The Dismal Swamp Canal still flows between Virginia’s bay and North Carolina’s sound. No longer a conduit for commerce, it offers a transformative path into a wilderness more fitting for beast than man.

On the southern side of the massive lock gates, the waters of the Pasquotank River are placid. Even as the gates begin to swing open, only a gentle swirl pushes toward George Ramsey’s skiff and the handful of other northbound boats waiting to enter the lock at South Mills. The gates yawn wide, and the klatch of vessels glides into the lock. Captains toss up ropes to the lockmaster, bracing for what will come next.

The south gate closes, and suddenly the black water at the other end of the lock begins to churn and rise in a foaming rush. On the other side of the north gate, the Dismal Swamp Canal waits, eight feet or so above the river’s surface. Like a liquid elevator, the lock allows the canal water to pour in and lift the boats. The process is gradual, yet the water’s power is unmistakable. Boats rock and sway as they rise. Within minutes, the lockmaster, who called down for the ropes from about 15 feet above, is eye to eye with the boaters. As the water stills, the north gate opens, and the journey into the swamp begins.

Enchanting waterway 

The canal, its water as dark as coffee, dyed by centuries of leaves and trees dropping into the swamp, is as smooth and reflective as a mirror. The effect is dizzying. As Ramsey’s boat travels the unnaturally straight waterway, sky and canal surface meet and blend, becoming almost indistinguishable. It helps to glance every so often toward the wooded banks to get your bearings.

For more than 200 years, people have made their way up and down this canal, the country’s oldest man-made waterway still in operation. During much of that time, the trips were purely commercial. For the past 40 years, it’s primarily been the pathway of leisure travelers. Of boaters looking for languid transit. Of paddlers seeking the swamp’s serenity.

Even after all this time, the passage is enchanting. And Ramsey takes it as often as time allows.
On this October day, he slows his boat to snag a handful of late muscadines, carefully stretching to the low-hanging vines. Birds call out overhead, and something large rustles among the trees.

“I’ve seen bobcats,” Ramsey says, the wonder still evident in his voice despite two decades of plying these waters. “I’ve seen mama bear with two little ones. … If you’re really alert and aware, you will see birds and game you’ve only read about.”

Since moving to nearby Suffolk, Virginia, in the mid-1980s, Ramsey and his boat have become a fixture on the canal. He’s researched the history and the geography of the canal. He belongs to the Virginia Canals and Navigations Society. He loves this place.

“When I’m on the canal,” he says, “I’m so excited my legs shake.”

Cutting through the placid water, it’s easy to see why.

Layers of history

Silos, farmland, and homes with tin roofs line the channel. A family of ducks occasionally crosses just ahead of the boat. Turtles sun themselves on logs jutting out from the banks. Great blue herons lift off from the shallow waters and soar upstream, disappearing into the dense canyon of foliage.

This day, many boaters are heading south to warmer water. Signs mark the mileage to Southern port cities: Savannah 558. Miami 1,067. Key West 1,217. Along this trek, getting there is more than half the fun.
Anyone fortunate enough to catch a ride with Ramsey gets the canal’s backstory. 

Digging, he says — most of it done by slaves using only shovels — began in Virginia and North Carolina. The two sides raced to see who would reach the midpoint first. In 1805, the first rudimentary ditch was open, and soon rafts of timber bound for Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York stretched nearly bank to bank.

“Untold millions of board feet of shingles have gone out of here,” Ramsey says. “Juniper is the best of all. You can split them easily and make the thin, wide shingles used on roofing and siding.”

In 1814, a 20-ton ship passed through the canal to show that it could be done. “The vessel brought a load of brandy and bacon from Scotland Neck on the Roanoke River, through the Albemarle Sound, turned north on the Pasquotank River, and then connected with the canal to deliver it to the city of Norfolk,” Ramsey says, shaking his head in amazement. Considering the canal’s average depth today of roughly six feet, it’s hard to imagine the trade that once stirred these waters.

Feeder ditches, which used to bring logs and other supplies to the main canal, intersect the canal at regular intervals. Tow paths, along which slaves and others once pulled timber to the sawmills, are still visible on either side of the canal.

“They’d get a series of logs, bind them together, and make a long raft,” Ramsey says. “Some of the rafts were a quarter- to a half-mile long. Two boys would walk along the tow path with a long pole across their shoulders. Once they got the logs moving, they could walk to South Mills or Deep Creek.”

Back to nature  

By 1899, the canal had been dug out enough to reduce the number of locks from six to the two remaining today. But even with technological advances that came in the 20th century, the swamp’s wild nature never surrendered in its struggle against man’s intrusion. At various times, the canal fell into disrepair. In 1929, the federal government bought the canal, which it still operates under the United States Army Corps of Engineers. For nearly 30 more years, lumber companies logged the swamp and sent their harvest to market via the canal. By 1973, commercial interests petered out, and the United States Department of Interior assumed responsibility for the swamp.

Since then, what remains of the swamp has been allowed largely to return to its natural state. Yet, humanity’s imprint remains.

Ramsey points out farms that span both sides of the canal. Farmers push a World War II era portable bridge across the canal to get to their fields and U.S. Highway 17 on the other side. Ramsey’s boat continues on, cruising slowly past old granite mile markers and remnants of 19th-century locks.

The canal itself is an 80-foot-wide marvel that continues to grant access to one of our state’s most beautiful areas.

If you have the time, follow the canal to Arbuckle’s Landing and turn west, taking the feeder ditch toward Lake Drummond. You’ll encounter a dam, but a boat trolley — which looks like a boat trailer attached to a miniature railway — will carry your small boat over a spit of land and deposit you in Lake Drummond, just inside Virginia. Unfortunately, Ramsey’s vessel is over the weight limit, so the trip ends here.

It won’t be long, however, before Ramsey returns to these waters. He can’t resist the swamp’s stillness, the primeval beauty preserved in our country’s wildest places, the peacefulness of nature in balance.

“You’re in the midst of it all,” he says wistfully. “The canal is a mystical, magical place.” 

Additional stories on the Great Dismal Swamp that appeared originally with this one:
The Last Wild Place
Untamed Spaces
An Unexpected Destination
A Reason to Stop

Karen Haywood Queen is a North Carolina native now living in Virginia. Her articles have appeared in Better Homes and Gardens, Family Fun, and US Airways magazine.