There’s a happy update to the story of the stolen Prijon kayak and Motobecane bike!
See the latest report in The Hawk Eye “River Journey Takes Positive Turn as Residents Reach Out”
But for the kindness of strangers.
And the journey continues!
Adventures on the Mississippi
There’s a happy update to the story of the stolen Prijon kayak and Motobecane bike!
See the latest report in The Hawk Eye “River Journey Takes Positive Turn as Residents Reach Out”
But for the kindness of strangers.
And the journey continues!
Oh no —- the trusty Prijon kayak and the Motobecane are gone!! Eve reports that BOTH are missing, since yesterday. They disappeared near Ft Madison, Iowa. The incident is being covered by local press and bloggers, and police are investigating, in the hope that both will turn up and be found soon. You can see Eve’s full account in her blog. Here’s an excerpt:
Sept 29- “When we went out to Green Bay landing this morning, the kayak was gone. Simply gone, no trace. The last time I saw it was Sunday around noon, when I was about to paddle down to Ortho landing where the bike was locked up. The wind was too strong, so I decided not to paddle, and I thought it was a bad idea to try to put the kayak back up on the car, partially because I was alone, partially because I needed to drive up to the Quad Cities to pick up Rafaela at the airport Monday and the wind was strong enough that highway driving with the kayak seemed dangerous. I had already left the kayak there overnight with no trouble, so I thought it would be okay.
I was wrong, obviously. Totally wrong.
We called the Lee County sheriff and he came out and took a report. I talked to Mike, a local farmer, whose friend owns some of the hunting camps just upriver and they both promised to ask around.
But there’s more.
We drive down to the Ortho landing ten miles downriver, where I had parked and locked my bike with a big NYC-type chain. And, I bet you can guess, the bike was gone, too. Simply gone, no trace. Not even the presumably broken lock. There was a woman there who comes out every day on her lunch hour who had seen it yesterday, which means the bike was stolen between 1 pm Monday and noon Tuesday.”
Send Eve some good karma and connect her to any information that could be helpful. The journey continues!
The Empire Builder train runs from Seattle and Portland, clear through to my immediate destination, Chicago, and it stops at.. Winona! I knew there’d be a way to get from wherever I ended up on the Mississippi to Chicago, but this is undreamed of. So I made a reservation last night,
had a last look at the trees from our tent this morning, packed up my things and said goodbye to Eve and Mac. Thank you both, for coaching me and sharing with me such a fabulous experience! Back to the world of cities and schedules..and showers.
I’m looking forward to being with my family in Chicago for a few days, before heading back to NY. And to getting there by train. This will make it easier to say goodbye to the River Project. I wait for the train in the warm September sun, outside the lovely old train station.
The train is running late, so I talk with a fellow traveler from Winona. He’s from Beijing, of all places, which he pronounces “Peijing”. He’s young, speaks very little English, so I wonder what brings him to Winona, and where he’s going in America. He’s headed to Chicago, where he’ll work as a cook. I’d love to know more, but my Mandarin is even less than his English. The Amish families, having left their horse-drawn buggies, are also waiting for The Empire Builder. And several other, more mainstream looking folks. We’re a motley crew, waiting at the Winona station. When the train arrives, yet more Amish families descend at Winona. I go onboard, glad to be travelling by rail instead of by bus. There’s a dining car! When it opens, I’m shown to a seat opposite a couple and I offer to be Cary Grant to their Eve Marie Saint. They oblige. They’ve come all the way from Seattle; are headed back home, to Vermont. They recommend the trip, especially Glacier National Park, retracing steps made by Lewis & Clark. I’m glad for lunch.
We travel along the Mississippi for a long time. Time for last looks, time to think over this adventure. What sweat and muscle could do so slowly, the rail powers by at full tilt.
Hardly even time to get a decent photo as we whizz by! I feel I’ve emerged from another time, before the Iron Horse. Somewhere down there, Mac is paddling.
We cross over to Wisconsin at LaCrosse. More rivers, wooded hills, gorgeous rolling country. I talk with a fellow traveller, who’s based in a tiny Wisconsin town. She’s a biologist from San Diego. What brings her to that tiny Wisconsin town? She works for the International Crane Foundation, in collaboration with Operation Migration. She tracks cranes in their migrations to Florida. I’m thrilled; I’ve just read about this amazing bid to bring these whooping cranes back from near extinction. Unbelieveable work! Jess is also headed to Chicago, on a break from the world of cranes. After a while, I wake from a nap in the sun. I’ve missed Madison and I really wanted to see it. I’m starting to realize that I’m tired!
We roll into Chicago Union Station, an hour late. Rush hour for the Mississippi kayaker! I battle up the stairs, lugging my bags, against the stream of workers eager to get to their homes on this beautiful evening.
I love arriving in Chicago by rail, just as I did so long ago, a little kid on the Super Chief, returning from her first big trip, to California.
Over to the Metra station; with any luck I can still join my mother for dinner at her residence in Evanston. I’m looking forward to dinner!
Awoke to a very misty Krugel Camping Ground. Hot tea never tasted so good.
Summer is really over; we’re now in Indian summer, with chilly nights, foggy mornings and bright, sunny afternoons. I finally learned what the screeching creature is, in the middle of the night: it’s heron! I biked down from the campground in the mists
while Mac helped Eve set off in the kayak today. Then Mac and I headed to Winona to scout tonight’s campsite. Thanks to David, musician and local resident, we discover a lovely, secluded camping sauvage on the slough (pron. “sloo”; tributary of the Mississippi). We’re thrilled with our find
, assuming we’re not devoured by mosquitoes tonight. Tomorrow I need to be in form. It’s my last day on this expedition, my last chance to kayak down the Mississippi!
Saturday Eve and I wandered into a fabulous Wabasha independent bookshop devoted to local Minnesota/Mississippi history, The Book Cliffscleverly named after the Book Cliffs that stretch for 200 miles between Colorado and Utah. The owner-manager is Nancy, an anthropologist by training whose heritage is part Ojibwe. In addition to some great books, she introduced us to her gospel music choir, The Travelin’ Shoes. We attended a practice session and were blown away by the quality of the performance and original arrangements. They’ll be performing soon in Menomonee Falls WI at the Lutheran Church; see the link to the left for more about them. Thanks to Nancy, we also visited the turtle migration route
outside of Wabasha and actually saw some migrating turtles!
Wabasha is a great town, named for the lineage of 3 Wabasha Dakota chieftains. A local poster quotes George Featherstonhaugh in 1835, commenting on his meeting with Wapasha II: ”dressed in a red coloured garment, he acted and spoke like a person still conscious of possessing some authority“. But it was disappearing fast, as the whites moved in. “They had no name for Mississippi, only Wamacrhpodah Tanka, ”Great River“.
Sunday we attended a prayer service at Grace Memorial Episcopal Church, celebrating its 150th this year. Admiring the magnificent Tiffany stained glass,
we were amazed when the acolyte read a sermon by a NY friend and former assistant rector of Ascension Church in NY, J. Barrington Bates! Today Sunday Sept 6 an incredible article by Kathryn Shattuck was published in the New York Times Arts section, reporting on Eve’s Mississippi enterprise! Eve, Mac and I later enjoyed a rare restaurant meal, complete with wine and beer, at the Harbor View Cafe in Pepin, WI. 3 stars!
Today’s my first solo kayaking day! We wake again in the fog, a magical look in the woods.
8:30 Mac takes me down to Lake City Landing. It’s even foggier here. But I’ll be running close to shore, and the power boats won’t be out in the fog. So it’s just me and the ducks and a few fishermen on the mighty Mississippi, silent in the fog.
Gray water into gray mist, everywhere I turn.
I glide silently by, in the steady rythm of the paddle. Glad to be somewhat visible, wearing white sleeves and paddling with yellow tips. And so it continues, paddling in a suspended, alternate world.
I’m looking for Maple Spring, the only public landing between Lake City and Wabasha. It’s a place to take a break and assess whether I can make it to Wabasha. At 13 miles it’s the longest run I’ve undertaken. But a mile south of Maple Spring, I realize I’ve glided right past it in the fog, without a clue. So on to Plan B: try my luck at a private landing a mile further down. I see a ramp, this has to be it. A lone fisher on the pier; his tiny dog makes a ruckus as I pull in. I must look dangerous in my puffy life vest and long red kayak. It’s a makeshift camp for RVs, with a pleasant tiny marina for small craft on the other side. I break for water, walnuts and dates and some stretches. The fog has lifted.
I’m pushing on to Wah-ba-sha. Where the Chippewa River flows into the Mississippi on the Wisconsin side, an amazing wildlife refuge begins, continuing 260 miles to Rock Island, IL. Something makes me look up, beyond my baseball cap beak, to see my first bald eagle. And then two more. They love this spot, that never freezes over, rich in fish in all seasons. On the Minnesota side, long Drury Island separates the River from shallow tributaries. They could be difficult or impossible for a kayak to pass through, but curiosity wins the day, and I turn off the River onto the right side of Drury Island, hoping to see more wildlife in this secluded area where no boats pass. And then the water turns so shallow I’m hitting bottom and the watery weeds bring me to a dead stop.
So I backtrack back into the River. The Wabasha Bridge is now in sight, so I pull close to a quiet sandy spot on the shore to text Mac that I’m arriving soon. Then it occurs to me that this is not a good plan if power boat waves break onto the island. No sooner said than done, a boat passes and waves come rolling over the boat, soaking through the kayak’s skirt. Quick dry shorts are definitely the way to go. Wabasha was a port of call for the Delta Queen and Mississippi Queen before they ceased service (last year?). It’s a fine old town, surprisingly sophisticated.
I meet Eve and Mac; we wander over to the Flour Mill Pizzeria, with WiFi and beautiful river terrace and enjoy our first dinner “out” since my arrival. The adjoining chocolate shop has gourmet French chocolates; a few doors down, collector’s vintage kimonos, just the thing for river expeditions. Then high up to the new Krugel camp sight. I bed down for the first time in the hammock. Once I get the *@!*#? liner to lay straight instead of diagonally, I relish the view of the moonlit treetops, deep in the woods. Shades of the Dakota glide by.
We wake to an enveloping mist,
deep in the fragrant woods of Frontenac State Park. Today Eve will kayak, Mac will bike. I’m in the service car, ready to aid and abet. Time to jot down notes and think over all I’ve seen and done. Warm September sun, cool air, slight breeze at our camp picnic table. Nancy and Mike, fellow campers who took our photo last night, stop by to say hello and wish us good travels. They’re from a suburb of Minneapolis and are regulars at these fabulous camp sights. They tell me of a rafter they met once on the Mississippi not far from here. He’d built himself a raft of logs on oil drums. With a chair and umbrella and a small motor, he was headed to New Orleans. He’d managed to run down a small dam but had damaged the propellor on his motor. So he was looking for a repair shop and a dog to keep him company. Dear Rafter, if you’re reading this, please tell us how it all turned out.
Today is my turn to bike. Starting from just south of Hastings, on the Ravenna Trail, destination Red Wing. Blue skies, bright sun, cool breeze. The map shows some backroads and trails; will take those whenever I can. First sight out: a flock of wild turkeys, on full display in an open field. But they see me fishing in my bag for something, and are smart enough not to wait around and find out what what I pull out of my sack. So no photo. Onward on the Ravenna Trail, which is really a paved road, beautiful fields and horse farms on rolling hills that my legs are clearly not ready for. Feel the burn! I have to cheat a bit and walk up the last hill, but who’s to know? Turn on to 200th St E over the Vermillion River and on to County 18. This is a straight shot along the railroad, and I wish I’d found a more interesting road. Guesss I’m just the type who doesn’t like the straight and narrow. At least it will be easy; a long flat run. But I didn’t count on the wind. It really kicks up, and keeps up, making every pedal push an act of will. A few glimpses of the Mississippi through the trees, just rolling along, in its own good time, effortlessly. County 18 eventually turns into Rte 61, which I know I don’t want; there’s already too much traffic. Lucky day: Mt. Carmel road on the left, a dusty gravel yellow road, a beautiful sight. Turning on to it, I’m instantly in a different world. Family farms, waves of corn, no one in sight but a distant tractor on its rounds. A turn in the road and I realize it’s midday and I need a break. Miraculously Mt Carmel Cemetary appears around the bend, cool, green and shady.
R&R: water, walnuts and dates never tasted so good. I look at the few tombstones in this lovely silent sanctuary up on a hill, overlooking the fields. The Johnson family plot. Sarah Johnson born 1840 died 1928. 88 years old, just about my mother’s age now. Suddenly I have a real sense of the 80 year olds my mother might have known when she was a child. I think of her generation, born in the 20th century, as very modern. How did she see her grandparent’s generation? Born before the Civil War, in the age of pioneers, that generation settled this land, built these towns. What a revolution they made. Back on the yellow brick road. I turn down Cutler Hill Road, into a steep sylvan glade, tucked away where no one will find it. Then on to Collischan Rd and then what appears to be a dead end. It’s the remains of Cannon Valley Trail, a wonderful old abandoned railway grade, now a path,
through the woods, the Cannon River (transmogrified from Riviere aux Canots!) gliding by in the sun. Trusting in the wisdom of one of the locals, I roll over two old bridges, built long ago and forgotten.
Final leg is the Red Wing bike trail, where I discover many things: the Anderson Artist’s Sanctuary and Sculpture Park, on the former estate of Alexander Anderson, the man who made his fortune on puffed wheat and puffed rice. Then to the site of Ft. Pearson, on a bluff over a bend in the Mississippi. Only the River remains. An empty field where the fort once stood. Across the bike path, a trail leading to Indian Mounds, thought to be over 1000 yrs old, and the seat of local chieftains. There must have been a trading sight nearby, the early stage of Red Wing. On to Red Wing, a charming old river town, named for Dakota Chief Ta-tan-ka-man (Wild Buffalo) aka Koo-poo-hoo-sha (Red Wing). I find Eve and Mac comfortably settled in at the Blue Moon Cafe, a kind of espresso bar/old general store, where folks set a while on the vintage chairs and tables, and you can buy your table and chair if you like; they’ve all seen some other life and have stories to tell.
I learn that Mac was also battling the wind in the kayak today. We head to Frontenac State Park camping grounds, high on a bluff over the River. A magnificent sight for weary legs and the end of a wonderful day.