May 26 - Bellevue IA to Lock # 13. Rain, wind and big lakes.

The sky was grey and overcast in the morning, with rain and fog, and that's pretty much how it stayed the whole day. It was not an ideal day for kayaking. Of the 12 hours I spent on the water, it rained for more than eight.

I passed by Savannah, IL. It's located south of the Savannah military area, and from the river looks like a fairly nondescript town. Further downstream, on the Iowa side, is an interesting looking small town called Sabula. It is firmly stuck in the 60s. Everything from the houses, main street buildings, the vehicles and even the people seem to have missed the last 40 years. I half expected to see a few Good Ole' Boys leaning on their pickup trucks in Main Street and complain about 'those dang hippies on the old Smith farm'. Talk about a time warp.

The pub on the riverfront is a little frayed around the edges, but it sure looked inviting from where I was sitting. All along the riverbank, more than a hundred flags fly from 20 foot flag poles, with a small white cross planted at the foot of each pole. It made me sad.

To get to Lock and Dam # 13 I had to cross Pond 13. 'Pond' is Corps of Engineers speak for the group of lakes found above each dam. The numbering system follows Lock and Dam numbers: Pond 7 is above Dam # 7, etc. Pond 13 is the widest of the ponds - it's over three and a half miles at the widest point.

It was not a good day for lake crossings. I got caught in heavy rain and a 25 mph southwest wind 11 miles above the dam. I couldn't see a thing. For a while I literally navigated by the wind in my face. I knew the wind was coming from the southwest, and the lock was south of me, so if I kept going into the wind I would at some point hit the dam, and I could then follow the dam to the lock. It wasn't a bad plan, except I got stuck on a sandbar. I can usually spot sandbars from a distance by the grass and other plants sticking out above the surface, or birds that appear to be walking on water. Not this time, though.

I managed to get the boat off the sandbar by pushing down with both hands onto the sand and 'walking' the kayak backwards to deeper water. I couldn't go forward, so I turned the kayak around and retraced my route. The rain eased a bit, and I was able to spot a green buoy in the channel. I had no choice but to stay close to the channel with the the buoys in sight from that point on. And that's how I ended up crossing the widest lake on the Upper Mississippi: right down the middle in a 25 mph wind and four foot waves.

By the time I reached the lock it was almost 7pm and dark storm clouds were building up over the area. There was a tow boat a few miles behind me, and I didn't think for one second they'd lock it down before me. But the lock attendant on duty turned out to be a real asshole, and he made me wait for two and a half hours while they locked the 15 barge tow downstream. It would have taken all of 15 minutes to get me through the lock. It was dark, the wind was freezing and I was wet, cold and very tired. And a fierce-looking thunderstorm was approaching fast from the west. All in all not a comfortable situation to be in. Later one of the lock staff, I think he was a security officer, came out to check on me and keep me company for a while. It was dark by then, and the storm was still looming. I think they were getting worried about me and realized that they had screwed up by not locking me down before the tow boat. He went to check the radar and fortunately the storm was passing to the north. It was 9:30pm by the time I had cleared the lock. There are dredge islands with sandbars below most locks, and Lock # 13 was no exception, so at least I didn't have to paddle around frantically in the dark to find a place to camp. It was past midnight by the time I got to bed and I was freezing. There was no dry wood to be found, so no fire to warm up a bit.

The one redeeming factor about the day is that there were no power boats on the water on account of the bad weather, although I was a tad uncomfortable at times being the only small craft out on the river.

Arrived in New Orleans!

I reached New Orleans Wednesday, July 11, at 1:30 pm CST. My journey ended at Audubon Park, a few miles from downtown and the French Quarter. I paddled a total of 2,742 km (1,704 miles) in 59 days.

It was quite the adventure, and a wild ride at times. I did 1,467 km (912 miles) in the last 23 days, without a break. Between Cairo, IL and Baton Rouge, LA the Mississippi is a big, wild river with nobody around, and very few towns on or near the river. It is wilder in some places now than it was 100 years ago. It certainly is one of the more challenging things I've ever done, but also one of the most rewarding. And I'll do it all again.

I held up very well. I stayed motivated and disciplined throughout the journey, and never became demoralized, not even on the really hard days, of which I had my fair share. I never once thought about giving up, nor did I doubt that I would reach my destination. I am a lot thinner, and hopefully a little wiser too. I remained in good health throughout, and never had as much as a headache, in spite of all the strain on my body, being on the river for 10 or more hours every day, and hundreds of mosquito and other insect bites.

Thank you all for your interest in my crazy adventure, and for the material and moral support. I have posted new images on my photo gallery, and will be posting more journal entries to my blog soon

May 25 - Lock # 11 (mile 583) to Bellevue, IA (mile 555)

After almost two weeks on the river, today was my first uneventful day. It was a perfect day for being out in a kayak. The temperature was in the low 70s, there was no humidity to speak of, and there was a light breeze from the southwest of less than 5 mph. No rain, no thunderstorms and lightning to hide from, and very little powerboat traffic, given that it was a long weekend. It took only 7 hours to do 28 miles.

Having said that, I didn't take full advantage of the good conditions. To begin with, I started late, around 11 in the morning. I was cold overnight and didn't sleep much, I needed to sort out and dry out some of my gear, and I was admittedly a bit slow and sluggish. Once on the water I couldn't get a steady rhythm going, I was fidgeting and couldn't get comfortable in the boat. On a day like this I should have done better than 4 mph. Anyway, it was good to do 28 miles without having to paddle flat out all day long.

Tomorrow my vacation is over - the forecast calls for 15 to 20 mph wind and thunderstorms for the next few days. I stopped at Spruce Harbor to fill up my water bottles. I didn't see any public areas, so I walked up to one of the cabins. Before I knew it, I was invited in to fill up with bottled water from the fridge. I would have been quite happy to use the hose outside, but people are so consistently exceeding my expectations that I should be getting used to it by now.

My late father was a generous man. He always gave something to people who came to our door - food, money, a drink of water - and he never sent anybody away empty handed. Every so often he would give a person something extra, for no apparent reason. When that happened again one day, I asked him why he did it. I'll never forget his answer: "He had a good story."
I have a good story too, and that also opens doors for me.

I had one of the more surreal moments of my journey this afternoon. I was waiting above Lock # 12 for my turn through the lock. On the Illinois side of the river is a vast, restricted military training area. It stretches for 16 miles along the river, and all the way east to the Burlington-Santa Fe Railroad.

From a distance, the terrain looks a lot like the jungles in South East Asia and along the Mekong river. The illusion was further enforced by a helicopter flying over the area a few miles inland. Below the lock, in Bellevue, a rock concert was in progress, and late 60s and early 70s vintage rock came floating up the river. For a brief moment, I was in the scene from Apocalypse Now where the patrol boat arrives at a forward supply base, with the all the bright lights and music blaring over the loudspeakers. Weird.

A note of caution about the 100% DEET: It will eat through plastic, watch straps, and synthetic fabric; and it should be kept away from small children, pets and dictators who want to acquire weapons of mass destruction.

I started above Dubuque this morning. It's an attractive city; very much a working city, with a number of impressive old and new money mansions spread out along the Iowa bank. Along Harrington Slough and around Spruce Harbor, the houses and cottages look they have been left unchanged since the 50s. One gets the feeling that they are passed on to the next generation, and always stay in the same families.

It would appear that people along this part of the river can not live, work, relax or play without some kind of internal combustion engine. In nearly two weeks, and 300 miles on the river, I saw exactly one - count them - watercraft not powered by an engine. During my second day of crossing Lake Pepin, I saw a guy in a canoe that was rigged with a set of oars like a single scull.
At some point below Dubuque I crossed the state line from Wisconsin into Illinois. There was no sign (or X) to mark the spot.

The landscape along the river changed after Dubuque. The bluffs are lower and the scenery opens up. Below Bellevue, the west bank dropped to only a few feet above the river, and I caught a glimpse of the rolling Iowa farm country beyond the river.

Turkey vultures look very impressive when they circle high up in the sky, but on the ground they are quite ungainly and not at all elegant. They look like chickens or deranged pheasants.

May 24 - Lock # 10 to Lock # 11, 30 miles

I woke up feeling sluggish and a little depressed this morning. I had a weird dream, the kind with a strange mix of people in places where you'd never expect them to be. The part of the dream that upset me was where our dog Flaky came running up to me amidst all the other confusion, stood at my feet and looked up at me the way he does when he wants to get your attention, then trotted off across a meadow until he disappeared in the distance. I am no believer in the power or significance of dreams, but I can't help feeling that I may not get to see him again. The vet did say 'a few months', but that can mean anything.

I had the strongest sustained south wind yet against me today - 20 to 30 mph, with gusts up to 40 mph. I have figured out how the weather service defines wind strength. 'Breezy' means 15 to 20 mph, with gusts up to 30 mph. 'Windy' means 20 to 30 mph, with gusts of 40 mph. Today was definitely 'windy'.

All was not lost, though. Luckily for me, very much so, the river flowed southeast and east for most of the day, so I could stay close to the west bank most of the time, and paddle in relative calm.

Then, early in the afternoon, I got caught in a big thunderstorm. The rain came down in sheets, driven across the lake by the wind. Thunder roared through the clouds, and I could see lightning flashes only a few miles to the northeast. The water was no place to be, more so when you're in a kayak. A lightning strike would light up the kayak like a candle, with me as the wick. I managed to find a tiny area below the trees on the river bank, just big enough to get most of the boat out. I found some cover underneath the trees, hoping the lightning wouldn't hit one of the trees above my head. There was no hiding from the rain, though. It was like being blasted by a fire hose. At times like this you have two choices. You can either become upset, curse your bad luck and feel sorry for yourself; or you can accept the fact that there is nothing you can do about it, find that Zen-like calmness and patience within yourself to wait out the storm, and remind yourself that the sun will shine again.

The storm did pass, and I was back on the water soon enough, and about an hour later the sun was doing its thing up in the sky again, and I was warm and dry.

I was in a time warp most of the day. I thought it was much later in the day when I got caught in the thunderstorm, but when I listened to the weather radio, it was only 1:30. Sometimes it felt like I had been paddling for hours, only to find that I had covered no more than a mile, which meant I was paddling for no more than 20 minutes.

I was in the middle of crossing another lake and kept a weary eye on the wind. But it stayed south/southwest, and the water remained relatively calm during my crossing. My plan was to camp below Arrowhead marina (mile 589) on one of the islands shown on my map, or alternatively two miles further south on a strip of public land on the river's west bank. The islands and the strip of public land turned out to be marshes with a few trees growing in them. The lake's name should have given me a hint. It's called Mud Lake.

As if that wasn't bad enough, I found myself in a fierce rain squall at the same time I was desperately trying to find a place to camp. The wind was driving the rain straight into my face at over 40 mph. I couldn't see a thing - it felt like my glasses were being driven into my eye sockets. I was wearing a cotton T-shirt, which got soaked through and freezing cold within seconds. Cotton has no place on the water. The only fabric that works well in these conditions is 'technical' polyester - it dries in no time, and continues to keep you warm when it's wet. I've already burned a few cotton shirts, and I can see a few more going into the fire soon. Cotton is fine if you're sitting in a coffee shop, feeling good about how 'natural' and 'earth-friendly' you are, not when you're cold and wet.

This part of the Upper Mississippi isn't a river as we know it - it is a series of lakes, ranging between two and 20 miles in length, and several miles wide in places. The conditions on the water these past few weeks were more like ocean kayaking than anything else.

I decided to make for Lock # 11, five miles further downstream. It was still early, and there usually are good spots for camping on the dredge islands below the locks. The lake above the lock is three miles long and the wind was whipping up two and three foot waves, making for yet another rough crossing.

It wasn't my day. At the lock I had to wait for over an hour for a barge to clear, and sat shivering in my wet clothes in the cold wind, feeling just a tad sorry for myself.

I passed Cassville earlier in the day. It is a dismal place with two coal power stations - one upstream, one a mile downstream. There was a strong smell of human feces in the air, and the river bank on the Iowa side was a swampy marsh. Still, there were many bald eagles, herons and other birds in the area.

I also saw three raccoons and a whitetail doe. I like raccoons. I've always wanted one for a pet. An otter swam past my campsite at mile 613 in the morning.

I went head-to-head with the 30 mph wind a few times during the day, thankfully not too often. The only thing I could do is continue paddling with strong, steady strokes. I really had to put my back into each stroke, and also push forward hard on the other end of the paddle shaft to boost the power of each stroke. I had to grip the shaft tightly, otherwise the wind could twist a blade and rip the paddle from my hands. It was that bad.

I thought I was getting better at picking suitable campsites, but alas. Tonight's site looked perfect, except I missed the fact that it was sloping towards the river at a 15 degree angle, so I ended up sleeping with the one side of my body one and a half inches lower than the other - not very comfortable.

With almost 300 miles behind me, I have concluded that there are far more good people in this part of the world than bad, I've seen more places I like than I don't, and I've met more people I like than I don't.

Today was the first day the mosquitoes actually attacked on the water. I'll keep the DEET within reach from now on. A number of mosquitoes, spiders and other insects have been finding their way into the kayak's cockpit overnight. When it warms up during the day they wake up and start feasting on my legs. I'm going to spray the inside of the cockpit with permethrine and keep the cover on at night. It's good to keep the boat dry anyway.

I'm not fond of mosquitoes. They on the other hand seem to have unlimited affection for me. It's a good thing the people along the Mississippi understand about mosquitoes. I found 100% DEET repellent at the Wal-Mart in La Crosse. None of the puny 28% stuff we get in Canada. Before my next trip to Africa, I'm going to stop in Wisconsin to buy bug spray.

May 23 - Prairie du Chien to mile 613

The going today was easier than yesterday, but still far from easy. The wind was still up around 15 to 25 mph, but there were more islands and high bluffs for me to hide behind and stay out of the wind. The way the river twisted and turned from southeast to southwest also helped me dodge some of the wind. I still only managed 19 miles for the day, so it was no cakewalk. Whenever I had to cross a stretch of open water, I got a sharp reminder that the wind was still going in full fury. Every so often, I'd pass the tip of an island, and I'd get slammed in the face by a 25 mph gust of wind, and find myself in three foot waves.

I stopped early today, around 4:30 pm. This is one of the nicer campsites I've found to date. It has a wide, low sandbar, out of the wind, with lots of dry firewood. After setting up camp, I waded into the river with my Campsuds for a quick wash. It felt good to be clean - fresh and refreshed. I also washed a few shirts in the river. After more than 200 miles on the river, I know it's clean enough to swim and wash in, but I still wouldn't drink from it without first boiling, filtering and treating the water with Pristine chemical purifier. The same holds true for any river or lake though.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not good at picking campsites. I tend to end up in the middle of mosquito breeding grounds, spider nests, exposed to the wind or sliding down a gentle slope towards the river.

I prefer to camp on one of the many mid-stream islands, formed by the Corps of Engineers dumping dredging material from the channel. They are planted with indigenous trees, and most have nice sandbars to camp on. The islands are private and safe; nobody knows I'm there, and the only access is by boat. Last night, however, I could go no further against the wind below Prairie du Chien, and ended up on a vacant lot a mile and a half past the town, and clearly on the wrong side of the tracks. I arrived there around 4:30 in the afternoon, and by the time I went to bed all was quiet, there were no people or cars in sight or within earshot, and I was looking forward to a good night's sleep. I was bone weary from the day's hard paddling into the wind, and the 40 miles I did the previous day. I dozed off not too long after 10 pm, after speaking to Christine on the cell phone.

Sometime after midnight, my sleep was rudely interrupted by a loud, drunken argument on the next property. It sounded like a man and a woman were having a heated verbal exchange. Both were in the advanced stages of intoxication, and the man sounded quite aggressive. He was swearing at the woman, and kicking and banging against something outside the house.

After 10 minutes or so I couldn't hear them anymore, so I assumed they had left or gone inside the house. I was mistaken though, for a few minutes later I could hear them stumbling through the trees above my tent, and judged by the sound of their voices, they were coming towards my tent. I thought it best to make my presence known, lest I scare them into doing something stupid. I made a lot of noise getting out of my sleeping bag and unzipping the tent, and when I could see them on the low ridge about 15 yards above my camp, I said, "Hello."

That stopped them dead in their tracks. They stood nailed to the same spot for a while, and I said "Hello" again. The woman spoke first, and what she said was, "Don't worry, we won't hurt you."

That worried me a great deal: why would she even be thinking about hurting people? They stumbled down the ridge to within ten feet of my tent, muttering, arguing and swearing all the time. I was sitting down in the tent's door, and looking up at their Homer Simpson silhouettes against the night sky. When I saw how very drunk they were, I knew I could take them both out quickly and without too much trouble, even though they had a combined weight advantage of at least 500 pounds over me. I wasn't concerned about any threats to my personal safety; I just wanted them to get the hell out of there so I could go back to sleep.

They were pawing one another all the time, and it dawned on me that they were there to quench their beer-fuelled lust on the beach under the moonlight, that it was not the first time they had done so, and that they were annoyed at finding someone camped on their sacred ground. I had the distinct feeling that I was trapped between two mating rhinos.

At that point, he decided it would be great idea if she shared her charms.
"Honey, show him your tits."

I had no desire to see Honey's tits, or any other part of her ample anatomy. Fortunately, she was either too drunk, or she thought I had suffered enough for one day, so I was spared that ordeal.

He then went on to say, " We're just going to sit over there and drink some beer," pointing to a spot 12 feet from my tent.

I said, "Sure, don't mind me, I'm going back to sleep." I made a big show of getting back inside the tent, not sure what to expect next.

I didn't have to wait long. The next thing I knew, they started going through the preliminary motions of copulation - to call what they did foreplay would be heresy. After much grunting, burping, even one of the more unmentionable bodily noises ("let it rip, Honey"), they decided, thank God, that maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all, and they got up and left. But not before coming over to my tent one more time to tell me they were leaving. And the weirdest thing was, they were really apologetic, not about barging into my camp and waking me up, but because they felt that by leaving, they were depriving me of the voyeuristic experience of a lifetime. Did I mention before that strange things happen to me when I travel?

I could still hear them stumbling and falling for a while after they had taken off in the general direction of away, then I went back to sleep.

I passed through Clayton, Iowa late morning. It's a nice looking town, with a single row of neat double story houses spread out along the river bank for a mile or so. South of the town, huge mine shafts cut horizontally into the bluff on the Iowa side.

A few miles below Lock # 10 I came across the first inn with direct access from the river. Actually, it was the first of any kind of accommodation on the river in 230 miles. It goes without saying that I didn't need a place to stay then, nor was I ready to stop for the day, so I continued on my way. It is called Landing 615, and the sign reads, "Gas/Food/Rooms."

My hands have gone through various phases of deterioration and recovery: from blisters to open blisters, to new blisters, to blisters on blisters, to gaping holes and finally to the embryonic stage of callous development.

The weather service issued a thunderstorm warning for the area last night: "Winds of 60 mph, hail the size of pennies. Move indoors to the lowest floor of your house and stay away from windows." And there I was, in my two pound tent, on a narrow strip of sand in the middle of the Mississippi. Fortunately, the storm passed to the east of the river, and I only got rained on for a while.

I saw two interesting looking birds today. They looked like jays, only smaller and bright red in color. I have no idea what they are.

May 22 - Lock # 9 to Prairie du Chien

It's amazing how conditions can change from one day to the next. I did 40 miles yesterday, and only 16 today, although I worked equally hard today, if not more so. From the first minute after I had cleared Lock # 9, I was paddling into a 20-25 mph south wind, gusting 35 mph at times. It was like pushing against a brick wall. The fact that I made any distance at all today defies several laws of physics and nature.

On 'normal' days, I pick a spot a few hundred yards ahead of me on the bank to measure my progress. Today I was picking spots almost level with the kayak's bow, to make sure I was making any progress at all, and not actually going backwards. I couldn't even stop paddling long enough to take a sip of water; the wind would push me back so hard that I'd forfeit the last few minutes of paddling effort. It was that bad.

I proved that it is possible to go against a 35 mph gusting wind and make some headway. I did everything I could to get on the lee side and at least get some protection from the wind, but it was blowing straight up the river. There was nowhere to hide.

Everybody keeps telling me that the wind is not seasonal, but I have been battling this unseasonal phenomena for almost two weeks now. I'm beginning to think the weather is never seasonal in these parts.

I was feeling the effect of the wind physically today. My head feels numb, my eyeballs ache, and I think it's beginning to affect my brain - I have 'brain fog' tonight. And more of the same tomorrow.

My diet is interesting. I start my day with a cup of Nitro Fire protein and energy supplement from Polar Labs. It's loaded with caffeine as well, so it gives me a good jolt first thing in the morning. During the day I eat Simbree and BumbleBar energy bars, and chocolate bars from La Montagne chocolates whenever I feel sluggish or peckish. At night I load up on protein with Polar and Wellwisdom whey blends, and eat tuna or salmon, the kind that comes in a foil pouch. When I stop over in a town somewhere, I go for the high cholesterol, high calorie foods, in other words, cheese burgers, pizza and fried chicken. And beer. I keep my electrolyte levels up with goZym tablets dissolved in water. It also contains magnesium, which prevents cramps and muscle stiffness, and a few vitamins.

By the time I got to Prairie du Chien I was exhausted. I wanted to stop and explore the historical old town, but in addition to be being bushed, I had my work cut out to make headway against the wind, which was gusting between 25 and 35 mph by then. The first place I could find to pull out the kayak and set up camp for the night was 1.5 miles downstream on the river bank, and not the kind of spot where I could safely leave my gear and walk back to town.

There were two pretty young women sitting on the concrete pier below the old town, trying to catch a few rays from an invisible sun, seemingly oblivious to the wind that was blasting them. Both girls were wearing 'lightweight' bikinis, and I thanked them from the bottom of my heart for their courage and exhibitionist streak. They provided the only bright point in an otherwise trying day.

I received bad news today. Our little fox terrier dog, Flaky, the last remaining of our pet family, was diagnosed with cancer. It is too far advanced to treat, and has spread to most of his lymph nodes. It will be possible to keep him comfortable and pain-free with Prednisone for a while, but the vet told my wife that he has a few months at best. We will not let him suffer, that will be selfish, so we will have him put to sleep before that happens. He is 17 years old this year.

There is a thunderstorm brewing. I've already pitched the tent, even though it's only late afternoon. Most nights up to now I've slept outside under the stars, but with increasing rain, and more mosquitoes, I'll be using the tent every night from now on.The rain will be a relief - the last few hours were very hot and oppressive, in spite of the wind.

My body is holding up remarkably well. Yesterday and today were tough, but I seem to recover well overnight. I don't need too many days like that, though. By the time I reach New Orleans, I'll either look like Stallone, or I'll be a broken man. The jury is still out on that one.

I'm camping on private property tonight. It's a deserted lot, and so far no one has hassled me. I had to choose between staying out on the water in a 30 mph wind, and stopping at the first suitable site with reasonable camping. It was an easy choice to make.

I saw a young otter today, it couldn't have been more than a few months old. I saw the first beaver dam on the river. It was on the small side, so it might have been a muskrat dam. As usual, there were many bald eagles about. One caught a fish less than 100 feet away from my boat. It was neat to watch.

It is nice and quiet now. The wind has died down, and it will be dark soon. It didn't rain, but the air cooled off and that oppressive feeling is gone. And I'm safely in my tent, away from all the mosquitoes.

The food and supplements that make up my diet seem to contain all the nutrients and energy I need. I don't have any deficiencies, and I'm not showing any of the early symptoms of leprosy or anything like that. Nor do I have many aches and pains. I do have some lower back pain, that spreads to my left hip. It might be a nerve pinching; I do spend long hours in the kayak in more or less the same position.

I also manage to maintain a high level of discipline all the time. It is essential in this environment, and for this kind of undertaking. I haven't lost any gear so far, I keep everything organized and I continue to take good care of my hygiene and health. And if you're not mentally disciplined, you can end up doing something stupid on the water. It also shows in my writing - I write every day, and have not fallen behind in my notes and journal entries.

May 21 - Wildcat Camp to Lock # 9

I did almost 40 miles today, but I'm not proud of my achievement. I was out far too long and too late on the big lake above Lock # 9, dodging barges in the dark and trying to find a spot to camp.
I didn't use my map to plan ahead for a camp site, and I got carried away when I finally got out of the wind and the going started to get easier. The river turned more to the south, and I was able to stay out of the wind below the high bluffs on my right. That was the first time in more than a week that I was not struggling against strong headwinds, and I got a little ahead of myself.

I ended up crossing the last 7 miles of an 11 mile long lake in the dark. There was nowhere to camp on the lake. The few islands that showed on my map were just swamps with trees growing out of them. The first - and only - place I could find to spend the night was next to a gravel boat ramp below the railroad track, on the southeast shore of the lake. It was almost 10:30 pm. I had been on the water for over 12 hours, with only one ten minute break around 3 pm.

It was my worst campsite to date, with trains thundering past less than 100 feet from my head, but it was a heck of a lot better than being stuck on a lake for the night. I slept surprisingly well - I was very, very tired. I didn't have the energy left to pitch the tent.

The day started out well. I left Wildcat Landing around 9:30, after saying goodbye to John and Audrey. Breakfast again! There was no wind to speak of, and I crossed the lake above Genoa power station without any difficulty, my easiest lake crossing so far. At some point I crossed the state line from Minnesota into Iowa.

Then things changed. From the moment I exited Lock # 8, I had a 15 mph wind in my face again. I am beginning to feel punch drunk from being pounded by the wind all the time. There were a few pleasant stretches where the river turned more to the east or southeast, making it possible to get out of the wind for a while, but overall the going was slow. I managed less than 3 mph most of the time.

I saw more barges today, 6 in total, still not as many as I had expected. So far I've been able to stay well away from them. Mississippi barges are something to behold. A single tow boat can push (yes push, not pull) up to 15 barges at a time. A 15 barge tow looks like an apartment building coming towards you on the river. The tow boats are powered by mega horsepower marine diesels of all vintages. Some are propelled by modern diesel-electric engines - the kind that powers railway locomotives. A few still use World War II vintage, exposed piston, Fairfield diesels.

I passed by Lansing, IA late afternoon. It is an attractive town, perched below the bluffs along a lazy curve in the river, with a number of restored historical downtown buildings and houses along the riverfront and above the railroad track.

I saw a whitetail buck on the bank a few miles past Lansing. It was less than 20 yards away, and when it saw me it only moved a few feet higher onto the railroad track, stopped and looked at me over its shoulder, showing no concern about my presence. The raccoon I saw earlier in the day had a very shaggy, mangy looking coat (old, sick, or just having a bad hair day?) I saw several bald eagles below Genoa power station.

If you are going to drive a big RV, you may as well go all the way. Near Lansing, I saw the ultimate home-away-from-home, in-your-face-global-warming rig. It was built on an extended five ton truck chassis, complete with a bright yellow Hummer in tow for a runabout vehicle. Only in America.

The main navigation channel is marked by buoys. The channel always has at least nine feet of water, which makes it possible for the barges and recreational craft to safely travel up and down the river most of the year, except where and when the river freezes. I stay out of the channel; that's where you go if want to get run over by a tow boat pushing 15 barges. My kayak doesn't need nine feet of water; it doesn't even need nine inches, about three will do. However, I do stay close enough to keep the buoys in sight. That's how I know I'm on course. There are two rows of buoys: if you are travelling downstream, like I am, the green ones mark the starboard (right) side of the channel; the red ones mark the port (left) side. The first time I saw the green buoys, I had to wonder if that really was such a good color choice. After all, the river is green, the trees lining the banks are green, and green doesn't exactly stand out in the best of conditions. Yet it works surprisingly well. The green buoys are as visible as the red ones, and can be seen from far away.

The water level in Lock # 8 dropped very quickly, causing the none too comfortable sensation that the kayak was sinking under my bottom. It was like a very slow roller coaster ride.