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Journal Notes from the November 1998 Float to the Sea:
DAY 1
On Thursday, November 5th,
Wesley Jefferson "The Mississippi Junebug"
shuttled me to my drop-off point, Terrene Landing, the place I had pulled
out from in my 1997 attempt. Sam Henry is the caretaker at Terrene
Landing. He was born on the river, and in his eighty-some years has come
to know it like how you or I might now the route to the fridgerator in our
darkened homes. After saying hullo to Sam and inquiring about the river
conditions, we backed down the ramp and unloaded gear. It was a cold fall
afternoon, the wind hard out of the North, the river the color of blue
steel. It took some time to get the canoe packed right, but finally it was
well balanced, and there was nothing left to do but say farewell and get
downstream to find a campsite before dark.
When the wind is out of
the South the river snorts and tosses like a wild horse, but when its out
of the North, it lays its fur down and purrs like a kitten – that is, when
the channel is going North to South. Now, everyone knows a river doesn’t
like to follow straight lines. Even the Army Corps of Engineers has had to
allow some meandering as they make their cut-offs and bank stabilization
in the past century. As soon as I passed the sandbar below the Great River
Road State Park (where Phil Cauthen & I camped in a float from Rena
Lara to Greenville in 1994) and the river rolls westward at Rosedale Bend,
the current was crossed by the wind, and 2-3 foot waves began leaping up.
"Haystacks" is what whitewater enthusiasts call them, and the
name fits. Up one and down the other. My 18-foot expedition size Grumman
Canoe, the "Water Pony," easily leaped over and around the mess,
but not before I was splashed with spray and was quite un-nerved by the
unexpected rapids.
At dusk I reached a good campsite, on a sand
bar just above the confluence with the Arkansas. Exhausted, cold, and
shaken up, I pulled into shore, made a fire, and ate some leftover rice I
had thrown in the canoe. It was then that I noticed an ominous roaring
sound coming from the forest behind me. I walked the sandbar towards the
cacophony and was soon intercepted by a wide channel not indicated on my
charts. (Please note: I just purchased the 1998 Charts of the Lower
Mississippi River, printed by the Army Corps). This mighty arm of foamy
current was a river in itself and was issuing forth violently from behind
the wall of woods to my rear, and was cutting my sandbar in to many small
pieces. Its "delta" into the Mississippi was an awful field of
snags, sawyers, and entire roots from the trunks of big trees laying
strewn about. It was a desolate scene, especially in the fading light of
the day. At that moment, had someone come along in a skiff and said,
"you want to return home?" I would have eagerly done so. As it
was, my sleep was fitful and full of dreams of being washed away, and
tossing uncontrollably downstream. The sand shaking roaring continued all
night.
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