The eastern end of Bon Secours Bay terminated at the mouth of Bon Secours River, which we ascended, finding on the low shores a well-stocked country store, and several small houses occupied by oystermen.  We slept in our boats by the river’s bank, and the next morning turned into a narrow creek, on our right hand, which led to a small tidal pond, called Bayou John, the bottom of which was covered in places with large and delicious oysters.  Crossing the lagoon, we landed in a heavy forest of yellow pines.  This desolate region was the home of John Childeers, a farmer; and we were informed that he alone, in the entire neighborhood, was the possessor of oxen, and was in fact the only man who could be hired to draw our boats seven miles to Portage Creek, which is a tributary of Perdido River.

[Map Mobile Bay to Cape San Blas.]

Leaving Saddles to watch our boats, I entered the tall pine forest, and after walking a mile came upon the clearing of the backwoodsman.  His two daughters, young women, were working in the field; but the sight of a stranger was so unusual to them, that, heedless of my remonstrances and gentle assurances of goodwill, they took to their heels and ran so fast that it was impossible to overtake them until they arrived at the log cabin of their father.  The dogs then made a most unceremonious assault upon me, when the maidens, forgetting their fears, made a sally upon the fierce curs, and clubbed them with such hearty good-will that the discomfited canines hastily took refuge in the woods.

The family listened to my story, and insisted upon my joining them in their mid-day meal, which consisted of pork, sweet-potatoes, and corn-bread.  My host agreed to haul the boats the next day to Portage Creek for five dollars, and I returned to Saddles to make preparations for the overland journey.  That night we feasted sumptuously upon fat oysters six inches in length, rolled in beaten eggs and cracker-crumbs, and fried a delicate brown.  These, with good hot coffee and fresh bread, furnished a supper highly appreciated by two hungry men.

With the morning came our farmer, when about an hour was spent in securely packing our boats in the long wagon.  The duck-boat was placed upon the bottom, while the light skiff of my companion rested upon a scaffolding above, made by lashing cross-bars to the stanchions of the wagon.  This peculiar two-storied vehicle swayed from side to side as we travelled over uneven ground, but the boats were securely lashed in their places, and the parts exposed to chafing carefully protected by bundles of coarse grass and our blankets.

We travelled slowly through the heavily grassed savannas and the dense forests of yellow pine towards the east, in a line parallel with, and only three miles from, the coast.  The four oxen hauled this light load at a snail’s pace, so it was almost noon when we struck Portage Creek near its source, where it was only two feet in width.  Following along its bank for a mile, we arrived at the logging-camp of Mr. Childeers.  There we found the creek four rods in width, and possessing a depth of fifteen feet of water.  The lumbermen haul their pine logs to this point, and float them down the stream to the steam sawmills on Perdido River.