MY MISSISSIPPI MISTRESS
I have had a love affair with the Mississippi River for most of my adult life. It
really started as a sort of “puppy love” when as a member of a Boy Scout troop I first
camped along her banks. Later in life as an adolescent, I would duck hunt in her
backwaters, fish in her oxbow lakes, and camp on her sandbars. Later in life as an adult I
would try to leave her, go west for graduate studies in wildlife biology and have a brief
love affair with the gorgeous canyon lands, mountains and deserts of the American
Southwest. Of course, I eventually returned to my roots, and my river, the Mighty
Mississippi.
My hometown, Dyersburg, Tennessee, is not exactly a “river town” per se since it
is not located directly on the river’s bank. But it is within about 15 miles as the “crow
flies” on the nearest high ground. This high ground is actually wind blown dust and silt
(called loess by geologists) that accumulated over the last hundred thousand or so years.
Left over by receding glaciers of the Pleistocene, this silt was blown eastward to form
massive dune fields all along the river’s eastern bank from Illinois to the state of
Mississippi. It’s on these islands of loess that most towns of any significance are located
because all the rest flat and low ground is in the flood plain, the delta.
This rich, alluvial soil makes great farmland but poor town sites because of the
occasional high water that inundates it seasonally. Even with all our levees, dams and
other flood control structures, mostly built in the last fifty years following the big flood of
1937, the Mighty Mississippi still gets rowdy! The recent flood of 1993 proved that no
river can ever be completely controlled, as the folks along the upper river can surely
testify.
We call this flat land, from Cairo, Illinois south to the gulf, the delta. This is
really a misnomer. It’s really the floodplain, as a delta is really defined as the fan shaped
deposition formed at a river’s mouth, in this case, just south of New Orleans, Louisiana.
But because this floodplain is so fertile and productive an agricultural resource, it
continues to demand our attention as we attempt to control on of the world’s great
drainage systems, the Mississippi Valley.
I fell in love with this region, and more precisely, the river herself because she
was then and still is a wild and untamable mistress. In times of low water she provides
more wilderness area along her course than all the rest of the parks and preserves
designated as such in the entire eastern U.S. Huge sand and gravel bars, islands forested
in bottomland hardwoods, sloughs and inlets, old oxbow lakes, all combine to form an
immense region of unique riparian habitats. And it changes constantly.
A favorite summer swimming and fishing hole may be completely destroyed in
one flood, and another one created a few miles downstream. On the outside bends where
the river cuts and erodes, her currents will consume whole forests, fields, and sometimes
communities. While just a mile or so away on the opposite bank, new land will
accumulate forming a point bar, soon followed with the vegetation of natural succession.
This meandering is characteristic of all “old” flood plain rivers.
Along with her meanders, her moods change also. At low water she’s seductive,
a kind and loving stream, free of the debris and silt that normally muddy her waters. At
high water she is treacherous with currents in excess of ten knots, whirlpools and
suckholes capable of sinking small boats, floating logs and newly uprooted trees, hidden
rock dikes, pilings, sunken barges and other hidden hazards to navigation. A river in
flood, large or small, is nothing to trifle with. Only with due respect and thorough
knowledge of her ways should any pilot ply her waters.
I have spent close to twenty years cruising her length from St. Louis south to the
gulf. I have yet to get intimate with the upper river, because above St. Louis the river
ceases to exist. It has been tamed, it has been destroyed. It is no long a river. Locks and
dams hold her back to form twenty-seven lakes upstream that make commercial tow
navigation possible. When you dam a river she loses her “sex appeal.” No longer a
moving, constantly changing force of nature, a dammed river is a river no more. Lakes
are okay, but they attract marinas, shoreline development, home sites, jet skis, bass boats
and all the other common trappings of civilization. Who wants to share their mistress
with the rest of humanity? I am a selfish lover, but that is why the lower river won my
heart. It is one of the most hidden, overlooked, natural resources in our country, partly
because it is feared and misunderstood, but mainly because it is simply inaccessible.
Three times the Army Corps of Engineers has attempted to construct a concrete
boat ramp in our own Dyer County and three times my river has taken it out. She just
doesn’t care to be “accessible” at that particular site. If you want to get to that part of
her, you better plan to work at it. She ain’t easy! That’s why I invested in a crew cab F250 four wheel drive pickup truck with winch, and, a solid, reinforced aluminum shallow
draft river boat with twin 115hp outboards. With this rig I can explore most of my
woman’s choice spots as long as she’s not in one of her ill moods!
I call my boat the Zadock Cramer, named after a famous cartographer that developed
the first navigation charts for the Mississippi and Ohio rivers. In 1801 he published the
first set of charts for the flatbottom pilots that were carrying commerce from Pittsburgh
all the way down to the port of New Orleans. Along with these charts was descriptive text
that warned of hazards to navigation, pirates and other knowledge of value to the pilots of
his era. Called The Navigator, Zadok’s book was the first work to number the islands of
the Mississippi, a system of nomenclature still in use today. These islands provided
landmarks for measuring one’s progress down the river, much as the Coast Guard mile
markers do today. Though most of Zadok’s islands no longer exist, their numbers still
exist on the Corps of Engineer Navigation charts in use today.
On another voyage down into Cajun country we ran across some cypress loggers.
These fellows were ex-cons from the state penal institution at Angola, Louisiana, and
they were looking for a very special type of cypress called “wormy cypress.” Wormy
cypress is old, long since dead, fallen and often buried bald cypress logs that have been
buried in mud and silt for hundreds, even thousands of years. Apparently due to the
nature of the mineral deposits and selective decomposition of the very decay resistant
cypress wood, extremely beautiful patterns are etched into the wood grain. Wormy
cypress logs make “the premium” veneer log and some logs fetch thousands of dollars.
These two rough looking fellows had just pulled a cumbersome snag to shore and were
inspecting it for its quality and the best way to cut it up for hauling. Due to all the
mineral deposits and silt impregnating the wood, the chainsaws had to be sharpened after
every cut. I asked them their names and would they mind if I took their picture. They
looked at each other, grinned a little, and replied, “no problem, this here’s Smith and I’m
Jones.” After a short visit with the loggers, and a warning to be wary of strangers along
the river, we departed. I thought the warning, considering its source, a bit ironic.
Around the bend we came upon the largest man made control structure on the
entire Mississippi River, the Old River Control Structure. It’s here that the river can’t
make up her mind. Here, her channel slowly begins to turn eastward towards New
Orleans on a southeasterly course to the gulf, a journey of 300 miles. But during times of
high water, the Mississippi jumps her banks and finds a new, shorter route to the gulf
down another river, the Atchafalaya. Without a huge earthen dam, spillway and other
control structures here, the Mississippi would already have adopted a new path to the
gulf, leaving New Orleans without enough water to maintain its port. Because the
currents here are so treacherous, large billboards warn boaters to hug the left descending
bank one-mile above and below the control structure. We heed the warning but find a
landing just below the diversion channel. The chief engineer just happens to be making
his rounds and gives us all a personal tour of the facilities. Upon our departure he too
gives us words of warning. We heed them and two weeks later we arrive back home,
safe and sound, after one of the most rewarding journeys, and adventures left to be had on
the continent!
A few months later I received a call from a lady in Louisiana. She had a thick,
country, Cajun accent. She had found something that I had left on the river. While on the
trip somewhere above Baton Rouge I had tossed overboard an empty whiskey bottle
containing my business card and a brief note of introduction. Her husband had found it
while logging for wormy cypress! I was delighted, as was she, and she went on to tell me
that the bottle had lodged in the root wad of a tree they had harvested. I asked her if she
still had that bottle of “Maker’s Mark” and she replied, “Hell, yes! I’m standing here
lookin’ at it. It’s on the TV right next to my statue of Jesus.” I smiled quietly and we
talked about her family until I finally insisted on a swap. She could keep the bottle, but
would she send me a family photo in exchange. She agreed, but I was still surprised
when a few days later I received the photo.
Most people, songwriters included, refer to my mistress as “Ole Man River.” It
doesn’t bother me, but they’ve got the gender wrong. She may be old, but she’s still wild
and free for the most part, and I hope she stays that way.
Of all the river town’s that I’ve visited, I believe I like Vicksburg, Mississippi, the
best. Besides having a rich culture and being loaded with Civil War history, this town
has some of the friendliest people on the river. It was my first visit there by water and
while motoring around the harbor looking for a fuel depot, I was hailed by the owner of
a small guided-tour company. He owned a few small watercraft that he used to show
tourists the river, and he would be happy to sell us some fuel. He also offered to let us
borrow his truck and make a supply run to town. Upon handing us his keys, he added “If
I were you, I’d check out the Civil War Park. “Just be back by five, that’s when we
close.” That kind of confidence in the integrity of strangers is typical of river folk. But
still, I never cease to be amazed at their kindness and trust.
We returned to the harbor late that afternoon to the music of a calliope playing
onboard the passenger vessel The Delta Queen. I and my crew wished to check out this
beautiful boat, but were informed by the Chief Purser that, do to security reasons, only
paying passengers could come aboard while they were docked. A little disappointed, we
retreated to our tourguide friends floating bar.
It was on the walk back that I happened to remember that I had recently purchased
stock in the company which owned The Delta Queen. We returned to The Delta Queen
and I told the older gentleman that I thought a stockholder should be allowed to inspect
something of which he was part owner. He rolled his eyes and said something to the
effect of “never having heard that one before” and grudgingly allowed us to board. We
were treated to a royal tour with complimentary dinner included. When it finally came
time to leave, the purser was there to bid farewell. As I shook his hand, he gave me a
sideways glance and queried, “What’s Delta Steamboat stock up to these days anyhow?”
With out missing a beat I answered back, “about eight and a half, last I heard.” His
suspicions melted into a broad smile and he said, “Well damn if you ain’t telling the
truth. How much stock do you own?”
“No more’n a few hundred shares, but it came in handy today!” I laughed. We both
felt better for it. Over the next few days we would pass each other repeatedly on our way
to New Orleans, exchanging greetings from each other’s vessel. It was comforting to
have such a large vessel to keep us company on our journey to the Gulf.
Every year I guide a group of undergraduate, graduate students, and their professor
down a section of the Mississippi or one of her tributaries. The course, called Regional
Flora and Fauna, introduces the students to the plants and animals found along the
waterways. We also look for rare and endangered species to help the U.S. Fish and
Wildlife Service better determine their status. Camping each night on a different sand bar
we use seines, gill nets, and other methods, to sample aquatics as that is Dr. Etnier’s area
of expertise. Rod and reels, and trotlines usually produce ample meat for dinner. And if
we’re lucky, three or more students bring along their musical instruments for nightly
entertainment. In my opinion, listening to bluegrass music echoing across a calm stretch
of water at midnight while running a trotline qualifies as a religious experience!
Because the Mississippi is so remote along most of her course, procuring supplies
along the way can be very challenging. Food, beverages, fuel and other necessities are
not easy to come by. On one such trip in early October I was waiting for our supply party
to return from a nearby town. They returned in the back of a pickup driven by a local
resident willing to help.
As they backed down the ramp toward my boat they blocked access to an old
commercial fisherman who was attempting to launch his boat also. He wasn’t too
pleased about the inconvenience, especially when he saw the quantities of Papst Blue
Ribbon being loaded onto my boat’s front deck. “That boat must run on alcohol,” the old
codger grunted! I tried to break the ice with a reply, “Yeah, these kids can sure put away
a lot of beer!” He didn’t respond.
I continued, “You got nets out or trot lines?”
“Little of both,” he replied.
“We’re camped just over there.” I pointed to the tents across the water and said,
“Care to join us for some coffee and breakfast?”
“I’ll take a raincheck,” he answered.
By this time he had maneuvered his trailer to an angle that would allow his boat an
awkward launch. He shoved his johnboat into the current where it cleared the trailer rails
and he pulled the boat back to shore with the bowline.
“I’ve got a good friend that used to fish this river a lot. You might know him, Ronnie
Capps?” He paused. Something I said had gotten his attention.
“You know Capps?” he asked.
“Yeah, he’s quite a fisherman.”
“Quite, hell, Ronnie Capps is the best fisherman on this river, I guarantee! You ain’t
seen him lately?”
“Had supper with us last night.”
“The hell you say! That offer for coffee still good?”
“You bet! See you over there.”
Now to understand this exchange you have to know a little about Ronnie Capps.
Raised by his granddaddy on Reelfoot Lake, Ronnie was fishing, hunting and trapping by
the age of three. By the time he was 18, his reputation among the locals rivaled that of
Daniel Boone or D. Crockett, take your pick. At the present he is a wildlife enforcement
officer with the Tennessee Wildlife Resources Agency. He also just happens to be one of
the best freshwater mussel divers in the entire U S of A, the #1 crappie tournament
fisherman in the world (Grand Champ 2 of the last 3 years), and now I hear from this old
codger that he believes a relative youngster (Ronnie was 26 at the time) is the #1
commercial fisherman on the entire Mississippi. I was impressed! Old men don’t easily
heap compliments on the younger generation.
Over coffee we told the fisherman what we were up to: seining for rare fish species
and other tree-hugger stuff. In return, he told us the best way to catch fish for meat (we
hadn’t done so well in that category and were tired of sardines and other canned protein
sources).
“Course, it’s the wrong time of year to do well with nets,” he began. “Water’s too
warm. Those cats feel the net and turn away before they can get snared. Nets are best
when its cold, the colder the better.”
“Don’t they quit moving when it’s that cold?” I replied.
“Yeah, but you set your nets in their holes right behind them wing dikes. The current
moves the set right through ‘em. You can’t leave it too long or it’ll fill up with so many
fish you can’t pull it in. I’ve lost many that way. Plus, logs and trash’ll take ‘em too.
but it can’t get too cold for fishing like that. Hell, I’ve caught big blue cats in water so
cold they were half frozen!”
“Aw now, frozen! A frozen fish is a dead fish!” I replied.
“Well then, you explain this: More’n once I’ve pulled up cats with big icicles in their
gut. Their swim bladder’d be full of ice, their stomachs with big chunks of ice, hell, I
believe they eat it just to have something solid in their bellies!”
“No shit?” I was beginning to believe him now.
He went on to say, “Yeah, that Ronnie Capps is special now, I’m telling you. He’s
fished this river from St. Louis to Vicksburg I reckon, and he’s done boated more fish in
his young life than I have in 50 years. You tell him I said hi!” With that he took off
upstream to check his lines.
Commercial fishermen are a unique lot. Most of them are retired farmers, factory
workers or other blue-collar types that love the water so much they can’t stand not to be
on it. I know money ain’t the reason a man fishes the river. He may say it is, but it’s an
expensive enterprise where the gear, boat, trailer and all can run into tens of thousands of
dollars. The operating costs eat up most of the profits. At 50 cents a pound for cats, 30
cents for Buffalo, it takes a boatload to just break even for the day. And the work itself is
long, hard, cold and wet and done in all sorts of bad weather. Most folks can make more
money with a lot less effort doing something else. The real reason fishermen sell their
catch is so they have an excuse to go back for more.