The pulse of the blackwater Escatawpa River breathes life into Mobile's watershed. The Choctaw called it "Uski-a-Tapa," which means "a place where cane is cut." Like a playful otter, Alabama's western-most river meanders across state lines. From headwaters in southwestern Washington County, it flows south, then west, for 81 miles. There, it joins the Pascagoula in a dash to the Mississippi Sound. Conservation photographer Beth Maynor Young describes the Escatawpa as "without a doubt, one of the crown jewels of Alabama, with huge white sand beaches and clear tannic blackwater. It's a botanist's heaven." If anyone has his fingers on the pulse of the Escatawpa, it's Dr. Ralph "Rip" Pfeiffer, opposite. People mention his name every time I ask about the river. In late March, I visit his riverside home. I turn onto his mud lane at the only catfish mailbox on the road. Ahead of me, Burma Shave signs sprout every 20 feet, proclaiming the National Park Service's 1980s description of the river. As I make my way down the drive, they proudly announce in series: "Probably the finest," "undeveloped," "blackwater stream," "in the nation." Low-lying, swampy ground stretches to both sides, dotted with ferns and saw palmetto. I'm less than half a mile off the blacktop, but spatters on my little pickup make it shudder like a four-wheel drive. I pull into a clearing, expecting a physician's McMansion. Instead, I find a rather ordinary stilted fish camp. Katrina, a lab rescued from the big blow, does a bounding wag of her entire black body in greeting. My host has just finished making Sunday morning rounds at Mobile Infirmary. Now he's clad in rubber boots, work clothes and a River Society cap. He could be anyone. This is the wet season, a time when the lower Escatawpa escapes its banks often and with little warning. The spot where we're standing was submerged under 8 feet of water last spring. When the deluge receded, it left Pfeiffer's house with a 6-inch indoor pool. He knows it will happen again, but he's here for the long term. Meanwhile, he's extended the stilts to 12 feet. "The river is up and down like a yo-yo," Pfeiffer says. That's one thing that hinders development along the stream. The land's too swampy, the water level too unpredictable. Several times a year, he leaves his poke boat, a cross between kayak and canoe, beside the blacktop so he can paddle home after work. Pfeiffer and I paddle upstream in his canoe, leaving Katrina to bark her disappointment. The river has a reddish tint today, but will soon turn a mirroring black as leaves decay on the bottom, releasing tannic acid. Spruce pines and hardwoods line the banks. Mayhaw trees, first bloomers of the spring, are loaded with white splendor. Sap is rising in the bald cypress. In three weeks they'll explode into iridescent green, splashed with contrasting clusters of crimson-winged maple seeds. Around every bend, the swift-moving river has piled tons of sand into sugar-white crescents. In summer, the flow of the Escatawpa will slow and sandbars will surface. Lower water levels won't support motorboats or personal watercraft traffic. Even kayakers and canoeists will have to portage, or drag their boats, in some spots. Although there are limited points to access the river, people will flock to the bars to sun, picnic and camp. Deep holes are ideal for swimming. We return to Pfeiffer's landing to lounge in his weathered Adirondack chairs. Katrina scrapes a hole in the wet sand, props her head on the rim, and gazes at her best friend. Pfeiffer speaks in metaphors, comparing the hydraulics of the river to the blood coursing through our arteries. He brings a surgeon's intensity and power of observation to his description, as well as to the task of preserving the stream. The Escatawpa flows along its entire course free and unfettered by dam or levee. Pfeiffer talks about how he and others plan to maintain this natural state. The Escatawpa River Society (ERS) is a group of landowners who banded together to preserve the river themselves rather than wait for a government agency to take charge. They are all about stewardship. "We need to preserve the 10 to 12 creeks that feed the stream. We don't want to end up like Dog River," he says. In Alabama, the society is seeking Outstanding Alabama Water certification. They are also working in Mississippi with the Nature Conservancy on the Scenic Stream Stewardship Program. In both states, members are trying to have the Escatawpa classified as Outstanding National Resource Water. ERS volunteers do annual stream cleanups and monitor the condition of public access points. They also encourage streamside landowners to set up conservation easements, like voluntary rights-of-way. Under this system, the land still belongs to the owner, but he or she agrees to limit development along the river. The group supports leaving forested buffer zones, called streamside management zones, intact. Preserving vegetation along the stream, or replacing it, slows runoff and prevents sedimentation, which helps keep the river flowing on its course. "The Escatawpa is already developed," Pfeiffer says. "Nature developed it!" Conservationists point to the river's role as a habitat for a variety of wildlife, including endangered gopher tortoises, indigo snakes, pileated woodpeckers and several species of darters. But survival benefits flow closer to home. The Escatawpa watershed feeds Big Creek and the J.B. Converse Reservoir, Mobile's water supply. We all live downstream. Image information: Main: Alabama's western-most river, the Escatawpa, meanders across state lines. From headwaters in southwestern Washington County, it flows south, then west, for 81 miles. There, it joins the Pascagoula in a dash to the Mississippi Sound. Left: If anyone has his fingers on the pulse of the Escatawpa, it's Dr. Ralph "Rip" Pfeiffer, Center: A river otter swims in the shallows of the Escatawpa's tannic water. Right: A pileated woodpecker searches for bugs and insects. The calm waterway warms under a bright sun. A multitude of wildlife calls the river home. Photos by Dennis Holt