LA Part 5

Wednesday, May 10, 2000: Marksville

I walked into Marksville today. For many miles, people have been telling me about this imaginary line that runs through Alexandria. (by the way-- when you're in Louisiana, and you don't want to sound like you're from Iowa or something, abbreviate Alexandria by just calling it, "Ellec") Anyway, they said that this imaginary line that runs through "Ellec" is the dividing line between North and South Louisiana. They told me that things would change when I traveled south of "Ellec." They said that the pine forests and timberland would turn into swamps and bayous, the weather would get hotter, the food would get hotter, spoken English could have all sorts of different flavors, and they promised that I would see alligators. The past couple of days, I began to realize that they were right about most of it.

The thing I remember most about my walk to Marksville was the moment I began to understand that although it's only the beginning of May, I am no longer walking in anything that can be described as Spring-like weather. That moment came about ten minutes after Herschel and Lucille dropped me off in Pineville, and I walked about a quarter of a mile. It is hot, very hot, and there is a type of humidity involved that I have never felt before. I start sweating from the moment I wake up in the morning and make any kind of movement whatsoever, and I don't usually stop sweating until the sun goes down and I am fast asleep.

The pine trees and patches of forests that I love so much are being seen less and less. The fact that there are not as many trees also means that there is less refuge from the sun which makes the heat more intense, and the sweat --it just flows like a river. I camped next to Spring Bayou last night, and although it provided water to cool off in, I didn't feel very comfortable just jumping in. I just have this thing about swimming around venomous snakes. Maybe I will get more comfortable with it as time goes by.

I stopped at a few houses for water along the way to Marksville, but I didn't notice any big changes in the local dialect. The people seemed pretty friendly, and one nice lady even filled my Camelback with ice cubes. When I walked into Marksville and met my new friend Oscar, I found out that I have a whole new American dialect to learn now --Cajun.

Oscar has invited me to stay around Marksville for a few days, and of course I accepted his invitation. We are going out in his boat tomorrow for a bayou tour. He said there was a ninety-nine percent chance that we would see a few alligators.

Monday, May 15, 2000: Marksville, Louisiana

Oscar is a self-proclaimed "Coonass," which means he's Cajun --a descendent of the Acadian immigrants from Nova Scotia who settled in Louisiana back in the mid-1700's. I have actually met a few people in Southern Louisiana who have proudly referred to themselves as "Coonass," and they seemed very delighted with their Acadian heritage. Oscar claims to be "eighteen-quarters Coonass," indicating that he comes from a long, pure, Coonass bloodline, and much more Cajun than folks who are only a mere three or four-quarters Coonass. He refers to that imaginary line that divides North and South Louisiana at Alexandria as "the Mason-Dixon line," and he jokingly asked me if they checked my immunization card when I passed through. He was concerned that I might bring some type of Redneck disease from Northern Louisiana down into Coonass territory.

He has a friend (whom he calls the Coyote) who lives in Marksville during the winter, but owns and operates a tour-guide type fishing boat out of Algoma, Wisconsin on Lake Michigan during the summer months. Oscar takes care of the Coyote's winter home in Marksville during the summer, and he has permission from the Coyote to make it available to someone who might need it for a few days. I am often ecstatic when someone offers me a room (or even a couch) for a few days, but Oscar has given me the Coyote's house. This is a perfect example of the "consideration of others" that Oscar endeavors to practice as a way of life. He could have let me sleep on his couch --I would have been comfortable on the floor and extremely grateful just to be in an air-conditioned home, but Oscar felt that I would be more comfortable if I had my own house. That's just how he is.

I know that from watching the news we can get this notion that there just aren't that many good people with kind and giving hearts left in this country, but I just keep meeting the kindest people everywhere I go. Granted, I spend a good deal of time carrying a fifty-pound backpack down the road and through American communities, but I meet them on a regular basis. They are everywhere.

So, I have been living in the Coyote's house the past few days. There is a golf course across the street in the front of the house, and the bayou is right in my back yard. It is very quiet here, unless of course you step out on the back porch in the evening when the frogs are making a whole lot of noise. I like it here, and I have had a most pleasant stay in Marksville. I was waiting on some walking supplies to arrive in the mail, (some new collapsible water bottles and thinner, more breathable, synthetic, sweat-wicking shirts that will hopefully make the 90 percent humidity a little more bearable) and I received them today. Good camping stores just don't exist in this part of the country, so I have to buy the things I need on-line, and then wait for them to arrive in the mail. I believe I will start walking towards Simmsport and New Roads tomorrow. The Mississippi River is only fifty miles down the road now.

Here is an interesting fact: Three years ago today, I arrived in Eugene, Oregon eager to make a bus transfer that would take me the rest of the way to Florence, where I would begin walking across America. In Eugene, I discovered that Greyhound had left my backpack in Portland, Oregon during the previous stop. A guy named Matt, who worked for Greyhound in Eugene, offered to let me stay at his house that night after he told me that I would not recieve my pack until the following day.

Three years ago tomorrow, I took an extremely cold dip in the Pacific Ocean outside of Florence, Oregon, and I began walking east. I was thinking it would probably take about three years to walk across America. Heh, heh. Little did I know how much it would eventually change my life. It has been a really wonderful trip

Near a little community called Hamburg I saw a woman working in her front yard, and I thought she looked like she might let a guy walking down the road camp in her yard for a night. Her name is Ann, and she didn't ponder very long about whether she would let me camp in her yard or not. She just said that it would be fine to set up my tent anywhere I would like. It was a good answer.

Her husband, Tommy, came outside and we talked for awhile while I set up my tent. Tommy farms land in this Mississippi flood plain and also does a fair amount of what he calls, "chasing cattle." He cooked a large slab of his cattle medium-rare for my supper tonight. Like I said, except for the person that screamed, "Go home" out their window as they drove by, the people have been extremely friendly around here.

Tuesday, May16, 2000: Hamburg, Louisiana

I am now walking through what Oscar referred to as the Mississippi flood plain. I wasn't too far out of Marksville today, when the scenery quickly changed to fields of corn, soybeans, milo, and some sprouting cotton. It feels like walking in Iowa all of a sudden, except for the milo, cotton, and the fact that most of the people who live here speak a mixture of French and English with a Cajun accent. The people have been extremely friendly, except for the person who drove by and screamed, "Go home" out the window this afternoon. There's always one.

Walking in the midst of various row crops near sundown, I knew that I was going to have to ask someone for permission to camp on their land tonight. I don't have the option of ducking into the woods like I have had the past few hundred miles. I began to look for someone who was out in their yard, so I wouldn't have to go knock on a door. You see, when I encounter someone outside in their yard, I can get a feel for their personality, and consider whether they look like the type of person who would let some guy walking down the road set up his tent in their yard for a night. When I just knock on door, I never know what I am going to get. I really haven't had to deal with this situation for a long time, although it was part of my routine in parts of Kansas and Oklahoma, and during deer season in Arkansas.

Wednesday, May 17, 2000: Simmesport, Louisiana

It was a good day to walk from Hamburg to Simmesport. It started with more beef, for lunch this time, with Tommy and Ann. In the middle my eight-mile walk on Old Highway 1 to Simmesport, I stopped at an airplane hanger for some water. The folks there were very nice, although some thought I was somewhat crazy or possibly enjoying some illegal narcotics to be out here walking across America. One guy mentioned that his hip had been giving him some trouble and asked me if I would share whatever it was that "I was on." Heh, heh. They called the mayor of Simmsport to see if it was okay for me to camp in Yellow Bayou Park in Simmesport. The mayor said if anyone questions my camping in Yellow Bayou Park tonight, I am to tell them that I had a talk with the mayor.

Two miles later a guy named Pat, who I met back at the hanger, pulled up and asked me if I needed anything. I said that I could use some fuel for my stove and a very large, cold soda. He offered to bring the items by Yellow Bayou for me later this afternoon. Two more miles, and I arrived at Yellow Bayou Park.

The first thing I noticed when I arrived at Yellow Bayou were all the unique trenches covering the park that were dug by Confederate soldiers encamped there during the Civil War. The second thing I noticed was an extraordinary amount of graffiti, including a spray-painted pentagram and the number "666" on the floor of one of the shelters. There is nothing quite like a pentagram and the number of the beast to make a guy feel a bit uneasy about just setting up his tent and spending the night. I was glad when Pat arrived, because I had hopes that he would know of a better camping spot without pentagrams.

Pat and his daughter, Emily, came by the park bearing gifts of lasagna, garlic bread, salad, an ice chest full of sodas, and Coleman fuel for my stove. While I was taking their picture, the mayor (Craig) stopped by to bring me some water, say "hello," and to welcome me to Simmesport. (You know you are in friendly walking territory whenever the mayor stops by to welcome you to his town.) Pat then drove me to my present camping spot next to a field of milo on some land that he owns in Simmesport. I feel much safer here and plan on getting a good night's rest, now that I won't have to sleep with one eye open.

Yet there were more friendly people of Simmesport to meet before this day would be over. As I was just sitting down to a plate of lasagna in my new, scenic, milo field campsite, a sixteen-year-old boy named Justin drove up on his 4-wheeler for a visit. We talked for awhile, and then he drove off to get his dad, because he said, "Dad always likes meeting new people." Well, his dad (Henry) did like meeting new people, and he invited me over for breakfast tomorrow morning. He also sent Justin for a bale of hay to spread out under my tent so I would have a softer sleeping surface tonight.