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At the delicate, lacy toe of Louisiana, the holidays are ushered in by globes of orange as much as sparkling tinsel; by bulging grocery bags as much as wrapping papered-boxes; by orange wine as much as eggnog, and the zesty aromas of satsuma as much as pine. 

Sometimes the best adventures begin where the road ends. Such was the case on a perfect Saturday afternoon in April, when we abandoned our car in a lot at the end of the bumpy Grand Bayou Village Road in Port Sulphur and boarded a crab boat. From there, Captain Watson Perrin steered us along Grand Bayou, past stilted homes balancing in the water like storks, before turning onto Grandpaw Bayou towards a grouping of homes interconnected by an enormous dock.

Looking up at Fort Jackson’s northern face on a sunny day, it’s hard to imagine water gradually submerging its twenty-five-foot-tall walls, yet according to James Madere, a Plaquemines Parish historian, that’s exactly what happened during Hurricane Katrina. The storm surge damaged the centuries-old fort’s structural integrity as well as its oak trees, electrical equipment, and Civil War artifacts. Plaquemines Parish Government—the fort’s current owner—did what it could on a limited budget to repair the building and salvage the contents, but to this day, the gates at the northern and southern entrances remain mostly padlocked shut, the gaps between the bars offering the only peek into the past...

A triad of alligators glide across the lake, moving perfectly in tandem with the grace of prehistoric synchronized swimmers. On the opposite shore, a great blue heron stands motionless in the water, scanning the shallows for prey, ready for a lightning strike. At every turn the lake is alive, dragonflies helicoptering along the surface and a low rumble of cicadas and frogs filling the twilight air...

On a recent afternoon in June, Dr. Brandon Ballengée, artist and biologist, led an eclectic group of art hobbyists, fish enthusiasts, and even a bee farmer on a tour of the collection. “Come visit the dead aquarium,” he joked, entering a room where millions of fish stare glassy-eyed back at the ogling group of us. The collection’s 7.4 million fish are divided into more than 200,000 lots—or groups of specimens collected at a particular place at a particular point in time. Rows upon rows of containers filled with seventy percent ethanol are stacked on nearly floor-to-ceiling shelving with just enough room in between to walk...