KENNER, La. —In all of my 12 years of living in this area, I have never seen the water come up past the trees near the river, never mind halfway up the side of the levee. 

The view of the mighty Mississippi from Kenner, Louisiana

But despite the abnormal water levels, it’s just another sunny Sunday afternoon with a nice breeze on the top of the levee.

A crowd of people has gathered on top of a stretch of levee that’s mere feet from where Robert de LaSalle first landed in 1629, in what once was an Indian village. I am taken aback by the sheer amount of people—normally, on a day like this, there’s nobody here, aside from the occasional biker who uses the park on the other side of the levee as a resting point.

Allan Closson, a hospital administrator at Tulane Medical Center, is one of those bikers. He’s only ridden this path for about a year and a half, but he can already tell the impending water level looks scary.

“The river does look different every time,” he said. “This is the highest I’ve ever seen it, by far.”

I descend from the levee’s paved bike path and venture down the paved hillside, where the water ebbs.

Above, a rickety wooden pier, which has seen far better days, extends far into where the riverbank should be. Now, I see nothing but the murky, muddy waters of the Mighty Mississippi. Below the pier, the top half of a water gauge peeks out of the water, reading 19 feet. Nearby is a sea of debris—driftwood from upstream.

“That’s normally just a green field, just green grass,” Closson said.

I make my way back up to the bike path and chat with David and Betty Cefalu, who are sitting on the benches with their 11-month-old great-granddaughter, Addison, enjoying their Sunday afternoon.

“I don’t think it’s excessive people,” said Betty. “Sunday afternoon, anytime the weather’s nice.”

“I’d say it’s pretty normal,” David adds. “Might be a few more, but they got a lot of people that come up here on a Sunday afternoon.”

But the Cefalus aren’t worried about the water coming over the top of the levee, either. David says this isn’t the first time he’s seen the water level this high, while Betty expected it to be higher.

“I was really expecting to come out here and see it, just like in New Orleans, close to the top,” she said. “I think the only worry we have is if something—a boat, maybe, would come by, hit, and break the levee. But other than that, we’re fine.”

David also says that opening of the spillway earlier in the day was to keep the water level from rising further.

“It ain’t goin’ any higher than this,” he says confidently.

Further down the levee, the scene is similar, with people spaced along its lengths. I continue to look around and spot a rather curious sight: a man making his way down the bike path with a small cooler under one arm and a fishing pole in his free hand.

“Any luck?” I ask.

The man, Terrill Bornes, simply shakes his head. The lifelong New Orleans resident only learned how to bait a hook two days ago, trying his luck at catfishing with the higher water levels. He doesn’t seem to worry too much about how high the water is actually getting.

“My first one that I caught was too small, and they were laughin’ at me because of that,” he said chuckling.

He laughs even harder when I ask how big the fish actually was.

“Probably…two feet?” he says, laughing some more. “I mean, compared to theirs? They had…I mean, 41 inches, 42 inches, and 52 inches, and I’m sittin’ here catchin’ these puny things. The guy pulled one out, held his against mine, and said, ‘Now, look at yours against mine! Can I have yours for bait?’”

We both laugh—we’ve walked a couple hundred yards down the path at this point. I turn to head back to the park and can’t help but notice that, amidst whatever worry these people have that the water might go over the top, it’s just another Sunday afternoon.

Photo credit: Katie Woo

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