Sarah Nigbor

After our adventures in Vicksburg, it was onto the crown jewel of the trip, the whole reason behind this 3,300-mile journey: New Orleans and further south, to where the Mighty Mississippi empties into the Gulf of Mexico.

As we drove along Plantation Row between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, the stately mansions behind swaths of Spanish moss-draped live oaks made me feel like we were really in the South. Stick me on a porch with a sweet tea and a parasol and I could be a Southern Belle. Except I’d melt, because the heat makes it feel like you’re swimming through butter.

Sugarcane fields stretched to the horizon. Old slave cabins were visible near many homes, reminders of an ugly past decorated in antebellum grandeur. We didn’t have time to stop at each one, but I played tourist as much as Hubby would stop the car, sticking my camera through the wrought iron fences to snap photos.

Hubby must’ve been in a hurry to get to New Orleans considering our next adventure. Or he was reliving an episode from “Dukes of Hazzard.” Always a bit of a lead foot, I try my best to keep my backseat driver mouth shut when his foot becomes heavy. If I get too nervous, I do the brave thing and shut my eyes, justifying this move that if something terrible happens, at least I won’t see it coming.

I saw a railroad crossing sign ahead rapidly growing closer. I figured he would slow down, like any sane person, but by the time I opened my mouth to say his name, we were airborne. We hit that crossing, which was more like a hill and went sailing into the air, just like the General Lee. I expected Uncle Jesse to be narrating the outcome, but his voice didn’t materialize. I felt the vehicle begin to tilt in midair, but somehow, someway, Shane landed on all four wheels and kept us on the road. He pulled over not long after, and we all sat there in silence. The kids were speechless for about five seconds, a rare thing with teenagers. Lincoln broke the silence: “Should I do that during my driver’s test?”

“Dad, you know a railroad crossing means slow down, not speed up, right?” said Ethan.

“Cool, can we do that again?” Dawson asked.

“I think I hit my head on the ceiling,” Carolina chimed in.

“Are we alive or is this the afterlife?” I asked.

“Well in Wisconsin, the railroad crossings are much flatter,” Shane defended himself. “They should warn you.”
“They did. With a sign and flashing lights,” Ethan said helpfully.

We drove into NOLA in silence as Mr. Speed Demon contemplated his racecar driving career.

Our next day’s adventure took place on a Rajin’ Cajun airboat in the bayou. Our leather-skinned Cajun captain Dylan assured us our sojourn into the bayou to see gators would beat the pending storm. I put my trust in Capt. Dylan as we jetted out under a black and rumbling sky. As long as there was no lightning, we’d be fine, he said. “You just trust Capt. Dylan, y’all.”

We got to see at least 10 gators in the first 15 minutes of our boat ride. I felt like one of the “Swamp People” as Capt. Dylan handed out marshmallows for us to feed the gators. I watched in amusement as another portly passenger chose to eat his marshmallows instead of tossing them in the water as instructed. I guess he thought the gators had enough.

Before I threw my first marshmallow, Capt. Dylan howled “Whoooo wheeeeeeeeee, hang tight, we got lightnin’!” He whipped the boat around and we flew through the narrow bayou channels at breakneck speed. I don’t know how fast we were going, but the bayou was a green blur. It felt like we were driving in a never-ending maze, but somehow, we made it back to the dock without getting fried by lighting in our tin can boat. We ran for the office building just as a torrential downpour let loose from the heavens. Capt. Dylan whooped like he’d won a race. Which, I guess, we had. “See, what’d I say? Trust in Capt. Dylan!”

So in two days, I felt like a movie star in “Dukes of Hazzard” and “Swamp People” episodes. Not exactly relaxing, but memorable nonetheless.