Paddleways of Mississippi, written by my dear friend and journalism colleague Ernest Herndon, is a wonderful new book, published by University Press of Mississippi.
Ernest for decades has been the outdoors editor for the McComb Enterprise-Journal, commanding a huge loyal following. He represents the best of American journalism and has written thousands of articles over the years.
Ernest is the foremost authority on canoeing in Mississippi. Literally, he wrote the book, Canoeing Mississippi. He’s canoed down just about every river, stream, bayou and slough in Mississippi and Louisiana.
Whereas Canoeing Mississippi is a how-to book, describing the ins and outs of all the best places to canoe in Mississippi, Paddleways of Mississippi is more of a philosophical and introspective book, interweaving his most memorable canoe trips with a rich tapestry of places, personalities, history, natural flora and fauna and life insights. This book is a treasure.
I have been blessed to go on many canoe trips over the years with Ernest, my buddy Kemal Sanli and other friends led by Ernest, the ultimate canoe guide.
One of my favorite memories is Kemal and I showing up at the boat launch with a canoe that was barely floatable, having been loaded down with steak, cakes, coffee, wine, guitars, beer, boom boxes, snacks, hammocks, down sleeping bags and a multitude of luxuries. The look of contempt on Ernest’s face was unmistakable. He just takes the bare minimum and eats cans of sardines.
But over the years, Ernest softened and learned to tolerate our epicurean excess. I even like to think he rather enjoyed a steak or two and a glass of wine provided by us over the years.
In my humble opinion, one of the great things about canoe trips is that you can take a ton of stuff and camp right on the banks of the river. Most people have no idea how many beautiful, clear rivers and creeks Mississippi has to float down with gorgeous white sandbars to camp on.
It’s been years since I canoed with Ernest and Kemal, distracted by a hundred other fun things to do. I am truly spoiled for choices. But I hope to have at least one more canoe down the Black Creek with Ernest and Kemal.
Ernest is one of the smartest, kindest, holiest and creative persons I have ever known. His book is full of hand drawn maps, practical canoeing advice and insights on people and life. You cannot go wrong devoting some time to reading this book.
Ernest has led a life I envy, spurning the lure of material excess, living simply on lovely rural homestead, playing banjo in a gospel bluegrass band, devoting himself to being a good husband to a beautiful wife and writing about the fascinating people populating the speck of the world in which he found himself.
When I turned to page 247, I was flattered to see a couple of photos of Kemal and me navigating the Black Creek. I was a bit shocked to notice how much younger, thinner and less gray we were. But it was almost at the end of the book, on page 258, the chapter on the Red Creek, that I hit the jackpot and my heart was touched.
Ernest had written a sidebar about one of our trips. It is as follows:
When we walked to the Highway 26 boat ramp at Red Creek on Friday in early March I didn't like what I saw. The narrow stream ran fast and high, several feet above normal. Add the winter storm warnings we've been hearing, and the three-day canoe trip seemed ill-advised. Yet here we were victims of our schedules.
“Are we mice or men?” demanded Kemal Sanli, standing beside Wyatt Emmerich and Jeff Steevens, We talked over our options and agreed to try it. That's men for you .
We slid our two canoes into the jet stream that was the Red Creek.Usually the creek is narrow and clear with countless sandbars. Now, at least four feet higher than normal, it was muddy and stretched between sheer banks. We rounded the first bend and a quarter mile later encountered the very type of obstacle I had feared. A fallen tree lay halfway across the river on the right, and just downstream a barely submerged log lay halfway across on the left. We’d have to zig left and zag right to avoid being swept into the log. In the stern. I ruddered us to the left, then Wyatt and I dug in with our paddles but the current pushed us hard sideways, and we struck the log bow first.
Fortunately, momentum carried us over. We swung the boat around to wait on Jeff and Kemal. They tried the same maneuver and ran up sideways on the log, perfectly positioned for a capsize. But they kept their cool and, after a while or two slid over safely.
Woodland scenery unfolded as we zipped past. A wild turkey flew across the river; a deer bounded up the bank; hawks and buzzards soared overhead against the gray sky.
We camped on a south-facing sandbar. Kemal built the fire, and I grilled jalapeno deer sausage. As dark fell, we huddled around the fire in the ripping northwest wind. Something cold and damp peppered my face, and I pointed my flashlight up to see tiny snowflakes.
My camping buddies represented a wide range of personalities. Wyatt, owner of numerous newspapers, is the Philosopher. He sits cross-legged in front of the campfire like an Indian chief and expostulates knowledgeably on a mind-boggling variety of topics. Jeff, at the time environmental toxicologist for the Corps of Engineers, is the Scientist able to discourse on subjects ranging from nanoparticles to neurotoxins. Kemal, credit manager for a Lion Oil Company, is the Master Camper, chopping wood, building and tending fires, cooking superb meals, even carving a sitting area into a sloping sandbar. They call me Bayou Man and expect me to know the answers to any river-related questions, which often leaves me scrambling to come up with a reply. We're an unlikely gang, I reckon, but we all turn into Tom Sawyers and Huck Finns when we get out in places like this.
By dawn the sky had cleared and the wind slackened. Geese honked as Kemal fried bacon and eggs over the fire served up with sweet rolls and coffee.
On the sun-washed river, blooming red maples contrasted with shiny green magnolias and freshly budding oaks. Yet many trees were broken and fallen, a legacy of hurricane Katrina which slaughtered forests all across this part of the state in 2005.
We zipped under Highway 49 at Perkinston and by the time we passed City Bridge and stopped at a sandbar for lunch, the air was so warm that I took off my shirt to catch some rays. We lunched on jerky, sardine sandwiches and chips and napped on the sun heated sandbar. But whenever a breeze blew or a cloud passed over the sun, the air felt instantly chilly.
That evening we made camp on a narrow sandbar below an island. This was a lonely place, the sand riddled with fat bobcat tracks, two-inch wide round pads lacking claw marks. The night was cold and starry with coyote howls and owl whoops ringing out through the woods. As we talked around the campfire after a gumbo-and-French-bread supper, Orion the Hunter stole behind the treetops while the North Star looked on unmoved.
Heavy frost coated our canoes at dawn. Jeff made oatmeal with all the fixings. We built up the fire and drank coffee.
This was Sunday, so we passed around a camp testament, each reading a passage and commenting on it. I chose Psalm 19: “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands . . . in the heavens he has pitched a tent for the sun, which is like a bridegroom coming forth from his pavilion, like a champion rejoicing to run his course. It rises at one end of the heavens and makes its circuit to the other.
“So what are your comments?” Kemal asked.
I pointed to the riffling creek, the woods, the sun rising over the treetops ready to run its course. Those were my comments.
