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Journal Notes from the November 1998 Float to the Sea:
DAY 12
(Nov 16)
I awoke shivering sometime during the night and opened my bedding
and climbed inside. Sleep was broken by thunder and rain pelting the
canoe. Every time lightning illuminated the scene, dimpled river water
could be seen inching its way up the sandbar towards my camp. I wondered
if it would let me be until morning light. Why didn't I pitch camp higher
up? Also this: did the Mississippi ever experience flash floods or tidal
waves? I couldn't sleep, so I lit a candle and studied the charts, and
then flipped on my radio to see what time it was. The deejay finally came
on and said "its fifteen minutes of six, and a twenty percent chance
of rain here in Vidalia…" That deejay needed to look out his window,
I thought, and began packing. It was going to be a long day, and I wanted
to make the most of daylight. No more night paddling for me.
The
only thing I remember about that long day of paddling ("stroking to
the East and stroking to the West" as Possum would say) was monotone
skies, ragged lines of somber cloud banks. At once coal-gray, steel-gray,
sulfur-gray - a thousand shades of gray, and no color. That, and long
gentle curves of the river, each seeming to take about five miles to
complete. Then a ten mile long pool of slack water below, and then another
bend, looping to the east or to the west, and twice actually returning
north. It was twisty section of river. Whereas the distance from Vicksburg
to Natchez by land or by river was pretty much the same, from Natchez to
St. Francisville its another story: it was 100 miles of floating over what
only took 60 miles by road. Its wild country. It is the no man's land
created by the proximity of the floodplains of the Atchaflaya, the Ouchita
and the Red. Angola State Penitentiary is located in desolation on one of
its bends.
Old River
There is a warning sign at
the approach to "Old River:"
"WARNING OLD RIVER
CONTROL STRUCTURES Very dangerous currents when structures are in
operation. A Flashing Amber light on south point of channel indicates
structures are operational. The inflow channel is not a navigable channel,
therefore, under no circumstances should any vessel attempt to enter. Tows
and other vessels should navigate as far as possible from this area and as
close to the left descending bank of the Mississippi River as safety will
permit."
I decided that Old River would be the surest
location to find a phone in this wilderness, so I ignored the sign and
floated along two hundred yards or so off the Louisiana bank, where the
control structures are located. Sure enough the river gets unruly as it
approaches Black Hawk Point, where the intake channels were built. The
water gets fast and big boils bloom out of nowhere. There was no breeze,
but rolling waves were being thrown out of the boils and corresponding
vicious eddies. Another thing: the bluffs rise suddenly on the Mississippi
bank opposite, so there is added motivation to wander Eastward. Even at
the medium level the river had now reached, it was evident that the river
was doing something powerful at Black Hawk Point.
The Army Corps
of Engineers have here built one of the great monuments to the ongoing
tug-of-war between man and river. Its three structures, actually, placed
squarely inside of three separate canals diverting water from the river.
They look like big dams, like the dam at Sardis lake. There are gates,
enormous steel gates with wheels the size of freight train wheels that
allow movement up and down. The gates are aligned inside the structures. A
crane, on tracks, rolls along the top of each structure and opens or
closes the gates.
The reason for all the steel and concrete is
simple: to keep the river flowing through Baton Rouge, New Orleans, and
everything downstream. You heard me right: if it wasn't for "Old
River" you'd have to go to Morgan City or Houma to board the
Mississippi Queen. Visitors to the French Quarter would be required to
wear nose plugs or gas masks because the stench would be overwhelming.
There would be no flow on the water, hence all the sewer and industrial
wastes would accumulate along the shores of the Crescent City. Eventually,
the dead water places would begin to back fill with silt, and one day it
would be possible to get from Baton Rouge to Lafayette without having to
cross a bridge.
Why does the river want to do this cruel thing to
the good people of Southern Louisiana? Number one is that it wants to take
a bath. The muddiest river in North America is tired of being dumped on by
all the petrochemical plants below Baton Rouge. It has a great desire to
leave "cancer alley" (where there is more polluting of water
going on than New York City and New Jersey combined) before contracting
cancer.
Secondly, at Old River, the basin of the
Atchaflaya/Red/Ouchita river system approaches to within ten miles of the
floodplain of the Mississippi, but twenty feet lower in elevation.
Considering the distance to the Gulf is 180 miles shorter by the Red than
it is by the present channel of the Mississippi, you can see why it is
doubly inspired to make a little hop over the levee and continue its
journey all that much easier. The river has always wandered from one
channel to the other, testing the land here, then moving west or east and
testing it in a new place. That's just what river's do, and is something
the Mississippi is especially is prone to do. For more information on
this, consult Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi. Even though it was
written over a century ago (1883), and a lot has changed since then, it
still accurately describes the nature of the river, and the qualities that
make it do what it does to this day. (And furthermore, what causes humans
to react in the way they do).
I tried to come in at Coochie
Revetment, but fast waters forced me to continue downstream past the first
canal, and then past the second, but then I was able to pull in at Knox
Landing. I flagged down a Corps engineer who was on watch duty that
drizzly Sunday morning. He kindly allowed me to make a phone call and
arrange my pick up in St. Francisville, and then brought me back to the
landing where I'd left the canoe. It was ten o'clock when I got back on
the river. To my dismay the water became sluggish past Old River. What had
been an exciting rising river - with nasty-looking pieces of driftwood and
yellow foam - became instead an insensate brown waterway. My bucking
bronco had been broken into an old nag. Or so it seemed. Maybe it was
because I was pressured to paddle another fifty miles before dark. The
task seemed insurmountable. All the driftwood and foam had disappeared
though. It was curious. Maybe it had gotten sucked through the control
gates.
I rolled around Shreve's Cut-Off where Angola is situated,
and Mississippi becomes Louisiana on the East bank. There were loons in
the water and pelicans on a bar above Tunica Bend, and a small waterfall
on a tributary below. It was the first real waterfall I'd ever seen from
the channel of the Lower Mississippi, but it looked like it'd go under in
high water. Evening seemed to be pressing down all day long. There was no
sunshine at all, just continued stripes of ragged cinder clouds and
drizzle. The wind was mostly on my back however. The constant paddling and
rippling waves on the Waterpony's prow lulled me into a hypnotic state. I
just paddled and paddled. It seemed like the day would never end. At great
length, I rounded Morgan's Bend, and then enjoyed a meandering ride into
St. Francisville. I could see the smokestacks of Cajun Electric Power
rising above the trees so I knew I was close, and then some distorted
notes of music came rippling over the water. It sounded like a circus. It
was the steam calliope of the Queen! One of the Queens was pulling out at
dusk from the landing. It re-energized my weary arms. I paddled in just as
the St. Francisville Ferry was pulling out, and darkness was settling in.
I pulled the Waterpony onto shore, and sat on her prow. I couldn't believe
I had made it. The mile marker sign "266.0" is placed on the
bank above the ferry landing. I had come 326 miles in 12 days. I had
paddled 100 miles in the last two. I felt like crying, and would have if
it wasn't for all the cars lined up for the next ferry.
I grabbed
a handful of almonds for a snack, and then threw them into the river,
without even thinking about it I guess it was an offering to the river for
allowing my safe passage. Or maybe the seeds for the start of my next
journey to the sea.
(Final Journal Entries, November 18, Clarksdale, Mississippi)
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