Paddling Mississippi's Barrier Islands - Page 2

The following morning, we loaded the boats and paddled southeast towards Horn Island.

Horn Island was a favorite refuge of artist Walter Anderson. Anderson was a strange sort of fellow. Finding life increasingly difficult among "civilized" beings, Anderson sought refuge on the islands more frequently and for more extended periods, rowing across the Mississippi Sound in an old dinghy. Upon reaching his destination, usually Horn Island, Anderson would turn the dinghy upside down which would then become his shelter during his stay. Anderson was fascinated by the sea and her creatures as well as the island's inhabitants... its raccoons, birds, alligators, crabs, and much more. "I left the shore and turned in towards the trees and found, or heard, the most incredible reward. A symphony of birds... the listener was almost overcome by the persistent note of joyous harmony" wrote Anderson. He was a misfit in society, but a round peg in a round hole with the islands. Anderson's name is strongly connected with the islands because of his many years of rowing across the Sound to remain weeks at a time on these islands painting the wildlife and scenery. Many of the islands inhabitants became his models with disastrous results. Often, they died while in captivity much to the chagrin of Anderson. He would sometimes then paint his models in their death. His was an obsession to record the life he discovered and experienced on the islands. He set up an animal hospital of sorts near his camp for the sick and injured animals he might find. There, too, Anderson mostly experienced bad luck with his charges. He believed he understood the language of the brown pelican and thought he was able to communicate with them, even going so far as to make phonetic transcriptions. He believed his purpose was to be "servant and slave of the elements" and to aid nature in establishing order. After surviving a particularly difficult crossing to Horn Island due to a severe storm, Anderson wrote "I survived the terrors of the sea and saw the red sun go down to come to this place to paint--all nature appreciates my courage and love." Well, maybe not quite all nature as evidenced on one occasion when a startled cottonmouth moccasin made itself known with a quick bite to the hand that was poking in a nest looking for baby birds. Subsequently, Anderson managed to set Horn Island on fire in an attempt to heat water to draw the poison from his finger. The unsympathetic town folks joked about Walter Anderson surviving the bite of a moccasin, but the miracle was that the snake had survived, too.

Various articles have made reference to Walter Anderson's survival of Hurricane Betsy in 1965 by tying himself to a tree. However, according to Anderson's own logs, he rode out the hurricane sheltered beneath his overturned dinghy and had "several times chose suitable trees to tie to if the water kept on rising." Regardless, it was still no small matter surviving such a storm isolated on one of the Gulf's barrier islands.

I picked up a book about Walter Anderson, a biography written by his wife, Sissy Anderson, who devoted her life to a man who was often abusive towards her and their four children. What I read bothered me. It is a mystery to me how this man who was confounded by the act of a human squashing a cockroach seemed indifferent in his unprovoked and violent attacks against those he was supposed to love. Often, his violent behavior is given explanation as the actions of the tortured soul of an artist driven to create. Hogwash. As an artist, I don't accept the explanation. History is full of many great talents who produced major works, yet never felt compelled to torment the helpless. There is, however, no denial of his great passion for the life on the islands he portrays through his writings and paintings. "Such a sky-- such water, and Horn Island between with me walking it--the back of Moby Dick, the white whale, the magic carpet, surrounded inhabited space," wrote Anderson. Many of Anderson's paintings, including a magnificent wall mural, can be viewed in Ocean Springs at the Walter Anderson Museum. His recognition as an important artistic contributor is significant. Probably much of the fact that the islands received a great deal of attention and were designated a wilderness area had as much to do with Walter Anderson and his paintings and writings as anything.

Horn Island lies approximately ten miles directly south of the Mississippi coast. Bob and I paddled towards the east end from Round Island, about five and a half miles distance. We paddled into a light beam wind, through the Intracoastal Waterway and landed a mile from the east tip on Horn Island. It was lunchtime and a bit warm in the sun, but we were able to find a cool spot in the shade of a tall pine tree. The water was a beautiful clear deep blue-green. The sand was very fine white quartz. Gulls, sandpipers, skimmers and many other birds were soaring over our heads, diving into the water or wading along the beach searching for any exposed eggs of horseshoe crabs, or the tiny, colorful coquinas (also called bean clams), and beach fleas. This area is a bird watcher's paradise with more than 280 species identified since the establishment of the Gulf Island's National Seashore in 1971.

After lunch, we hiked inland to a small lake. Though I couldn't see it, I could hear the roar of the ocean surf just beyond the brushy bank at the far side of the lake. Deliberately making a good deal of noise so as not to surprise any snakes, we walked to the water's edge. I looked out over the small lake and spotted a strange silhouette floating on the surface. "Do you see that?" I asked Bob. "Yes. And I think it's what you are thinking it is" he responded with a somewhat hesitant voice. Yup. It was. An alligator (not a particularly huge one) was floating on the surface. Intrigued by the image with the long serrated back, I wanted a closer look. While standing on the edge of the bank, I began to lightly splash the water attempting to mimic the sound of a duck in distress (gators *do* eat ducks, don't they?) as Bob slowly edged away from the bank... and me. The alligator slipped below the water's surface. For a while, I watched the water in front of me, but no alligator came in search of an injured duck. I did make sure, though, that I had a clear path for a quick retreat just in case he decided he felt like duck today.

We paddled to the east tip of Horn Island and made our camp in the breeze to avoid pesky, biting sand gnats. Horn Island is 14 miles long and narrow at both ends. Camping at the end of the island allows for ocean breezes, the sound of the open ocean surf, and also means less chance of being attacked by biting bugs.

I was awake at dawn. Bob and I walked to the Gulf side of the island and sat down facing the ocean. We ate our breakfast bars while sipping hot coffee and watching the sun rise over the Gulf. The mildly damp sea air felt fresh and cool on my skin. A ghost crab, in search of a dead fish or any other edible debris which may have washed ashore during the night, scurried across the sand in front of us. Suddenly aware of our presence, he froze into a "possum" state. We watched him until he could stand the suspense no longer and quickly darted towards the sea where he disappeared into the surf. I think poking at him with a reed of grass may have contributed to his sudden urge for a hasty retreat to the sea. Do crabs get tickled?

We were able to identify oil platforms and tankers across the horizon, located miles from shore. The mornings on the barrier islands usually mean a good deal of activity, with tide changes, animals feeding, and the breeze building as the night-cooled mainland begins to heat up from the rising sun. Sunrises and sunsets are always glorious events on the barrier islands of the Gulf of Mexico. It matters not if the sky is brilliant clear or overcast, dusk and dawn are always special times on the barrier islands.

We walked back to our campsite, noting the various footprints in the sand... pelicans, sandpipers, raccoons, kangaroo mice, and dogs. Or could those dog prints be the prints of one of the pair of southern red wolves introduced to Horn Island in 1989? According to the park rangers, one of the wolves died. That mate was replaced with another and the result has been healthy pups which have been relocated so as not to strain the balance of nature on the island. We loaded our kayaks and decided to paddle to the west end of Horn Island.

I had included two large golf umbrellas with our gear for the purpose of sailing as well as shade. Bob and I hoisted our "sails" into the breeze by opening our umbrellas pointing downwind. Immediately, both umbrellas were flipped inside out. The sudden force of the wind almost sent me swimming into the Sound before I recovered and pushed the umbrella towards the wind which then flipped the ribs back into their correct position. When Bob managed to right his umbrella, he sailed forwards a few meters then abruptly took a 90-degree turn north. Without a rudder, these huge golf umbrellas had minds of their own. I managed a bit of successful sailing, but I had a rudder. Bob gave it up, except for occasionally hitching a ride by hanging onto my boat.

We stopped for lunch which was soon interrupted by a loud commotion in the sky. A pair of osprey, attempting to defend their nest, were warning a pair of smaller, pesky black birds with high shrill whistles and fast, soaring pursuits. The defending of their nest required a constant vigil by the ospreys. We climbed the tall dunes for a better position in which to view the feathered fracas. Ospreys are magnificent birds with a sky-piercing call, tireless in their defense of their offspring. Bob and I wondered if maybe these smaller nuisance blackbirds were responsible in part for the death toll of the Osprey chicks. We watched for a while until we noticed dark clouds building in the southern sky beyond the island. Soon the wind picked up and a light rain fell over us. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the rain was gone and the sky was a bright blue again. We got back into our boats and headed west.

We paddled closely along the shore to watch the birds and gave up any thought of reaching the west end of Horn that night. We arrived at the mouth of a large lagoon in the late afternoon, and being seduced by its tall pine trees and exotic sounds, we decided to camp here at the mouth for the night and explore the lagoon's interior in the morning when we could paddle in with the rising tide. In the distance beyond the lagoon, the soft roar of the Gulf's surf was a reminder of how narrow these barrier islands are. No point of Horn island is more than half a mile from either the Mississippi Sound or the Gulf.

Finding a tent site proved to be a real puzzle. The area at the mouth of the lagoon was either too low, covered with brush, or too pointed with steep dunes. One promising spot which was fairly level, away from the fragile sea oats, and in an open area away from deerflies was dismissed when we discovered alligator tracks within a few feet of the site leading from the Sound back into the lagoon. I did not want my tent to block the path of any alligators returning from a day of fishing, or especially any alligator's return to its nest.

For a while, I watched as a heron waded around the outlet catching its hapless dinner forced out of the lagoon by the receding tide and right under the waiting beak. Hermit crabs, caught in the current, rolled over and over down the streambed toward the Sound. I wondered if hermit crabs get dizzy. This seemed to be a popular as well as successful fishing spot among the wildlife as they gathered at the mouth to scoop up their meals being funneled back into the sea. This small outlet was crowded with birds, horseshoe crabs, and even a few stingrays.

We pulled the boats up the stream, unloaded and waded across to a flat spot on the edge of the lagoon. That night, like so many nights I've been on the Gulf coast, the shoreline was lit by the tiny twinkling light of bioluminescence in the water, a microscopic protozoan which lights up when the water is disturbed. A shimmering, glowing row of waves snaked along the shore when the surf rushed in and broke on the beach. I pointed a bright spotlight into the black water which suddenly came alive with bright, glowing splashes as startled fish jumped into the air fleeing the light monster which was intent on devouring them.

Long into the night, after we had gone to bed, I was awakened by a bright light in my face, so bright it temporarily blinded me. Flounder fishermen. The bright lights are for locating flounder, but have been a real nuisance in the past when camping along the shore. The light remained on our tent for several seconds, went away, and came back. I couldn't figure how they expected to find flounder up here in the dunes. Irritated, I tried to go back to sleep. Finally, the bright light went out and I gradually fell asleep. Later, I was awakened by two lights dancing in the window of the tent, one red, one white. The lights were accompanied by a strange, repetitive organ-type music with a hint of Cajun. Half awake and completely groggy (and not one who accepts close-encounter stories) I found myself thinking a spaceship had appeared and was hovering in front of the tent and attempting to communicate with us by doing that "Close Encounters" musical communication thing. After shaking my head and waking up, I realized that the flounder fishermen had anchored just offshore across the stream from us. Through the tent screen, the red and white lights of the boat which was bobbing up and down in the surf, gave the illusion of two lights hovering in space in front of the tent. The weird music only enhanced the effect.

Why, on the entire 14 miles of northern Horn Island, did this spot have to be the one for anchoring their boat... just yards from our camp? I tried to go back to sleep again. The music went on and on, the red and white lights went up and down. I thought I was going to be seasick for the first time in my life, but I wasn't at sea. I was in my own tent. After more than two hours of not being able to return to sleep, I crawled out of the tent, waded across the streambed which was getting deeper with the incoming tide and approached the boat. I yelled out "Hello, hello, hell OOOOOO!" I could barely make out two forms lying in the boat, wrapped in either blankets or overcoats. No one moved. I approached and yelled louder. Finally, one of the forms sat up, looking somewhat startled to see this woman standing on the beach, in the dark, miles from the mainland. I asked the form if he would please mind either turning the radio off or down as we were camped nearby and I assumed he didn't know we were there. He was very apologetic saying that he had been completely unaware of our camp and immediately turned off the radio putting an end to the hours of weird music. I could not identify the music's origin, but welcomed the silence. Thanking him, I returned to the tent to try and go back to sleep. In the morning, the flounder spacemen were gone.

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