In summer it is a spongy swamp that few would care to pass through, even with wading boots. The water level varies and, though never tragically deep, can be troublesome in certain areas that change with the rains. When a brave traveler strays off the main trail in search of adventure, the ground squishes uncomfortably beneath cautious soles, hanging on and then letting go with a reluctant and sudden slurp. Summer humidity sits in the air, wetly echoing the moist surface. Every few yards a skunk cabbage patiently waits to release its distinctive aroma. Salamanders leave streaky trails on the mud and bullfrogs honk lustily in the night. Weeping trees droop about, as if the abundance of water is too much to handle.

Winter presents a different picture. The wet ground transforms into thick, translucent, plate glass. Leafless tree branches stiffen, holding onto their burdens of soft snow. The sun shines onto the white and icy surfaces, having little effect on their temperature. There are no signs of wildlife, except for an occasional squirrel, fluffed against the cold, bobbing across pillows of snow in search of a midwinter snack. The sharp air produces static electricity with little provocation, especially in the acrylic scarves worn by visitors. A green shovel and scruffy broom lean against a dormant trunk. A fallen log lies flat near the ridge of snow that has been cleared from the ice. Soon, eager little hands will scrabble there with bootlaces and plastic blade guards. Avoiding the sporadic twig poking out, thin blades of steel will carve patterns into the iced ground. There will be no worries of drownings through fast spreading cracks since cold dirt lies directly beneath the ice and the solid water holds the weight well. The sounds of metal scraping on ice will mix with cries of glee as hastily formed snowballs hit or miss their targets. But until that time arrives, the hibernating swamp remains comfortably silent, as if it is resting for the diversion to come.