Past the First Bridge

Centuries-old live oaks canopied the waterway, opening a tunnel into different parts of the planet - rainforest, perhaps. Bend after bend, we paddled in the tea-stained current through the dense piney woods and bald cypress of Desoto National Forest. 

“Man, this is just like I remember it,” I told Jason Philips, my best friend during eighth and ninth grade. Jason is one of my Amigos who has always been and will always be an Amigo, as are a handful of other Mississippians. 

“Ain’t much changed around here,” he said as he laid his beer between his legs and moved his paddle to avoid a fallen limb. The leaves of the branches were still green with life and bobbed in the current as we floated by.

I couldn’t help but notice the massive biceps with every twelve-ounce curl Jason did. “Damn, Bubba,” I said, “Where’d you get them arms?”  He just laughed and did another rep while somewhere in the distance, Hank Jr. sang;

I’ve got some fond memories of San Angelo

And I’ve seen some beauty queens in El Paso

But the best lookin’ women that I’ve ever seen

Have all been in Texas and all wearin' jeans

The feeling of being stuck in a time warp started when I paid $3.50 for a can of Copenhagen at the convenience store in New Augusta, which cost $9.00 in South Florida. “Three-fifty? For a can of snuff? Are you sure? It cost nine in Florida.” 

“You in Mississippi now, Baby,” said the girl behind the counter. Too often, all I see in development are places I used to hunt and fish, among other outdoor endeavors. A place such as this, where the woods are thicker than you remember and the rivers and creeks just as wild, gives me hope for the planet.

My steadfast and unwavering quest to become a novelist led me to a backwoods creek worming 40 miles through the coastal plain of southern Mississippi. A sandbar downstream of an ancient train trellis is the site of a tragic event that leads to spectacular drama in the decades to come. I can smell the creosote in the timbers thinking about it. However, I'm not creative enough to make something out of nothing. I have to have a tether, something I can make real, then I can roll. 

Black Creek, resembling a stretched-out Slinky on an overhead chart, is one of a handful my friends and I roamed when I lived in the area during my teens. I needed to go back. My son moving from Texas to South Florida for college provided the perfect opportunity.

I called Jason and asked him if he had time to take us to some of these locations on our way back to Marco Island. About an hour later, he called back and asked if we had time to kayak Black Creek. “Is that the place we camped on the sandbar by the trellis?”

“Yep.”

“How long will it take?” I asked, even though I knew I’d make time. Opportunities like this, as a Sportsman, are hard to pass up. The only obstacle was a rendezvous with the Greco Twins in Bay St. Louis later that evening.

“About four ‘aers.” (four hours)

I ran the math and ciphered that we did have time. “Hell, yes,” I replied. 

Natalie and Laurie Greco are among a hefty handful of people, including Jason, whose friendships have transcended time. I’ve been lucky that way. At first, people assume the “Twins” aren’t twins, like it’s a joke or nickname because they look nothing alike. Although equally stunning and magnetic, an exotic-looking brunette and a bombshell blond. Now and then comes a civilian, in this case, two, with such exceptional personalities that they become pseudo-regional celebrities.

The Twins were having a birthday party for my mentor in Mayhem during college, Jimmy Bershen, at Laurie and her husband, Jonathan’s, fishing camp on the coast – an hour-and-a-half drive from New Augusta. Bershen and two other close friends, Staab and Chris Edwards, who I hadn’t seen in decades, would be there. To top it off, the Twins weren’t telling them I was coming. 

Three hours plus of our estimated four-hour trip flew by. We’d passed the trellis and sandbar where, in my story, the teenagers were camping and the patch of woods where the two girls went missing. I figured we were nearing the end, and I thanked my friend again, as this experience is vital in my creative process. 

“Don’t mention it, man. I hope y’all make it to Bay St. Louis on time. Matter fact, y’all may want to go ahead downriver. When I said the trip would take four hours, I didn’t realize the current would be this slow. I didn’t know they’d be taking so many breaks either,” Jason said of his contingent of Golden Eagles (USM mascot). 

They’d stepped up the shenanigans and were in rare form. Such as Michael riding a giant oak limb that was stuck in the sand, bobbing in the current, waving his hand like a bull rider. I don’t know if telling them if something interesting happened I might make a story about it made a difference or not. Regardless, they didn’t have to do anything; being themselves was enough. Like when Tommy fell out of his kayak attempting to catch a wayward beer thrown to him by Blake.

I heeded Jason’s message and took directions to the landing where we’d staged our vehicles. “Simple,” Blake said. “You’ll see the bridge in the distance. When you do, hug the right side until you see the orange flagging - the landing. Can’t miss it.”

I should’ve known that it wasn’t easy when Jason looked at me sternly and said, “Don’t go past that 1st bridge, or you’ll be in a bind.”

It was 3:30 when Will and I said our goodbyes, shook hands, bro-bumped, and meandered down the creek. With one bar of service, I texted the Greco Twins and gave them an ETA of 5:30 PM - thirty minutes float time and a one-and-a-half-hour drive to Bay Saint Louis.

“This area is full of rich folklore and superstition,” I told Will as we paddled on. The outlaw James Copeland was caught and hanged in New Augusta. His body was buried on the banks of the Leaf River, just across the way from here. The body was later stolen – or perhaps disappeared.” I was telling a version of what I remembered from ago. 

“Disappeared?” asked Will. Now I had his attention. 

“That’s right. It’s said that Copeland’s ghost wanders the banks of the creeks, rivers, and streams around here looking for the treasure he buried.” 

“You’re so full of it,” Will said.

“The Dude abides. I’ll tell you what…, I’d rather get lost in the 10,000 Islands than get lost out here. At night…, you’ve never seen pitch-black until nightfall.”

The anticipated thirty minutes came and went. No bridge. No big deal… it must be coming up. Then, like a switch was thrown, the surroundings seemed different; the woods were fuller, and the pine trees were the tallest. I felt the current strengthen, and the water was clearer. Upon rounding the next bend, I saw why.

The west side was bordered by a thirty-foot bluff perforated with exposed root systems. On top sat a giant oak with a rope fixed high on a muscled limb. Young men in cut-off jeans swung out, letting go at the last minute, flipping or diving into the deep pool at the bottom. Which explained the increased current and cleaner water – a spring hole.

Next to the bluff was a landing alive with young, glassy-eyed country folk, seemingly without a care in the world. Will and I stopped on the sandy beach and pulled our kayaks (borrowed from Tommy) onto the shore. 

Initially, I misinterpreted their behavior as rude, as they glared at us. Not in a mean way, but more of a passive indifference. Especially when I asked if anyone had a phone charger we could use, they just laughed and carried on. “What the hell,” Will said, “Do they even see us?” 

“Doesn’t appear that way,” I replied.

Looking at his device, Will added, “I’ve got 18% battery.”

“Let’s hope it’s enough,” I replied as a pretty young lady with pink cheeks approached wearing a bikini and a baseball cap, oblivious or uncaring to the layers of flab protruding over the edges.

“Y’all lost?”

“Well, my friend told us the landing was before the first bridge. He said when the bridge comes into view, hug the right side of the bank and look for the orange flagging. But we’ve been paddling for two hours, and unless I blacked out and missed it, we never saw a bridge,” I said in one long breath. 

Later, I would beat myself up for being so blasé. Here we were, in the only body of water in Mississippi officially designated as a Wild and Scenic River. I took off like I’d gotten directions to the 7-Eleven I wasn’t familiar with. The red flag the size of Texas should have been Jason emphasized, “Do NOT go past that 1st Bridge. Or you’ll be in a bind.”

She smiled underneath a baseball cap and asked, “Sugar, what Bridge?” 

As if I didn’t understand the words coming out of her mouth, I said, “So you’re saying there is no landing before the bridge….” 

“I’m saying the only bridge over the creek is up at New Augusta. Somebody is messing with y’all,” she replied. I knew that wasn’t the case; it was a misunderstanding in the directions. We’d zigged instead of zagged somewhere. There had to be an explanation. 

Minutes passed as we tried to reach Jason to no avail. The young lady was nice enough to offer us a ride on their way out. However, the last thing I wanted was to be looking for someone who was looking for me when I had no idea where I was. Therefore, we stayed put. 

I became more uneasy as time passed. Not knowing where I am is unsettling. A prolonged sense of Deja Vu had begun to alter my perception, making it increasingly difficult to ascertain fantasy from reality. But when I saw the old outlaw wearing a duster dragging something up the bank, I knew for sure there was something strange about this ride. “What in the hell,” I said, walking closer. Straining my eyes, I asked, “What’s he dragging?”

Standing beside me, looking through the brush, Will responded, “Kayak?” 

It wasn’t a canoe or a kayak. It was something I hadn’t seen in some time. “It’s a pirogue,” I said.

“A what?” Will asked, taking his face away from the bushes.

“A Coon Ass Canoe,” I clarified.

“Oh,” he said and resumed his position.

Dark hair, bushy black beard, weathered cowboy hat, dungarees of some kind, maybe tin cloth, tucked into beat-up cowboy boots, he moved quickly with the wide gait of a bull or bronc rider as he made his way to an old model Chevy Silverado that I hadn’t noticed. The loud bay of a hound dog rang out, and a large animal with a short-spotted coat burst through a thicket and was headed our way – no doubt with bad intentions. 

Will and I were about to run when the man said, “Wo now, Gus.” The howling ceased as the dog hurried to its owner’s side. It was a good thing because my cardio wasn’t up for a “run for your life” “scenario.

Caked from head to toe in mud, we watched him drag the Cajun canoe past us, never looking at us or stopping what he was doing for a second. When he asked, “You boys lost?” I looked around to see if there was anyone else he could be talking to.

“Uhh…, yes sir,” Will said.

As he loaded the pirogue into the back of the Chevy, he asked if we wanted a ride. He said that there were only two places that we could be. 

I thought about that for a moment… “Only two places we could be,” he’d said. What the hell does that mean? “How do you know where we’re supposed to be?” I asked as we climbed into the truck. Me in front, Will and Gus in back.

“Because it’s the only place you can be,” he replied. 

I felt like my nerves had been Tasered. What in God’s green earth is he talking about? 

The entire ride, Gus breathed his hot, rank breath in my face, snarling when I made a move he deemed threatening. He had one mesmerizing blue eye – distinctive to a Catahoula Leopard Dog (or Cur), the state dog of Louisiana.

My heart dropped when the first place he took us to wasn’t our landing. He’s taking us somewhere to kill us, dismember our bodies and feed us to Gus… Rounding a dirt road veined with ruts, my sense of direction returned, and I recognized the surroundings. There was the landing, Will’s truck, and Jason and the Boys. The outlaw stopped in the middle of the road, we got out, and he left – that quickly. I didn’t even have a chance to thank him.

“Goddang! We were about to call the Sheriff.” Jason said as we approached.

After telling the story, Jason, Tommy, and Blake looked busted out laughing. “What?” I asked, oblivious to what struck their funny bones.

“Dude, what truck? Y’all just came walking up the road there,” Jason said.

Will and I looked in that direction, and I said, “I swear he let us out right there,” pointing at the area we’d gotten out, at least where I thought we’d gotten out. 

“Come on now,” Tommy said. “Old Western clothes, pirogue… We all know the legend of James Copeland.”

“I know about it, sure…, but what does it have to do with this? The guy was a creepy old cowboy dude who could be the Outlaw James Copeland for Halloween?”

“Ha!” Jason laughed. “You ain’t changed a bit…, crazier than ever.”

I chuckled, unsure of what was happening, “Ha… right on.” As an afterthought, I said, “Besides, I thought he was buried on the Leaf River?”

“Along with everybody else that reads Wikipedia,” Michael said quite profoundly while everyone else yucked it up. Apparently, the lore was of greater detail among locals. Hence, why I’d never heard of such.

“The local legend is way more than what’s on Wikipedia,” Jason said.

Grabbing another beer out of an ice chest sitting on one of the kayaks, Tommy said,” Next thing he’s gonna say is he had a big ole’ Catahoula Cur with him. Everyone laughed except Will and me.

It was around nine o’clock by the time we found the kayaks, reunited them with their owner, and drove to Bay St. Louis. The back was alive with spirits, and we could hear them when we got out of the truck. Tired and salty from the dried sweat, we walked under the camp, built twenty-feet high on round piling towards the noise. 

Natalie and Laurie saw us first and met me for a big ole’ three-way hug. Bershen’s eyes got big, and Chris Edwards looked confused as if they’d seen a ghost. Pat Staab walked past me, nodded, and said, “What’s up, dude?” Everyone laughed, including me, causing Staab to double take. I saw the realization on his face. He grabbed me, said, “Comere, you sumbitch you,” and bear hugged me.

“What the hell, Capt?” asked Laurie. (that’s what they call me – pronounced without a “t”) “Y'all shoulda been here about four hours ago.”

“Yeah,” said Natalie. “Don’t you think you could have at least called?” 

“Y’all didn’t get my text?” I asked. 

They looked at their phones and, in harmony, said, “Nope,” 

“Huh… Well, we had some difficulties,” I said, Will and I sharing a careful glance.

The Greco Twins looked at me, like, Well? Waiting… 

“Y'all ain’t gonna believe this...” In this case, the truth was better than any fiction I could have created.

If you remain open in heart and mind, you may find that the river of life will carry you down a tributary where things flow as they should. You can’t see the path, but you can learn to read signs along the way, suggesting direction. Like traveling the backcountry, everything looks the same. However, if you know what to look for, the natural flow of water becomes more evident, such as life - where research for a novel flowed into another Adventure of the Saltwater Cowboy.

Jon Edward Edwards is a local author and avid sportsman.