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.
