Holy Springs National Forest, or I am an unreliable narrator

I remember walking with my sister and my father on rotten planks through a swamp, looking at giant water moccasins swimming beneath us, and pulling down Spanish moss to create birds nests out of. My father has never remembered where it was that we went, and I was four or five so I only know the snakes and trees. This is almost certainly where we were:




The name is really Holly Springs National Forest.