III
Bad start, The big river, The Missouri joins, The canal, St. Louis from the river, Hoppies, Kimmswick, Missouri, More nice people, The wing dams or weir dams, New friends, The Kaskaskia River lock, Kidd’s Fuel Dock in Cape Girardeau, Anchorage, The Ohio – farewell to the Mississippi, Another anchorage with friends, The Cumberland, Nighttime at the Barkley Lock, Rescued, Reunion with friends, meeting more friends, Johnny Dred arrives and Sharon leaves.
We left Grafton Harbor early on Monday. The buoys at the juncture of the Illinois and Mississippi are a bit confusing to a novice river traveler. I ran aground. As I returned to the dock to get local knowledge, I watched a tow coming off the Mississippi and noted how he got there. I had been out of the channel clearly. The boy at the fuel dock confirmed the proper path and we were finally off and onto the Mississippi.
The river was big and was noticeably running faster than the Illinois, but it was not that intimidating. We passed Alton and some of our old haunts – the Alton Belle. It wasn’t long before we were directed off the main river and into a canal. We had passed over the canal many times on our trips to St. Louis. The canal has two locks; the last two locks on the Mississippi. Just above the entrance to the canal, the Missouri enters the Mississippi. The books advised of turbulence and we were not disappointed. The river suddenly began to churn and twist into whirlpools and pull my little craft this way and that. It was fortunately short lived as we veered off a curve in the big river into the canal.
The canal was mostly uneventful and with little scenery of note. It rejoins the river just north of St. Louis. It churned and rippled and swirled as we entered. The barge traffic in St. Louis contributed to the turmoil in the water. Within minutes we were passing the city and its renowned shining arch. As I fought the water in our little boat – pushing the tiller away then pulling it back – to keep us going straight down the channel of the river, Sharon snapped pictures of her old home and its landmarks. The view of the city from the water was magnificent even though the water challenged our vessel.
As we left the city’s waterfront, the water calmed slightly and I became more used to navigating in it. Our next stop was the legendary Hoppies. Carried by the swift current, we arrived an hour or so earlier than we had expected. There were several boats tied to a rough looking long dock on the right riverbank. People were on the dock and saw that we were coming to tie off. It was impossible to approach the dock from the north, I had to go past and turn into the swift current to be able to bring the boat alongside within range of waiting hands. Lines were tossed and, in spite of the rushing gurgling current, we docked. The several houseboats on the bank-side of the dock appeared to be permanent residents. The blue hulled Mainship Trawler named Lucky Dogz seemed to be a transient boater like ourselves.
Hoppie’s wife was one of our dock hands and greeted us warmly. A large woman with a handful of teeth scattered across her smile, she and her daughter invited us to sit on the old couches under the roof covering the part of the dock were the gas pumps and soda machine were. I asked her about the whirlpools and she said she would tell me all about them and that we hadn’t seen the worst of them yet. She said she would give us the information on the river we were told we would get from Hoppies. We bought sodas and I retrieved my river charts from the boat.
She started with the wing dams or weir dams as she called them. They are underwater dams built by the Army Corps of Engineers out of rock to prevent sediment from accumulating on the curves in the river. They are built 45 degrees to the channel flow. The result is that they swirl the water into whirlpools and literally drill holes – seventy to one hundred feet deep. The whirlpools have reputedly taken pleasure boats and turned them three or four times before the skippers could get them through the whirlpool. We also heard stories about tows being torn apart by the whirlpools and barges sent in all directions. Hoppie’s wife showed me two places where they are particularly strong. I marked them. She said to call ahead to make sure there were no tows in the curves before I entered. “You will have enough trouble; you don’t want to be in there with a tow.” I was made duly apprehensive. “Follow the red Buoy line,” she admonished, “the effect is less on the shore side.”
Finally she showed me several good anchorages along the way. The Kaskaskia River Lock wall, the Little River Diversion Channel south of Cape Girardeau, the I-57 bridge seven miles north of the Ohio River juncture and some possibilities in Paducah, Kentucky and at the entrance to the Cumberland River off the Ohio. She gave us a synopsis of what to expect south from the Ohio all the way to Mobile Bay, where her information stopped. We first heard of Bobby’s Fish Camp in Alabama, the last place to get fuel before Mobile.
We filled our six gallon gas tank and the two six gallon Gerry cans I already had onboard. We purchased two five gallon Gerry cans from Hoppie and filled those. We could make it all the way to Kentucky Lake with this much fuel if necessary. I would try to refuel in Cape Girardeau. Meanwhile, Hoppies had a bathroom but no shower. We would make do. Evening was rapidly falling; we made dinner and slept.
We needed supplies. In the morning we trekked up the steep boat ramp and across Hoppies yard overlooking the river and headed down the drive toward town. We passed a horse ranch for troubled youth from St. Louis and crossed the railroad track. The driver of a pick-up truck gave us the direction to town and after walking a half mile we were in the quaint little town of Kimmswick. We were looking for the grocery and the breakfast place that Hoppies wife told us about. We came to the post office, a well preserved artifact of post offices past with brass post office boxes and barred transaction windows. Inside there were several women talking to the postal clerk. They recognized us as strangers and offered help. We told them we were off the river and looking for a grocery and the restaurant. After several hand gestured directions, one of the women offered to take us to the restaurant which was near her shop. Kimmswick is a tourist town thirty minutes from St. Louis. The woman told us that the grocery was in the next town another mile down the road. We offered that we were on foot. She told us her daughter worked the information booth and it didn’t open for another half hour or so and she could take us to the store. Indeed she did. She, like everyone we have ever met, had her own story; college graduate working overseas, married, lived in the United Kingdom (England) now returned home half way between separation and divorce. We bought the things we needed, including an extra ice chest which I would use to store extra ice, and returned to the woman’s shop. She let us use her refrigerator for our cold thinks while we went across the street to the breakfast place.
After eating a nice breakfast and purchasing a little something from the kind woman, we returned to the boat to prepare for a late departure. As I packed the ice chest with new ice and the groceries, I asked Sharon where the chicken was. She said she had brought it. It wasn’t there. Sharon trudged back up the hill and into town while I finalized preparations to leave.
The trawler Lucky Dogz was preparing to leave. I assisted. Little did I know that I would see this trawler again and again along our trip. Sharon finally returned. She had a story to tell. Returning to the woman’s store she learned that the chicken was not left in the refrigerator. The woman called the store. They acknowledged that they had the chicken and had called Hoppies. With no other means of getting to the store and the woman’s daughter now at work, the woman gave Sharon her car keys and told her to drive back the store to get the chicken. Again I was amazed at the kindness of the people we met.
It was a bit of a trick reentering the swift Mississippi current, but once off we again proceeded south. In Grafton I had received an e-mail from a prospective employer. They wanted a telephone interview. I told them I was on a river trip, sure that they would not fully understand all that such a trip entailed, and we set a date for the interview. I was fairly certain that the sporadic celphone service I had experienced would not exist in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. I projected our travel out a few days to conduct the call on our arrival in Cape Girardeau.
Within a few hours we began entering a series of curves in the river. One was the first of the dreaded locations that Hoppie’s wife had warned about. I radioed ahead. Receiving no response, I kept moving into the curve. I could see the water begin to churn. I moved to port to follow the red buoys as Hoppie’s wife had advised. It did not take long before the big whirlpools began to pull my little ship. I held the tiller firmly and pulled hard. She maintained course. On the far side of the giant eddy the boat pulled in the opposite direction, I now pushed hard to keep her from turning. The water churned and rolled and at times looked like we were in rapids. We repeated the procedure several more times through several more of these phenomenal vortexes before we were finally in less turbulent waters. Through it all we managed not to get spun around.
We were making better time on the Mississippi than on the Illinois and fifty miles ticked off quickly. At a reasonable time in the early evening, in spite of our late departure, we were at the mouth of the Kaskaskia River mouth. Just up the river less than a quarter mile was the lock and dam. I radioed the lock master from the Mississippi to confirm that he would allow us to tie off for the night. As we approached the lock to maneuver to the wall, we saw the blued hulled trawler Lucky Dogz already tied there. Ben returned my favor from the morning and helped us tie off. We met both Ben and his wife Jean from Fort Myers, Florida at this stop. They had made the great circle Loop and were on the final leg back to Florida. They had spent five months working their way up the East Coast and across New York and Ontario, Canada through the intra-coastal waterway, canals and finally through the Great Lakes and down the Illinois as I had come.
Just as Hoppie’s wife had said, the Kaskaskia was a fine place to stop, well off the Mississippi on a much smaller less traveled river. It was quiet and we enjoyed a nice dinner and sound sleep. Next morning we were off. Cape Girardeau would be our next stop. By early afternoon we approached the historic river town. I compared the charts that had not been updated for several years to what existed on the shore. The dock Hoppie told us about was not there. As we passed thinking we missed it we spotted the small fifty foot Kidd’s Fuel Dock. Ben, Jean and the blue trawler Lucky Dogz were tied there fueling. They could easily hold the minimum fifty gallons. With the swift current, I felt it was too risky to try to dock at the short dock already occupied by the thirty-seven foot Luck Dogz. I knew that we were past the landing where the dock was supposed to be. We headed back upstream to the landing. It was clear that the dock had been removed. After trying to hail some young men on jet skis to get more information and otherwise circling in front of the landing we decided to go to Kidd’s. When we got back Lucky Dogz had already left. No one was there. We tied off. There was a number on the sign. I called on my mobile phone and got the man who had just fueled Lucky Dogz. He said that he could not return for ten or so gallons of fuel. I told him we were taking on water and needed to stay there to address that problem. I exaggerated our small water issue. He agreed to let us stay there.
We surveyed the situation. The dock was connected to a walkway that ran across the base of a fifteen foot flood wall. The ramp from the dock to the walkway was another twenty feet steeply uphill. To prevent unwanted visitors there was an iron barred gate with side wings part way up the metal grid ramp. My only choice to refuel here was to climb over the gate with my Gerry jugs. One of the six gallon jugs was empty the other nearly so. The others were full. I climbed over the gate and had Sharon attach a rope to the jugs. So I could pull them over. Then I walked to the walkway and down to an opening in the floodwall that entered into the town. I walked another five or so blocks to the gas station. At the gas station I debated purchasing at least one bag of ice to replenish our rapidly diminishing supply. It was clearly out of the question. It would be too much to carry. After filling the jugs, now weighing nearly fifty pounds each, I headed back to the boat. When I was over half way back, a young man stopped in his beat up old car and asked if I needed a ride. I accepted. I put the jugs in the back seat and climbed in the front. The glove box door lay open providing a makeshift table for the man’s ashtray. Dust was everywhere and it reeked of cigarette smoke. I appreciated the ride nonetheless. He said, “If I was carrying those jugs I would want somebody to give me a ride.” I couldn’t help but reflect on all the much newer vehicles that had simply passed me by. I supposed that he was more likely than they to have been in my position before. To be sure kindness is classless.
My trip was not over after leaving the car. I lugged the jugs back down the walk way and ramp to the gate. Again using the rope, and standing half way up the gate I passed the jugs over and lowered them until Sharon could catch them. Most importantly, we had topped off our fuel. This was not a place to stay the night. We left for the anchorage just south of the city that Hoppie’s wife had told us about. It was in the Diversion River off the main channel of the Mississippi. As we carefully entered we saw Lucky Dogz anchored at the base of the railroad bridge a quarter mile up the small river. We stopped a hundred yards off the Mississippi still in fifteen feet of water. Moving to the north bank we dropped our hooks. Checking, I had celphone coverage. As night fell we could hear the traffic on I-55 some distance away. It was otherwise a serene location.
In the morning we sponge bathed and ate breakfast. I waited for my call. The interview took about an hour. It seemed a bit strange to be in a quiet anchorage off the Mississippi River surrounded by nature and talking to a group of people in Washington DC no doubt stressed as they sat around a table. Lucky Dogz passed mid-interview. I waved as they headed back onto the big river. We followed an hour later. The interview had gone well, the woman in charge had indicated that she may want to talk to me further in Washington D.C. I explained my situation to her, that I was traveling the rivers and was often in remote areas, and that I might not be in phone or e-mail contact for a few days. We agreed that I would contact her for details when I got to Green Turtle Bay in Barkley Lake in Kentucky.
By two in the afternoon we were at the I-57 bridge. It did not look like a very appealing anchorage. We would be in the Mississippi in a spot near the bridge where some jetties partially blocked the swift current. The spot was only seven miles from where the Ohio emptied into the Mississippi. I was looking forward to leaving Old Man River behind. The fast running water, gurgling and rippling as it rolled over itself in a rush to reach the Big Easy and the Gulf. The tension as we sliced through the swirling pools that threatened to capture us in their centrifugal grasp. All of it I was anxious to leave behind; food for future stories; a tick on my list of life. We decided that we would continue to the Ohio.
As we entered into the broad mouth of the Ohio, I breathed a sigh of relief. The barge traffic in and around Cairo, Illinois was heavy and Sharon didn’t like it. We were going up stream, against the current, but it only slowed us by two knots. I was just glad to be off the Mississippi. It was mid afternoon and there was no place to stop until possibly Paducah, Kentucky, if Hoppy’s wife was accurate. It would be well after dark in the best case when we would reach there. We would need to find something in between.
It wasn’t long before we left the bustling river traffic of Cairo and were in more remote areas again. There were still many barges plying the waters. Soon the large Olmsted Lock construction site came into view. This new lock and dam would replace locks 52 and 53 which we would soon transit. Radio traffic indicated that Lock 53 was down for repairs and barges were backed up. Fortunately when we finally arrived, the smaller of the two chambers at the lock was open. Barges were beached against the bank for several miles downstream of the lock. We radioed and were told we could lock through the smaller chamber. There was a relatively short wait. We talked with some captains about possible anchorages. Dusk would find us quickly after we exited the lock. One possible anchorage we were told about was an hour or so upstream above the lock. We could make it by dark. As we proceeded upstream from the lock, about two miles, we noticed the blue hulled trawler Lucky Dogz anchored between the narrow channel and the river bank. We decided that two anchored vessels were more visible than one and pulled a hundred yards behind our friends. Dropping both bow and stern anchors we settled in for the evening.
We were three days from Hoppy’s where we last purchased ice. We were out. The main ice chest was still cold with a few stray cubes in the still cold water, but all drinks were now warm. We made dinner. While dinner cooked the neighbors were taking their dog for a walk on the beach. They stopped by in their dinghy and we chatted a bit. I offered a warm beer; Ben said he had plenty of his own warm beer, thanks. They were out of ice as well. Ben and Jean had the luxury of refrigeration for their food, however. We learned that Lucky Dogz had experienced engine problems and was running on only one of her twin diesels.
For me it was a restless night. Every time a barge went by I was up checking the anchors. When the wind shifted the boat, I checked the anchors. I had only intermittent sleep. The anchors held like glue and we awoke in the same place we had been the evening before.
After a breakfast of cereal, and coffee we weighed anchor and began the long day’s journey that would end in Barkley Lake. We were at lock 52 within a short time. Lucky Dogz, who had left before us, and one other boat were waiting to lock through. We had arrived in near perfect time. Within ten minutes we were locking through and were off upstream to the Cumberland River. The Tennessee River enters the Ohio at Paducah. We were advised that the Cumberland route, several miles up the Ohio from Paducah would be a better fit for pleasure craft. The Tennessee becomes Kentucky Lake at the damn some thirty miles upstream. Barkley Lake and Kentucky Lake are a mere mile apart at the dams. We passed Paducah and Metropolis Illinois. The Ohio finally became a bit more serene. We watched as Lucky Dogz, making about a knot more speed than us, gradually faded into the distance.
Soon we were at the juncture of the Cumberland River. We were still making good time and could make Green Turtle Bay Marina by evening. The Cumberland was a much smaller river. We were still moving up stream but the river ran slowly and we could make six knots. The Cumberland was quiet with forest on the banks, few tows and few towns. Within a few hours we were at the base of the Barkley Lock and Dam. We radioed the lock master. We were advised that a tow was locking down and one was waiting to lock down. We faced a possible wait of several hours. We had an hour or so before dusk. Since the marina was a very short distance from the lock, I was not overly concerned about traveling in darkness.
The lock master came back and advised us that if we slipped quickly into the lock as soon as the tow cleared it, we could lock up before the next tug entered to lock down. It seemed forever before the tow cleared the lock. It was dark and overcast. There was no moon, only lights from the lock. As we entered the lock it began to sprinkle. This was one of the larger locks we had transited; we would raise up fifty-seven feet to Barkley Lake behind the dam. The sprinkle turned into a full rain by the time the large doors opened. At the outside of the chamber, waiting to enter was the tow we were told about. The captain, for reasons unknown to me, shown his spot light directly into my face. With rain and the blinding light I could not see anything at all. From my charts, I knew that directly to my right there was a bay. I maneuvered to starboard as I left the lock to escape the blinding light and get to a point where I could better determine where I was in relation to the marina. The shoreline was as black as the rest of the night. The rain became a downpour. I slowed but still hit something beneath me. I moved further into the bay. There were some boats anchored. I tried without success to identify landforms that I could find on my wet chart.
After several agonizing minutes, maybe ten or fifteen, the rain finally stopped. The night was still dark black. Lights were visible, but the shoreline features were still obscured in the darkness. I worked my way out of the bay following the shoreline as best I could, traveling at a very slow rate in an attempt to find the marina. We were tired, now wet, we hadn’t showered since we left Grafton Illinois six days earlier we were out of ice and all we wanted was to tie to a secure dock in the five anchor marina. I was using my spot light to follow the shoreline. Soon we came on a boat coming in our direction. I shined my spot on it. It shined back. I kept this up until they realized that I was trying to get their attention. They slowed. As we neared within hailing distance, I called for help. They pulled alongside. I told them I was looking for the Green Turtle Bay Marina. They were staying at the marina and agreed to lead us to it. We followed back into the bay I had come out of minutes earlier. We went deep in to the back of the bay and turned to port and entered a cove where there were many floating docks. They were very shabby looking; not what we expected from a marina rated as a five anchor facility; the equivalent of a five star hotel, but it was a dock and we tied to it. We walked to the facilities looking for an open restroom. It was ten at night now.
The young people who had led us to the marina were at the top of the bank near some dry storage racks. They asked if we were ok. Soon a security guard came by in a truck. He showed us where we could shower. After we showed he returned to take us back to our boat. On the trip back he showed us the rest of the marina. We had actually docked in an area that was used by people who trailered boats to the facility and stayed in condominiums. The part of the marina where we should have docked was in fact a very nice facility. We returned to the boat for a good sleep.
Next morning I moved the boat to the proper marina. Ben from Salty Dogz was walking his dog. We greeted each other. They were waiting for a factory representative for their engine problems as well as some other less serious problems. They would be there several days. It was a beautiful setting and a great facility. We were tired from several long days traveling on the boat with no showers and, at the end, no ice. We would rest here for several days and wait for Johnny Dred to come. During the telephone interview back in Cape Girardeau, the woman had said that she wanted me to come to Washington for a live interview. This was the first time since we left Grafton, Illinois that we had internet. I had a lot of e-mail to catch up on and I needed to make arrangements for a trip to Washington. After a bit of checking and calling back and forth we decided that Sharon would leave for Key West as soon as Johnny arrived. Johnny and I would continue on to a place called Aqua Yacht Harbor in Iuka, Mississippi where Sharon would meet us and we would drive to Washington D.C. for the interview. Johnny would watch the boat. The whole trip would take us three days. Then Johnny and I would proceed on to Mobile Bay and finally, Florida. I e-mailed back to Chicago to have my backordered charts delivered to Aqua Yacht Harbor. I also purchased charts for Florida.
I used the time at Green Turtle Bay to make a few small repairs on the boat, charge my battery and to discuss my water problem with the mechanic there. A sailboater himself, he convinced me that, weighing the severity of the leak against the cost of hauling the boat and the likelihood of actually locating the source, it was best to let it be.
We visited the little town dominated by tourist shops and restaurants. We made friends among the other boaters who, like us, were traveling through at varying paces. This was a floating vagabond community of retirees, adventurers and drifters. Some, here most, very wealthy; but all with that wandering spirit that moves people from where they are to somewhere they have never been and from there on to yet another place. We certainly qualified, having spent the last four or five years wandering the earth looking for nothing in particular, other than another place we had not yet seen, to meet people we had never before known. Wanderlust is a drug so addictive that it condemns those who have partaken too much to a life of searching and seeking and constantly looking, at the next mountain wondering what is on the other side; at the next ocean yearning to cross it, at the next river waiting, as we were, to travel its course. Whenever the car door closes, or the plane begins its taxi down the runway, or when the lines are cast off and the boat moves away from the dock, there is a rush of adrenaline and feeling of exhilaration that cannot be equaled. God I love it.
Until Next Connection,
Dan
