photographs by anna traverse fogle
A tangle of twenty-somethings lounges on a sandy beach blanket, White Claws in hand. A father and son beep-beep along the sand, guided by a metal detector. Heads down, beaks out, they remind me of a pair of sandpipers. A dog frolics in pursuit of a frisbee. A man combs the shore, trash bag in hand, collecting the detritus of others’ frivolity.
At the Florida coast, these characters would all be right at home. Except this isn’t Destin: We’re on the Arkansas side of the Mississippi River, gazing across the choked channels at the Memphis skyline.
photograph by anna traverse fogle
Our footprints interrupt the sand’s natural patterns; it’s wrinkled and grooved as an elephant’s skin. We hoist long, smooth staffs of driftwood; we weave through tree trunks lined up in the silty soil like toy soldiers to keep a determined river from the fields nearby.
The river is low. Very low. Historically low. Drought conditions upriver have parched the waterway that is responsible for moving, among other freight, 60 percent or more of the nation’s soybeans and corn bound for export. No one knows when the river will rise again; for now, barge traffic is confined to a central channel, while smaller boats are stuck, mired in mud. Over on McKellar Lake, the Diamond Lady — a formerly sunken casino riverboat — has risen from her watery grave, to the delight of urban explorers.
The day my (very game) husband and I decide to see some of this for ourselves, the sky is bright and blue, and even in late fall, we quickly regret wearing jackets. We park on the Arkansas side of Big River Crossing and then hike below the bridges (Harahan, Memphis-Arkansas, and Frisco) until we find water. Our dog, Lily Bear, is clearly wondering what her humans are up to — this is one weird walk. When we reach the sand, though — sand that should be underwater — she realizes we’ve found prime romping territory, and starts leaping in high circles, then sniffing the lapping water.
Our footprints interrupt the sand’s natural patterns; it’s wrinkled and grooved as an elephant’s skin. We hoist long, smooth staffs of driftwood; we weave through tree trunks lined up in the silty soil like toy soldiers to keep a determined river from the fields nearby. It is at once very unsettling (we shouldn’t be able to stroll where the river flows) and very fun (Lily Bear’s first beach day!). How singularly human: to witness something as both a sign of devastation — and an entertaining way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
I’ve been trained, as most native Memphians are trained, to fear the Mississippi River. The way we talk about it, you would think dangling a single toe into the water is tantamount to begging the Big Muddy to drag you down to New Orleans. But this fall, we’ve been reminded that we can little afford to take the river — and the natural world it represents — for granted.
