A Week on the Mississippi Part 2

Thursday November 17th    Day 90

We hit Cape Girardeau this afternoon after a day of heavy barge traffic.  They were lined up coming up and down river.  We could at times see 4 barges down river and the same lined up behind us.  The previous evening we had noticed several barges pulled over to the bank and in Cape Girardeau we learned from a tug worker that a tug had hit a wing dam and four barges were floating free.  As a result traffic was called to a halt in the area while the four loose barges were rounded up.  The barge traffic today was most likely a result of that traffic halt.

Cape G was the first town we hit with a flood wall and gates. We walked around town and hit the brewery. The brewer, Mike, was behind the bar and turned out to be a great guy.  He bought us two rounds of beer and filled our water jugs. Offered us a place to stay and when we left was trying to figure out a way to send us down river with a gallon of beer. 

We camped on the other side of the river and as we were crossing over a barge lit us up with it's spotlight.  It was under the bridge and heading straight for us.  We had missed it because it's lights blended in with the bridge lights.  Paddled hard and fast to get out of the shipping lanes.  Made it in good time but definitely gave us a start. 

Friday November 18th    Day 91

Paddled back across the river to Cape G for coffee at the Cup & Cork and breakfast at Patty Lou's diner.  A little place off the track with great biscuits and some good style.

South winds i.e. headwinds were predicted strong.  15 mph hour with gusts of 33 mph. Standing on the shore getting ready to push off the wind was howling straight up the river.  We hit some occasional heavy wave action and took some good waves over the bow. On the lakes we took some much larger waves without taking any water overboard but in some ways the bigger waves are easier to take.  On the big lakes wind waves would build to between 3 and 6+ feet high but there was enough distance between each wave peak for the boat to ride over the top and back down into the trough before hitting the next wave.  On the river when the waves get bad they are shorter in height and the troughs are minimal.  The result is the canoe rides up and over the first or even the second big wave but the next one the bow of the canoe just dives directly into.  Today we took several good waves over the bow and had to stop in protected water to bail out the boat a couple times.  We paddled for 2.5 hours to earn 8 miles when we were forced to shore by winds so strong progress was no longer possible.  We sat for 2 hours until the wind had settled down a bit.  Got back on the water for 2 hours and knocked out 12 more miles. 

We found a pretty well protected spot just in time for the wind to die.  While sitting on camp a barge lit us up with it's spot light and just left it on us.  Dick.

Saturday November 19th   Day 92

Paddled through a huge S-bend most of the day with strong south winds.  Because of the alignment of the bend we were protected from the wind most of the day except for the first hour and the last hour which were total morale killers.  There is little in the life of a river paddler more demoralizing than a strong headwind.  There is nothing to do but keep paddling and it just continues to drive against you holding you up and turning every foot of progress into a fight.  First the muscles start to ache, to tire, and the arms begin to get heavy but soon the joint pain begins, the sharp grinding pain of irrepairable damage being done to ligaments, tendons, and cartilage as the will demands more than the body can provide.

Right at the last hour of day light just upriver from the Cairo bridge a tug passed us coming downriver forcing us to the left bank.  Further downriver was a tug with barges idling on the left bank and another on right.  Campsites were limited but we didn't want to camp next to an idling tug which could be there for an hour or for 12 hours.  So to find a campsite we crossed the river 4 times and finally found a serviceable spot downstream from the bridge. 

Sunday November 20th   Day 93

On the water at 8:20 am with rain beginning what is supposed to be a 3 day storm.  It rained/misted most of the day with sporadic breaks.  The wind was supposed to calm but stayed at 5-10 mph from the south all day. The craziest thing was the fog.  We took off in the morning with decent visibility but as the day progressed the fog thickened. 

It's a wild experience paddling a big river in the fog. One loses sense of time and space.  It is as if one is outside of time, expecting Charon to appear poling across the River Styx, his boat loaded with an ethereal fare.  It is of an outside of body experience, as if existence has been suspended and the soul set free to wander.

We were following the shipping channel buoy to buoy to know where we were and were passed by a tug.  It quickly disappeared from sight in the fog and I was commenting on the surreal situation when another barge materialized out of the fog heading directly for us.  We headed to the nearby right bank and moments later the barge passed us on the left a short distance away.  The wheelhouse door opened and the pilot stepped outside in shorts and t-shirt to wave and take a photo of us before disappearing into the fog.

The fog continued to thicken and we continued to travel buoy to buoy. When there was no buoy in sight we kept to what we believed was downriver.  We could no longer see either bank and visibility would be measured in feet.  Our senses were keyed to the slightest disruption in the usual, listening and searching for any discrepancy of movement or sound that might hint at an oncoming barge or wingdam. We decided to head to shore but which shore to hit? How to not hit a wingdam? Find a campsite? Luck

We paddled towards the right bank and suddenly the wind picked up clearing the fog immediately surrounding us and there on the right was a huge beach hundreds of yards long. We followed it to the bank and found a perch in the trees protected from the wind at the downstream edge of the sandbar. 

About 12:30 am the thunderstorm hit.  The rain poured down assaulting the walls of my tent.  It seemed to last for hours, probably minutes, perhaps all night as I drifted in between sleep and wakefulness half worried about the tent, half worried about the integrity of my tent.  Morning arrived with a slight drizzle and a grey sky. 

A Week on the Mississippi Part 1

Monday November 14

After spending the weekend with old friends in St. Louis we hit the river again Monday morning.  McKinney drove us down to our put in and helped us unload and then we were off, on the water at 10:30 am. The day would result in us spending 5 hours on the water beating our way through a still 16-35 mph head wind and dodging the ample barge traffic as we progressed 25 miles through commercial St. Louis.  When it comes to canoes on big, open water wind is the greatest obstacle.  Even a tailwind can be stressful but headwinds and sidewinds will turn a pleasant activity into a fight.  Throw in steady barge traffic and you're pretty much in a miserable situation. 

To make matters worse we hadn't eaten that morning while focused on getting back on the water.  Then between the wind and the barges which requires the utmost physical and mental concentration we never stopped once on the water.  Paddling for 5 hours on a stomach full of coffee and little else is never a good idea and we hit camp with a hunger.  For dinner we cooked up what we like to call the Denny's scramble which consists of potatoes, green peppers, hot peppers, onion, and whatever meat we happen to have on hand (Jimmy Dean Hot Sausage) thrown together in a skillet and fried. Wrap that in a tortilla with Tapatio hot sauce and some pepper and you have one delicious dinner. 

I figured out while we were on the lakes that we eat somewhere between 3,000 and 4,000 calories a day (not including beer).  Even with all those calories we have been losing weight but gaining upper body strength.  At the same time our legs have been shriveling up into nothing due to 7-10 hours a day of sitting in a canoe and the other hours of the day sitting in camp or sleeping.  Looking forward to a little hiking and biking when all this is over but gonna have to take things slow for sure. 

Tuesday November 15, 2011

Started the morning with a couple cups of coffee, bacon, eggs, and some rodent chewed bread (gotta contain the baked goods better).  For most of the trip we had been limiting ourselves to one cup of coffee in the morning but recently have often been indulging in a second cup.  It was as a time saving device that was primarily for the lakes where we were making tops of 3 mph. 

We pushed off into a headwind but only about half as strong as Monday's.  It was supposed to become sunny but it stayed overcast and cool all day.  While paddling we were passed by 11 working tugs pushing between 1 and 24 barges.  Traffic is way busier here than on the Missouri where we only saw a few tugs during the entire 730 miles of channelized, commercial river.  We're pretty sure this was because of the summer flooding.  The river was flooded for 3-4 months with businesses closed and often flooded out, and thousands of homes flooded many of which we saw in various stages of wrecked along the bank.  The river destroyed the Army Corps of Engineers efforts at controlling it and every tug we saw was an Army Corps tug working to rechannelize the Missouri.  My guess is it's closed off to commercial traffic and will be for quite awhile. 

In the late afternoon, just as we were looking for a campsite we came around a bend to a huge sand and gravel operation that sprawled for miles, followed by a coal operation, and then a ferry.  We had to paddle for another hour and into darkness to get passed it all and out of earshot.  Paddling at night on the Mississippi is not anywhere near as safe or pleasurable as on the Missouri.  Too much barge traffic and too many partipartially submerged rock walls used to control the flow of the river. As a result we were looking hard for a place to pull over and nearly ran into one of those walls. Acrtually scraped the bottom of the Betty B before we realized it was there.

In the distance we saw a beach and headed for it. As we approached it looked like a perfect spot. Big, flat, and sheltered from the wind by large trees. It was unfortunately already taken by a group of hunters who had tents set up and a pontoon boat tied off on shore. We proceeded on into the night. About a half mile down we found another sandbar on the same side of the river as the hunters and took it. Set up camp, at a spaghetti dinner and crawled into our tents shortly before 8 pm exhausted having paddled 45 miles through the day.

Wednesday November 16

Forecast was for N winds at 8 mph with gusts of 15 but instead we got East winds with gusts of more than 15. Result was instead of the tailwinds we were hoping for we were stuck with side winds all day long. Made good miles but they were a hard fought and exhausting 35 miles.

We stopped in Chester, Il the home of Popeye to take a look around. We were hoping to find a little store to pick up a few things but it seems all the stores have moved out to the highway. A few little shops downtown but nothing we were looking for. Though we did eat lunch at a little diner with a lunch special consisting of homemade turkey and dressing with mashed potatoes and gravy. Delicious!

We camped in a little cove on the outside of a bend directly in the commercial lanes and between two navigation markers. Barge traffic was going directly by us and it was a little eery because as they came into the bend it looked like they were coming straight for us. To navigate at night the barges use spotlights and go from navigation marker to navigation marker. Since we were in between two of them we kept getting lit up by the spotlights as the tug captain searched the bank for the markers

The River Dance

The Sad Side of Lewis and Clark

Before beginning this journey I picked up a copy of the Journals of Lewis and Clark thinking it would be an interesting read while paddling down the river they traveled in opening up the west to settlement. It quickly settled itself into the bottom of a dry bag and has remained there, safely nestled among unused winter gear. I have on occasion considered the possibility of digging it out but the desire is not there. Not only is there no desire but the idea is in some way distasteful. A few days ago while considering what we might leave behind in Pierre this book came up as a possible casualty and Greg managed to voice the nagging distaste that was troubling me in regards to it. In response to whether he would like to read it he said "I don't know. I just get kind of sick of all the Lewis and Clark shit. It's really the beginning of a sad story. I'd rather read history and fiction by and about the natives."

Everywhere you turn on the river there's a Lewis and Clark park, interpretive center, plaques and statues. On the maps they identify the location of the L & C campsites and people seek them out and camp where they camped 200 hundred years ago. On the lakes the maps still mark the campsites a mile off shore and 200 feet underwater, a depressing reminder of the sad tale that followed the triumph of their westward voyage.

I do not want to downplay their accomplishments nor the significance of what they achieved. What they managed is one of the great stories of human exploration and survival but paddling down the river they struggled up two centuries ago one is constantly faced with the reality of what has been done to the vast plains that Lewis and Clark discovered. So much beauty and potential lay in such a land, the remnants of which can still be seen lurking in the shadows of a native people forced into submission and fenced off in patches of desolate land, a rich variety of wildlife all but decimated and forced to survive on the fringe of what has become one seemingy endless cow pasture spanning thousands of square miles and featuring a patchwork of barbwire lying on either side of a once noble river shackled and bound by concrete and earthen dams.

While we paddle across huge Army Corps reservoirs up to 200 miles long passing over a river channel buried in 200 feet of still water it is a constant reminder of what has been done to this river, to this people, to this land and to read the Journals of Lewis and Clark would only be an exercise in masochism. It seems better to seek out and take comfort in the beauty surrounding us in the present than to seek out the pain awaiting us in yesterday's potential.

As we travel down this river more and more we are seeing the damage caused by the flooding this summer, flooding that was supposedly prevented by the dams built by the Corps of Engineers. The lesson it seems that we will never learn is that the higher one's defensive walls are built the more devastating the tragedy when the walls prove insufficient. Though I feel great sympathy for the individuals we meet who suffered during the flood I take comfort in the knowledge that there is little in this world more powerful than the might of a once sleeping river awakening.

By the Numbers

It's amazing how the the mind becomes obsessed by numbers with so many hours a day spent idle while the body labors.  So I thought I'd share a few of the numbers my mind just won't let go of.

Days on river - 39
Miles completed - 1,127
Miles to St. Louis - 1,194
Miles to Gulf of Mexico - 2,573
Lake miles completed - 395
Lake miles to go - 350
Dams portaged - 7
Dams left to portage - 4
Average miles per day - 29
Longest day - 57 miles
Longest lake day - 37 miles
Shortest day - 0
Days in Montana - 24
Days in North Dakota - 14
Day life jackets were acquired - 10
Day Hupp bought gloves - 34
Day bailer was acquired - 38
Longest stretch Betty B spent without beer on board - 9
Loads of laundry - 1
Hot showers - 2

An Oil Boom in North Dakota

"These waves are a bit disorganized," Greg commented. To which I replied, "Yeah, they really ought to get their shit together."  We were in the middle of an open water crossing on Lake Sakakawea when the winds increased in strength followed by the waves. We were trying to get around a rocky point beyond which the lake turned from the north back to the east and we would have the wind at our backs. Presently, however, we were at the mercy of an ever increasing side wind kicking up 4 foot high choppy waves that were hitting us broadside and the Betty B tossed about dangerously. Taking a wave over the side would most likely drown the canoe.

Greg shouted that if we took a wave over the side he'd turn us directly to shore. It would then be an expect the worst but paddle like hell to attain the best situation. Fortunately we rounded the point without incident and continued eastward towards the Garrison Dam. By the end of the day we had put 36 miles behind us, paddling for 9.5 hours.

We were restless and determined to cover ground after having spent 44 hours pinned down, hunkered against a high mud bank as the wind howled from the east at 20 MPH. Our rhythm had been interrupted and we were desperate to get it back. The rhythm of life on the water dominated by 7-10 hours of paddling every day had been brought to a halt and for 44 hours we sat, we paced, we stared out at the water as if willing the wind to die.

In the distance on the far shore, a constant reminder of our maddening lack of motion burning with a taunting arrogance was the off gassing flame of an oil derrick. The countryside around the lake has been experiencing an oil boom the last 3-5 years and for days now we have constantly been in sight of at least a few oil derricks. The day before the wind hit I counted 13 in view while paddling and then camped on shore as evening darkened I could see 13 flames on just the opposite shore and behind us within a quarter mile were four more.

Just inside North Dakota we caught a ride 22 miles into town with a local who took us shopping and then drove us 22 miles back to the river. On the drive our gracious host told us about the boom. When I asked how it affected the locals, if it was seen as good or bad he replied, "Oh, little of both, But more and more we're seeing more of the bad."

The oil boom has driven up the price of real estate and there's an oil company trying to force him to sell out at less than market value. Crime has skyrocketed and there isn't the housing to room the workers. Then there's the oil companies tendency to to do their best to take all the money and leave as little as possible to the locals.

Most often the landowner is not the owner of the mineral rights in North Dakota. These were often separated generations back. So the owner of the mineral rights can lease the rights to minerals underneath another person's property. Once the oil company has the lease to the minerals they are not bound by law to notify the landowner. So, a property owner may very well just look out their window one morning to find fence being ripped out and heavy equipment dozing a pad for the upcoming derrick.

For those that own the mineral rights it is required by law for a broker to be involved as a middle man. The law also requires the oil companies to pay out 20% of the rig to the leaseholder and the broker. For years no one told the leaseholders this so the brokers were signing them to 5% and keeping 15% of each rig for themselves. Recently the locals have wizened to this, and the brokers are having to settle for 5% on new leases.

If fought on an individual basis the oil companies will be required to pay damages to the landowner and perhaps even lease the land they're using but it seems they do their damnedest to not let that happen. The situation reminds me of a line from the Tom Russell song called "Who's Gonna Build Your Wall" that goes something like "As I travel around this land of ours the man that I most fear is the man in a golf shirt with a cell phone in his ear."

The dams and the derricks, the flames on the horizon and the sprawling unnatural lakes are enough to get a man low but my faith in humanity is strengthened by the everday folks we meet on the river with an immediate, unasked for willingness to do what they can to help us on our way, a selfless desire to help another human. Whether they be shopowners in Oregon, bus drivers in North Dakota, or villagers in Alaska I feel better about this world because they are in it.

People is People

I am not a fan of guidebooks. Generally speaking I feel they lack the information I desire and are chock full of shit I don't need. In Fort Benton, Montana Greg and I bought a guidebook. "The Complete Paddler" by David Miller. We needed the maps. Maps on the upper Missouri are difficult to come by and state road maps just don't cut it when it comes to knowing where you are on a river. Other than the maps and the fact that he gives the reader ample opportunity to ridicule him, there isn't much use to the book. He spends way too much time describing the river channel in a bend by bend play by play which is useless considering it is a dynamic, ever changing, body of flowing water, but that is not the topic here. I have one main problem with Miller.

The problem began with Wolf Point, Montana but it continues across into North Dakota. When describing Wolf Point Miller goes into great detail regarding his experience passing by town in which a drunk with a handgun fired several rounds in his direction. He didn't know whether the drunk was firing at him or not but felt the rounds came too close. This could happen on any river near any town in this fair country of ours but it happened to Miller in Wolf Point. It would be fine in a guide if you were including it as a bit of colorful narrativebut Miller takes it way too far including that 10 years ago someone of the river was beaten up and that a paddler should go nowhere near the town. Not only that but while paddling by stay as close to the opposite bank as possible and paddle as fast as you can.

The ridiculousness of this tickles my sense of humor but it offends my sense of ethics as well. In describing Wolf Point in such demonizing terms he fails not only Wolf Point whose reputation is soured by this guidebook but the paddler as well who has been cheated of their right to approach that town with the same anxious nervousness they approach every other town with. A certain fear of the unknown but also an excitement about what may happen. And overwhelmingly what happens is a beautiful experience involving the kindness of strangers, such as when we pulled in to Wolf Point's boat ramp (Miller describes as an obvious party spot and to be avoided). It was neat and clean when we got there, we dumped our trash and looked around for some water. We didn't find any and were about to disembark when an old fella with a dog pulled up in a pickup, "You fellas looking for water? Won't find any here. But if you jump in I can drive you to the bar down the road and get some." Not only did we fill our water jugs but we also had another wonderful experience in a river town, something Miller may have experienced had he had the balls to get out and say hello.

Instead Miller spent the rest of his time running scared through the Fort Peck Indian Reservation terrified to meet anyone, hiding his camp in the willow bushes and keeping his head low. Even down into North Dakota at the reservation there he describes the campground as nice but not a place to leave your boat untended. It became clear that Miller is afraid. He's afraid those whisky drinkin Injuns are gonna steal his boat, take his scalp, and leave him for dead. What he needs to learn is that the Greek deli owner in Muppets Take Manhattan was right, "People is People".

As for our part, later on after getting water at Wolf Point we were camped on a sandbar looking across at the reservation when a pickup truck drove down to the river and a few guys got out, saw us, and jumped back in the truck. They drove back up river a couple hundred yards and let out a mighty barrrage of gunfire into the river that lasted 20 minutes or more.

People is People and no matter where you go in this fair country of ours wherever there's a river sooner or later there's gonna be a truckload of whisky drinkin rednecks of one race or another lettin of a maelstrom of bullets into the belly of that river. Why? Cause that's God damned good fun right there. And as a paddler all you can hope for is that they have the courtesy to move upstream a couple hundred yards before letting off that first barrage of gunfire in the direction of your simmering pot of beans.

The Shadow of The Missouri

Stubborness? Definitely has something to do with why we're out here, beating our heads against an unrelenting headwind, driving through crashing waves. Sure, stubborness is part of it. An unwillingness to give, a refusal to relent, an indomitable desire to beat the wind, to be stronger than the wind. But there's more to it than that. There's the urge for going, the natural urge for a river to flow and our desire to be a part of it. And the desire to put beyond us the barrier between us and the natural flow. To get beyond the dam. There's also the practical side of things. Wind on a water this big can blow for days, a week or more maybe, and at some point action is a necessity to life.

We rode a tailwind the first day on the lake. Set up a campchair for a sail and skipped along at 5 MPH, surfing three foot waves and crashing through a maze of half submerged junipers on the strength of the wind. It's been five days across the lake, defined by paddling from point to point, often across big, open water, sometimes flat, often not, churned up by wind driven waves.

We steadily paddle passed fisherman in small boats, most of whom offer a slight wave of the hand, some a bit of conversation. Those that speak, that ask how far we're going offer the inevitable, "Have fun!" We awkwardly answer in some vague affirmative, not having the time or the inclination or the energy perhaps to explain... very little of this is fun.

Paddling into a driving wind, grueling out 2 miles an hour is not fun, crossing an open bay fighting a cross channel side wind taking huge waves against the side of the canoe the closest shore over a mile distant is not fun. Watching the channel disappear into a windrow of half submerged trees, picking a gap beyond which water can be seen and relying on the wind to send you crashing through is both exhilirating and terrifying but it's only fun in the recollecting once you are safely drinking a Keystone Light on shore.

We aren't out here for a pleasure cruise. We're out here to join the river on it's seaward path. To take our part in a conversation that spans millenia. It is rewarding and it is humbling. And every evening we sit back and reflect on accomplishments attained through physical labor and mental strength. Reflections made in the shadow of the might of the Missouri.

Landscape

The first week of paddling has been defined by slow water inhibited by dams and portages. 5 dams in 4 days and in between each a long paddle through slack water. At each dam we begin the slow process of portage, the loading up of gear on backs and in arms to carry as much as can be managed each trip but never have we gone far. Out of nowhere a sunbeaten face leans out of a pickup truck window to ask "You fellas need some help? Throw that gear in the back and we'll go load up the rest." Information pours out along the ride and within an hour we've finished a portage that should have taken several. Back on the water with a handsake and a good luck.

Between the dams the Montana landscape changes instantly and dramatically. One moment paddling across a wide open lake we suddenly plunge into the Gates of the Mountains defined by towering rock faces looming over a narrow channel as if challenging all intruders. Then suddenly after only a few miles of imposing rock the canoe glides around a bend and the rocky cliffs disappear to be replaced by rolling fields of wheat continuing on for several days. Outside of Great Falls the rolling fields morphed into rough and rumpled hills like tousled bedsheets hiding, perhaps, a left and lonely lover.

We are in Fort Benton now leaving tomorrow for a 300 mile stretch until the next legitimate town of Fort Peck. Ahead of us lies 150 miles of river followed by 150 miles of lake. Looking forward to what the morphing landscape of Montana will reveal in the days ahead.

Bachelor party, Keystone, and Crickets

It was sometime after midnight that Wilson, Hogan and I stood poolside in McKinney's backyard. Everyone else had gone to bed and we were heading that way soon, just wrapping up a piece of forgotten conversation.

For some time I had been tuned in to a conversation between crickets and cicadas and I couldn't leave the outcome unknown. I climbed into my sleeping bag at the side of the pool and watched the clouds swallow the stars as I eavesdropped on the crickets and drifted off to sleep to a symphony of insects.

I woke up at around 5 am soaking wet with rain coming down hard and only getting harder. My clothes layed out neatly by the pool were in a puddle of water and my sleeping bag was soaked through. I retreated to the comfort of home.

Breakfast was at Waffle House with Regan and Wilson. First visit to a Waffle House since January of 2009 when I seized on a Houston sidewalk 30 minutes later. Apparently Waffle House is not directly related to epilepsy, only deliciousness.

The bachelor party started that day at noon and finished at 11 when most of the participants were passed out or off to the bars. We spent the day lounging by the pool drinking copious amounts of Keystone Light, Coors, and sipping whisky.  By the end, Tex was racked out on his couch, a frozen pizza slowly charring into a blackened husk to be found in the morning while Regan and I awaited Pizza Hut to deliver our salvation contained in a greasy, doughy pie containing the secret to late night sobriety, and some chicken wings. Over lots of water and pizza and wings, we waxed philosophically, defining the night with good conversation and somehow went to bed sober.

Regardless of who remembers how much or how little it was a successful reunion of old friends brought together by a future union of two people meant to be together. We sent McKinney off in proper fashion with the drunken toasts of well meaning and unintelligable friends, stories of long ago, and in anticipation of stories to come.

Ink Stamped On Paper

I am in love with the written word, the way it can make the heart flutter, cause the stomach to drop, or the soul to soar through clouds above mountain tops only to dive down and mingle with the dry sands of the desert, how a sentence can slake the thirst with but a few words in regards to clear rocky streams.

I am in love with ink stamped on paper, the musty smell, the crisp shuffle of pages flipping through fingertips, the comfort of books on shelves waiting to be discovered, beckoning forth the curious eyes of man and woman.  

I am in love with words stamped on paper.

A Fisherman's Advice

"I wish I had figured it out when I was your age instead of in my 60's," said Forest.  He was sitting on the tube of the 20 foot raft, pole in one hand, looking upstream to the clear running waters of the Chena River.  Rudy and I were standing on the gravel bar, while Kathy, Forest's wife, fished from the bank.  They're traveling through Alaska and today was their day to fish.  On their bucket list is a mission to catch fish in each and every state.  To succeed they each have to catch a freshwater fish.  We'd been hitting the Arctic Grayling and they each had caught upwards of 10 fish.  Nothing spectacular on the Chena but the water was a bit cloudy due to recent rains and they were happy as soon as they each had their first.  Alaska was the 36th state crossed off the list. 

Forest had already been raving about the day.  Fish, sun, and fellowship on the river.  The three things he was looking for in a day of fishing and Rudy and I had provided all three.  The water was swift, the fishing stress free, and the conversation flowed.  Early on Forest was having a difficult time bringing in the grayling due to his aggressive reeling once they were on the line.  Rudy was eventually able to instruct him to not "Bass" the grayling, referring to the speed and aggressiveness with which Bass are generally reeled in.  Grayling require a more delicate touch.  A fisherman will have best luck if one plays the Grayling in to the boat. 

There were clouds in the sky, keeping the heat of the day down to a mild 70 degrees, a slight breeze to keep the mosquitos at bay and between Rudy rigging the lines and myself handling the raft we drifted through a near perfect day on the upper Chena River. 

Stretching our legs on the bank, Forest turned the conversation to our work.  "You may not get rich but you've got it figured out.  Just keep doing what you're doing.  Wish I had figured it out when I was your age.  Just don't make the mistake I made.  Don't go corporate.  Keep doing what you're doing.  I thought I needed to work my way up, become the CEO of Sears.  What a mistake I made...."

We looked past each other, eyes wandering across gravel bar, spruce and birch forest, to settle on current, watching the slightly swollen river waters flow by searching the surface for the rise of a Grayling.  A Raven's call pierced the afternoon's stillness, the fishing had slowed in the heat of the day, and we were left with nothing but the company of each other, the Raven, and the cool, swiftness of flowing water. 

We climbed back into the raft, drifting through the remainder of a beautiful day on the river, content in having it all figured out. 

Spring Break Up at the Cabin

I sit, just inside the spruce along the cut banks of the Chena River immersed in the crisp, frozen silence of a forested winter landscape.  A silence that gives birth to a cacophony of sounds for the one who stops to listen and accept the opportunity to let the voices of man fade into the distance and allow oneself to be swept away.

The sun is beating down from above warming me and the frozen river as the forest slowly comes to life with the arrival of spring.  The river ice is now bare.  No longer covered in snow it shines bright with a slight greenish tint and pools of standing water.  There are slight undulations to its surface and it cries out with strain as the snow melt heaves against it from below.  The cracking and popping of the river is joined in chorus by the song of birds just arriving for spring, the chattering of squirrels, and the croak of the raven sitting on high.

Bubbling water bursts through cracks in the ice and cascades down stream as I lean back in my camp chair basking in the sun and listen to the excited babbling of the river as it comes to the end of it's winter song.  The sound of the water bubbling out of ice is as a person gulping water from an endlessly flowing tap, and I suppose in a way it is.  I suppose it is the world drinking gratefully the cold, clear stream of a river previously locked in ice for six months.  A river once more breaking free.

I Remember the Fire

I woke up hungover to a cold stove and a chilled cabin.  With a slight throbbing in my head, I put the kettle on for coffee, noticed the mercury reading 20 below outside, and knelt to build a fire in the stove. 

As the cabin warmed to the pleasant crackle and reassuring glow of fire, I sat in the rocker, coffee in hand and watched the sky lighten over spruce.

Years ago, I had a fantasy about driving across this grand expansive country of ours.  Breathing it in.  Skirting the cities and lingering in the towns.  Watching the sun rise over a different field, forest, or town every morning.

Exploring the back roads of America.  Browsing through it's downtown shops, eavesdropping on conversations over coffee and pie in it's diners, buying gas at it's corner service stations before moving on down the line.

But all this was merely the beginning of fantasy.

I always imagined finding myself in that perfect, sleepy little town, village really.  Full of hardworking, simple folks who relied on themselves and each other, taking little notice of the outside world.

A place that I could feel in my bones and in my blood that I was right to be in, a place where I belonged.  Fall in love with the young woman who ran the bookstore, buy a small house in town, and raise a family.  Do something simple and useful for a living. 

Have someone with whom to grow old and a community in which to belong.

Instead I have spent my life restless and lonely.

Wandering and searching, never quite finding the town, eluded by love, dominated by an urge for going.  Once or twice, I've begun to settle in to life, begun to believe that I've found the town or the woman only to discover that dreams don't come true.

I do my best to be happy with where I am, what I find myself doing but this is a great struggle for me, and I am rarely happy in the present, for I am pulled to continue on down the road.  It is an almost desperate need to find that which I am looking for without knowing what it is that will satisfy my search.

One night, years ago, some friends and I sat around a fire, warmed by it's strong, proud heat, and we fed it deep into the night.  As we were turning in we each took our turn pissing on the coals in a young man's effort to quench the flames.  We climbed into our tents and fell asleep to rain drops pattering softly.  The rain continued into the morning but at each lull the fire would flare up and we'd hear the crackling of flames and see the flickering glow through the tent wall.  As I climbed out of the tent the following day one determined, proud flame was still licking the air from a wet pile of ash and burned brands.  Refusing to face it's end. Refusing to face the finality of failure.

Answering Solitude's Call

It was midweek and I decided to take a break from woodcutting. It was warm at around 10 above. Up about 20 degrees since I’d arrived at the cabin and I figured it was time to blaze a trail to the hot springs. Since arriving at the cabin 4 or 5 days before I’d spent my days wandering around the property with a chainsaw and a maul bucking up down trees, splitting the big rounds, and making stacks of wood to dry in the forest. In the evenings I’d collapse into the wooden rocker with a cup of tea and a book. First War of the Worlds, then The Blue Nile, and Ashenden, or the British Agent (perhaps Maugham at his best)

I’d been day dreaming of blazing a trail to the hot springs for years now. Relatively simple procedure. Cross the river behind the cabin and head up the steep black spruce forested hill to the peak of Bear Paw Butte, from which you drop onto the Angel Rocks to Chena Hot Springs trail.  All told approximately 4 miles of walking and 1,500 feet of elevation gain to arrive at the springs.

I made myself a PB&J, packed a bottle of water, and off I went to promptly break through the ice of the Chena River. Approximately 15 feet off Greg’s property and I’ve already hit my first snag. The weather had warmed and as a result the river ice was a bit unpredictable…or perhaps I should say completely predictable and thus undependable. Once across the river I was maneuvering to climb the cut bank and the ice broke beneath my left foot. I managed to scramble up the bank and my gaitor kept me mostly dry.

The sky, overcast early, had mostly cleared to reveal a blue sky day with the sun blazing down upon the hills and ridges of the Upper Chena Valley. Given a choice, this day, there was no where I would rather have been. The snow was a deep powder and facing me was exactly what I had expected and I reveled in it. A grueling slog through knee deep snow putting behind me 1,500 feet of elevation gain in under two miles. The sweat poured, my chest heaved, and my legs screamed for an end.

Finally, once again, after too long a time I knew that I was happy.

Me, the snow, and the sky.