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Caddo! Caddo! Caddo!

As a boy growing up in Northwest Louisiana the name “Caddo” worked its way deep into my memory banks. Shreveport, where I graduated high school, was the parish seat of Caddo Parish. (Recall that Louisiana is the only state in the union which replaces counties by parishes under a French-derived legal system.) And my Boy Scout troop, Troop Number 2 headquartered in Creswell Park, was part of the Caddo Area Scouting region. And near by was the famous Caddo Lake. How I hated that lake. It was no good for anything. Its water was a depressing chocolate brown, filled with drab lily pads and sinister cypress trees, the latter being rendered hideous by the clumps of Spanish moss that completely covered their branches. You wouldn’t want to swim in it, or go water skiing. About all it was good for was fishing, and I never was much of a fisherman.

So it was with a sense of amusement after moving back to Dallas from New Jersey that I kept running into people (usually non-Texans) who said, “I’ve got to go to Caddo Lake. I hear it’s so beautiful.” Some folks visiting on business from the Northeast would even drive 3 hours all the way to the Louisiana border just to for a chance to launch a canoe and navigate the cypress knees and lily pads. Were they out of their minds? Why would anybody want to go there on purpose, I thought.

Preconceptions have a way of catching up with you, and so ironically Susie and I found ourselves on a beautiful day in May bed and breakfasting on the shores of, you guessed it, Caddo Lake. How lovely this primitive scenery with its delicious chocolate-colored water lapping on the roots of the wondrous cypress trees covered in stunning Spanish moss! How delicately formed the lily pads with their exquisite flowers! Etc., etc. This is the story of our adventure on the beautiful and mysterious Caddo.

We chose for our temporary abode the Duckweed House, one of five houses owned by Dottie and Billy Carter under the umbrella name “Spatterdock” located in Uncertain, Texas. It is uncertain how Uncertain got its name. There are two theories. Theory One is that during the days that the Big Cypress Bayou—which forms Caddo Lake—was navigable all the way up to Jefferson, riverboat pilots would get confused at this point because of the maze of crossing bayous, and hence they labeled the place to reflect their feelings about where they were: uncertain. Theory Two is that the 194 inhabitants could never agree on the name of the place, and so when the local politicos were forced to fill out official state forms to designate the town’s name, they filled in the blank with “uncertain” to indicate they hadn’t decided yet what the name was going to be. Then they promptly forgot about it, and the state bureaucrats took the “uncertain” to be “Uncertain”. I like Theory Two best because it is consistent with the extremely laid back pace of life in the community where people still leave their houses unlocked year ‘round.

Our cottage overlooked the lake, but it’s not what you think. The lake is really a swamp connected by bayous and sloughs and man-made “ditches.” Our view was like looking down a bowling alley: open water in a lane about 30 yards wide running for about 300 yards until it ran into a “shore” of cypress trees that were standing in swampy water.. The lane itself was bounded on either side by cypress trees, growing out of the water to a height of about 30 feet. It was more like being on a river than a lake. Everywhere you looked there were turtles. Some were swimming, some were sunning themselves on logs, some were crawling around on the shore right in front of our cottage. One group of really large turtles played king on the mountain on a rolling log in the water in front of our dock. One turtle would mount the log and just as it stabilized two more would climb on and start the log rolling throwing the first one off as he paddled his back legs furiously (for a turtle) in a desperate attempt to maintain his balance. The log would continue rolling throwing the other two off on the other side and the whole saga would repeat itself. As you would expect in such a setting there were big water birds swooping about: blue herons, snowy egrets, various cranes, etc. And at night screech owls boomed out their “songs” louder than a thunderstorm in tornado alley.

Having left our power boat behind in Dallas, we decided the way to see the lake was by canoe, an amenity we obtained as part of our B&B package. The day was clear, calm, and rather cool—a front having passed through from the north the day before. Our friend Wayne had lent us his GPS tracking device to help us navigate the intricate maze of channels, and so fully armed with the latest technology we launched our somewhat leaky canoe and headed south. No sooner were we launched and with me preoccupied with setting the GPS, the tranquility of the normally peaceful surroundings was broken by what seemed like the noise of an eighteen wheeler on LBJ expressway. It was worse than that: from out of nowhere 5 guys on 5 jet skis came roaring around the bend at 20 mph, setting up a huge wake. With my attention centered on the GPS, and not expecting any power boats to be around, I had allowed the canoe to turn parallel to wakes. “Hold on Sugar,” I shouted to Susie and immediately we were rocked violently as each of the wakes individually hit us. It was all I could do to turn our craft into the wakes and avoid being swamped. Who would have thought way out here I would experience a case of road rage, but almost involuntarily I found myself shaking my fist at the jet skiers, who were almost out of sight by now, and hollering: “go home Yankees!” Susan, a closer observer of humanity than I, noted both their ages and their girth. They were probably in their fifties or even sixties (perish the thought), and each looked like he had spent significant time sipping Buds while watching the beer ads during Monday Night Football. Susan promptly labeled them as the “Five Fast Fatties,” the “fast” alluding to their speed on jet skis, not an expectation of their cessation from their eating (or drinking) habits.

Soon the wakes subsided, I punched in the start settings on the GPS, and we were off to tour the Uncertain waterfront. Even though it’s called a lake, there is a slight current in the Caddo from northwest to southeast as testimony to its origins as a bayou. Since the prevailing wind is from the southeast, this was the best of all worlds: the current helped to offset the wind, and vice versa when we paddled upstream. Our location at Spatterdock (don’t ask me the origin of that name) was actually on Taylor Island slightly north of downtown Uncertain, so we elected to paddle downstream—and against the wind—on our outward bound leg. It was tricky navigating all the cypress trees and channels, the latter being marked every 100 yards or so by pilings on which were deeply meaningful channel descriptors, like “4C” or “142A”, etc. But with the help of Wayne’s GPS, we were able to locate “South” and began paddling toward Uncertain(ty). As we passed by one clump of cypress trees I noted to Susan in my best scientific voice: “look at the pile of brush that someone has put in those trees. I wonder why they would do that?” We soon found out. The “they” were in fact a family of beavers who were lounging on the pile, their brown bodies blending in with the bark. As we glided by, all but one scurried down into the brush pile, which in fact was their lodge. One beaver remained outside guarding the entrance and eying us with amused suspicion. We took this to be the mother, for shortly another smaller beaver appeared at the opening and the larger one immediately took to grooming it. We slowly steered the bow of the canoe where Susan was sitting closer and closer to the lodge. These beavers were clever, however. They had chosen the clump of cypresses carefully. They had apparently downloaded the dimensions of all American canoes from the Internet, and had selected their spot so that largest spacing between trees was still smaller than the width of our craft. Even so Susan was able to approach within 10 feet of mother beaver and was able to snap several pictures before running out of film in her disposable. Convinced that we were no threat—we were after all in the middle of a wildlife refuge—mom beaver went promptly to sleep, her flattened tail curled about her, with what looked like a bite taken out of its end. We wondered what story lay behind that missing chunk.

Seeing that our beaver friends were apparently bored with our presence, we bad them goodbye and resumed our drifting toward Uncertain. By land the village of Uncertain looks pretty deserted most of the time. There is a single main street bounded on one side by the lake, and on the other side by an abandoned airstrip next to which stands a two-story building labeled by a fading sign: “Fly to Fish.” Apparently, this had once been a big business in Uncertain, but either the fishing dried up or the approach to the airport appeared to be too hazardous to flying fishermen. Now the strip was barely discernible, with cracked macadam and tall weeds sprouting from the fissures where Cessnas had once set down. By water the village of Uncertain looked a bit more prosperous. Interspersed between ancient decaying docks were some very nice homes with brand new docks sporting powerboats. The heart of the waterfront appeared to be Shady Glade Café, where in fact we ate two very satisfactory lunches during our sojourn, and caught up on the recent local news, including how one oldtimer hit a younger boater over the head with a cane stick right there in the restaurant because he thought his boat had been swamped by the latter’s power craft. We laughed at the time we heard the story, but perhaps it was an omen of the future….

It didn’t take us long to paddle past Uncertain, and before long we were in the open bayou which curved away to our left and was bounded on both sides by the ubiquitous cypress trees. Then we heard it. That high pitched whine that betrays the approach of jet skis as contrasted with the more pleasant, low-throated throb of a true outboard. It was the Five Fast Fatties again. They were all lined up approaching us from the direction we were heading. As they came closer they began looking at us intently and came on by us with no reduction in speed within 20 yards of our boat. Once again as the stern paddler, I maneuvered with all my might to face the canoe into their wakes to avoid being swamped. This time we got a much better look at the Five. They each wore a sinister black western hat. Their faces were grim, something out of a postmodern Western movie. And there was an alarming glint in their eyes, suggesting they were up to no good, or at least looking to have a little fun at someone else’s expense. It began to dawn on me that the “someone else” might be us! Sure enough just as the wakes hit and caused us to oscillate violently up and down, they turned with evil grins on their faces and circled back for us. “Watch out,” I cried to Susan, “they’re coming back.” This time they came within 5 yards of us gunning their engines, as their wakes peppered us with spray while causing the canoe to buck even more violently. How we avoided being swamped I don’t know. Somehow, by exceptional paddling, we kept the boat from rolling as the wakes hit us broadside. But it was close and we were beginning to become very frightened.

By now they were downstream of us looking back to see how much damage they had done. Seeing that we were still upright, they regrouped to come in for the coup de grace. Since their single file approach hadn’t worked, the Five Fatties decided to line up all five abreast, making their jet skis combined to look like one huge JET SKI. We were surely doomed.

At that moment, in the corner of my eye, I spotted a small sign on a tree next to a small opening in the cypress forest. It read “Starr Ditch.” Apparently, the Corps of Engineers had bulldozed a channel through the trees to connect the bayou with some other body of water. “Head for that opening,” I yelled. I reasoned that it would be harder, if not impossible, for the Five Fatties to stay five abreast inside the ditch. We paddled for all we were worth. I was proud of Susan for she paddled just as vigorously as me as though her chemo treatments were nothing at all to her. We reached the ditch just in time, and the Five Fatties overshot the entrance zooming by it with a surprised expression on their faces as though they were saying to themselves: “where did that come from?” In fact the giant wave they launched came on behind us like a breaker on the seashore and we rode it like a surfer deeper inside the ditch.

I knew that they weren’t finished with us yet. In fact our disappearance had made them all the madder, intent on finishing us off for good. I could hear the whine of their engines behind us as they gunned them down to regroup at the ditch entrance. Just then a funny thing happened. As we rode the wave down the ditch I happened to notice a large cypress whose limbs overhung the water. But one of the limbs seemed to be out of place, and moving with a motion that was different from the other limbs as they blew in the wind. Just then a large water snake jumped from the right “bank” into the ditch about ten yards ahead of us and began swimming to the opposite side. As we drifted by him the most remarkable thing happened. I swear that this is the truth. The snake’s body rose out of the water so his head was even with my shoulder blade. His eyes looked right into mine. And then one eye shut and opened again. It was unmistakable. That snake had winked at me!

I didn’t have time to think about that now. We had to find some dry land. You see, the ditch wasn’t one in the conventional sense: a piece of land through which a narrow body of water flows. It was a ditch through a forest of cypress trees, themselves standing in 2 to 3 feet of water. There was no solid ground to stand upon, and certainly standing in the water with all those snakes was no option. The “bank” where the snake came from was really a tree bordering the ditch.

We had to do something fast because the Five Fatties were finally entering Starr Ditch with engines at full throttle. I looked back to see how close they were. There they were, one behind the other bumper to bumper, eyes blazing with fury. I could almost hear them shouting “Tora! Tora! Tora!” Or perhaps “Caddo! Caddo! Caddo!” as they prepared to do their version of Pearl Harbor on us. They were just reaching the overhanging cypress with the funny looking limb. Then, to my amazement, I saw what that limb really was. It was a really huge snake! Anaconda, boa constrictor, whatever. But it was BIG. At least 10 feet long, and 10 inches thick, dangling down now with its head just above the level of the head of the first of the Five Fatties. As he passed just beneath it, the snake let go its grasp on the overhanging cypress, and dropped down full force on the Fatty, and began to wrap itself around him. Immediately, the Fatty capsized, and because they were following so closely, the following Fatties ran right into the first Fatty and capsized also. That was followed by the most amazing sight of all. From both “banks” of the ditch twenty or so big water snakes—like the first one that winked at me—came slithering out right toward the Fatties, and began churning the water in a scene that resembled the river crossing in Lonesome Dove. I could hardly bear to look at the horrible sight. Now it was all coming together: the giant anaconda, the winking water moccasin: we had had a divine deliverance! I immediately began to shout: “Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Praise the ……..”

“Sugah!”
“What…..?”
“Sugah! Wake up. You’re shouting in your sleep.”

It was Susan, speaking in that sweet New Orleans accent that she learned when she was a schoolgirl there not so many years ago.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You must have been dreaming. You were shouting “Praise the Lord” in your sleep at the top of your lungs. You probably waked up half the Uncertainties.”

“I was dreaming?”
“Yes, dreaming.”
“So there’s no giant anaconda here?”
“No anaconda.”
“No swarm of moccasins?”
“No moccasins either. We did see one today, but he swam away from us, remember?”
“No Five Fast Fatties?”
“Oh, well, we did see the Five Fast Fatties earlier today. You remember. They asked us where to buy gas. And they were so nice to move out of our way when we passed them at the dock.”
“Yes, they were really nice, those Five Fast Fatties.”
“Yes, really nice men. They need to do more exercise though instead of riding those silly jet skis. Maybe they should get mountain bikes like you.”
“Yes, get mountain bikes like me…..”

“Go back to sleep, Sugah. Everything is all right.”
“Back to sleep. OK.” “But there’s just one more thing.”
“What is it?”
“Were there beavers? Did we really see beavers?”
“Oh yes. They were the sweetest family. Now you go to sleep.”
“OK.”

At her command I closed my eyes. I slowly sank back into that dreamy state that just precedes deep sleep. I opened my eyes for just a moment, and then closed them. I’m almost certain I saw an alligator climbing out of the water in front of our cottage and heading straight this way….

Other Pop Writings:
Caddo! (5/2002)
Raising Cane (4/2002)
Ask Anything? (3/2002)
The Race (3/2002)
The Hill (3/2002)
A Remembrance (3/2002)
Christmas, 1941 (12/2001)
Endo II (3/2001)
Endo I (10/2000)
The Course (5/2000)
The Rope (1/2000)

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