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Journal Notes from the November 1998 Float to the Sea:
DAY 11
(Nov 15)
It was late before I got out of
Natchez. It rained hard all morning, but then it seemed to clear, and I
decided to pack up and get on down the river. After a Bar-B-Que Brunch at
the Pig Out Inn, I started back down Silver Street towards the Landing.
There was a policeman patrolling the parking lot below my camp. I stood by
Natchez-Under-the-Hill to see what was blowing in the wind. He talked to
some people down there, and some waiters kept motioning upstream where my
canoe and tent were clearly in view, on a bench of mud by the river's
edge. By-and-by, curiosity got the better of me, and I walked on up
towards camp. He accosted me. He had a message for me, an emergency
message from my Step-Daddy. I was incredulous and scared out of my skin.
They can find you anywhere in this world. It must be those satellites
revolving around the earth, they must be watching every move you make.
Patrolman Lee Fulton brought me back to Under-the-Hill , but not
before begging me "get a gun, son, and nect time take a cell
phone." I made a telephone call. It was my Father. I learned that he
was on his death-bed. I was upset and ready to come home. "I want you
to finish your journey," he told me, "Father's orders." I
balked at the idea. How could I continue downstream with him in that kind
of shape? I didn't want to cross him though. He has always been the
biggest supporter of my love for the river and its wildness. I knew it was
important for him, and he wasn't just saying that so I didn't worry. I was
mixed-up. I didn't know what to do. It was remarkable that they had found
me before I had embarked for the day. But at that point it also seemed
that my journey coincided with my father's, and that I needed to struggle
for my life as much as he did for his. Perhaps that's all that any journey
is made up of: a struggle for air to breathe and shelter to sleep in.
I half-heartedly agreed to continue, returned to camp, and
hurriedly packed, throwing all my wet gear from the previous three days of
rain into my river bags.
I set out off downstream, at about 3PM, but bad luck followed me. The weather was calm,
and the river glided along under the Natchez Bridge like oil, full of
driftwood and foam from the rise. But to my horror delicate pieces of fog
began drifting out of the edges of the forest, and a general fuzzy haze
began lingering on the river surface. I don't worry about barges, because
you can always get around them, or about waves, which the Waterpony jumps
over like a champion. But fog on the river makes me nervous. Especially
the kind of fog that settles in while you are floating mid channel, and
leaves you suddenly disoriented. You can hear everything clearly. In fact,
sounds becomes accentuated. But you can't see shore, and therefor when you
want to get off the channel you don't know which way to paddle.
Twenty miles out of Natchez, I just couldn't shake the feeling. I
was nervous and irritable, and paddling like a madman. I decided I needed
to get back home and be with my father. I could come back and float the
rest of the river anytime.
At that point, I probably should have
turned around and paddled back upstream to Natchez, which probably would
have taken two days of hard paddling. But looking at the map, I saw that
St. Francisville was eighty miles downstream. Being the downstream
Riverman that I am, I chose to continue on. I could make eighty miles by
tomorrow night, I justified silently. So, with Natchez slipping away
behind me, and the forests becoming gloomier in the thickening skies, and
a ominous fog piling up thicker and thicker, I quickened my pace and
placed myself in the middle of the channel where the current would be
fastest. As I rounded Warnicott Bar where Mr. Oregon spent his hellish
night in the sand, the fog settled in so thick I lost sight of shore.
Darkness crept up around Railroad Bend. "Coming out of the mystery
above, and down into the mystery below" (John Hartford). It was
darker than the inside of a cow. Then a sound made me freeze mid-paddle.
It was a rush of water, and a loud line of slapping water.
I knew
this sound: it was the slapping of waves against the prow of a barge, and
it seemed to be coming from somewhere below me. My heart began to pound. I
could see nothing. The sound grew louder and louder. Soon it was roaring
so loud it covered all other sounds. Then there it was. It loomed
grotesquely out of the hazy obscurity. It was the enormous black prow of a
barge tow, 42 of them, about as big as they come, and sure to be a mean
three-screw tug pushing from behind. They were further out than their
roaring would indicate, but still too close for comfort.
Shaken,
and becoming weary of the vigilance necessary in the fog, I tried to come
in for a landing around Dead Man's Bend. The name wasn't particularly
heartening at this point, but there I was. (Not to mention that Dead Man's
Bend is located directly downstream from "Destruction Light.")
The charts showed a spit of land on the Western shore that looked like
good camping. I paddled and paddled for what seemed like an hour. The tree
line was barely visible above a haze of fog, like a streak of charcoal on
a gray canvas, but it never seemed to get any closer. I kept paddling but
my paddle developed this weird groove along its shaft. I looked closer
with the flashlight and found the shaft was almost cut in half by the
constant grinding against the side of the canoe. I grabbed my spare and
kept chopping away at the black waters. By-and-by I came to realize that I
wasn't headed towards shore at all, but pointed downstream towards the
next bend of the river, Widow Graham Bend. I finally reached shore. It was
a desolate willow forest which rose out of the river from sheer-faced
muddy banks. Enormous crashes came resounding through the darkness, and
shortly thereafter waves rocked the Waterpony. Clumps of the forest were
collapsing into the rising waters. Tall willows and some cottonwoods could
be seen crippled over into the channel. I sure as hell wasn't going to
pull in over there. The mud had a primeval look, like lava, like it had
been there since the earth was created. A throbbing sound came booming
through the woods, a giant hammer or something, but the fog was so thick I
never saw what it might be. Tattered pieces of sulphurous light tried to
push through, but kept disappearing. I wondered what had occurred to her
husband that made the unlucky Mrs. Graham a widow.
I checked the
charts and saw what looked like a sandy bar opposite me, on the Eastern
shore of the river, at Jackson Point. I didn't really feel like
re-crossing the channel, but I also didn't want to float along all night
long. My mind was becoming confused by the constant watery motions in the
dark. I knew I had to get off soon. I began paddling again - power
stroking - the navigation lights around Widow Graham Bend guiding my
direction from behind. I paddled for what seemed like eternity, and came
to realize that the rising waters had covered up the sandbar indicated on
the river charts. I kept paddling anyway, stroking on the right until my
shoulders began to pain, and then switching to the left. A tall bank
emerged in front of me, topped with a few trees. I winced in frustration
(it looked like more mud) but kept on paddling, determined to make a
landing at whatever cost. Swhoosh! The Waterpony hissed into land. It was
a sandy bank, rising steeply. I climbed out and actually kissed the sand,
so happy was I. Camp that night was a lean-to made of an overturned
Waterpony and a tarp slung over. It stormed all night with thunder and
lightning. I laid down my two life jackets and fell immediately to sleep
on top, not even bothering to remove my soaked rain gear.
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