Things were cooling in the north as crisp fall air slowly spread its icy fingers across the country. For those who live from the back of a motorcycle and spend most of their nights in camp the northern states were no longer hospitable. And so the southward migration had begun. From the pilots seat of the old Electra Glide I led the way as Michelle’s own bike brought up the rear. Behind her—and as did my own—the rack and saddlebags held all of her worldly possessions.
So were the realities of the modern-day-drifter.
Kansas was behind us and the small secondary hwy now led south through the Ozark Mountains and across Arkansas. Ahead lay the state of Louisiana, and I looked forward to our arrival there. It had been a year since Katrina had beaten New Orleans and I’d yet to visit the city since.
Coming from the north one must first cross a 26-mile long bridge (the Causeway) that stretches across Lake Pontchartrain to the far shores of Metairie then, ultimately, New Orleans. Although I’d ridden this bridge many times before, the motorcycling experience of a road that seems endless across open water will never cease to amaze me.
We soon entered the city of New Orleans. As usual, accommodations were a first concern.
Over the huge Huey P Long Bridge, and not far from the Mississippi River’s west shore, still lay much unoccupied land. There, it did not take long to locate a fine spot that offered perfect privacy. The place offered a neatly mowed, yet unused road, that ran beside a small reservoir surrounded entirely by thick forest. It was quiet. As usual, camp would consist of one North Face tent with a motorcycle parked on either side. The next day, and before I’d find time to hook us up with a gym or truck stop, a local man offered the unconditional use of a hot shower he kept behind an unlocked door.
The city was ours now. We could stay as long as we liked.
Just as it’s gambling that brings Las Vegas its fame, so then is it the party that brings such notoriety to New Orleans. For there, and irregardless of what day it is, something’s always going on. The celebrations, the bands, the variety of music, all seem so infinite and endless. So we combed the city for hot spots and spent our fare share of time with the many who come to park their scooters then hang at the corner of St Peter and Bourbon St. inside the French Quarter.
To the eye, outsiders such as ourselves could scarcely note the scars Katrina had left upon the buildings of downtown. Life seemed to continue as usual. But the vibe had been altered dramatically. Anyone could feel that. Many locals spoke to me of this. I also met those who’d stayed through the storm, and listened to eyewitness accounts unlike any the TV had told. New Orleans was a city still smarting from its wounds.
It was Wednesday when Fred called my cell. It had been a year and a half since he’d liquidated every personal possession except what necessities fit aboard his Softail, then hit the road. We’d traveled together some back then and times had been good. But eventually we’d parted ways then lost track of one another. Well, he was still on the road and, most unbelievably, in New Orleans.
Wednesday is bike night down by the Mississippi River on Jefferson Hwy and an average of 300 to 500 motorcycles would show up at the Pit Stop bar to party in the huge lot. I told Fred to meet us there.
We traded many stories that night. Fred said he was staying on the East Side to work for a man who scrapped steal. It sounded interesting. A late moon graced the sky as we warmed our engines beside what few bikes remained at this hour. Home was close. Before we left, Fred invited us to a late lunch on the following afternoon and we excepted.
At 2pm of the next day I sat beside Michelle and stared across a bowl of crawfish étouffée to Fred and his new boss. Both were dirty from the day’s work. Richard was friendly and easygoing. A real people-person. He said that the city’s East Side had been devastated and that he and a few others had RVs parked out there. By day they scoured the city with heavy equipment in search of abandoned metal to scrap. At night they stayed home or frequented the city’s many party spots. The story he told was most intriguing. Richard then asked if we’d like to visit. We’d be welcome to stay as long as we liked.
The realities of staying on land not necessarily designated for camping, such as that of our recent home beyond the Huey P Long bridge, demand that one repack equipment by day, then remake camp again every night. A monotonous routine at best. But a finer point is the freedom. A bike that’s always packed allows one to change direction at a moments notice. To simply go with the flow of whatever opportunity might come his way.
We accepted Richard’s offer.
The freeway led east for only a short while before a long bridge arched upward to offer a good view of so many industrial ships parked in the harbor below. Then, as we began the decent that led to the opposite shore, I gazed upon a startling sight. There, from shoreline to the far horizon, the dense city stood as quiet testimony to a world that once was. Once…but no longer. With the exception of the crowded freeway that cut a swath threw its center, almost all was dead now. Apartment buildings as far as the eye could see. Hundreds, maybe thousands…vacant…looted. The Denny’s, 7-11, Wall Mart, DMV, Police station…vacant…looted. The list went on. Katrina spared no one. Some distance off lay the skeletal remains of a Six Flags Magic Mountain that stood in silence like some long dead, prehistoric animal. Shock, I think, was my initial reaction.
Before long we followed Richard’s pick-up off the interstate and onto a side street. Traffic was nonexistent as we passed through the empty neighborhoods and it felt like a very real tour of some post-holocaustic Road Warrior movie.
Richard’s truck pulled into the big lot of a huge apt. complex. We followed. At one corner, and set against the apartments, sat three mid-sized camping trailers, one dump-truck, a skip-loader, plumber’s truck, and a modest assortment of screwed-up cars and SUVs. The latter was scrap metal. I was later told that total submersion destroys the electric’s and renders these vehicles useless for anything but scrap. Those that had not been submerged however, were being taken possession of in some legal fashion then shipped to a buyer in Arkansas. I could see Fred’s Softail resting beside his tent.
After parking, all piled out to hang ’round and bullshit for a while. I met some of the residents. Jim lived in one of the other trailers, was broke all the time for some obscure reason (I never asked), and rode a late model Indian that sat with bad brakes ’cause he had no money for pads. The guy seemed alright though.
Paul was an older cat who’d fixed up one of the better apartments on the upstairs floor where floodwaters had not reached. His home there was actually quite nice. Outside, Paul’s welding truck sat loaded with the tools of his trade. He’d manufactured an adapter that allowed the boys to pull water from a nearby fireplug through a garden hose. Besides water to fill trailer tanks, this invention also supplied the homemade shower-stall attached to a nearby fence. One washing machine had been taken from an empty apartment and installed there as well. It worked. For electricity an industrial extension cord had been stretched to the nearby cell-phone tower.
Fascinating.
I was told that all resided here by permission from the landowner. Later I’d learn they were simply squatters. But little law was left to this place now and the guys had been in camp for many months without repercussion.
Michelle and I soon set up camp. And so was our first night spent in the dead city.
Morning light lit the tent walls. Outside, men stirred to the coming workday. We slept a little longer. Once up however, we set out on foot to explore this strange new environment. As for the neighborhood’s private houses, most were still owned by individuals—even if they were long gone now. To enter these would have been considered trespassing or even looting. But it was different with the thousands of apartment buildings now left to the elements. No one would return there. They were done. Abandoned. Finished. Curiosity brought me to the front door (all stood open now) of one dead apartment. I stepped inside.
Downstairs held the kitchen and living-room and what I saw was shocking. Upon the walls were two watermarks: one at chest height and the other above my head. All of this family’s possessions stood intact. Big screen TV, stereo, sofa, lounge chair, dinette, dishes, food. Family photos still hung on the walls. A closet filled with cloths! All still here…all destroyed. It looked like the living quarters of some sunken ship that had later been raised to dry land. One notable anomaly was the refrigerator that had floated upward then resettled cockeyed across the countertop with the water’s recession. The smell of mold hung green in the air.
I went upstairs.
Floodwaters had not breached the second floor. Here, mountains of less valuable family possessions stood still completely intact, or violently tossed. Beds, pillows, lamps, dressers, photo albums, etc. Closets full of cloths. Bathroom still filled with soaps, hairsprays and accessories of every imaginable description. In one bedroom a baby bassinet stood complete and intact—its little windmill toys hanging silently above.
It was spooky man.
As the day wore on Michelle and I walked other apartments as well. The strange beeping of a thousand smoke detectors—batteries all failing in unison—echoed eerily across the dead landscape. Many of the roofs remained intact. Others however, had blown off to bring water damage upstairs as well. I picked up a snapshot of one man with small daughter in arm and wife standing at his side upon the sand of some fine, beachside, vacation. All were smiling that day. I looked through the window then and tried to feel what had happened here:
The storm hit with a forceful wind. The man was here with his family. Trees began to fall. Not just one, but all of them. They banged against the buildings in rapid succession tearing apart roofs and shaking walls. Power failed. Electric…gas…water…communications. Gone. Windows blew in. Debris flew violently threw the air. Armageddon.
Then, adding insult to injury, the storm abated and floods replaced it to securely trap all among the trash and dead bodies that floated by. For a long time no help came. Many had food, but drinking water was scarce or nonexistent. Helicopters came, hovered, and left having helped no one. The people knocked holes through apartment walls that they might take refuge among neighbors…
From there I could feel no more. And so ended my tour of the ravaged apartments.
Michelle stayed for only one night more; for she was sensitive to the vibe and mold as well. On the second morning she packed and rode for South Carolina to visit family. I lingered for a week more before moving north to Mandeville where I’d met an insane lawyer who owned much land and loved company. Fred would arrive there soon, as would Michelle. Upon my new friend’s land we would stay for a month. I repaired the lawyer’s house while Fred worked on his many motorcycles. We’d both made money. But eventually Michelle and I would set out west. She was destined to finish the winter in Southern California, and I to ride the jungles of deep Mexico.
But then that’s another story…
–Scooter Tramp Scotty
