Currently the only storyteller of my long paddle down the Missouri River on this internet pocket is my kayak [brand Perception, model Corona, sunshine yellow/firecracker color, purchased off of craigslist from a fella named Rob in Montana a day before hitting the river] and i think it did pretty okay. When i try to storytell about those months a thick morass of grumpy Edward Abbey-esque feelings blows in from the past, gets all up in the way. The kayak had little interest in such topics, keeping mostly to its relationship with a landlubber and the journey of the summer. I’ll do my best to leave my crunchy emotions on the sidelines for these days: October 10th-12th, 2020.
top right – landing in the city
bottom right – home, 10/11/20
Welcome to the Missouri River, ~miles 617 thru 602. I kayaked through these miles in the company of Jon and his beautiful craft, the Selkie Boy, on a warm autumn day. Three days earlier saw me leave the final wild-flowing stretch and enter the channelized lower Missouri, one day after that i caught up with Jon on the shores of Decatur. Morale was high, as were our speeds on this shipping drainage ditch.
O Missouri, big designer river of this side of this side of the Mississippi [not to be confused with the big designer river of that side of this side of the Mississippi, the Colorado River is that a monkey wrench in my hand] It has been a complete makeover for, despite intentions, the few freeflowing natural river portions live with human fingerprints encircling, the oils from meddling hands floating down from engineering marvel to the pure ‘wild and scenic river’ sections. These, the final 750 miles of river before the confluence outside of St. Louis, got their new look based off of long no-named highways. Utility first, utility second too. Also third through sixth if the laundry list of original goals are to be believed. Fit for shipping barge, the long-haul truckers of this locality. Signs signs signs, got a mile marker here, channel crosses to there, fast lane through these, right downstream shore rectangle green, left downstream shore triangle red. Sweeping turns, always turning these days like old rivers do. The hills it once chiseled with its might now just ghosts in the distance, for it is now quarantined into a prison ditch, only staging destructive escapes to rampage when conditions are perfect. Usually is it cursed here, looking up at the embankments locking it off from its great floodplain, wet with civilization these days instead of mud. Great dredging barges deepen the ditch and wing dike dams enforce the twists and turns of the walls. The Missouri keeps mementos of its successful prison breaks: big human made things, toppled and tucked in thickets too bothersome to move without wild flood water. ok that’s enough let’s continue past the Where
Jon arranged a meetup with a friend in Omaha on the 10th. We awoke that morning with about twenty easy river miles to our stop in the city. Our camp was pristine, a cove of dunes surrounded by forest. In a pattern that would continue for our entire time together, the neighborhood beavers slapped their tails on the water in the soft moonlight disturbing Jon’s sleep and i hadn’t heard them a single time lol
A dead railway bridge served as our welcoming gate to the big city after our peaceful commute. As we passed beneath a pedestrian bridge downtown i could hear families above chatting about long distance journeys and i gave them a wave. I often hear such talk when i’m out and about and i usually feel awkward no matter how i choose to respond to such a stimulus. We parked, met up with his friend, and got a car ride around the city to a solid burger joint. There i was greeted by current year 2020 and the era where physical menus are o-u-t out. I had to borrow one of their robots as i had left my robot behind and i’m not fluent in qr code. current year, man,
The afternoon waned and we set off from the city to find our place to hide for the 11th. The forecast called for howling winds from the south for the day, headwinds in our primary travel direction for the next 250 miles. Far too windy for me and the Corona to want to contend with [i bet the great Selkie Boy could’ve held its own in that tiring fight] so we searched for a decent home with proper windblocks. The river turned to the east and our eyes settled on the righthand [green rectangle] shoreline. Our search was interrupted, wonderfully, by a flotilla of weekenders complete with lite beer on a downstream float. We partied up and chatted for a while as the river bent to the south and continued to the west. Our lefthand shore [red triangle, there will be a test] now presented a healthy sampling of sheltered real estate for us to peruse.
Current year 2020 was a loww water year for the muddy dragon. A curse: swaths of silt and loam on lakeside were revealed and navigable channels were fewer, easier to bottom out on [shoutouts to the mess of channels around the Niobrara River confluence that i lost a couple hours on because i picked the wrong path and had to return upstream.] A blessing here in the ditch, for wing dike dams are efficient at harvesting sand. Low water levels meant that nearly every one of these dams was showing off its hoard of river droppings. Some hoards towering, some broad, others muddy, but here, this sandbar was perfect. Blank fields lay to the south, a fine runway for the winds to reach a gentle shield of tree and bush. Beyond that, the prison wall riverbank leading to our wide, flat, sandy beach. We parted ways with the weekenders and set up shop on the sandbar.
The next day was windy as prophecised. Behind our shelter we idled the day away peacefully. A dumping ground of old National Geographic magazines sat beneath a tree nearby that made for fun reading. One had an article about the St Louis Arch being built that felt fitting for the journey. A cheap kite was buried in the sand, perfect for the day. Jon patched its wounds and gave it one more dance with the wind. I sang, i read, i napped, good times.
Evening creeped in with clouds in tow. Pangs of lightning popcorned in the dark miasma that advanced toward us – this time from north. A check in with the weather seers told us of its caliber – hours of angry windy rains would live with us through the night, and we were to be gazing right down the barrel instead of ducked behind cover. Storm lines were staked and tightened around our tents. We steeled ourselves as we watched the Thunderbird advance before hunkering down and bracing for the arrival.
boyo did it arrive. A wall struck my tent and flattened it instantly. I stepped outside to try to give remedy and was aggressively sandblasted as i squinted and refit my storm lines with little effect. I was reduced to supporting the inner walls of my tent with my body as i was destroyed by coarse wet sands ripping around everywhere. Restless rough hours passed, i did my best to never check the time as i was trapped in that cocoon, sitting half upright while half asleep. It must’ve been early AM hours when the winds settled and i could as well. I emerged the following day with a few new irritating scratches on my glasses, and sand sand everywhere.
That day, the 12th, was lovely. An easy 40 miles sat between us and our destination, Nebraska City. Weird Al dropped a song with Portugal the Man. A park was only a couple miles downstream: a toilet for the morning. The Platte River joined the party, giving strength to the Missouri. A friend texted me about a cool half-sized guitar that i now own. That evening we pulled into our next river city and met up with a river angel family who put us up at their house. They had a urinal in their big fancy garage. Their laundry machines were in the kitchen, so they had a glass jar on the counter filled with tide pods.
in the photos presented [and along every part of the muddy] the same three word phrase repeated with noun following – Lewis and Clark Landing, Lewis and Clark National Historic Trail, Lewis and Clark Campsite, Lewis and Clark Cathole, Lewis and Clark Spot For Standing Together and Pointing. ooh i’ma wild outtt the land erasure the wanton destruction ooohh the tethering of the riparian landss of delicate beautiful creation stomped out by progress utility prevention the cross-counter punch of ruin taps forehead deposits riprap pours concrete evicts life erases hill no stop no no don’t hold me back i’m still warming up
man i dunno 