America's Bar

We can thank Thomas Jefferson and his Louisiana purchase from the french  that towns like Fort Madison, Iowa have bars like Faeths. Pulling in from a long day fighting some persistent headwinds, we wanted to find a spot to to have a drink, (If someone is reading this to grandma tell her I had orange juice). I usually don’t take bar recommendations from pot bellied and toothless men who sit on park benches without purpose, but I figure that I've taken bigger risks.

Walking into Faeths is if your alcoholic uncle who smokes too much started a business because he couldn’t find enough space to store his wide gun selection. The big sign out front proudly displaced that they could meet your guns, bait and beer needs. They couldn’t probably decide on what exactly to display their business as, so there was a second sign. Faeths Bar: Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. I can think of one government agency that may just be interested in this place..

The bar is a a family affair. I like to think each generation added a different vice to the list of their services. The owner was bill, an eighty year old man. I know this because above the bar was a cheaply made banner that said happy 80th birthday bill. I said as he slowly walked by, a box of ammunition in his hand,

“Happy birthday bill!”

“Oh no its not my birthday.. He said in passing as if he’s heard it to many times”

“ That sign has been up for two years” his daughter casually explains.

So  I guess bill is 82.

I sip my beer and notice that the moose head on the wall is missing an eye, the deer head beside it has a layer of dust from years of inattention. I’m not sure if they service a decorative purpose, or rather are advertisements to show what could be yours if you quite literally turned around and bought one of the rather large guns that surrounded the large wall. I’m not usually one for shooting moose, meese? Moosen? .. but i’m sure if they would have offered me free whisky, they would have made more than there money back with drunken gun sales. So thank you Thomas Jefferson, without you, Fort Madison would have been serving croissants and foi gras along the shores of the Mississippi rather than alcohol, tobacco and firearms.

We decided to not pitch out tents, but rather sleep in a gazebo. Cody said picnic tables make good sleeping quarters. So I guess I gave it a try. I’m not sure if anyone else has tried sleeping on a picnic table as a thunderstorm rages around you while freight trains pass every 10 minutes blowing there horn, but let me tell you a secret. Sleep will be hard to find.

Mississippi Serendipity

They say that the Mississippi is a fickle river. Unforgiving in its slow tenacious march to the gulf. Those who have explored her banks and traversed her length speak of it in a tone of endearment gilded with respectful fear. Mark Twain called the river “The Lawless Stream”. In the more than a century that has passed since Huck Finn and Jim had their adventure, the river has been pacified but not yet tamed. Bridges traverse its width and barges loaded with products of industry have conquered its current. Dams have been built and locks have been raised; a leash and muzzle on titan which once split a continent. 

I cannot tell you how many times I have been asked why are you doing this? Or, have been told “You are going to have so much fun.”. First, I have no good answer as to why I am doing this. I want to answer, because I can , but that statement contains too much hubris. I should say, because its there, but that statement is too vague and ambiguous, which invites pretentiousness. I must then say, I hope to find an answer. This is not my idea of a vacation because a vacation should not be dealing with blisters, rapids, mosquitos, mind numbing head winds, skin baking sun, toe freezing nights, or the gymnastics that occur when needing to go number two on a canoe. 

The aforementioned reasons are probably why I couldn’t convince anyone that finishing the river which I started three years ago would be a fun time. Afterall, Columbus didn’t convince his crew that a journey across the sea would be fun, he promised them a literal boatload of gold would be found if they went. My friends know i’m not rich enough to do that. Nor am I willing to pillage and enslave the the people I come across to meet that promise. 

 I had purchased the canoe at 9 at night, at Gander Mountain in Iowa. My credit card declined the purchased. Which irked me. However, being from Ohio, I can see why my card provider would think a canoe being purchased in iowa at 9 at night, before winter would look a little fishy. I usually don’t plan ahead much, which explains why I was on the banks of the river the day after actually having had a canoe. Thus, with a life jacket for rapids, a radio for barges, and spray for bugs, I could handle what most the river could throw at me. However they don’t make a spray for loneliness. Some men think that is cologne.

As I was saying Goodbye to Jackie, my mother called, before my mother could even say a word, I hear yell from the river. 

Where you going!, a silhouetted figure from a canoe yells. 

I put down the phone, my mom still talking as if she has my ear. 

New Orleans! I yell back. 

The next words were immensely unexpected. 

“We are too!”
There are moments in life where bewilderment is product of providence and serendipity. This was one. I yelled back “ I join you!” , to these silhouetted strangers. I was fully expecting to be braving the river alone. With some hard paddling, I catch up to them. 

C.S Lewis once said “Friendship ... is born at the moment when one [person] says to another "What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .” Those who go down river share an near masochistic love of adventure. We call sore muscles, bug bites, hunger, heat and cold, fun. As long as we are going somewhere. Corey and Haley share these sentiments. With new friends, this lawless river just got a whole less lonely. 

Day 1: Muscatine to New Boston. 

Being back on the river after a three year hiatus is much like seeing an old friend that gave you a hard time. You are mysteriously glad to see them again, but you remember the one time they almost drowned you. Unlike the wilderness from the river is born, the river has matured to level which demands healthy respect. Barges are getting larger, and more frequent and luckily so is civilization.  The first day of paddling was filled with conversation, the river miles seemed short and the lack of any wind made each paddle seem twice as fruitful. Corey and Haley and I exchanged our river stories and our lunches, which in river custom, means you are now a team.

At this time of year the sun seems to set much faster than it rises, and canoeing under the moon, while sounding enchanting, is inviting the river to make you miss the next sunrise. We arrive in New Boston, whose tallest building a grain silo by the river, more hungry than we were tired. Setting up the tent in the small park by the river bank  at night made me second guess my choices. Tent set ups at night can be about as frustrating as giving a blind person ikea furniture for Christmas. Regardless, it went up. 

Day 2: New Boston to Burlington 

Corey makes good pancakes. Which is good, because usually I don’t let men make me pancakes in the morning. We set off with bellies full and arms rejuvenated. The weather radio squawked that winds were coming. I hoped for more providence and serendipity. But I guess there's a limit to everything. We fought through mild headwinds. I fought more, being in a canoe by myself, I’m sure my late grandpa wilbur would say something about it building character and that in his day, they had to fight headwinds both ways. We arrived at a marina before sunset in Burlington, IA, which sadly, does not have coat factory. The marina manager was kind enough to let us pitch our tents in a muddy patch of grass and share the WiFi password which me, which, I promptly forgot, leaving Corey and Haley up the creek without the paddle. 

All in all, I must say, there is not better time in life to do something, that something for me is to try and finish this river. I’m blessed that I have met people. I look forward to the adventures ahead. 

The End of An Adventure

Waking up with your head buried into soft pillow for more than one day in row is a luxury many people tend to overlook.  We have been not only enjoying pillows and beds, but meals consisting of more than hot dogs and noodles for the past 5 days. The last day of our month long paddle down the Mississippi could not have been any better. My brother in law Jeff and his friend joined us for the last thirty miles. The weather could not have been more perfect. The sun was out, the wind at our backs and river flowing quite nicely. It was great having new company and conversation, and knowing that an extended period of recovery was ahead.  Pulling into the little dock in Muscatine, IA was bitter-sweet. Our tired and adventure weary selves were glad, but a part of myself which compels me to explore was somewhat yearning for more.

Toby will be resting and preparing to finish the trip on his bicycle, I will be going home to prepare for our upcoming move to Scotland. This trip, with all its moments of adventure and hardship, perseverance and ease, will provide me with a lifetime of good memories. I can’t thank those enough for have supported us and encouraged us in this adventure, our friends and family back home and the strangers along the way who helped us immensely. I hope you readers have enjoyed coming along this adventure with us, it was great motivation knowing that more than just Toby and I were along for the ride. I will leave you all with this quote from Mark Twain, another person who explored the Mississippi,

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

No Mercy At The Finish Line

We slept without our tent last night for the first time.  The weather was warm and the sky clear. So we couldn’t not be noticed, we slept behind a row of bushes in the park.  Dew was heavy which meant that our sleeping bags were damp, not quite the ideal state of any type of bag you expect to keep you warm.  We quickly set off on the river intent on getting to the town of Clinton, 60 miles away.  This meant today was going to mean 12 or more hours of paddling.

Although the conditions were quite favorable, the air was still, sky clear, and the river surprisingly free of barge traffic, we began to be plagued by a relentless swarm of gnats. These wretched little creatures must have an obsession for human heads, noses, ears, and eyes. They buzzed around us for hours, their erratic and hardly predictable movements frustrating our efforts to swat them away. On a bike, you could easily outrun a swarm, not in the case of a canoe. I read that gnats are attracted to the moisture found on our head. I thought to myself, “moisture? There is PLENTY of moisture surrounding me in this canoe!! , I don’t think they would have got the message. We fought a losing battle, eventually conceding defeat and stopping our efforts, letting the swarms use our heads for their torturous enjoyment.  We lamented that no day could be entirely perfect, if no wind, there was rain, if no rain, there was cold, if no cold, there were waves, and today, a curse of insects.

The sun was bright, although the air was hazy, creating a warm and muggy river. We arrived at our first lock faster than expected and continued down river. We stopped for the now common lunch of cold hot dog and salami and ketchup sandwiches. The more time spent on the river, the less time you start worrying about the food you are eating. Food is food.  We have found out that Wal-Mart hot dogs stay good indefinitely without refrigeration, as long as their seal does not break. The day lagged on, and at one point I almost found myself sleeping while I paddled. I clearly remember dreaming, but being aware to alternate paddling from left to right to keep our path straight.  The few times I had forget to swtich sides, I had toby yelling back asking why I was taking us to shore.

We reached the last 10 miles of our day and began to think about campsites. The last five before the next lock were going through our very last lake. As we entered the lake, the sky began to darken.  We heard a strange rumble ahead. We saw ahead that the lake surface was being disturbed and it was moving for us. “rain!” toby said, as he reached for his rain jacket. I would have reached for mine, but it was inside my dry bag, oh well, I needed a shower anyway. The rain was heavy, but not violent. It subsided and we kept paddling, soaked, but still moving forward.   There was a small island ahead covered in white and black specks. As we got closer, it turned out to be thousands of birds, pelicans, ducks, geese, all perched on the few trees, standing on the sandy beach, look out at us. The sight was eerie and ominous.

The lock and dam was insight, maybe 3 miles away, but we looked at the clouds, darker still, and rolling toward us.  The wind began to pick from the east, which meant we had to paddle harder on one side just to keep on course. Which also meant our right arms began to burn from being used to much. Regardless how much we paddled, the wind was stronger.  We decided to try and go around bird island, which scared a large flock away, then the rain began to fall. First it was soft, with a mild wind, then everything came down seemingly without warning.  This tempest was the worst we have seen our whole trip. We knew it was wise to point to shore, around 200 yards away. The wind, around 40mph, began to churn waters, waves soon formed all around us, large and swift.  I was quite shocked about the strength of this storm, and for a second, sacred even though shore was nearby. The waves pushed us into a bank of reeds where we waited for the storm to pass. I began to bail our water from the bottom of the canoe to pass the time, I was completely soaked through, and beginning to shiver.  We tried to make it to the other side of the lack, but the wind was still strong enough to frustrate our efforts. We saw an Island and like two marooned mariners, we made camp on a small flats sandy patch.  Since our trip is concluding, we feasted on the food we have. Tonight’s menu, was a cup of noodles mixed with baked beans and canned chicken,  a filling yet eccentric combination. The rain is pelting our tent at the moment, and I am lying on my partially dew damp sleeping bag. Days like this make me wonder if I should be happy about ending this trip prematurely…

"Book'em Danno!"

      Riding in the back of a police car is a quite uncomfortable experience.  “ If you deserved to get put back there, you probably don’t deserve to be comfortable”, said officer Sullivan, a man whose generosity was just about as large as his belly. We could not have got any luckier, a free hotel and breakfast compliments of Guttenburg’s relief fund. I couldn’t help but feel that maybe some domestic violence victim or family whose house burned down could have used it, but I was not going to complain. Officer Sullivan took us into the local police department and checked, according to procedure, if we had any warrants. Thankfully, neither of us did.  After some paper work, he drove us to our “hotel”, well, hotel was the word he used, in reality, it was a motel on it’s last breath. The paint on the outside was chipping, the roof a decade in need of repair and the “front desk” essentially an ante room of the owners house.  We only cared about the soft bed and blankets.

                There were a few hard looking bikers outside, they were staring at me intently and it made me nervous, then I remembered I was “That Guy”, the guy in the back of the police car. I tried to exit but soon obviously realized the imprudence of making back doors in police cars that can open two ways.  Our much anticipated room looked like it had not been updated since the 80’s. Drab wood paneling, the orange-brown carpeting and pastel colored bed sheets that seemed straight from a Easter quilting catalog.  We still felt like a million bucks. After all, all this luxury was free.

                The excitement continued when we awoke, free breakfast! Sadly, we didn’t have any cash to tip the nice waitress, so we hurriedq out and felt bad about it for the 15 minute walk back to the river. Our canoe was still there, so was our gear. We had tied off right next to the lock and dam so the first think we needed to do on the water was lock down.  As we were getting on the boat, we saw in the distance a rather long barge, although it was a mile away, we wanted to make sure it get in the lock first, or else that would mean at least a hour and a half wait. We had around 20 minutes before the barge would arrive, so we thought it would be wise to call the lockmaster before we got in, instead of just appearing unannounced.

                This backfired. “We are in a canoe, just around the corner of the lock, can we lock down right now so we don’t have to wait for this barge” , the man on the other end asks who I assumed was his boss, apologieticlly, he says, “ Yea, I’m sorry, you are gonna have to wait..”  I say quite desperately “ we can be in the lock in literally 30 seconds”,  I hear him talk off the phone, then hear some stern yelling back, “ Ummm sorry, your’e gonna have to wait.”.  We waited around a half hour for that barge to get into the lock, bitter that we had to wait. We killed time by reading, sitting, breathing, and fuming at the barges. We finally were on the river at 10 with 35 miles to go to the next town.  The river has been started to wear on us,  it no longer is a wonder to behold, but rather an obsiticale to over come. It has become increasingly busy with traffic, boats, barges, sea doos and even today, a paddle boat.  At least our arms are no longer sore. We can paddle for 12 hours straight and feel fine. Our hands are calloused and now easily conform to our paddles.

                We pulled into the town of Dubuque, IA, somewhat tired, but mostly ready to make it to a decent place to camp. The steep banks making it a job to actually find a camping spot.  We found a busy park by the river, the grass looks comfortable and there is a convenient boat put in. We first sought out the ever important toilet. On a bench outsite the bathrooms, a old man sat quietly. Toby struggled with the door and he yelled “Push it! It’s open!”, toby got in, and I walked over to make small talk with the old man. The man had light blue trousers, a faded white polo, hair white and parted to the side, large nose, floppy old man ears, the epitome of a grandpa.  Not sure how we got onto the subject after the normal, “where you from, what you doing”, but he I found out he was a World War II vet who served in the Pacific theater.  As one who hope to make a career of history this was a very interesting conversation, along with the fact that today was the 70^th anniversary of D-Day.  This man, was 19 when he went to the Island of Pelieu. He told us a story of how when the landing craft came to shore on the island, they had to jump over the sides into the sea because everyone who knew how to lower the doors were shot.  They spent three days trying to take a airfield. “That Island was a bitch”, He went on to tell us about taking Okinawa, which was also apparently a “bitch to take”.  

                His wife is in a nursing home, and apparently he has his own ideas about what care is best for her. He tries to get her out, but the staff apparently has set certain visiting hours for him, since he “stirs up a ruckus” sometimes when he goes.  It was fascinating to think about the life experience this man had at young age of 19, and made me quietly contemplate the eternal sacrifice made in that very bloody and very terrible war many years ago. 

                I’m sitting here, laptop and phone plugged into the side of bathroom, the sun is setting and I can again sense I smell like I have spent too long on a river, even though we had just showered yesterday.  I started this ride with the goal of making it to New Orleans. I started it without knowing I would be accepted into graduate school in Scotland, and now knowing that I have been accepted and that my wife and I would have to move in a few months, we have had to make a hard decision. I cannot finish this trip. The time frame is cutting it too close. I do not want to make my wife bear the burden of a overseas move alone while I am on the river.  Although it is sad to conclude one adventure prematurely, I know Scotland will be another one. The river will always be here, maybe one day I will make it to that great city south, but I have bigger responsibilities.  We will continue for three more days and conclude this trip in Kalona, IA.  I feel good about spending a month on a canoe, I think that’s a new record for me.  Toby has decided to complete his journey by bicycle, taking the river road down to New Orleans, a journey which should take about 2 weeks, compared to the 6 more weeks by canoe. It has been a crazy ride, so I hope to enjoy these last few days.q

Good Riddance,Good Bye, Minnesota

 We made the early morning crossing from one side of the river to the campground on the other side where we could utilize their tables and power plugs. I was crossing my fingers that the bacon we had bought a week earlier was still edible, although it was still packaged, it had not known refrigeration since it had left the checkout many miles upriver.  There was cyclist there, I noticed his panniers and gear setting out on the gazebo tables. It instantly reminded me of last year’s ride, and for a moment, I was slightly envious that he was on a bicycle.  His name was Gregg, recently retired and on the second half of a two year tour across the states. Last year he cycled from Seattle to Hastings, MN, this year, he is going from Hastings to Boston. We chatted for bit, and exchanged info, and then I cautiously opened the package of bacon.

                I can’t say that it was entirely fresh, but it didn’t smell like death incarnate. I put the warm fatty strips on the hot pan. They cooked normal and looked just as good as any bacon bought fresh.  I cooked mine as crispy as toby’s and took a bite. In my opinion, it tasted a little more cured than normal, but still good.  Hours later though… We felt fine. No severe abdominal cramps, no blowouts on either end, no turning the canoe to shore. Most of the day was spent fighting headwinds and dodging barges, so basically, a normal day on the Mississippi.  We arrived at a lock where a barge was waiting and went to shore to gather some snacks form the only gas station we have seen in days. Walking over I noticed a familiar van. “Bicycle America”, was stenciled on the windows, the last time I saw this company I was cycling through the fridge cascades. This company offers staffed and supported cross country ride across America, this time they were head from New Orleans to St. Paul.  Once again, I couldn’t help but be envious of the string of bikers speeding by me.  Leaving the gas station, two more cyclists sped south. I yelled, “New Orleans?”, “Yea man!, you?”, “Yea!, but on a canoe!”, they yelled back, “Right on man, and gave me fist pump as they sped away.”

                The highlight of the day was finally leaving Minnesota. For 23 or so days, they all blend together; we have been in this massive state.  We stopped paddling and let the current take us across the state line, a simple brown sign indicating one side as Iowa, the other Minnesota. I secretly wished someone had put balloons and streamers celebrating our simple accomplishment, but no, only a headwind cheered for us. However, it was refressing to say goodbye to the cold, to the wretched lakes, the long stretches of wilderness, and the marshes, oh joy, good bye marshes. 

                We entered a part of the river where the banks were steep on every bank, only a train track wound its way around the edges. We looked at our phones and service dwindled from 3 bars, to 2, then to no service at all. It was getting late and we had already paddled 2 hours without seeing a good place to camp, the Islands being flooded by high water and the banks being too steep for a tent and in path of blazing freight trains.  As the sun went down, we found a muddy bank in a patch of woods to finally pitch our tents. I looked at my phone, no service, and knew it would be night of worry for my wife and our mothers.  We ate our ramen noodles, swatted our mosquito quota, and crawled in our tent to wait for night by reading.

                We were awoken in the middle of the night by a combination of deer snorting around us, and freight trains seemingly bulldozing their way through the tracks in the forest nearby. The latter which startled Toby awake, and according to him, a cacophony I just snored through.  We woke up to a calm river laden with a thick fog, the next lock and dam was nearby and we cut a path through water straight too it. Again, today, we encountered a steady headwind, which pushed our speed far below what we desired. We paddled for 11 hours, and only managed to travel 36 or so miles. We broke up the time by paddling in various poses, on our butts, on our knees, cross legged, and so on. I made the suggestion that we do some yoga poses, but that idea was prudently shut down.  Tonight we are staying in Guttenburg, IA. Again, we hope the police allow us to camp in the small park by the river. Once again, stay tuned.

Edit: As I was typing this blog inside this subway, a cop car pulled up to the front door. Out hops toby from the passnger side and he comes inside, I give a perplexed look. Toby looked more than excited to have gotten a ride from the park, but then he said "Hey man we got a free hotel!" "Wait, what? Hotel? FREE?" How?, apparently, instead of letting us sleep in the park, the police are using their "relief fund" to put us up for the night in a hotel. This trip never fails to surprise me.