Lake Fausse Point State Park: Literally a Travelogue About Driving in the Wrong Direction
It's been nearly two years since I wrote an honest to blog Travelogue. "Honest to blog" is an extremely dated pun from the 2007 film, Juno. It is extremely dated because no one blogs anymore-- EXCEPT FOR ME!!! And why hasn't there been a Travelogue posted here? Hmmm...what happened two years ago? The irony, though, is not only that I reference the then upcoming Corona epidemic in the 2020 Travelogue I wrote right before lockdown, but that I actually went on several quite solitary hikes during said lockdown and DIDN'T write Travelogues for them! Why would I do such a thing? What was the point of even going?! Not writing a Travelogue for public consumption revolving around my travels should be a punishable offense! Let's say the punishment is that my wife's car breaks down on the interstate, and I have to have it towed twice, then trade it in at a loss so high, I then have to trade in my own car just so I can offset her car note! Yes, that sounds like an apt punishment...and that must be why that JUST LITERALLY HAPPENED TO ME A WEEK AGO. No worries, though, just because February 2022 is the most expensive month of my life doesn't mean I can't go off on some wacky hike. I mean I have to test out this new vehicle, right? And now that we as a society have this Corona thing licked, I've got the headspace to write a travelogue again. Yes, licked. It's totally over. Forever. Insert Sandlot gif. That's definitely it. It's over. Definitely...
After that 2020 hike in Mississippi, where I felt like I'd cheated on my high school sweetheart of 38 years, I decreed that from now on, I'd only go on new venture hikes in sweet, sweet Louisiana, and boy are you lucky I deleted the sex pun I originally ended this sentence with. I've recently really wanted to grab a couple of kingcakes from the famous Lafayette French Bakery, Poupart, and yes, you do pronounce it as if it is the components of feces, which all of its pastries taste the opposite of, so I decided to plan a hike near Lafayette so that I could kill two kingcakes with one stone. I've never been to Lake Fausse Pointe State Park, and the four-mile trail there seemed like the perfect fit for giving me enough time to drop my kid off at school, drive there, hike, grab some lunch, get into Lafayette for some Kingcake, and get back to Baton Rouge in time to pick my kid up from school.
I love my kid, but he
has become a bit of a jerk recently because I fed him after midnight, and now he
has turned into the puberty monster. I found an artist's rendition of the
puberty monster, so I am attaching that for reader reference.
I woke up that morning and drug the kicking and screaming puberty monster to my new car. My new car is the same exact model and color as my old car, except it's a 2021 instead of a 2017, and seemed, for the first few drives, to be missing all of the cool features of my old car KIND OF LIKE WITH EVERY SINGLE THING THAT EXISTED BEFORE I WROTE MY LAST TRAVELOGUE COMPARED TO EVERY SINGLE THING NOW. I told puberty monster "I love you" as I dropped him off at school, and he said, "When you go to Lake Fausse Pointe, I hope an alligator who just ate a box of nails swallows you whole." What a sweet kid. I then crossed the Mississippi Bridge into the best side, aka, the WEST SIDE, and decided I needed to stop for a healthy breakfast. After delicately weighing my options with the utmost thought and sensitivity toward my body's internal needs, I stopped at Wendy's for a Baconator. Instead of describing a Wendy's Breakfast Baconator for you, here is, simply, a photograph of a Wendy's Breakfast Baconator.
After finishing the Baconator, going into cardiac arrest, visiting the emergency room, and being put on a lifelong IV, I got back on the Interstate.
I woke up that morning and drug the kicking and screaming puberty monster to my new car. My new car is the same exact model and color as my old car, except it's a 2021 instead of a 2017, and seemed, for the first few drives, to be missing all of the cool features of my old car KIND OF LIKE WITH EVERY SINGLE THING THAT EXISTED BEFORE I WROTE MY LAST TRAVELOGUE COMPARED TO EVERY SINGLE THING NOW. I told puberty monster "I love you" as I dropped him off at school, and he said, "When you go to Lake Fausse Pointe, I hope an alligator who just ate a box of nails swallows you whole." What a sweet kid. I then crossed the Mississippi Bridge into the best side, aka, the WEST SIDE, and decided I needed to stop for a healthy breakfast. After delicately weighing my options with the utmost thought and sensitivity toward my body's internal needs, I stopped at Wendy's for a Baconator. Instead of describing a Wendy's Breakfast Baconator for you, here is, simply, a photograph of a Wendy's Breakfast Baconator.
After finishing the Baconator, going into cardiac arrest, visiting the emergency room, and being put on a lifelong IV, I got back on the Interstate.
I soon found
myself grumbling about my new car.
Why was there no contact-free entry (like
with your mom), automatic seat recliner (like with your mom), or cupholders in
the backseat (definitely like with your mom)? To make matters worse, to recently further
offset costs, I'd switched our insurance company to one with a cuter animal
mascot, and they'd urged us to try their "Drive Easy" program, which gives a discount to monitor you to make sure you're not driving crazy or playing around with your phone
while driving, which is really ridiculous because how else am I supposed to look
up how to make my own Baconator while I'm driving? However, I quickly realized
how my new car is better than my old car in one significant way that far
outweighs anything that is missing: the screen is magic. I'll never have to touch
my phone in the car again. That means one more hand to eat Baconators! How many
hands do I even have at this point?!
Apparently, I use Siri now, so I asked it how to get to Lake Fausse Pointe and it showed me on my magic screen. I heeded its most wise instruction, veering off of I-10 near the western edge of the Atchafalaya, through swampy villages populated by people whose flags announced they were a part of a treasonous nation who failed in 1865, led by a President who lost his bid for re-election in 2020. I'm not saying these people were losers, but...
I started seeing signs that the pontoon bridge several miles ahead was out. I'm not one to doubt the wisdom of Siri, which I am not even making something up for once, was named after the Swedish word for "beautiful woman who leads you to victory," ask Siri if you don't believe me, so I figured this "pontoon bridge" must not be a part of my route. After I passed enough Confederate and Make America Orange Again signs to wallpaper the moon, I found out that Siri is a deceitful, time-wasting bitch.
The pontoon bridge was supposed to be a major part of the route Siri gave me, in that the major highway to Lake Fausse Pointe was on the other side of it. However, the bridge was not only closed, but currently nonexistent. By personal, Siri-free observation, I deduced that, as the road past the "bridge" seemed to go over a levee, then intersect the main highway to Lake Fausse Point, I just needed to backtrack through Richmond to the Interstate, head west over whatever random bayou that bridge crossed, then get off and head south, which is, coincidentally, the same thing your mom always tells me.
Eventually, I found Lake Fausse Point, and even though Siri let me down, my magic screen allowed me to look at a map to find my own way, while selecting music from Spotify and Bandcamp. I could have probably even ordered a Baconator on there too. Yes, I'm going to keep referencing Baconators. That's what I do. Run the same damn joke into the ground.
For some reason, the one day that week that I picked to hike was the one day God felt like crying, and I'm not sure if this is common knowledge, but the Atchafalaya basin is full of water anyway, so I made sure to pack some extra clothes and an umbrella. Some nice ladies greeted me at the entrance to Lake Fausse Point, I paid my three bucks and parked. Damn, the "your mom" jokes keep writing themselves.
After slaughtering my meal, I got back on the road, hoping that Siri's directions weren't going to lead me into Bayou Teche, and somehow, magically reached the majestic city of Lafayette, Louisiana, one of the greatest cities of the South in my humble opinion. I reached Poupart, perhaps the mystic core from which Lafayette draws its power, and had to park next door because the parking lot was full of soon to be very full customers.
THE FOLLOWING IS A REAL NICSPERIMENT INTERACTION WITH A MEMBER OF THE PUBLIC:
"I just got my tickets to see Megadeth in the Cajun Dome, dude!" he said excitedly to me.
I went to my car to make and drink more BC juice, then went next door to Play 'N Trade, which is the actual reason that I chose that particular Albertsons for water purchasing. I have a lifelong ambition to collect a complete North American Nintendo 64 library, which I am sure either my (theoretical) grandchildren, son, or nieces will one day sell for home furnishings or something, while my body rots in the Earth with no hope of ever playing a video game again. Play N' Trade has recently been acquiring some pretty obscure, but very fairly priced Nintendo 64 games, and this time I picked up Fighting Force 64, which I'm sure I'll play through and review soon, so that several dozen other people whose (theoretical) grandchildren, children, or nieces and nephews will one day sell all their video games for money to buy home furnishings too can read it. What even is grammar?
Speaking of not grammar, but children, the puberty monster was soon to be released from school, so I had to book it back to BR, which I did with the aid of my magical car screen, which provided lots of jams for my drive, some of them from the free Sirius XM subscription I will heartily enjoy, but likely not renew once it costs actually money, just like I did the last time I bought this same exact car. When I neared the Mississippi River Bridge, traffic drew to a mighty halt, just like this bloated Travelogue likely should. Anyway, I sat in traffic, then I picked up the puberty monster, and he said, "Well, I guess the alligator missed then," we drove home, and life continued in all its expected inglorious glory. All the while, somewhere out in the middle of the Atlantic, a hungry, teary-eyed T-Bob licks away the last of the organic material from his Baconator wrapper, as the sharks begin to circle.
Apparently, I use Siri now, so I asked it how to get to Lake Fausse Pointe and it showed me on my magic screen. I heeded its most wise instruction, veering off of I-10 near the western edge of the Atchafalaya, through swampy villages populated by people whose flags announced they were a part of a treasonous nation who failed in 1865, led by a President who lost his bid for re-election in 2020. I'm not saying these people were losers, but...
I started seeing signs that the pontoon bridge several miles ahead was out. I'm not one to doubt the wisdom of Siri, which I am not even making something up for once, was named after the Swedish word for "beautiful woman who leads you to victory," ask Siri if you don't believe me, so I figured this "pontoon bridge" must not be a part of my route. After I passed enough Confederate and Make America Orange Again signs to wallpaper the moon, I found out that Siri is a deceitful, time-wasting bitch.
The pontoon bridge was supposed to be a major part of the route Siri gave me, in that the major highway to Lake Fausse Pointe was on the other side of it. However, the bridge was not only closed, but currently nonexistent. By personal, Siri-free observation, I deduced that, as the road past the "bridge" seemed to go over a levee, then intersect the main highway to Lake Fausse Point, I just needed to backtrack through Richmond to the Interstate, head west over whatever random bayou that bridge crossed, then get off and head south, which is, coincidentally, the same thing your mom always tells me.
Eventually, I found Lake Fausse Point, and even though Siri let me down, my magic screen allowed me to look at a map to find my own way, while selecting music from Spotify and Bandcamp. I could have probably even ordered a Baconator on there too. Yes, I'm going to keep referencing Baconators. That's what I do. Run the same damn joke into the ground.
For some reason, the one day that week that I picked to hike was the one day God felt like crying, and I'm not sure if this is common knowledge, but the Atchafalaya basin is full of water anyway, so I made sure to pack some extra clothes and an umbrella. Some nice ladies greeted me at the entrance to Lake Fausse Point, I paid my three bucks and parked. Damn, the "your mom" jokes keep writing themselves.
I grabbed my umbrella, stepped out of the car, and just like Sarah Jessica
Parker, the rain started falling from the sky. I crossed the entry bridge to
the hiking trail, and the rain quickly petered out. It'd start again about a
half-dozen times over my four-mile hike, but never come down consistently for more than 15 or 20
seconds.
The temperature also sat right at about 80, which felt bizarre considering much of the vegetation surrounding me was in the midst of winter hibernation, maize and brown dominating any shades of green. That's South Louisiana for you.
The temperature also sat right at about 80, which felt bizarre considering much of the vegetation surrounding me was in the midst of winter hibernation, maize and brown dominating any shades of green. That's South Louisiana for you.
I greatly enjoyed the Lake Fausse Pointe hiking trail. I
took Path C, the longest one, which leads you through bottomland forest and
marsh, partially over boardwalk, to a ridge on the edge of the actual lake,
which the path then hugs before it veers off back through the bottomland and
swamp (your mom) to a point near the start (you've got to then walk on the
in-park asphalt highway for a minute to get back to the parking lots). The
overall scenery is more varied than I thought it would be, with some pretty
diverse vegetation.
A highlight, especially under the gray winter sky, is most definitely the first view of the lake, which I at first thought was terrifying because it looks like they filmed The Conjuring there, but then thought was even more terrifying because of what was carved into the lakeside table, a shocking acronym to be found in the Confederate States of America, which I thought was an all-inclusive nation. Hey, what gives, guys?
Lake Fausse Pointe is one of those classic little muddy Louisiana lakes that doesn't look like much, yet you could launch a canoe into it and reach the ocean in a few hours. Yes, the ocean. Technically, you could get a canoe, push it out into this little muddy, Conjuring-ass looking lake in the middle of these swampy woods, next to a field in which I'm pretty sure someone named T-Bob of the Confederate States of America lost his virginity, and eventually reach the ever-rolling blue waves seven miles above the Marianas Trench. The world is a truly terrifying place.
While I may have not gotten soaked by rain, I did get soaked for being a 200-plus pound person walking four miles through humid, 80-degree weather while wearing a heavy backpack. I changed my shirt in the car, and also tossed several packets of BC powder into my water jug because I am the person capable of writing all of the text you just read above this. I figured I'd give Siri one more chance, and decided to request it take me to Poupart, planning to stop for lunch at any place on the way there that looked interesting. After twenty-five minutes or so of driving through T-Bob's rice fields until I didn't see any more flags, I reached some small town I wasn't even sure the name of (EDITOR'S NOTE: It was St. Martinville) next to some bayou (EDITOR'S NOTE: Bayou Teche), saw a restaurant called The St. John, and figured with my migraine-addled brain, why not? The St. John is one of those small town South Louisiana restaurants that mostly sticks to staples like fried seafood, but does that so incredibly well, it doesn't matter. The Cajun Country staff were extremely nice and helpful as expected, and I ordered a catfish plate with sides of fries and grits, put in my headphones, and watched an episode of the incredibly underrated Mr. Inbetween on my phone. The food at The St. John is significantly better than a Baconator. They got creative with some savory spices in the fish breading, and the fancy grits, a trend I despised when it arose in Louisiana restaurants a decade ago, and started loving ever since I actually took a bite of it, is delicious, as are the fries, which, if you can't make fries, just close your restaurant. As I finished my meal, I gazed out upon the rainy, rushing bayou and imagined a drunken, soggy T-Bob, chomping on a Baconator, thinking about the time he and Farmer's Jim’s daughter fooled around in a field to "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by AC/DC, as his pirogue inadvertently is washed into the same massive body of water where rests the HMS Titanic.
A highlight, especially under the gray winter sky, is most definitely the first view of the lake, which I at first thought was terrifying because it looks like they filmed The Conjuring there, but then thought was even more terrifying because of what was carved into the lakeside table, a shocking acronym to be found in the Confederate States of America, which I thought was an all-inclusive nation. Hey, what gives, guys?
Lake Fausse Pointe is one of those classic little muddy Louisiana lakes that doesn't look like much, yet you could launch a canoe into it and reach the ocean in a few hours. Yes, the ocean. Technically, you could get a canoe, push it out into this little muddy, Conjuring-ass looking lake in the middle of these swampy woods, next to a field in which I'm pretty sure someone named T-Bob of the Confederate States of America lost his virginity, and eventually reach the ever-rolling blue waves seven miles above the Marianas Trench. The world is a truly terrifying place.
While I may have not gotten soaked by rain, I did get soaked for being a 200-plus pound person walking four miles through humid, 80-degree weather while wearing a heavy backpack. I changed my shirt in the car, and also tossed several packets of BC powder into my water jug because I am the person capable of writing all of the text you just read above this. I figured I'd give Siri one more chance, and decided to request it take me to Poupart, planning to stop for lunch at any place on the way there that looked interesting. After twenty-five minutes or so of driving through T-Bob's rice fields until I didn't see any more flags, I reached some small town I wasn't even sure the name of (EDITOR'S NOTE: It was St. Martinville) next to some bayou (EDITOR'S NOTE: Bayou Teche), saw a restaurant called The St. John, and figured with my migraine-addled brain, why not? The St. John is one of those small town South Louisiana restaurants that mostly sticks to staples like fried seafood, but does that so incredibly well, it doesn't matter. The Cajun Country staff were extremely nice and helpful as expected, and I ordered a catfish plate with sides of fries and grits, put in my headphones, and watched an episode of the incredibly underrated Mr. Inbetween on my phone. The food at The St. John is significantly better than a Baconator. They got creative with some savory spices in the fish breading, and the fancy grits, a trend I despised when it arose in Louisiana restaurants a decade ago, and started loving ever since I actually took a bite of it, is delicious, as are the fries, which, if you can't make fries, just close your restaurant. As I finished my meal, I gazed out upon the rainy, rushing bayou and imagined a drunken, soggy T-Bob, chomping on a Baconator, thinking about the time he and Farmer's Jim’s daughter fooled around in a field to "Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap" by AC/DC, as his pirogue inadvertently is washed into the same massive body of water where rests the HMS Titanic.
After slaughtering my meal, I got back on the road, hoping that Siri's directions weren't going to lead me into Bayou Teche, and somehow, magically reached the majestic city of Lafayette, Louisiana, one of the greatest cities of the South in my humble opinion. I reached Poupart, perhaps the mystic core from which Lafayette draws its power, and had to park next door because the parking lot was full of soon to be very full customers.
I've realized over the years that most people
outside of South Louisiana don't know what a kingcake is. I can explain it in simple terms, though: it is
a magic cake.
There you go.
I bought two kingcakes, a cinnamon and a cream
cheese (the best flavor), walked to my car, and immediately and quite
violently started eating them...the kingcakes, not my apparently gender-fluid car.
I then realized that I was completely out of my BC juice, so I ran to an Albertsons to pick up a couple bottles of water, as well as some hand sanitizer for my new ride because if I don't sanitize my hands every 20 minutes or so, I just stop touching things, which isn't so great when you're driving.
I then realized that I was completely out of my BC juice, so I ran to an Albertsons to pick up a couple bottles of water, as well as some hand sanitizer for my new ride because if I don't sanitize my hands every 20 minutes or so, I just stop touching things, which isn't so great when you're driving.
And now...
THE FOLLOWING IS A REAL NICSPERIMENT INTERACTION WITH A MEMBER OF THE PUBLIC:
As I went down an Albertsons aisle containing baby-related products, a bearded
20-something holding a box of diapers suddenly looked at me for a good two or
three seconds then said "FUCK YEAH, DUDE" and made devil horns with his free
hand.
I stopped in brief confusion.
Then I remembered that I'd changed my
shirt after the hike and now looked like this:
"I just got my tickets to see Megadeth in the Cajun Dome, dude!" he said excitedly to me.
"That's awesome, dude!" I responded. "Good luck with the diaper changing. I
don't miss that shit...no pun intended."
THIS ENDS A REAL NICSPERIMENT INTERACTION WITH A MEMBER OF THE PUBLIC
THIS ENDS A REAL NICSPERIMENT INTERACTION WITH A MEMBER OF THE PUBLIC
I went to my car to make and drink more BC juice, then went next door to Play 'N Trade, which is the actual reason that I chose that particular Albertsons for water purchasing. I have a lifelong ambition to collect a complete North American Nintendo 64 library, which I am sure either my (theoretical) grandchildren, son, or nieces will one day sell for home furnishings or something, while my body rots in the Earth with no hope of ever playing a video game again. Play N' Trade has recently been acquiring some pretty obscure, but very fairly priced Nintendo 64 games, and this time I picked up Fighting Force 64, which I'm sure I'll play through and review soon, so that several dozen other people whose (theoretical) grandchildren, children, or nieces and nephews will one day sell all their video games for money to buy home furnishings too can read it. What even is grammar?
Speaking of not grammar, but children, the puberty monster was soon to be released from school, so I had to book it back to BR, which I did with the aid of my magical car screen, which provided lots of jams for my drive, some of them from the free Sirius XM subscription I will heartily enjoy, but likely not renew once it costs actually money, just like I did the last time I bought this same exact car. When I neared the Mississippi River Bridge, traffic drew to a mighty halt, just like this bloated Travelogue likely should. Anyway, I sat in traffic, then I picked up the puberty monster, and he said, "Well, I guess the alligator missed then," we drove home, and life continued in all its expected inglorious glory. All the while, somewhere out in the middle of the Atlantic, a hungry, teary-eyed T-Bob licks away the last of the organic material from his Baconator wrapper, as the sharks begin to circle.
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