There is an amazing influx of wild creatures to be observed at the Moccasin Bend Hunting Club this summer. The high water has left its mark on trees where no water had climbed before (neighbors’ dogs excluded).

When the Mighty Mississippi gets cranked up she is to be feared and revered. And, she leaves her mark on souls and trees with equal abandon, even unto the fragile basins and lakes of the “chigger emporium.”

Moccasin Bend, oddly enough, got its name because it was a high point situated on the southwest edge of the Coldwater River, just inside Tunica County. It was one of the few places that was dry, or at least out of water for awhile, during the flood of 1927.

I was told as a child there were snakes of all kinds and breeds and other fauna of unlimited horrendous description, writhing, hissing, and lying on that patch of Delta mud. Sorta like a bowl of spaghetti spilt on a marble table top, only friskier. Whether or not that lie is true I cannot verify, being unborn at the time.

The tales we were told as children kept us away from that piece of geography. It was as if a serpent from Hell might suddenly materialize and drag us bitten and doomed to a poisoned and awful fate. Well, children, there is a painful truth behind every lie, and in the year of our Lord 1984, I discovered that lie and put it to a good use.

All of those creature-feature tales we were fed, along with Gerbers baby food while our diapers were occasionally still being changed, were hogwash unadulterated. Them “old timers” simply didn’t want us muckin’ around their fishin’ hole and scaring off the game or finding Jim Lambert’s still or something (or anything) that might be disruptive to the local economy.

Face it, people, fearless children are a “known disruptive,” socially and financially. Moccasin Bend has no more or any less moccasins than any other bend on the Coldwater. That much truth I verified some years back with a tape measure, a slide rule and a balanced cotton scale. The whole 70-mile loop averages nine and 3/4 pounds of snake per linear rod, which equals 16 feet and for every nine and 3/4 pound rod there is an equivalent ratio of five linear feet of snake.

The only variable this non-government-funded study couldn’t positively verify was the attitude of the individual reptile, since part of the experiment was conducted in snow and sleet conditions which have a somewhat narcotic affect on the varmints. There is, however, a wild creature in these cypress bottoms that I’ve observed that scares me worse than all those conjured images that my child nightmares produced.

In the first quarter moon I could sense it, padding softly in the shadows. Being without the benefit of night sight equipment, I knew from experience that it has me beaten down in that department already. I could envision the color of the eyes, eyes the color of burnished steel, fearless, moving constantly with the grace bourne of shadow and illusion.

Stalking. Stalking me of all people and in my element! A few moments later my worst fears were realized. With a soulful scream that chilled the marrow in my tired old bones.

”Paw Paw” it howled, “the d!#¡*! mosquitoes outnumber the moccasins, ticks and fleas a million to one. If we don’t make it back to the truck in the next 1.04 seconds ‘Nana’ will have the hounds on our trail and there won’t be enough left of us to run DNA on!”

Yes, children, it was the dreaded little foot. Often overshadowed by her Uncle Bud who has bigger feet (the better to tromp you with if you’re a snake, my dear), this little foot critter can swim like a fish, strike like a snake, bite like a gator, howl like a banshee, sneak like a mouse, connive like a politician and charm like a southern belle.

And now we have to send her (or “sic” her on) a lifetime of schoolastic achievement which will certainly make her more dangerous. Her language skills have already modified the tongue commonly spoken by the “stuck in the ditch crowd, as well as the “who let the gate open” tribe, who use anarchic words unprintable in a newspaper, and seldom spoken in society before happy hour.

For the love of pete, children, she is still in a state of evolution (and hyper evolution at that). Pete or Uncle Bud help us all. We’d be safer if we had further educated a moccasin at the expense of society.

Well, what does a “Paw Paw” know anyhow (after Happy Hour)?
Settling my nerves,

Ricky “Paw Paw” Harpole

(To reach Ricky Harpole with comments visit www.facebook.com/harpolive or www.colespointrecords.com)