The HUCK FINN--Adventures of a canal boat on North America's waterways

Photos, captain's notes, and crew's tales from the 26' canal boat HUCK FINN. Itinerary: roundtrip St. Pete. FL/St. Paul MN.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Hannibal, MO. Not far from the marina where we stayed for 2 days in Hannibal, was this 3-story brick structure. On the marina side, facing town, was a tacky, garish, lit sign proclaiming "BUBBA'S". Half of the ground floor of the building now serves as a low-rent bar catering to bikers and pick-up drivers. Once or twice weekly Karaoke nights draw in Hank Williams or Johnny Cash wannabes.

You're looking at the back side of the building, which borders a weedy field, a small creek and the empty south edge of town. Fading ads, once in bright white paint, tell of former days, when Bubba's was a town grocery. Greasy smoke from Bubba's hamburger grill now spews from the exhaust vent directly below a stick of "Wrigley's Spearmint Gum". A classic script image of Coca Cola still boasts the bargain price of 5 cents. Finally, in the lower right corner: "Kirk's Flake Soap". Sturdy, stubborn, clinging signs, still working for a grocery long gone. Signs casting their message upon an empty field, now on the "wrong" side of the building. Signs older than the patrons of Bubba's, who never saw a 5 cent Coke, and now plunk down $3 for a Miller Lite. Bubba's clients chew Red Man instead of Wrigley's. Flake Soap? Would they have a clue? One building--two eras, distant though connected.

Less than a 1/4 mile south of grocery-now-Bubba's you cross the Santa Fe RR tracks where they parallel the river's edge. Another 50 strides and you are at the sandy rock-strewn river bank. Late October weeds have been crippled by morning frost, and the taller ones show the tug of gravity, slowly easing them back to the ground. As with old men, they turn gray and begin to slump. Even a glorious morning sunrise from across the river cannot revive them. Only the seeds have a future.


These are the same Santa Fe tracks you saw in the previous entry. Only the angle of viewing has changed. The same sunlight that silouhettes the river weeds. It spotlights the bend in the tracks, lighting up the fall leaves where the train makes a hard turn toward the river. Up high you see the gray limestone bluffs poking through the thinning woods. The blufs will remain gray year round, providing contrast to the ever changing flora.

The giant SantaFe locomotives are yellow and black. They blend in perfectly with this landscape when they rumble through Hannibal. When you're sleeping in a small boat, just a stone's throw from these tracks, you are at first startled by the sound of the train's warning whistles. Warning bells at he gates on Main Street are also near and loud. Then there is the screech and clatter of the wheels, which turns coarser and higher pitched as the train enters the curve toward the river. The wheels do not align so perfectly on the curves; there is chafing. And scraping.

After a couple of weeks on the river, the nightly sound of trains becomes welcome and soothing. Unlike the huge barge tows, trains are fixed on their course, and you never think of your boat colliding with the train. So you can relax completely. And learn to savor the sound of trains following the river at night.

Monday, November 13, 2006

On my 60th birthday, today, Nov. 13, 1946, I have returned to St. Petersburg FL. Ninety-eight days ago I left on the HUCK FINN, chugging upstream to St. Paul, MN. It was a 60 day trip, about 1/365th of my life.

Many times I was asked by strangers why I was doing this. I simply told them it was something I wanted to do before I was too old. "Are you retired?" they often queried. I never stayed with a job or a career long enough to officially retire from it. I have always enjoyed staying busy and working at something, whether profitable, or charitable. In fact, being and staying busy for me is a compulsion, from which I never intend to "retire". It is not a path I have chosen, as much as a road I find myself on from which there is no exit. Though I am attracted to the idea of "rest areas", I rarely stop there--I simply do not relax well. I envy very much those who can and do. So I am compelled to distract myself, to be entertained, to be challenged and to do ...to not do, I fear, would be my undoing. As for treating this malaise, I can say only that diesel fuel, and boats, have been less expensive, and more successful than psychiatrists and pharmaceuticals.

Those alluring RR tracks at sunrise were shot in Hannibal MO in October. You are looking South. The tracks are veering to the East toward the Mississippi R. only 100 yards beyond. Following the river bank for hundreds of miles, the Santa Fe locomotives haul long payloads of coal, grain, gravel, petroleum and other materials. These are sometimes transferred to barges at loading docks along the river. Or, they may receive their cargo from barges unloading at the same facilities. All of this happens mostly unseen except to the barge and train crews, and to the occasional river traveller in a small boat. Next you see HUCK at sunset at a small city dock next to public boat launch ramps in Keokuk, IA. This was just a mile downriver from the Keokuk Lock and Dam, the largest on the Mississippi. The Keokuk Lock can hold an entire 3 wideX5 long barge tow with tug attached. This lock also has the greatest "drop" on the river at 38 feet. Part of the dam includes a hydroelectric generating plant in continuous operation for more than 50 years. We were lucky to have been given a pass through the lock ahead of a large tow, whose captain invited us to go ahead, while he "held off" until our lockthrough was complete. This allowed us to make it to our little dock for that night just before dark. A good thing, since it's quite unnerving to get stuck on the river after dark without a clear plan for safe tying or anchoring. We found the tugboat captains to be almost always courteous and considerate. We routinely made radio contact with them when meeting or passing. There were lots of ducks near the ramps at Keokuk. With duck hunting season in progress, they were wise to stay in town. We saw lots of duck blinds further downriver, and hundreds of decoys carefully arranged to attract overflying ducks. We heard lots of shots, too, soon after sunup at first light. The shooting never lasted long, I guess because it didn't take long for even a duck to figure out you don't stay long where someone is trying to blow your head off.


Thursday, November 02, 2006

. This scene is at the southern end of the Wabasha bridge, in one of the many alcoves set aside for relaxing and viewing the river and the city. I was taken by the lines of the benches, the railings and the closeup trash canister housing. Next (above) is a view to the west of the High Bridge, another artery connecting North and South St. Paul. There is not much commercial traffic north of the high bridge, as the river becomes too shallow and narrow for safe navigation by tugs and tows.

Finally, another sunset shot at the South end of the bridge, not far from the city dock where HUCK was tied. I spent lots of time, mornings and evenings, walking this area and enjoying the play of light on the great variety of park structures near the bridges and the waterfront.

A couple of months ago, I published a blog about the two hearty adventurers, Steve and Ryan, whom I met at Alto IL. I was northbound on the HUCK FINN, and they were headed downriver on a very ambitious, and arduous journey from the Mississippi headwaters i northern Minnesota to New Orleans. Their photo, following this shot of a tug just 50 miles south of where they were to pass, was shot as they were ready to shove off from Alton. I was regretful, after they left, that I had not gotten an e-mail or phone # from them to see how they fared.

Just today, I got a welcome e-mail from Steve, who is now back in Michigan, his home base. He and Ryan managed the entire trip to New Orleans, never swamping the canoe and with no injuries. Just to complete that trip is an awesome accomplishment; in so doing they join an elite and small fraternity of adventurers.


I can easily imagine the perils they faced: strong winds (rendering a canoe almost unmanageable) increasing river currents as they progressed down the lower Mississippi, and the ever present dangers of oncoming or overtaking towboats, sometimes pushing upewards of 40 barges. I don't imagine their shoreline campsite were always very accommodating. But when it's dark, you have to stop, whatever greets you on the banks of the river.



Adding to the marvel of their success is that they each brought minimal prior experience. So most of their important lessons were learned the hard way, by trial and error...learning from mistakes. I suspect their lives will be forever transformed by this adventure, and definitely for the better.
So my hat is off to Steve and Ryan, brave, a bit reckless, but ultimately demonstrating great skill and unstoppable determination. I have friends who have sailed across the Atlantic, but I believe some of those trips to have been more comfortable, and less challenging--and with less risk--than taken on by these rare canoeists. This 19 ft. Grumman canoe was their on-the-water home for more than 2,000 miles. I don't doubt they had some long quiet moments of reflecting on the sanity of their decision to go.

This quote is at the end of Robert St. Bridge in St. Paul Minnesota, which Steve and Ryan no doubt passed under early in their trip. The wouldn't have seen it, but I offer it here as a tribute to their success, and a reminder to all that dreams can materialize. Thanks, guys, for showing the rest of us what can be done!