Bronze's Mississippi Expedition Log

Was awakened after three hours of sleep, around 2 am, and compelled to move my tent to slightly higher ground.  No rain fallen, but it obviously had some effect upstream of me.  As soon as it was light enough, around 4:30, I rose and hastily made my way out on the river.

Generally uneventful day, not passing any real townships or points of interest.  I am very glad to have brought a VHF radio on this expedition, as it greatly facilitates communication with the Lockmaster.  I have found, with proper notice, they are most accommodating in allowing me to slip through in between barges.  I was so thrilled to encounter these locks initially, as it meant the end of my tedious portages.  However, I now find the delays they often create to be a frustration and I look forward to their coming to an end.

Have seen a few deer lately—the only substantial creatures, save birds, in some time.  The temp was well into the upper 90s today, and with no shade and not a breath of breeze, was quite unbearable.  It was only by continually splashing river water upon my skin that I was able to continue.  Arrived in Grafton just as the heat was peaking, and laundered my tainted articles.  I now must wait to see if the vile poison ivy has infected me.

DAY 38:  47 mi.  1 Lock

Made a leisurely morning exploration of Hannibal.  I am in the midst of reading Twain’s “Life on the Mississippi” and am able to glimpse some comparisons between his time and mine.  I contemplated the wharf area, long stretches of the pavement eroding away to reveal the old worn red brick beneath, and envisioned the sleepy Southern town bursting into activity at the sight of a steamboat rounding the point, black smoke billowing from her stacks (the result of pitch pine added to the fires to create a grandiose effect).  Freight and passengers exchanged in a teeming rush, the boat would cast off, and the town promptly returning to its somnolent state.  I received no such commotion at my departure.

The river had risen another two feet overnight, so I expected to make good time.  Hannibal is protected by a large levee, separating it from the wharf and railroad tracks.  Two large steel gates can be closed to wall the town off from the rising river, though at this point there is little to fear.  Twenty-five miles or so downriver I stopped in the town of Louisiana, much like Hannibal, but without the Twain legacy and the associated tourism and cash it brings.  It was Sunday late afternoon, and the town was absolutely dead.  Walking up Georgia St., the main avenue to the water, I came upon a narrow two-story brick building that had partially collapsed, revealing a pile of bricks, porcelain bath hardware, and archaic wallpapering.  I purchased a few provisions and moved on.

I was determined to make as many miles today as possible, which proved to be an error in judgment, as I pitched my camp in near darkness.  This resulted in my discovering much too late, and to my horror, that I had made camp in a dense thicket of poison ivy.  I was thus obliged to spend the rest of the evening bathing in four inches of thick muddy water, for to achieve a greater depth would have meant a long walk out into the channel in these flood conditions.  I have packed all tainted articles securely and will seek a laundry as soon as I can.  My bedding is once again completely sodden, though the temperature makes them unnecessary.  They do reek with a powerful odor, however.  Further dampening my spirits this evening, was the ominous rumbling and flashing which appeared all around me.  My campsite was mere inches above the water line, this area being quite flat, and I anticipate waters lapping at the edge of my tent presently.  I hope the remainder of the evening will not be spent sleeping in the boat.

Day 37:  44 Mi., 2 Locks

Engaged with the local inhabitants of Alexandria last night in a Euchre tournament, held in a smoke-filled ramshackle purple tavern right on the water.  I did not perform well.

Hannibal Waterfront

This establishment, though 8 to 10 feet off the ground, was inundated with floodwater in ’93, and the waters reached halfway up the wall.  That would put them 12 to 15 feet above the ground.  It is for this reason, I suppose, that the expensive estates along the river in Minnesota have given way to rather Spartan 600 sq.  ft.  cabins raised on 15’ stilts in Missouri.  At tournament’s end, the night sky was in a near-continual state of illumination from lightning flashing all about.  It was an ominous and eerie spectacle, for no thunder could be heard and no bolts made out, just continuous flashes, which briefly made visible enormous deeply purple clouds, thick and rolling and menacing.  It rained hard throughout the night.

Determined to beat the excessive heat and humidity, or perhaps the 20 mph winds of the day before, I awoke at 4:30 and made way shortly thereafter.  I was successful in my aims and was comfortable during the morning.  The rains again sped me along.  Though I scarcely notice when amidst the channel, the incredible increase in speed becomes apparent as I near the shore.

I stopped in Quincy before noon.  This town was once a port of entry into the US, possessing a large manufacturing base and railroad hubs, and as such a great concentration of wealth.  This was on display (at least the remnants of it) in a 40-block square of finely preserved estate and homes.  Most were of brick, some stone, some wood; Tudors, Victorian, Queen Anne, some French styles.  All with an attentiveness to ornamentation and detail rarely seen since that period of 1860’s to 1890’s.  Most seemed to be three-story, often with large elaborate garages meant to house carriages and horses, brick driveways leading up, gently rutted from a century of use.  After taking in the sights I returned to the river at 3, and a thick cover of clouds and winds made my journey to Hannibal blessedly cool.  I intend to explore the boyhood home of Mark Twain tomorrow.

Day 36:  50 Mi., 2 Locks

A very late start today–finishing the repair to my fins, doing laundry, and visiting the historic Ft. Madison.  A very early establishment, perhaps the first on the upper Mississippi, after the Louisiana Purchase.  Its aim was to make a safe location from which to do trade with the Indians, principally Sauk and Fox.  It contained 60 to 80 men, contained in four buildings, a wooden stockade, and three defensive towers.  During the war of 1812 the Indians, led by the renowned Blackhawk, sided with the British and laid siege to this fort.  After some time, the inhabitants were compelled to flee the fort under cover of night, burning it to the ground as they went.

The wind was impressive today, keeping me cool but throwing forth a gauntlet of four-foot waves across my bow without pause.  With the flood conditions, I still made acceptable time.  Crossed the confluence of the Des Moines River and am now in Missouri, state of my grandfather’s birth, and of my grandmother’s family origins.  Her grandfather was a judge here I believe.  Though it seems too early in my voyage, I am now in the “South”, having crossed the Mason-Dixon Line.

Day 35:  18 Mi., 1 Lock

Made way early, shortly at 6 am, as I was informed that foul weather lay in store for the latter part of the day.  The heavy rains, 2 to 3 times the monthly average at this point, have swollen the river.  She appears to be several feet higher than usual, large swaths of debris form foamy striations across the surface, containing sticks, branches, and sometimes giant logs.  The surface is a bit seething, as though it can’t determine the best course to take, and whorls or eddies frequently push me off course.  I do, however, gain the benefit of increased speed thanks to the current, and I believe I have pushed and possibly topped 6 mph at times.  It is a consolation for the repeated soakings.

On this stretch of river are a great many duck blinds, perched on the water like some kind of bunker made of sticks.  Freight trains were a near hourly sight in the MN/WI region, yet lately I cannot remember the last time I saw one, though the tracks continue to border the river.  As I approached Burlington, which lends its name to the west bank’s line—Burlington Northern Santa Fe—I at last spied two trains leaving town, one of which crossed the wooden bridge as I went below.  (No—I now recall that was in Ft.  Madison.)

Burlington was at one time the territorial capital of Iowa for several years.  It has of late, I was informed by a friendly but slightly embittered local, undergone a substantial demographic shift and population decline.  They were having a series of concerts on the waterfront this week, but I found the parking lot in which the event was staged to appear cramped and less than scenic, from my perspective on the water.

Six miles up from Ft.  Madison, I once again suffered the disablement of a fin, this time due to a very small bolt and pin that came loose and sank.  I fashioned a remedy of cordage and hope to find a permanent fix in town.

Ended the day in Nauvoo, IL, site of the Mormons’ attempt at an idyllic theocracy.  It was, in its prime, the tenth largest city in America, before the death of Joseph Smith and the final exodus of the those peoples to the Utah territory.  The remaining buildings of the original town have been lovingly restored or maintained and the broad grassy fields, tall trees, and spotless grooming of the place was very appealing.  It was very spacious and seemed quite untouched since those days so long past.  Unable to find reasonable accommodation in Nauvoo, I returned by auto to Ft.  Madison, where I found lodging—that I might shower and do laundry and enjoy an actual bed.

Day 34:  41 Mi., 1 Lock

Arose early and made 10 miles before the heat of the day struck.  It was still, clear, and hot and I want for the memory of the last day I was free of rain! What a treat!

I find that the bluffs, with their exposed glimpses of rugged rock, are now completely absent and the river is bounded by dense hardwoods and nothing in sight beyond.  There was but little development along the river today, a pleasant change and yet eventually lending itself to boredom, as visual diversions were lacking.

New Boston Granary

Stopped for lunch in New Boston, where a large silo or granary was depositing volumes of corn into an awaiting barge.  This town, the oldest in the county, has the principle distinction of having been surveyed by the young Abraham Lincoln.  A charming and charismatic gentleman named Lloyd gave me a ride up the hill to the local tavern and informed me of some of the history.  Fortified on potatoes au gratin with ham, I set out again under the blue skies feeling most fine.

Day 33: 32 Mi., 1 Lock

Ah what a relief to be back on the water making progress downstream!  My parts arrived, delivered overnight to a confectionary in the village of East Davenport; owned by four generations of Italians; they graciously agreed to let me give their address to the parts vendor.  The repairs were easily made, and my craft made new in a matter of minutes.  While adjusting my seat, I discovered the crushed dead body of some form of water snake, who had obviously crawled up under the seat cushion to stay warm and had been smashed dead when I sat down some days prior.  The corpse smelled most foul and in my haste to be rid of it, I did not take note of its markings; a pity as I would like to know if it was venomous.

Muscatine Waterfront

A mere mile downriver was Lock and Dam 15, adjacent to the Rock Island Arsenal.  This island, nearly 1,000 acres, is the army’s largest arsenal and the site of a fort built in 1816, when the Mississippi River lay at the farthest reaches of the frontier.  I was blessed with a speedy lock-through.  Several miles later, a ferocious storm blew in, the strongest I have yet felt, with impressive gusts of wind raking the deluge across the surface of the river, and great white clouds obscuring all but 30 yards around me.  This thankfully subsided after but 10 or 20 minutes.  The rest of the day was fair, and I passed several small hamlets, several campgrounds, and several mills and power plants.

At Lock 16, I was informed that I must wait at least 90 minutes, so I decided to pull the kayak up an embankment onto a gravel road and portage around the dam.  While passing a barbed wire fence I spied a bird in a state of distress—his leg was caught up in some thread, which in turn had wrapped about the wire.  The leg was broken and held on with but a little flesh and he flapped about wildly.  I caught him and slowly extracted the mangled foot, then released him, whereupon he flew off in a panic.  I felt a great sense of satisfaction, perhaps atoning for the death of the snake.  There is something extra pitiful about a bird that is ensnared and cannot take wing.  While I may not have saved his life, at least he may now choose the place of his expiration, in dignity.

Passed Muscatine around 7 pm, and its small quaint waterfront area with a tall spouting fountain, and followed a slough on the south bank to the small campground near Blanchard Island.

Day 32:  34 Mi.,  2 Locks, 1 Portage

Remained in camp at Fisherman’s Corner, doing battle with my desire to make further progress down the river.  Having just spent Friday in repose, I do not feel the particular desire to repeat.  But I am still ahead of schedule, having made so many 40+ mile days.  Thus I will be content to dry my clothes, re-provision, and enjoy some company.  I have been given contact information for a man in St.  Louis, by his father, next to whom I am camped, and this may be useful to me should I encounter difficulties in that region.

Day 31:  0 Mi

The day began excessively muggy, not a breath of wind, with dense white haze obscuring all.  As I approached Lock 14, I radioed to make contact and was informed that only the alternate lock was available for my use.  Thus I was required to paddle upstream into the wind for about a mile to enter the alternate channel, the exertion and humidity rendering my garments soaked in a mere 20 minutes.

As I continued on to Davenport and Lock 15, the skies grew as grey as could be and soon I found myself in a deluge, with large waves and wind being driven directly in my face.  The forces exerted by these waves proved too much for the remaining fin of my drive, and it sheared off.  This left me with my paddle as a last resort.  By now the conditions were so atrocious that I could see scarcely 20 feet ahead.  Lightning and tremendous thunder was overhead and I began to question the prudence of being out on the water.  I struggled over to the shore and found a marina, where I arranged for the storage of my craft until the replacement parts arrive.  It looks as if I’ll be spending several days in the Davenport area.  I will return to my camp from last night and await the arrival of my parts.

Day 30:  10 Mi., 1 Lock.

Heavy drizzle to start the day, which persisted well into the afternoon, leaving me drenched, but not cold.  The bargain I offered–for a day of rain, but free of wind–must have been agreeable to the powers that be, and I was happy to have calm waters.

Crossed a lake, about 2 miles by 6 miles, in which was a small island containing vast flocks of gulls, pelicans, and loons.  The stench of their guano could be smelled at a great distance.

At Lock 13, I had but a 20 minute wait, a welcome change from recent lockage.  The 70-year-old Georgian gentleman heading south in his dark hunting boat had been waiting for 2 hours, and informed me that the lock had been disabled for 2 days.  It was a fortuitous time for me to have taken a day of rest!

Past the lock was the town of Clinton.  A massive wooden railroad bridge led into town, and a large segment of it was pivoted 90 degrees and made flush with the riverbank to allow passage of the barges.  Instead of the main channel, I opted to shortcut along Beaver Slough, where I hoped to see some of the town.  Alas, this byway only revealed a string of power plants and other monstrous industrial sites, towering smoke stacks billowing.

Stopped for lunch at the only sheltered spot I could find—some form of municipal pier in Camanche, Illinois.  I sat on the concrete base of the supports, out of the rain, and ate a simple cold lunch of my customary peanut butter/jelly/tortilla.  Once again, my pedal drive has been damaged and is at half power.  The forces exerted on the metal rod which holds the flipper in place have proven too much for it, and it sheared off.  Thus, I am once more faced with enacting some form of repair, though now I must have parts shipped to me somewhere along the way.  The inconvenience of making the repair seems at this time secondary to that of locating the part and devising a timeline of when and where to receive it!

Day 29:  44 miles, 1 lock