Little Black Creek

Recently I wrote about a special river I liked to go canoing on years ago, Black Creek in the southern Mississippi piney woods. Along one stretch of that stream, one of its major tributaries, called, appropriately enough, Little Black Creek, joined the main river, at which point the stream increased significantly in size.

At the meeting point, the character of the river changed -- it became wider, the sand bars were more noticeable, and it had a different flow. When I came to this place, I’d bank the canoe and walk up Little Black Creek, whose swift flow over white sand felt good on my feet. I was tempted to keep walking up the stream and explore, because that is one of the fascinations of rivers and creeks -- those mysterious bends and turns where new scenery and landmarks appear constantly, the farther you explore up or down the creek.

I’d also walk along a trail beside Black Creek, occassionally clamboring down the steep bank to the river bottom where I might set up a chair and sit awhile to read and daydream. It’s part of a long hiking trail that goes through some of the most remote sections of that part of Mississippi. Actually, it’s almost got a wilderness feel to it, which is rare in the eastern United States.

I have a picture of Black Creek over my desk, and I am looking now at another picture I took back in 1987. It is a country road that passes through one of the prettiest settings I came across during the back country drives I mentioned in my first entry. It was wide-open pasture land, dotted with oak trees, slightly undulating. It extended for eight or ten miles, until it joined with larger secondary roads. This was truly a back road, as county routes usually are. Driving down this road on a nice Saturday afternoon with the window open, allowed me to really relax and wind down for a short while.

At about the midway point in this stretch of road, it crosses Little Black Creek, and I would invariably get out to look at the stream flowing under the bridge. The flow was always steady. It was swift as it rushed along between banks about 10 feet across. It’d stand there just looking into that tea-colored water and watch as it flowed along under that bridge. That’s one reason why, when I’d get out of the canoe and explore the mouth of this creek, a couple of miles down from the bridge, it would hold so much meaning for me.