This Untouched Mississippi Island Is Home To Gulf-Blue Water, Glittering Stars, And Endless Inspiration

Ten miles off the coast of Mississippi, a slender spit of land clings to existence amid the relentless winds and waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Horn Island—just 10 miles long from east to west and hardly a mile across at its widest point—is an untouched and desolate place.

The coastal South is surrounded by thousands of barrier islands, but none have been able to capture the imaginations of more artists and scholars than Horn, thanks to the enduring work of Walter Inglis Anderson.

Walter was nicknamed the “Horn Island Hermit” by his community, and for good reason; he spent the better part of 20 years on the uninhabited isle by himself. From 1946 to 1965, he rowed and sailed there often and alone, in boats that were barely seaworthy. He would drag his skiff to the shore and live there for weeks at a time, sketching, writing, painting, and absorbing the many wonders all around him.

I’m a Mississippi boy who grew up with Walter’s block prints and watercolors on my walls. His bold brushstrokes, saturated pigments, and scintillating repetition of form make you feel like you’re seeing nature through a kaleidoscope, a whimsical world that’s stylized yet Impressionistic in the same instant.

Equally mesmerizing is the mythology of Walter’s life. From the journals he kept during his island odysseys, we know he survived near drownings and a bite from a venomous water moccasin and even swam alongside alligators. What could compel a person to take these risks, to live this unconventional life? I had to know.

So when the Walter Anderson Museum of Art announced a four-day, three-night primitive-camping excursion to Horn Island, I signed up immediately. Electrified by the chance to unplug completely and be inspired by this storied place, I rented a tent, dusted off my dad’s ancient backpack, grabbed my favorite cast-iron skillet, and headed for the coast.

Life in the Wild

Upon arrival on Horn Island, I met our guides, Heather and Jason Martin. After they led me and the rest of the campers through the logistics of staying alive in a place with plenty of reptiles but no running water, they let us loose to choose our campsites. As I shouldered my overstuffed bag and took my first quivering steps, Heather tried her best to help. “Don’t wear yourself out,” she counseled. “There’s no need to rush.” Eager to find the perfect spot, I dismissed her warnings and set off on my mile-long trek.

Backpacking on solid ground is a workout. On sand, it’s exhausting. Add the blazing sun and endless dunes, and it’s downright unhinged. Just as I was starting to see stars, I ducked into a little cove and claimed my temporary home. When I finally caught my breath, I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I had never seen such a sizable stretch of shore without the blemish of human habitation. No high-rises, no umbrellas, no people—just sand, surf, and the horizon. Freed from my pack, I walked to the water over a rainbow of pastel shell fragments that clinked and crunched under my feet. As I reached the tide line, I shook my head, bewildered by the cerulean sea before me.

Mississippi gets a bad rap for the brown water at its beaches, the result of river runoff and a string of barrier islands. But what I found on the south side of Horn was a beautiful Gulf blue. Turning around, I surveyed the high ground beyond the dunes, grassy rises anchored by sprawling live oaks and tenacious slash pines sculpted by the winds like giant bonsai. I let out a deep sigh—I was there at last.

Back at my campsite, I set up the tent, cooked myself dinner in my skillet over a sputtering stove, and settled in for the night. The moon was so full it seemed to have cracked the sky—the clouds were broken and scattered in bits and pieces, a wispy mosaic freckled by only the brightest stars.

Rest was elusive that night. I’d come expecting quiet, but Horn Island’s soundtrack featured thundering waves and ear-buffeting winds. Eventually, I slid into its groove and slipped off to sleep—any tune can be a lullaby if you change the way you listen.

The second day was a mettle-testing melee of back-to-back storms that left me soaked, bedraggled, and nearly defeated. The first one blew in right after breakfast. There was no rain—but the 30 mph wind flattened my tent around me with the force of a giant’s fist and blasted sand through the mesh like sifted sugar.

There was the briefest of respites, but then the second storm took its turn—this time with driving rain pelting through my tent’s “waterproof” cover. The rain finally departed, but more wind soon took its place, which at least helped dry out my wet sleeping bag. After commiserating with my fellow campers over well-deserved beers, I crawled back into my damp abode and whispered a prayer for a better tomorrow.

Walk of Wonder

I unzipped my tent at dawn on the third day to a dramatic change in fortune. With nary a cloud in the sky, golden sunrays burst from the horizon, dancing on the waves and bathing the island with warm light. For the first time, I noticed the morning glories sprinkled throughout the dunes, their hardy vines grappling the sands and butter yellow blooms rippling in the breeze. I felt in my bones that it was going to be a good day.

The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee lured me and the other explorers to breakfast. Pouring myself a cup from the dented aluminum pot on the camp stove, I surveyed the group. One person stood out to me—an older gentleman with sandy hair, a strong nose, and curious eyes—so I asked Heather who he was. “That’s John Anderson,” she replied. “Walter’s youngest son.” Just then, he addressed the group, saying, “I’m going to take a little walk around the island. Anybody who wants to come is welcome.”

Like a line of baby ducks obediently following their mother, a number of us trailed behind him, drinking in his stories. As he showed us Walter’s favorite lily-laden lagoons and helped us sneak up on an alarmingly large alligator, John spoke of his father, bringing alive the artist I knew only on paper.

“Nearly everything that’s been written about Daddy is wrong,” John said. “He’s been described as a man who suffered from hopeless mental illness his entire life. It played an important role, but to expand that three-year period to encompass his whole life is inconsistent with the physical evidence he left behind.”

Walter’s “madness” was part of the mythology I’d grown up with. I’d read that he’d been in and out of mental institutions, escaping once by tying bedsheets together and climbing out the window—taking his time as he descended to draw a mural of birds on the side of the building with a bar of soap. And of course, there’s the incident when he reportedly tied himself to a tree to ride out a Category 4 hurricane.

“The family believed he might be schizophrenic,” John said. “He believed it, too, that he might ‘go crazy.’ Maybe that’s why he was in such a rush to do the things he wanted to—he was afraid that every moment might be his last sane moment."

As John pointed out soaring ospreys drifting on the winds, he explained how the solitude and remoteness of this haven helped keep his father well. “The only place Daddy found the most complete sanity was when he was one with nature.”

Walter went to Horn Island to evade what he called “the dominant mode” that persisted on shore—the ruts our wheels find along the way from point A to point B that urge us to conform, to win the rat race, to keep up with the Joneses. These things, he thought, blind our eyes and deafen our ears to the beauty that surrounds us. “People need a place from which to look,” John said. “They need a place that has not been significantly altered by human beings so that they can find themselves in nature.”

Hearing John’s words unlocked a new magic in Walter’s images, something that I had sensed but never actually seen. Watching the sunlight dapple the lagoons, studying the cirrus clouds as they skittered across the bright blue sky, finding animal tracks in the sand—every plant, landform, and creature revealed itself as a character from Walter’s body of work. It was like I was living inside one of his paintings.

After walking with John for more than four hours, I peeled off from the group to have some time to myself. On my way back to my campsite, something surprising happened. The sun dipped just low enough to cast shadows across the beach, drenching and defining a landlocked sea of windswept sand ripples in satsuma-colored light.

Unbidden, a memory of one of Walter’s carved linoleum block prints flashed to life in my mind’s eye, nearly identical in pattern and motion to the sand that was seemingly frozen before me. Spellbound, I sank to my knees and started to cry. I didn’t understand why at first—I was simply overwhelmed.

Later, distance and time gave me the clarity to put the pieces together. I had arrived carrying more than a bulging backpack. I came desperately seeking inspiration and peace. Horn sprung its trap at the right moment, opening my eyes to the secret that Walter knew so well—that peace comes not from productivity or perfection but from being present in the very moment that you’re inhabiting. Not yesterday, not tomorrow—right now.

Feeling untethered yet grounded, I wiped my face, stood up, and walked down the beach. When I think back to that moment and those sunset-tinted tears, I feel a tremble deep within me—a visceral reminder of the time I gave my “dominant mode” the slip and brushed souls with Walter Anderson. His spirit walks on Horn Island still.

Paradise in Peril

If everyone could experience the island the way I did, the world would be a better place. But in truth, this beautiful, dangerous refuge isn’t for everyone, and it must be preserved and protected— even from those who love it most.

“Visitors to Horn Island come in all shapes, sizes, and attitudes,” said Ben Moore, a retired park ranger who was stationed there for more than 20 years. “People need to understand and enjoy the park for what it is—not for what they want it to be.”

Moore spent his career patrolling and living in this designated wilderness area five days a week, but there hasn’t been a ranger stationed on the island since he retired 10 years ago. “I’m concerned about the direction the park service is going,” Moore said. “Someone has to be there to enforce the rules. If people don’t understand the reasoning behind a rule, then they think it’s okay to break it.”

From avoiding bird habitats and carefully putting out campfires to leaving dogs at home and packing out every last bit of trash, there are many ways to properly respect this precious, delicate land. “One of the values of having a resident ranger is that you can turn one pair of eyes into a hundred,” Moore said. “You can turn the rule breakers into stewards, but you’ve gotta have someone out there to do that.”

For now, it’s up to every person who visits Horn Island to tread lightly and leave no trace. Without protection, this fragile ecosystem that’s fighting to survive is at tremendous risk—at our shared peril. As Walter said, “If I destroy nature, and if nature is my source, I destroy myself.”

A year after this trip, Horn Island still whispers to me. When the dings, pings, and notifications of daily life become a deluge, that’s when I hear her the most clearly, calling me back. Walter learned his greatest lesson there, but you don’t have to escape to an island teeming with snakes and mosquitoes, without toilets or tap water, to find peace.

First, you must step away from your grind. Next, find a secluded trail to hike, a quiet beach to stroll, or a mountain to climb. Finally, open your eyes and your ears. “I always hear the wind after I’ve been out on Horn Island, but I almost never hear the wind on the mainland,” John said. “It is only by disconnecting that we reconnect.”

How to Get There

Rugged and wild, this terrain isn’t for the faint of heart. The best way to experience Horn Island is on a chartered voyage. Ethotera Art Studio offers guided multi-day excursions, providing transportation to and from the island, water, and suppers. Studio owner Heather Martin and her husband, Jason, lead each trip and set up a base camp of operations, allowing you to explore the area at your own pace.

With guidance from retired U.S. Park Ranger Ben Moore, the Gulf Islands National Seashore, Walter Anderson's son John Anderson, and a closely bonded tribe of like-hearted Islanders, Heather and Jason are dedicated to sharing the magic of Horn Island with others, while teaching them to be responsible stewards of this precarious slice of paradise.

Learn More About Walter Anderson

From galleries and museums to books and documentary films, there are many ways to dive deep into the life and work of Walter Anderson. Here are a few of my favorites.

Walter Anderson Museum of Art

This modern, eclectic facility in Ocean Springs is the hub of its community. In addition to rotating guest exhibits, the museum is packed with all kinds of Walter’s art and mementos, including the green skiff that he rowed to and from the island. Don’t skip the Little Room. It’s what inspired me to go on my own journey to Horn.

Shearwater Pottery

Walter came from a family of makers. One of his brothers, Peter, was a potter; Walter and his other brother, Mac, painted the wares. Located on Shearwater (the Anderson family compound), Peter’s studio is still in operation and features works by his son and grandson. Visitors are welcome, and pottery is available for purchase on a limited basis.

Realizations

A store that’s owned and run by Walter’s relatives, Realizations can be found on Washington Avenue in the former Ocean Springs railroad depot. It carries on his mission of making beautiful art available to all by screen printing his original designs. Some of his block prints are sold unadorned, while others are given new life by local watercolorists.

Further Reading

Part history lesson, part coffee-table book, and part private journal, Walter Anderson: The Extraordinary Life and Art of the Islander by Robert St. John and Anthony Thaxton is a gateway into the mind of the creative genius. The Bicycle Logs of Walter Anderson, compiled by his son John Anderson, shares what his life was like on the mainland as he pedaled around a town that thought him mad.

Documentary: The Extraordinary Life and Art of The Islander

This Emmy-winning documentary by filmmaker Anthony Thaxton brings Walter's story to life like never before. Featuring interviews with his children, rare historical footage, and never-before-seen work, this film provides rich context and insight into the South's most prolific and misunderstood artist.