The Wolf River is a beautiful southeast Mississippi river that feeds into Bay St. Louis. Although I have canoed and camped on many Mississippi rivers, I had never even heard of this gem until Tom Hughes, an old family friend who lives in Houston, Texas, proposed that we canoe it.
Tom is 57, 10 years younger than me. His relationship to me is a bit hard to explain. He’s like a surrogate brother, or, as the saying goes, “my brudda from anudda mudda.”
Tommy, as I call him, was three years old living in the west Houston neighborhood of Nottingham Forest when he started wandering over to our house across the street. His mother had Tommy at 16 and she was still discovering life. Tommy had a lot of time on his hands for a little toddler. Somehow, he found his way to our house across the street.
It did not take long for Tommy to become part of our family. He was the cutest little three-year-old you’ve ever seen. I was 13 at the time and became his big brother. My mother, Celia, had a huge heart and there was plenty of room for Tommy. I guess you could say we quasi-adopted Tommy, which was fine with his young single mother who was happy for any help she could get. As my sister once told me, “Tommy is the closest thing you will ever have to a brother.”
When we moved from Houston, Texas, to Greenwood, Mississippi, Tommy spent summers and vacations with us. He still has fast friends in Greenwood.
Time moves on. Tommy got married and was raising young boys. We stayed in touch and saw each other occasionally. On my bucket list was to somehow find a way to reconnect. When Tommy proposed canoeing the Wolf River, I jumped at his offer.
Back in the day, my friend Kemal Sanli and I canoed and camped with the maestro of canoe camping, Ernest Herndon, long-time outdoor editor of the McComb Enterprise-Journal, a company I own. Ernest wrote the book on canoe camping in Mississippi, literally. His book Canoe Mississippi is a must-have book for any Mississippi canoer. Kemal and I made his book.
I rooted around in my storage basement for all my camping stuff. It had been 20 years since my canoe camping heyday and 15 years since I camped once a month for three years when John was in the Boy Scouts. It was all still there, just rusted and moldy. Even the tent was intact, although the zippers no longer worked. Back in the saddle.
Tommy and his 12-year-old son Dawson drove six hours from Houston. My son John, 29, and I drove two hours and 45 minutes from Jackson. We met the owner of Wolf River Adventure Paddling, Alan, and left our vehicles at the Cable Bridge Road take out point. Alan then drove us and the rented canoes north to the put in point on the Highway 53 bridge. We had 13 miles to paddle, about eight hours on the water.
As we carried our canoes and gear to the river, trash was everywhere. “I need to get a crew and clean all this up,” Alan noted. It took us 15 minutes to load up the canoes and start paddling on the water. Soon, we were in the middle of nowhere, no people, no trash, just crystal-clear water surrounded by wilderness. It was enchanting, like being transported to another time and land.
Every river is unique. The Wolf River has amazingly strange and beautiful mud-rock formations along the banks and underneath the surface, creating an other-worldly appearance.
The water was tannin tinted brown but clear as glass, obviously spring fed. The bottom of the river was a combination of rock, pebbles, sand and clay.
On the bank, the two dominant trees were river birches and yaupon, one of two native north American trees that have caffeine. The native Indians drank yaupon tea. Other dominant trees were red oaks, willows, magnolias, cypress, water oaks and pine.
Tommy had canoed the Wolf in March when the water level was slightly higher. In November, which follows the driest Mississippi month of October, the water level was a bit lower, requiring us to get out and push the canoes every 15 minutes or so. No big deal. There was quite a bit of what I call “baby white water.” You had to pay attention and know how to steer and paddle.
At one point a bald eagle swooped right above our canoe and turned down the river. Only 30 or so feet away, we could see its white head and tail feathers perfectly as it flew away. It was breathtaking.
You could see small bass swimming in the water, moving with incredible agility and speed in small groups of two or three. Tommy, a master fisherman, seemed to pull in one-pounders on every cast.
We canoed for about three hours and started looking for the perfect sandbar campsite. It’s a tricky game as you run out of daylight. Do you pick this sandbar or hope for an even better one around the next bend.
We lucked out and found a beautiful, huge elevated sandbar with still plenty of time to set camp. It was equal parts sand and gravel. You want the soft sand for your tent and firmer gravel for your campfire and meal.
The temps were a perfect 68 degrees. There was plenty of driftwood for a fire and Tommy made perfect burgers. We talked through the night about religion, life, philosophy and settled all the problems of the world, as the crickets and tree frogs sang.
Tommy, who literally lifted 15-foot anacondas from below his feet in the swamps of Venezuela (for fun), reminded me that my teenage snake collection started his fascination with snake hunting.
It’s hard to believe that just beyond the busy cities and the asphalt highways is a whole other world but it’s there waiting for anyone who wants to go.
A gibbous moon rose and the night mist rolled in. It was all so exquisitely beautiful. My heart was overflowing with love for life, Tommy, my family, friends Mississippi, canoe camping and God.
