The Watery Solitude of Bayou Sauvage
Originally published April 1, 2016
Revised February 11, 2021
Way out Chef Menteur Highway in New Orleans East, past the NASA Michoud facility and the Vietnamese grocers and cafes, you can turn north onto Highway 11 and cruise a few miles through Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge. The drive brings you close to a brackish bayou on one side of the road and salt marshes on both sides.
This lonely stretch of two-lane road is traveled mostly by blue-collar workers in trucks going to and coming from marine construction and vessel repair jobs, and by NASA engineers and support personnel commuting to the nearby manned space flight operation. Charred evidence on the side of the highway indicates this is a popular place to burn stolen cars; I’ve never tried it. My wife, Lisa, used to roll through here daily when she worked at NASA. She called it “visiting my furry friends,” as wildlife is abundant here. She helped turtles cross this road and rescued abandoned dogs. She did not like to see all the flattened creatures that met their fates under the tires of Ford F-150s. I did not like the nails that bounced out of those trucks and into her tires.
The refuge is a flat, low, spongy, wild, sometimes bleak land that cares not for your capacity to see beauty in tall grass, water and shell. It is a place where you wait for something to happen and hope to be observant enough to notice when it does. Nature photographers and birdwatchers come here for the walking trails that provide viewing platforms deep in the marsh. You can fish from the bank, if you wish, or try your hand at crabbing. In summer, alligators float, watch and wait. For long hours during the day, traffic is light, barely disturbing the solitude and sounds of wind in the trees. At night, the dark is deep. Nocturnal creatures work in the gloom.
Beyond the north edge of the refuge, Hwy. 11 cuts through Irish Bayou, a spaghetti strap of dry ground where Bayou Sauvage connects with Lake Pontchartrain. Water encroaches tightly on both sides of the road, rising over the pavement at especially high tides and during hurricanes. Ramshackle camps perch high on piers. Residents of these modest homes at water’s edge are a tough breed who seemed determined to survive here no matter what. When storms wipe them out, they rebuild. So, maybe there’s a busted boat in the yard. The place has been hit by so many storms it must be difficult to keep up with repairs. Appearances are the least of their worries. When tropical winds push the lake over its shores, flooding bayous and marshes, these folks are vulnerable in the extreme.
Northeast of Irish Bayou, this abundant, fragile environment is intersected by Interstate 10. At this spot, you can either turn left onto the interstate and drive back to New Orleans, turn right to travel the five-miles-long I-10 Twin Spans bridge to the eastern edge of Slidell, or, avoid civilization a bit longer by taking the older, longer, narrower, slower state Highway 11 bridge that stretches to the residential, south side of Slidell. There is no more scenic way to avoid rush hour traffic to the Northshore than through the Bayou Sauvage National Wildlife Refuge. Please watch out for the critters.
Guy D. Johnson is a writer and marketing communications professional. Previously an animation studio owner, daily newspaper editor, reporter and photographer, volunteer fireman, railroad bridge gang helper, FM radio station underling and cave guide. He has lived on farmland trusted to the sun and rain; atop a wooded hill; beside great rivers; upon an arid, high plateau; and at the subtropical coast of the Gulf of Mexico. For 20 years, he worked and wrote in New Orleans.