Life on the Mississippi

The waters of the Mississippi are continuing to rise, threatening houses, farms, and businesses along its banks:

LOUISIANA, Mo. – The water is still well above the banks of the upper Mississippi River, but residents of both flooded towns and those protected by levees and sandbags can see an ending: The river is cresting.

“It’s quieter compared to earlier this week,” said Louisiana emergency management director Mike Lesley, where sandbagging has largely ceased. This past weekend, he said, “I actually got some sleep.”

The river started cresting Sunday at Canton, Mo., not far from the Iowa state line, through the lock and dam near Quincy, Ill. Next up, according to federal forecasters, were crests expected Monday from Hannibal to Clarksville. In Mark Twain’s hometown, Hannibal emergency management director John Hark said he was confident the town’s levees would hold as the river begins to recede.

When I was in St. Louis over the weekend, I noticed that the river was far higher than normal, covering First Street and all the way up to the steps of the Arch, although not as high as it was in 1993. On a purely human level your heart must go out to the people who’ve lost their homes or livelihoods to the flood.

However, when you’ve grown up along the Mississippi, your feelings are a little more mixed. Although I’m still sympathetic my sympathy is a little more limited than it otherwise might be. Anybody who farms the bottom land or builds their home in it either knows what they’re getting into or should know. This isn’t a new thing. It’s been happening for thousands of years.

IT was nine o’clock Thursday morning when the ‘Susie’ left the Mississippi and entered Old River, or what is now called the mouth of the Red. Ascending on the left, a flood was pouring in through and over the levees on the Chandler plantation, the most northern point in Pointe Coupee parish. The water completely covered the place, although the levees had given way but a short time before. The stock had been gathered in a large flat-boat, where, without food, as we passed, the animals were huddled together, waiting for a boat to tow them off. On the right-hand side of the river is Turnbull’s Island, and on it is a large plantation which formerly was pronounced one of the most fertile in the State. The water has hitherto allowed it to go scot-free in usual floods, but now broad sheets of water told only where fields were. The top of the protecting levee could be seen here and there, but nearly all of it was submerged.

The trees have put on a greener foliage since the water has poured in, and the woods look bright and fresh, but this pleasant aspect to the eye is neutralized by the interminable waste of water. We pass mile after mile, and it is nothing but trees standing up to their branches in water. A water-turkey now and again rises and flies ahead into the long avenue of silence. A pirogue sometimes flits from the bushes and crosses the Red River on its way out to the Mississippi, but the sad-faced paddlers never turn their heads to look at our boat. The puffing of the boat is music in this gloom, which affects one most curiously. It is not the gloom of deep forests or dark caverns, but a peculiar kind of solemn silence and impressive awe that holds one perforce to its recognition. We passed two negro families on a raft tied up in the willows this morning. They were evidently of the well-to-do class, as they had a supply of meal and three or four hogs with them. Their rafts were about twenty feet square, and in front of an improvised shelter earth had been placed, on which they built their fire.

The current running down the Atchafalaya was very swift, the Mississippi showing a predilection in that direction, which needs only to be seen to enforce the opinion of that river’s desperate endeavors to find a short way to the Gulf. Small boats, skiffs, pirogues, etc., are in great demand, and many have been stolen by piratical negroes, who take them where they will bring the greatest price. From what was told me by Mr. C. P. Ferguson, a planter near Red River Landing, whose place has just gone under, there is much suffering in the rear of that place. The negroes had given up all thoughts of a crevasse there, as the upper levee had stood so long, and when it did come they were at its mercy. On Thursday a number were taken out of trees and off of cabin roofs and brought in, many yet remaining.

One does not appreciate the sight of earth until he has traveled through a flood. At sea one does not expect or look for it, but here, with fluttering leaves, shadowy forest aisles, house-tops barely visible, it is expected. In fact a grave-yard, if the mounds were above water, would be appreciated. The river here is known only because there is an opening in the trees, and that is all. It is in width, from Fort Adams on the left bank of the Mississippi to the bank of Rapides Parish, a distance of about sixty miles.

So wrote Sam Clemens, master pilot, newspaper man, and master wordsmith, more than a century ago.

If you build on the river, you’re going to be flooded. You can’t prevent it or control it or even do much about it except wait for it and clean up afterwards.