Mississippi Backwater

Drive anywhere down along the Mississippi from, say, New Boston to Oquawka and you will be tempted to stop somewhere and see the river backwaters.  This area isn't the romantic riverboat type lore of 19th century writers.  It's not the stuff of "Old Man River" or Johnny Cash's "Big River".  No, this part of the river is brackish, vague, mysterious; a place teeming with life, but you don't see it.   Would I like to have a cabin down here?  Sure, but maybe not too far off the beaten path.  We up-on-the-bluffers are mere tourists down here, down where they try to grow corn in sand and try to earn a buck by fishing with nets.       

This is just north of Keithsburg at a boat landing that looked like there hadn't been any boats in months.  

More odd than ethereal, it had a kind of beauty to it but looked strangely dangerous, too. It was like a voice that whispered, "Go ahead, look around.  Take your time, take some pictures.  But don't take too much time.  There are things that go on here that, well... go on here."      

It is almost prehistoric.  Like it isn't of this time and age.  A timelessness; of water and banks, and overrun banks, and nature, and things that crawl toward slower things that crawl. 

Woods in marshes, constant moisture, a wetness that seeps into everything.  Even when it is dry, it isn't.  Just under the surface, the wet, this is the backwater of the Mississippi.  It isn't too hard to imagine some creatures without fins, pretty much wet their whole lives.   

I took my time, I took some pictures.  And when the time was up, I left this place.  And as I walked back up and out, I felt the eyes on my back.  Returning to what I was comfortable with (paved road, power poles, smattering of traffic) and leaving this watery place to itself.