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.
