This adventure shows in a comical way how travelers interact together and the interesting people that color our world. I will take you on journey of self-discovery while canoeing the Mississippi, (during the year of the Great Flood in 1993), biking in Central and South America, sailing the Caribbean, sea-canoeing Panama, rafting the Grand Canyon and more. I consider myself a brilliant idiot. Planning is sometimes best; other times action is best. It’s difficult to always make the right choices. Poor planning and new ideas often have flaws. I discover those flaws with hilarious consequences. For some people, traveling comes easy. For some, relationships come easy. I’ve rarely met those people. Traveling at different times with my brother, girlfriend, a friend that is a girl, older couple, wife, male friends and large groups of people makes for interesting dynamics. Interactions between the travelers are as interesting as the amazing encounters and mishaps along the colorful path. From quicksand to Typhoid to a Latin American jail the mishaps keep you laughing: the insights make you think.

By

Brad Modesitt

 

For Mom and Dad,

Thank you for everything –

Encouragement, trust, values, love, kindness, understanding,

opportunities, punishment, laughter, compassion, adventure.

You have made my world a wonderful place to be.

 

1

Journey Around the World – Day 1

This planet has – or rather had – a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn’t the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.

• Douglas Adams in Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

 

 

Lesson Learned: A two-foot drop is big enough.

 

May 22, 1993 – Day 1

Kent and I are now fifty yards downstream on the Cache La Poudre River in Fort Collins, Colorado, and we come to our first obstacle: a dam. At this point, I have about ten miles of canoeing experience in my adult life (actually twelve because of a horrible experience on Horseshoe Lake after I bought my canoe, Kerala). As a kid I canoed with my parents often in Michigan, so I know that this is an obstacle to be reckoned with. Beaching the canoe, we walk ahead to survey the situation. Fifty percent of the water is flowing through a spillway that has a ten-foot slide ending with a two-foot drop at the bottom. Taking the only prudent way to go we decide to run it, only a fool would portage after fifty yards of paddling, plus it’s only two feet, right? We put on our lifejackets and kneepads; it’s time to get serious. Kent’s in the bow, I have control steering in the stern.

As we near the spillway, I notice a sign on the right that reads: Danger No Swimming, No canoes, No Tubes or Rafts. A few minutes ago this knowledge may have been helpful. Now, there is no turning back. We slide over like real pros, but as we hit the bottom, the front end of the canoe submerges like a giant red torpedo. Kent’s riding the missile like he’s a true bull rider, and soon both canoe and Kent are heading for deeper depths. They disappear. His cowboy hat floats alongside in a placid pool where he once was, then he bounces up with the canoe still underneath, grabs his hat, slaps it back into place while water drips down his face and gives me a huge grin. As we paddle to shore we fill the river basin with roaring laughter. We had swamped the canoe in the first 50 yards. I wonder, ‘do all long journeys begin with such disastrous starts?’ Hell, the spillway was fun, let’s do that again?

We unpack the canoe and check our bags. The waterproof bags worked. We don’t, however, have enough bags to keep everything we need to dry. In fact, we only brought a couple dry bags because we figured ‘how wet could our stuff get since we are only canoeing?’ The answer comes sooner than expected. The tent is soaked along with all Kent’s clothes, the food and the stove. But it only takes us about fifteen minutes to get back to paddling. ‘Hey Kent where is that celebratory bottle of champagne?’

Coming around another bend, we find another fallen tree. We speed up our pace in a dash to make it around the tree. We can’t. We try to go under; we can’t. The canoe broadsides the tree, pins against it momentarily and then flips over and throws us into the Poudre which lets the canoe slide easily under. Grabbing onto the overturned canoe we float to shore to start the unpacking then packing process. We take another swig of our celebratory champagne. This is not going as planned.

We have a calm stretch. Birds are chirping, the water is placid and reflecting billowing clouds and everything has mellowed. Kent opens what he calls his ‘important bag’ containing the things he must have, to get his knife. It’s time for cheese and crackers. Kent passes me the appetizers with his extended paddle blade. We relax and float, enjoying the Cache La Poudre River. I see a couple friends along a trail on the banks of the river that I haven’t seen since high school four years earlier. We wave to each other and she asks where we are going. ‘New Orleans’ I say with pride. She wishes us well and luckily doesn’t seem to notice that we are both soaking wet.

The ‘Poudre,’ as its known here, is running fast because of the rain and hail earlier today and because the Cache La Poudre River is nearing the peak of the high water runoff. We paddle with ease as our canoe shoots through the water. Kent hands me another sliver of cheese. This is more like I imagined us canoeing through Colorado. We round a bend, and there is another dead tree lying across three-quarters of the river. The current pulls us towards the shore where the tree is anchored. We can’t go under it; the tree is only six inches above the water. Our paddles pull furiously at the water. I plead to myself not to dump again. We pull with long hard strokes, but the current is too fast. The canoe broadsides the tree and immediately capsizes us, and in we go. I am being sucked under the canoe, but manage to pull my head above water. My attention immediately turns to Kent whom I can’t see. Terrified that he may be hurt, I pull myself higher out of the water. Panic starts to set in. At the same instant I see Kent pop up with the same look of terror in his bulging eyes. We quickly move the canoe to a place with less current. After we turn the canoe over I realize that I dropped my paddle.

I run up the bank and see a bike path. Three bicyclists pass me and look back at this frantic guy running soaking wet down their path. Well I’m sure they really started wondering when I saw my paddle in the river fifty yards downstream, made a beeline for the paddle, jumped off the bank into the river, and did a 50 meter sprint downstream. I caught the paddle and then waited to see if any other belongings would float towards me. I didn’t see anything so I found my way back to the bike path and slowly and happily walked back to the canoe. Three flips the first day – Shit! How many more?

Thirty yards from the canoe I hear Kent calling me to hurry. The canoe is being pulled by the current back towards the hellish tree and trying to wrap around it. We pull the canoe back and proceed again to put our bags up on shore. As we throw the bags, water pours out. This time the waterproof bags are soaked inside too. This means that all my clothes, sleeping bags, Thermarests, journals, books, 105mm zoom camera, phone, cassette tapes, maps and everything else is completely soaked. Kent’s ‘important bag’ was first to disappear into the Cache La Poudre River. Dad had given us the cell phone in case we had trouble. Well, we have had trouble, but too much, and the wrong kind. And a dripping wet phone won’t be able to help us now. We drain the water as best we can and start to portage around the fallen tree. The tent bag, my waterproof camera bag, and a waterproof bag have all ripped. The camera bag is what worries me. I had just bought an expensive camera with a 75mm – 300mm lens. Some water spills out of the ripped seam. I open that up and pull out the camera. It is dry. The Cache La Poudre River hasn’t taken all my possessions from me – yet.

We drain the canoe; carry it around the tree, and then fill the canoe with our bags. Just before we set off Kent catches his leg on a coil of barbed wire sticking out of the riverbank. The cuts are minor, but another hassle. Taking another swig of our celebratory champagne and we are off. We realize that the stove handle has broken off and the stove is missing. The canoe is 25 yards downstream from the tree. The stove must be in that area somewhere. We dredge the Cache La Poudre River. Walking in the chest deep cold spring snowmelt we make our way up and down the channel. We tried but can’t find it, and seriously, how hard can a person look in forty degree water? As we walk back downstream for one last look, I hit something with my left foot. I plunge down and grab it. The Coleman stove. Hallelujah! We don’t have to walk into Fort Collins and buy another stove.

After we get out of Fort Collins city limits we make camp for the night. As we start to lay everything out to dry we notice that the damage is severe. Everything is wet and many things are lost. Lost: fishing pole, tackle box, flag, camel skin hat, medicine bag with good luck charms, half of the cooler food that wasn’t sealed well, two 5 gallon jugs of water, bag of tie down straps (ironic, huh?), Thermarest chairs, cheddar cheese, Swiss army knife, money, Bolle sunglasses, rechargeable razor, spoon, watch and spices. Broken or unusable: phone, camera, journals and waterproof matches.

Only the contents of Kent’s camera bags’ are left dry. Everything else is wet and must be laid out to dry. A large woodpile from the rivers floods and eddies lays close to fuel our raging fire. At least something is going well. Our campsite is a mess. Clothes are hanging from trees, maps are laid out on the grass, the medical kit is on a Thermarest, books are spread out, and sleeping bags ring the fire. I shake my cassette tapes to remove the water. A deck of cards is propped in the crack of a tree.

The food is nothing short of a disaster. First, the water soaked all the labels off the cans of food. The cans contents have all become a mystery, no big deal. The second problem is a big deal. The macaroni and cheese is wet. Five boxes of Mac and Cheese hydrated and exploded all over the rest of the food. The noodles made the gooey mess stick very well to everything. The five pound bag of spaghetti is already half soaked, but part is salvageable and therefore becomes our first meal.

Kent walks into town to call our parents. I can’t face the failure of going back. We figure a couple more dry bags would be a beneficial idea. Our depression is overwhelming my mind. I recollect how things have gone so far. A third of a day canoeing, and we flip three times. That would be an average of nine times a day. We paddled about five miles. That would be fifteen miles a day. I had figured on about 50 miles a day. We lost a lot of stuff. A few more days and we won’t have a thing. The depression grows as we realize how everything has gone wrong. The champagne disappears.

While Kent goes into town, I fuel the fire. The sleeping bags are slowly drying. The grass catches fire and burns a pair of boxers. The fire then burns some socks and the middle section of a long sleeved shirt.

I found a pile of gray, withered logs pushed up against a tree from the spring runoff. As I try to dry out our dripping clothes, soaking sleeping bags, and tent, the pile slowly dwindles away as I add log after log. Later that night, a beaver slaps its tail against the water creating a sound like a pistol shot. Instead of diving for safety, this beaver sticks around and keeps slapping. Sometimes near and sometimes far, but constantly that beaver slaps. It sounds mad, but do animals get mad? Besides, what have we done? The next morning after a noisy, restless night, I wander over to the woodpile. Groggily, I rub my eyes, trying to focus on… a … a Beaver. A foot diameter hole sheds light in on an adult beaver, a golden unblinking eye piercing through me. Suddenly, I realize what I have done. That beaver had found the same windfall I had and converted it into a home. Beavers do get mad. Luckily, he seems to only keep me awake and I don’t have some weird beaver attack to report.

A year ago I was happily pursuing a Wildlife Biology degree at Colorado State University being the typical college student. Now, I’m cruising around the world via canoe, bike and sailboat. As I drift of to an unfittful sleep I think about how I got here.

 

2

Preparation

Make the best decision you can and never look back,

knowing that at the time you made the decision

it was the best possible way to go

• Mike Sanchez

Lesson Learned: Enjoy life.

Three years ago I traveled to India for a two-month journey with an old roommate who lives in Bombay. Immediately, I was bitten by the ‘traveling bug.’ Dreams of faraway lands and new experiences occupied my thoughts. Two years ago the bug bit me back. At first, I’d lost some weight which I considered a good thing. But, as the weeks passed on I kept losing weight. I had a voracious appetite, often eating four complete helpings at each meal. The cafeteria cooks at the dorm thought I was great because I loved their food so much. Nobody likes their food. Hunger, though, has little to do with taste so I ate heartily. Still the pounds dropped away. I went to a hospital for some tests but nothing was discovered about the cause. I ate more. I slept more. Each day I weighed myself. One day I lost five pounds. I ate. The numbers seemed too ridiculous to think about. How could I be eating so much and losing weight so fast?

Friends related stories to make me feel better. “I once had a cousin who had an unknown illness for three months. It turned out she had the flu, but before they discovered it she almost died.” That is one of the happier stories I heard. She lived. The doctors and nurses at the hospital did not help much either. “Wow! You’ve lost that much weight (25 pounds) in three weeks? I wish I could catch that disease,” a petite blonde nurse enviously said. Not me. I was scared to death. I avoided talking about it because all the cheering up made me chronically depressed. I ate.

A new doctor told me flatly that most likely I had contracted the AIDS virus. My trip to India combined with an unexplained rapid weight loss sounded a lot like what he called the wasting away disease. I took the blood test and waited the necessary two weeks for the results. Through two weeks of sheer panic and countless pizzas, I ate.

I rarely attended classes anymore. Food, sleep, and television were priorities. I ate and ate and ate and still lost weight. Class would keep me away from food and although I was eating enough to fuel an army, I had no energy. I was a true couch potato, conserving all my energies to flip the remote and eating everything in sight. By all accounts I should be gaining pounds each day with the complete lack of exercise and huge quantities of food. My energy and my weight were still dwindling. The stories of illnesses and death continued to pour in from well-meaning people who heard about my condition. I started seeing a psychologist to save me from well-wishers. I ate.

I was in the doctors’ office talking about something when he mentioned that the AIDS test had come back.

“It did.”

“Yeah, it came in a few days ago. Let’s have a look.”

He slowly opened the sealed envelope.

“Negative, good news”

I practically kissed the doctor in euphoria.

It pissed me off that he didn’t let me know immediately when the test came in. I was just another number, another nuisance. Still, the test was negative. But, my happiness was short lived. “Then what do I have?” I asked feebly.

Twice a week I went in to see my unemotional doctor. More tests and more tests. The possible diseases seemed endless. Bone cancer and diabetes are two that I remember well. Everything kept coming back negative which was the news I wanted, but I was still depressed by it all. Meanwhile, I saw the psychologist twice a week to clear up my head. Another psychologist administered a stress test. She had to fumble with the manual so that the numbers would register. She had never seen the gizmo go over the single digits. I was in the nineties. School seemed to be a thing of the past. Pass the potato chips.

I learned who my real friends were. There weren’t as many as I thought I had. Some people have become lifelong friends and the others disappeared. People I used to regularly hang out with vanished. A couple heard I might have AIDS and said that they couldn’t take the chance being around me. “You understand the situation I’m in, don’t you?” one said. He backed into his truck like a rabid dog was growling at his ankles, started it up and fled. He couldn’t be on the same street as me. Now it saddens me to think of how people are treated who do have the disease.

For a brief moment in time I know the horror of life with AIDS. Losing friends. Stares. Answering questions… “No, I’m not gay. No, I don’t use needles.” Defending myself. When people have terminal cancer, friends circle around, trying to comfort them. With AIDS, people disappear.

I can’t imagine what life would be like if those two weeks had never ended. What if that test had come back positive? ‘What if,’ still haunts me. ‘What if,’ makes me think. ‘What if,’ makes me a better person.

During this time I often went to Lee Martinez Park near my house to the Cache la Poudre River to listen to birds singing and watch all the people having fun playing their sports. One day as the Poudre rolled quietly past and eating a foot long sub, I decided to change my priorities. I scribbled down a list of things I wanted from life.

• Ski for a season in the mountains
• Travel
• Do more photography and take photography classes
• Live in my grandfather’s mountain ski cabin
• Be a whitewater rafting guide
• Skydive
• Finish college
• Marry and have kids

College had obviously lost its priority. Who wants to read some damn poem by Sylvia Plath bitching about her life? .

I wonder what could be so horrible that someone would see death as the best option like Sylvia Plath. The amount of despair must be more painful than I can imagine. While I have felt despair, I am still here, struggling to understand their pain. For death to be the best possible option, life must have no hope left. Without hope, what is there? I hope those that have committed this crime against themselves get the relief they need and where they want to be going. I am fighting to live. Others want to die. Life is crazy that way.

I dropped all my classes. Friends told me I was crazy. Elders gave me statistics on the low percentage of college dropouts that return. My psychologist asked me if I was happy with my decision. "Happier than I have been in awhile," I told him. “Then let that be your only guide,” he advised me. That advice still guides my life. As soon as I dropped the classes one of the pressures of life was peeled off my back. I could focus on eating.

I continued on with the multitude of tests for several more weeks. I gave up hope of finding the cause. It only made me depressed trying so I stopped seeing the doctors. I called my Grandparents asking if I could spend the winter at their mountain ski cabin. I moved in as soon as possible. The ski season started a month later. Immediately, I started feeling better, psychologically at least. I start to exercise again even though I would rather sleep. Later, I would fix my fifth meal of the day. Or, is it the seventh?

At my grandfathers ski cabin I felt like I could do anything. John started skiing in the late thirties. He piloted a small airplane and flew over Loveland Basin a year after its opening, and he saw all these people skiing down the slopes amidst beautiful feathery powder. He wondered what he was doing just sitting there in the plane, inactive. The action was down below. His flying career ended immediately, so that his new passion of skiing could take form. Life revolved around skiing. Nothing mattered more to my grandfather, John Ambler, than skiing. He skied the backcountry before they called it the backcountry.

He joined the army during WWII so that he could ski and serve his country. He wanted to become an elite member of the 10 th Mountain Division, part of the ski infantry. Seeing a forty-year-old physician, the Army had different ideas. He became a lieutenant colonel, the head of dermatology in the South Pacific. Skis never became part of his uniform, but he was able to squeeze in some runs in New Zealand and Australia during his enlistment. When he returned home from the war to continue his dermatology practice in Denver, Colorado skiing took center stage again. In 1942, he was the 565 th National Ski Patroller in the U.S. He was there in the beginning. He sat on the Board of Trustees for Winter Park Ski Area when it first opened, and, more importantly to him, he would ski down through the trees in search of locations of new runs.

John started mountain climbing in the summers to keep in shape for the coming ski season and possibly get in a run or two. He was the 14 th person to climb all of Colorado’s 14,000-foot peaks. He climbed all the peaks twice and skied down thirty-six of them. In 1993, my father became the 643 rd to climb them all. It’s still an elite group that maybe I can join one day.

In 1951, Bradford Washburn, John, and six others pioneered the West Buttress route up Mount McKinley. This soon became the preferred route of mountaineers and remains so today. At 50, John was the oldest of the team, and I would imagine, one of the strongest. Their historic climb utilized heavy canvas backpacks, thick hemp ropes, hobnailed hiking boots and hundreds of pounds of food. My favorite is the 33 pounds of fresh strawberries they hauled up the glaciers of McKinley. Expeditions today have it much easier with fancy breathing fabrics, dehydrated food and tiny nylon ropes. In 1996, 1148 adventurers tried to scale McKinley. Only half made it.

For my grandfather, mountaineering was there as an exercise for the true sport of skiing.

The early days of skiing were difficult. Skis were long sticks of wood, poles were practically trees themselves and the boots were leather. John’s toes never fit into the boots well. The pinky toe always hurt at the end of the day. Most of us would have stopped skiing or maybe not skied up to 120 days a year. That wasn’t John. He had those little toes chopped off. Once when my grandmother broke and dislocated a toe, he thought she should get the foot in a ski boot so the toe could heal properly and of course so they could still ski together. She declined.

John made many friends like the famous ski photographer Warren Miller and ski instructor Emiel Allai with whom he skied in Chile, Sun Valley and his favorite, Colorado. He wanted to introduce anybody he could to his life’s passion and he did so while traveling to five continents to ski.

Many a morning around John would be filled with ‘Let’s Go! You’re burning daylight.” We would be first in the parking lot, first to climb the run and ski down before the lifts opened and first on the lift. The only first he didn’t take was the first to leave. Only twice did John leave a ski area saying the skiing wasn’t good. Every other time he would greet anyone who wasn’t skiing that day with a vociferous “You missed it!”

If you were talking to my grandfather, you were talking about skiing. His stories amazed me. Besides the skiing, the only thing he mentioned to me about the war was that “Those boys sure did get a lot of syphilis and gonorrhea.”

When my dad and aunt were skiing as kids they spotted a friend, Willy Schaeffler, the former Denver University and U.S. Olympic Ski Team Coach, but decided not to join him for lunch. Soon, Bobby and Ethel Kennedy arrived to have lunch with Willy. At that point, my aunt was disgusted they hadn’t joined Willy. She was very interested in the Kennedys and especially Ethel. Soon, John came along and sat down with Willy. When Willy and the Kennedys left, my aunt and dad rushed up to John.

“What were they like?” my aunt asks with eager anticipation.

“Who? Willy?’ he replied. “You know Willy.”

“No! Bobby and Ethel Kennedy – What were they like?”

“Oh, them. They don’t know anything about skiing!”

And so it was with my grandfather, you were either a skier or you weren’t.

As a young skier myself, my grandfather taught me to strengthen my legs. At home this meant running. On the slope it meant top to bottom runs. On the lift up, I had to keep my knees straight out holding those heavy boots and skis high in the air. Skiing with John was exhausting. Age might have slowed him down a bit and might even have brought his average ski days per year down as well. When he turned 70 most areas let him ski for free. The year he turned 88, he only skied 105 days. We could all see him deteriorating and it was tough to watch someone so athletic and agile become old. Still, I have never met anyone his age with the spunk he had.

At 90 an out of control snowboarder smashed into him and sent him careening into a tree, breaking a rib. The doctor wanted to know what the hell he was doing on a ski slope. Finding out that he also had a heart murmur, which he had had for years, the doctor told him, ‘Continue that and you’ll die being as old as you are.’ When he saw his regular doctor, who knew what skiing meant to John, his friend tried to reverse what was said. Worry set in and he never skied again. A year later, I watched as John did six pull ups but can’t get down the stairs. A week later he died as my parents and I are skiing his beloved Winter Park. It was the best snow we’d had in ten years; he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Through almost 60 years of being a skiing and mountaineering pioneer, a man accumulates many tools and mementos. His ski cabin has become a tribute to the glories of skiing, a museum of sorts. As you drive up, tucked behind massive evergreens you notice the bright aquamarine trim on an otherwise plain gray house. In the vestibule is a stack of twenty pairs of skis piled to the right. On the left are shelves for waxes, leashes, baskets, and tools to fix the skis. A picnic basket rests, waiting to be filled with sandwiches, watermelon, cheese and crackers and maybe some Scotch. A string of used lift tickets reach from ceiling to floor billowing out like a demented snowdrift. Ten years worth of season passes take up a fraction of the thousands of days spent on the slopes. Almost out of place, a doghouse has been constructed for the five beagles they had running around. The doghouse is the only thing that has nothing to do with skiing, except that in the old days his dogs could follow behind the pomalift or under the tow.

The family room is bright even though the walls are furnished with old planks from a nearby abandoned silver mine. Pine needles and thousands of fires have left a calming scent. The floor screams out of the 1970’s with two-inch long multihued blue shag carpet. If you lose something in this carpet, it’s gone. A twisting blue jungle has swallowed it. An old COLE’S Hot Blast barrel stove heats the room and dries ski boots at night. On three long nails rests equipment from his McKinley expedition: his canvas pack, hobnailed boots and a Kodak camera.

Relief maps of McKinley and Asheville North Carolina adorn one wall. Asheville is where John grew up. In the nearby hills his family owned Rattlesnake Lodge in a wilderness that taught him to explore. Carved wooden mementos adorn the two windows from past skiing travels.

A plaque to my great grandfather, John’s Dad, adorns the wall above a couch. It’s a picture of a U.S. Forest Service memorial. It reads: You are now entering the first tract of national forest land purchased under the Weeks Law, March 1, 1911. This 8100 acre tract is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Chase P. Ambler of Asheville N.C. and his associates in appreciation of their timely efforts to establish additional national forests and their pioneering in forest conservation. I’m impressed.

Shelves hold books about skiing, mountains, ski journals and manuals, faraway lands, mountaineering, and ski trophies. He even has Men’s Class ‘A’ badminton medals and a trophy. Who knew? A wooden liquor bar sticks out with different labels plastered to its sides, advertising what might be found behind.

The original type of snowshoes made from animal intestines hang on a door leading to a small bedroom with burlap bags decorating its sides. A large horn rests on the inside of the door to awake sleeping guests who may be more concerned with sleep than skiing. Its bellowing noise could wake the dead and make them ski in an effort to quiet the noise. A small bureau is filled with all the necessary clothes for skiing.

The adjoining bathroom is wallpapered in old ski posters. A poster of a Swiss hamlet partially covers a Squaw Valley 1958 Winter Olympics poster, which covers a beautiful Norwegian woman with pigtails and skis over her shoulder and on and on. A small cartoon, modeled after John, from the Wall Street Journal shows a group of friends driving home from skiing. Atop the ski rack is a man still strapped into his skis. The caption reads “He’d ski all night, if he could!” Stacks of ski magazines sit next to the commode. A series of shelves have small pictures of past Fourth of July parties and invitations with John immortalized saying ‘I Want You to Ski Jones Pass.” The annual party for the social elite and written about in the Denver Post, hundreds would gather for some spiked watermelon and slalom events. In the normally hot July 4 weather, it was like skiing in wet cement. If you fell, you could drown. But, it extended the ski season.

Walking into the kitchen, you realize how many people have passed through these doors on an Ambler invitation to powder skiing and spirits afterwards. Hundreds of liquor labels cover every kitchen cabinet, inside and out. All but eight of the 800 labels are unique. A row of nine bottles rests on a shelf near the refrigerator. Trader Vic’s Pomegranate Grenadine Syrup is my favorite. A beautiful bare breasted woman arches her back with flowing black hair in front of a thatched hut, palm trees in the distance. When I was a young boy, she was the first picture of a topless woman that my bulging eyes saw. My second favorite is a jug of Home Grown Mountain Dew – aged six days. A brick fireplace warms the room so that dinners can be prepared on the bronco orange countertops. Two pairs of handmade 130-year-old wooden skis sit next to a bota bag given by Warren Miller. Skins are also there, skinny animal pelts that could be fastened to the bottom of skis to allow uphill climbing. Outside, a 1948 Willys Jeep rests in the garage waiting for a ride to Jones Pass and more skiing. American flags, old skis and poles rest against the sides. More ski tools sit idle, ready to fix anything. The small backyard has enough room to have a great Fourth of July skiing party. One of the chairs from Aspen’s Lift No. 1 rests against the house.

He was a great doctor, too. His patients wouldn’t let him retire, so he continued at least until he was 75, when the high cost of malpractice insurance caused him to hang it up. When he went to a medical convention, he attended (and presented) the lectures. He had great dedication to his patients also, if you can imagine his going to the office when we all had food poisoning. The rest of the family could only go to and from the can. I don’t believe he ever “called in sick” no matter how good the skiing

When I decided to attend Colorado State University, my grandfather congratulated me. He had gone to the University of Colorado so I thought he’d bring up the rivalry but it was never mentioned. My sister and brother were foolish he stated. A little confused, I agreed. “Those two are going to college out east; the skiing is so icy there. What are they thinking? Brad, you’re the only smart one.” I agreed with his slightly skewed logic. When I asked my grandparents if I could stay at their winter retreat for a winter and ski my grandfather cried he was so happy that I too loved skiing.

How could I possibly ever impress my grandfather? He had done and achieved so many great things? When I came out with my plan to canoe, bike and sail around the world for three years, I thought I might possibly impress the man. He thought the whole thing was foolish. Stupid, really. He scoffed at my plans. I had made a fatal mistake – I didn’t include skiing as a mode of transportation. Even worse, for three long years I wouldn’t click into a pair of skis and float down a powder run.

Even without his support I felt his presence all around me, telling me to reach for goals and pursue passions and enjoy life. For years, he helped cultivate this trip with stories of his adventurous travels. My adventures won’t be firsts or too unique or involve skiing for a few years, but someday I hope my Grandchildren can look at me in awe and wonder as I relive my life telling crazy stories. Maybe, I can instill some dreams in them as my grandfather did for me

At his Empire cabin I read books on adventure travel with people biking, walking, canoeing, and traveling with camels and elephants to all places on the earth. I saw no reason why I couldn’t do any of those things. Hell, if I was going to die, I might as well keel over atop a camel walking across a sand dune with colorful lizards scurrying about. I was going to enjoy life if it only lasted a few more months, a couple years, or if I lived to 100.

The irony of it all is that I am no longer scared of death. I would rather die young and happy than live to a hundred scared of the world and safely tucked in my home. When I die I want people to talk about how I lived life, enjoying it like I do. I’m not looking for death. I take precautions and then live life to its fullest. Like a child I live each day like tomorrow may never come, because maybe it won’t. Like an adult, I plan for tomorrow but with a stress-free smile. I will try do that all my life, it’s a difficult line and hard for people to understand. I am scared of not living rather than scared of dying.

I skied the whole winter about three times a week, planned this trip, and worked sixteen hour days at a restaurant the next town over. I learned to follow my instincts. All people need to take different paths in their lives. People are full of advice as to the correct path to follow, usually one similar to their own.

My advice is to listen to these advisors as many have great insights. Ultimately, though, the only person that knows what is best for you is you. Once that decision is made then feel good knowing that you made the best possible decision at the time it was made.

I had four things to do before I left: get in better shape, get the gear, plan the route and get some money to pay for it all.

Riding a bike in the mountains of Colorado at 8000 feet and up is wonderful exercise. At first, I couldn’t ride too far, maybe only ten miles per ride. The cold, the thin air, the massive inclines and my deteriating body made it all difficult. I would climb up the mountainside for two hours then turn around and spend ten minutes flying back down. Once I got in better shape I could go farther and faster. On the downhill’s I was passing cars at 65 miles an hour.

I either biked or ran the four miles to and from work. The trail rose 1000 feet and at spots was only a bike wide with a 1000-foot cliff off the side. One small mistake and I’d be flying. It wasn’t the flight that worried me – it was the landing. After working a 16 hour day on my feet waiting tables, running home at midnight in the snow was sometimes difficult. Mostly though it was relaxing to see the stars reflect off the snow and feel the crispness in the air.

Once a month I would strap my skis to my bike, put the boots in a pannier and head to Winter Park Ski Area. With a 3500 foot elevation gain and twenty-four miles the trip was excruciating. Once there I could click in and glide down the groomers or pump through the bumps. This is how I like exercising – being outdoors and having fun. Running on a treadmill just wouldn’t work for me. The trip home was always the most difficult, but atop Berthoud Pass at11,500 feet, I could coast for twelve miles all the way home to Empire at 8500 feet. During a long straightaway I would routinely pass cars doing 65 miles an hour. I never could see the drivers faces, but I must have shocked a few.

I worked on my gear list with scrutiny. I could only travel with so much gear moving it myself so I had to be careful with weight. I wouldn’t be able to buy most of the technical gear once I left so everything had to be top quality. I could leave stuff with Mom and Dad to send a package. But, I knew the time lapse between me letting them know I needed something and actually getting it could be months. I needed the best equipment and searched until I found it. (For a list of the gear check the appendix.) Studying water filters, stoves and headlamps was sometimes easy. Which stove could I find gas for in Bolivia when I asked and the only answer came back as one model, the decision was easy. When looking for water filters and each has pluses and minuses, the decision became murky. I settled on a Katydyn Pocketfilter that would do a great job with filtering and clean easily. The down side was that if I broke the fragile ceramic innards while cleaning it would become useless.

Gear had to be durable and light. Things that were too heavy I made lighter. My toothbrush was cut in half and then I discarded the box around the tooth floss – those were the easy things to do. The main weight reduction came when deciding not to bring items. Figuring that clothes were easy to replace and that realistically I couldn’t bring much of a wardrobe, the less I brought the easier moving all the weight would become. So I packed enough clothes for a weekend getaway – or in this case a trip around the world.

Planning a trip like this is difficult. It’s impossible to know when you will be in each country. Undoubtedly, some things will be more difficult than imagined, and some easier. I can’t count on making a certain number of miles each day. That will vary. Things change. I want to be flexible so that if I discover a wonderful spot I can stay. Or hurry on. I decided to find some major highlights that I wanted to see. Generally, I picked only three or four landmarks on each continent that I figured I couldn’t miss. The places in between would fill themselves in later. I bought maps of each continent or country to figure out roads for biking. I bought so many Lonely Planet travel guides for each country that the information was overwhelming. I would pour over them at night and analyze them during the day. There were millions of possible choices. There were so many variables that I could only use seasons or months for timelines. Anything else would be too constrictive. Following the summer seemed obvious because I didn’t think I needed the added adventure of doing this trip during a snowstorm.

I had been thinking about the trip for months before I told anybody. Taking my parents to a restaurant, I told them my plans. They were shocked but supported me immediately. I explained why I had to go, where I wanted to go and why I would learn more traveling than in college. They listened. They shared their concern, but also gave unwavering support. I told everyone I knew that I was leaving on a spectacular trip around the world. If they wanted to come, they could join me at any point. Kent wanted to join me canoeing to New Orleans. Molly, a friend, wanted to bike. I wasn’t sure about whether she could make it or not so we agreed to call the New Orleans to Key West leg a trial run. I would be alone often. Could I handle that?

I started to work on my mind as well as my body. Each morning and night I would meditate and think about my illness. I had read that visualizing the white blood cells as winning the battle going on inside me could be beneficial, and at this point I was ready to try anything. Picturing white balls with sledgehammers attacking my illness, slowly beating the invading army that was bringing me down, I visualized great battles going on inside my body. Sometimes, I would see a group of white balls surround the disease and slowly bring it down. Other times a single white fighter would bring down the entire invading battalion. I could visualize each death for minutes as my fighters began to regain control. I like the underdog battles most, perhaps because I saw the same parallel with my life.

I decided that if I only had a short time to live, then I would enjoy the world to its fullest. When it is time for me to die then I’ll die. Until that point, I will relish my life. Because of this, some started saying that I had a death wish. They would carefully explain how water moccasins would kill in seconds when I stepped on their den by the river, piranhas in the Amazon and headhunters too. ‘Central America is a boiling pot of wars and death; people just don’t bike down there, you’ll definitely catch something in Africa,’ the list goes on and on. Everyone had a story for me and said I shouldn’t go unless I had a death wish. It confused me because I viewed it as a living wish. I stopped telling people about the trip because if I listened to all of them I would live inside my house and never come out – living like a hermit was not going to happen.

To pay for the trip I decided to get help from sponsors. I thought about the typical corporate sponsors, but do real people ever really hear about what’s going on? I wanted to give back what I learned in these exotic places. I believed what we read in newspapers gives an inaccurate picture of our world. Newspapers generally talked about politicians, wars, and tragedies when referring to other countries. Look through today’s paper. Does it accurately portray your families’ lifestyle? I doubt it. How about a family in the Costa Rica, Brazil, Zimbabwe, Ghana, India, Nepal, and China? I wanted to experience first hand what families in these countries valued, how they raised children, and understand issues that affected them personally. Every month I could send updates on the world. With individual support I could share this with other people who would want to see the world differently. I sent out a letter with my bold plan.

On May 22, 1993 I will canoe and bike around the world.

This trip will span five continents, biking across five, canoeing across three, sailing through three oceans, covering about 33 countries, thousands of miles, and taking 2 -3 years (specific travel plans included).

This trip is the combination of my interest in travel, the outdoors, and wildlife biology. When I was young I dreamt of traveling to all of our 50 states. After traveling through most of them, that dream slowly expanded into traveling the world. On my journey to achieve Boy scouts highest honor of Eagle Scout I developed a love of the outdoors. I continued on in the field of wildlife biology at Colorado State University.

Suddenly, in August of 1992 I lost 30 pounds in three weeks. At first it was thought to be due to a parasite from a recent visit to India. My condition deteriorated over the next 3 months and was thought to be AIDS, diabetes, bone cancer, and an assortment of other diseases. All tests came back negative, but my life had been changed forever. My sickness still has not been diagnosed. I am now back to normal, although I’m 20 pounds lighter. I did, however, learn something very important from this experience. I learned that I must love life for the present because tomorrow may never come. That is when I decided I should travel today while I still could.

Travel Plans are as follows:

Canoe 2400 miles from Fort Collins, Colorado to New Orleans, Louisiana

Bike to Key West, Florida

Sail to Cuba

Bike though Haiti, Dominican Republic and Jamaica

Sail from Jamaica to Costa Rica

Bike through Costa Rica, Panama, Columbia, Ecuador and Peru to the Amazon River

Canoe 1500 miles down the Amazon to Manaus, Brazil

Bike thorough Brazil, Bolivia, Paraguay, Argentina, and Chile to Cape Horn, South America

Sail from Buenos Aires to New Zealand

Bike through New Zealand and Australia

Fly to Zimbabwe

Bike through Zimbabwe, Zambia, Zaire, Burundi, Rwanda and Uganda

Canoe the Nile River through Sudan and Egypt

Sail to India

Bike through India

Take a camel through the Great Indian Desert to Delhi

Bike to Nepal

Hitchhike across Tibet and China

Bike through China, Japan and the USSR

Hitchhike through the northern USSR to the Bering Straight

Ferry across to Alaska

Bike through Alaska and Canada and finally back home to Fort Collins, Colorado

This journey will cost about $15,000. Only with your help and support will my dream become reality. With any donation over $25 you will receive monthly letters from me along the way.

Thanks to my corporate sponsors product support: Indiana Camp Supply, Spenco, Kelty, and MirrCycle Corp.

The response was horrible. I sent out 3000 letters, I received enough money to cover the cost of the stamps. That alone would have been enough. I could let a few people know what I was going to see and do. Soon, however, I was receiving hate mail and obscene hate calls.

One man scribbled on a piece of paper:

AIDS my ass

I hope you die

You miserable bastard

Another wrote:

If you had anything to give

To the world then you would have

Corporate sponsors. Why don’t you

Pay for your own dreams like the rest

Of us – Nice try asshole!

The constant telephone calls weren’t much better.

“Get a life – asshole” Click

Nobody had the balls to actually talk to me or sign their name. This was not a scam. I honestly told people what I needed and what they could get in return. If they were so morally better than me, why couldn’t they talk to me like a human?

Picking up a phone, I hear a man screaming:

“You Brad Modesitt!”

“Yes?”

“You ASSHOLE!”

“Excuse me?”

“You think you have problems, Fuck you. As soon as you die, the world will smile!” Click, dial tone.

I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. I thought this was a unique trip and armchair travelers could get a firsthand account of the entire thing. According to the responses I was getting, the world thought I was a selfish ass with nothing better to do.

The Rocky Mountain News, the largest newspaper in Denver, called one day. Bill Husted was interviewing me. I was ecstatic; this could be some great coverage. Halfway through the ‘interview’ I could tell the slant the reporter was taking. He worded his questions so that I would have to answer defensively to get answers that would make his story better. He didn’t let me finish comments. He wasn’t getting information; he was assaulting me with his pen. He probably had the story already written. Afterwards, I hung up in despair.

I run to get the paper each morning and finally his story appeared a few days later on the last page – it ripped me apart. The devastation grew.

AROUND THE WORLD ON A DONATED DIME

Here’s the deal. Englewood’s Bradley Modesitt wants to go around the world and he’s wondering if you would pick up the tab.

Modesitt, 22, purchased the mailing lists with more than 3,000 names of people living in Englewood and Fort Collins (he’s a graduate of Cherry Creek High School and attended Colorado State University). And he sent out his plea by bulk mail, asking for money so he could travel.

“On May 22, 1993, I will canoe and bike around the world,” the missive begins. “This trip will span 5 continents, biking through five, canoeing through three, sailing through three oceans, covering about 23 countries, thousands of miles, and taking two to three years.”

To add piquancy to the letter, Modesitt says he became ill last summer and lost 25 pounds in two weeks. “My condition deterioated (sic) over the next three months and was thought to be AIDS, diabetes, bone cancer and an assortment of other diseases. All tests came back negative, but my life had been changed forever…I learned that I must love life for the present because tomorrow may never come. That is why I decided I should follow my dream today while I still could.”

Kinda gets you right here. Modesitt figures the trip will cost him $15,000, which he hopes to raise from donations. For a donation of $25 or more, Modesitt promises to send sponsors “periodic letters from me along the way.”

Modesitt says the response “hasn’t been too good.” Oh really? “Most people think I’m a fraud.” Well, there is nothing fraudulent about asking people for money to travel, although many receiving the letter thought it took a lot of chutzpah.

If you are interested in helping Modesitt, call him at….. I might also take this opportunity to say it has been my dream to love life by taking three months off work, flying the Concorde to Paris and spending the summer in a villa on the Riviera. I figure it will cost me about $75,000. If you back me, I’ll write you a novel.

I sunk to a new low. The whole idea of having individual sponsors completely failed, and with a major Denver newspaper having printed story about how crappy of a person I was, I wondered if trying to involve others was a bad idea. I knew in my heart that my intentions were honorable. To some people, I might have been perceived as scam artist, but I knew differently; I would be okay. I was going to make it with or without help from others, but support makes the difficult road that much easier.

I am no longer sick, and I never found out what disease I had. I no longer care. I only know that that disease is the best thing that ever happened to me – a gift of life. I am the complete controller of my life. Intake the good, take the bad, smile, and make the best of it. Life is crazy, that’s what makes it so interesting. If I were to get rid of all the bad valleys, then all the peaks would have no meaning.

I bought all the gear I needed, saved $3000 working in the mountains as a waiter and decided to leave as planned to see how far that could get me. A few companies thought I was doing something worthwhile so I now had a 3-person Kelty tent and some water bottles but since I decided not to use try for corporate sponsors, I didn’t try for their support.

Screw the people that thought I couldn’t do this.

I will do this.

I will succeed.

I knew the money wouldn’t last three years, but if I kept saving for all I needed, the trip might never materialize. I needed to go now.

I decided not to talk to newspapers anymore. Unbiased? Some writers you just need to be careful with, bias always plays a roll.

My parents had always taught me to make pros and cons lists before embarking on new ventures. With paper and pencil I took stock in myself.

Pros	Cons
Camping since I was 4 months old	Nothing more than a week and this is 3 years
Biked a lot when a kid	Mom and Dad were always just down the road
One overnight bike experience	One overnight bike experience
Canoed and camped since 6 months old	Stopped when 14
10 canoe trips with Kerala on Horsetooth	No river experience as adult
Strong swimmer (at 14 swam up to 1 mile a day	If I am swimming for other than pleasure, something has gone terribly wrong
Strong mountain climber	Wont be doing much climbing
Strong skier	No skiing
2 semesters of Spanish	A freshman in high school doesn’t listen much and a 6 th grader even less
Traveled to India and loved it	Limited international travel experience
Good map reading skills	Are my maps accurate?
$3000 in the bank	For the plan needed $15,000
The majority can mean that all the fools are on the same side	Public opinion about the trip is low
Street smarts	Different streets…different smarts?
Physically strong	Unknown illness 6 months ago
Fast runner to outrun bandits	Bullets fly rather fast
Never sailed before	Long sailing portions with no experience

And, after looking at all that I was even more confused than before. As Sir Edmund Hillary once said “if you are starting out on an adventure and are convinced that you will succeed – why even start?” Having the slight uncertainty helped and pushed me towards accomplishing my goal. I wanted to do something that others couldn’t or wouldn’t or shouldn’t. I wanted to succeed. My aunt asked me a little later, “What if you fail?” My reply was simply, “What if I don’t fail?” Both were valid questions, and sometimes the risk of failing far outweighs the risk of not trying. Personally, I couldn’t wait to get out there and find out.

The night before leaving I penned a note to my family in case something happened to me along the way. I would seal it and put it with some important papers left with my parents.

To my family,

I knew this trip had risks and that is why I wrote this letter. I wanted to say goodbye to all of you. I was determined to take this trip despite the risks. Some of the most adventurous and exciting things in life are often dangerous. You have taught me well. People get hurt all the time in many types of accidents. Personally, know that I would have been much happier getting my head chopped of by cannibals than enduring a passionless concrete world.

Mom and Dad, you two have been great. You make the perfect team. I probably made more than my share of mistakes in life but you always supported and loved me. After going to CSU my life changed considerably. I started reading, I cared about grades, and I started to focus on my future.

My childhood was wonderful. All the wonderful pets, hiking, camping, Boy Scouts, soccer, traveling, history, science and animals – you introduced me to all of what I hold dear to my life now. Thank you!

Kent, living with you was great, our trip to Florida and Key West was incredible. You have been a great brother to me. I have always admired who you are and your perspective on things. I was jealous of your brain and wit. I wanted to be just like you. Remember when I couldn’t stop sucking my thumb so I asked if you would hit me as hard as possible in the shoulder every time you caught me. I got a pounding. I also stopped sucking my thumb. Thanks for all the good times.

Lynne, I thought having a little sister was great. Walking down Mount Sherman with you hand in hand is one of my favorite moments as a kid. I have been so proud of you lately. You are a brilliantly talented person. If life seems a little shaky for us, remember, I believe in you and only want the best for you. Take care of you.

I love you all

Brad

For my burial I would like to be cremated. I see absolutely no need to be pumped full of preservatives. My body can help another organism live and flourish. I hope I died and wild animals have eaten my body. I probably wasn’t so could you scatter my ashes on your favorite mountaintop. Maybe you could sprinkle a little next to Grandpa John in Empire. I love it here like he did. Plant a tree for me and watch me grow tall.

If by any chance I am hooked up to machines with a bleak outlook for the future, unplug me. A physically handicapped person can achieve great things. A vegetable can accomplish nothing. I remember seeing Pablo after he was hit by the car and in a coma for months. He couldn’t do a thing. Absolutely helpless. Aware of nothing around him with no hope for recovery. That was the saddest sight. I don’t want you to go through that and I don’t want to go through that. Unplug me, please. I love you

I seal the letter in an envelope and leave it with some important copies of Id’s, bank accounts and credit cards and hope it never gets opened

Dad gives me a note just before we set off:

Dear Brad,

As you start out around the world, I’m apprehensive. But that is normal, and apprehension is a caution sign, not a stop sign. I’ve always believed in this kind of advice. I’m glad you do, too.

“Love life, be grateful for it always. And show your gratitude by not shying away from its challenges. Always try to live a little bit beyond your capacities – and you’ll find your capacities are greater than you ever dreamed.”

Love, Dad

The support that my family has given me exceeds anything imaginable. With them, I can do anything. At any point, my parents could have let their fears win the better of them and plead with me not to go or shorten my journey. They grasped what I dubbed my Journey Around the World with open arms. When things were tough with harassing calls and newspapers and naysayers, they were there – cheering me on. They will always be there – cheering madly and passionately.

After Kent’s call earlier Mom and Dad will be here in the morning, helping again. I finally drift off to a poor unrefreshing sleep.

 

3

Platte River

Life is like the river. You have a long calm period,

A short crazy rapid,

Another long flat spot where everything goes smoothly,

Another rapid pushing you in different directions

And so on.

One must learn to go along with the river

Take its waves and holes and eddies smoothly

Just like life.

Woman whitewater rafter guest on the Salmon River

– age 86

Lesson Learned: If you have to start explaining things aren’t going well.

May 23 rd Day 2

Morning comes and Mom and Dad bring three more large dry bags and two small dry bags. Hopefully, these will keep our things dry from now on. Dad also brought a book, Path of the Paddle, a how-to canoe book. He says it was meant to be funny, but we all know there is truth in our not knowing what we are getting into. Yesterday certainly wasn’t fun. We go back to our disheveled camp and pack everything away, say goodbye to Mom and Dad – again – then pack the canoe. Each bag is strapped in. Then we tie a rope over everything to form a net.

The river is much smoother now. The storm before we left yesterday must have brought the water up high. We even have time to look at the banks for wildlife.

Owls fly out of trees as we float by coming around a bend. We see a red fox stalking a great blue heron. The fox is ten feet from the heron and slowly moving closer. They both look at us and the fox continues slinking forwards. The heron has had enough and flaps its long, seemingly awkward wings against the ground and all over the place. The fox lunges the last few feet. The heron soars to a distant horizon. It’s not awkward flapping those wings while in the air as it travels out of sight

May 24 th Day3 –30 miles

Our first full day. Exhausting paddling. We portage around spillways and figure ways to line Kerala down others without taking all the gear out. At each spillway the river disappears. The water gets diverted towards crops, and towns, and lawns, and swimming pools, and car washes. All stuff that I used daily before. A hot shower would be nice though.

We cruise along making horrible time. The heavily laden canoe catches on the river bottom constantly, forcing us to get out and pull out of the bottom muck.

May 26 th

We seem to pull more than we paddle. We hoped to make it to Ogallala, Nebraska for Memorial Day weekend but have a hundred miles to go. A friend of Kent’s arrives to pick us up. We stash the canoe and bring clothes to wash, and a lot of gear to leave in Brian’s garage.

We party all weekend and try to forget the fact that our trip is not working out all that well. Brian brings us back to the canoe and tries to talk us into bringing it back to Ogallala. His offer is tempting, but we want to do it on our own.

May 31 st – 15 miles

Back on the river again. It feels good to be back home. Because we left so much weight in Brian’s garage, we haven’t had the need to get out and haul the canoe as much. I wonder how bad it would have been had we not lost a third of our gear the first day. The river appears to be higher as well. We read in the paper Saturday that there are severe floods expected the next two days in the Colorado area. We whooped it up when we read that. The river is still so slow that Kerala seems to stick in the water.

The Platte’s many braids make for many small, shallow rivers. The best thing about all these channels in the river is that we are able to camp right on the sandbars. The larger sandbars have great meadows with space to pitch a tent and to relax. They also have plenty of wood for an evening campfire. Another plus is we don’t have to worry about farmers and their cows, and the resulting cow pies.

We keep seeing farmers that have put their fences across the river. I thought rivers were public property. Another thing about the fences is that the farmers rarely put flags along the wires. Although I realize that few fools come down this way canoeing, I still wish that decapitation wasn’t on my mind so much. We constantly run right into the wires. The fact that 25% of the time, an electric shock pulsates through me does not warm me up to the farmers’ practices either.

Neither of us had a very good sleep due to ticks. Each of us has found several on us and now every itch becomes a tick that we have to check out. It is ridiculous. Finally, we both run into the tent to escape the critters. Fifteen minutes later it starts to rain. Early to sleep and early to rise.

June 1 st – 26 miles

The day starts out great with plenty of water maybe from last nights rain. The first fifteen miles goes smoothly with very little pulling, the river becomes slow again at a spillway with at least 80% of the water being diverted away.

The spillways are created so that the irrigation canal can have a constant flow of water. Any remaining water spills over to continue the river. We wonder if a farmer has opened all the gates all the way because we see no need to lose so much of the river in one spot. All the water that is flowing through to continue the river is coming through cracks in the boarded wall

With the water being so shallow all the time, we have tried several different propulsion techniques. First, I try pulling the canoe by tying it around my waist, and then run through the water. Extremely tiring. Pulling a canoe in water with a sandy bottom is probably one of the best running workouts a person can get, but I am certainly not out here trying to get the best workout possible. These difficulties makes this method last about a half-mile.

Next, I try using a branch to push against the sand, progging. The branch slides into the sand and mud about six to twelve inches and then holds it, making things rather difficult. The latest method is to have one person canoeing and the other walking or running alongside. This way the canoe doesn’t get stuck too often. The canoe will travel in two-inch deep water compared to about four inches necessary with both of us in it. This will be how we canoe across Nebraska. Hmmm.

Rounding around a bend a great blue heron takes off, which is not an unusual sight. Next to her are the immature herons. They just stand there until we come about ten yards from them. Suddenly, they fly up into the air, hit the water, back up, hit the water then up again. They bounced up and down the river corridor until they are out of sight.

The mother flew off and wasn’t seen from again. Duck mothers have more of what we call a motherly instinct or at least the type of mothers’ I want. For about 150 yards, they zigzag across the river pretending to have a broken wing. Most predators see this behavior and go after the tasty mother. Once the predator gets too close to her, she can fly further away and continue the broken wing scheme. This may be one reason why duck populations are doing better than the great blue heron populations.

We see a big snapping turtle and are able to catch him. By picking up the tail I can avoid the big snapping jaws and the inch long claws. He weighs probably ten pounds and is eighteen inches long. Cool!

Later, I see a coyote stalking two fawns. The coyote is only fifteen feet away when I walk up from behind some bushes and startle everybody. The fawns run to the right; the coyote left. The coyote has to run across 75 yards of open space before he can get to cover. He zigzags, stops, looks back at me and then continues. He does this four times before he makes it across.

Before we reach Sedgwick, CO, we make camp for the night.

June 2 nd – 25 miles

We walk into Sedgwick, Colorado for some water. On the way, we read a memorial plaque for the Sedgwick water drainage system. It speaks of the great things the spillways, irrigation canals, and flood control have done. Bullshit! Nowhere does it say anything about helping wildlife and much less canoeists. I can understand the canoeist thing, but what about the environment? This is no longer a river. It is more of a thin ribbon of wet sand connecting small lakes. Why must every component of nature be converted to only helping humans?

The man filling our water said that the spillway that took most of our water was being used to refill a drained reservoir. That just redirects a previous question. Why must they take all the water at once to refill the reservoir? Can’t they just fill it more slowly? What happens to the needs of the people downstream? Does anybody care anyway?

Well, it was a hard day. I ran about eight miles with the fifty-pound pack, solo canoed eight miles and canoed with Kent nine miles. My feet are paying the price. I can barely curl the toes of my right foot without intense pain.

June 3 rd – 25 miles

It rains all night and all morning with tremendous thunder. I have counted the difference between the light and the thunder to calculate some to be 1/8 mile away; some, I have no time to count. When it hits, the ground shakes a little, and the tent lights up like were using floodlights for flashlights. Sometimes it’s like we have a disco strobe light with us. Rainfall fills the river valley quickly as it comes off the fields and nearby drainages, making us want to use this rain for the good canoeing. Unfortunately, Kent left his coat with our stuff in Ogallala. Anyway, this hard cold rain can make canoeing miserable. Only a fool would try to canoe now, we have plenty of time.

We find Kent’s rainshell deep in a dry bag and are off. It’s 49ºF, and the water is even colder. We are wearing every piece of clothing we brought except one wet t-shirt: Long sleeve T-shirt, flannel, fleece coat, raincoat, fleece pants, rain pants, and bare feet. Yes, only a fool would canoe now. My feet are looking like a horrid rainbow with lavender toenails, some toes white and other toes red. My foot is a red-purple, my ankles are purple almost black, and my shins are purple. The weather is miserable. We paddle ten miles then decide to get coffee at an upcoming bridge and hopefully café six miles down river.

The coffee is great as I wrap my frozen hands around the white ceramic mug absorbing any heat possible. We each have six cups of coffee with massive amounts of sugar. For a treat we each order a side of fries and down a whole bottle of ketchup.

While at the Café we decide we might make it to Ogallala twenty miles away. Our reality is different. We travel a hard ten miles in 5-1/2 hours. That speed is painful. Tensions are getting worse because of these conditions. I say worse just because we are angry at the river. So far, I am really happy with the way Kent and I have handled it all. It’s strange being around someone for 24 hours a day with nobody else to share the physical and mental frustrations. The only other people we see are in cars on the bridges. Kent often can see my mood going down and comes up with some remark bringing laughter instead of tears.

Kent is freezing all night because his sleeping bag became wet earlier. I want to switch bags so that he can get some sleep too but can’t get the words out. My mind can’t rationalize leaving a warm dry sleeping bag for a cold wet one; the words never come out. Please let me be more compassionate tomorrow night.

June 4 th – 18 miles

Another freezing day but, no rain. We paddle ten miles to Ogallala. Before we set out on this adventure, the plan was to meet Mom and Dad in Omaha. They would fly in, rent a car, and do some canoeing with us. Reality is sometimes so different from our plans. The slog through the first part of Nebraska took twice as long as we planned. Mom and dad drive for a couple hours from Denver and meet us here in Ogallala. It’s a little depressing that it has taken us two weeks to get here and them only three hours.

We meet Mom and Dad at McDonalds. After a big tasty meal there, we pick our stuff up at Brian and Cindy’s, then return to canoeing. Luckily, the afternoon is much warmer than this morning.

To canoe, we unload our stuff into the car and let Dad sit on a cooler in the middle. Daphne, our golden retriever dog, would swim behind. At least, that was the plan. Daphne whimpers and whines until we let her in the canoe. Maybe she doesn’t want to run in the soft sand, I certainly can’t blame her. Mom drives to the next bridge a few miles away.

Having new passengers is strange. Dad is a hilarious canoeist. He is a birder, and he is liable to see lots of interesting birds here. He sees a bird and stops paddling or tells us to stop. We stop and hit a sandbar each time. The channel is only a few feet wide where it is deep enough to paddle, so the travel is a bit haphazard with him. Daphne is worse. She doesn’t want to be in the tippy canoe either. She leans over the left side, pulling us in. That is the first time we swamped since our first day. We laugh. Without any gear it is not a big deal.

We have a luxurious dinner: Chicken cashew, rice, egg rolls, salad and pistachio pie for dessert. All favorites of mine from Mom’s home cooking. It’s the small pleasures in life that bring the most satisfaction. We earned this meal.

June 5 th – 25 miles

The next morning we start canoeing with mom and dad drives around. The canoeing is really good with the water is deep and strong. Unfortunately, I am feeling pretty sick and am throwing up every ten minutes. The Insane Canoeists Handbook had warned about a well-balanced meal. I should have known better. Kent jokingly tells me to stop messing up our stroke when I puke. I end up being able to puke over one edge and paddle the other. Not too bad! I don’t feel too sick, just nauseous. Thankfully, this doesn’t last too long.

The Insane Canoeists Handbook is the fictional book that I plan to write when I return from my adventures on How-not-to Canoe. Who could ever take canoeing advice from a guy who can’t find water deep enough to canoe in. See the compilation in the appendix to see why normal canoeists could never take advice from the two of us.

Dad is able to clue us in on many of the birds in the area. Of the 900 species of birds seen in North America, he has seen nearly 700 of them. We see about 35 different species with him in a couple hours. Cool to have such an expert on what we are seeing daily and hopefully, now we have a stepping-stone to learn these birds.

Mom and Dad continue to alternate, one driving their car and the other canoeing with us. While canoeing with Mom, we come upon a new type of spillway. This spillway has six corrugated metal tubes for the water runoff. Each tube is about 45 inches in diameter, a little wider than our canoe. The water is flowing through well and has no drop off at the bottom. We decide to give it a go and slide through the tunnel gaining speed. Twenty feet, thirty, forty, and splashing through to the other side. The perfect spillway. It is just like the log ride at an amusement park.

Mom and Dad leave finish their time with us and now it’s back to just Kent and me.

June 6 th

A male red wing blackbird chases a great horned owl across the river. The bird pecks against the back of the owl as they fly. Once the owl is out of the blackbird’s nest area it is left alone. It is neat to see such aggressive behavior from the tiny blackbird.

We see a dead beaver up on a bank. It is about 24 inches long with an eight-inch tail and weighs about 35–40 pounds. It is still bleeding from the head and rigor mortis has not set in. Obviously, a human killed the beaver only a few hours before. We are perplexed as to why a person would want to kill and leave the prey. After turning the beaver over the reason is clear. The teeth are missing. Some macho fool, who doesn’t value life, nature, the universe, or must have wanted the teeth dangling from the rearview mirror of his car.

We go into North Platte to get some provisions. Things go well, but we want to get back to the river. In five miles, the North and South Platte rivers will meet to make the Platte River. We have anticipated this moment for over a week. The North Platte, a much larger river, should give us some good deep canoeing for at least 100 miles. It may last even longer. The excitement is palpable in us both. We will be like real canoeists for a while, actually floating and paddling. I can’t wait to float. Usually rivers get larger as they go, but so many farmers and cities use the water that some rivers actually get smaller.

Check this out:

Documentary-maker Dan Rees writes about his short film exploring the plight of an indigenous tribe near the dwindling Colorado River:

The mighty Colorado River, which carved out the Grand Canyon, is used so heavily that it no longer reaches the sea. The river ends just inside the Mexican border, 60 km from the ocean.

As a consequence the huge wetlands at the river’s delta have all but vanished. They once covered 800,000 hectares. Now just 7% of that area remains and in its place is a vast expanse of barren mudflats.

This loss has been catastrophic for the indigenous Cucupa people who have lived there for centuries, making their living by fishing in the freshwater lakes. As the lakes disappeared the Cucupa moved away in search of alternative employment. Fifty years ago they numbered more than 3,000. Now the fewer than 200 who remain are forced to tow their boats two hours to fish in the sea.

Delta decline

The rapid decline of the delta began in the 1950s, caused by mass extraction of the Colorado’s water, principally by the USA, in an effort to "reclaim" the deserts of the American south-west for human habitation and agriculture. 90% of the river’s water is extracted before it even reaches the Mexican border.

According to the United States Bureau of Reclamation, which is responsible for building and maintaining the system of huge dams on the Colorado, 25% of US food is grown on land that the Colorado River irrigates. Millions of people in desert cities like Phoenix, Las Vegas and Los Angeles also rely on the river’s water for their daily needs.

Water conservation

Pressure is mounting, however, for more water to be left in the river to revitalize the delta and rescue the way of life of the Cucupa people. Campaigners believe that as little as 1% of the river’s natural flow left in its bed might be enough to put the delta on life support. They also argue that this saving would be easy to achieve with a combination of simple water conservation measures and a switch to less water-intensive forms of agriculture.

The problem is that the political will required for making these changes appears to be lacking. At present the USA sends 10% of the Colorado’s flow to Mexico and under a 1944 treaty they don’t have to send any more. The powerful US agricultural lobby is loath to change this. Furthermore, because Mexico has taken more than its allotted share from the Rio Grande, a river covered by the same treaty, the Mexican government is in a weak bargaining position.

Political wrangling, of course, means little to the Cucupa, whose way of life has been destroyed by processes beyond their control. It would take very little effort by people in the US or Mexico to make the changes necessary to help the Cucupa. But until those changes are made the people of the delta will continue to suffer.

We make it to the convergence of the South and North Platte Rivers and Kent, comments that it is a bit scary to be on such a large river. It is about four times wider than the South Platte. This is better than I had dreamed. We will make great time from here on out.

Not more than a half-mile away is a dam. We pull up to the right side so that we can figure a way to portage around the dam. We stand at the dam and see Saudi Arabia. Sand is everywhere. Where is the river? Water is leaking through the control gates to form a three-foot wide, three-inch deep creek. The Nebraska City and Power Company is taking 99.9% of our water. We bitched about 50% and 80%. What can we do? The depression is overwhelming. All of our hopeful anticipation for this great river has vanished. The river is gone. How does the wildlife survive? What about the canals coming off further downstream? What about us? After all the pulling, dragging, and running we deserve a real river. We aren’t sure how to continue.

We make camp across the lake to camp on the other side of the ‘river’. Food doesn’t even sound good. I let Kent eat all the Ravioli to be nice. If food isn’t going to make me happy I might as well let Kent be happy (Kent used to hide cans of ravioli in his pillowcase when we were children so that nobody else could eat it). I brought Kent into this adventure and so far things have been so difficult and trying. Sometimes I wonder if he will wake up and say ‘Brad, sorry but this isn’t what I expected. I’m catching a bus back home.’ He never does though. We are in this together. Tomorrow, we will walk into town to see if there are any different options for this pitiful river.

June 7 th – 5 miles

We wake up early and put on what we call our city duds. Basically, this means our cleanest and driest clothing. Before going into North Platte, Nebraska we cross the dam and see some Central Nebraska Power and Irrigation Department workers and we tell one of the guys our problem. He says, “Yeah that’s a problem,” but then proceeds to try to think out a solution. He says that we can go down the Tri-County canal past Lexington, about 60 miles and then return to the Platte. This is where all the water from the river is being diverted. None of the water was being taken out, it’s being used for hydroelectric power. There will be ten dams that we would have to portage. We figure that is better than portaging 50 straight miles or more. It was even legal to go down the canal, not that we would have cared too much. Who would arrest us?

I ask him how the CNPID could take all the water out. Apparently, once irrigation season starts, one month away, they let most the water continue down the Platte. That way all the farmers can take the water. It does not surprise me that water rights lawyers make such high salaries. Who fights for the rivers and animals? The Lorax speaks for the trees. Who speaks for everyone else? Does anyone else even care?

We leave our new friend with high hopes again. The irrigation canal will not be too beautiful, but it will be quick and certainly better than a huge portage.

Kent needs a new Frisbee, which serves as his bowl/plate. We decide to fill our water containers and get a bottle of Jim Beam. The walk takes much longer than expected. To get there we have to run across an airport runway strip, cross two marshes, and walk five miles into town. We haven’t been wearing shoes because they get stuck in the mud or lots of sand in the straps, which leads to our feet have growing blisters from wearing shoes in town, so we eat at KFC for an all-you-can-eat buffet. The food, by the time I get my third plate, is pretty bad. I am determined to get my moneys’ worth, and eat several more helpings.

On the way back, we are told to leave the airfield or security would be called. Not wanting to make a three mile detour, we try our explaining/bullshitting routine to no avail. We turn around defeated, loop 50 yards around the side, then after looking left, right, and up into the sky, we sprint across two runways. Nobody follows. We make it. I wonder what the charge would be for that, trespassing? Or some FAA thing? Glad not to find out, though.

It is 4:00pm by the time we pack camp and start canoeing. Wanting to stop by 6:00 p.m. so that we can write and we only cover five miles. The canal has little current to help us along so physically water makes the miles seem more like lake miles, not that the Platte is a crazily moving river. The concrete walls make the time monotonous and mentally difficult.

We watch an orange sunset flow into a stunning red atop a ridge and listen to coyotes howling to each other as we write in our journals. Some young coyotes try to howl but can’t quite master the elegant style of their parents. We laugh at their squeaks and squeals. It’s soothing music to fall asleep to.

June 8 th – 25 miles

The going is extremely slow on the canal, so to help us along we build a sail out of the tent rain fly. While the wind is at our backs this doubles our speed. But, it is very tiring on the arms holding the sail with outstretched arms. Just another workout in the Insane Canoeists Handbook.

We do a few small portages of twenty yards and one half mile portage that was down two hills. Carrying the 85 pound empty canoe upside-down while balancing it on my shoulders, I make the long portage. The wind is horrendous and I can barely hold the canoe steady. Then a big gust of wind comes up, picks the canoe off my shoulders, lifts it ten feet above me and tosses it down twenty feet away. Kerala is fine. I am frustrated. I drag her though the windy spots.

We come across a canal leading back to the Platte. We want our wildlife back. The canal is boring which makes the canoeing seem even slower. I’d rather pull the canoe and see the amazing wildlife instead of the concrete walls of the canal.

We camp back on the Platte and feel more at home.

June 9 th – 17 miles

A slow day! We hit two spillways today that take most our water. We try the solo canoe technique which does not work. We try dragging the canoe. Not enough water. The river is incredibly low and makes pulling the canoe even harder. We end up having one person carrying a 50-pound pack while the other runs through the water with a rope around his waist. This is extremely tiring work, and my ankles take it the hardest. The muscles are not used to such work. The soft sand moves around and forces me to constantly keep my ankles tight.

The person carrying the pack has a hard time too. The pack does not have a hip belt to help carry the weight. The 50 pounds bear down on our shoulders as we jog. They say running on pavement is bad for the joints. No worries about that. We get to run in mud and sand! The ground beneath us is constantly sinking. We sink in anywhere from one half inch to four inches each step with an average of about two inches. Every 50 yards or so, we hit quicksand that sinks us four inches to twenty inches with an average of six inches. The sand fills in around our feet so that we stick in the ground. Getting out is easy; I fall down and roll out.

Running on the sand has some advantages. The animal tracks tell us what has happened over the last few days. The snapping turtle has two sets of clawed foot marks about eight inches apart with a squiggly line down the middle from its tail. Some of these tracks lead up to a partially buried hole where the female has laid her eggs. Deer tracks crisscross back and forth everywhere. A rare track, the fox, looks like a small dog. One fox track leads to a Great Blue Heron track. There is then a circle of both tracks, four feet in diameter going all around. Tracks are everywhere, I cannot tell if he captured the Heron or not. I think he did. Bird tracks are abundant, but I can’t distinguish species. The raccoon leaves proof of its nocturnal existence. The beaver has a clawed forefoot and large webbed back feet. The most distinguishing trait of his track is that often a track of scraped ground follows to the side, which depends upon the size of branch the beaver has just chopped down.

We also see the non-wildlife tracks: the cow and the human. The cow has a large, rather blank track. Human tracks are fairly rare, possibly that of a fellow canoeist. Yeah right! What canoeist would be out here? Must be a farmer.

The river is in what we call post spillway blues. I guess that can go for us too. After a spillway the river usually loses a good deal of water. The next ten miles are ‘post spillway blues.’ The river must gain some water before recapturing its “strength.” I use the term strength loosely. One of us pulls the 400-pound canoe like a sled. The other carries the 50 pound pack along the shore. We run for hours like this. The second 10-mile stretch is done with solo canoeing and all the gear in Kerala. The second person can run unhindered on the shore. The next ten miles can be canoed by both of us. And, finally, just prior to a spillway, for about a mile, the river deepens. Deep enough for a full paddle stroke. We then slowly pull up to the spillway to see how bad the next thirty miles will be. The miles we cover vary depending upon the amount of water taken from the river. This one doesn’t look too bad.

June 10 th – 23 miles

I see something cover up as I canoe by. I dig two inches, then four, then six. This is not a clam. It will probably bite me, so I get a stick to dig it out. Digging through the sand I notice this thing is really big. I flip a sixteen inch turtle out of the sand and instantly scurries a few feet away and slips back into the sand. He takes two seconds to disappear.

While I am solo canoeing and Kent is running, I come to a tree branch crossing the river a couple of feet above the water. I need to exit the canoe to get under the branch. Stepping out, I see a three-foot long, 2-inch diameter spotted fish. It has a needle nose, which makes it look really mean like a barracuda. Do they have barracudas in Nebraska? Hence, I stay in the canoe and smash into the tree. Luckily, Kent is running downstream and misses the episode.

We find five clams in the sand but do not know how to cook them. We boil them first and then fry them until we know they are well cooked. A bit hard, but not too bad. Once, I ate a raw oyster that slid up and down my throat several times before I finally swallowed it. The experience was horrible. That was the last time I had oysters or clams, over ten years ago. Today, I caught these myself. That is why these were to be tasty. I know after traveling to India that much of eating something new is in the mind. After brains, lung and things I never could identify, I can eat most meals presented to me.

I cut the clams; the first one gushes out something reddish. Intestines? Food? I don’t cut the rest. The more I think of it, I must have had a seriously powerful positive mindset. The first bite something gushes out of the middle. It is mushy and I quickly swallow. The outer part is rubbery and hard to swallow. I chew and chew but get nowhere. I swallow, not too good. If we find any more clams, they will be safe from our cooking pot

All morning I sing High Hopes written and sung by Frank Sinatra.

High Hopes Next time you’re found, with your chin on the ground There’s a lot to be learned, so look around Just what makes that little old ant Think he’ll move that rubber tree plant Anyone knows an ant, can’t Move a rubber tree plant But he’s got high hopes, he’s got high hopes He’s got high apple pie, in the sky hopes So any time your gettin’ low ‘stead of lettin’ go Just remember that ant Oops there goes another rubber tree plant When troubles call, and your back’s to the wall There a lot to be learned, that wall could fall Once there was a silly old ram Thought he’d punch a hole in a dam No one could make that ram, scram He kept buttin’ that dam ‘Cause he had high hopes, he had high hopes He had high apple pie, in the sky hopes So any time your feelin’ bad ‘stead of feelin’ sad Just remember that ram Oops there goes a billion kilowatt dam All problems just a toy balloon They’ll be bursted soon They’re just bound to go pop Oops there goes another problem kerplop

I have always been a horrible singer, and at least nobody can hear me out here. Yep, I am still a horrible singer.

The boat is cracking in two spots. One crack is serious. It has not gone through to the inside but seems close. We need to be much more careful when portaging. I have given up hope of selling Kerala, which I guess is not too bad. The $600 from the sale would have been nice, but now she is more than a canoe. She is an extension of me. My home. My transportation. My friend. How could I sell her?

We meet some kids spearing carp. Kent asks if they were eating them. “Nope!” “Just spearing them?” “Yep!” We laugh, I guess there is not a whole lot to do in Overton, Nebraska. Mom used to dress us up in old sneakers and go for hikes down the creek beds for miles. I loved walking down a river and seeing all the wildlife and tracks, making plaster of paris imprints of nature at its best. We never knew what would be around the next bend. We would walk for miles. Now, Kent and I are doing the same thing, but for 2400 miles. Thanks, Mom.

June 11 th

A day in the life of two foolish canoeists.

A Day in the Life – adapted from Lennon and McCartney of the Beatles

Woke up

Got out of bed

Shook the sand out of my head

Found my way outside and had a cup (coffee)

Looking up I noticed I was late (our only clock – the sun)

Grabbed my paddle and hat

Made the bridge in hours flat.

Found my way up the bank

Found out I stank

Somebody waved and I went into a dream. (People always wave in small towns)

7:30 am Wake up 12:15 Bad bowels

7:30 to 8:30 Write Walk 6 times

8:30 Coffee and eggs 12:20 Kearney Canal

9:09 Start paddling 12:25 Photo break (Say Water)

9:40 Barbwire fence 12:38 Portage over dam

9:54 Barbwire fence 1:07 Snapping Turtle

10:05 Deer scatters off 1:11 Kent steps on bull snake

10:13 Blue Heron flies off 1:20 Beaver Hut

Walk 8 times 1:22 Great Blue Heron

37 strokes/min while paddling 1:24 Tick removal

10:37 Deer 1:51 Beaver Hut

10:44 Red Fox Hunters duck blinds every 50-100 yards

100 cliff swallows 2:02 Pelicans hundreds of them

10:48 Elm creek bridge 2:20 Next Bridge (another 6 miles)

(4-5 miles today) 4 mi./Hr.

Walk 30 more times 2:40 Lunch – Pork & Beans, 2 potatoes,

Following good 4-foot channel Cup of soup 55¢ meal.

Orange body black 3:24 continue canoeing

winged-bird (oriole) Chase two herons and a

More Herons Turtle while leaving

Walk another 12 times

11:00 Walk into town for water 4:10 Hawk harassed by 2 Red winged

11:02 Fall in river Blackbirds

11:03 Newt lizard

11:38 Back at Canoe 6:30 Stop for camp

At camp we unpack the canoe, set up the tent and start cooking dinner. As the sun sets we write in our journals. As the last light of the day fades away, we peacefully fall asleep. I have dreams of deep water. Deeper than anything, we can paddle easily. We don’t have to run in the sand anymore. Relaxing dreams.

June 12 th

This morning a huge storm hits at 6:00am. Lightning flashes are going every few seconds. Each strike has several minor flashes following it. The thunderous claps and cracking noises boom all around us. We are directly in the middle of the storm. The wind is blowing the tent down onto our chests. We must push it off to breathe. The wind howls like a freight train. What’s going on out there? The rain pelts down on us, splattering down through the tent fly. We had not put in the stakes holding the fly away from the mesh tent. In fact, we considered taking off the fly last night. The temperature was 84º at 9:00pm and we saw no sign of a cloud anywhere. The only reason why we did not remove the fly is because we were too tired.

The storm lasts about two hours dumping about 2-1/2” of water into our canoe, not flash flood material, but it is still fairly large. At 8:45am we break camp and try to use some of the rain to our advantage. It is really hard to tell, but I think the river rose at least an inch during the storm. We will take any help we can get. Lately, we have been dreaming for storms and floods of water. We could ride the cresting wave to St. Louis.

The map shows a railroad bridge crossing the river. Crossing underneath we don’t see any railroad tracks and climb up to investigate. The tracks have been replaced by an asphalt trail. I assume this is a Rails to Trails project. RTT converts old railroad trails into biking and hiking trails. This is the first conversion I have seen. It had always sounded like a good idea, but it looks even better. They built benches overlooking the Platte. Boards forming a nice wooden path have replaced the tracks over the bridge. On shore, the paths are asphalt. The path bends slightly left into a dense bunch of tall cottonwoods and disappears.

We see our fourth dead beaver. This one has no head. I really want to find out why people are killing these beavers. Soon thereafter, Kent finds a beaver skull which brings up some philosophical questions. The beaver teeth are indeed very odd, colorful and interesting and would look nice on a necklace. The beaver was already dead, so it should not matter if we use the teeth on a necklace, but what if someone else sees our necklace and decides they want one, too? This person may then go out and kill a beaver. I would then have influenced the killing of the beaver. Should we let the beaver wither away out here or keep the memento for ourselves? We plan to think about it and bring the skull with us to debate the issue a little further.

We eat dinner at somebody’s picnic table overlooking the peaceful river. It is a luxury to have a seat and table to eat from. We have the old standard: two ramen packets, three large potatoes, and a can of pork and beans. These meals are becoming even more bland since we have the same crappy food for each meal. Food seems to always be short, because of the massive amounts of physical exercise that we have been doing. Today, we split a raw potato for a snack which left a bit to be desired. We are going to try dipping it in sugar next. We are constantly hungry.

I solo canoe for five miles listening to music. Once in the zone, I really push myself because we don’t want to waste money on batteries. We rarely use the Walkman tape player, but when we do, the sounds stir the bones in my soul. The water is low but I get going pretty well. Kent has to run too fast for his liking. We double up again, pushing Kerala fast through the water. It’s fun to actually be canoeing.

We are excited to hit our mileage goal of 30 miles. Originally, I had planned on 60 miles a day and now our renewed goal has been half that. Still, it’s difficult to make.

With the physical exertion my left elbow seems to be hurt. It feels like a dull pain every time I paddle. I counted for a half-hour how many strokes we were doing and figure that we are paddling 22,000 strokes today. Not surprisingly, it gets pretty sore. There is not a whole lot that I can do except deal with it.

The river follows a pattern that directly coincides with the irrigation canals and spillways. Each day follows this same pattern. Early on, we hit 10 spillways a day and now, we are down to one or two big spillways each day. This is what it is like now.

Dam with spillway

Level 1 – Low or very shallow water

Stage 1 – Full portage conditions over the spillway 40 yards

Stage 2 – 1 person pulls canoe, other runs. 10 miles

Stage 3 – Solo canoe other runs. 10 miles

Level 2 – Enough water for 2 people in canoe

Stage 1 – Walking a little less than canoeing. 2 miles

Stage 2 – Generally not much walking, but horizontal stroke. 3 miles

Stage 3 – Enough water for a ¾ stroke. 5 miles

Level 3 – Plenty of water

Stage 1 – Full paddle stroke. 1 mile

Stage 2 – Full paddle stroke w/current. 200 yards

I reread about the Insane Canoeists Handbook about the lack of actual canoeing and fall asleep.

June 13 th – 25 miles

We continue to get rude treatment from people while we are in towns buying food and getting water. As we walk by, people lock their car doors as we stroll down the sidewalk. Security guards in supermarkets follow us. I understand the profiling, but they don’t need to be rude. Just because I smell doesn’t mean I’m a thief. People jump off sidewalks when they see us coming. The service from restaurants or mail centers, which is our only interaction with the outside world, is often rude. They assume we are homeless transients invading in their town. I hope that this is because people do not see our mode of transport. If we were walking or biking, people could understand why we look and smell the way we do. We canoeists crawl out from under bridges with the additional smell of the river on us. It sure isn’t a plus on our side. I suppose it has been two weeks since our last real shower.

In the morning, I take the beginning run. The banks are full of vegetation so I jump a fence into a farmers’ field, who usually have some kind of road at the edge of their property. I run along the hard dirt and feel good, strong. The ground is not moving beneath me and the path is straight. Compared to running in sand and water this is a walk in the park. I scare several deer into the river as I run. I see Kent again after a mile or so who has been solo canoeing. He asks if I want to switch. “No,” I feel really good. We continue for the next few miles neck and neck racing each other. The river makes a sharp 90 ° right turn. The road turns too. No problem. The road becomes less of a road and then there is no longer a dirt track to follow, only matted down weeds. The river and road keep getting further apart. I rationalize that the road will meet up with the river because the river will continue its earlier course. I am right, but for us to reunite it takes five miles.

Running through the fields, the colors are incredible: different shades of red, yellow, and green patches. With the wind blowing against the grains, weeds and surrounding forest in different directions, the countryside makes flowing waves of color. I feel like I am running through a scene on a Nebraskan Sound of Music. I never would have guessed Nebraska could be this beautiful?

I run across a new animal for us in the fields too. It looks like a turkey, but I am confused by its’ actions. It advances towards me. I am fifteen feet away before I realize what it is. Pepe’ Le Pue – A skunk! Aahhhggghhh! I stop dead in my tracks. It has its tail pointed in the air and is waddling backwards locked and cocked towards me. Not wanting my stench to get even worse, I give the skunk the right of way and circle around it.

The dirt track leads to Interstate 80, which I follow running barefoot on the shoulder, A mile later, I–80 meets Highway 34 which should cut directly across the Platte channels. I turn right and go a few hundred yards to the Platte channel I expected Kent to be. From atop the bridge I yell, “Kent! Kent!” No answer. He must have beaten me here. I walk into the gas service station to ask if there is another channel of the Platte further up the road. The large man with a slow Nebraskan drawl says, “Well, there’s two up that away by Timmy’s (a restaurant), and there’s another about two miles up the road. He wouldn’t be on that one though cause there ain’t enough water to be canoein’ on it.” I think to myself that most of this river is not somewhere people would be canoeing. Maybe this guy has read the Insane Canoeist Handbook, because he thinks it is at least in the realm of possibility to canoe here.

I set off for the channel two miles away, without enough water in it. I know the other two could not be the ones, because we split up with them fifteen miles before. I now jog along Highway 34, barefoot in shorts and a fleece jacket. A lady and her daughter stop up ahead in their sleek mint green Mercedes. The window rolls down, so I peek in.

“Are you with the canoeist?” the mother asks form the driver seat

“Yeah! Where is he?” I retort. The two look really puzzled. They haven’t read the Insane Canoeist’s Handbook. I start explaining.

“The water is often too low for both of us to canoe, so one of us has to run. Today is my turn. While running today, the road split from the river after about five miles and then I ran through the woods for five miles and I followed I-80 for a mile and now, well here I am.” This seems to confuse them even more.

“Are you canoeing?” she asks again.

“Well, yes we are canoeing.” I am confused now because I thought we had already established this.

“Then why are you running?” Once again it is me who is confused. I repeat my previous statement.

“Who goes canoeing and runs half the time?”

“Only fools from Colorado.”

“I saw your friend…”

“Kent, he’s my brother.”

“Well, I started telling my daughter how I lost my wallet and keys canoeing once with my husband and had to run for help.”

“You’ve canoed the Platte?” I almost scream in astonishment.

“No, no we were on the Niabrara River, there’s more water there.”

“Ah yes, Where do you see the canoeist?”

“Back that way a mile towards the gas station.”

“Great! Thanks.”

“Do you need a ride somewhere?”

“No, no I just lost my brother.” They are starting to look confused again.

“Would you like a ride?” We are comrades now having lost a wallet and a brother.

“Thanks, But you telling me where he is has made my day and really saved me.”

They look confused again as I call myself a canoeist, yet I only have relayed running today for twelve miles. They are really looking confused as I wave and run back from where I had come. Actually, more like ‘dazzled’ as I leave. I wish I meant dazzled as in awe, it was more like meeting a leprechaun for the first time. I imagine their first words are, “What an insane canoeist, running along the road.” I never did tell them where we started or where we were going, these details may have cleared up a few of my actions or may have made them wonder more. Does it sound crazier to be doing this for only a day or for the last three weeks? Either way I came off as a complete nut. I’m laughing hysterically by the time I reach Kent.

I meet Kent back at the bridge and tell him my story as I take four embedded ticks off of me. I had a total of 13 ticks today. Most I remove before they hitch on.

We see some people camping by the river, the first we have seen since starting. Closer, hellos are exchanged. They don’t seem to be too friendly, so we move along. Later we see a 3-wheeler cruising around in the river. ATV’s are probably the Platte’s most common recreation other than fishing. I walk twenty yards closer to say hello. I wave. No reply.

“That 3-wheeler looks a whole lot easier than pulling a canoe,” I say to warm them up a little.

“Yep,” someone replies. The crowd of six is still mostly turned away from me. Still trying, I ask “Are you setting up camp?”

“Nope, we live here.” They were capable of communication at least.

“It sure is beautiful out here,” I exclaim.

No reply. I give up hope and move along.

The fields have a whole lot of Cannabis growing, we notice eating lunch on the bank Weed. Jamaican Red. Whaky TabakySkunk Weed, Ganja. I wonder if it was planted or wild. More importantly, would I be shot for being here? Maybe that is why those people along the river are so weary of people. I would hate the feeling that at any time I could be found out and put in jail. That would certainly make me weary of strangers., friends and life.

Around 9:00 p.m., the clouds exchange energy in the form of huge lightning bolts. I do not like the feeling of standing in water being in a wide-open area. A second thing to avoid in a lightning storm is not be the tallest item around. Being an inch taller than Kent makes me the most likely lightning rod. Kent’s theory is that there is a better chance of winning the lottery than getting hit by lightning. True Statement. I do not play the lottery and do not intend on getting hit by lightning. If I don’t play then I can’t win. I don’t want to play with the lightning so we make camp.

June 14 th – 31 miles

We have a late start at about 10:30. I write for 2-1/2 hours and drink coffee. A relaxing morning for once. Kent pens a letter home to mom.

Dear Mom,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

I wish I could be there to help you celebrate but this note will have to do. We’re about five miles from Silver Creek, Nebraska, and it’s Monday 6/14. Our feet are sore but spirits high with the resurgence of the Platte (we still walk on many sandbars but they are becoming less of a problem. Omaha and the Missouri are three days away.

I wanted to thank you guys for showing up last week in Ogallala. It was quite a lot of fun, and just the medicine we needed to deal with the Platte you never saw. I’m glad the canoeing was good while you were here because I don’t think walking in the sand for 12 hours a day would have been enjoyable. I wrote in my journal about how relationships change and how the kid – parent relationship has become better and better over the past few years in our family (not that it was bad before). I think this last outing on the river is a prime example of how fun it can be when we’re all together.

One thing I’ve learned from this trip is that I want to spend more time with you and Dad in the near future. Sometimes I get so caught up in my school and work that I forget about some very important aspects of my life. Maybe we could try golfing and I promise not to lose my temper.

I also wrote in my journal how great it was that you’re doing so much you enjoy (I hope it’s true). It’s wonderful to hear you talk about the goings on at Urban Peak, this club or that meeting. Urban Peak sounds like a great organization with great people and a good way to experience another side of life while helping someone else.

Well, I better be going as the physical exhaustion is numbing me into a sand infested sleep. I just want to close up by saying that what a great person you are and it’s an honor to be your son. Lately it seems I haven’t been giving much in return but hopefully that will change with the long awaited graduation. I love you and hope you get everything you wish for this birthday and I’ll see you shortly. (if the Missouri and Mississippi treat us right)

Well, Happy Birthday

Love, Kent

Tell Dad hi

We buy a postcard that reads: Nebraska takes its name from the Platte River! The Omaha Indians called it “Nibithaska.” The Oto Indians called it “Nibrathka.” Both these words mean flat or shallow water. This was in a time before dams, canals, and irrigation ditches. I wonder how much smaller the river actually is today. Nice planning Brad, could you find a worse place to start this adventure? Fool!

Running through a section of water I wrap a snake around my foot and immediately shriek like a little schoolgirl. I have images of all the people warning me about water moccasins. I am absolutely terrified. I can feel its slithery body go around my ankle as I step forward. The leathery smooth skin pulsates as the snakes’ muscles tighten and release, moving it along. I am in three feet of water. I start to run, immediately trip over a log and I am swimming without losing any speed. I soon feel ground underneath me and start to run once again. The stories I have heard about the deadly water moccasins suddenly triggered something. Kent following a ways behind decides to walk up on shore to avoid this place where my little incident occurred. His laughter fills the valley.

My hair continues to look funny. At different times, Kent has told me I look like Corey Hart, Buckwheat, a young Don King, and a young Einstein. As we are discussing some plans he blurts out, “How can I take you seriously?”, then bursts out laughing. I wonder why. He tells me I look like a caricature of Ronald Reagan. Kent has longer hair than I do, dirtier, almost in dreads and he is laughing at me? Perhaps leaving the mirror behind was a brilliant move. I don’t want to see how I look.

June 15 th – 48 miles

We buy a bunch of groceries and now have corn (39¢), Cream of Mushroom Soup (79¢), Cream of Chicken Soup (69¢). We will use these soups as topping for our spaghetti. We also bought bread again, in hopes that we do not crush it. Some overripe bananas are being sold for 19¢ a pound. We buy nine pounds, all they have left. Oh how tasty! We are eating for about $4.00 a day for the two of us, even though we are eating two or three times as much as we normally do. The quality of our meals is horrible so I keep reminding myself of how cheap the food is and where it will get me. Sometimes, I wonder whether I will ever eat these foods again once I’m home. Personally, if I never eat oatmeal again, I’ll be okay.

Now that there are no more spillways stealing water from the Platte, it has grown tremendously. Three miles after Columbus, Nebraska the Loop River enters the Platte. The river is like a boiling cauldron with pockets of water rising up.. The current is fast! Floating, we go about as fast as we did working our tails off on the South Platte. By dusk we have gone 35 miles. This is our furthest mileage day yet.

We decide to try some night floating to get even farther. I try to sleep in the bow while Kent takes the first shift steering in the stern. Kent paddles only when an obstacle like a tree lies across the water. The other time is spent relaxing and listening to tunes from the Grateful Dead. The wind really picks up and starts to blow the canoe back upstream,. We paddle to shore and set up camp. It is 3:00a.m. I feel badly for not taking a shift steering at all. We find out in the morning we have gone ten miles during the night which is like getting free miles.

For lunch we each have: spaghetti with mushroom soup, corn, ¼ pound of saltines, and a rice crisp treat for dessert, each. Not bad. We are ecstatic about the changes in our in menu. Dinner: four hot dogs with onion, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, twelve eggs, ¼ pound saltines, rice crisp, ten pieces bread. Obviously, food has become gold. We are never satisfied. I drink lots of water just to fill my belly. Working all day uses so much fuel. We can’t get enough calories.

My toe is now in bad shape. The toe next to the big one got a splinter straight in a few days ago which I squeezed out. Now, in its place a hole has grown to about 1/8 wide by 1/8 deep. A callous has now grown around another 1/8inch. Hopefully the callus will prevent the hole from getting bigger. The problem is that the toe is now swollen so that there is no loose skin. I can only bend it halfway, and any is painful. It hurts more in the morning after it has rested all night. After walking in the sand awhile it loosens up and goes numb. During the night, I must keep the toe straight in the air so that it does not touch the ground or anywhere. If it does, I wake up in intense pain. I hope the Missouri will give it a rest. We shouldn’t have to run fifteen miles a day once we get there.

June 16 th – 40 mi.

We make it to North Bend, Nebraska in the early morning where we have our first mail stop and some laundry. Four weeks of working out in the same clothes has more than necessitated the stop. Our clothes may soon be running on their own. Hmmm, sounds good. The change dispenser steals my quarter; the soap dispenser steals 35¢. A lady walks in, and we ask if we can buy two scoops of her detergent. She gives us the soap. We wash all our clothes, write, and I read letters from home.

We decide to spring for a small town meal and stop in the corner café. The waiter asks about our strange looking waterproof bags. We tell him our story. He replies, “What, you got nothing better to do than go canoeing?”

I think this is one of the best things we can be doing, but I do not tell him that. Most people do not understand what we are doing. They think, “It does not make money. You are not learning anything new. You stink. You both are limping. It cannot be much fun.” We may be limping and smell a tad atrociously, but the rewards are worth it. I am learning more than I could have imagined. Being out here for 24 hours a day we have become part of the wildlife scene, and get glimpses into what the animals are doing. With nothing else to interrupt my thoughts, I can focus on what is here in nature. I can feel some of the hardships that Lewis and Clark dealt with 200 years ago. Mentally, I can overcome the difficulties here and ease of things at home. I am pushing myself beyond what I thought I could do both mentally and physically.

Late in the day we need water, so we dock behind someone’s house. After putting on our shirts we head for the front door. Nobody is home. We go to the next house for a try; hanging in the doors’ window is a hand-knitted welcome sign which looks promising. We knock. An older gentleman, about 60, with a large gut, short hair and big smile says, “Hello there, what can I do for you?” Amazing how in the middle of nowhere he can seem like it is normal for strange visitors to pop over and seem happy about it. Nobody has seemed happy to see us coming.

Kent explains what we are doing and asks for some water.

“Sure,” he replies. His thirty-year-old son jokingly chimes in with, “for six bucks a gallon.” As he fills our water, he asks several times if we need anything else.

“Just some water,” I reply. “It is awful hot out there today,” Murray answers. Putting the lid on the last jug, he asks if we want some sunflower seeds. We sure do. He walks to his truck and pulls out a pound bag of roasted sunflower seeds. As we talk more about our trip, he asks again and again if he can do anything else. He gets a thought and runs inside. Out he comes with two cupped hands full of peppermint candies. With this kind of luck, maybe we should be buying tickets to the lottery. They wish us luck, and we wave good-bye.

Getting back to Kerala, we are ecstatic. He was the first person we have met that has actually been friendly towards us. It is not the fact that he gave us sunflower seeds or candies. I am happy because he saw two strangers and genuinely wanted to help us in any way he could. He was full of excitement about our trip. My energy was low before meeting Murray, but I am now soaring. We paddle for another 2-1/2 hours before we make camp – sucking on peppermints the whole way. We were hoping to do some night canoeing, but the wind is horrible. If we stop paddling, the wind pushes us back upstream at a fairly good pace. We must camp.

June 17 th

Happy Birthday, Mom.

Our hopes today are to make it to the mouth of the Platte River and enter the Missouri River, only 44 miles away. Awake at 5:15 am, we break camp, and we are off by 6:00. Being up early is not one of Kent’s strong points. He can get up early, but then he does not want to be disturbed. We rarely say anything before noon. I am just the opposite, ready to take on the world as soon as my eyes pop open. It annoys most of my friends as I am always the first awake. I think this is probably the greatest irritant we have for each other. I’m thinking and ready to talk, six hours later that’s how Kent feels. A friend of mine commented as we started this little adventure that Kent and I were going on a power bonding trip. Boy, he was right. We know each other so well now that we can often know what the other is thinking without asking.

Kent is complaining of being tired. I notice his paddle stroke is much weaker than normal and make the mistake of saying something about it. We argue for a few minutes and then paddle in silence. It is an hour or two before I see a deer, point it out and break the silence

After twenty miles of paddling, we see eight canoes entering on the far side of the river. It is too far to go and say hello, probably a ¼ mile away. We decide to show them up, and we canoe a little harder. We cruise along at a good clip and lose them fairly soon. A park appears five miles later – Lunchtime! We start cooking lunch and are halfway done eating before the other canoeists arrive. It is a bunch of ten to sixteen year olds from camp Kitaki. We wonder how far they are going.

The counselors start pulling the canoes over the four-foot bank into the grass. They have no tie down ropes. We think that it must be a pain to bring the canoes up every time they stop. Then, the kids start to carry the canoes over to the parking area. Their canoe trip is over! We find it hilarious that they took all the time preparing, getting to the river and so on, for an hour canoe ride. Hey, maybe that would be nice. No gear, no tents, food in the car – not bad. How is it that sometimes you can be laughing at someone, then suddenly seeing the brilliance of their plan? ?

About two miles from the mouth, the Platte says good-bye to us. We run aground on a sandbank. We get out and walk Kerala for the last time. Minutes before we hit the Missouri a storm hits. I yell, “Shower time” and dig for Dr. Bronners Peppermint soap. Dr Bronners is a cleaning soap, from washing dishes to clothes to brushing teeth to shampoo and everything in-between. The deluge of rain ends as soon as we are all lathered up. We figure it is a better smell covering anyway. We roll around in two-inch deep water and sand – showering Platte style. We’re all ready for our photos of us at the Platte-Missouri confluence. We paddle away. We shriek out the verses of songs as we anticipate the confluence. Our hard work has paid off.

The river has been so challenging from the beginning as we lost our gear in the spring runoff on the Cache La Poudre River. The Platte River has been more of a long slog through a beach, but with really cool wildlife. The running will be over and the canoeing can get into full swing. The start of any adventure no matter how small or large is difficult. We have had difficulties and overcome them; I feel even better about the future and where I am traveling in the weeks and months to come.

 

 

 

4

Missouri River

“If you’re starting out on an adventure

and are convinced that you will succeed why even start?”

• Sir Edmund Hillary,
• part of the adventure is the uncertainty

Lesson Learned: There’s no such thing as free miles.

A midsized river joins the Platte on our left and jokingly say, “There’s the Missouri.” We continue paddling for the Promised Land of the Missouri. We notice how the Platte has narrowed, giving a much better channel. Our excitement grows. An orange-red sign is on the left. A green sign is on the right. We suppose these are warnings for the mighty Missouri’s entrance. After another mile we have a startling revelation. The channel entering the Platte was not a channel, It is the mighty Missouri. We paddle on in complete despair. I paddle hard; maybe the Missouri is actually around the next bend. Kent is hardly paddling. I want to yell at him, but do not. After the bend, I tell myself, “well maybe the next”. After the third bend I accept the reality of our situation. Around the fourth bend, it is definite; the bridge for Plattsmouth, NE is up ahead. Plattsmouth is actually five miles from where the Platte meets the Missouri. We stop just before the bridge where, conveniently, permanent campsites are set up.

Another storm is coming up fast. This one looks serious. The canoe being securely tied, we unload. The tent goes up and we get into our freshly washed “city duds.” Soon after we head into town, the storm hits; by the time we get into town, we are drenched.

Looking for an all-you-can-eat celebration dinner, we ask some residents for directions.

“Not in Plattsmouth.” Damn, we thought that might happen.

“How about a pizza place?” we ask hopefully.

“Nope. There’s either Mom’s Café or Buggsies down the street,” she tells us. Finding out Mom’s Café is cheaper we head over to it. Closed. Across the street, someone is waving for us to come over.

She takes us in out of the storm. After giving us each a Pepsi, she tells us about Godfathers Pizza two blocks away. Our new friend, Renee, offers us her washer and dryer if we would like. We planned to take a day off from the river so we tell her that we will be by the next morning.

Godfathers Pizza becomes our haven for the next three hours. We feast on the all-u-can-eat salad bar, and eat a large pizza. Playing gin rummy to stay out of the rain, time flies by. Unfortunately, I have diarrhea and must dash to the toilet several times. Luckily, today I have a regular toilet instead of bushes. Civilization does have its rewards. We call home to wish Mom a Happy Birthday and then head home in a light drizzle. It is only about 7:00 p.m. so we make a campfire. The fire does nothing to satisfy us. We let it burn out and turn in for the night.

June 18 th 0 miles

Waking up early, we decide to go to a Café for some coffee. We ask the waitress when the library opens. She does not know and asks the fifteen men sitting at the counter. The room filled with loud talking and laughing suddenly becomes quiet. You could hear a pin drop. A man breaks the silence with, “I already been there once, do I hafta go back,” They all laugh heartily, somebody else figures 10:00a.m. is about right and the topic is dropped. I could feel the relief that the subject has ended. I find it amazing how many people end their education as soon as they leave the structure of a school. To me, education should be a lifelong process because to be interesting you first have to have interests.

Walking to the library, we find it opens at 1:00 p.m., so we spend the time cruising the streets and getting supplies for our flag that we want to build reading ‘New Orleans or Bust’. We then go to Renee’s to do our laundry. Renee traveled in Switzerland and Australia for about a year and tells us how the little things people did for her made a big difference. We Know Too. We talk for two hours about travel, life, Plattsmouth, and Colorado.

June 19 th – 65 miles

The Missouri is really moving fast. We are making almost seven miles an hour.

June 20 th55 day, 30 night Father’s Day

I wake at 6:00a.m., make coffee and write some letters. The enthusiastic mosquitoes are still out in the early morning and by 8:00 a.m. we are on the river again. Kent is still feeling a great deal of pain in his upper back and chest. We assume he has a pinched nerve just below his neck. The ramifications for Kent are that he cannot perform any functions. He can barely walk, write, or even sit. He must slump in the bow with his shoulders tucked in; he looks comatose, oblivious to the situation. It hurts to watch him and not be able to help. To me, this means I am the lone paddler. The situation is difficult for us both.

With it being Fathers Day, we want to catch dad in the morning before returning to work at 1:00 p.m. It is 30 miles to the next city of Rolo, Nebraska. For the first two hours, I paddle at five mph, making good time. I figure that if I can paddle at 6-½ mph we will make it by 1:00 p.m. For the next two hours I paddle at 7-½ mph, which takes a lot of hard work. I have to dig my paddle in hard with long strokes. I paddle twice on each side then switch to keep on course. The hard work feels pretty good and I can see the mileage ticking off. Sweat is pouring down my back and down my face. My muscles are looking good and strong. I feel incredibly wonderful until I focus on Kent who looks so depleted.

Climbing over a barbwire fence the other day, I noticed how much strength I have gained. The barbwire goes out about a foot from the top of the fence. The fence was fifteen feet high. I shimmied right up the fence. Then, using only arm strength, I pulled myself up and over the outstretched barbwire. Kent, noticing my agility, followed right after. Why, you may wonder, were we climbing this fence? It has an observation tower inside that over looks the Platte River – great view! The rivers braids go every which way spreading over a mile wide and the main channel is so easy to decipher. From ground level the channels can be deceiving.

Rolo is closer than expected, so we make it by 12:30 p.m. and thankfully we’ll be able to reach dad. Any timetable is difficult to follow. As we dock, we see a group having a picnic nearby. Henry Galc and Eldon Gideon come over to investigate and talk to us, and then invite us for lunch. Looks like we will have to call dad late tonight. Food has priority over everything, sorry Dad.

We meet the whole family and friends. They give us a few beers while we talk. One tells us of how her father used to feed the hobos coming off the train here. We stopped our canoe directly under the train track. “Now we have the river” so we will help you guys out. We laugh at our connection to hobos.

The food is delicious. The main dish is baby back ribs cooked over a grill with BBQ sauce. The meat is so tender the ribs easily pull apart. They taste even better; meat can actually melt in ones mouth. We also have deviled eggs, potato salad, potato chips, green peppers, tomatoes, radishes, garlic bread, fried potatoes, and some whipped strawberry supreme. They filled our stomachs by handing us more and more. By about the fourth plate full, we have had enough. I feel so guilty for eating so much of their food. They genuinely want to help and we are willing recipients. After talking some more, we leave to phone dad a message at least. I have always had a hard time accepting help from others but this trip has helped me realize that sometimes by letting others help, we are also giving to them. Most everyone wants to give to others and help and encourage their fellow man. We touch their lives with stories of adventure and they touch us with goodwill. We all part ways better for having met each other. (Eldon an Henry are still good friends and attended my wedding in 2003.)

Luckily, dad is home to wish him a Happy Father’s Day. Mom and dad are going to try and join us in Memphis, Tennessee in about three weeks. Hope that timetable works out. It’s difficult to know how far we can go. We had a hard enough time reaching a phone on a particular day, reaching a location on a specific day is infinitely harder.

We leave Rolo at 4:30pm. The current is now going much faster. With me paddling slowly, we fly along at eight mph. It is a bit discouraging after working so hard in the morning for fewer miles, but I am certainly thankful compared to the Platte this is incredible. We thought the Missouri River was so small when we first entered it. Now we can see that it is channelized, deep and fast. Our prayers for more water have been answered

Shortly after leaving our new friends, we notice we forgot to get water. Frustrated, we stop at a nearby house. The lady invites us in and lets us fill our water jugs and then gives us a 5-pound Venison summer sausage, a loaf of bread, and a container full of freshly baked oatmeal, chocolate chip and walnut cookies. She can’t seem to satisfy herself and keeps giving us more. Once again we paddle off knowing that there are friendly people out there. We just wanted water. She wants to be a helper on our trip. It seems more likely to find giving people in the countryside than in a large city. The anonymity of the large city disappears and the wonder of an outsider in your neighborhood takes over. Strangers are friends we have not met .

By dusk I have paddled 54 miles, not bad for a single paddler! We float with coffee in hand that Kent has prepared inside Kerala. The river is so serene, quiet, and beautiful. A pink-orange sunset is painted behind us. The river is so glassy that the clouds and trees are perfectly reflected. The constant wind has stopped. The temperature is cool. An owl flies a foot over the water without making a sound. The river is fast, getting us going at 5 mph while enjoying the most perfect setting. This is Relaxation.

Then we see it coming over the horizon. A tugboat with four barges is barreling upstream. This is our first barge and tugboat encounter. Putting our journals away we prepare for the wake. The first wake set is simple: A series of waves 2-3 feet high coming in a constant speed and direction. The second set is a mixture of crisscrossing waves caused by the waves bouncing off the banks. These waves basically just bounce and roll the canoe. The third stage is the most difficult. The waves bounce back and forth across the banks causing choppy water. When the wave crests multiply we can get a big wave coming. The water stays rough for another ten minutes before calming down to the most serene state imaginable

To make more miles, we float down the river during the night instead of setting up camp. One person lays over the middle with their feet on the bow. The other lays straight back in the stern, the tip of the canoe serving as the pillow. Our Thermarest adds an extra bit of comfort. In case we tip, we do not want to be trapped in a sleeping bag so our bags stay packed away. For warmth, we wear fleece pants and coats. For wind protection and some added warmth, we wear Gore-Tex pants and jackets.

Many perils can come to a half-asleep canoeist on the Missouri. The least common is the outlaying tree. Once a canoe broadsides the tree, it is pulled down into the water as we learned a month ago when we started. We paddle and float in the middle of the river to avoid trees. The most common peril is that of the river boils. As we both lay atop the canoe, the center of gravity is higher, making the canoe tip much easier. When a boil comes up, water gets sucked under causing a rocking motion that can easily tip an unaware canoeist. The barges are our biggest hazard with flat-bottomed hulls, which means the water does not get pushed aside – it goes under. We will go under too, if hit. For security we cinch down the tie ropes.

The only dangerous thing we see is a presumed drunk running through yards and over fences.

By 5:30a.m., we have gone 30 miles. It comes at a price, I awake often, sure that disaster is about to hit and am exhausted. It’s hard enough paddling for twelve hours; not sleeping afterwards is hell.

June 21 st – 102 mi.

At 5:30 a.m. someone yelling, “Hey” rather hysterically awakes us. He asks what we’re doing sleeping and about barges in rapid succession. I’m confused; who is this guy? I am thoroughly annoyed that he has woken me. He is appalled that we could be sleeping on the mighty Missouri with all its dangers. He laughs at our destination then heads off to check his fish traps. He hasn’t read the Insane Canoeist’s Handbook either. People really should inform themselves if they are going to work on the river. The book is a classic.

Twenty miles and 3½ hours later we make it to Atkinson, Kansas. We eat some doughnuts and coffee. The refills on coffee are extra so we leave sooner than desired. We buy groceries, shave, and Kent goes to see a Chiropractor while I write. Some passersby tells me that the river is four feet higher than normal. Apparently, the Mississippi River is flooding. After the lack of water on the Platte River, a flood sounds wonderful.

The canoeing to Leavenworth is rough going. Our speed is fine, 25 miles in four hours, but I feel horribly exhausted. I have to keep stopping for rest in the hot 100º muggy and little wind day.

Once in Leavenworth, we head off to visit the Federal Penitentiary. I figure that to truly understand freedom, I must see some people who have lost that right. We climb the bank and find our first ripe blackberries. After ten minutes of free tasty food, we are off. Once to the top of the 80-foot bank, we see that we are in a Military Post. The prison is further down river. For me, to be in the military would be like being in jail. I’d be a bad soldier. The strict guidelines, killing people or just training to kill people is too much for me. One of the many necessary jobs out there that I would have difficulty with. I admire them and their courage to protect the USA. They help give me freedom – could anything be more admirable?

Wandering helplessly for twenty minutes, we finally ask a lady for directions to a supermarket. We had forgotten the gas for our stove earlier.

“Off Base,” comes the reply. She then offers to take us there. We jump in and drive and drive and drive. Ten or fifteen miles later we land at Alda Discount Supermarket. She then offers to drive us back after shopping. Whew! The food is ¼ to ½ the price of what we normally paid. We stock up for the second time today. No gas though. 7-11 did not have Coleman gas either. She ends up buying it for us on the Military Base, civilians are not allowed in. The fuel is half off too. Just before we reach our canoe her car dies. It’s over my head and I can’t fix it, so we push her into a parking lot. She walks us down to the rivers’ bank and says good-bye. I feel terrible for not being able to help her since she did so much for us.

I have come to the realization that people are all generally good. To get to know them you must force your way into their lives. In a small town it’s easy because everybody knows each other. With us being strangers they want to help out. When we go to people’s homes for water, we are really forcing our way into their lives. Most get excited about our trip and want to hear the outcome. Only a few just fill our water without talking to us. I like talking to so many different people with different lives and paths and thoughts.

Opening our groceries, we grab the ice cream and run for the blackberries. Kent has a ½ gallon of vanilla, I a ½ gallon of napoleon. Ice cream topped with blackberries, not the healthiest dinner, but it is cold and sugary and really good. After finishing most of the ice cream, our stomachs start revolting, our binge is over. We walk to Kerala.

After talking to dad, he pens a letter to us:

Dear Kent & Brad,

I hope you guys are holding together. Injury and illness are a part of a long trip like this. Excuse me for sounding like a parent, but use time as your friend, not your enemy. Illness and injury is a message saying, “Enjoy something different for a while.” I’ve seen too many athletes play injured in “the big game” only to never play again.

Mom and I saw the musical “The Secret Garden” on our 28 th anniversary. It was fabulous. I’ll give you a quick summary. When the wife died who built and loved the garden, her husband locked it up. Others, coming later discovered the Secret Garden, nourished it, and transformed their lives in the process.

It might be stretching it a bit to call the Platte and Missouri river valleys a secret garden, but there is a parallel. As civilization has advanced technologically, we have moved away from our gardens, from both agriculture and forest preserves. Two hundred years ago, half of the jobs in America were agricultural. I’ll bet everybody was a hunter, too. Today, 2% is in agriculture, and there are half as many hunters today as there were in 1980.

As a result, we are losing track of what it is like to live in sync with the land. It is even hard to appreciate when we have no clue how the specifics of the food chain operate.

What you guys are doing is getting into part of the land that is increasingly a Secret Garden to most Americans. This is valuable.

I spend much of my time encouraging business people to get away from short-term thinking. Too many decisions are made that make today’s results look good, but clobber tomorrow’s.

I believe scientists are guilty of short terming it, too. Scientists are paid well for growing a chicken fatter sooner. So they do. They aren’t paid for reducing pollution, or saving rain forests, or saving the ozone layer, so they don’t.

Only when I can point out convincingly enough that the long-term thinking outweighs short term do people change. They need facts, and they need to worry. My experience with past mistakes convinces some people to avoid future mistakes.

I hope that what you guys see and learn is helpful – helpful to both you and the people you’ll influence. Nebraska is no garden spot. But, when you the Platte River Valley from the air, you see a thin meandering green ribbon of life. It is fast disappearing. You may well be, “the last Platte canoeists.”

Take time to enjoy where you are. You are experiencing a disappearing wilderness. Maybe, you will help. Like I sometimes used to say about labor negotiations, “winning is losing slowly.”

Have a great time! I look forward to sharing more experiences with you on July 10 th.

I love you both –

Dad

By 10:00 p.m. we make it to Kansas City. Canoeing with so many lights is difficult. The lights appear to be barges, barges appear as streetlamps, stoplights, office buildings and manufacturing refineries, which is what is difficult to decipher, then after staring at them for a while we see that it is a pier or is it? We change our minds back and forth until we pass whatever it is. The stress involved so that we don’t get run over and killed keeps our adrenaline pumping and our eyes wide open. Millions of lights deceive our minds making each light a deadly barge. We scan constantly for any movement of lights. Kerala moves downstream, it’s difficult to decipher if the lights are moving or if it’s us. Are we moving towards that light or is it a tugboat coming straight at us? It will be ten minutes before we know for sure. Now, we must watch over a multitude of lights to see if other lights have turned into barges. We come back to each suspicious light many times, keeping track in our minds. The only towboats or barges we see are anchored.

Canoeing through a city at night has its advantages; the air is cooler and the smog cannot be seen. The large manufacturing plants that look dull by day are all lit up, looking like castles instead of slums and make neat reflections in the water.

After reaching the outskirts of Kansas City, I am able to sleep. Kent can now do his one job – look around. That must be horrible for him. He stays awake to watch for tugboats, bridges or any other problems. If something comes, he wakes me and I paddle around the obstacle. He says it’s horrible. He can’t stay awake and each light is potential barge. He doesn’t want to wake me in case he is wrong. He struggles through the night.

June 22 nd – 55 day, 37 night

A month on the river! The river is down slightly from yesterday but still flowing fast. We stop by an Army Corp of Engineers office to ask about the Mississippi River, but they don’t know anything about what’s going on there. They do have some info about the Missouri River though. They tell us that the Missouri is almost to flood capacity. It has increased 2 -5 (something’s) each day. Today it decreased .8 (something). We welcome the water. We hope to make it to St. Louis, 300 miles away in four days. We are making up much of our lost time on the Poudre and Platte Rivers.

I now have poison ivy and poison oak all over my legs and arms. I am starting to itch more and more. I cannot afford calamine lotion so I guess I must deal with it. Why must there always be something we have to deal with? Nothing ever seems to go smoothly. The Insane Canoeists Handbooks first line reads: Got a hassle? Deal! What else is there to do? I suppose that could be good advice at any time. Bitching about a problem seldom makes the problem go away. A good attitude, however, can make problems diminish and disappear.

We have been looking for blackberries but cannot seem to find any ripe ones. We also have problems with toads. Little ½ inch toads jump in every direction as we walk. Not stepping on them takes careful walking. I certainly don’t want to feel their little bodies exploding and squirting between my toes. It slows our pace so that walking is frustrating. Frustrating for me and death for them, as a giant takes them out in one careless move.

The pollution is terrible along the river. Bottles, balls, and jugs are constantly floating. Big piles of trash accumulate in eddies where the top layer of water recirculates by shore. What makes me sick is that this is just the trash that floats. The thought of how much more trash is in here scares me. How can we treat our planet like this? I saw three different helium balloons with Happy Father’s Day printed on them. As soon as the helium escapes they too will disappear under the surface, more trash floating into the Gulf of Mexico. Where do people think their balloons will land? New Jersey?

We find a message in a 2-liter bottle. It states when it was dropped in, and asks us to write back. I understand why somebody would find that fun, but what about the consequences? Do people care about the results of their actions? To them it will not make a big impact. It’s only one 2-liter bottle. If people could see the accumulation of all this trash, then maybe they would understand. What about our children? What about the sea animals? Years of bottles polluting our rivers then our seas. I will support our national river cleanup day in May of each year. I have to start contributing to cleaning these areas.

I wonder how all this trash gets in here. We see Mayo jars, peanut butter, oil cans, bleach bottles, hair spray. Virtually any household item in a sealable container we have seen. A fifty-gallon drum floats down the river with a warning not to use the pesticide within one hundred yards of any water or where any runoff might get into a waterway. It’s mostly empty. Ahhh, what a great thing to be floating next to.

I lose the blanket by somehow dropping it in the river. I am more upset about the polluting aspect than losing it. For penance I pick up 50 pieces of trash.

My toe is now 85% back in shape. Hooray! Floating and not running fifteen miles a day has certainly helped matters.

The first tugboat at night goes by. About two miles downstream, we see a spotlight scanning the bank. We move to the far left bank while he slowly moves along the right bank. The spotlight constantly scans the banks for the reflecting signs telling of the deepest channel. The beam goes over us three times before we are spotted. Once we are seen, the operator holds the beam directly on us. The beam is so bright looking away does not help and both of us put our arms in front of our faces and keep our eyes shut. I feel like a prisoner who tried to escape and was caught by the light. After a few seconds of blinding us, he continues scanning the bank. We joke about what he must have thought. Two canoeists out at 12:00 a.m. Why? Hmmm, I keep asking myself that same question.

This need to make time is out of control. I am killing myself for twelve hours a day, then sleeping in the canoe at night. We hope to make it to St. Louis in four days. We will then spend the day there. I cannot wait to get away from the canoe. I need a break so badly. I watch Kent all day doing nothing. There is so much I could do with that time: write, read, and play my harmonica. Kent is in so much pain that he can’t enjoy the time off either. His only option is to sit and think.

June 23 rd – 40 day/19 night

Another hard morning of paddling. I paddle twenty miles to Glaskow before lunch. Some ladies warn us of all the horny women we will meet in the next few towns. We meet them in every town lately. It is rather funny as they will drive by us several times checking us out. They then either follow us in the store or to the canoe. If it is at the canoe, they usually jump out and do something down river a ways. All of it is flattering. The water is deep so we can take several showers a day. Sure we smell like a river, but that’s Channel compared to our appearance on the Platte. The other day I saw a mirror and noticed that I have big toned muscles with a dark tan. Canoeing fifteen miles and running fifteen miles in sand every day has its advantages.

We walk into Glaskow to a diner some ladies recommended. We order the cheapest thing – a hamburger & fries for $2.60. We are splurging, but sometimes you need to do that. Once the food comes, the town cop saunters over to tell us about the city. Oldest continuous library west of the Mississippi. First all steel bridge in the world. He talks to us for five minutes while our food lies in front of us on the table. Too polite to start eating, but not hearing a word because my mouth is salivating so much that I focus on keeping the drool inside my mouth. Didn’t he read the chapter on food in the Insane Canoeists Handbook? He is friendly, but seems to have a strange angle. “Coleman, Sears, and some other brand of sleeping bags are made here. Five thousand bags a day. The aluminum trays for TV dinners are manufactured in Glaskow.” He rambles on and on. He tells us if we need a ride anywhere or anything else, he can help. We can stay at the campground for free and use the shower. Hearing about a shower perks up my ears. He gives us each his business card. Before leaving, he tells us if the canoe comes loose to give him a call. He can round up a boat and catch it before it goes too far. What an odd thing to say. I guess that is good to know, but hope it won’t come in handy.

Once the policeman leaves, we chow down our meal. Our hostess keeps refreshing our ice water. The cold water is amazingly refreshing as we drink glass after glass. I can’t remember the last time I had cold water. Before we finish, she picks up the policeman’s business card saying, “You don’t want these,” and is off before we can answer. She asks if we want dessert. Obviously yes, but we decline because of our budget. She brings us each a cherry pie, our smiles of appreciation beam.

Before leaving the city, I exchange some stamps that had become wet and are now useless. The postal woman did so with a smile on her face. It is odd with everybody so overwhelmingly friendly. A wonderfully nice city. This is a lot better than some of those towns we visited in Nebraska.

We paddle to the camp the cop told us about. The shower is heavenly. All the grime from the last month washes away quickly. The last hot shower I had was at Brian and Cindy’s four weeks ago. I even wash my shorts and sandals We paddle back out into the Missouri refreshed. . An hour later, I am back to being dirty, grimy, and sweaty.

A storm comes in around 5:00 p.m forcing us to get off the river. We make an early dinner and then head back out.

I have watched my attitude become much worse. Never leaving the canoe is driving me crazy. Our insane desire for mileage is ridiculous. Kent and I only fight about how we fast and far we are going. On the Platte River he said he just wanted to get to the Missouri River. Now it’s the Mississippi River. He talks about seeing the south, so hopefully it will get better. It seems that our destination is more important than the experience; exactly what I wanted to avoid on this journey. While I have cut all my ties back home, Kent does need to get back to work. He still has car, rent, and utility payments that he must pay while doing this. That is costing him $750 a month. We are spending $150 on food for the two months.

Food continues to be a problem, there’s never enough to fill us. My body craves sugar. The chugging of straight sugar helps, but now we are out. A Snickers bar is gold and takes about ten minutes to eat one. I savor every little bite.

Snickers becomes an obsession. I buy one a week because of our tight budget. From the moment I finish one, I start dreaming of another. The brown wrapper with a red border and SNICKERS written against a white background beckons my taste buds. The saliva is going full throttle. NET WT 2.07 OZ 58.7g It doesn’t sound like that much. The ingredients only hint at the explosion of taste and energy contained inside: MILK CHOCOLATE (SUGAR, COCOA BUTTER, CHOCOLATE, LACTOSE, SKIM MILK, MILKFAT, SOY, LECITHIN, ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR), PEANUTS, CORN SYRUP, SUGAR, SKIM MILK, BUTTER, MILKFAT, PARTIALLY HYDROGENATED SOYBEAN OIL, LACTOSE, SALT, EGG WHITES, ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR. CONTAINS NO PRESERVATIVES. I rip open the package. The brown bar has waves of milk chocolate along the top. I take a small bite. I feel the bar slicing in half as the first wave of chocolate hits my taste buds. I pull the bar away and see the caramel being stretched apart, peanuts have been cut in half and more milk chocolate is whipped inside. I let the first layer of chocolate melt in my mouth; it dissolves for minute as I close my eyes to experience the sugar going into my system. The whipped chocolate dissolves next and I get to the chewy caramel. I massage it with my tongue, feeling the mass of peanuts contained within. I keep swallowing my energized saliva. Five minutes later the caramel has melted and five peanuts remain. I chew them slowly. The next two bites last six seconds because I can’t hold back. I want the energy. The final bite takes ten minutes. I will savor this. Then, it is gone. I start dreaming about where I will be next week eating SNICKERS on the way back from some little river town.

Kent cannot stay awake for the night shift, so I take over as lookout at 12:00 a.m. and I make it until 2:30 a.m, when I can no longer stay awake.. We have not slept on ground since the 19 th . We had that great Father’s Day meal with Eldon and Gary and the gang, then bought some groceries, had shower, and did some serious canoeing; In the last 96 hours, we have made it 338 miles. We make it to shore, climb a ten-foot mud bank, crawl over and under trees and shrubs, find a bare spot, slide into our sleeping bags and pass out.

June 24 th – 42 miles

At 6:00 a.m. I awake to the rising sun and look around to see wet trees and then wet grass. Looking to the ground, I see mud. We are camped in a swamp. Oh well, I pass out and sleep for another hour. By 7:30am we are in the canoe again, nothing like a five-hour nap to rejuvenate the soul. We float until our coffee is made. The morning is perfect; the air is cool, the sun shines through a haze, which protects us from the searing heat.

As the morning goes on the wind picks up making Kerala hard to control. The gusts of wind coming at different directions toys with Kerala. She bounces along like a crazed snake. Having only one paddler makes it hell. In calm water, I must switch every two strokes to keep it straight. In this wind, I must switch every stroke fighting all the way. The wind is intensely strong around half the river bends. The waves come in such rapid succession that the canoe is bouncing everywhere. In three hours, I have propelled us a measly twelve miles. Depressingly slow for the Missouri.

We stop for lunch in Lupus, Missouri and walk around the town to find a bait store. No stores. There are about ten homes. Each porch has a swinging chair in it. I love the idea of growing old with someone in a chair like that. If I sat in one of those chairs right now, I just might never leave.

A county lawnmower worker comes over to eat his lunch by the river. He is really slow about everything, walk, thoughts, talking. He says, “Yeah,… I guess most of us dream…of doing something like that… but…never actually do it.” I can’t tell if he is impressed or if he thinks we’re fools. I wonder myself sometimes.

The afternoon winds pick up making the canoeing even worse. The waves grow to 1-1/2 feet. The big problem is wind. If the canoe starts to turn sideways, I paddle as hard as possible to straighten it again. This means 5, 10, or 30 full strength strokes. If I cannot straighten the canoe, it turns sideways. The current flows against the port side, the wind against starboard pinning the canoe against the two forces. I have to work for five minutes to get out of the situation. The process involves paddling hard forward on port for a few strokes and then paddling hard reverse on the starboard side, similar to “rocking” a car out of snow or mud. The all out exertion to get out of the sideways position cannot be rewarded. If I try to get a bottle of water, I am back in the same predicament. The canoeing sucks.

Around 4:00pm the wind dies down enough for normal paddling. By this time my arms are rubber from fighting the wind for so long. At 6:30 p.m. we arrive in Jefferson City, Missouri, the state capital. After eating dinner, we head into town for some sugar and bread.

We ask two different people for directions. “Miles,” says one. “A long way, too far to walk,” says the other. We do not listen and get directions; do we have a choice? Three blocks straight, ½ block left and we are there. I wonder how these people make it anywhere. The fact that anybody could ever consider that walking four blocks is too far shows why we have oil problems and the resulting pollution. People can’t walk four blocks but they can go to a workout place, find the closest parking spot and run on a treadmill for a mile. Has the world gone insane or is it just me?

A severe storm hits right after we get back to our canoe from the store. We heard earlier that the storm is traveling at 25 mph. Hoping that the storm will blow over quickly, we head for a hotel we saw earlier. We look like complete vagrants sitting in the lobby. The hotel has a glass elevator going to the different floors, inside are men in tuxedos and women in gowns. Others are less formal in their suits. Then, there is us. Smelling like dead fish covered with mud in the lobby. We try to get as far in a corner as possible. After a couple hours, we are finally asked to kindly depart. It’s obvious that we are not guests, yet they treat us with dignity. We leave happily, glad for the short reprieve from the storm.

Having to leave the comfort of the Capital Luxury Hotel, we look for a spot to camp in the train yard, maybe in a boxcar. One of the boxcars is open, empty and appears to be parked. The car is filthy and greasy, but dry. After waiting for several trains to move out (there are five tracks), I walk to the canoe to get our sleeping bags. On the way back to the boxcar more trains come by. Then more trains. I do not have a dry place to wait this time. I stand there with pack on, rain pouring down through every inch of me. The engineers wave to the fool in the rain. Once back to the boxcar, I am beyond drenched. The cold wind makes me shiver. I inflate a Thermarest mattress and slide my wet body into a cozy sleeping bag. That’s when the terror begins.

I have already been worried about the boxcar getting hitched up and heading to Missoula, Montana or some other place. We can always jump out though. What if somebody found us? We can explain and either be able to stay or get kicked out. Jail wouldn’t be too bad on a night like tonight. Okay, no problem. The problem is thunder and lightning.

Through the open boxcar door a huge lightning bolt flashes, night turns to day. Moments later, the thunder booms through the sky. Many times the thunder reverberates through us as we see the lightning bolt. I have always loved the power of a thunderstorm. That was in the safety of a home or at least one close by. I am attempting to sleep in a puddle of water, inside an all-metal boxcar, on top of metal railroad tracks directly under the center of the storm. Lightning tries to find the quickest path to release its’ charge; the metal boxcar can do that well. The puddle which I cannot get away from will conduct the electricity straight to me. To add to our fears we can see fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances racing on the highway. Horns and sirens can be heard between thunderclaps. The procession stops a half-mile away, where the cities power flashes on and off.

I cringe every time I see lightning. The claps shake the boxcar. Kent is standing in the large doorway taking photos. I am having problems figuring out whether to ground myself (to let the bolt pass quickly through me, or to insulate myself by laying completely on my Thermarest). I switch back and forth for hours. I think, I finally decided to insulate myself. The logic being that I would not be directly hit. Luckily, my theories are not proved right or wrong.

The storm lasts all night, dumping five inches of water into the canoe. The river rose eight inches.

June 25 th – 73 miles day, 39 miles night

5:30am, out of the boxcar and into the canoe. A perfect morning to canoe; the air is cool, the water a glassy calm. The current is faster because of the storm. Kerala slides easily through the water and nothing like the wind of yesterday.

We try something from the Insane Canoeists Handbook, Chapter 4 – solid land is dispensable: Cooking lunch while floating to get free miles. We float four miles by the time lunch is over. Kent does the cooking in front; I do the cloud watching. What a great way to do lunch.

The banks of the Missouri have become increasingly steeper, muddier, and the upper banks are heavily wooded. Each day I either fall in the mud or the water – or both. Stopping is sometimes annoying. Sitting in the canoe avoids some hassles of being a canoeist. The only drawback is that we cannot get out and stretch.

wooded.

To pick up mail, we stop in Hermann, Missouri. One wonderful aspect of the small farming town is the old farmer men sitting on benches. Long-sleeved shirts, overalls and boots are as much a part of their appearance as the wrinkled hands that show a life of hard labor. Never do we say more than hello, which is rare. A nod of their heads is usually all the movement we ever see. They usually do not even see our faces. As soon as they notice our Chaco style sandals, their stare is fixed upon them. The heads of each farmer turn in unison as our feet walk past. We wonder what they say after we pass.

“Say Bill, what d’you suppose those contraptions were?”

“Don’t know, women’s sandals maybe?”

“They don’t smell like women.”

“That one has some long hair, but those were men.”

“Then why are they wearing sandals?”

“Only women wear sandals.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Hmmm”

After picking our mail up, we walk back reading letters from home.

Getting back in the canoe is a chore. The bank is made up of medium size rocks at least fifteen feet high. As I slide down, a large boulder comes down and hits me in the Achilles tendon. At the bottom, I slide in the mud, but am able to grab the canoe before a full dunking. At some point during my entrance, I dropped one of three water jugs and brake it We paddle away. As dinnertime rolls up, Kent claims that fixing dinner is too much a hassle in a canoe. Of all the hassles I have endured, this was minimal I figure. I will cook then and soon find out what he meant. There is no place to put anything. A slight movement left or right could dump the stove and dinner into the Missouri. Once again, I learn the hard way. Kent smiles, he was right.

Kent is starting to paddle again. He is just going through the motions, letting his shoulder and back loosen up. Soon, we will be back on track. He is happy to be paddling, giving him something to do. I am happy for the help.

Floating down the river comes an empty 55-gallon jug of Herbicide. It’s mostly empty. A whole series of warnings are printed on its side. Flash point 92º. Do not let chemical come in contact with skin. Fatal if swallowed. Do not allow chemical to enter lakes or streams. It describes how it will kill fish and pollute other wildlife. Not only did this empty jug make it in the river, the contents will soon too. Runoff carries many of the harmful chemicals that farmers use into the river. Once again short term thinking for today, not tomorrow. At what point will we say enough is enough. Farmers are only providing what the public demands. Maybe we should demand something different.

At 1:00 a.m. a tugboat starts to come up river, moving really slowly. It looks as though it cannot find the next sign. A massive light scans the banks back and forth. We joke about what the tug operators think of us since we never stop. I imitate his spotting light with my meager flashlight. He holds the spotlight on us as if in disbelief at what he sees. After we pass, he shines his light on us once more. Probably checking to see if it is a hallucination. We stand up and do a little jig in his spotlight, laughing as we dance. Now, he must realize that we are truly insane.

Around 4:00 a.m. we hear something crackling. At first, a few light splashes on the water. A carp, I think. Then a loud clap hits the water. Another beaver making too much noise? Branches start breaking. The breaking noise grows louder and louder. It sounds like a stampede. Something is falling in the river creating many small splashes. Perhaps it is a cow stampede. Cows are not too smart you know. It is pitch dark and we have no idea what is happening. Then, the final clue falls into place. With an amazingly loud crash, the tree trunk hits the water. Never have I heard a tree fall on its own – cool. I hope to see it fall next time. That would be cool.

A few years later this desire to see a tree fall on its’ own accord is granted to me. Driving down highway 95 in New Meadows, Idaho my new used Subaru wagon is cruising along at 60 miles an hour. A crazy windstorm has subsided as five of us listen to Neil Young on the radio. I see a tree moving sideways, slowly. Really slowly. My brain is confused as it realizes the 120-foot tall Tamarack evergreen is falling over the highway. Calmly, I say to my fellow passengers, “Oh shit, hold on.” I slam on the brakes and the tree hits. The windshield is a mess with a large limb protruding straight through and into my stomach. Strangely it doesn’t hurt and looking down I realize that the four inch wide limb has pushed between my arm and chest and through the seat behind me – now that’s lucky, I’m okay. I look to my friend, Laura in the passenger seat who saw the tree coming down and was screaming something as it fell. She’s okay too. Panicked, we look at each other and then to our friends in back. Everybody is fine – not a scratch on anyone.

I jump out of the car and start dancing and singing that I am alive. The tree landed directly on the hood and the engine is on fire, which interrupts my dance. I mention to my friends that exiting the car would be a good idea since it might blow up any second. They peel out of the car wondering what happened. The three in the back seat never saw a thing and thought we hit a deer until they step out and see a 2 ½ foot diameter trunk laying across the car and that part was halfway up the tree.

The first guy who stops has a fire extinguisher and puts out the fire. We stand there dazed as cars start piling up. A guy walks up to me and asks if anybody survived. He is as amazed as we are that we were inside the car that has folded from the impact. The saying be careful of what you wish for comes screaming home to me. I’ll have to be more specific in my wishes next time.

June 26 th – 0 miles

Just about dawn we land in St. Charles, Missouri, home of the Lewis and Clark Museum. The museum is basic but gives some interesting facts. Fifty-four people traveled in all and one Newfoundland. They used a huge keelboat. The wind was their main driving force. If no wind, men would pull guy lines along the shore. With the banks so muddy I wonder how many times they fell in. Steven Ambrose’s book Undaunted Courage is the best I’ve read on how amazing all those men were, it is a must read for any American.

We gather our dirty clothes, wash and dry them. I get a haircut, and notice a ton of sand coming out as she cuts away. It is so bad that I have to start explaining. It looks like I hadn’t had a shower in weeks; a river can do that to you. She laughs. We find an all-u-can-eat for lunch and stuff ourselves. We have to walk four miles to get there. After eating, Kent sits outside on a bench, stuffed to the gills and not able to smell food. If he does, he could explode. He is spotted by a homeless youth outreach volunteer. He thought Kent was homeless. For once it works in our favor and Bobby gives us a ride back to our canoe. We then sleep, read, and write in the park.

After going to sleep, I am awoken by a large crowd of people. My first reaction is to yell, “Hey!” I keep right on yelling it too, “Hey, hey, heeeey!” I thought they were stealing all our stuff. There are twenty of them and walking through the bushes on shore. Kent wakes up and yells that we are canoeists and that his brother is a fool adding that I was asleep too. We talk to a couple, then they all stumble off, much more to drink and they might hurt themselves.

June 27 th

We’re headed on our way to the Mississippi River, now only 28 miles away. The mileage is slow, then we hit single digits. Only a few more miles to reach our halfway point and the anticipation really starts. Goosebumps cover my body as I see the Mississippi only 40 yards away now. Suddenly, A helicopter comes into view, flies down low and circles us. I wave madly to the passengers. Then we hit the dead zone between the two rivers. This is an area where two rivers meet; the top layer is motionless but, then moving in every direction with in complete a chaos. We paddle into the Mississippi at 1:17 p.m., dance a little jig and congratulate ourselves. 1200 miles down, 1200 to go. We hoot and holler.

We have traveled the Missouri’s 600 miles in a week. We are cruising fast, but it comes at a price. Our hopes for fast water on the Mississippi should let us not move so fast and sleep on solid ground.

5

Mississippi River

“It’s lovely to live on a raft and sometimes we’d have that whole river to ourselves for the longest time.” Adventures of Huck Finn by Mark Twain

Lesson Learned: Be careful of what you wish for.

For a couple minutes, we float down taking in the sights of our new river. The width is 1½ times that of the Missouri, it must be about a mile wide at the mouth. The rivers’ banks are lined with barges and tugboats. Out of the wilderness and into industrial civilization. The barges are not moving because the locks upriver are closed due to flooding. The water we have hoped for has arrived.

Seeing the Illinois side of the river, we stop for lunch in our sixth state. Our celebration meal consists of chili, spaghetti with tomato sauce, bread and two beers a nearby fisherman gives us. The water is so flooded that a road is covered. The water goes through a 100-yard wide camping area. The latrines have four feet of water in them. It is neat going through the trees; it is like a cottonwood bayou. We see some of the first signs of the Great Flood of ’93 as we get near the shores of this massive river. We started canoeing the Poudre with 2,000 cubic feet of water per second coming down. Here we have 2,000,000 cubic feet of water per second. It’s crazy.

Our first attack of mayflies comes as we leave the camping area. They swarm around and land on everything. Each is an inch long has translucent wings and oddly tickle as they walk over us. The bags, clothes, legs, arms, paddles, and our heads have mayflies all over us, easily a few thousand on me alone.

We paddle along taking in the new sights of this massive river. An intake tower sticks out of the middle of the river. The big gothic looking structure is 75 feet tall and only fifteen feet wide. To find out more we tie up to it, and then while hanging over the water we scale an eight-foot face blocking entrance. Who’s going to arrest us out here? The tower was built in 1912. Two more ladders lead to the upper levels. Many pigeons have stayed here, as the floor is a foot deep in pigeon shit. The stairs leading to the basement are totally rotten so we stop investigating and start canoeing again.

Coming closer to St. Louis we see the skyline. Once the Gateway Arch comes into view we each let out a loud holler. My scream of, “Oh, baby” comes echoing back after about six seconds. It sounds as clear as when I yelled it. The Gateway to the West shines brilliantly over the water, beckoning to us.

Once to St. Louis, two powerboats speed past going upstream. One shouts, “New Orleans?” They all watch to see how we handle thier three-foot wake. We surf. Standing straight up we do a jig through the chop. Yeah, we were showing off a bit but hell, why not?

We make it to the Arch. Because of the floods, we tie up on the steps leading to the Arch. These steps usually lead to a road and then a parking lot for the Arch tourists. Today the parking lot can only serve a canoeist. Immediately, a crowd surrounds us asking questions. Everyone is impressed. There are fifty people looking down on us throwing questions.

“When did you start?”

“May 22 nd in Fort Collins, Colorado.” The pride seeping through.

“Where do you sleep?”

“In fields mostly or sandy beaches.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.”

“Are you really going to New Orleans? Wow!”

It’s intimidating. I’m proud that so many are interested in our little adventure. I have only had a few encounters with people besides Kent for the last six weeks, I feel weird: Scared of this mob? Proud? Tongue-tied? Happy? A caged zoo animal? The crowd grows as the questions increase. It’s cool and scary at the same time. We need to make arrangements to sleep here and safety for Kerala, so we duck out of the inquisition.

I talk to a park ranger to see if he can help store our canoe for the night. Nobody wants to take the responsibility if something happens. He is more interested in his cigarette than anything else. I try one more equally unhelpful ranger and give up. I talk to a security guard, Willard, on one of the riverboat casinos. He says that we can tie up there. The boat ramp would be pulled in, an alarm set and Willard watching the boat. It sounds great so we tie off.

While unpacking some stuff, two guys ask us where we started. Not unusual, but they seem to have more enthusiasm. It turns out, Simon and Andre´ started canoeing in Minneapolis three weeks ago. While sharing some adventures with our colleagues the captain shows up. We have to leave. The riverboat cannot take the responsibility if something goes wrong. It is terrible that we live in a society that is so scared to help because of lawsuits. Lawsuits started as a way to deter people from wronging one another. Today lawsuits keep people from helping one another. Our system is failing. For the moment, it means we have nowhere to go. St. Louis is not a safe place to leave a canoe and go find some trees to camp in for the night. We plan to head downstream and find a spot. Before Kent jumps back into the canoe, Willard calls him over.

Willard had called one of his security buddies and found a place for us all of us to dock. The only catch; “The boat is 100 yards upstream.” We can do that. Paddling furiously against the now very strong current for a few minutes, we make it to the Admiral which is being renovated into a riverboat casino. Tony, the Admiral’s security guard helps us unpack. He offers to let us sleep on board. Our camp becomes the main ballroom with a soccer field of hardwood floor on the B-deck. The washrooms are on D-deck. An elevator connects it all together. Our camp never included a washroom and it certainly never had an elevator. High class. It’s not what you know, but who you know. Thanks Willard and Tony!

To celebrate we head to the riverfront for some beers. The cheapest we find is $2.50 a bottle, too expensive for our budget! We eat dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory. For $4.15 we have a salad, all-u-can-eat bread, spaghetti with tomato sauce, and a scoop of spumoni Ice cream. You can imagine how that poor waiter felt bringing us the unlimited bread, four canoeists working hard by day can eat their weight in food at each meal it seems. Seriously, that waiter would back that up. With Simon and Andre’ we swap stories of the friendly people we met and about the horrors we were sure that we would encounter. It’s great having someone who understands intimately what we have been dealing with. They speak about giant flood issues along the Mississippi and we talk about the Platte. While our trips are similar, they are vastly different as well. Soon, we would understand the difficulties for everyone with this flood.

As we head back to the Admiral we pass the Arch. A half moon lights up through the sparkling stainless steel, with only the flooded Mississippi River on the other side. I doubt many tourists see the Arch this way, since there is usually a parking lot and road blocking a clear view of the river. This made the man-made Arch very beautiful. I would say that this picture was the 2 nd most beautiful man-made structure. The moon enhances the Arch, just as the colorful sunset enhanced the beauty of the Taj Mahal. I believe man should incorporate nature in our buildings to fit the area. Somehow this Arch, with all its’ steel and brilliance and perfect form does.

Tony lets us back in the Admiral, and then takes off with his girlfriend. We sleep restfully.

June 28 th – 8 miles

At 4:45a.m. Willard wakes us up. The workers will arrive at 5:30 a.m. We sleepily pack up and head back to the Arch steps. Tony is still off with his girlfriend. As soon as we tie off, Tony pulls up in the company truck. “You guys want to get some coffee? Shit my shift ain’t over ‘til eight,” Tony asks. “Why not?” He drives to White Castle for some cheap 31¢ burgers and coffee. A sign reads, “Hamburgers for Breakfast?” Why not? We agree and order a couple.

Listening to Tony is amusing. Seventy-five percent of what he says is bullshitting. Sometimes he contradicts himself, other times it is obvious even to himself. He’s a character that makes me laugh out loud. We have fun with this jokester and laugh later that he was ‘working’ the whole time. Tony is someone who comes into our lives only momentarily, but his presence can be felt when I think of him. I don’t want to be anything like Tony, but I could be friends with him. In life, people are very different to work with and be friends with. Sometimes you can’t have both. I would hate to work with him because he hasn’t actually worked yet. He is such a funny guy to talk to that people must feel that they have to be friends with him. On the way back I notice a parking ticket on his windshield. He says, “Shit that ain’t my ticket. This is a company truck. That’s their problem,” as he tosses the ticket and we are off. He lets us off at the Arch then sneaks back into work. I wonder how long this job will last for him.

We wait around the Arch until 8:00am, talking and playing two on two soccer on the grounds.

We take the elevator up to the top of the Arch, 630 feet up. The canoes look tiny on the Mississippi. They are the only things tied to the arches staircase. The four of us look at each of our canoes with tremendous pride. We have worked hard for this moment.

The river is immense; I have never seen such a wide river. Just getting from one side to the other could take a half an hour. Our prayers on the Platte have been answered ten-fold. Flooding continues to be in the news. All the levies and dikes are doing their jobs, so it seems as though we should get faster water and nothing else. We never bought papers and definitely didn’t watch the nightly news in our tent. We have no idea how prevalent the Flood of ’93 was, is and would become later on. When you have no previous idea of what the river normally looks like, then to you it looks normal. People would tell us that we were crazy for being out there. We’d laugh. If they would have seen us two weeks ago on the Platte, they could call us crazy and be correct. We float out here. We are now agile canoeists on a grand adventure. The Mississippi, that is the easy part. The fact that the world was watching the Mississippi causing one of the major disasters in the history of the world was unknown to us.

We leave our friends and wish them good luck on their journey to New Orleans. We hope to see each other and promise to keep an eye out.

We have lunch and return to Kerala. A crowd soon gathers around asking questions. An older gentleman slips me $5 before leaving. As we shove off a lady starts to clap, soon several people are clapping and cheering us on with their shouts. The shore is lined with people pointing and taking photos. I have such a feeling of accomplishment for the past and hope for the future. We paddle away feeling a little taller, a little stronger and much prouder.

We paddle two miles downstream. This stop is for the Anheiser Busch Brewery -. Free Beer. Insane Canoeists Handbook: rule #23, you always stop for free beer. To get there we scale a 15-foot flood control wall, fifteen sets of train tracks and hike about two miles through industrial sites. The tour lasts around an hour, blah, blah, blah, let’s get to the meat of this tour, then to the hospitality room. The bar has all their beers on tap. I drink a Michelob Dark. Not a glorious Fat Tire from New Belgium Brewery in Fort Collins, but tasty and smooth. The tables have bowls of pretzels. One of the guide girls comes over to talk to us and Kent honestly tells her, “Yeah we’ll probably leave with a bunch of these pretzels in our pockets.” I go for another Mic Dark, then grab a bowl of pretzels from another table. We finish our beers and pretzels, sitting and laughing with the guides. Trying to get around the two-beer limit, we head to a different bartender. As he hands my full Bud Dry back he says, “Nurse this one, there’s a two beer limit.” So much for being sly!

We take the same hours walk back home to Kerala.

After paddling a few miles, a storm comes in fast. We dock, but the storm quickly blows over. Now wet, we set off again and three miles later trouble really hits. The Coast Guard approaches with blue lights flashing. Are we getting pulled over? How funny would that be? We certainly are not speeding. We think they will pull around us to wherever they are heading. They don’t.

Pulling alongside they ask about approved lifejackets. We have nothing. We gave those up at Brian and Cindy’s, not much worry about needing them on the Platte. The jackets are being sent to Cairo three days away. We try to explain, but there doesn’t seem like much leeway. The two coast guard guys inform us that we must get lifejackets before continuing. They do not fine us, which could have been up to $5000. We are told to moor immediately. The dispatcher has other ideas and wants them to board us.

“Its’ a canoe, there’s no room.”

“A what?”

“A canoe, we can’t board them. There’s no room.”

“Coast Guard Patrolman Puckett, board the boat and terminate their journey.”

The dispatcher does not quite understand the small size of our craft. Tugboats and barges are the typical boats out here. The four of us are laughing at the absurd exchange.

“Then have them board you.” We can’t reach up that high. The captain shows us a channel to go in. Their powerboat is too tall to fit under the railway bridge. The dispatcher cannot understand this.

For ten minutes all we hear is, “Their journey has been terminated, they cannot continue.” I can’t believe this. How can we be prohibited from continuing on for such a stupid infraction? The law requires that each person have a life vest. It does not have to be worn, just on board. It is like having a motorcycle helmet law letting the helmet be somewhere on the bike. If a law is passed, it might as well be useful. Typical bureaucratic bullshit.

We are given our ticket.

Violation 104: Personal Floatation Device, not on board.

Unsafe Condition 126: Unsafe conditions creating especially hazardous conditions. Terminate Voyage.

We lose. Once we are moored, they take off.

Getting the lifejackets presents another problem. We set up the tent and walk into town. A storm comes rolling in dropping huge raindrops like small water balloons. Before going a ¼ mile, we are soaked. A local Café supplies us with directions to the nearest store, Grampas four miles away. We walk down the gutter with the rain still pelting down. There are no sidewalks. Who would use them? Not anybody in these parts. Cars would add some extra humiliation by spraying a sheet of water as they pass. It doesn’t matter; we can’t get any more wet or dirty.

Part way to Grandpas an Aldi store lights up against the dark sky. We run the last 50 yards to see if it is open. We ask an attendant outside. “For another five minutes.” We bounce inside to buy our cheap food. The clerk must never have seen such loyal customers as us. We walk to Grandpas with cans, hot dogs, spaghetti, etc. in our pockets. The jingling cans make me sound like a horse trotting.

At Grandpas we buy our $4.97 Disney character lifejackets and start the long four mile trek back. At least the rain has stopped. We have already walked ten miles today and our joints start to hurt, so I stick my thumb out trying to hitch a ride. Many cars slow down and turn, nobody stops.

Back at the tent we make a big dinner and fall asleep.

June 29 th – 48 miles

After waking, we repack all our bags. Each bags’ contents have slowly deteriorated. Everything is scattered about. It’s tough living solely out of large bags. It seems as though whenever you want something, it’s always on the bottom. We stick our head deep inside. It’s pitch black so our hands paw around trying to find whatever it was. We call it the hassle factor.

Sometimes opening a bag and getting chap stick to cover our lips is too difficult. The hassle factor wins. I would rather deal with cracked lips than exert energy to get the bag, open it, rummage around, close the bag, put it back and get back into paddling rhythm. We must do it all the time so if we forget some chore or thing its’ frustrating.

We finish our spring cleaning, pack everything up and shove off.

Leaving St. Louis is hectic. Lines of barges are going up and down the river. We constantly have to stick close to parked barges. Tugboats can then pop out from behind the barges straight into our path. Everybody has the right of way before us. I bet many of them have no idea that we are down below. Sometimes we have to dart across the river in-between two barges. The front of the boat rises up over the crest of a wake. In the trough, the bow submerging slightly lets water pour in.

A ferry landing appears on our right at about dinnertime which looks good to us; we paddle hard across the current to make the landing. Immediately, people start asking the usual questions. A minivan full of people drives off to get some fresh deer sausage. Another car’s occupants slip us $5, then $10 more. It’s crazy. They then ask if we would like some McDonalds food. Of course! They return with two Big Macs, two hamburgers, two large fries, and two large drinks. We eat as a crowd of fifteen people watch, while others stay in their cars just looking. We feel like zoo animals. Hungry zoo animals. The food disappears fast. We normally eat twice as much food, but we’ll never let them know that.

This is a wonderful treat; nobody could understand how much food we need. Our appetites are abated for a while, and then we can make another dinner in a few hours. Another lady drives up with her three kids after she had heard of our arrival. It’s wonderful to have people so enthusiastic about our trip. They all want to help so much. The lady with three kids leaves but returns just before we shove off to go downriver to a better campsite our new friends have told us about. She brings a 12-pack of beer and two sacks of groceries: two pounds cookies, Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Ritz Crackers, two loaves bread, pound bacon, two packs hot dogs, four cans of Vienna sausages, and two pounds of chicken and dumplings. St. Genevieve turns out to be the most generous town we would encounter.

We make it to the marina and spot some people from the ferry landing. They had heard we have never tried “Oberle Dog.” Immediately, two “Oberle Dogs” are generously given to us. Oh yeah, more food. This place is crazy. I love it! Why all these people felt the need to help us eludes me, but I am sure thankful for their generosity.

Another adventurer is camped at the marina. He is attempting to swim the length of the Mississippi. Every summer since 1987, he swims. Two canoes connected together follow him down river. He swims for four hours a day covering fifteen miles. He keeps trying to recruit Kent and me for his crew. It might have been interesting. He is so totally into himself that we do not even want to talk with him. Man, this guy can talk about himself. He hasn’t asked us to call him ‘the Great One’ yet. He probably will soon. He says his crew of people usually only does it for a day, then quit. It seems obvious to as why. We hope we don’t come across that way.

We drink some beer and fall peacefully asleep.

While we are sleeping, our newest friend writes a letter to our mother.

Mrs. Modesitt 6-29-93

I am writing you a note to tell you we met your two sons early this evening he the town of Ste. Genevieve, Missouri when they came to shore in their canoe. We had a nice visit with them and went to a McDonald’s and got them some burgers and fries to eat. I told them being a mother myself I was sure that eating out of a can as long as they have, anything else had to taste better. We really enjoyed talking to them and listening to their tales of their trip. My husband and my mother were with me and we told them being parents ourselves you were wondering how they are. They look fine and have a beautiful tan and they told us they lost a little weight with their diet. So I thought I would write and tell you that you have 2 great boys and daring too. I give them a lot of credit. You can be proud of them. When they get home tell them “Hi” from us because we think they are “A okay.”

Mr and Mrs. Oswald Gegg and Mrs. Mary Kline

June 30 th – 40 miles

In the morning I walk into town to mail some letters. Some beautiful circa 1765 restored log homes line the main street. I play my harmonica to and from town. Kent is interviewed for the local paper while I am gone.

After a few strokes I have a sharp pain under my armpit. I try to push on. The second time it unmercifully bends me over at the waist. I can barely hold on to the paddle. I stop paddling, but I can’t do much else. I try to read but I can’t hold a book. I am destined to be the dead weight in front. This sucks up here.

At midday we spot André’s canoe. He is in town preparing to quit the river. Simon has quit in St. Louis and headed off to travel somewhere else. The wind on a solo canoeist is hell, he says. We understand. We eat some lunch with him, and then he decides to try to make it to Cairo, Illinois with us.

We stop at a commercial campsite for dinner. The operator, Fred Houston, let’s us spend the night for free. This includes a luxurious hot water shower. I have bathed so many times by the river that the shower feels a little weird. Weird and wonderful and hot and clean and hot and wonderfully weird.

July 1 st – 55 miles

I still cannot paddle without pain shooting down my left arm. We jokingly call these heart attacks. The pain is tremendous. I have painkillers given to me by a doctor back home, which could help. I want to save them for a desperate situation. Right now I am not dying…I just feel like I want to die to make the pain go away. It hurts but there is nothing I can do about it.

We stop at the dock of Cape Girardo, Missouri for lunch. Kent and Andre´ head off to buy a tent for Andre and groceries. I stay behind to fix lunch. As I am cutting potatoes a News Cameraman drives up. He was going to film the high water. He then drives off to pick up a reporter. They return to interview me for the nightly news, a CBS Channel that covers Indiana, Kentucky, and Missouri. They ask all the usual questions about the trip. Then as the crowd builds up like it usually does, the crowd takes over the interview and starts asking the questions. I am used to the crowds of people but not the TV camera. It’s crazy and overwhelming and exciting. We made the news. Cool. The crew waits for an hour to get all three of us eating our potatoes and bacon with chili and pork and beans mixed. But then a body was found they heard over the police radio and the police were not talking to them. Our interview has just been bumped. She says they would still do something but not the interview. The reporter even promises to send mom and dad a copy of the B-roll and newscast. (She didn’t)

An hour later Kent and Andre´ return and we eat. The store was four miles away. Once again somebody gave us poor information. It’s not too far, just down the road at King’s Highway and Independence. She probably never walked more than a block in her life. Her distances are measured with a car. Nobody ever seems to know distances. A short walk becomes an eight mile unplanned hike. They are bummed we missed the impromptu interview too.

I can paddle once again in the afternoon. It feels good to be useful once again. We float often because the current moves so fast.

We stop for the evening on a sandbar 40 yards long. It has beautiful, soft white sand. Deer walk up in the dark. We can hear their distinctive “Hugoh” as they walk right into us and are frightened away. A campfire is made and hot dogs and beer sausage cooked. I feel guilty eating the deer sausage with so many running around here. The campfire doesn’t feel so good. When you are already sweating from the heat, a fire is not much fun.

July 2 nd – 40 miles

After packing up in the morning I go for a swim. On the third stroke I pull my shoulder muscle again. This time the pain is constantly there. A dull pain to remind me I am injured, there is nothing I can do. I am dead weight sitting in the bow.

I try to paddle. After barely dipping the paddle in, the pain shoots. It starts as an intense sharp pain behind the left shoulder. It shoots down the arm to the elbow. After the elbow the pain trails off until it reaches the fingers. The fingers become seized. I can’t even move them. They are still loosely clutching the paddle. My arm will not raise or lower. It stays rigid with pain. I must grab the paddle with my right arm to bring it aboard. The whole thing lasts only seconds. But like a bad car crash everything moves slowly. Milliseconds seem like minutes. Afterwards, the dull reminding pain continues.

Life becomes a hassle. I try to read. The pain increases until my fingers have sharp pain in each finger. I release my grip. The pain slowly fades away. I try to write. Gripping a pencil is much worse than gripping a book. I stop writing.

If I am not writing or reading I become more aware of my surroundings. Mostly, I become aware of Kent. His paddle hits the water with a slap. It sounds angry. The next two strokes do not sound mad but are tense. He switches sides. A gust of air leaves his mouth, “Ugh.” The paddle often hits the gunwale as he switches. This “bang” intensifies the feeling of anger. Every five minutes the paddling stops for a few seconds.

I wonder what this break in paddling means. Questioning of what his thoughts are race through my head. Is he annoyed that I am not helping? Does he want to stop? Is he having fun? Can I help in any way? Will a paddle knock me in the head releasing his anger on me? The paddle slaps the water. The process continues. I can’t even see him, but I know his paddle stroke. Something is wrong.

I know the answers to all these questions. The sounds are not anger; it is from hard work. The canoe does not glide through the water as it does when two people paddle. The canoe lumbers grudgingly. The water seems to be a pool of mud. Each stroke must be hard to keep the momentum. The hard stroke turns the canoe quickly. To compensate he switches sides. Three strokes left. Switch. Three strokes right. Switch. Three strokes left. Switch. The never-ending process.

A barge rounds a bend. To avoid it, we must cross its path. If it comes too near we will be sucked under; without doubt we will be killed. My help is needed to cross. It will only be temporary though. There will be more barges, more crossings. I must heal first. The feeling of worthlessness returns when all I can do is sit. Sit and watch the barges approach. Condemned to do nothing and making Kent do all the work. I hate my new position.

We pull into Cairo, IL around noon. Mail has been sent here along with the real life preservers. Perhaps in spite, our Disney jackets have stayed in their protective cellophane since we bought them. They are completely useless the way we have stored them, but we are following the law albeit grudgingly.

The Army Corps of Engineers is also located here. We break through the six-foot tall grass and reach a road, left or right? The town cannot be seen over the fields and tall cottonwoods in between. We choose left. Two older black gentlemen come driving down the road toward us. We flag down the old faded blue Datsun to stop and ask directions. We should have chosen right. Damn. The driver offers to drive us into town and we happily accept. The bed is full of dead cottonwood branches and by the looks of it all, they have been there since last fall. We jump on top of the pile. He drives down the gravel road and swerves here and there into the grass. He is simply paying more attention to his conversation with his passenger than the road. The old faded pickup, the long brown gravel road, green corn fields, and tall looming cottonwoods all have the feel of a simple southern town. The pickup turns left off of the gravel road. The atmosphere changes abruptly.

My picture of a small southern town is still there, it’s just that this one is dead. Cairo had once been a thriving river town – It no longer thrives. The main source of income, the river, has dwindled, maybe disappeared forever. People no longer need the Mississippi highway to travel. A small town often has one main source of economic prosperity, where as a large city has thousands. Cairo is now crumbling away. The houses are rundown, the yards unkempt. The main street is worse. Buildings in need of paint twenty years ago go still go unpainted. Half the stores have gone out of business, the shelves bare and dusty, unwanted items strewn about the floor. Several broken windows dot every store, life is not simple here; it is difficult. Hard to make a living. Job security is a thing of the past. The pickup stops in front of the post office. Although it is in good condition and well kept, it looks old, decaying. If this town were a horse, it would be shot and put out of its misery, but it is not. Life is barely visible. It is a slow merciless death.

We pick up our lifejackets and news from home. I read several birthday cards which is coming up on the 3rd. We eat some cashews dad sent to us. The Army Corp of Engineers is closed or they may just be off for lunch. We head to Big Andy’s drive-in for the same. The town has an eerie feeling. After lunch the Army Corp is still closed. A policeman stops as we head through town. He gives us a ride back. We’ve had good luck today with rides. We smile. Canoeing is difficult enough; the ten mile hikes to get supplies can be exhausting.

After some paddling and some floating, we near Columbus State Park, Kentucky, our 7 th state. A commercial fisherman gives Andre and me a ride into the State Park. It is $8.50 to pitch a tent, a ridiculous price. We often stay at beautiful private sandbars, or secluded banks full of wildlife. Pay to camp? Hundreds of loud people running around. Loud children, drunk fathers. No thank you. We choose to camp by the river. Andre has been staying at campsites the whole way, so this is a little different for him. He wonders where we can use a bathroom. I explain the cat technique of digging a hole and burying the feces. He looks like his grand adventure has become even better. He is a strange one for sure – just like us.

A couple comes down to the river in a beat up car and starts a conversation. Bill watches us dock. Beers are instantly extended as we tie up the boats. He is the talkative vociferous type. His favorite adjectives are fuckin’, son-of-a-bitch, shit, damn and FUCKIN’ and all sentences include at least one of these words. We talk by camp about tugboats and line boats and of course the Mississippi. Bill’s wife Becky gives us a second beer and we set up the tents. Kent needs to use a phone and Bill offers his home phone. I did not plan to go, but as Kent leaves he gives me a look. A simple look that conveys so much, I can read his mind. “Good bye, I’ll be dead the next time you see me. These two are kidnapping me. You just wave good-bye. Not caring.” Before the car pulls away, I yell for them to stop, we would die together.

Our worries have no merit. Bill and Becky are generous giving people. They were not going to harm us. At their home more beers are offered and drank. Becky starts to fill a grocery sack with food for us. As more beer is consumed more food goes into the sack. Peanut butter, jelly, iced tea, doughnuts, ½ watermelon, a salad, tomatoes, 3-pounds of Elk burger, two sticks butter, Pringles, 2-pounds of sugar, 2-quarts of homemade tomato juice, and some toiletry articles (shampoo, mouthwash, toothpaste, toilet paper, two bars soap). I wonder at this point about our appearance, because my nose has effectively turned off so that I can no longer smell myself, Kent or the river. She then insists on us taking some pills ¾sleeping pills, downers. No, they were not perfect citizens. In a month, they are to be sentenced to jail for selling drugs. Good people that have made some bad choices.

They return us to the tent and we wish each other well. I laugh at how our trip can touch such different people. Once again it makes me realize that we are all here together. We can help or hinder each other – it’s our choice.

July 3 rd

My birthday, I am now 23.

We have landed in New Madrid. All sorts of people have come to the riverbank to see the fireworks show. The town apparently received a discount on the fireworks for doing it on the 3 rd instead on the 4 th. Fireworks for my birthday, that works for me. It’s a good show but all the trash left afterwards is depressing. Wrappers and bottle rocket sticks and cardboard carcasses and food wrappers now cover the bank. Was this a celebration or a massacre? I suppose it depends on your point of view. Next time, I hope people don’t litter so much on my birthday – let’s trash some other day.

We walk into town to do some birthday celebrating at a bar. A table of men recognizes me from the TV interview the other day. They buy us beers as we swap stories. We head to another bar and make some more friends there. Kent finds some free blackened catfish and is devouring it down.

Late in the evening, the bartender finds out it’s my birthday and buys me an Alabama Slammer. I tell her that I’ve had enough and don’t need it. She makes it anyway. I drunkenly thank her and proceed to gingerly sip my drink. She picks it up and says ‘you don’t drink it like that!’ slams it onto the table with her hand covering the top, uncovers the now bubbling concoction and thrusts it into my nervous hand. ‘Slam it!’ she orders. Like a good fool, I do as told and slam it down. Now, I’m feeling queasy – real drunk. I go outside for some fresh air. Kent finds me a while later face down in the gutter.

“The bartender has closed the bar and is giving us a ride home to Kerala.”

“Great”

We paddle through the days with ease using the current to whisk us along. Life as a canoeist has become easy.

July 4 th

I have been trying to grasp why exactly I needed to go on this trip. I wanted to see wildlife in its natural setting, learn my trade first hand. That is not why though, I wanted to go on an adventure, travel by a different means. Leave the cars, trains, and busses behind. Move back to a time that required self-propulsion. Go deep into lands where other tourists cannot reach or choose not to because of the hardships involved. Busses and air-conditioning and hot meals and hotels confine most people to a certain path, but not me. I can go where I choose. All I need is a river to float upon, a road to pedal on, or a path to walk upon. I can be free to go wherever I choose. These paths of freedom sound adventurous and somewhat romantic, but I know the hardships will be difficult at times.

After seeing India, I realized there were many lands for me to discover. India had it all with jungles, deserts, cities and rural towns. I remember vividly the sunsets, landscapes, and hillside views. My camera captured many of these places and scenes. A picture is only satisfactory to one sense – sight. The other senses are mute. When I see my photographs the other senses remember too. The smell of urine, dung, curry and moist plants. The sound of horns honking or the trumpet of an elephant. The taste of humidity in the jungle. The dry sand in my mouth crossing the desert. The feel of the crumbling sidewalk. The hot earth beneath my feet. These sensory recollections bring me back to the time the picture was taken. I want to see and capture with my camera these beautiful places. Was this the reason?

The combination of seeing wildlife, romantic adventurous travel, and beautiful scenery certainly caused a desire to travel more. I have more than desire. It was a need. A deep down need that finally must be answered. I was not sure precisely why I must go. I just knew that I should go now. I am still young, healthy, well fit, and with few strings attached to me. I planned and started off on my journey still without a satisfactory answer to why.

I knew that while in India I learned a great deal from people. They have new ideas. New ideas that formulated new opinions and thoughts. Ideas that totally reshaped my American educated thinking. Maybe, I just wanted to teach myself, the only way that I could learn – first hand. Maybe, I’m just really hungover and am trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing.

We paddle through the days with ease using the current to whisk us along. Life as a canoeist has become easy. We no longer keep a close eye on the mileage, we know we are making time now it’s freeing.

July 15

As we are paddling along a fellow pulls up in his speedboat and greets us.

“You guys know that you aren’t doing anything unique – right? People do this all the time.”

“And hello, to you.”

“What’s your point anyway?”

“I have never done this, so it is unique to me. Have you ever canoed the length of the Mississippi?”

“No, it’s already been done.”

At this point I could have taken the time to educate the poor fellow, but sometimes an asshole is an asshole and we should just let them be so that they can wallow in their own ignorance. I could have told him about my own families history with the Mississippi River but choose not to do so.

Charles Byrns Modesitt in 1818 established a ferry across the Wabash River in Terre Haute Indiana and then in 1823 advertised his flatboats ready to carry produce to New Orleans. Not only do I know this trip is not unique in exploration, I know it is the following of many paddle strokes in what was the main highway of the time. I am following something that people used to do as commonplace. Today the ease of cars and planes have taken over. Just one of those things that used to be common, but for one reason or another has become a more unique act. A hundred and fifty years ago we would have met many people in canoes and other craft going up and down the river. We saw Simon and Andre and that’s it.

If something is unique to ourselves, then that in and of itself is worthy of our efforts and desires. If somebody wanted you to play some football with John Elway quite possibly the greatest quarterback ever (Go Broncos), would you reply ‘I’m sorry others have already met John before so why would I want to throw a football with him?’ If you were given a chance to walk on the moon, would you reply, ‘Neil Armstrong has already been there, it’s not unique, no thanks.’ I wouldn’t. The fact that many adventures have already been done by others is almost meaningless to our own selves. I want to experience things firsthand and derive my own opinions from those experiences. Nothing is more powerful than firsthand experience. I can read about the taste of cool lemonade on a hot summer day, but that is nothing compared to tasting cool lemonade on a hot summer day. Experience is vital to thought. Thought is vital to experience. During my entire journey, my goals have all been achieved by others previously. Who cares? All education is about learning what someone else has figured out. We are learning different things.

The man speeds away in his motorboat. I am better off for meeting him. He has made me think about Firsts and uniqueness and what it means to me – not much. I may never be the first to do something, but I am going to do a great many things. I wonder if he has gained from our meeting. As with any meeting, to gain knowledge you must first listen to others and refine your own thoughts. Somehow, I don’t think he listened.

July 18 th

We ask everybody about their land. One farmer said that the river was forecast to crest over his land in two weeks. “You must keep on going because if you don’t plant, you’re out of luck. If the river floods your fields, you’re out of luck. So the only choice is to keep going. The reports say all my hard work will be for naught. But you have to keep going.” Admiring those hardworking people, and learning from them, is a great experience.

July 20 th

The days float away as we read in Kerala and she follows the currents for us. When we paddle, we can make many miles fast. While we float, the currents carry us further with ease. We read books a day relaxing in the sun, floating…floating south.

July 27 th

Rounding a bend and seeing Baton Rouge, Louisiana shows us that our river has changed appearances once again. Two months ago on the Poudre River in Fort Collins a canoe would be the only conceivable boat. Here the main boats are ocean going freighters. Intimidating doesn’t come close to describing my thoughts as I see these goliaths moving slowly up and down the river. They tower over us as we pass one another.

Locals have dubbed this area ‘Cancer Alley’ and with the look of all the oil floating in iridescent colors on top of the brown Mississippi I can think of perhaps one reason for the sicknesses. I don’t feel like I am on a natural river anymore. This place is a sewer for man’s desires, needs and wants. Damn, the consequences. We have no desire to jump in for a refreshing break like we usually do – who wants to bath in gasoline?

July 28 , 1993

Kent and I make it to New Orleans. The 2,400-mile journey took 9½ weeks and was quite demanding – both physically and emotionally. We learned a lot as the river grew and changed but, even more important, we gained a respect for the river itself and the people surrounding it.

Physically demanding meant averaging 22,000 paddle strokes a day. This produced a considerable strain on our bodies. This strain caused Kent to pull a shoulder muscle, which after “healing” snapped a second time. I also pulled a shoulder muscle and now enjoy tendonitis in both hands. Pain prohibits me from writing.

To deal with these shoulder injuries, the healthy person paddled alone while the other rested. “Rested” is used in a relative sense. Sitting in a canoe rocking left and right, back and forth, does not make an ideal recuperation. The tendonitis would have required too much time to heal sufficiently, so I used my own form of immobilization to speed the process and continue on at the same time. By taping the least damaged hand of the day to the paddle, I literally became “one” with the canoe, and the adventure goes on.

While physical ailments made life difficult at times, it was the emotional roller coaster ride that was hardest to deal with. One example was when we were eagerly anticipation the confluence of the North and South Platte Rivers. The Platte should be named the Flatte, as loss of the water to irrigation makes it wide and shallow. We thought the combination would end the difficulties associated with dragging a canoe through two inches of water to find water maybe two feet deep somewhere in a meandering stream. We were wrong!

The joining of the rivers made an ideal location for a hydroelectric canal, at least in some people’s minds. All the water except that which can escape through cracks in the dam was diverted into the canal. Incidents like this acted to bring us from a state of hope and anticipation to one of despair.

Fortunately, times like this were counteracted by emotional highs. When finishing the Missouri River and entering the Mississippi, a helicopter circled low over our heads, seemingly congratulating us on our journey. Although we didn’t see much wildlife after the Missouri River, nature continued to inspire us with picturesque sunrises and sunsets.

To help us deal with the physical and emotional obstacles, people emerged and were important in overcoming those hardships. This aspect of the journey is another thing that made the trip so enjoyable and such a wonderful experience. As we reached the Missouri River, more people populated the banks, and some of them couldn’t have been more helpful. People washed our clothes, fed us, brought us home with them, bought groceries, and drove us around town. Most important, they encouraged us to go on. The fact that people would go so far out of their way to help a couple of complete strangers reassured our faith in people and moved us forward.

One such example occurred on the Mississippi. We have been out of drinking water for a day and have seven miles to go before reaching a town. Over the horizon came a boat full of people full of congratulations, encouragement, Dr. Pepper, and donuts. This “gift from heaven” not only helped us to Baton Rouge, but also on to our final destination.

The river changed considerably over the course of our journey. The Platte and its numerous spillways and dams continued to give us trouble until we reached the Missouri. The Missouri had plenty of water and good speed but also initiated us into the world of river commerce. Barge traffic became common but assured us that we’d have enough water to continue to New Orleans.

To make up for lost time on the Platte, we paddled 590 miles down the Missouri in six days. This required us to become part of the canoe. We learned to sleep in the moving canoe. We learned to cook meals in the canoe. We literally never left the canoe for days. When we did leave it, we learned to run from it. Fortunately, we always returned.

We met the Mississippi River just above St. Louis. The size of the river immediately overwhelmed us. Feeling insignificant, one-half mile from either shore, we experienced the true power of the river. These days on the Mississippi brought us back to the Huck Finn era. Our hard paddling was now broken up with lazy floats in the sun, swimming in the river, and playing on logs as they drifted by. This is a life everyone should experience, even if only for a short time.

You’ve seen reports on the Flood of 1993. (This could be partially our fault – an answer to prayers on the Platte.) We preceded the peak flood and, therefore, we didn’t see any major destruction of towns. But many fields of cotton and beans were submerged. As we passed by, we felt for the farmers along the river. But the flooding didn’t affect the canoeing much. With the increase in water, the river actually traveled faster with no increase in turbulence.

Sprinting for an eddy so that we miss a freighter coming upstream we see a glove sticking out of the water. The whole hand sticks out points to the sky. Because of the oil and muddy water we can’t see if it is attached to the rest of the body. It certainly looks like it is. We gingerly approach with apprehension. We don’t want to find a body, but we don’t want to leave this poor person here either. I poke my paddle at the glove and it bobs down and back up which only scares me more. Probing deeper I see that it is only a glove. We are relieved. Towing a body into New Orleans would change the end of our trip considerably. We paddle on.

As we pass a large Navy ship, I look up in awe at its’ size and power. I would hate to come up against this thing in a fight. But then again, I would doubt that they could see Kerala from there anyway. Near the end of the boat I see two sailors waving at us. I wave back. Then they stand at full attention and saluted us.Us! Their actions blow me away. We were just out here doing some canoeing and they were out there protecting my freedom and they were saluting us. It brought home to me that although this wasn’t a unique trip – it is different. They make me feel special and different and honored. This has been a worthwhile trip. Respect can come in many forms and today it was the simple salute from two sailors. The feeling is wonderful.

As Kent and I near New Orleans the river traffic increases with more barges, more freighters; we must always get out of their way. Horns starts blaring. Loud! And apparently, at us. Dashing to the left bank and away from another ocean-going freighter we realize that we ran a red light. We didn’t even know there were light crossings here. It makes sense with all the traffic, but it feels more like a road than a river. Kent and I have made it. Our Journey together is ending. We pull over for the last time at a pier in downtown New Orleans.

As I sit in New Orleans, I look back fondly on the last 2½ months on the river, reminiscing about the hardships but also about the valuable positive aspects of the trip – the friendships, the wildlife, and the river itself. I now look forward to the next leg of the journey—bicycling to Florida and discovering a whole new means of travel.

Kent and I meet Molly who will be traveling with me for a little bit. She drove my sisters car with my bike and hers; Kent will drive the car and canoe back. Being in New Orleans is hectic. Kent gets in an accident on the highway, hitting a car with our upturned canoe on the roof. The woman finds it hilarious to have been in an accident with a canoe on the highway. Our fault and therefore a bit less hilarious.

That night, while camping in a baseball field dugout, I left to use a bathroom. A policeman leaving his home to go to work spotted me. Before I know it, he has a gun pointed at my head and is yelling for me to get up against a tree. I comply and it takes a fair amount of explaining for him to understand how all this gear and three people were using the small car. I don’t know what confused him more, our trip or all our gear with a canoe and bikes and all sorts of camping gear. He accepts my answers finally and leaves us alone.

We sort out the gear that I will be taking with me and what will be going back with Kent. My drybags switch to panniers. The large 2-burner Coleman stove is switched out for a small MSR single burner stove. I will no longer have a cooler, but since stores are so easy to get to I can purchase food more often.