Article March 15, 2004 Issue

Never lost

By Bill Moody

Early spring in the bayou country of southern Louisiana. It's just before sunrise as I slide my 12-foot bateau into the waters of Bayou Segnette. The aging outboard jumps to life on the second pull, and I'm off on a 25-mile journey through the region's vast marshes and swampland.

The trip in my small boat will take me down the twisting course of the main bayou, across a large lake, and then into a wide meandering pass known as Bayou Couba. Finally, I'll have to pick up the entrance to a maze of canals through the marsh to reach my destination.

Accompanied by the chirping song of red-winged blackbirds and a light mist rising from the water's surface, I make it to the big lake, Lake Catouatche, without incident. Yet, after proceeding only a few hundred yards out into the lake, I'm suddenly engulfed in the thickest fog I've ever encountered. It simply drops like a blanket. I can't even see past the front of my boat. I can't see three feet behind me, should I decide to turn back. I might as well be in the middle of nowhere. There's no sense of direction or bearing.

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