It is when that orb sheds its full light across the lake that the story has its greatest attraction. Then the tale-tellers declare, in the silvery path across the twinkling water, sometimes can be seen a canoe bearing a boy and girl in strange clothing, paddling up the shimmering moon way.

The tribe of Kisselpoo, so runs the ancient story, lived by the lake; and she, the only child of the chieftain, had been born when the moon was full and was under the protection of the moon goddess.

When Kisselpoo was fifteen years old, tales of her beauty and ability had traveled far, and many braves from other tribes came to woo her. The one whom the leaders favored was head of several groups whose land adjoined to the north; and, although he was older than her father and already had many wives, arrangements were made for their marriage.

When nuptial preparations were far advanced, a stranger, whose home was seven sleeps distant toward the setting sun, arrived in the village. He was tall and straight as the pines, and for gifts he brought arm bands of a shining metal, set with stones like rainbows and like the blue of the skies. Kisselpoo loved him, but her wedding was set for the time when the moon would be at its brightest. That night as the luminous disc rose over the horizon, she waited in her finery for other maidens of the village to come to her father’s lodge and lead her to the elderly northern chief.

Instead, she heard the westerner’s deep voice softly speak her name, and with him she fled through reeds and grass to the lake where a canoe lay waiting. Swiftly they glided out on the water; but already the princess had been missed, and pursuit, led by the chieftain from the north and medicine men of her own tribe, was close. Her father did not participate in the chase, for he had dreamed a dream in which the moon goddess appeared to him and urged him to let his daughter wed the Indian from the west.

The medicine men called down the wrath of their gods, and a storm came up, ruffling the lake and upsetting the canoe, so that the eloping pair was last seen in the path of moonlight. Thereupon, the moon goddess, angered, called upon her kinsman, the storm god from the tropics, who rode in on a devastating hurricane. When at last the waves retreated into the Gulf, there was nothing left of the village or its inhabitants. The moon goddess decreed that the Lake of the River of Cypress Trees, for allowing itself to yield to the medicine men’s commands, should slowly disappear and all the streams that feed it bear down silt and mud to fill it.

For many moons after the great storm, the waters of the lake were clouded with mud, and its sandy bottom was covered with silt. The fish that were once abundant were now only a few. The sandy shores of the lake were stained, and shorebirds that once nested in the reeds and fished the shallow flats were gone. However, the spirit of the young lovers has remained with the lake that Kisselpoo loved so dearly. The moon goddess has shown forgiveness, and the lake is free of the curse that could have destroyed it. One can only assume that Kisselpoo had asked her protector, the moon goddess, to restore the beauty of the place of her birth. Now a swift current from the River of Cypress Trees is sweeping away the silt, and a fine sand shall again cover the lake floor.

With each new moon, the water becomes clearer, and great schools of fish have returned to the lake. Beautiful shorebirds and waterfowl have also returned to the sandy shores, along the salt marshes where alligators and furbearing animals abound. Meanwhile on a night when the full moon is rising, to those who have the power to see such things, appears the canoe with its two occupants who shall watch over Lake Sabine and protect its beauty until the last full moon.

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Certainly an interesting legend from our past that should live on for many more moons! The Attacapas were the last of the Indian tribes to live in this area, but not the only ones. Past archaeological digs have been performed, finding many burial mounds along the banks of the Neches and Sabine rivers. There was also a mound found at Tyrrell Park in Beaumont years ago, dating back 10,000 years or so, if I can remember right.

Here in Port Neches, one of the most extraordinary archaeological finds would have been the six burial mounds 20 ft high, 60 ft wide, and 100 yrds long, located on the bluff where Joseph Grigsby built his home. I say ‘would have been’ because they were never excavated. The first was destroyed by Joseph Grigsby in preparation for his home and slave cabins; the second was disassembled in 1862 and used to build Fort Grigsby during the Civil War. Three more mounds were used for Beaumont’s roads, industries, and railroad right of ways. The last was destroyed by the Central Asphalt and Refining Company in 1902 while building its nearby refinery. I do understand using resources in time of need, but looking at it from a historical perspective this was a tragedy.

On a lighter note, one interesting fact about this legend is that it was the inspiration for J.P. (The Big Bopper) Richardson’s song Running Bear, recorded by Johnny Preston. Both J.P. and Johnny were Port Arthur natives and added their own history to our little patch of the world, which we will explore at a later date.

For now, tonight is the full moon. And what better way to spend the evening on the banks of Lake Sabine? Who knows…? You may even get a glimpse of a dark stranger in a canoe, along with his love, our own Princess Kisselpoo.

Everyone who is from or has visited Southeast Texas has inevitably ended up on one of our beaches. If you are not from the area and are looking for clear blue transparent water in which to frolic in the heat of summer, you might want to go to Florida, or further south to Padre Island, because our part of the Gulf of Mexico is murky at best, due to the Mississippi River’s outflow.

While walking on our beaches, you will frequently find a multitude of waste that has been ejected by the Gulf. Some people see the beautiful shells that have washed ashore, while others see bits of a black rubbery substance known as tar balls.

Back in 2010, at the height of the British Petroleum fiasco/disaster, many national news stations scanned our beaches for signs of an expansion of the ongoing doom. One day someone found a tar ball on one of the beaches. “Oil has made it to Texas shores!” a correspondent blurted over the airwaves.

The unsuspecting public would later find out that the tar ball was not from the BP spill but rather a natural occurrence. We, of course, already knew better. Tar balls have been a sight on our beaches since the beginning of time. Indeed, long before man trolled the area in search of oil, the Gulf had been releasing its own patches of black gold. But in early Southeast Texas history, some found more than tar balls.

Just off the coast, south of Sabine Pass, lay a patch of the Gulf that was different from the rest. On some maps it was perceived to be an island, but in reality, no land or reefs were apparent. What was apparent however, was the sludgy blackness on the water. This small space in the Gulf (one mile by four miles) existed for hundreds of years. Many a captain sailed his ship into it as a safe haven from the storms. (With the raging seas, the thick layer of oil seemed to keep the waters calm and the vessel safe.)

This surely would have been a sight to see in the 17^th, 18^th, or 1900s—or even today. Unlike the Deepwater Horizon spill, which seemed to expand as time went on, this patch remained intact and confined to its small area. I could not begin to speculate why this occurred, so we’ll leave that to other more qualified people to answer one day. Today though, it remains a mystery.

With the discovery of oil at Spindletop in Beaumont in 1901, just a mere 50 miles from the pond, Southeast Texas began its journey into a whole new market, which to this day is still the No. 1 industry in the area. Over the years, oil was routinely pumped out of the ground to the delight of many. But by 1910, a strange thing had happened. The ever-present oil pond began to dissipate, and by 1911, it was gone.

Looking at the facts, I can only assume that the oil pond was part of the Spindletop oilfield, and that years of oil extraction had lowered the pressure of the leak in the Gulf. Whatever the reason, the oil pond left yet another mark on our local history, of which few have ever heard.

Southeast Texas has had its share of storms of the tropical nature throughout history. Many of our residents have suffered greatly at times, but for the most part, they have soldiered on and rebuilt time and time again. In recent history, we have seen firsthand the suffering of our residents and their enormous losses due to the viciousness of these monsters. Two hurricanes in particular, Rita in 2005 and Ike in 2008, brought devastation to our area in a span of three years. Both were catastrophic for very different reasons. Rita’s fury battered Southeast Texas with winds in excess of 120 mph, while Ike surged the waters of the Gulf of Mexico inland, ravaging many lives and properties from Galveston to Cameron Parish, Louisiana. Through both storms, Sabine Pass became part of the Gulf of Mexico for a short time under surges of ten feet (Rita) and twelve feet of water (Ike). The Bolivar Peninsula, untouched by Rita, was totally destroyed by Ike.

Before Hurricane Rita, there had been a 48-year absence of major storms hitting directly in my part of Southeast Texas (The Golden Triangle), but these years weren’t without incident. Hurricane Alicia battered Galveston with brutal force in 1983, although it did little damage to my area. You can also add both tropical storms named Allison into the mix. In 1989, tropical storm Allison dumped 25 inches of rain over Southeast Texas causing $560 million in damage. Twenty-two years later, tropical storm Allison would make her return to Southeast Texas, this time dumping 40 inches of rain on Houston in just a few days and causing $5.5 billion in damage. The year 2001 would be the last to see the name Allison used by the Hurricane Center.

Hurricane Carla, a major hurricane in 1961, hit Freeport head on, but it also devastated many on the upper Texas and Louisiana coastlines. Parts of the city of Groves were flooded by this malicious and deadly storm. I had always thought it to be from the storm surge, and I guess in a way it was, but I found it odd that Groves was flooded but the city of Port Arthur was not (before the levee was built). I found my answer this week while talking to an early resident of Port Arthur who now lives in Nederland. Like Hurricane Ike, the Gulf waters rose, but as the storm’s eye hit further down the coast, the surge wasn’t as bad here. What was bad was the torrential rain north of the coast. With the high tides and storm surge from the Gulf of Mexico acting as a damn for the run off of Carla’s tropical feeder bands, the water had nowhere to go but into the low-lying parts of the city of Groves, via the Neches River.

Other storms have made their mark as well: Audrey (1957),     the storm of 1915, which flooded most of downtown Port Arthur and the surrounding low lying areas, and of course no one could forget the worst natural disaster to hit our shores in the history of the United States—the Galveston Hurricane of 1900. A very good book by Erik Larson called Isaac’s Storm chronicles in detail the events leading up to landfall and the life of the chief meteorologist of Galveston at the time, Isaac Cline.

One year stands out in Texas’s history as well as our own—1886 was a year much like 2008 for Texas. During the season, four of the twelve storms made landfall along the Texas Gulf Coast, two of which affected Southeast Texas. The first made landfall at High Island on June 14. Looking through the records, I have found no accounts of the damage caused by this 100 mph, Category 2 (on the Saffir–Simpson scale) storm caused as it passed through the area.

Mother Nature’s next installment for the Texas coast then turned toward Matagorda Bay and the historic town of Indianola when a mammoth storm approached its shores. Indianola was no stranger to hurricanes; it had already experienced a Category 3 storm in 1875. The town was rebuilt in 1876 and again served as a port where German immigrants entered Texas. But on August 20^, 1886, that all ended. The town was totally destroyed by a Category 4 hurricane with winds reaching in excess of 150 mph. The town was never rebuilt.

The third storm to hit Texas that year made landfall in Brownsville on September 23 as a moderate Category 1 hurricane but did not affect Southeast Texas.

Here in Southeast Texas, the trend of minor storms came to an end on October 12,1886, as a Category 3 hurricane ravaged our area. Winds reaching over 120 mph and a storm surge of over ten feet flattened all that stood in its way. The small township of Aurora (the predecessor of Port Arthur) was completely destroyed along with multiple sawmills and homes in the surrounding area.

In Southeast Texas hurricanes have visited us in the past and will surely visit us in the future, but one thing is for certain—the residents of Orange County to Galveston County will meet the challenges head on. Our feisty bunch of land owners are a breed apart, and they cherish their coastal living. Just ask a Bolivar Peninsula or a Sabine Pass resident, and you will hear the same defiance in their voices as those of the early settlers. We will rebuild!

To see more photos please click on the links below.

http://llelywynn.com/hurricane_rita.htm

http://llelywynn.com/hurrike.htm