Road Notes: Kisatchie Bayou, Where Slow Waters Sleep

Before we dig into this week’s post, I want to introduce something new—a little series where we take our time, hit the backroads, and share whatever we find along the way…

After careers took us years away from family and friends, my wife and I have been blessed to happily settle in our small home town nestled in the piney highlands of west Central Louisiana, where the land rises around 240 feet above sea level. Now, to understand why that matters, you just have to know we spent those years away in the suburbs between Baton Rouge and New Orleans—an area barely 23 feet above sea level! It’s a small thing, but it means a whole lot to be back here, where the water runs downhill away from you instead of creeping toward you like a nosy neighbor coming by for an unplanned visit.

For two decades, we thrived down in that swamp country, but retirement brought us back to the hills and tall pines; to old haunts we hadn’t seen in years and new places waiting to be discovered. It’s the perfect antidote to decades of government paperwork and financial regulations wearing us thin.

This monthly series will follow our slow drives along the lesser-traveled roads of southwest Louisiana, starting close to home and gradually pushing farther across the state (and even into Texas!). Sometimes we plan ahead; sometimes we just crank ‘er up, cue the road music, and off we go!

It’s just two people with time on their hands, a full tank of gas, and a curiosity for what’s down the next road. Life is short, but the byways are not.

With that, let me share the story of one of our adventures:

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Kisatchie Bayou: Where Slow Waters Sleep

Visited August 16, 2024

One warm mid-August day, we set out for a little adventure along Kisatchie Bayou in Natchitoches Parish. The plan was simple: just get out of the house.

We’d heard Kisatchie Bayou was known for its beautiful old-growth hardwoods and pines, a place folks come for hiking, camping, picnicking, fishing, and just plain relaxing. We weren’t planning any of that, but it’s good to know the area offers those things when you want them.

Starting on the north side of Leesville, Louisiana—the parish seat of Vernon Parish with a population just over 5,600—we took Louisiana Highway 117 north for about 20 miles. The road cut through peaceful backcountry where the air was still and the sun was bright above tree shadows all along the roadside. We scratched a quick right turn onto a parish road just before the highway crossed the bayou to get closer to the water.

Driving deeper into the thick woods, the heat and dry spell had left their mark. The water lay low and slow, barely moving through the bayou’s muddy bed. Still, the greenery was surprisingly lush. The sharp scent of pine mixed with the softer aroma of hardwood leaves warmed by the sun. Thick canopies above offered patches of shade, dappling the slow brown waters and sandy banks below with shifting patterns of light and shadow.

Around us, the world was quiet except for the occasional snap of a twig or the soft flutter of wings. No hum of interstates, no city noise: just a silence that felt like a slow breath, almost its own kind of music.

We stopped to write our initials in the sand, hot and smooth under our fingers. Overhead, big fluffy cumulus clouds drifted lazily, their white shapes bright against the deep blue. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves and carried the distant hum of insects.

Here and there, snagwood and driftwood lay scattered along the shoreline, weathered and bleached by sun and water—reminders of the bayou’s steady, unhurried flow through time. We didn’t make it all the way down the road, but judging by the power lines and the crusher run gravel covering the lane, someone called this quiet stretch home.

The young hardwoods hugged the roadside so thick you couldn’t see where they ended. As we moved along, the blurred green backdrop seemed to ripple, like the woods themselves were walking alongside us.

And then there were the cicadas. Those cicadas. Their steady buzz and filled the air like the steady hum of a porch fan on a hot Louisiana afternoon. We had a little double-dapple dachshund who once caught and ate one, and every time he heard that frenzied burr! he got the blood-lust. We will always associate that sound with him; a nice reminder on this afternoon.

On the way back home, I thought about how lucky we are to call this part of the country home. These byways and backroads move at their own pace—quiet, slow, and full of stories, memories, and a kind of peace you won’t find on the highways or in the city bustle.

Sometimes the destination isn’t what matters most. It’s the little moments—the soft rustle of leaves, the flicker of sunlight on the water, the warm buzz of cicadas—that make a day like this worth remembering.

Next month, The Plain Travelers will take the road a little farther, chasing new corners of the state and seeing what quiet wonders are waiting just off the beaten path.