Last journal entry - for now

It took me five weeks to complete the 1,270 miles from Burlington, IA to New Orleans. I reached New Orleans on Wednesday, July 11. My journey ended at Audubon Park, a few miles from downtown and the French Quarter. I had paddled a total of 2,742 km (1,704 miles) in 59 days.
This will be my last journal posting for a while. I am currently working on the book about my adventure, and all the time I have for writing will be taken up by the book for the next few months. I will post excerpts from the manuscript from time to time (if my publisher agrees) and will keep everyone posted on my next planned adventure.
I will announce my next river adventure soon...

Thank you!
Jacob, a.k.a the Crazy Kayaker

June 3 to 6, beyond Burlington

I called my friend Chris in South Africa from my B&B in Burlington. I hadn’t spoken to him in a while. He was going through a very tough time. His younger, and sole surviving brother, had committed suicide a few weeks earlier. It was one those bizarre and very tragic incidents we never expect to happen to people we know. Apparently, he and his wife had, in a moment of dark despair, decided to kill themselves and their two young daughters with a highly toxic agricultural pesticide. It’s not entirely clear what happened next, or what the sequence of events was. Both he and his wife took the poison, but, thank God, didn’t descent into the abyss of madness far enough to give the poison, mixed into an orange drink, to the two girls. He called an ambulance for his wife, then got into his pickup and drove into a nearby corn field to die. She survived.
As if that wasn’t enough, Chris is struggling to stay afloat financially on his 3,000 acre farm on edge of the Kalahari desert. And all of this came short on the heels of a messy divorce, and the deaths of his father, mother and 30-year old youngest brother in the space of a few years. If I was prone to superstition I would begin to think he was cursed, or being punished, or put to the test by some god, like a biblical Job. I felt really bad that I couldn’t be there for him, or at least talk to him on the phone more often.
I saw two young squirrels playing on the railroad track. Did their parents not warn them that it’s dangerous? It was not a bad day for paddling. There was a 15 mph wind blowing from the west; nothing that I couldn’t handle by then. The river is flanked by beautiful Iowa farmland. The forecast called for thunderstorms in the early afternoon ― I hoped that I could avoid being struck by lightning. Access to cover wasn’t too bad; it looked like I’d be able to get off the river fairly quickly and sit out the storm in the relative safety of a few trees. There were a couple of powerboats out on the water, but nowhere near as bad as the week before.
I enjoyed looking at the farm country, whenever I could catch a glimpse beyond the riverbank, that is. The corn was standing up to a foot high in places, even though it was still very early in the growing season. Soybean fields were sprouting green everywhere, the little plants already two to three inches high. I watched eight turkeys grazing in a field near the river.
I was really glad that the weather had forced me off the river for a couple of days. I had a good time, relaxed and recharged my body, and, with hindsight, realized that I was actually quite tired and a little burnt out. The wind and the big lakes had taken a lot out of me in the weeks before, and I was definitely suffering from river-fatigue. I had pushed myself hard every day since leaving Brownsville ten days earlier. I wanted to keep my daily average distance above 25 miles, in spite of the wind, and that made for long days of hard paddling. My nerves were getting a little frayed, and to me that’s always an early-warning sign that it’s time to take a break. And Burlington turned out to be the perfect place to hang up my paddles for a few days. I can’t claim that I had planned it that way. Just plain old good luck.
Speaking of luck: on Wednesday, May 30th, I camped a mile upstream from Muscatine, Iowa. On the Friday, when I was safely in Schramm House, a tornado ripped through Muscatine, turning over trailers and knocking down trees where I had slept in my two pound tent less than 48 hours earlier. According to reports on the news, the wind got up to 150 mph at times!
For a while I thought there are no bald eagles in Iowa. I couldn’t recall seeing one after I had crossed the Minnesota-Iowa line. At first I thought this was because the Iowa bank is quite heavily industrialized in places, but so is the area below St. Paul, and there were plenty of eagles. Then, over breakfast on Sunday, I learned from Bruce’s friend JD that the eagles migrate south along the river when it freezes over further north. They settle around the pockets of open water in the more protected backwater areas, where they nest and feed for the winter. So the good people of Iowa had not exterminated all their bald eagles after all.
In spite of the increased industrialization (and more litter) on the Iowa bank, I remained impressed with how clean and unpolluted the Mississippi is. People who know me will vouch for the fact that I am, ahem, a little squeamish when it comes to dirt and germs. Yet I had no problem stripping naked at the end of each day, and wading into the river with my biodegradable Campsuds to wash off the day’s sweat.
A mother duck tried to lure me away from her brood of six tiny ducklings. She seemed panicked and ended up splitting the group, which caused her to get really flustered. One of the babies picked up on her panic, and took off towards the middle of the river. I tried to hold back to give them a chance to regroup, but they kept milling around in front of the kayak, and I had no choice but to push on and scatter them even more. I’m not sure what kind of duck it was; it was shaped a bit like a wood duck, but with different coloring. My knowledge of birdlife is not entirely encyclopedic….
Power boaters do seem to like one another. Maybe it’s just their herd instinct that makes them flock together like sheep. I counted 20 boats, moored hull to hull, along a narrow strip of sand, on the tip of one small island. And this in an area where the river is several miles wide, with literally dozens of islands and sandbars only minutes away by powerboat. Now I’ve always thought that boating is about getting away from other people, but I’m obviously misguided.
I did the first five miles below Burlington in what seemed to be no time at all. My perception and experience of time seemed to be changing. I couldn’t tell anymore whether an hour, or two or three had passed, and my normally good ‘feel’ for speed was gone.
Twelve miles below Burlington I passed one of the many small cottage communities that line the west bank. A boisterous group was gathered around a cluster of charcoal barbecues, and a Sunday afternoon fish cookout was in full swing. It smelled wonderful, and even though I had a large brunch just a few hours earlier, my appetite stirred noticeably. After the usual back and forth shouting: “…where are y’all coming from…going to etc.” they invited me to stop for lunch: “Hey, you want something to eat? We’ve got fish!” So, of course, I said no thank you. Don’t ask me why. I waved them goodbye, and continued on my merry way, saliva dribbling from the corners of my mouth. Still, it was a kind and generous thing they did; not their fault that I was stupid enough to decline.
I think the book’s title should be “Shut up and paddle”. That’s how I feel sometimes. “Paddle! Don’t panic” would be a good one too. Or maybe I should go with “How to lose 20 pounds in two weeks.” I’m losing weight at an incredible rate; I can almost feel my flesh shrinking. I am not consuming anywhere near the calories I need everyday. I estimate I burn about 6,000 on average every day, and when I add up everything I drink and eat it comes to less than 3,000. Big deficit―I don’t know how long I can sustain that.
It started raining fairly heavily about two hours after I had left Burlington. Fortunately the wind wasn’t very strong―around 10 to 15 mph from the south. The rain stopped soon enough; it was one of those so-called ‘scattered’ thunderstorms. I was starting to feel that ‘scattered’ means wherever I happen to be on the river. I get rained on a lot. The sun came out 20 minutes later, and I was dry and warm in no time. Polyester rules!
There was a lot of debris floating in the river: leaves, branches, trees, the inevitable plastic and polystyrene flotsam, and a bloated, dead dog. The water was a nasty red color and very muddy. It must have been quite the storm that passed through the area. Thank goodness I was sitting out the storm in safety and comfort in Burlington at the time.
Sandy had given me a supersized bag of homemade oatmeal cookies for the ‘road”. I ate half the bag in one sitting. I needed those calories.
Dan Geiger paid me a nice compliment at the end of my WCCO radio interview Saturday night. He said, “Don’t worry, this guy knows what he’s doing.”
Hurricane season officially started last Friday, the first day of my Burlington R&R break. Talk about good timing: on Friday a tornado tore through Muscatine, Iowa, where I had camped on Wednesday night. According to the news report the wind got up to 150 mph, and overturned a trailer, ripped out trees and caused a lot of property damage. A two pound tent pitched on a sandbar is not a good place to be in those conditions.
As soon as the sun came out powerboats started appearing on the river, seemingly from nowhere. Do powerboats have nests along the riverbank, I wonder? Where they lie and wait for the sun to come out and for unsuspecting kayakers to pounce on. Soon I was bouncing around in the wake, working hard to keep the kayak in a straight line and my head pointing the right way, i.e. upwards.
I had stocked up on food at Tom’s Market in Burlington. It was a rather interesting shopping exercise. I normally shop based on healthy choices and value for my money. This time I was going for the highest calorie/weight ratio, which made for some interesting selections: cereal bars with the highest sugar content (hint: the cheaper brands contain the most sugar), canned fruit in syrup (surprisingly hard to find; most brands are canned in juice nowadays), beef jerky and Spam. Yes, Spam: a can of regular Spam has more than a 1,000 calories. Add apple sauce and you can paddle 20 miles on a single can of Spam. I still had a good supply of energy bars and chocolate left, so I had that covered, but I was a little concerned about getting enough protein in my diet, even with the protein supplements I take every day. When you push your body that hard day after day, you have to feed your muscles, otherwise you start losing muscle mass and strength very quickly, something I could not afford. So I also needed to find something with a high protein/weight ratio. Tuna and salmon in foil pouches fit the bill perfectly, and most varieties are pretty tasty. Let’s just say my diet is somewhat eclectic.
Just before Dallas City on the Illinois side I got rained on again. Thunderstorms can form and move rapidly in these parts. I learned early on that it’s no use trying to outrun them. This storm was pushed towards me at a healthy clip by a strong south wind, and the rain moved up the river in a solid veil of water. I couldn’t see anything beyond the storm; everything was grayed out. The rain started coming down with a vengeance, driven straight into my face by a strong southeast wind. The visibility was terrible; I couldn’t see anything more than a few yards ahead. Pretty soon the kayak was pitching and rolling in three foot waves, and I had my work cut out to keep going in the right direction. Thunder rumbled through the clouds a few miles to the east, but not close enough to worry about, so I stayed on the water. The storm lasted about 20 minutes.
I’m running low on AAA batteries. For some reason I had packed more AAs than I’ll use on three trips like this one, but very few AAAs. My digital voice recorder runs on AAAs (and chews them up fast), as does my VHF radio, not exactly an unimportant piece of equipment. I’ll need to buy a couple of packs in the next town I can get to from the river.
Watching TV in Burlington, I was intrigued by the upbeat way the news and weather reporters announced the start of hurricane season. They all made it sound like they were announcing the start of baseball season, or the holidays: “….and yes, Dianne, tomorrow is the official start of hurricane season!” Pack a cooler! Woohoo! Obviously none of them have any appreciation for what it means to the people on the ground when a hurricane rips through a community. On the other hand, it is consistent with how news is presented nowadays. Smile for the camera: “Making news today: Five US soldiers got killed in a roadside bomb blast today…” Ooh, look at me! I’m such a good news anchor; I’m so attractive; I’m on TV ooh ooh ooh! Look at me! I don’t have a clue what I said just now. I’m so pretty! Talking heads, most of them.
My main source of weather information, warnings and forecasts is the NOAA weather channel on my VHF radio. It automatically tunes in to the nearest regional NOAA station, so you always get local information and forecasts. I cannot emphasize too strongly how important accurate and timely weather information is if you want to survive a trip like this. During the first three weeks on the river, paying heed to the weather forecast and weather warnings kept me out of harm’s way on at least four occasions. Don’t ignore the forecast!
The weather report includes the river’s water level at specific points, and the water temperature. River level is not critically important to the kayaker, but it is good to know if the river is rising or falling when picking a spot to camp for the night, and to safely clear the many wing dams in the river. And of course, I want to know of any floods upstream or local flash floods. The river level typically starts dropping this time of the year, and continues to do so until the fall. The water temperature was in the low 60s when I set out from St. Paul; it’s up to around 73 degrees now. At least I don’t have to worry about hypothermia should I end up in the river.
I figured out a way to safely use my digital voice recorder while I’m on the river. It fits nicely in the Aquapac case I got for my handheld GPS. The plastic is ‘dialed’ in to a frequency that allows sound waves to travel through without distortion, so I don’t need to remove the recorder from the case to use it. The cord attached to the case is long enough to go around my neck, so I can’t lose the recorder overboard.
I certainly feel much stronger and more energetic after my three day rest stop in Burlington. The break did me a lot of good.
The Burlington Hawkeye ran a story on the weekend about a fisherman who had caught a 74 pound Chinese carp in the river near Oquawka, IL, the day before I passed by the town. That’s a mighty big carp. The picture in the paper showed the guy straining and barely able to hold the fish up for the camera. His back was bent and twisted at a crooked angle and his legs were bent like a retired rodeo cowboy’s. The fish was clearly causing him more pain than pleasure at the time. His nine year old daughter was posing with daddy and his big fish, and, as the Hawkeye pointed out, she weighed 20 pounds less than the fish. The things you learn on the Mississippi…..
Judged by the general tone of the paper, George Bush isn’t too popular in this part of heartland USA either. Apparently there aren’t many FOGs (friends of George) among the local media barons. The front page lead story in Friday’s paper was on W’s recently announced plans to curb global warming, and let’s just say the story was reported with no less skepticism than you’d get from NPR and other members of the liberal media.
Two miles past Dallas City the wind started picking up again. Yet another thunderstorm was moving in from the southeast. Before long I was bobbing up and down in three foot waves and paddling against the wind. Luckily for me this storm was moving across the river in a northwesterly direction, and it missed me. The river was still very unsettled, with lots of debris floating everywhere, and the water had an ugly rusty red color.
The bridge above Fort Madison was the second double-decker bridge I saw over the Mississippi. The other one is located just below the Davenport lock. Both bridges have a lower level for trains, and an upper car level. They seem to have been built around the same time, late 1800s/early 1900s I’d guess.
Seen from the river, Fort Madison is an ugly, dismal place. Rust-stained factories, utility lines and a power substation litter the Iowa bank like a debris field. The whole place has a disjointed, post-apocalyptic look and feel to it. The industrial area morphs into a bastardized waterfront/strip mall along the riverbank, that is only marginally easier to look at. South of the city is what I presumed to be the original fort that gave Fort Madison its name.
Below the fort there is yet more industrial sprawl, and a seemingly endless row of moored barges along the Iowa bank. I was glad to have Fort Madison behind me.
I camped on Devil Island, two miles downstream from Fort Madison. I was beginning to despair of finding a place to sleep by the time I had passed the city. It was getting dark, and the sky was heavy with storm clouds, the wind was picking up and the temperature was dropping fast. Then, almost out of the blue, I saw a narrow strip of sand up ahead, which meant a place to drag the boat out and pitch the tent. My map didn’t show the sandbar, so it was a pleasant surprise, and a relief, when I saw the dying daylight reflected by the yellow sand.
June 4:
In the news last night: A death row inmate in Texas has launched a joke contest on the Internet. He wants to use the winning entry as his last words when he dies by lethal injection on June 26. He got the idea from a fellow inmate who laughed when he was led to the execution chamber, and said, “Where’s a stunt double when you need one?”
Nauvoo perches high on the Illinois-side bluffs. Above the town the Mormon temple dominates the skyline like the Taj Mahal. The town was settled by Joseph Smith and his followers from around 1839, when they were ordered out of Missouri by that state’s governor. They thrived, but in 1844 some of Smith’s followers, resenting his power and political clout, broke away and something close to a civil war ensued. A group of non-Mormon vigilantes seized the opportunity to drive out the Latter Day Saints, and in June of that year managed to kill Joseph Smith. Defeated, the Mormon’s started the exodus that eventually ended at Salt Lake City in Utah. Religious differences and their practice of polygamy served as official justifications for driving out the Mormons. The fact that the Mormons had a monopoly on portaging around the Nauvoo rapids (which in those days made navigation on that stretch of the river impossible), and that they became very wealthy as a result, may be closer to the actual truth of what had motivated their enemies.
Interestingly enough, during the past couple of decades, the Mormons bought up land in and around Nauvoo, and in 1999 they started work on the new Nauvoo temple, on the exact same spot where the old one stood. The temple was dedicated in 2002. Who said there’s no money in religion?
Near Keokuk, Iowa the landscape takes on a gentle, rolling quality. Impressive houses, many in the mansion class, overlook the river from their vantage point on the bluff. The lake above the Keokuk dam was the last of the big Upper Mississippi lakes I had to cross. What a relief! The 16-mile crossing wasn’t nearly as bad as I had anticipated. The wind stayed below 15 mph, and while choppy enough, it was nothing near as rough as some of my earlier lake crossings. Having said that, it had the same demoralizing, discouraging effect that all the big lakes on the Mississippi seem to have: you paddle and paddle and paddle and you never seem to make any progress or get any closer to the other side. But I did it, and it’s behind me now.
The lock at Keokuk (Lock # 19) drops 37 feet! The downstream gates are lowered into the river, instead of swinging into the lock, the way they do at all the other locks. I figured there is too much water pressure for it to push 37 feet of water back into the lock. Dropping almost four stories in a few minutes is not a comfortable feeling. I sat like a tiny plastic duck in a giant bathtub, hanging on to a floating moorage buoy for dear life. The water dropped so fast it felt like the kayak was falling away from under my bottom – the same feeling you get when flying in a small aircraft in turbulent summer air.
Past Keokuk a massive petrochemical plant lines the Iowa bank. It covers several acres, and steam and miscellaneous vapors pour into the sky from its many cooling and ventilation towers, most likely pumping its share of mercury and other noxious fumes into the air.
I crossed the Iowa/Missouri state line today. Just at the point where I reckoned the border was (it’s not marked) I got caught in heavy rain for five minutes. Welcome to Missouri. No lightning, though.
At Lock 19 one of the young lock attendants came out to talk to me while I was waiting to be locked down. He is a canoeing enthusiast, and goes on a 100 mile canoe trip in the Ozark Scenic River Wilderness every summer. It was a pleasant change to deal with a fellow paddler at the lock – he understood how difficult and dangerous it can be to wait above a lock in a kayak or canoe, and got me through the lock as fast as he could. He even radioed a northbound tow boat to hold off a few miles below the dam to give me a chance to clear the area safely.
I didn’t see a lot of wildlife along the riverbanks today. I saw one faded-looking raccoon today. Herons are the only birds that seem to thrive here; they’re like barn pigeons. Turkey vultures are few and far between; not much for them to eat, I guess.
I found myself on another stretch of the river where getting off the water was impossible. The steep banks were either lined with stone revetments or steep muddy walls, and the few islands were no more than swamps with trees growing from them. They look promising on the map, but offer no refuge or even a place to pull out the kayak onto solid ground. I had no choice but to keep going. Eventually I found a private boat launch where I could drag the kayak out and stretch my legs for a while. Well, sort of stretch – I was knee deep in mud.
The weather is getting hotter everyday. Today was around the mid-80s, and humid. I started using more water the last few days. The bladder in my hydration pack was empty by late morning yesterday and today. I know I’m drinking more (I pee more often) but I’m also beginning to suspect that one of the reservoirs may have sprung a leak. I’ll have to check that next time I fill up with water. I’m also going to need more water bottles if my water consumption keeps going up.
You don’t get anything for nothing on the Mississippi. Any notions I might have had about getting a lot of help from the current were dispelled in the first few days. The Upper Mississippi consists of a series of lakes, and with the wind and waves, conditions are more akin to ocean kayaking than river paddling. So far I had to work damn hard for every mile I logged.
There is so much history along the river; many layers of history really. I’m looking forward to reading up and researching the Mississippi’s history for the book.
There are more exposed sandbars around the islands and towheads, and along the riverbanks. The river level drops a few inches everyday, exposing more sandbars and making it easier to find good spots to camp. For a while today it was like following a long stretch of beach along the coast – I could literally stop anywhere to camp. It goes without saying that I passed the best sites in the middle of the day when it was much too early to stop for the day. And so it goes, to quote Kurt Vonnegut.
I pass several grain elevators every day, erected at strategic intervals to collect and store grain from the farms along the riverbanks and beyond, and to feed the many barges that feed the mills and factories that feed the world. These structures have nothing in common with the quaint elevators that dotted the prairies in the 19th and early 20th centuries; modern elevators are huge steel and/or concrete structures, built on an industrial scale to move and store megatons of grain inexpensively.
Pain!! I got stung by some kind of insect or creepy crawly that had found its way into the kayak’s cockpit. I hope I didn’t have a bee in the boat; I know I have one in my bonnet. Ha ha. Turned out it wasn’t a bee. I knew this mainly because I didn’t get an immediate and violent allergic reaction. Yes, I’m allergic, and no, I didn’t pack an EpiPen.
I felt tired and sluggish in the afternoon. The increasing heat and humidity are having an effect on me. Hopefully I’ll acclimatize before it gets really hot. I’ve never done well in the heat, though, so it’s going to be tough as I get further south and the temperature and humidity start heading towards triple digits. You’d never guess I grew up in South Africa.
If this was the early 1860’s, most young men who found themselves on the Mississippi would have been on their way to war, and many of them would never make the return journey. The river was a key strategic artery for both sides, and a lot of blood was spilled on and around it.
Mississippi Trivia: there are 216 unique species of fish in the river, more than in any other fresh water system in North America. Not sure how many are introduced species, but still, an impressive statistic.
Things didn’t look promising at Lock #22. There was a “double tow” (a tow boat pushing 15 barges) waiting at the lock ahead of me, which meant a wait of at least two hours, and finding a campsite in the dark. But hey, the lockmaster was a decent fellow, and he radioed the tow pilot to ask if I could go first. The pilot turned out to be a decent sort too, and I was on my way in 15 minutes. And so it goes….

May 31 to June 3 - Burlington, Iowa

I only had 9 miles to paddle to Burlington. The weather forecast called for severe thunderstorms and wind for the next few days and I planned to wait out the weather in the city. I also needed to re-supply and take a break from paddling and camping. Near Burlington I asked a fisherman in a boat about lodging close to the river. He didn't know about any place specifically, but pointed me to the downtown Welcome Center, a stone's throw from the gently sloped boat ramp. I left the kayak on the ramp and made my way to the Welcome Center. Now for a moment picture what I looked like: I had been on the river for ten days, without shaving or showering, or changing my clothes. I was barefoot, and a damp fragrance rose from my body like steam from a Florida swamp. And yet the welcome I received in Burlington couldn't have been friendlier or warmer, had I been wearing a $3,000 suit and expensive European cologne.
Joe and Shelly at the Welcome Center offered coffee and cookies. Shelly got on the phone to find me a place to stay. When she learned that the only B & B near the downtown area had no vacancy, she called Sandy Morrison at the Schramm House, and she agreed to put me up for a few days, even though they had stopped operating Schramm House as a B & B several months earlier! That's taking hospitality to an entirely new level. Joe offered to give me a ride in his pickup, and half an hour later I was standing under a hot shower in my very luxurious en suite bathroom at Schramm House.
Burlington turned out to be an interesting city, and a very pleasant place to spend a few days. It is very much a 19th Century industrial city. It started life as a logging and timber mill town. It forms one end of the Burlington-Santa Fe railroad, and engineering works and factories followed. Many of the old factory buildings are still standing; a few are still in use, mainly for research and development work. Most manufacturing activity had relocated to the modern industrial parks outside the city, or to other countries.
On Friday morning I made my way up the hill to Tom’s Market to stock up on food for the next few weeks. They didn’t serve breakfast at the deli, and the lady at the checkout wasn’t sure where a good place would be to go for bacon and eggs. I left it at that, but next thing I knew she fetched the store’s owner, who not only provided directions, but offered to drive me to Frank’s Main Lunch, where they serve an honest working man’s breakfast. I followed her to a big Ford F250 parked outside the store (this is Ford country, no doubt). I was surprised to see that the key was in the ignition, and the windows were rolled down – heck, we don’t even do that in Canada anymore! The ride was over all too quickly. Becky, my female knight (knightess?) in a shining truck is a very attractive young woman, with striking green eyes and a lovely smile, with an outgoing personality and friendliness to match.
Frank’s Main Lunch, locally famous for its breakfast offerings, is on the wrong side of the tracks―literally―and decidedly ‘down-market’. It is a true roadside diner, with décor, or lack thereof to match, and it has nothing in common with the overpriced, yuppyfied pseudo diners you find in malls and tourist towns. It’s a small place, no more than 15 feet wide from the front window to the back wall, with most of the space taken up by an L-shaped counter with a worn-through pink melamine top. All the cooking is done in the cramped space behind the counter, by a mother and daughter team who are not sized for submarine duty. It was packed, and I sat down on one of only two vacant stools. The locals were not friendly. My cheerful ‘good morning folks!’ was acknowledged by two nods, a grunt and a few suspicious glances in my direction. And they were the ones who responded. At least I didn’t feel underdressed, in my ‘dress’ shorts (the clean pair), T-shirt and sandals.
Everybody in the place smoked. Hailing, as I do, from the West Coast of Canada, where the New Prohibition has been in effect for almost a decade, this was quite a shock to my senses, to say nothing of my nose, eyes and lungs. One lady on my left couldn’t even put her cigarette down long enough to finish her breakfast. She was sucking on a Marlboro between mouthfuls of bacon, displaying a remarkable ability to inhale and ingest at the same time without choking.
Menu choice is limited to number of eggs and adding bacon. Toast is extra, as is coffee. Eggs are served one style—soft—and the toast is white. Asking for whole wheat will get the same response as shouting ‘Obama for President!’ And we thought McDonald’s invented limited customer choice. Be that as it may, I had two eggs, a good helping of fatty bacon, two slices of toast and coffee for $3.85. That’s what I call an honest breakfast, and exactly the kind of high-cholesterol, too-much-salt, but otherwise wholesome food my body craved. And nobody said anything when I spread ketchup on my toast.
I was interviewed by Dan Geiger on WCCO Radio in Minneapolis on Saturday night. I was on the air with him for half an hour, and I had such a good time, it felt more like I was having a few beers with him and talking about this crazy adventure of mine. My wife Christine listened in on the Web from our home in Victoria, BC, so that was neat. Dan promised to keep in touch. They will try and track me down via my cell phone once a week or so, and I'll give them a quick update on the air. It is a good feeling to have so many people take an interest in my Mississippi challenge, and follow my progress. On Monday morning, June 4th, I go on the air with Fred & Seven at KCPS out of Burlington, Iowa.
I've been seeing this weird sign attached to the sides of some of the moored barges: 'Danger. All Voids are Covered Spaces'. Huh?
The hunting and fishing club where Bruce and Sandy took me for breakfast on my last morning in Burlington is called the Carthage Lake Club. It is located across the river on the Illinois side, six miles from Burlington. The clubhouse is a spacious, almost sprawling building, with a roomy, comfortable lounge and dining room, and a commercial grade kitchen. It overlooks the river, and its deck is a perfect to place park for a drink. Lou, who operates the kitchen concession, serves up a mean breakfast on Sundays. I indulged in hot biscuits with sausage gravy, two eggs and a good helping of crispy bacon. And to top it all, JD and Sherry, friends of the Morrison's I met at breakfast, came prepared with all the ingredients for Bloody Maries, so I started my breakfast with a very, very tasty Bloody Mary. Sadly I could only accept one—I had a boat to catch.
Bruce dropped me of at the boat ramp below the road bridge just before 1 pm. He helped me offload all my gear, and stayed to keep me company while I got the kayak loaded up and ready. They are two great people, and I would love to come back and visit with them again in Burlington. They treated me like an old friend, rather than a guest at their B&B. I'm too embarrassed to even tell you how little they charged me for my stay, even without adding in all the extras, like giving me a guided tour of Burlington and the surrounding area, treating me to a great breakfast at their club, and just generally being friends to me and providing me with a home away from home.
It felt good to be back on the river again, even though I was sad to leave my new friends Bruce and Sandy Morrison behind. I got back into paddling with a vengeance —no easing back into it for me! Even though I only left Burlington at 1:30 in the afternoon, I still managed to make my way to a spot two miles below Fort Madison; just over 30 miles for the day, or rather half day. My good progress wasn’t entirely by choice; there was nowhere else to camp for the night. Fort Madison is very industrial, and quite ugly and uninviting from the river, so I gave it a miss. By that time I was getting a little worried about finding a decent campsite for the night—the sun was dipping low on the horizon and some nasty looking storm clouds were building in the west. I couldn’t find anything on the chart within five miles that resembled an island or sandbar, so I pushed on with more optimism than my situation warranted, and not much of a plan either. My luck held, yet again! Two miles past Fort Madison, I was greeted by the welcome sight of a wide and gently sloping sandbar, with easy access from the river and a small but level spot for pitching the tent. The sun disappeared from the sky as I dragged my kayak and weary body onto terra firma. I was cold and wet; it had rained on and off during the day. There was plenty of driftwood lying around, and I built the mother of all fires. A river otter swam past to inspect my fire, and a couple of beavers were fooling around close to my camp. It was Sunday night, and my first night on my own after my three day break in Burlington. I was feeling just a tad lonely and quite tired. I went to bed early, and set the alarm on my cell phone for 6am to be awake for my KCPS radio interview.
Monday morning. Had my radio interview with Fred and Seven on the KCPS morning show at 6:30. It was typical morning show, wise-ass, everything’s a joke format. Still, we talked for 30 minutes, and I gave as good as I got. Plus, I happen to know that Fred and Seven are the on-air personas of a really nice young guy called Chip.
We had a lively debate about the merits of Burlington. They seemed to think I was being somewhat less than sincere when I said I liked the city. Whether I convinced them or not remains an open question; I enjoyed my stay in Burlington and I’m looking forward to my next visit.
A wise person once said, “You look at the scenery, but you live with the people.” How true. Taken at face value, one can argue that Burlington is not the most scenic city in North America. That is not to say the city is without visual charm: it hugs the high bluff on the west bank of the Mississippi; the downtown area is cluttered with brownstone and brick buildings from the 1800s, and almost as many churches; the residential streets that climb the steep hill above the city are lined with stately 19th century mansions, giving the place a gentrified feel; and the city is bordered by rolling Iowa farm country. On the downside, many of the old downtown buildings are vacant, run down and badly in need of restoration, and a local satanist (I suspect the only one in Burlington) had burned down one of the historic churches two months earlier, leaving only the charred skeleton standing. Now I’m all for religious freedom, but leave the architecture alone! And the city is bordered by Iowa farm country—beauty, after all, is in the eye of the beholder.
But, as I pointed out above, the people make the city. Everybody, Joe and Shelly at the Welcome Center, Bruce and Sandy at Schramm House, Becky at Tom’s Market, Chip at KCPS, and everybody else who crossed my path in Burlington were kind, friendly and generous to me. OK, except maybe the crowd at Frank’s Main Lunch, but then I made no effort to engage them in a conversation, so who knows? They did me no harm, either.
My first meal in Burlington was at The Drake, a pub/restaurant in a renovated warehouse building near the riverfront. That was Thursday afternoon, after I had spent an hour in the shower at Schramm House, getting rid of ten days worth of accumulated grime, and spending another half an hour shaving my18 day old beard, without disfiguring myself too much. The Drake is a pleasant enough place, in a conventional, generic sort of way. My burger was tasty, the portion size average and the beer $3. For supper that night I yielded to my cravings, and picked up a six pack of cold Red Rock and two big bags of potato chips, carefully selected for their high salt, trans fat and artificial flavoring content.
After my breakfast at Frank’s on Friday, I returned to my room at the B&B, and bunkered down to do some work. I had 173 e-mails to read and quite a few to reply to, I had to write and send out a press release, and I wanted to update my blog. So, I was good and worked through most of the day. I went for a late afternoon walk, took a few photos, and did some more work in the evening. Then I settled down in front of the television with beer and potato chips, like normal people do on Friday nights.
More work on Saturday morning, Then, at 11am, Bruce saved me from overwork and took me on a grand tour of Burlington and surrounds. There definitely is more to the city than meets the eye. Its industrial area is quite extensive, with most of the old 19th century plants still in use for R&D and engineering, and modern plants distributed through a number of industrial parks, built by the local government to attract investment. These plants seem to be used mainly by assembly or so-called ‘light’ industries, so they don’t bring a serious pollution problem with them. We took a detour through the surrounding countryside. The city ends without warning, and immediately beyond the city limits you find yourself in beautiful farm country, where a few smaller family farms in the 200-300 acre range still hold out. The landscape reminds me of where I lived as a young child in South Africa. I saw several turkeys; apparently they are more plentiful now than they’ve ever been, even before man’s encroachment on their habitat. Mmmmm……turkey.
Bruce showed me the Great River Medical Center in West Burlington, a state-of-the-art, modern hospital and health-care center that includes a 380-bed hospital, pharmacies, a medical equipment center, a dialysis center, several clinics, a long-term nursing care unit for patients with Alzheimer’s disease and dementia, a cancer treatment center, and a rehabilitation center that also doubles as a fitness center for paying members. The entire complex is heated from a thermal pond on the grounds, and they claim the lowest energy cost per square foot for any facility of its kind in the country. Even more impressively, the hospital was built debt-free, and remains so to this day. Oh, what free enterprise can do when you give it a chance!
Early Saturday evening I went for another stroll through the city, down Snake Alley towards the railway line, and down the hill to the Mississippi. The sun was out but there were enough clouds in the sky to make for interesting light. I took a few dramatic photos of the burnt-out church, outlined against the clouds and evening sky. Then off to Napoli’s for dinner, and another cultural adventure, well sort of.
The restaurant is in an old brick building near the tracks. Everything about it screams early-seventies: the faded neon-sign, the wooden veneer paneling, the furniture, the cigarette smoke; even the people. It was also packed, and clearly the kind of place people flock to for good, cheap food, and lots of it. I tried to get a waitress’s attention on the other side of the restaurant—it’s a big place—but she looked kind of baffled. When I held up my index finger to indicate a table for one, she started laughing. I suppose at that distance she couldn’t make out clearly which finger I was holding up; good thing she thought it was funny. I eventually I figured out that I should seat myself, and settled at a table by the window. There was one, and only one, pretty waitress in the place, and the only one under 250 lbs for that matter, and she waited on me (I’ve always wanted to say that).
No beer!! They’re not licensed @$!#&%!! I settled for a coke. Sorry, only Pepsi. I settled for a Pepsi, no ice. I got a Pepsi with extra ice. I settled.
The front cover of the tattered menu read ‘Since 1972.’ I believed them; the menu had definitely been on that table since 1972. Napoli’s offers a full selection of fried, grilled, battered, sauced, cheese-smothered and otherwise wholesome and unhealthy food. They have no fear of trans fats in these parts. Listed at the top of the menu, they have a relatively small selection of pizzas, which was kind of surprising, since they are known as a pizza place. The more interesting ‘specialty’ choices include the ‘Napoli Special’ (sausage, green pepper and onion), the ‘Supreme’ (sausage, pepperoni, green pepper, mushroom, beef and onion), and the ‘Just Meat’, which, true to its name, comes fully loaded with beef, sausage, bacon, Canadian bacon and pepperoni. It’s also the cheapest pizza on the menu. Go figure. And in case you were concerned that your pizza won’t come with enough cholesterol and saturated fats, you are assured, in black and white, right there on the menu, that ‘ALL PIZZAS INCLUDE CHEESE’.
I decided on the ‘Supreme’, and ordered a small, which, according to the menu is 12 inches in diameter. The waitress strongly recommended at least a medium, the small being way too small in her opinion. When my ‘medium’ pizza arrived it was the size of a mid-size SUV tire! Was it ever good. The crust was thick, but light and crispy, and it was piled high with sausage, tasty ground beef and lots of other good stuff, and about a pound of greasy, gooey cheddar. I made my way through little more than a third of the pizza before I was absolutely stuffed. And believe me, I can eat pizza! It cost $12, which I thought a bit pricey before I saw it, and by the next night when I was still eating leftover pizza, I began to think it was a true bargain, and I was getting a little tired of cold pizza.
While I waited for my pizza I scanned the menu. It always astonishes me how cheap food calories are in this part of the world. Welcome to the land of plenty, where you can be obese on a budget. From the Napoli’s menu:
Hamburger (and they’re BIG) $2.25
Cheeseburger $2.75
Tenderloin Sandwich $3.25
Hamburger Platter (fries & one side included) $4.25
Ribeye Steak Dinner $7.95…..to name but a few
When I had finished studying the menu, I shifted my focus to the people. They represented an interesting demographic mix, ranging from the lower end of the socio-economic scale to a small contingent of the local gentry. I managed to sneak a photograph, and looking at it now the scene is dominated by indifferently dressed, overweight people eating greasy food and smoking, and noisy children milling around, many of them seasonably plump.
The few ‘upmarket’ customers were noticeably uncomfortable in the place. What always gives people away in situations like that is the way their eyes are constantly moving around, but they don’t move their heads, lest somebody notice they’re looking at them. And they always keep their gaze just a fraction below the horizon to avoid making eye contact with anybody, and they sit just a little further forward on their chairs than they would in other surroundings. I left Napoli’s stuffed and content.
That night, after my radio interview with Dan Geiger, I drank three glasses of wine from the box in the guest fridge at Schramm House, and enjoyed my last night in a bed, and under a roof, for a while. The river beckoned.

May 30 - Mile 434 to Lock # 18. Wind, luck & vultures.

I will never again complain that I don't have any luck. Luck, that difficult to define, unpredictable and all-important element, the X-factor if you wish, that can change lives and the course of history, cannot be ignored when undertaking an adventure of this nature. There are so many variables and things that can wrong when you paddle a small plastic boat on one of the world's biggest rivers, that it would be arrogant to think, or pretend, that luck plays no part in the outcome. It does, believe me!

My luck has been consistently good so far. Not to say that I had no challenges or mishaps - I had my fair share. The real test for luck lies in the outcome of bad situations. My flight instructor years ago used to say that any landing you walk away from is a good one. I walked away from a few incidents of uncertain outcome these past few weeks because I was lucky.

When I got caught in a thunderstorm a few days ago, I was conveniently close to a good spot to pull out the kayak, and minutes after I had found safety under the trees on the bank, lightning was striking all around me like special effects from a Lord of the Rings movie. The next time I was caught in a storm, I had three miles of lake to my left and a steep 15 foot stone revetment to my right - I couldn't get off the water. This time however, there was no lightning to speak of, and the wind, although 'breezy', never reached dangerous speeds. At Lock & Dam # 4, I got pushed too close to the dam by the wind and current, and had to paddle upstream into a 25 mph wind to the relative safety of a tiny island a mile away. I started running out of steam and strength after about 400 yards, at the exact spot where a 19 foot Sea Ray powerboat was waiting for clearance to approach the lock. Saved by Luck again! I was able to grab on to the Sea Ray, the skipper lassoed the bow of my kayak with a strong nylon rope, and I waited for my turn at the lock in relative safety, if not comfort. In all three cases things could very easily have ended badly for me. But they didn't.

I passed Muscatine, Iowa yesterday. The town is right on the river; its main street runs down the gentle slope of the bank all the way to the river, serving as a boat ramp for the last 30 yards. Old factories and warehouses, dating I suspect from the 19th century, line the downtown streets. A few have been restored and pressed into service as shops and restaurants, most notably, and visible from the river, is the Woodfire Grill. My craving for a good steak may have influenced what I saw and remembered at the time. Anyway, I didn't stop. It was early in the day, I had plenty of food and water, and I couldn't justify wasting time on an unscheduled stop.

A turkey vulture follow me for part of the day. I didn't like it. I'm not superstitious by nature, but the bird made me uncomfortable.

Wind Wind Wind 20 mph 25 mph always in my face the going is slow slow slow

I camped on a sandbar below Lock # 18. The place smelled like crap - the human kind. Rainstorm at night. It smelled like wet crap in the morning.

May 29 - Lock # 16 to Mile 434. Heat, wind and religion.

Another day of paddling into a strong south wind - 10 to 15 mph in the morning, 20 plus in the afternoon with gusts of 25 mph at times. The heat was a factor for the first time today. The temperature reached 88 degrees Fahrenheit in the afternoon and I was running low on water. I had no more than about a cup (200 ml) left at the end of the day. There was nowhere I could stop to fill up my water bottles. The humidity wasn't too bad though, so I coped reasonably well with the heat and lack of drinking water. Mind over matter works well up to a point, though. I will need to get drinking water early in the day tomorrow.

There are hundreds, if not thousands, of snapping turtles about. They hang suspended in the water with only the tips of their heads sticking out above the surface. When you approach within a few feet of them they snap their heads back into the water. I guess that's why they're called snapping turtles.

There are duck hunting blinds everywhere on the river. I can picture the hunters heading out before dawn on a freezing winter morning, feeling their way through the fog in their flat bottom boats, protected against the wet cold by layers of camouflaged clothing, waterproof boots and waders. If you look closer you'll see the coffee flasks, the bags full of plastic decoys, the 12 and 10 gauge shotguns with 3 inch barrels and cases full of shotgun shells. On many boats you'll find an excited black Labrador retriever standing in the bow, with his nose in the wind and wagging his tail, eagerly anticipating the excitement of the hunt. With first light the calm and quiet of the early morning gives way to duck calls, shotguns firing in rapid succession, dog whistles and the sound of hundreds of wings in flight. I would like to come back one winter to experience a real Mississippi duck hunt.

I made fairly good progress today, in spite of the strong headwinds that stayed with me all day long. With my improving navigation skills, and a large measure of luck,
I managed to dodge the wind for part of the day. I am getting better at proactively picking routes that keep me on the side of the river that offers the most protection from the wind, and I am more comfortable taking chutes and sloughs away from the main navigation channel.

I decided to set up camp early today and take things easy for the rest of the day. The heat took its toll on my body and I felt tired and drained of energy. I found a great campsite and the ideal spot to spent a hot afternoon. It was in the middle of a sizable island covered with tall trees. A large, level area in the middle of the island has been cleared by previous campers. The tree canopy provided much-needed shade, the surrounding trees protected me from the wind and prying eyes, and there was enough firewood around to last me a month. There were signs that a group of people had camped there on the Memorial Day long weekend, but the site was clean and litter-free. It would have been a perfect place to camp, if it weren't for all the mosquitoes and biting flies. It wasn't only that they were present in vast numbers, which they were, but they came at me with an aggression and tenacity that I haven't experienced before, not even in Africa. I managed to keep some of the mosquitoes at bay by drenching myself in 40% DEET, but the biting flies paid no heed to it and continued feeding on me like I was a buffet laid on for their enjoyment. Later in the afternoon the wind died down and the heat became stifling among the trees. There was a bit of a breeze close to the river and I sat out there for a while, only to come under attack from even more biting flies! It seemed that I couldn't win this battle, so I retired to my stuffy, 90 degree Fahrenheit tent.

I saw the first bald eagle in several days today. There definitely are fewer birds and animals along the Iowa/Illinois stretch of the river. There are lots of herons - they are like barn pigeons in these parts. This may be a good thing: apparently herons have a taste for baby ducks and geese, and, like almost everywhere else in North America, there are more ducks and geese than the habitat can support. They not only impact the immediate environment with their voracious feeding and droppings; they wreak havoc on the fragile ecosystem of the arctic tundra when they return there to breed. It's not because they are particularly destructive by nature; there simply are too many ducks and geese alive at any given point in time. With fewer people hunting in these politically correct and 'sensitive' times, even the most efficient predator, man, is unable to control the exploding populations of these feathered pests. Many US states and provinces in Canada are increasing bag limits and extending hunting seasons for ducks and geese, but there are only so many birds a single hunter can kill in a year. We need more hunters, and more herons.

Barge traffic is increasing every day. I counted 12 today, excluding the ones that passed by my campsite after I had set up camp. With more barges around, my wait times at the locks are getting longer too. Tow boat pilots are a breed apart. They seem to resent anybody else travelling on the river; the smaller your boat, the bigger their resentment. Having the smallest boat on the river, bar none, I warrant their full, unmitigated and unconstrained resentment. I get the idea they feel I shouldn't be on their river in a small plastic boat, and some of them act like I don't exist. They don't wave back at me and they won't let me go ahead of them at the locks. Some of the tow boat pilots call from miles away and insist that they be locked up or down first, even though a 'double tow' (a tow boat pushing 15 barges) can take more than 2 hours to clear a lock. It takes 15 minutes at most to get me through a lock.

I was thinking today about all the powerboats I saw on the weekend, and all the RVs, trucks, jet skis, ATVs, lawnmower tractors and generators. I've come to a startling conclusion about USA. Even though most people here regard themselves as a religious, predominantly Christian nation, this is an illusion. Their real god is the internal combustion engine, and they are prepared to sacrifice the earth to feed their deity. And they will find new ways to continue fuelling their religion in future, but first they are going to use up all the oil on the planet, for that's what all their toys are designed for. In more than 400 miles on the river, I saw one canoe, 12 small sail boats in a race by Davenport and tow sail boats, that is it! All the other boats, and I saw hundreds, had internal combustion engines.

There definitely is more litter on the Iowa side of the river. And not just the accidental jetsam and flotsam that get washed overboard or end up in the river by accident, but real, intentional littering. Twelve Budweiser cans don't end up in the same spot by accident. I saw evidence of actual dumping: PC monitors, garden furniture, rusted steel drums and other household items. A PC monitor doesn't just float downstream and land on the riverbank - somebody had to dump it there.

There are mourning doves in the trees. I never see them, but I hear them calling all the time. They remind me of where I grew up in South Africa; there are lots of doves there too.
So far Iowa gets the lowest ranking in my book as custodians of the Mississippi.

My diet is interesting, albeit a little unconventional. I take three different kinds of protein supplements. I take Nitro Fire (from Polar Labs) in the morning. In addition to all the amino acids that boost physical and mental energy, it's also loaded with caffeine. At night I take either the whey-based protein blend from Wellwisdom, or Polar Labs Lean Mass Complex, sometimes both. Throughout the day I eat BumbleBars, Simbree energy bars and LaMontagne chocolate bars whenever I feel peckish or sluggish. At night, after I've had my protein shake, I usually eat tuna or salmon from a foil pouch; some nights I'll have beef jerky and my desert consists of canned fruit or a chocolate bar, sometimes both. I also packed some dehydrated stew mixes for the trip, but it's just too much of a hassle to unpack the stove and go through the entire ritual of cooking and washing dishes. It's good to have the dried food for an emergency though, and it doesn't weigh much. I also take goZym electrolyte supplement - it also contains vitamins and minerals. My body seems to be getting everything it needs. I'm healthy and I have energy to spare, and my digestive system is happy. I have lost a lot of weight, but who wouldn't after paddling ten hours a day for more than two weeks? I seem to gaining lean muscle, which is another good sign. I'm not suffering from any of the diseases commonly caused by nutritional deficiencies, and I don't have any early leprosy symptoms, which is good. I'm not consuming enough calories; I need to up my food intake. I'm burning approximately 6,000 calories per day, and my intake is less than 3,000.

I noticed a rash on both my forearms yesterday - probably a heat rash. I took some Claritin last night and this morning I applied zinc oxide sunblock to my arms to prevent further problems. The rash is going away; it looks my like diagnosis was correct.

I've been caught in the rain a few times in my first few weeks on the river. It's actually not too bad if it rains when I'm on the water, as long as there's no lightning or strong wind. My paddle jacket keeps my upper body dry, my hat keeps most of the rain out of my face, and my lower body and gear stay perfectly dry inside the kayak. So I usually keep paddling when it rains, except when there is lightning in the area, in which case I get off the water immediately. When I can't get off the water because the bank is too steep, or when I'm alongside a stone revetment, I try to get as close to the bank as possible, in the hope that the trees on the bank will provide me some protection. Hail is another danger when you're as exposed to the elements as I am. Golfball-size hail is not uncommon in these parts, and it wouldn't take more than one or two hitting my head to put a premature end to my time on this planet. The only thing I can do if I get caught in a hailstorm is to hold my life jacket over my head and pray my kayak doesn't drift into the main navigation channel.

May 28 - Davenport

Today was my easiest, least eventful day to to date. The wind was still blowing at 10 to 15 mph, but I was able to stay on the lee side of the bank and a chain of long, narrow islands that dot the river along this stretch. Today was the first time the current was helping me more than the wind was hindering. I did 36 miles for the day, from Lock # 14 to Lock # 16.

I passed through Davenport, Iowa late morning. It is the largest city on route since the Twin Cities and an attractive river city. The area immediately downstream from the city is very industrial. I didn't know that Iowa was so industrialized. I've always pictured it as a rural, agricultural part of the Union. There is a lot of agriculture, to be sure, and processing and handling farm products account for much of the industrial activity - Cargill and AMD are omnipresent. But there is a lot of heavy industry too: chemical plants, steel works and several coal fired power stations along the river.

I haven't seen much wildlife in these parts. There are very few bald eagles compared to Minnesota and I haven't seen any deer around, although there are some tracks on the sandbars. Herons and geese are about the only birds present in significant numbers. There is a lot more plastic littering the banks and the river than I have seen so far.

A sprawling red neck 'tent park' sprouted from a narrow strip of an island a few miles below Davenport. They had pitched every tent and shelter they could get their hands on, including a camouflaged hunting blind. The tents were arranged in a tight cluster with their sides touching. The family that camps together stays together....

A group of people were sitting around a dead fire drinking beer and smoking. A boom box was blasting away and at the lower end of the island a generator was belching electricity and exhaust fumes. One of the woman almost waved at me. The guy next to her couldn't decide whether to wave with his beer hand or cigarette hand, and in the end just yelled something at me. The others just glared in my general direction.

The day was overcast and there were hardly any power boats on the river. I suspect many of the people with the flashy and fancy power boats have somewhat limited navigational skills. Anything beyond going 300 yards in a straight line on a bright sunshine day may be too much for some. I was nearly run over by two jet skis. I am beginning to feel about jet skis the way I feel about ATVs, and it's not a positive emotion. In my opinion the only purpose both serve is to make noise and destroy the environment. But the thing that most annoys me about jet skis is not the danger or the pollution. It's the noise they make, much like the whining noise a mosquito makes when it circles around your head when you're trying to sleep and you keep slapping yourself in the face until your ears ring without hitting the mosquito and you can't find the DEET and it's too hot to pull the cover over your head. It's that annoying.

Past Davenport the river banks are only a few feet high and I caught a few more glimpses of the rolling Iowa countryside. There was a sail boat race in progress in Davenport. A dozen or so Lazer class dinghies were duking it out on the river. South of the city I saw two 24 foot sailboats on the river. These were the first sail boats I've seen on the Mississippi, and except for one canoe I saw on the fourth day of my trip, the only non-motorized vessels I've seen to date. Viva internal combustion!

May 27 - Lock # 13 to Lock # 14. Power boats.

On any other day, today would have been perfect for kayaking: sunshine, blue skies, temperature in the mid-70s, a light breeze and low humidity. Unfortunately it was also Memorial Day weekend Sunday, the first boating weekend of summer, and everybody with a boat was on the water. I also found myself in one of the busiest recreational areas of the river, close to Davenport and with several marinas and vacation homes on the river. It was insane. I had expected to encounter boat traffic - I listed power boats as a primary hazard in my pre-trip notes - but wasn't prepared for what I encountered today. It was like riding a small bicycle down the middle of a busy highway.

I was paddling in constant wake. The waves were coming at me from all directions, in all sizes and at different speeds, making it impossible for me to do anything proactive. All I could do was take the beating and do what I could to keep the kayak right side up. The kayak was rocking, rolling, pitching and yawing like a light aircraft flying in bad turbulence. Wake, the waves caused by passing boats, can swamp smaller craft, my kayak being the smallest of the smaller ones. Wake size depends on boat size, speed and hull shape: a 30 foot cabin cruiser with a deep v-shaped hull, screaming past you at 40 mph will create much bigger waves compared to a 16 foot flat bottom fishing boat, making 10 mph. At times it felt like the kayak was going to shake and twist apart, but like a 747 or a trusty old Cessna 172, I knew it would hold together. We both did. But it made for a very tiring day.

I reached Lock # 14 late in the day. There was a tow boat with 15 barges in the lock, but no other boats in sight. I thought it was strange, given all the power boats on the water. I called the lock on the VHF to request lockage, only to be told that they were locking pleasure craft at the auxiliary lock. The auxiliary lock is at the end of a slough west of the main lock, which meant I had to turn around and paddle upstream for two miles to where the slough branches off, and then make my way down to the lock for another three miles. My request to use the main lock fell on deaf ears (another asshole manning the lock) and I had no choice but to turn back.

When I entered the slough I found out where all the boats had gone. Row after row of power boats were moored in the slough. Groups of boats were clustered together, loud music blaring and blending into one loud noise, and everybody drinking or drunk, or drunk and drinking. It was a spring break tailgate party with $100,000 boats instead of cars. The more expensive the boats the younger their occupants seemed to be - kids with a lot of their parents' money to burn.
I made my way into the lock with ten power boats of various sizes and decibel levels. One of the $500k plus cigarette boats came complete with a weekend rent-a-stripper dressed in what must have been a very cheap bikini, because very little fabric was required to make it. When her boyfriend-client cranked up the music she acted true to character and started dancing and gyrating on the deck of the boat. She incorporated the grapple pole in her act with good effect, getting so carried away that she forgot why she had the pole in the first place. She was supposed to keep the bow end of the boat from colliding with the lock's concrete wall. So in addition to her daily professional fee, she also cost the poor rich guy a few grand in paintwork damage to his boat. It was a good show though and she clearly enjoyed having a captive audience for a few minutes.

When the lock gates opened all the boats just took off at full throttle and shot past me in the lock. I was closest to the exit, and had hoped that they would give me a chance to get away from the gate before they all came charging out, but no, not this crowd. With boat after boat speeding past me less than 30 feet away, I found myself in an ocean of waves with no room to get away from it or turn the kayak's bow into the wake. I had to paddle frantically to keep from being slammed into the stone revetment along the bank. There was a small sandbar less than a hundred yards below the lock, and since it was late in the day, past sunset, and I really wanted to get off the water, I decided to stop there for the night. It was not ideal, not being on an island but on the bank, with an access road. There was a group of teenage louts nearby, drinking and trying to talk the only girl in the group into having sex with them all. When they weren't drinking or engaging in clumsy mating rituals, they howled at boats coming out of the lock. They left after dark and I had peace and quiet for the rest of the night.

Below Clayton, IA the river flows through a heavily industrialized area. Beaver slough just south of the city is lined with grimy plants of the smokestack variety. There is something European about this part of the Mississippi. Industry, cities, suburban and recreational areas co-exist and share the same space. In some places marinas and houses look out over duck hunting blinds, and expensive mansions line the banks a short distance away from factories and power stations.

I did 30 miles for the day. Next long weekend I'm staying off the river.