Floods
My colleague Todd Young just came by my office complaining that he was trapped here at school because the rising water has covered the highway north out of town. The Hocking River is supposed to crest later tonight -- it might be at a high enough level to flood East State Street again, but I haven't been driving around to look. Coming home last night, there were several places where the highway was inundated by small rivers of water washing down steep roads leading into the hills; there was a "High Water" sign blocking the little road leading to our place.
And then I get home, and find the book I started reading ("The Wild Palms" by William Faulkner") deals at great length with the floods of 1927.
Floods have been a part of my family mythology for a long time --- we heard stories of Grandma Eisworth walking through neck-deep water during the Great Flood of 1927, and Grandpa Eisworth drowned back in 1977 during another flood. My own personal experiences centers around two episodes - one planned, one not.
During my sophomore or junior year of high school (don't remember which), the state finished four-laning one of the main highways through Zachary. This was very nice, but they neglected to consider the impact the expansion would have on the drainage pattern of White's Bayou.
When we got out of school, my friend Jeff Daniels drove me and my other friend Jeff Sparkman out toward the latter's house. The water came up fast, and Jeff D. decided that he didn't want to risk his truck in the water, so Jeff S. and I got out and waded through knee deep water for a mile or so until we got to his house. We were both expecting the water to start to ebb, but it kept rising. I ended spending that night at his house, watching the water inch ever closer to the house. High water came around midnight -- water had completely surrounded the house, lapping halfway up the 6 inch slab of concrete on which the place rested. In the porchlight, we watched long leeches swimming in the shallow water right outside the back door.
The next day we spent exploring the countryside in a boat --- most of his road was flooded several feet deep, and many houses had succumbed. I remember the balls of fire ants floating in the water, and the myriads of snakes who had sought refuge in the trees. We came upon the swollen carcass of a goat, and someone made the mistake of poking it with the paddle. We made our way through the woods, and eventually we came to White's Bayou. It caught us by surprise, and the current swept us under the highway bridge where we had only a couple of feet to spare --- had we done this a few hours earlier, we would have been killed as the current would have sucked the boat underwater and under the highway. Eventually, we got the boat pointed upstream and it took ages for us to creep back against the current to the other side of the highway and the relative calm of the flooded forest away from the main channel.
A year or two later, I took part in the traditional "trot-line" expeditions when the Mississippi flooded --- each June, the river rises and floods a lot of the backwoods around various creeks and bayous. We would take long trotlines (twine with fishhooks hanging down every few feet) and string them through the flooded forests to catch the catfish that came out of the Mississippi to feed in the flood. We took the boat into Thompson's Creek (which was flowing backwards as the Mississippi spilled into it) and then out into the main channel of the Big Muddy. We went upstream aways until we found an island where we decided to camp. The ground was damp from the surrounding floods, and I remember the entire island was covered with rabbit droppings from its only inhabitants. That night was very much a Huck Finn night --- I couldn't sleep because of the mosquitoes, and I saw many huge barges silently slide past in the moonlight. The fog came in the morning, and the air was occasionally filled with mournful horns as the boats made their way downstream. It was a wonderful night, despite the insects.
Such is life in Louisiana!
And then I get home, and find the book I started reading ("The Wild Palms" by William Faulkner") deals at great length with the floods of 1927.
Floods have been a part of my family mythology for a long time --- we heard stories of Grandma Eisworth walking through neck-deep water during the Great Flood of 1927, and Grandpa Eisworth drowned back in 1977 during another flood. My own personal experiences centers around two episodes - one planned, one not.
During my sophomore or junior year of high school (don't remember which), the state finished four-laning one of the main highways through Zachary. This was very nice, but they neglected to consider the impact the expansion would have on the drainage pattern of White's Bayou.
When we got out of school, my friend Jeff Daniels drove me and my other friend Jeff Sparkman out toward the latter's house. The water came up fast, and Jeff D. decided that he didn't want to risk his truck in the water, so Jeff S. and I got out and waded through knee deep water for a mile or so until we got to his house. We were both expecting the water to start to ebb, but it kept rising. I ended spending that night at his house, watching the water inch ever closer to the house. High water came around midnight -- water had completely surrounded the house, lapping halfway up the 6 inch slab of concrete on which the place rested. In the porchlight, we watched long leeches swimming in the shallow water right outside the back door.
The next day we spent exploring the countryside in a boat --- most of his road was flooded several feet deep, and many houses had succumbed. I remember the balls of fire ants floating in the water, and the myriads of snakes who had sought refuge in the trees. We came upon the swollen carcass of a goat, and someone made the mistake of poking it with the paddle. We made our way through the woods, and eventually we came to White's Bayou. It caught us by surprise, and the current swept us under the highway bridge where we had only a couple of feet to spare --- had we done this a few hours earlier, we would have been killed as the current would have sucked the boat underwater and under the highway. Eventually, we got the boat pointed upstream and it took ages for us to creep back against the current to the other side of the highway and the relative calm of the flooded forest away from the main channel.
A year or two later, I took part in the traditional "trot-line" expeditions when the Mississippi flooded --- each June, the river rises and floods a lot of the backwoods around various creeks and bayous. We would take long trotlines (twine with fishhooks hanging down every few feet) and string them through the flooded forests to catch the catfish that came out of the Mississippi to feed in the flood. We took the boat into Thompson's Creek (which was flowing backwards as the Mississippi spilled into it) and then out into the main channel of the Big Muddy. We went upstream aways until we found an island where we decided to camp. The ground was damp from the surrounding floods, and I remember the entire island was covered with rabbit droppings from its only inhabitants. That night was very much a Huck Finn night --- I couldn't sleep because of the mosquitoes, and I saw many huge barges silently slide past in the moonlight. The fog came in the morning, and the air was occasionally filled with mournful horns as the boats made their way downstream. It was a wonderful night, despite the insects.
Such is life in Louisiana!