Texas and Pacific Railroad The Avoyelles Branch Simmesport to Melville

Click the map below for a really great ride.



A visitor had mentioned an old railroad that ran from Simmesport to Melville.

I wasn't doing anything and why not go to Melville and ride north following more ghostly grades? After all, it is Halloween Season. I have ridden La.105 from Krotz Springs to Simmesport a million times. You know that. I've even renamed it Easy Rider Road and included it in my stories for years. Why not explore it using one more criteria? It was after 1:oo PM, but what the heck. I was off. Up to 190 I flew in the crisp Autumn air. The bike was breathing deeply and stretching out, something that doesn't seem to happen that often on warmer days. She felt like a young pony out for a romp. I fell right into her pace as we galloped into Krotz Springs, pulling hard on the reigns to avoid the always present speed trap.

Just before the Krotz Spring Bridge, I turned off onto La.105. No, that is not the prestent day bridge, it's a ghost bridge. It was called the Huey Long - OK Allen Bridge. Try to find that on the web. It's memory seems to have been under attack.



I went under US.190 headed north.



I passed the "Pump".



Looked at what's left of Three Mile Bayou



Saw some neat tractors.



And an interesting gate.



Then the color version.



Along with what I see called Keith Lake which is an extension of Second Lake which is an extension of Bayou Petite Prairie whose headwaters are south of Bunkie.



I rolled into Melville as a train was coming off the brige. I saw this as a sign.



Excuse me while I briefly roam the town looking for bumps, humps, and bald places in the grass along with some rusting iron if that prize should appear. All of that stuff is quickly sinking into irrelevancy. It's just "a thing I have". To most people, that stuff has already disappeared. Fear not. Gifted with the power of the red line, those weeded humps, bumps and slumping beds will live again. The purple line is what was mentioned by the visitor and what I'm looking for.




Can you see them? Of course you can!









I more or less threw in the towel as those red lines and boring shots were not interesting to me either. At this point in the story I removed the report from production. The post ride euphoria was not happening. I had discovered something up the line, at least an emphatic rumor of something up the line and I was waiting for that rumor to be approved or disproved by a group of people whose specialty it is dwelling on the subject or subjects like the subject of my discovered emphatic rumor. If you understand that please acknowledge with a loud "yes".

I was recently cited for erroneously conflating and I don't want to step in that hole again as it broke my heart. I'm sorry, the subject of the cite is still conflated, for that I apologize. Or maybe I'll leave it. I'll take attention, no matter if it is negative. My kids taught me that one. Big smile, Irwin.

So here we are in Melville. Did I tell you that Melville had seen hell and high water? It was one of the places where the Atchafalaya levee broke big time. I'll show you a few of those pictures so my new pictures might look familiar. Then I'll have a special treat at the bottom of the page. Then on the next page we'll move on up the line and visit with Mr.Beard. That will be special, big time.

To set up the flood scenario, here's a recent picture of the railroad bridge.



That was now, this is then:



More, then:



This is now:



And, these are thens:

The Able Hotel: A visitor remembers:

"The hotel also had a phone booth in the lobby with a glass door, and a light and fan would come on when the door was closed. It also had a "colored" entrance on the back side of the building. The owner was a Mr. Comeaux, who seemed to have a "flambouyant" personality as I recall.



Also town down was another landmark....The Longhorn Bar. Spent an afternoon in there one Saturday. The Buckhorn Saloon, owned and operated by Sambo Savage. Somewhere there is a miniature replica of the building.



The post office:



Possibly The Joy Theater: Visitor:

"Don't forget the Joy theater, last movie I saw there was Viva Las Vegas, which broke during the middle, and they ran it backwards, and nobody left the building".



This was 2 years ago: Opened and functiong:



And, not. Another neighborhood store is closed:



And, an old house and old water tower:



And, a landmark on La.105 North:



That was all to get you in a depressed mood so you can read my tale of what actually happened here. First, this is the official newspaper account.

"The Sheriff's Office helicopter has been seaching the river for Jeanine Porque's body. The search has continued 30 miles downstream from the landing without success Thursday morning, Smith said. Deputies in boats also scoured the river banks below the landing".

"The way the current flows, it should keep her on our side," Smith said. Pointe Coupee deputies have notified all the parishes along the river to be on the lookout for Porque's body, he said.

Dogs specially trained to sniff out corpses arrived from St. Tammany Parish to help with the search, Smith said.

Porque's family began searching for her Sunday after she fought with her husband at Sherry's Lounge near McClure, then left the bar with Louis.
Porque and Louis drove south into Iberville Parish where they argued over money and he killed her in a sugar cane field, investigators said. His stabbed body was found below the elevated depot in Melville.

Investigators sent his pickup and other evidence to the State Police crime lab in Baton Rouge, Thursday for analysis, Smith said.


I figure it happened like this, let me set up this common Louisiana scene:

Sherry Lynn's was just another one of those Louisiana back road bars, the ones that have the door opened most of the time so the patrons can find their way out. And, the air conditioner hadn’t worked in a while. Half the fluorescent lights on the old building's once fancy external display were burnt. Inside the heavy smell of Clorox covered a history of smells worse than Clorox. The bar stools were rusted chrome with worn red plastic covers, the bar marred by the steady presence of wet elbows. It was dark, it was dank. Since her husband died 20 years back, Sherry Lynne had presided over it all with the help of her younger brother, Rudy.

Rudy's jobs were to be the bouncer, deal blackjack and hold down the old recliner that sat next to the pinball machines. Rudy wasn't real bright, but very big.

It was cold that late December evening in McClure. Happy Hour was going strong with the truck drivers hooping it up. They had been a fixture at Sherry's ever since logging had picked up a couple of months back. They worked hard and partied hard, always creating a tenseness in the little place. Sherry and Rudy put up with it since their money was good and the local clientele had faded with the place and the town.

Larry and Jeanine had lived there all their lives, gone to school together, got married, and Jeanine got drunk. Life in McClure had little to offer. Jeanine had resigned herself to a life of blurring reality. Larry had resigned himself to Jeanine. They were together, but not. Larry's pride and Jeanine's need for support were their only bindings.

Larry worked long hours at his old man’s hardware and feed store up on US 190. More likely than not, returning to McClure, he would find Jeanine carrying on with Sherry at the bar. Reliably, Jeanine would be four sails to the wind. Tonight, Jeanine had found a different audience.

Louis was a big old boy with an attitude. He and Jeanine had been getting acquainted over the last few weeks, unknown to late working Larry. For her favors Louis had been hood-winked into giving Jeanine a short term loan, supposedly to help her ailing mother. In reality, it was to support her newly acquired crack habit, and the money was gone.

That night, Larry came in early. Seeing his wife in the corner with Louis hanging all over her, made him snap. His life was nothing and he had nothing to lose. He pounced toward Louis. Louis caught him in mid-air and flung him against the wall. Larry crumpled.

Someone screamed that he wasn't breathing.

Sherry was on the phone to the sheriff's office. The place was emptying as if on fire. Louis was on his way out with Jeanine pleading for him to take her with him. He did.

Louis panicked. They headed south across I-10 and parked in a cane field south of Grosse Tete. Louis believed he had killed Larry and he needed to leave the state. Pay day wasn't until Friday and his funds were getting low. He told Jeanine he wanted his money. One excuse led to another and the argument got hotter until Jeanine, in her drug enhanced rage, attached Louis. Scratching and kneeing, Jeanine had gotten the upper hand in the small confines of the pickup. Louis reached behind him as he lay on the cab's floor finding the hunting arrow in its case. With one thrust he put it through Jeanine's chest.

Louis drug the limp body to the bed of the pickup putting her under an old tarp and covering it with the garbage which was always there. He did his best to clean up his wounds as he sat there in the cold damp air, wondering what he'd do.
.
He was becoming frantic. He needed a place to clean up, rest and plan.

He drove back into Pointe Coupee, heading towards Krotz Springs and then up the lightly traveled gravel road that shot north towards Red Cross. Along the way he would find a place to dump the body into the river. It was very late, almost 2:00. The river, his first choice was always too far from the road. At last he rounded a bend and there the Melville Ferry's shell landing appeared.

Darkness would cover him as he backed the truck to the water's edge and slid her voluminous body out of the bed and into the water, the feathered arrow still in place. A deliberate shove was needed to float her corpse out of the shallow water. Then she disappeared into the night.

The landing would be quiet until 5:00. Louis pulled the truck onto a small side road and tried to sleep. He was cold and wet. The only available warmth was the tarp. Sleep did not come. He lay there shivering until he heard the sound of an approaching car. It was time. He got in line and boarded the ferry to Melville. As it left the shore, he looked downstream and imagined the feathered end of the arrow breaching the water's surface.

The old hotel was his only hope. The Able Hotel had survived the terrible flood of the Twenties, but was soon doomed to be torn down.

As he came to the counter, Mr. Comeaux looked him over, shook his head and figured that at this point, what difference did it make. After handing over most of his money he headed to a room up the stairs. The place was cold. Only the rooms offered a small amount of heat, most of which was trapped up in their high ceilings. There was only one large bathroom for the floor.

Louis made his way down the hall to clean up. At least it was warm. He returned to the room and collapsed, sleeping until late that afternoon when he was awakened by a rapping at the door.

He moaned, "What ya want?", thinking that it was all over, delusional in his hopes for an escape. The old man wanted him to move his truck so that a delivery could be made. He pulled himself together and took care of it. While he was out, he went to the store and bought some bread and vienas to hold him over.

Time passed slowly. The meager groceries had taken most of the money he had left. He was becoming desperate. He knew they’d be looking for his truck. He would wait until 7:00 pm for the last ferry load to the east bank, take the west bound ride and hijack the boat. As the load from the east side unloaded, a pickup exiting the ferry was being driven by someone looking very much like Larry.

Has was breathless. No, it couldn't be. His mind had to be failing.

He boarded the ferry. He scrounged enough change from the can on the dash and handed it to the deckhand. The crossing was too quickly over. After exiting the ferry he turned the truck around towards Melville and was motioned back onto the boat, the deckhand shaking his head.

This was it. Could he do it?

After boarding, he set the brake and took a deep breath. His head hurt as he sat there knowing he was losing his mind.

Driving back up the bank into town, he saw the local theater was opened. The old Joy looked like the place to sit and weigh his situation. At that moment, the town siren wailed causing him skid to a stop. Sheriff J.L. Moreaux turned his head as he made his nightly rounds, eying the stranger.

They traded glances, Louis forcing a smile and a wave. The sheriff walked up to the truck. Lewis started to speak as the sheriff explained that it was just the siren being worked on and the crew was trying to finish for the weekend. The sheriff told Lewis to take it easy.

Restarting the stalled truck, he pulled into the parking space. "Viva Las Vegas" was playing. His quiet escape quickly evaporated into a noisy roar of young girls anticipating Elvis.

He left. Exiting the theater, he looked down the street and saw the old train station raised on pilings to match the tracks as they descended from the rail bridge. The train would be his escape. He had little money and the truck was useless. The tracks were the only way out. He would wait and jump a freight. He drove toward the underpass, where he would wait for a slow moving train. As he topped the levee he saw the Longhorn Bar. He needed a drink. Opening the door, reflections of his nightmare made him shudder. The jukebox roared. Working men were letting off steam in their practiced ways.

As he sat at the bar, a familiar voice came from the crowd. "Lewis, damn, it’s you Lewis. Man, we gotta talk".

It was Frank, one of the guys he knew from log hauling. Frank had been at Sherry's.

Louis pulled Frank outside. Louis hadn't killed Larry. Larry was fine and no one was looking for him. Larry had been heard telling the cops that he'd take another whipping to get rid of that woman. No charges had been filed.

Again a siren sounded. From the bar's parking lot, Frank and Larry looked down on the ferry landing as the sheriff's car came to a screeching halt at the water's edge. A night fisherman was motioning across the river. The sheriff got into his boat and they crossed the dark waters. Louis knew.

He told Frank that he had to go back to the hotel to get the girl and tell her the good news.

As if choreographed, a train's bright light flashed slowly across the bridge, its horn whaling. This was his chance. He drove the truck down under the bridge, climbed the embankment to just below the tracks and waited, hoping for an opened box car. There was none but he caught hold anyway. He had to get to its roof quickly or be exposed to the town. He climbed the ladder then lay flat on the roof looking to the side as he passed the station.

He saw her, the arrow still piercing her body.

He felt his chest burn, the pain, intolerable. He lost consciousness and rolled off the car's roof and down the embankment, coming to rest at her muddy feet. He was gone, as was she.

His cause of his death was listed as "puncture wound to the heart, perpetrator, unknown, weapon, missing".

The case remains open.

The sleepy little town settled down after a few weeks. It would be awakened again in the late 60's.

Page 2

It is still cloudy and damp with a slight chill in the air. I needed an excuse to carry on with my recollections of the most enjoyable part of the trip up Easy Rider Road. Aside from the mythical movie that was shot there slamming Louisiana as only extreme Californian leftest can do under the cover of an unpopular war and a cultural revolution, La.105 is a powerful place without that hype. Another war, the uncivil one, was fought on both sides of this great river which is directly to the east of the road. Then there's the river itself. On the previous page you saw its capabilities. That could easily happen again. Levees contain floods but they also contain sediment. The land inside the levee becomes higher than the land outside of it. Water flow slows and more sediment is dropped. Soon you have one very stopped up system. There is a biological analogy, but I'll back off from its use. When it hits the fan, things will get soggy.

Moving on from all that, let's continue out of Melville.
By the way, you grade hunters can have fun in Melville. There is a wealth of humps and bumps which are way more visible than the camera was able to expose.

Just north of town I paused and looked back. There were red lines in the fields, the same as I'd seen in town.






All these old beds become a little boring. The real prize for a grade hunter is not the grade at all, but the water crossings. Finding an old trestle or bridge is high on the ladder of achievements. There are other things which are higher, to be mentioned later.

At Goudeau Road, the remnants of the cut off Bayou Rouge meet the highway. My software was showing me where the rails had crossed. I've been down Goudeau before but hadn't realized I was I crossing ghost rails. So, that was the whistle I heard.

The rail bayou crossing was marked by a dirt road atop a large drainage pipe. The weeds were high. I could make out no sign of creosoted pilings.



I feel you nodding off. Slap your face, this is all getting ready to come together when we get to Mr.Bearb's house. Remember: "Goudeau Road", mostly the "Goudeau" part. Next, Remember "Bayou Rouge". Hang on to those terms. Also, check out the way the rails crossed the bayou. Very possibly, large trestles were not needed as these streams did not flow and might not be subject to flooding. The railroad might have just built earthen extensions into the bayou and then had a small trestle to allow for minimal water flow. Mr. Bearb would point out the narrowing of the bayou at the point where the rails crossed near his house.

This is getting exhilarating, huh? I sensed that. There's a large group of incognito railroad enthusiast that hang on my every word. I like to keep this exciting for them.

The next few shots should blow their skirts up. Behind this house, right next to the rail bed was this structure. I took it from all angles and distances to try to give it more definition. There was a car at the house, but no one outside. I draw the line at knocking on doors. I would not like to see me through the peek hole.

Here's it is: in multiple views. These are exhibits meant for the fellas mentioned above. In reality, C.Alphonso probably will dismiss it as some farm thing. I think it was part of a fuel depot or molasses loading apparatus.

As first seen from the road, notice the little house adjacent to it.



Zoomed in, same location:



The little house or maybe a shop?:



I saw that shortly I'd come to a road that crossed the "tracks". I could get a better idea of how close it was to the tracks from that vantage. The road took me to this little church which was on the west side of the bed.



Here's the shot. It seems a bit away from the bed and I don't believe rail traffic would have required a siding and a tank car on location would not be required as the thing seemed to have large tanks. Why were they off the ground that high? That could only mean that the flow would be from them to something almost as high, a tank car?



And what was that railed platform on top?



Captain V., let me know how the discussion is going back at the group.

Next, not seeing any scary warning, I visited the Delano Plantation where the bed was in use as a farm road.





I was now nearing Bayou Current. The Atchafalaya Presbyterian Church seems such an oddity out here. I've never researched the nationalities along the river. I imagine that would be interesting.



At La.360 is this old store and home combination. It is a classic. I hope you can make out the Jax Beer sign.





The place is now occupied.

Next, I went on up the road. I had considered a map to the spot but better sense has prevailed. I was looking for trestles again and saw this small stream. I stopped and angled for a shot. The weeds and underbrush were too thick to get a good shot down the waterway, and besides, the rails were a ways back. There was a two rut road next to the stream with no gate. There was a fence to the right, well back off the water and road, marking a property line. I sat and debated. I really don't like upsetting landowners as I'm one myself and would probably fire on someone invading my property. Of course it would be a warning shot followed by the full clip. So, I sat. Then I heard the sweet sound of a four wheeler starting. Someone might be coming out to inquire why I was sitting there so long or..........Every ride has a little tension along the way. No one came but I did see some activity under a carport of a house back in the field. I grasped the moment and fired up the bike, roaring off to the driveway. I honked as I approached as not to startle the resident, as has happened before with people mowing their yard. The four wheeler was running and that could have easily masked my motorcycle. A hard working farmer type seeming to be in his mid 60's looked up from his fiddling with the bike. A grin crossed his face and I figured that maybe he wouldn't shoot me. Reflecting, the grin could have gone badly, also. I asked him if he'd lived here for a while. He responded that he'd been here all of his 67 years. He went on to say that the farm had raised sugarcane and that donkeys were raised here, also. I didn't pursue that information and I should have. I didn't because I was too intent on what I wanted to know. I should have just let him ride out his story. I don't know when to be quiet. I asked him what he remembered about the railroad. He said the train would stop and pick up the sugarcane syrup, his words. He then added that "they" wanted to give him a ride in the caboose on into Melville. He said he'd forgotten about that until I'd asked about the railroad. I should have asked him about his ride, if he'd enjoyed it, etc, but I didn't. I did ask him if if was a steam engine or a diesel. He said it was a steamer. He said his parents met him at the station and brought him home. I asked about what year that was. With us both doing the math, him saying he was 10 or a little younger, and now he's 67, and this being 2008, we came up with 1951. The rails south of Gordon to Melville were ripped up in 1952. Those above Gordon, years earlier. I went on to tell him about my quest for signs of the old railroad and how I'd looked for it back on Goudeau Road. He said he use to go fishing back there but hadn't in a while, but there might be some timbers left. I told him what I'd found. He added that his mother was a Goudeau. I said I'd been through Goudeau over on La.361. He further added that he was related to all those people over there. I was almost tempted to say that my mother was a Goudeau, but bit my tongue. No, she wasn't, so hold the emails. You can enter dangerous territory bringing up too many relations, ask C.Alphonso. The silence between subjects was growing longer, me being a dumb interviewer. I said I'd be heading back to look at the bayou crossing if he didn't mind. He asked if I needed him to come with me. I said no but in truth I did. I got back there and the tangle was very bad with added hurricane damage everywhere along the stream. There were a few houses which I supposed to be either family or sharecropper. After he joined me, sensing I was spinning, he verified that indeed they were sharecropper homes.





He showed me where the bayou narrowed but it was not worth a shot.
I told him I'd be moving along and thanked him. I added, "Do you remember those movie people coming by?"

His eyes lit up, "I met that guy, the main one".
"Peter Fonda?"
"Yea, him, I was coming back from Melville and the road was blocked. Everyone was out of their cars and looking at what was going on. They were getting ready to film the scene where the bike blows up. I talked to the stunt guy and he said they'd do it with a trip wire".

All I could say was a dumb sounding, "Wow". I've connected this road with the movie for a long time. I think I know where it all happened but I'm not really sure to the exactness of my guess. To actually talk to someone that could verify it all seemed to induce a paralysis on any coherent thought. This man could point to the exact inch where it all went down. He probably knew the locals that played the parts. And, I was frozen. Like Fagan said, I can go back and may with a list of questions. Seeing me frozen, starring at my feet, he said he had to get going, and so did I, we both feeling a little loss at the lack of timber in the bayou. Leaving I saw this:



And this:



Then this, a spike stuck in the tie. All of them had rail plate marks clearly pressed into their surfaces. Now, those timbers would have to be at least 60 years old if they had come from the old T&P line. That is a stretch, I know. I have some that have been lying in the ground since 1975 and are still in good shape. I know, I'm reaching.



Nevertheless, I was excited. I roared back to his house and exclaimed, "All your fence post are rail ties". His eyes rolled as he said, "They are?".

"And, one has a spike in it !" I hollered. Then his eyes did get big as he hopped on his 4 wheeler to follow me to the scene. He thanked me for reviving his old memories and for the spike discovery. I still needed to get to Simmesport as the sun was going down.

Along the way I passed a few landmarks that I'll post here.

Here's the old house/store at Woodside. It's a farm machinery repair place now.




Above Woodside, the rails come very close to the road. There is a home there that uses ties to brace the wire fence.



This is the line as it fades back from the road in their yard:



There was one more house back at Bayou Current. It had these tanks that I found suspicious but don't now. But, they may be? Neat house, anyway.



Mr.Bearb said that they were probably farm related from my description.



And, one last landmark before I go into another speech. This is the old school at Odenburg.



The next move was to go on into Simmeport to see if I'd missed anything railroad related. I knew I hadn't, but still, since I'd found that there was a railroad from Simmesport to Melville, I'd look. I ducked into a subdivision on the south side of town. There this older fella was cleaning up hurricane damage in his yard. Long story short, he said there had been a turntable in Simmesport. He gave me directions. I made the mistake of saying I was a little familiar with the town and probably got the abridged version of the directions, me not wanting to admit that I was confused, it's a man thing. I looked around, got attacked by 20 dogs and left. I turned the question of there being a TT at Simmesport over to a group through one of its members. They threw it around for a couple of days coming up with a lot of ancillary facts but they get no cigar. I'm going back to his house, too. That's it. The End, Fini', I'm gone. Bye bye.