Got to Desoto National Forest, north of Wiggins, Mississippi, well after dark, pitch black, Saturday night and was wondering two things as we got closer: 1. Would the campground be full? 2. Where were we going to get firewood to cook dinner? A full campground would’ve been inconvenient, but not a disaster as Desoto is a national forest not a national park, and in a national forest you can set up a tent anywhere (though building a camp fire is another issue) whereas in a national park you can only camp in designated areas….in case anyone was wondering. Wasn’t full though. As for where to get wood for that fire, we passed by a huge pile in front of someone’s property – they’d cleared some land and put the wood out to be collected. Oh, hells to the yes – we collected it right into the trunk of the car. Set up camp, cooked some hotdogs, then hit the sack without even brushing our teeth. Did I mention we’re crazy like that?
Spent the whole next day on a canoe down the Black Creek River, paddling, swimming, and exploring a total of about 7 meandering miles. I told Seb I felt like we were Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, and he said “Who?”
And I said “Who?!? Only two of the funnest guys you’d ever meet!”
And he said “What do they do?”
And I said “Float on rivers, throw rocks, meet new friends, catch fish, and go on adventures. And they did it on the Mississippi River.
And he said “I can’t believe it’s my first time in Mississippi!”
Memo to self: Can’t wait till he’s old enough to read Mark Twain.
At a certain point we paddled past a guy in a johnboat who was up on shore collecting firewood and we nodded to each other, then kept going. A voice in my head started saying “Don’t go on past, that guy’s from here and you should talk to him. Be interested.” I paddled a little more, glancing back, paddling, glancing back….then decided to listen to the voice, turned around and paddled up stream back to shore, at which point the man was in his boat, outboard cranked up and pulling away. He looks over at us standing on shore and I wave, he waves back and slows down a bit, and I shout out “Any fish bitin’ around here?”
He says “Ohhellyeahcaughtmeboutthirtypounocatfishlastnightwitabigolemoonoveryondersobrightdidn’tevnneednoflashlightgonna fryemupansendsomehomewithmyson.”
To which I reply “You from these parts?”
Joe Rich, that’s his name, pulled his johnboat back up on shore and spent the next 45 minutes talking to us about the area, the fishing, his son who’d moved back home, his grand son (“He’smyshadowthatoneinmyhippocketwhereverIgo.), Obama, spending time with your kids, the importance of family, his hairy back, frying fish, college football, getting out into the world, high school football, why people call him “Mr. Shorty”, how the time was right for a change in America, arthritis, alligators, hauling wood, and thick maple leaves signaling a harsh winter.
Sometimes you have to listen to those little voices in your head. Thanks Mr. Shorty.
We’re paddling – and by that I mean I’m paddling and Sebi’s dragging his paddle in the water on the right side of the canoe making me fight a constant right hand turn – and I’m thinking “This is pretty sweet, location-wise, event-wise, but it’s not that earth shattering as far as “Wow! I’m spending time with my son!” or for him “Dad’s spending time with me!” It felt pretty normal. Sebastian and I have spent a lot of time together, one on one, and with Santana, two on one. Quality time, even doing the ordinary. Grocery shopping together, for instance, is a field trip – the three of us don’t grocery shop, we grocery hunt and we bag big game every time – down right legends at the Santa Monica Blvd. Trader Joe’s. No doubt you’ve heard of us.
So this trip is really something to be cherished, really something out of the ordinary that stands apart. But what I’m finding I cherish just as much, and am quite proud of, is the fact that, in some fundamental ways, it’s just the same ‘ole same ‘ole.
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[...] up the mountain. So peaceful. Highly recommend this place, and it’s a National Forest so you know what that means (didn’t think there’d be a quiz later did you?). You’re only limited by how far [...]
[...] Black Creek area north of Hattisburg, Mississippi, in the Desoto National Forest. As I’ve mentioned in the past, it felt like an old time adventure canoeing the creek, like we were two literary runaways passing [...]