River and Bayou

It rained inside my tent last night. No, not falling-from-the-heaven rain. But falling-from-the-ceiling-of-my-tent rain. Condensation had collected on the inside of my tent during the calm, cool night and was falling on me when I woke before dawn this morning. It was a good sign. Weather for today’s paddle would be perfect.

And so for most of the day, it was a great day for an old man and his little canoe to be on the big river. I didn’t see a single barge until late afternoon. And only two other small boats with big motors that local fishermen or boat people were driving around on the river this Labor Day weekend. Aside from spying a couple kids, as I silently glided by, sharing their youthful passions on a lonely sandbar, I saw no one else. It was almost mystical and hypnotic.

When I was a kid in the Boy Scouts all those decades ago, Indian lore was a central part of the scouting tradition. Today, I felt connected to that lore. I doubt today’s river is far removed from what it must have been like before the Corp of Engineers tried to tame it. And before the barges of commerce owned it. It’s big and majestic. It’s horizon-to-horizon trees and water and sandbars and sky. It’s wild and unforgiving. And peaceful and inspiring. If I had not been on this trip, I never would have seen or experienced sunrise over the river. And night skies filled with all the stars in the universe. Or silence. Blessed silence only the vastness of nature can reveal. And I suppose that very silence is at the root of the peace I find here. For those many barge-free hours, it’s a world away from the trappings of humanity. To have not made this trip would have been to miss one of the great treasures of modern America.

Well, so much for my early morning musings with coffee.

After shaving and cleaning up a bit, I headed out. Today’s destination was twenty-five miles away, Palmetto Island in the Three River Wildlife Management Area. To get there I had to get through Dead Man’s Bend at Jackson Point. Does that sound ominous?

Dead Man’s Bend is very tight and narrow. I think it’s the final 180-degree bend before I reach Old River Lock and Dam tomorrow. And, as fortune would have it, that bend is where I encountered my first barges of the day. Not one. Not two. But five! In a channel so narrow and so close to the huge Jackson Point sandbar there is barely room for me to be anywhere but in the channel. Only one barge can transit the bend at a time; others must wait for a barge to complete their transit before they start their own.

And, of course, as I transited the bend, I was on the wrong side of the river.

Normally, I like to stay in the fastest waters on the outside part of a bend. But often, if there are barges coming, I’ll paddle over to the other side to avoid both them and the rough waters their wakes create. Paddling across the river from one bank to the other is no small matter. Often the river is over a mile wide and can take twenty minutes of hard paddling to make the crossing. So crossing the river is not some random thing to just do. It takes a bit of planning … and a time when barges are nowhere nearby.

Coming out of Dead Man’s Bend, I was on the right bank descending – the inside bank of the bend. But to get to Palmetto Island, I should have been on the left bank descending. So, I had to cross the river. And those darn barges were backed up below the bend. Waiting for another barge somewhere upriver to transit before commencing their own. But I had to cross. And had no idea where that transiting barge was. It could be beginning it’s transit through the bend. Or, much closer, but because of the bend, just out of sight. What to do?

Not exactly throwing caution to the wind but with a certain degree of urgency, as I passed below the last waiting barge, I decided to cross. Looking upriver and seeing nothing, off I went. One-third of the way across. No barge coming. Then half-way across. No barge coming. Then … arghh … here comes that downstreaming barge everyone was waiting for! Digging hard, I paddled. And paddled. And paddled. Until I was well clear of the channel and well clear of the oncoming barge. It was the most exciting moment of an otherwise peaceful day. And, as it always seems to happen, occurred at a tight river bend where barges can cause the most trouble. I’ll be so glad to be done with these barges!

Making a landing on a sandbar at the head of Palmetto Island, I set up camp in an inviting spot a bit higher than the rest. As with all sandbars, there were a few animal and bird tracks in the sand. A boar and some deer had recently wandered by. Which isn’t unusual. Finding human tracks, however. That would have been unusual. Of all the sandbars I’ve camp on these past few weeks, only once had I found human tracks.

Which brings me back to my original musings about what the river must have been like back in the day. When there were only Indians. And deer. And boar. And trees and water and sky. Canoeing down the river hasn’t been a journey back in time. But I don’t think it’s far removed from what it was a hundred and fifty years, or longer, ago.