind and waves because they are surrounded by tall, dense, emergent vegetation. The protective birds resettle on their nests when I depart. How could I know that in 150 years, red-necked grebes and Forster’s terns would become endangered species in my beautiful, bountiful Wisconsin? A ruddy duck nest is here, a ringnecked duck nest is over there. A small colony of squat-looking, black-crowned night-herons call this marsh home. A least bittern coos unexpectedly.

Floating water lilies quilt my path with dinner plate-sized circular leaves. In the morning’s warmth, the magnificent four-inch blossoms open to reveal the most beautiful of all marsh flowers. Their lovely fragrance attracts insects and today numerous small black beetles cling to the bright yellow stamens. The large green leaves provide landing pads for dragonflies and damselflies and a resting site for a sunning leopard frog. Water droplets collect on the leaves and sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. This whole scene evokes a feeling of peace and tranquility. By early afternoon, the pearly-white blooms close until the following morning.


As the day warms, insects emerge from their nighttime hiding spots. Green darner dragonflies, four-inch insect giants of the marsh, patrol territories. Zig-zagging, stopping, starting, darting, flying backwards, they pursue unseen enemies and smaller insects to eat. Female green darners hover low over the water, pausing briefly to insert their eggs into cattail stems below the water line.

Three-quarter-inch water striders defy gravity to glide and skate on the calm water. Whirligig beetles, one-half-inch-long, pumpkin-seed-like black insects, each spinning in a tight circle, whirl in great numbers on the water’s surface. I drift through the moving mass which parts to let me pass, then closes rank behind me as I glide on.

More insects live under water. Caddisflies, well-camouflaged and protected in their self-contained homes constructed of cemented sand grains or vegetation bits, crawl along the bottom. Dragonfly and damselfly nymphs prey on smaller organisms. Giant water bugs, water boatmen, and backswimmers must avoid becoming a meal for northern leopard frogs, water snakes, and northern and walleye pike.

Turtles call this marsh home. In the noon day warmth, painted turtles sun themselves on old pied-billed grebe nests or the many muskrat homes that dot the marsh. Giant snapping turtles find life more to their liking if they lurk and remain hidden underwater. Oval turtle nostrils sticking above the water are all that I see of these elusive reptiles. Life in the marsh is abundant although many of its secretive inhabitants are challenging to observe. The day passes quickly. It's already mid-afternoon when I pull my canoe from the water for another day. My time spent in the marsh is always exciting and spiritually uplifting.

One hundred fifty years have passed and, with time, many changes have occurred. The Neenah dam was built in 1852 and this vast area was eventually inundated. Only remnants and memories of this once great marsh remain although redwinged blackbirds and marsh wrens still sing. Northerns and walleyes can still be hooked. Sturgeon still cross it on their annual spring migration to upriver spawning sites. Tree swallows still swoop for flying insects. Dragonfly and damselfly nymphs still grow to maturity underwater. Green frogs still plunk.

My canoe is now aluminum. Wind and waves buffet me in the open expanse of unprotected water. I’m dressed in Gor-Tex. I eat high-energy granola bars for breakfast. Binoculars enable me to observe the area's residents from a distance rather than using stealth for a close-up view. Bird song tapes and field guides assist me with identification. If I so desire, I could use a radio to continually monitor the weather rather than learning to read the sky and feel the wind.

The essence of this once great marsh is recaptured in the Oshkosh Public Museum’s Wetland & Waterways diorama. Stand next to the two Native Americans harvesting wild rice in their birchbark canoe. Gaze beyond them. Still-water channels meander through cattails. White water lilies disappear into the distance. Great flocks of northern pintails and Canada geese fill the air. Towering cumulus clouds march along in rows. Close your eyes. Drift in thought. Imagine the vastness of the scene. Imagine dawn’s avian chorus, of black terns diving into the water to spear minnows, of a muskrat swimming toward you carrying freshly-cut cattails in its mouth. Imagine a trilling American toad, its throat swelled to the size of a ping-pong ball, as it sings to impress a lady toad. Imagine globular nests of marsh wrens woven among cattail stems, of dew-covered spider orb webs suspended between bulrush stems. Imagine immense flocks of ducks using this marsh as a major migratory stopover area each spring and fall. Imagine a place where only nature’s music is heard. Imagine how it used to be.

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