As someone who frequently writes about the great outdoors, I usually find myself searching for the profound in every experience. I’m always angling for some soul stirring, awe-inspiring, touchstone moment that helps bring life into clearer focus.
As our three canoes drifted down Mississippi’s Black Creek, I found myself looking for that insight.
Instead, the words of a cheesy old country song kept floating through my head:
Way down yonder on the Chattahoochee
Never knew how much that muddy water meant to me.
Well I learned how to swim and I learned who I was
A lot about livin’ and a little ‘bout love
OK, so not exactly profound. A little corny, yes. Sentimental, definitely. The author had a strong sense of nostalgia for his beloved river that almost anyone could relate to (which is probably what made it so popular back in the day).
I grew up thousands of miles away – in a very different climate – and the Black Creek felt like nothing of home. The experience felt more like Costa Rica or Argentina than the Pacific Northwest, and I kept expecting to see monkeys leap from tree to tree.
Humming the tune, I found myself simply reveling in the moment and imagining the locals who call this corner of rural Mississippi their home. Cypress forests rose like a canyon of green on the banks, with knobby roots (called knees) poking above the surface of the water to help them breathe. The gentle ripple of tannin-stained water over deadfall, and the intense buzz of cicadas – these were not the hallmarks of familiarity for me.
Logs and branches poking out of the water created convenient resting places for turtles the size of dinner plates who plopped into the water whenever we drifted too close. Wasp nests as large as a beach ball hung from tree branches. Once we spotted a two-foot long prehistoric looking fish called a gar just below the surface.
Near our put in, we floated past a handful of homes that crowded the banks of the river. They stood an extra two stories tall atop a collection of skinny poles meant to make them flood proof. Their gigantic much-loved decks were rickety looking affairs that only added to their feeling of foreignness.
I enjoyed these details as we navigated our six-hour cruise. They don’t feel like home. They weren’t the features that made the Black Creek my Chattahoochee, but they probably were for the countless thousands who floated the river every summer.
In Southeast Asia, a common saying is, “Same same, but different.” Canoeing the Black Creek felt like I was having a meal in the home of a distant relative. The ritual was the same, yet the details were all askew. Not better, not worse, just different.
For a few hours I felt the October sun on my shoulders, I dipped my paddle in the warm water, looking for butterflies and snakes, and reveling in the moment. In a forgotten corner of a rural state, I forgot to look for the profound, but I felt lucky because I got to spend a day absorbing the details of such a foreign, yet strangely familiar place.
If You Go:
The Black Creek runs through Desoto National Forest near the town of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Canoes and shuttle service can be arranged through Black Creek Canoe Rentals in Brooklyn (www.blackcreekcanoe.com). $40 per canoe. The season is typically March-October although it may depend on water levels.
