Contributing Writers:

• Wolf E. Staudinger
• Michael Orr
• Paul Orr
• Mark River Peoples

Mary Ann Sternberg: Mississippi River Road

The Mississippi River Road is a familiar place to locals and a magnet for visitors. It’s that legendary corridor running a hundred or so miles between New Orleans and Baton Rouge, defined by a road along each bank of the river that traces the levee along each bank.

The River Road has a rich and colorful history and culture. It’s known for antebellum plantation houses open to the public, less so for its quirky little museums, remarkably atmospheric churches and cemeteries, and a variety of interesting old buildings with tantalizing stories. But many who travel these roads in search of its attractions seldom see the singularly best attraction of all: the river itself. This is because the levee-- which the Corps of Engineers erected after the 1927 flood to keep the Mississippi from inundating south Louisiana-- physically divides the area. Along the River Road, you can’t see the river from the roads unless you hike up the levee, ride the single ferry remaining in the area, or look over the side as you cross a bridge. But neither can you see what’s on the land side of the levee if you’re in a boat unless your craft is higher than the average levee top of twenty feet—about the height of a two story building. Even then the view encompasses a few rooftops, church steeples, and treetops. Only the industries—ever-present along this corridor--seem to link both sides of the levee, with connectors from their erector-set plants their stilt-legged loading docks.

It seems ironic how invisible the river is since all settlement and development along this corridor was, and is, primarily due to the presence of the river.

I’ve explored and written about the River Road for twenty years so I know the land side of the levees very well. But I leaped at the chance to join the Rivergators for a day, to share part of their adventure paddling from Baton Rouge to the Gulf of Mexico, because it would give me the opportunity to see and experience the river from the inside, a rare treat.

I met them on the west bank, in the shadow of the Sunshine Bridge, and clambered into my assigned seat in the 30’ gleaming wood, voyageur canoe. I settled in behind Mark River’s broad back and rhythmic bow strokes. Behind me were Robert and Ben who steadily paddled their sides from a shared seat and entertained me as we went along. Behind them rose a small mountain of colorful camping gear, separating the bow strokers from Donovan and Michael, paddling from a shared seat in the stern with John holding firm behind them. Chloe, Chris, and Paul were in the other canoe.

Although the entourage had apparently assumed that I’d play Cleopatra on the Nile and ride as a demure passenger, I immediately demanded a paddle: I wanted to be a real part of the Rivergator team, if only for the twenty miles from the Sunshine Bridge downriver to the sandy white beach at Paulina. If only for one day. Even as the mist fell and then the driving rains. Even as we stroked against 20 mph gusts of headwinds stronger than the downriver current. Even if we were jostled in a sturdy canoe by frothing white caps on the river.

It was a busy day on the river, although it was Saturday. Tugs and tows ploughed through the khaki green water in both directions. Freighters growled by in midstream, colorful behemoths that ruled the channel, and we slipped past their moored cousins, so close we could inspect each dent and scrape on their hulls and leaned backwards to see up to their decks and the occasional crewman who waved down to us.

Despite the almost constant presence of boats and the density of the industries along this stretch of river, however, it seemed remarkably quiet. The noises were muted, like someone playing background music-- mechanical hums, industrial whirrings, the thrumming of motors. In the air came the smells of sulphur and oil and sometimes the heavy wetness of mud. Overhead and prowling the banks were herons and egrets and gulls.

I walked on sandy beaches and through squishy Mississippi mud. And I appreciated the many places where willows grow dense enough for a girl to disappear for a few minutes of privacy. Perhaps the most surprising moment between the Sunshine Bridge and Paulina came late in the day and just for a few minutes, in a place where no boats passed and none were in view. No industry was visible along the banks; no telephone poles or church steeples rose beyond the levee. No navigational signs dotted the levees and no fishermen dotted the batture. For these few minutes, our complete world was two voyageur canoes sharing the mighty Mississippi, enclosed by dense treelines along each bank. It was beautiful and peaceful and wild-looking. It was perhaps as close to seeing what Mark Twain might have seen as ever will happen to me. It was a splendid day! Thanks, Rivergator team--John, Mark, Zoe—and fellow travelers for adding this to my life experience.

Mary Ann Sternberg lives in Baton Rouge and is the author of Along the River Road, River Road Rambler, and Winding Through Time (all published by LSU Press).

Rivergator Appendix 6
Baton Rouge to Gulf of Mexico
Dean Klinkenberg:
Beauty at the Far End of the River

Beauty at the Far End of the River

Some fifty miles downriver of New Orleans, Bohemia Beach comes into view like Brigadoon, an oasis of sandy beach between piles of rip rap. When I met the Rivergator expedition on the west bank of the Mississippi River at Algiers, downtown New Orleans looming behind us, I knew I was in for surprises in the coming week-long paddle, but I had no idea there would be so many that would move me.

At Bohemia Beach, uncooperative weather turned a single-night stopover into a three-night vacation. A few of us went for a swim in one of the willow-lined coves. The scavengers in our crew built a playground from refuse. I sipped ginger tea and watched the world’s commerce flow by—busy deck hands keeping watch on stacks of containers or cruise directors tending to exuberant vacationers.

During a break in the weather, four of us paddled about a mile downriver from Bohemia Beach to Mardi Gras Pass. The Mississippi River carved a new opening a few years ago that connects the main channel to a rich labyrinth of waterways and wetlands alive with birds, oyster beds, wild pigs, and boats speeding by with men carrying rifles. Deep in the maze, we pulled up to a coastal marsh where I felt like I was floating across the landscape (waterscape?), my weight supported by the densely packed root systems of the grasses.

Down at the far end of the river, humanity’s structures crumble, get rebuilt, and crumble again. A concrete boardwalk at Pilottown makes a convenient platform to spy swamp rabbits and cottonmouths, but it would quickly disappear into the marsh without the persistent efforts of people armed with weed whackers. Buildings that went up after Nixon went down are battered and at the end of their lifespan, their age perhaps better measured by the number of big storms they’ve endured than the number of years they’ve stood.

Closer to the Gulf, the original Pilottown—a place known as The Balize—has long since been reclaimed by the marsh. In 1832, the hard-to-impress English writer Frances Trollpe described The Balize as “...a cluster of huts...by far the most miserable station that I ever saw made the dwelling of man...” There are no signs today of those huts where river pilots once waited to board ships and steer them to New Orleans. But while it may have been a miserable place for humans to live, it makes a fine home for herons, gar, and a host of other animals better adapted to the bayou.

Down where the river ends, where the scent of salt picks up and Southeast Pass dumps bits of Montana and the Great Plains into the Gulf of Mexico, a thick line of roseau cane marks the boundary between land and sea. A low barrier island that may or may not have a name rises gently from a broad mud flat, a popular spot for pelicans and gulls to hang out and fish. We set up camp along the highest point on the island, which, by most standards, would barely register as a slight incline. Still, it was elevated enough to keep us dry at high tide.

No; I won’t soon forget Bohemia Beach or sleeping among moonflowers across from Venice or camping on an island at the end of the river. I suppose you might catch a glimpse of these areas if you pass by in a boat with a higher top speed than a canoe, but I doubt you would really notice them, much less experience their beauty.

--
Dean Klinkenberg
The Mississippi Valley Traveler
P.O. Box 15146
St. Louis, MO 63110-5146
(314) 497-3741
Partner, Mississippi River Network
Dean@TravelPassages.com www.MississippiValleyTraveler.com http://mississippivalleytraveler.tumblr.com/
Author of Rock Island Lines (Frank Dodge Mystery #1)

Rivergator Appendix 7
Baton Rouge to Gulf of Mexico
Paul Orr Story:
Myths and Misconceptions

Paul Orr Story -- Myths and Misconceptions

“It’s illegal isn’t it?”
“Don’t you have to have a permit?”
“The snakes (or hogs, or coyote) will get you!”
“You can’t canoe on the Mississippi River!”
“Ya’ll are crazy!”

We heard questions and statements like these many times on the trip, especially that last one. “Ya’ll are crazy!” We even got one or two of, “Ya’ll are f#@&ing crazy!”

Even those who had less emotional reactions seemed perplexed that anyone would paddle down the Mississippi River in South Louisiana. That doing so was somehow impossible despite the evidence right in front of them. The physical evidence of us being there and clearly having been paddling for at least a while on the Mississippi River did not seem to register as evidence that you can, in fact, paddle down the Mississippi River in South Louisiana and survive.

But there was also something else. In their faces after saying these things there was almost always a glimmer of admiration; a twinkle of excitement; a pang of jealousy; the realization that what we are doing is grand adventure in the spirit of all great human adventuring and that deep down they want to experience what we are experiencing and if they were a little less bound by the fear that that they inherited about the Mighty Mississippi they might just try it.

And thus the importance of the Rivergator and Quapaw expeditions which are helping to counteract these fears of the Big River and normalize the presence of paddlers. The simple presence of paddlers on the Mississippi can be a strong message to people standing on the banks that this is place for all of us, a place for them, and a place we should care about.

For too long the Mississippi River has been the nearly exclusive domain of large commercial vessels. The citizen living and working along the river have felt excluded. The river is no longer their river but a scary and dangerous place that is only for industry. This has lead to an ever increasing lack of stewardship and care for the river which allows for the kinds of environmental problems that most of us have at least some awareness of.

I am excited that the Rivergator and all of Quapaw’s endeavors will continue to reconnect everyday people to the Lower Mississippi River. To give then the intimate personal connection to the River that we have and all Americans living in the Mississippi River Basin should have. The more people we have caring about the River, the better we will take care of her. If you may have thought some of the things at the beginning of this writing; call up Quapaw and schedule a trip. You know deep down you want to!

Oh, and to answer the questions:

No, it’s not illegal to paddle the Mississippi River. The Mississippi River is a Navigable Waterway of the United States of America and is available for the use of all citizens.

No, you don’t need a permit (see above).

People are canoeing (and kayaking) on the Mississippi River all the time!

Well, not for canoeing down the Mississippi River… I’ll just leave it at that. ;)

Rivergator Appendix 8
Baton Rouge to Gulf of Mexico
Environmentally Impacted Communities
and Legacy Sites for Rivergator

by Paul Orr