Ever been on a lake where the Spanish moss hangs like spiderwebs and shadows dart beneath the surface of the green-brown water? There’s one in my corner of the world that has a story to tell.
Caddo Lake was part of my childhood. I swam in it, canoed on it and fished in it, albeit unsuccessfully. I knew it had a history but I was scant on details.
I decided to tell you about this lake for two reasons:
- My own unbridled curiosity.
- It’s a damn good story.
History often bears out the telling. In fact, it frequently demands it.
There were people here, long before white folks showed up. Matter of fact, they were doing a very good job of running the place until they were abruptly and violently usurped from the symbiotic relationship they had with the area.
There’s no accounting for the greed of men who come from far away for the sole purpose of taking what they want.
But the land remembers. Though the people are gone, the trees, the hollow places and the still air in the forest are possessed of a keen recollection.
You all know what happens when you do wrong for a long enough stretch of time. It catches up to you.
I’ll tell you about one way in which Caddo reached up and delivered vengeance on the people who tried to claim it. You see, there are some kinds of wild that you can’t tame. We’d do well to remember that.