|
Journal Notes from the November 1998 Float to the Sea:
DAY 9
(Nov 13)
I woke up in a confusion. The Waterpony was nudging my chin, and
water was pouring in through the bottom of my sleeping bag. I jumped up
and desperately dragged my stuff onto higher ground, water emptying back
out of my bag.
The field of sand where I had put in was nowhere
to be seen!
The night before, I had disembarked at Waterproof
Sandbar. There was a little inlet, behind a low peninsula of thick-grained
sand. With the Waterpony pulled up onto the sand, and the skies clear, I
simply threw down my bedding close by, not bothering with my tent. First,
however, I built a fire and made a pan full of "raft" potatoes.
Sean and I had perfected this recipe on our raft trip. It calls for lots
of oil. The greasier, the better. Heat up your skillet 'til the oil is
spattering. Add diced potatoes and brown. Add chopped onions. Add finely
chopped garlic, and remove from fire. Now, break open a half dozen eggs
and stir. Cover with cheese, and sprinkle with paprika, cayenne, and salt.
Voi la! A feast for a voyageur. I wolfed down a heaping helping, then
stored the leftovers in my pot for the next day.
I had slept
soundly, my shoulders sore and body exhausted from the long paddle the day
before. It was the deep kind of sleep where you don't remember anything,
no dreams, nor interruptions - sounds in the night - nightmares - etc.
Just solid sleep. The next thing I knew was that my feet were wet and the
Waterpony nudging me awake. It was first light, yellows and oranges
beginning to pool on the horizon, rosy clouds overhead. It was definitely
a case of waking up on the wrong side of bed. I couldn't get the
irritation out of my skin. It just didn't seem fair to be woken up that
way, and I didn't want to get out of my warm cocoon into the cold breeze.
But water coming in through the bottom of your bag and creeping up your
legs is great motivation. Later I was thankful that the river had given me
'til dawn before the rude awakening.
After setting my bedding and
tarps out to dry on a huge black log washed up in the last high water, and
with a steaming cup of Earl Grey tea, I went for a walk on my sandbar. It
was situated North/south along the channel, with choppy ridges of sand and
dried mud in the valleys in between. There were egrets standing in a pool
behind me, and cranes feeding along the shore. Flocks of geese were taking
to flight from the backwaters and could be seen silhouetted black in the
early morning light. I found some coyote tracks passing across the bar
just downstream of my camp. Then I found some strange four-toed tracks I'd
never seen before, and couldn't identify. It obviously dragged some part
of its body, because the sand was all roughed up in between the parallel
toe marks, and the roughness undulated from one side to the other. It was
like something had been dragging its belly. I'd seen beaver tails do this,
but it wasn't beaver, and turtle shells also. No, it wasn't turtle. I
found a second set of tracks identical. Later I realized: it was a young
alligator! The thought sobered me up: an alligator moving through the
night only a hundred yards downstream from my camp…
A powerful
metal pirogue zoomed up, pulled in close to shore and anchored. I call it
a "pirogue" (french for dugout canoe) because it was open to the
elements. There were two men, in coveralls, one was flapping his arms
excitedly, like a penguin. "Are you from Clarksdale?" he
hollered. My back involuntarily stiffened, how did he know? I had the
premonition some disaster had occurred and the FBI or the Navy Seals were
after me, a premonition that later realized itself, but in a different
way…
Turns out they were friends with Ron N. in Vicksburg. Ron had
told them to look out for me on their journey South. It was Rob Law and
partner, Sid (?). They had left Greenville the day before, and were headed
for the gulf. "How long will it take you?" I hollered. My knees
got weak when he hollered back "We're trying to beat the rain and get
there tomorrow!" I felt crushed. The same journey that would require
at least two more weeks of hard paddling for me was only two days for
them. Tomorrow night they would be enjoying lobster gumbo and café au lait
in the French Quarter while I would be burning my fingers over a driftwood
fire, and probably drying out more wet clothing. (From New Orleans they
were going to get on the intracoastal waterway, go east to the Tombigbee,
and return upstream, pulling out somewhere near Columbus, MS.)
Humbled, I packed and wearily pushed the Waterpony into the
current. Then a blue hole came into view immediately below the bottom of
the sandbar. Quickly I pulled back to shore and went for a bath and a
swim, wary of alligator eyes peeping above the water. Much refreshed and
invigoured, I pushed out again, and floated an enjoyable twelve miles into
Natchez, writing and sketching, the channel gently meandering, and a
strong tail wind.
Day 9 - (continued)
There was a figure
standing on shore just above the Natchez Landing. It caught my eye from
miles upstream for this fact: it was dressed in pure white, and glowed
brightly in the somberness of the overcast day. As I approached it grew
bigger and bigger, the whiteness flapping in the wind. I thought maybe
some cult figure was doing practice on the river's edge. That or the KKK.
My curiosity got the better of me. I had to pull up closer and
investigate. It was cute young lady with short-cropped dirty blonde hair.
She was dressed up to her neck in white plastic.
Kelly was working
with an archeological crew from Baton Rouge. It was the site of the old
Natchez City Waterworks, from the days when you could drink the river
water and not have to worry about birth defects. The Army Corps had
engaged her boss, Thirsten, and his crew to do a dig before the Waterworks
site is destroyed in the Corps' efforts to save the Natchez bluffs and
riverfront.
Seems that the river is trying to reclaim Natchez for
itself. Maybe its not so unfair. The bluffs were created when the river
dug its channel into former oceans that covered most of the Lower
Mississippi Valley. They were first settled by ancient tribes who probably
came across the Bering Strait. The Natchez indians chased them off to
claim the site for their "Grand Village." Then the French came
along and wiped the Natchez off the map. Then the Spaniards (Bernardo de
Galvez) kicked some French Butt. Then the Yanks came along and used the
favorite sword of the Americas (capitalism) and bought out Napoleon when
he was broke (the Louisiana Purchase). Now the river wants to do some
reclamation of its own. With the "Waterproof" Cut-Off (1884) and
later the "Giles" Cut-Off (1933), the river flows in a
relatively straight course ten miles before slamming up against the tall
red bluffs on which the city is located. "Look now while you
can," Thirsten advised me. "In two years its all going to be
concrete and piles of rock." Above the site you could see armies of
men and tall cranes hard at work. The pretty houses of Natchez are lined
up like ducks - either that or dominoes - and will sooner or later become
river property. That is, if the Corps doesn't secure their foundations
first. They will slide into the water, much like how they do in
California. Trends like these always seem to start in the Golden State.
I pulled up onto the Natchez Landing and walked into the first
joint I came to. It turned out to be the notorious
"Natchez-Under-the-Hill."
|
