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Belle Noir Canopy Bed Size: Queen

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photo by Gary Bridgman*


Beginning of day 2 (April 26, 1998) of our full descent of the Wolf, Raymond Skinner prepares his canoe at the head of navigation of the Wolf River. This is in the upper part of the Holly Springs National Forest in Benton County, Mississippi. The river flows north from there into West Tennessee's Fayette County and into Memphis, where it spills into the Mississippi.

Here is my account of this canoe trip, published in Oxford Town and the the Wolf River Conservancy's newsletter in the summer of 1998.



A River Creeps Through It

by Gary Bridgman

OT editor's note: On May 1, 1998, Ole Miss graduate student, William "Fitz" FitzGerald, became the first person in recorded history to travel the entire length of the Wolf River. WRC board member and Oxford, MS, resident, Gary Bridgman, became the second person to do this...about three seconds later (he was in the back of the canoe), as the two completed the "Wolf River Survey." Gary and Fitz hiked and paddled from Baker's Pond to the foot of Union Avenue to help raise awareness about the river as a whole. Sponsors included the Wolf River Conservancy, Outdoors Inc., Ghost River Canoe Rentals, and BellSouth Mobility. What follows is Gary's rather unscientific, non-chronological account of the trip.

There's a distinction between being drunk on a river and being drunk with a river. One does not need alcohol or drugs to have mind altering (or life changing) experiences in a canoe. Fast moving streams like the Nantahala and the Ocoee are what I call "adrenaline rivers," while the Wolf is an "endorphin river." It offers canoeists a priceless glimpse of what all other rivers' headwaters in this region looked like before the Corps of Engineers channelized them.

William Faulkner described such swampy, untamed rivers as "the thick, slow, black, unsunned streams almost without current, which once each year ceased to flow at all and then reversed, spreading, drowning the rich land and subsiding again, leaving it still richer." They are intoxicating, to say the least.

The Wolf River is teeming with wildlife and wetland vegetation, but my favorite part about our recent "expedition" was not its biodiversity, but its psychodiversity: all the interesting people I met in the process --- interesting people like the two cops who almost busted us for vagrancy.

"Good Cop/Bad Cop"
Memphis, May 1, 8 miles from the Mississippi River: "Hey! Get up! MPD!" shouts a Memphis police officer.

William FitzGerald ("Fitz") and I are stumbling out of the tent into the glare of their Mag-Lites, my left leg is still tangled in my sleeping bag.

"What are you doing here?" the other officer calmly asks.

It's 3 a.m. We are camped illegally in a city park located on the Wolf, having built an equally illegal campfire. I've explained that we aren't vagrants and that there is a canoe hidden in the tall grass over there and that we're paddling the entire length of this river on behalf of the Wolf River Conservancy.

Now the policemen are more relaxed. They're even giving me pointers on how to delay being raped or murdered in case some of the local toughs come by. (It didn't look like a rough neighborhood from the river.)

We had been at it for six days by the time the police woke us up in Kennedy Park: hiking and paddling (and wading) some 90 miles by that point. Just a few more miles to go to reach the Mississippi River . . . .

"Thirteen Weeks Earlier"

Moscow, Tenn., January 24: The whole thing started when my friend Chris Stahl, who runs a canoe rental service on the Wolf River, asked me how he could attract more people to the river. "Canoe the whole thing in one lick, man," I said, not very helpfully.

Chris was asking me for ideas about popular day trips for families and church groups, not about some kind of pilgrimage out of the heart of darkness into the middle of industrial North Memphis. There were remote sections of that river no one had navigated in decades --- too shallow, too narrow, too overgrown, too full of fallen trees. We could count on crawling out of the canoe to lift it over logs several hundred times in the process.

Chris liked my thinking anyhow, but business commitments and common sense kept him on the shore for most of the trip. So I enlisted Fitz to make the trip with me instead. From January onward, one or both of us spent nearly every weekend scouting different sections of the river and meeting peculiar people.

Walnut, Miss., February 8: "You can put this in the Bible if you want to, but I like snakes more than I like most people," said one man we met while scouting a swamp. "You can trust a cottonmouth; all you have to do is know how his mind works." He viewed our "People's Republic of Oxford" Lafayette County license tags with s

About a mile east of Mueller Park the trail climbs into the hills over looking the creek below (Mill Creek), At one point I stopped and looked up ahead on Saturday at this clump of maple with a back drop of spruce and douglas fir standing blue and green. Tall and majestic.

I love this trail. I enjoy walking up the canyon along the stream bed tracing the road that once wound its way from Woodscross to the base of Howard and Willey Hollows where the Burro and the Sessions mines once lured hard working miners into the depths of these Wasatch Mountains.

I love the surprise I get as I round familiar turns in the trail or summit the ups and downs of the winding path to find some new vision that I had either missed or forgotten since my last trek up the trail.

I love the work it has taken to re-open this long forgotten path trod a hundred years ago by mule skinners, miners and logging men who saw these mountains as a pot of gold to be dug up and hauled out one two-hundred bag at a time. I love finding their paths and their bridges. Sometimes I imagine I find their spilled loads in piles of unusual and out-of-character piles of rocks in places where they don't match.

I love the animals I see. Even the little black-capped chickadees with their attendant downy wood peckers who dart and flit in the canopy above. And the occasional moose or mule deer who stand in curiosity and watch as I make my way along the woods and hills.

I love the little spring that I found and cultivated into a source of fresh cool refreshment along the trail. I love the groves of maple that give way to scrubby oak.

I love the patches of blackberries and wild raspberry I have found along the trail. Stickery most of the year. Well worth their trouble for those few weeks when they bear fruit and provide seedy sweets.

I love the blooming wild rose in the spring, the monks hood, showy daisy, mules ears, flowering peas, and spring beauties that dot the countryside and surprise me on my way.

Finally, I love the stream as it roils and rushes down nearly 2000 feet from the base of Howard Hollow to the picnic grounds of Mueller Park. The stream that destroyed the four bridges built in 1913 by the Sessions brothers. The stream that is freezing cold even on the hottest August afternoon. The stream that obliterated great stretches of the old road and carved new paths during the spring runoffs of a hundred years. That stream that creates a habitat like the great North West for 30 feet on either side of her and gives way to the dry high Rocky Mountains of the West beyond. The stream that sparkels and gurgles and at times roars its way over boulders and pebbles, fallen trees and broken branches.

This is the trail that retraces the old Burro Mine road that I have fallen in love with.

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