I am snuggled up in my Marmot tent as a gusty rain storm sweeps over me this afternoon, Tuesday May 18... I just made it to Three Forks Montana and grabbed some groceries from one of those stores run "just right" (i.e. "NO ! You can’t have that box -- it’s my baked good box!." "But the butcher said I could." "The butcher doesn’t know what he’s doing -- here, give me that box." No, he said I could have it." "You want me to call the sheriff?" Surrendering her precious box, I packed up my groceries in a paper sack, and sneaked away as if I'd been caught shoplifting.

I had always wondered what happened to nurse Rratchet from One Flew Over -- now I find her running a grocery store in Three forks Montana!

My campsite is directly on the three forks which join to make the Missouri. Across from me are cliffs rising 300' from the other side of the river. The river is smaller than I expected. I'll be scraping unless they have some good warm sun melting the snow-covered peaks to my West.

The leaves are just breaking out... unfolding but not dense enough that you can't see through each tree. Tomorrow (Wed.) I'll return the car to Helena 70 mi. North of here then hitch back and [probably] cast off in the afternoon or Thursday morning.

Right now everything is here in my tent while thunder crashes about me... and I'm going to organize my gear before going to sleep.

I awoke to such thick fog I could not even see my side of the river, just 20' away, let alone the other side. Drove the 75 miles to Helena & dropped off my rental car at the airport, which I had used to carry all my gear and canoe from Indiana the week before today. Took a $7 taxi ride back to Rt. 2 and started hitching back to Three Forks. The second guy along picked me up, a local painter and took me 5 miles. I found a piece of cardboard and wrote "Three Forks" on it with my black marker and within 5 minutes Barry Brown a salesman for medical supplies picked me up. He had never seen the Three Forks, so he took me all 70 miles right back to my tent and boat, so I was packed up an on the water heading down the Missouri River by noon.

All day I played leapfrog with a father-son kayak team... they passed me once when I broke a sheer pin and had to paddle to shore to replace it. Again while I was portaging the too-many-items-I-brought around the Toston Dam, they past me with their lightweight kits. They hung around for a snack and I made 15 more miles before shearing another pin in yet another rapids -- I only have two left so I better get deeper water soon, or learn to read the river better.

Since I had to pull out to repair the shear pin, and it was already 6 PM, I decided to camp -- about an hour before Canyon Ferry Lake. It is kind of funny to be traveling north -- even a bit northwest on my way to St. Louis. But the river here travels north until Great Falls where it turns east, and finally over in North Dakota it will turn south. This was discouraging to Lewis and Clark who were coming upstream heading west -- and they encountered this southern and eastern section of river. (Coming back they cut off this loop, of course.)

It is sunny, the sky is blue, and I've seen Pelicans, Cormorants, prairie dogs, King birds, Great Blue Herons, Canada geese, and scores of ducks I can’t identify yet.

Tonight's campsite is perched 20' above the water...the sun is warming my back and I'm about to cook the ever-present mac & cheese dinner. A good start!

N 46-39.060 W 111-42.017

A frustrating day which ended well. Within a mile of my campsite I hit a rock and sheared another pin...didn't even replace it but paddled the rest of the way to Townsend bridge. But in the silence I coasted by three Mule Deer nibbling bushes on the shore, then a pair of eagles standing guard in a high tree.

Hitched into Townsend chasing down more shear pins, but none were available. At the little NAPA store Ed, a 75 year old retired Meter reader, overheard my request and hauled me home to give me a shear pin from his 1952 Evenrude -- "they're all the same," he assured me before taking me back to my canoe. (they aren't).

Afraid of shearing my second last pin, I simply paddled the next 5 miles into Canyon Ferry Lake before powering up and heading for Goose Bay Marina half way up the 5-mile wide lake, feeling stupid for coming on this trek with only a handful of shear pins and absolutely frustrated at even having to bring a motor along.

A motor isn't needed if one is canoeing with a partner, but becomes pretty necessary for a solo trip, especially across the lakes and all the giant waves. I did not have the three months free to make the entire trek motor-less, and was unwilling to sit on the shores of the big lakes for several days at a time out waiting the wind, so I tossed in this motor as my "partner." Like most partners, it is a blessing and a curse. The breaking of shear pins is the curse part.

No dice. At least no sheer pins. All Goose Bay marina offered was pleasant retired Elizabeth who sold potato chips, not shear pins: "To tell you the truth I don't know what one is" she confessed. I checked everything in the bait store and sure enough, they had none.

Tired of shear pin chasing, I headed for the North end of the lake were Elizabeth said the "better type of people" kept their boats.

Jacking up my speed to maximum I started racing (well, this little kicker doesn’t exactly enable me to "race" but I usually run it at a bit above idle speed -- so it contributes about the same energy as my wife would, though it is quite a bit more noisy than she). A gigantic rainstorm is coming in from the west. Remembering the warning about this lake and its sudden 70 MPH winds and 20' rollers, I clung to the shore to run for cover if I saw lighting.

However, I made it. Kim's Marina, indeed a place for a "better type of people." At least better off. I got a tent site for $10. and a shower for $2 then walked up the hill to "Butch's Marine," an out-of-the-garage operation seeking my shear pins. "Sure, I got everything you need," he grinned recovering a greasy box from the shelf and dumping out a hundred shear pins, of fifty different sizes. Searching through them he found five near-matches: "You might have to file 'em down, but these'll work."

I am now at O'Malley's Irish Pub where I just finished the "Cowboy Classic" including a delicious "Indian Pan Bread" which seems to be a doughnut without the sugar -- and it is superbly delicious!

As I was eating the storm hit-- and I saw those rollers and whitecaps they warn about. I was glad I made it. The storm is now passed and the sunset is beautiful. I am headed to bed with a hamburger steak in my tummy and five shear pins in my pocket-- what more could a fella’ ask for?

Perhaps that's the wonder of this simple life -- it doesn't take much to make your day!

I got an early start to Canyon Ferry dam portage...straight up a shale bank 90' to the road, then over a 5' concrete wall & down 400 or more feet of rock slide/"trail". Asking the dam workers for help, one wanted to haul me around in his pick up truck, but when he called his dam supervisor the response was, "That’s his problem, not ours." I worked two hours inching the boat up the shale slide with two ropes when one knot slipped and the whole boat went slamming and sliding all the way back down the crumbling shale KER-SPLASHING right back into the lake!

I said phooey, tossing everything back into the canoe and went to a boat launch a mile back. There Pete & Hank were just unloading their boat for a day of fishing and they agreed to haul me round the 5 miles by road. For forty dollars, that is. I would have paid more. (Later note: This was the only "paid portage" I made -- from this point on everyone happily agreed to portage me for free, sometimes even giving me food or other gifts. I was still a rookie at Canyon Ferry Dam.)

There! The portage is out of the way! Well, that one... soon came the next dam -- Hauser Dam . Sneaking past the limit cable to avoid another tobogganing boat folly, I exited the water 10' from the dam, hauled everything up to the road where there was a gradual 600' gravel road around the dam. A much better portage than Canyon Ferry. Then along came Todd and Guy, the dam managers, who drove over the dam tossed everything in their truck and hauled the whole kit around for me. What wonderful fellows!

Then down five mile of rapids...amazing... I could see the river falling away just like a long downhill interstate and I rode down this "hill" on two foot waves in good spirits. Exciting!

But I must have been tense. I rested at Gates of the Mountains Boat club (a place where regular auto-tourists can take tour boats into the Gates). And I am weary. Today features a perfectly blue sky, with 70 degrees and beautiful sunshine!

Camped for the night down in the "Gates of the Mountains" a 500 foot deep gorge through the foothills of the rocky mountains. I camped at the delightful Colter campsite, a canoe-in back country site on a shelf of grass deep in the canyon. (N46-51.563 W11-54.500)

Lewis & Clark had heard of the "Gates of the Mountains" a thousand mile before from the Indians. When they arrived they rejoiced that they would soon pass through the "Gates" and begin seeing snow capped mountains. The opposite was true for me -- I was bidding the snow capped peaks goodbye.

Awakened by geese roostering in the dawn, I decided to wait 'till the sun hit the top of the canyon wall across the river. Then I hit the mental snooze alarm and chose half way down the wall.

The sun now illuminates the opposite shoreline and I am making my second pot of tea! Oh well, the only schedule to keep is a half-way meeting with Sharon in 21 days and 1100 miles...I'll make it up ;-)

Leaving later than normal I canoed out of the "Gates" and up Holter Lake to stop at the "Boat Loft" a first class marina opposite Holter Dam, for a half-dozen cups of free coffee (and another half-dozen shear pins which their mechanic supplied for me happily.) They promised me the Holter Dam portage is not so bad. Of course they've never actually portaged it themselves -- just looked at it from the lake.

It is a cold morning -- I now have on every bit of clothes I brought including both sets of gloves.

I portaged around Holter dam, with the help of Steve and Paula Western of Great Falls who were taking a day off to wander around the water. They along with their three friends, hand-carried all my gear to the put-in site. I carried the canoe and discovered a better way to use the "Portage Pal" wheels -- I put the bow & wheels in front of me and lift the stern against my belly looping a rope over my shoulders to my Kelty frame pack -- it is considerably better than dragging the canoe behind like a trailer. This method is more like a wheel barrow. Steve & Paula gave me their phone number offering to help me in Great Falls if I needed it.

Well there was just one hitch. I selected the shortcut put-in site which had a 40’ shale slide to get all my gear down to the water after Steve and Paula left. The canoe I inched down with two ropes. For the gear I rigged up a line to a tree at the river side and sent the rest of my gear (except the motor) down the rope --- pulley-like... slick!

I floated-paddled most of the next 15 miles roaring through Wolf Creek Canyon motor-less. Wolf Canyon is essentially a 15 mile long class two rapids! It was exciting! I couldn’t use the motor anyway in rocky rapids - and the workout is good for me.

A fun ride, but tense. I pulled in as soon as I hit the valley and made camp on the right bank at N47-11.500 W111-47.892. I am writing the name of each campsite on my new Marmot tent. I called this one "Rattlesnake #1 camp." Guess why?

The fast water is gone now. Here the river winds, oozing slowly, meandering here and there, first north, then east, then south... one gets dizzy trying to follow the route to closely.

I stopped at Cascade to attend church, but only the two bars were open for business and the C-store. Hank, a C-store hanger-on assured me, "there's grizzly bears in that section 'tween here and Great Falls --you wouldn’t catch me going down there." I suspected Hang didn’t go much of anywhere... except the Cascade C-Store.

On to Ulm for some backup gas (One tank goes about 100-125 miles -- I started with two full tanks in 3 Forks) After walking to the station a toothless skinny guy said, "That your boat down by the bridge?" I admitted it was and he replied, "'Wanna ride back with that gas can?" Jeff was pumping water out of the river into a 500 gal plastic tank chained to a trailer "to water ma' trees -- well water ain’t good for 'em, ya know."

Back on the meandering river until sunset. The river is often shallow here offering up hidden sand bars. However, these aren't as likely to shear the pin. At about sunset I arrived in Great Falls, camping on a sand bar near a large city-owned island right in the downtown. N47-29.045 W111-19.097

Tomorrow I plan rent a truck or car to portage around the series of Great Falls, though it took Lewis and Clark a month to do it 200 years ago. I think I will also take a day off for laundry, shopping, mailing home excess baggage and resting.

Canoed the short distance to the "second bridge" in Great falls and arranged for a U-Haul truck rental, tossed all my gear aboard, rented a $42 room at the Day's Inn; I re-packed my gear, did laundry-in-the-tub (and put my wet clothes right back on to wear 'em dry). I got two rolls of film developed at the Walmart 1-hour (for free it turned out, since it took 1 hour and 15 minutes, and I happened to mention it.)

Sent home several of the extra books I brought and had already read. After all, how may book does one actually need on a river trek? Answer: more when packing, less while portaging. Visited the "Giant Spring" just below Black Eagle falls/dam -- the largest spring in the world, gushing out 134,000 gallons per minute. They also claim it is the shortest river in the world sine it technically runs about 25' before entering the Missouri.

The Great Falls themselves are actually a series of falls dropping a total of 512 feet (for comparison Niagara drops a measly 150'). Lewis and Clark took a month to portage around them. The "Interpretive center" is a must-see but "never on a Monday" -- only ServiceMaster gets inside on Mondays.

Having completed all my errands, and soon to enter 300+ miles of wilderness, I treated myself to the new Star Wars movie and slipped into bed between fresh clean sheets for a night.

(A day totally missing from my journal, but reconstructed afterward as the day I was met by Jim and Diane McDermond and taken to Carter landing, then canoed through Ft. Benton to camp somewhere in the Wild and Scenic river, my own map indicating somewhere near Rowe Bend.)

Hard going all morning against the wind. I had to run my little kicker-helper to fight a powerful head wind. It made me wonder what the giant lakes will be like -- especially Ft. Peck lake, soon to appear. However, by noon the wind died down and I made it all the way to Judith landing, 84 miles below Ft. Benton.

The only trouble: I gulped down 6 gal. fuel...and will not make it to Ft. Peck with the remaining fuel.

Then up comes Ethel & Robert Glover, vacationing Canadians ending a 3-day canoe trip. They hauled me and a tank 37 miles to the nearest crossroads - a town of about 100. The gas station was closed, but there was a guy filling up at a special pump at the side -- he gave me 4 gallons -- enough to take the pressure off and get me to Ft. Peck.

Then Robert & Ethel insisted on buying me a square meal at the so-called "restaurant" in the tiny town. I ate a 3/4 pounder.

They hauled me and my gas (both in my can and in my belly now) back to Judith Landing where I pitched my tent in the final glimmer of light.

It is now 10 PM and I just finished half of Ethel's 3/4 pounder she couldn't finish, keeping the tin foil it was wrapped in to use for a pot cover in the future, having forgotten mine from home.

After last night's hamburger I determined to make a big day of it today. Up before dawn and off down river just at first light. I stopped at the one-car ferry and chatted with Grace Sanford a 70ish woman who is the ferryman. She was taking her own truck across to do laundry at a nearby ranch. "Beats bringing that old washer down here to the river," she said. We jawboned a hour before I broke away. Until recently Grace taught school in the winter, "Had three students, but one went to high school and another one moved away."

Hit a submerged rock and popped another shear pin and worse, when I jerked around my little radio went overboard and now I have no country music to accompany me. I’ll have to make up my own ballads about dogs, pick up trucks, love and whiskey. Oh well, I was getting weary of the two stations anyway: one with the grain prices continuously interspersed with on-air want-ads. The other was a Christian station having their "friend-raising" week.

Made it to Kipp Landing (Frank Robertson Bridge) after 11 hours straight. From here it in only another 10 miles of river to the big lake -- Ft. Peck Lake then things could get mighty interesting!

Canoed 15 miles into the Ft. Peck Lake, and faced exciting rollers a couple feet high but knowing of the impending storm over Memorial Day weekend I kept at it all day and got 60% down the 134 mile lake to Devil's Creek campground where there are several fishermen camped. (A new family just drove their pickup in and did a walkabout just below me, and having seen two rattlesnakes got back in their pickup and drove off.)

I was lonesome today.

Sure enough the storm rolled in by 10 PM. I had to run to the lake and better secure my canoe, the pounding three foot surf was knocking it to pieces.

Read and rested in my tent all day. Watched the rivulets of rain run down the fly for a break.

Retyped all my E-mail when the machine suddenly reset again. Read Lewis and Clark journals, Patrick Gass journals, and am hoping for a break in the storm tomorrow.

(The fishermen have spent most of the day sitting in their three pickup trucks with their heaters and radios on.)

An incredible day! Woke to the same threatening sky, but the water was glass-calm! I tossed everything together, gobbled down a strawberry toast-em and headed down-lake.

It was just a trick to get me on the water...soon the wind was roaring again and I found myself on two and three foot rollers. That’s not so bad a sea -- except that my gunwales are only 6" high when I’m loaded. This day I was grateful for "Captain Bob's" contribution to my trip: the waterproof snap-on boat cover -- without it I would have capsized.

As it was, the bow dived into the next roller and the wave broke over the boat, washing in around me. Every ten minutes I would get out my bilge pump and pump furiously to drain the 3" of water at my feet.

I made it to the most delightful campsite of the trip so far. A pine covered narrow jut of land just 10 miles above the dam. All my clothes are now dried out, and I am in my tent just a few yards from my boat on the shore. The front door offers a complete vista of tomorrow's route. The water is calming a bit, the sun peeps through occasionally and I have tremendous sense of well being.

A short 10 miles to finish the lake then I met a local couple at the marina who put my canoe on their trailer and hauled me the 4 miles down to the put-in site. Re-packed and secured canoe, then backpacked the mile or so back to "town" to stay at the WPA-style hotel.

Mike let me do my laundry in the hotel laundry, and I took a long bath in the ancient cast iron tub. The town of Ft. Peck once had 30,000 people in the 1930's when they were building the dam. It now has 300, a 99% shrinkage. After my delicious bath I walked the 4 miles to the Gateway Inn for a steak celebrating my coming 550 miles and finishing the most remote 300 miles of the entire river. I met and talked more than an hour with the 80ish "Sis Bondy" the oldest resident of Ft. Peck. Having moved here in the 30’s, she told me stories about the dam not published in official journals.

I rested in the lodge-type atmosphere of the hotel, winding up the day on its rambling porch watching a half dozen mule deer graze on the lawn 50' away before retiring to my 1930-deco room.

The period bed in the hotel of course sagged like all good beds did in the 30's. After sleeping on the ground for a few weeks I couldn't take it -- I got out of bed and slept on the floor.

Following a delightful breakfast with Clyde Allen and Brian Nohr of the Corps of Engineers I picked up my mail (including many letters, cards and even some cookies from my wife, and brownies from "Grasshopper" a fellow trekker from the Appalachian Trail years before) hoisted my pack and walked to the put-in site. There I found my canoe in good shape as I left it.

Two retired ladies met me on the way -- Edythe and Genell Herd and walked me to the launch site and saw me off. (Edyth and her husband stopped their gigantic motor home in the middle of the road yesterday, picking me up after the steak dinner saving me the 4 mile walk back to town).

Putted along slowly seeking my way through the shallow river to Oswego, and a few miles more to the most delightful grassy tiny island. Perhaps 50' round, as soon as I spied it I determined to make camp: "There’s an island that needs camped on," I said.

As I write this the sun is sinking in the west. My canoe is a few yards out my front door and sitting on the bow of it is a brightly colored Baltimore Oriole chirping goodnight to me. Tomorrow I shall provision at Wolf Point for the trip to the confluence/Williston.

Pulled into Wolf Point Montana by ten AM and was met near the sewage treatment plant (where they were fishing) by three Indian boys who offered to watch my canoe while I was in town (for an unspecified fee and with a specified threat: "las' guy came here got his boat stole.")

Picked up my first groceries and gas since Ft. Benton 300+ miles back, paid my five bucks ransom, then got back in the river The river is still shallow and filled with gravel bars, sometimes with only a 10' wide channel in a 200 yard. wide river, usually near the shore.)

Fought a 30 MPH head wind with 50 MPH gusts until 3 PM then tossed it in and made camp before the threatening thunderstorm caught me. My site is just before Poplar MT -- on the left shore beside a curious pile of bones, apparently from a steer who met his fate here. Who piled them up and why I can't guess. But they do decorate my front yard, like people put those plastic flamingos on their lawn to advertise they've been to Florida. I kind of like 'em -- sort of says, "See here what happened to the last fellers' who tried to shake me down for watching my canoe while I was in town?"

I have not seen a boat or shoreline fisherman since Ft. Peck - this is a remote section, even though the river passes several towns. The towns apparently do not think of the river in recreational ways for there are no docks or landing spots. They rather think of the river as a good place to put their sewage. For this reason I carry my own water most of the time. That, and the herbicide-pesticides in the Missouri from runoff is enough to convince me to carry my own water.

In Wolf Point I bought a $10 kid’s play radio which is built right into earphones with an antenna sticking out the top. When I wear it I look somewhat like a Martian. The radio provides some company at least (besides, of course my bonepile.)

Sure enough, the thunder & lighting are coming at 9 PM. I'm crawling in to my sleeping bag now.

(A day totally missing from my journal which I recollected later as being a day with numerous tornado warnings on the radio to which I responded by canoeing to Culbertson Bridge and set up my tent under the massive concrete bridge.)

Sure enough, according to my tiny radio, there were six tornado touchdowns last night, so my makeshift tornado cellar under the Culbertson Bridge was a wise decision. But I personally saw no storm evidence anywhere, other than wind and rain.

I wiggled back and forth down the still-shallow Missouri to the reconstructed Ft. Union which once was directly on the river, but now boasts a serious marsh between it and the river, through which I tried to find a route. I failed. In a later visit (during my weekend off in Bismarck) the fort was a satisfying site, though the management of this National Monument is short-sighted in wanting to "avoid the trouble" of river visitors. Ironic, isn’t it -- river visitors is what the fort was all about originally. Now extravagant expenses are shelled out for parking areas and handicapped accessibility. But for Lewis and Clark trekkers, not even a dozen loads of gravel for a footpath can be invested. Perhaps it is a commentary on what has happened to America’s rivers -- they are now the sewers, and the new rivers are the highways.

From the fort downstream, the river was being backed up from the flow of the swollen Yellowstone River. Crossing into North Dakota. I now have 770 miles behind me. That's "government miles" --more, if you count real miles -- the way the steamboats did.

At the confluence of the Yellowstone and Missouri I discovered that the Yellowstone was indeed at flood stage, pouring reddish muddy water which quickly dominated the more quiet and clear Missouri. This probably explains why the Missouri was so shallow. The dam boys may have been holding back the Missouri’s flow to allow the Yellowstone water downstream. The Yellowstone runs largely unrestricted from the snow melt to the confluence.

Catching "Paddlefish" is big at the confluence. Some days 60-70 fish are caught. The large "Gold Star Caviar" company sets up shop during May and early June to clean the fish for free if they get to keep the roe. I looked for the Colorado plates to leave a note to the father-son kayak team who planned to finish their trek here, but could not find their car. I asked at the caviar trailer and was told, "Yeah, they came here in their Suburban with two kayaks on top about a week ago -- they gave up."

I wondered why. The storm on Canyon Ferry lake? The portage? Getting along as father and son. Simply satisfied that they'd done enough? I regretted not getting their address and figured I would never connect with them again now. (Later note: After my trek I received an e-mail from the father… they had made it to Ft. Benton and simply been satisfied that they'd gone far enough.

The caviar manager shook his head when I said I planned to go into Williston for supplies. "It won’t work. You’ll never find your way in -- I'll give you gas right here" and he promptly supplied all my needs for the next 200 miles out of the Gold Star tanks and pocketed the cash (probably to be turned in later, I’m sure).

Sure enough, I soon discovered why he was sure I’d not get into Williston. The "Williston Marsh" is a tangled spaghetti bowl of turnouts, streams, dead ends, and ox bows. I finally gave up figuring out where I was and just kept going downstream, first with the sun in my face, then on my right ear, then my back, and then in my face again. A couple hours later I emerged into beautiful Lake Sakakawea, relieved to be out of the marsh.

I was looking for "Lund’s Landing," a little fish restaurant I had been taken to quite a few years before as a visiting speaker in Williston. I wound up in the wrong bay, tied up my boat and walked into the back yard of Dick and Linda Hickman asking for directions. Linda is the DA for Williston, and Dick had just received a call to serve a year’s stint as a peace keeper for the UN in Kosovo (just this week the bombing had stopped). They welcomed me into their home and served me supper. Linda took a glance at my "outdoored" hands and said gently, "I'll put out a towel and washcloth for you." Wonderful people!

Now knowing the way to Lund's Landing, but no longer needing to go for dinner, I put in at Lewis and Clark State park where they have boat-in/walk-in campsites.

The rest of the evening was spent talking with ranger Sheila Koerner who was trained in veterinary medicine, then worked for an oil company, and finally came to do what she really wanted to -- be a park ranger. The campsite is a virtual paradise of new trees and bushes planted everywhere as if it was the personal back yard of a rancher-turned-forester. As I hit the sleeping bag tonight I am leaving off my tent fly and watching thousands of stars twinkle above me.

Enjoying the Lewis and Clark State park so much I hung around a few hours seeking the least excuse of a cloudy sky or heavy wind to force a second night here, but alas, the sky is blue and the water is glass. So I packed up.

Just at the southern turn into Big Bend is the village of New Town. Across the bridge on the right side is 4 Bears Casino. Parking my canoe I climbed the hill and wandered through the casino watching the zombie-like customers sitting at rows of machines, peep-hole-like, dropping coins down its throat as if they were in a trance. When someone won, there was little excitement, they just used the bucket of winnings to pump more coins back into the machines as if they were required to stay until their money ran out.

I ate a hamburger, and watched them set up for a gigantic outdoor rock concert that night. Listening to the sound check pretty well helped me decide not to stay at the adjacent campground, so I returned to my canoe and shoved off again.

Canoeing down around the curve of Big Bend I was headed toward Pouch Point when I discovered ahead of me a life-vest clothed lad in the water beside his Wave Runner. It was his first time out and he had fallen off and couldn't remount the thing. I tried to help, but the lad was so fat, even with my help he couldn't get back on. I tried to talk him into leaving the Wave Runner and letting me pull him into the bay. His response: My dad would kill me." So I hooked up to the wave runner, with the Buddha-like lad clinging to the back of it, and began towing the whole lot to Pouch Point.

A mile later my motor overheated and shut down. Now, here I am, still a half-mile from shore, with a dead motor, an overloaded canoe, a dead Wave runner, and a fat kid chattering in the water, and still no other boats in sight.

The next half mile was the longest half-mile paddle I've ever done.

At the shore he was met by his father, sure enough. Glancing disdainfully at the whale-like kid he muttered, "idiot," went and started up the wave runner... and immediately roared off on his own to make sure it was OK. The soaking wet boy, on the other hand gave me a soaking wet hug me and said, "Thanks! I hope your motor will be OK." Waiting a half hour for it to cool down, it did start again, and I crossed the bay to a delightful gravel beach on Independence Point where there are coyote tracks near my tent site tonight.

Awoke this morning in a thunderstorm, smiling at my opportunity to stay late. Smiling that is, until lightning stuck the trees in the little crescent of cottonwoods behind me, crashing louder than the rock concert sound check.

I crawled deeper in my sleeping bag and covered my head, as if that gave me more protection. Watching what a thunderstorm can do to one of these lakes has convinced me to never be caught in one while on the lake. Snuggled in my cozy tent I brewed some spice tea from a few tea bags from the Ft. Peck Hotel. I'm drinking "Reincarnation Spice Tea." The label says, "In a past life, perhaps you spent an evening in Marco Polo's camp on a return trip from the spice markets of the far east." Yeah, sure.

The lake has stirred up -- not just to rollers -- but to outright breakers, white-capping all over the lake from a steady north wind. Today will be a stormbound day -- that's fine, it is Sunday and I need a day for worship, rest, reading and writing.

After a steady downpour all morning I took a long leisurely nap -- after all, perhaps the storms of life are designed to cause one to slow down, think back and take a rest.

Awakening in early afternoon to bright sunshine and gradually diminishing waves I decided to overhaul my little kicker. Never comfortable with internal combustion engines, the little Johnson booklet gave me adequate instructions, so I changed the gear case oil and put in a new spark plug and fuel filter. On a test drive it ran at least as good, and it seemed to me a little better.

The dawn came with clear skies and a heavy northern tailwind so I put in the lake at five AM and roared to Garrison Dam, discovering I could combine "tacking" with "surfing" and let the wind do lots of the work for me.

I landed at Sakakawea State Park I met a delightful college student and summer staff ranger, Brandy DuLoit, who cheerfully offered to close down her office and portage me across the dam on her lunch break.

After a short hop to the Downstream Campsite I set up camp yearning for a hot shower but first thinking of my mail drop at the nearby Riverdale. Asking directions for the 4 mile walk into Riverdale, campground hosts Chuck and Nancy Proper would hear nothing of it, and took me first to Riverdale to pick up my mail, then across to the other side of the dam (and a different time zone) to Pick City for grocery re-supply.

Chuck is a retired UPS driver from Lansing Michigan, who with Nancy has no permanent home, other than their trailer in which they live as campground hosts all around the US. Interested in river trekking themselves, they invited me to their trailer for home made Pizza and MYO salads that evening. Wonderful! The only drawback of the entire evening was the delicious coffee of which I drank too much, laying awake past two AM before finally dozing off.

A frustrating day. Got off early with secret thoughts of making it all the way to Bismarck, but was quickly slowed down by the many sandbars and shallows below the dam which come up surprisingly in the very middle of the half-mile wide river. (Eventually I learned that the middle of the river is the most likely spot for sand bars, and the ten feet right next to the shore is often the most reliable deeper channel) At one point I became stranded in three inches of water and finally got out and walked the canoe through the river, Lewis-and-Clark style for several hundred yards in the bitter cold water. (The water is always coldest below the dams. The dam intake is often 80-90 feet deep, thus letting out the coldest of the lake waters.)

On breaking a shear pin from hitting a hidden boulder I paddled to shore to discover all five shear pins in my case are fatter than the hole. This led to an hour of playing "metal lathe," filing a one inch long shear pin until it was smaller in diameter.

On the river again I made several miles before hitting a submerged log and shearing my new finely honed pin. Not willing to file another down I saw an abandoned fence on the shore, paddled over and used a piece barbed wire for a temporary shear pin.

That got me to the Washburn Bridge where the local Rural Water Manager took me to town in his pickup and I purchased several "rolled pins" which might get me to Bismarck where I am told there are several marine outlets. I usually plan for all kinds of cushions in gear, but I've sheared more then 10 pins in the last 1000 miles. I underestimated how many I'd need.

After ten more downstream miles, and threatening storm clouds rolling in, I figured I was half way to Bismarck and I set up camp on a gravel ledge in early afternoon, falling immediately to sleep as soon as I set up the tent, making up for the coffee-sleep on the night before. I figure it is about 40 river miles (26 line of sight-GPS miles) to Bismarck.

The two redeeming features of this day: (1) I came upon a white tail deer swimming across the Missouri today. Slowing down to keep pace I followed it over within a few yards (hastening its pace I suspect) amazed at the full half-mile swim. And, (2) a large bag of Doritos and cheese dip for lunch.

I arrived in Bismarck by noon anticipating my wife's arrival by plane the following day, taking out at the city landing site. I called Enterprise car rentals and met Brian Winczewski over the phone who took me on as a personal project. Completely out of cars, Brian promised to figure something out. I spent the next few hours sorting all my gear, dividing what would go home with my wife who was bringing my summer gear .

With no cars showing up, Brian eventually took the afternoon off, brought a pickup truck to the river and loaded in all my gear, then offered to store the canoe over the weekend inside the Enterprise garage -- amazing second-mile service! Eventually I was sent away in a 15 passenger van for the night, until a smaller car was turned in.

After wandering the shopping mall wide-eyed at all the devices, the colors, and the smells, I spent the night in the moderately-priced-moderately-satisfactory Expressway Inn. As always when trekking, I had a poor night's motel sleep. Used to lapping water, the sounds of nature, and even thunder and raindrops on my tent fly, my sleep was constantly disturbed by every slamming door, toilet flushing upstairs, or truck passing by outside -- all unusual sounds to my mind now.

Celebrating our 32nd. anniversary, and the 1000 mark of my trek, my wife, Sharon arrived by air and we spent a delightful weekend in North Dakota and Montana, retracing some of the sites on the trek thus far, and visiting the Lewis and Clark sites I missed from the river.

True to form, Brian from Enterprise trucked my canoe back to the river and Sharon stayed to see me off. Most trekkers take R&R days with loved ones after a month or two -- but they always leave the trekker feeling more lonesome afterward. I sure am. Sharon saw me off from the shore and waited until I was out of sight. Canoeing through the rest of Bismarck I kept hoping she’d drive around to the southern end of town and I’d get to see her once more. But I never saw her, and left town feeling more lonely than when I arrived. (I later discovered that she did drive to the southern end of town, and hid out of sight to watch me disappear again, thinking that if I had actually seen her, I might have given up on this whole idea of a river trek and gone home with her!)

I decided to put in a 12 hour day pushing all the way to Ft. Yates. I hitched a ride to the gas station in the back of a truck driven by an Indian woman. (I had updated my terminology to "Native American" several years before, but consistently in my interaction with "native Americans" they referred to themselves as "Indians.")

In the back of this truck I rode with a five year old and a three year old, who bounced around with me as the woman drove faster that I thought one might drive with pre-schoolers in the back. But the children knew how to cling top the side rails and I too copied their style. Returning to the canoe I went down river another ten miles to Langeliers Bay, a L&C site, popping up my tent as the sun started to hide behind large ominous clouds. Too tired to cook I opened a can of Swanson chicken and made a sandwich. I'm 77 miles downstream from Bismarck, perhaps the maximum miles possible on lake water. Now to bed.

An exceedingly slow start... first paying down the debt from yesterday's long day. I kept finding little things which needed done and didn’t get off until 10:30, four hours after waking. I met the Klosterman family -- Ben Klosterman and his dad and cousin who arrived about ten to launch their boat. They are on a one-week Missouri river fishing trip though they practically live on the Mississippi in Minnesota. Ben, an obviously motivated twelvish lad took my photo, then proceeded to interview me, taking careful notes on a little piece of paper. That boy will make something of himself. The trick is to find what lights a boy's fire -- then feed it fuel. Here must be a future journalist.

Canoeing down to Mobridge in a steady downpour, interspersed with heavy drenching, I was rewarded by a Burger King right on the water! After an adequate input of Burger-fat, and using the telephone to send and receive my e-mail messages, I walked to the grocery store, then met a sweet lady in the fishing tackle store who gave me the lowdown on camping below Mobridge.

Back on the water, (actually in the water, for the rain is pouring now) I added the few miles to get to Indian Creek Rec. Area where I found fuel at the marina and pulled out on a sandy beach and am sharing a campsite with a fishing couple from North Dakota.

Today was one of those days when one wonders why I am doing this. It is difficult for others to understand, but after a month of trekking, the opposition is no longer sleeping on the ground, lack of a shower, or even a steady rainstorm... it is quite simply: boredom. Same sights, mile after mile. If I were plopped down here directly from "regular life" it would be awe inspiring. But after a month of it, this is now "normal" and like anything impressive it eventually gains an insipid sameness if seen day after day. However, I know that these feeling often pass after a few days or weeks, and something new to see shows up. So I plod on.

A nice calm day following the rain of yesterday (and most of the night). A slight breeze pushed me along to a morning break at a small bay where I met Jim and Serene Vance, out fishing from Great Falls Montana. I discovered that they had been taught canoeing by Jim and Diane McDermond, the Medicine River Canoe people who had portaged me around Great Falls. Serene slipped over to the pit toilet and walked up to a rattlesnake which promptly disappeared into a hole near the base of the outhouse. Gee, thanks! My dad once told me a story of a fellow who got snake-bit in the rump at a pit toilet and I've never sat on one since without imagining the possibility... now I have another reason to think of that remote possibility! I decided to move on.

Stopping at West Whitlock bay for an ice cream bar and phone call I then floated on down the river to a forgot-the-name bay where a South Dakota fish warden was posted to check out the take of fishermen getting out at the site. My fee for the campsite was to listen to a few hours of typical "Dakota griping" before the warden finally called it a day and left me alone with the meadowlarks and barn swallows on this quiet bay. He was the sort of fellow who would call into to daytime radio shows to gripe about unseen powers or were out to rip everybody off. "The game is all rigged" was his most common expression." He finally left me. And left me with a throbbing headache.

Setting up my tent, the last of the day’s fishermen came in, two retired couples. In conversations they were so fascinated with the trek that they unloaded fresh carrots, two apples, several bunches of grapes and ice cold Cokes in my lap as their contribution to the trek.

Grateful, I gobbled it all down immediately, took a bath in the river, read an hour and went to bed, somewhat rejuvenated.

I woke up this morning to a stiff southeast wind, a bad sign. I am headed Southeast from now on. I broke camp and once I got out of the bay -- Wow! The wind was white-capping the waves and I faced higher and higher waves. I was soaked by every breaker crashing over the bow (or often gunwale) of my canoe. My hidden goal had been to make it all the way to the dam today... but after going around the corner of the Ft. Sully big bend the wind hit me straight on and the waves turned to three foot high surf - which means when I am in the trough the tops of the waves beside me are about shoulder level. I continued climbing the waves, pausing on the top a while, then slamming down into the trough plowing the bow into the next wave... until one particularly giant wave tossed me forward at such a speed that the bow completely disappeared under the next wave. Though the reliable canoe bounced back out (thanks to the snapped-on cover) I had had enough and headed for a crescent of gravel beach just around the big bend corner.

Still early, I pitched my tent to read and wait out the wind. Glad for my small library at times like these! But all afternoon the waves crashed on shore, until I eventually had to pull my boat out another several feet to keep the rising waves from swamping it even with the cover tightly snapped down. Finally I gave up -- I will spend the night here.

Raining intermittently all night, often accompanied with thunder and lightning, I awoke not expecting much. And I got what I expected -- three foot waves breaking so that the water looked like white frosting on a cake.

About ready to stay another day, I began figuring when I'd arrive in Lower Brule for my mail drop and realized if I wasted another day here I'd have to wait over Sunday in Lower Brule, for the post office to open. Examining the waves again, the new information seemed to make them shrink. So I stuffed all my gear into my 15' canoe and took off in larger waves and stronger wind than I probably would have under normal situations.

Slamming from wave to wave, climbing up one to slam down into another, with every wave breaking over the bow soaking me full in the face, I hammered through the storm for half a day before the waves finally dropped to 2' and I only had to bail out the canoe once every 15 minutes (instead of every five minutes).

By afternoon the waves had calmed to ordinary and I arrived at Oahe dam, happy to bid this endless two-state lake good riddance. At the dam I met another Dakota Game, fish and Parks "fish warden" who was at a loss to know how to help me around the dam. But, the first "fisherman" I asked happened to be a research supervisor in the fisheries department who ordered the don't-know-how-warden to call the office and "get some help for this guy." The warden dialed the number then handed me the phone, "Here you talk," he said. (Dakota fish wardens are a curious lot).

However, John Lott, the Senior Wildlife Biologist happened to answer the phone and said, "Sure, I'll be over myself in a few minutes to help you." John showed up in ten minutes with his truck and happily hauled me around the dam. Total time from landing to launching: one hour. I camped at the upstream end of the Brule Big Bend (there are lots of "big bends" on the Missouri).

Wanting to get as close to Lower Brule as possible, figuring the Post Office would only be open to noon on Saturday, I pushed right to nine o'clock last night down Lake Sharpe, and camped right before the Brule Big Bend. The site I selected, however, turned out to be a favorite party spot for the town's local teens, who determined to celebrate "It’s Friiiiiiiiday!" with an all-nighter, just 50 yards from my tent. Taking a Crocodile Dundee attitude ('Jes kids having fun") I stuffed in a set of ear plugs and slept reasonably well. At 5:30 AM they were still going strong, which was time to rise anyway. The "Big Bend" makes almost a full loop, coming back to the 1 1/2 mile neck after circling 25 miles. So I am only a few miles from the post office now -- but have about 25 miles of river to get there.

The problem: fog. this morning’s fog is so thick I could not see beyond 50'. Bent on getting my mail, and not wanting to do the road walk, I discovered the real value of my GPS receiver. On the map I calculated points around the bend and entered them in my GPS. Then I "flew blind" the next 25 miles, only seeing the looming shoreline three times in the entire morning.

Amazingly I arrived in Lower Brule just fine! I walked into town asking about the Post office and was told "the postmaster usually comes in by 10:00 or 10:30, but catch her quick -- she leaves before 12:00. Ordering a breakfast at the ever-present casino, I waited until 10:30 and returned to the PO tapping on the metal door after hearing rustling inside. A woman's voice called out, "Come back at 11:15." I cheerfully said, "sure," to which the governmental voice replied, but don't come after 11:45, I'll be closed then." Well, that gave me a precise window at least.

Sure enough, the window opened at 11:15 and I collected my cards, notes, letters (even home-baked cookies from Sharon) and walked back to my canoe in the "park."

A short hop downstream and I came to the Big Bend dam and saw a fellow sort of waiting around with his boat on his trailer. Denny Lee, from Zumbrota Minnesota was waiting for his family to meet him with bait. He cheerfully offered to take me around Big Bend dam and into Lake Francis Case. Elapsed time: 30 minutes. These people are wonderful.

I purposed to make it to Cedar Shore Resorts on the right bank at Chamberlain SD. I had stayed in the campground on my way out to Three Forks and said to myself, "If I make it down this far I'll stay in the hotel next time." And the nice twist is this: Tomorrow is father's day so I will celebrate two things: Father's day and the fact that on this very day I crossed the 1000 mile countdown line -- from Chamberlain it is "only" 969 miles to St. Louis. Sally, at the marina ,remembered me from my night well over a month ago, and with a few strings pulled, I had myself a huge room at a special canoe trekker’s price.

Though wanting to delay my exit from the comfy resort as long as possible, I dared not, for now I was set on one thing: Sioux City, Iowa and a week’s break was stored up for me before I made the final push to St. Louis. I headed out into a brisk south wind which quickly stirred up into a ferocious sea. Slamming from one wave to another trying to unseat me from my bucking bronco canoe. Since my wife might read this journal I won't even describe the height of this day’s waves, suffice it to say that from the trough I had to look up to see their tops.

Complicating my dilemma was a leaky canoe. The constant slamming of the last few weeks apparently loosened some of the rivets in the usually sea-worthy Grumman craft. I now get ankle-deep water in the canoe every 10 minutes, which works OK in calm seas, but is complicated to pump out while trying to maneuver the canoe across the waves. On a calm sea a leak is minor. On these South Dakota storm-driven angry waves it is a threat and demoralizing. I am wanting to be done with the lakes... indeed the entire trek! I know all about "middle miles malaise" which trekkers experience... but that does not make the malady any less fierce when one gets infected.

My over-riding goal of this week is to get to Yankton SD and the Gavin's Point Dam , the last of these wind-cursed lakes. I need a bigger boat or smaller water! Not able to trade the boat... I will be delighted to trade the wide open lakes in for a mile-wide river. What a relief it will be.

There is nothing else of import to report for this day. I saw no beautiful sites, enjoyed no majestic wildlife, drank in no views -- only drinking the ice cold lake water smashing into my face as my boat climbed the giant rollers, then nose-dived into the next trough, the bow piercing the base of the wave as water broke over the top of the canoe into my face. Then I repeated it again. And again. And again all day. I am not proud of going out today. But I am driven to get to Sioux City and my "malaise break" thus I am willing to canoe from 5:30 AM to 9:30 PM in higher-than-I-should-have seas. I got to the dam at dark and collapsed into bed too worn out and sore to cook supper so I ate a dry bagel, too weary to spread it with peanut butter.

Up before the faintest trace of dawn believing I would indeed make Sioux City today no matter what. I ran full speed down river with the fast current released from the lakes until afternoon, arriving at Midland Marine in downtown Sioux City. There is nothing else to report for this day. I saw only a blur of shoreline as I was driven to get to Sioux City, believing that my week off would rejuvenate my spirits and bring back the spice and excitement which the "middle miles" had drained from me.

Joel, the service manager at Midland Marine examined my canoe’s leaks, discovering that it was more than rivets -- the actual aluminum was being torn and cracked from the constant slamming by the waves. Joel loaned some sandpaper to me and instructed me on making a (temporary) patch with special marine epoxy. He offered to let me store the canoe there until I return from my "vacation-from-vacation," as he called it. As the day closed out, I quickly patched my canoe, rushed to the airport, rented a car, and headed home to Indiana and Chicago where my son, John was flying in from a couple of months wandering around Europe -- I wanted to meet him at the airport and hear his fresh first report.

(Debriefing with son John and "Middle Miles Malaise" Break)

How refreshed I am from my week off! I am again drinking in the sites, watching the shoreline for game, smiling to myself as I float down this fast-flowing river. The break gave me the "Second Wind" I needed to finish the final leg of this trek.

Having received up to six inches of rain over the weekend in this area, the river is high and flowing as fast as 7 MPH according to my GPS receiver. If I can stay in the current it sweeps me down river at a rate of 50-60 miles a day before I add any on top of that.

I marina-hopped all day, collecting data for the guidebook and munching on snacks, eventually finding myself 110 miles downstream at Omaha Nebraska by early evening.

At the Dodge Marina I met the collection of old guys who gather each night at the docks to spin yarns and was fascinated to hear Bob Coleman talk of the yesteryears on the river. He gave me a copy of his book of yarns from the steamboat era which I planned to read before going to sleep.

On advice of Bob Coleman I went to the trailer of the Dodge Marina Manager to ask if I could camp there, but nobody answered the door. After a half hour wait I figured I'd slip outside the fence and set up my tent and read Bob Coleman's book.

It was not to be. Opening my food pack I discovered my "Honey bear" had burst open spreading honey over all my food, stove, and cooking utensils. Before reading the book I had to clean each item in the river, and I still feel sticky all over.

Just as I was about to settle in with Bob Coleman’s book, the Marina manager showed up in his pickup truck to tell me to transfer my boat to the marina dock, and my tent to the grass in front of his trailer. Helping me along, we loaded the still-pitched tent in his truck, and I paddled my canoe back inside the gated marina and parked it at a dock designed for gigantic yacht-type vessels.

By the time I fixed my Lipton rice dinner, it was dark and I was only able to read one chapter of Bob’s book before falling to sleep.

I was up and off under threatening skies to discover Bob Coleman, the book-writer waiting for me at the entrance to the cove for a final lingering visit. Bob had a stroke and a heart attack and is fearful he will never get to trek the Missouri, his life-long dream. His attitude was, "If you are going to die anyway, why not die on the river?" His family may not see it the same way. He does have a point, however.

Sure enough, a steady rain began in a half hour and drenched everything incessantly all day. I stopped at various closed-in-the-morning marinas and determined to buy one of those cheap breakfasts at the upcoming riverboat casino. But upon tying up near the jammed-at-eight AM parking lot, and finding the breakfast buffet, I gave up when I discovered half of Omaha had the same idea -- the line was 50 people long.

The river is at now flood stage, jammed full of logs, trees, and every other piece of junk imaginable from water heaters to plastic chairs, all floating downstream at about seven miles per hour. It is like riding a toboggan down through a forest of trees, only the trees are floating too. The river has overflowed its banks and flooded the adjacent fields, making finding a camping spot almost impossible.

At Plattsmouth Marina, the marina building itself was in the middle of the water, some 100' from shore, and thus closed. With the Platte adding to the flow (and flotsam) the river is now a tangled mess of trees, snags, and logs, with barely enough space between to maneuver a canoe. The real threat is to my little Johnson kicker -- which keeps slamming into underwater logs, breaking a shear pin, or in one case bending the motor keel.

So weary from dodging logs in the downpour, I basically missed Nebraska City and, yet was happy to be moving so fast, making it all the way to Brownville, Nebraska. The fast water has give me 100 miles per day average since Sioux City, even with time out for shear pin replacements, and I could "open it up" and do much better... and perhaps I will when I get closer to St. Louis.

At Brownville the park was completely flooded, so I canoed through the trees to the main road, and set up my tent on the shoulder, just two feet above the water. The owner of a "steamboat tour boat" was there who directed me to Midge's "Brownville House" for dinner and I ate an excellent rib eye steak, wonderful home-made bread, and followed it up with a regretful piece of pie. Returning to my tent down by the river I turned in at nine.

All night cars kept pulling in beside my tent to flash their lights on the rising river -- apparently river-watching is the all-night sport in Brownville. The parked cars didn’t stay long enough for any other endeavor. Each time I was awakened I thought I ought to check the water level myself, just two feet below tent, but I figured if the water was getting close to my tent door certainly one of these drivers would tell me, so I'd roll over and go back to sleep until the next checker arrived.

At six in the morning I returned to the Brownville House to wash up and eat a two dollar breakfast. I ate it with Midge herself, the owner of the restaurant, who was not on duty last night when her son was managing the place. Staying there until eight catching up on my notes and writing, I was the only customer in that two hour period.

Returning to the river, I packed up my tent, and waded out to my canoe, now several hundred feet out in the water, tied to a tree, and headed downstream among the logs, trees, and other flood debris.

Continuing downstream I began calculating... having made two 100 mile days with relative ease, and figuring the remaining 535 miles... and fixed my eyes on the 4th of July... I decided to make 100 miles my minimum in this 7-8 MPH flood current.

Whizzing down river only to stop for quick walkabouts for the guidebook in Rulo and St. Joseph, I went into auto-drive mode in the steady downpour, winding up at Atchison right at dark, even more determined to get an earlier start tomorrow, but logging 112 miles just the same today. In the downpour I walked up the hill to the Comfort Inn for a dry night and calculated that if I could stay in the current for 15 hours, and open up my kicker to full speed, I might make more than 150 or miles a day, enough to get me to St. Louis by July 4.

Leaving the hotel before dawn I started back into the water just before the sky started to light up and stopped in Leavenworth (a depressing town) for breakfast, then straight through Kansas City, except for a stop at the Flamingo Casino to send e-mail (which didn't work anyway.) Then to Lexington to pick up my mail, including home baked cookies from Sharon, several packages of dehydrated fruit from Ed and Gervais Baptist of Richmond Virginia, Appalachian Trail companions from years ago, and a letter from a grade school student in Maine who is studying Lewis and Clark.

Regretting leaving Lexington, and tempted to stay at the boat ramp, I resisted the urge and returned to the water to eat up more miles,, before camping on a slice of dry levee land on the bend just before Miami Missouri, 263 miles from St. Louis, for a total of almost 160 miles in 15 hours. Superb! I can taste the finish line now, and it is a hard discipline to record notes for the guide -- I want to finish this trek on July 4 and go home and see my family and friends!

Tasting St. Louis strong now, I rushed down the flood tide at 15-16 MPH stopping only to do several quick walkabouts of the shore towns for the guidebook data. By evening I rolled into Hermann, Missouri excited to be at the 98 mile marker, and knowing (assuming my water pump holds out for another 100 miles of silt) that I could make it to the arch tomorrow.

What a neat town, right on the water! I arranged for a room in the B&B right on the river, a 100 year old rambling mansion decorated with antique furniture. The only drawback was the Amtrak train which shook the whole house periodically like a tornado, and Mary's cat which had apparently deposited its dander here and there enough to cause my outdoor-acclimated lungs to wheeze within 10 minutes.

I walked to town, called home, took one last breath of non-feline air and returned to my room for what could probably be my last night on the river.

Waking up through the night every time a train rumbled past I hopped out of bed with a slight wheeze at five and was in the river by 5:30 AM believing I could finish the trek today. Flying down the still-flooded river I made the Mississippi-Missouri confluence and saluted the Lewis and Clark monument on the Illinois side before clipping down the last 15 miles to the arch, my mistake of the day.

St. Louis had a 4th of July fair going on, with rides set up everywhere in sight around the arch, and thousands of people milling around in their carnival clothes. I landed my boat on the small waterfront street by the arch perplexed at the thousands of people milling around eating cotton candy. As I began to step out of my boat near a little booth selling elephant ears, one of St. Louis' policemen swaggered over to say, "Sorry, back in the water you can't dock here." I explained how I had come 2500 miles from Three Forks Montana to this arch. His reply: "I don't care if you came from China, you can't park that boat anywhere along this shore -- get back in the water."

Disgusted, I grumbled something to myself and pushed off for the other side for the ever-present casino, tied up near the shore and caught a far-too-expensive taxi to the airport where I rented a car to return to Indiana.

Returning within an hour to find my boat and equipment still OK (I was surprised) I loaded up my trunk wishing I had ended my trek 15 miles back at the peaceful, private, remote confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi.

However, as I unloaded my gear from the canoe this final time, thousands of mental pictures flashed through my mind like a slide show, running at warp speed: The first night beside the edge of that tiny stream at Three Forks Montana, portaging around so Canyon Ferry Dam, campsites on the shore of giant lakes, large towns like Great Falls, Bismarck, Omaha, Kansas City, and tiny towns like Ft. Peck City or Brownville or Hermann, thousands of wildlife photos including that deer swimming across the river, so many misty mornings on the river, dozens of faces of the helpful people throughout the trip, big barges steaming upstream, beautifully clear starlit nights, cozy days wind bound in my tent on the big lakes... and hundreds more memories flashed by faster than one could narrate... and I began to chuckle aloud.

Of course this St. Louis cop wouldn't understand! He put in his time, went home and sat all evening in front of his satellite TV. He, like most of the carnival crowd jamming the streets around the arch, was fully satisfied with the ordinary life.

As I loaded the last of my gear into the rental car and turned my faithful but leaky canoe loose to float away down river (with a note telling whoever found it they could have it) I decided that this arch experience was after all a perfectly appropriate finish to my trek. The St. Louis cop and the crowd of carnival tourists represented the majority of "normal" people. Those who would never understand why a person would take such a trek. "Why do a thing like that?" "Sounds like lots of work to me" "Do you get paid to do this?" "Why sleep on the ground for all that time?" "Where do you go to the bathroom?" They are like the St. Louis cop and the wandering tourists. Such folk will never understand.

But others do. They understand the call of the wilderness. The yearning to make a trek or pilgrimage. They too have secretly dreamed of making a trek or pilgrimage. Some day. When the timing is right. It is to these folk that I dedicate this guidebook -- people who want more than cotton candy and elephant ears.

--Keith Drury

St. Louis Missouri July 3, 1999

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