Lessons on the Missouri River, Yankton Raft Trip

Anyone traveling on a river learns more than everyone else reading about
traveling on a river. --Russ 

Start October 18, 2000

To say the Missouri River is a big river is somehow not enough; to say I am
a raft builder is somehow too much. Nevertheless, my friend Scott Mansker
and I decided one day, after kayaking down the Grand River outside the town
of Gallatin Missouri, to build a raft and float down the big river. We
began collecting things in August; assembling the raft took all of September
and part of October. Our plan was to launch before the weather turned cold.
Things were looking pretty good; we even held an open house the night of the
seventeenth for well wishers. We were surprised at the number of people who
attended our grand show, and the camp stove beanie weenies. was a smashing
hit. Johnson and Gabe brought a party ball and banners. Ebers brought a
bottle of sparkling cold duck to break over the bow (but we couldn?t find a
place strong enough to break the bottle). There were several comments about
"are you sure you can do this" and "where did you get the plans to build
this?"  Probably the most telling remark came from Norm Clark when he said
"good luck . . ."

Drawing of raft plan

In real life, Scott's head would be included in the picture.

We broke down the entire raft and loaded it into this van. We add a canoe and two motors after this picture.

Design of the Raft
It had taken every minute of the last three weeks to complete. The design
started with building a platform on top of old Styrofoam logs used for
docks. Scott got these from his grandfather and we figured out a way to
hold them together using large 2x12 boards. Basically we built a deck over
foam. After getting the ribs and spine held together, I started building an
8 x 8-foot cabin to go on top. We would take all of this stuff down to a
local pond, Olathe Lake, and test it to see if it floated. It was high drama
for Scott and I.




All of this construction had to break down so we could transport it in a U Haul
rental truck. We didn?t have a trailer big enough to carry it. And our plan
was to store it in the garage to use again next year. The cabin added some
weight but we felt it would be nice to have some protection from weather
and a place to stow our gear (and gear, which ended up being far too much).

The last day of preparations found us unfinished. I took another vacation
day-off after working through the night. It took Mansker and I all of that
next day to close up the last jobs and load into the truck, we got a late
start and had to drive all night except for two hours of sleep at a rest
stop. I slept in the cab and Scott slept inside the back of the truck with the
raft, which we had named Agamemnon or Aggie for short.

We drove into Yankton, SD about 5 AM. Found the docks, found the town's
U-Haul yard, and most important, we found a HyVee grocery store that was
giving a free breakfast. Things were really going our way now . . .
Back at Yankton's public docks, we started unloading the moving van. It was
still dark and work moved too slowly for me, I wanted to be on the river.

Assembly was proceeding but we had left some key parts behind and would have to
find a hardware store to replace them. We only had the twenty-four foot van
for transportation and it was cumbersome to park downtown. The raft was
22x12 feet, which is big to store in a garage and seemed even bigger when spread
out over the grounds of a public park.

When the sun came up, it was one of those incredible scenes that always lives in
the memory. The river was fast and wide, the water cold, clear and green. The
sun came up out of the river because it was flowing east in South Dakota.
Four hundred miles later this same water would reach the ramp in Parkville,
Missouri, roughly our destination. Standing on the dock that morning, I imagined
all that would be experienced in the coming days of river travel. I was where I wanted to
be.




The two pontoons of foam are lashed together with cables


About ten we had the raft together enough to push her into the water for the
first time. It floated. Didn't really know until that moment if everything
would work. It was beautiful. Sat high in the water and was stable, but
tilted a little when we walked on the deck, more than I had anticipated. I
felt it looked kind of graceful in a boxy sort of way.

Our plan was to . . . 
build this from things we could scrounge and occasional lunch money. The
final raft had consumed more lunch money than I expected and some of our
children's inheritance (and all of Stephanie's prom dress). But I looked at
the finished vessel with fondness. It had a mast to fly our flag, a cabin
to keep our gear, a transom for the 10 horsepower motor, a pilot stand and a
wheel I finished the night before in the truck, and lots of rope (lines).

Many people had stopped to ask what we were doing. One person thought we
were there to repair the dock. Others wished they could go with us. One 38-year old,
Perry Foster, decided he would. He had been traveling by kayak, alone,
since July, from Montana (he eventually reached Missouri in late December but
ended his planned trip because of extremely cold weather). He would spend
the day helping us and would accompany our launching. We planned to have
dinner together on one of the islands that night.



Perry is helping Scott lay the seven plywood sheets down as a deck after the ribs were installed.

A strong wind came up. Too strong. The raft had a high profile and was
forced against the dock. We had to wait for it to die down that evening. Kept
working on details.

"Indian Man" came up to us and talked to Perry for a long time, told him how
he was finding himself, said  "I'm 53 and know a few things." Then he let out
a few yelps and did a chant to make the wind die down. It did for a moment.
He was helping us in his own way.

As we started the motors to warm them up for launching, I remembered that we had
not tightened the prop nut on the Mercury 6 HP canoe motor. We did not have
a deep socket to do this so I ran back to Main Street (about 12 blocks) to
the Ace Hardware, it was 5:30. I hoped it would still be open. It was. I haven't
run 12 blocks in a long time.

I got the 9/16 socket, and an extra folding chair, Scott needed one. As I
headed back to the raft I was hoping for a little inspiration about
launching that night. My concerns were: we had been three days with very
little sleep. We had been assembling all day with no food. Dark was approaching.
We looked at our maps but we didn?t know conditions down river. The current
was swift. The wind was still about 10-15 MPH with gusts. And everything was
untested, except the canoe, which we had taken several times before on other rivers.

I wanted to go, just wasn't sure if it was wise. But a sure answer would come soon enough.
When I got back to the dock, Scott and Perry were ready, the motors warmed
up, gear loaded, and we were launching. I tightened the prop. We pushed up
to outer edge of the dock and prepared to enter the river's current.
Mansker was in the canoe that we had lashed to the side of the raft. I
stood at the pilot stand and turned the new wheel hard to the right (against
the current). Perry pushed us away from the dock and we gunned the motors 
to enter the river.

The Crash
Immediately upon entering the current we were swung hard to the left and
slammed into the side of the dock facing the river. The force of the wind
and river together was far greater than the small motors could handle. As we were
pushed swiftly down the dock, things started breaking. One of
the ribs hit a dock cleat and snapped like a stick. We hit another and
broke the rear rib, then cracked the transom plywood, and pulled out the eyebolt
that held our gas tank. When we hit the next dock cleat, it caught the gas
tank fuel line, yanked the tank into the air parting the line.

As I looked over my shoulder, there was that instant in time, just a
heartbeat, when I saw the gas spraying out of the end of the line
silhouetted in the setting sun and making a beautiful colored rainbow.
Perry jumped away from the flying boards and I jump off the raft grabbing
the forward line and wrapped it around the last cleat before the raft was
carried down river with Scott tied to it.

About one hundred yards from the dock were large rocks and the current
was crashing into those rocks. There would have been nothing we could do
to save our belongings or Scott, certainly the raft would be lost. As I looked
at the broken wood and protruding screws, I was grateful no injury occurred.
The motor sat at an odd angle and was wheezing.



After the crash, we tied the raft to the city dock and slept in the cabin for the first and last night.


We sat down and talked about options. Shock was setting in. Despite all
our preparations, there was no way we could launch the raft from there. We had
turned in the moving van, we were 400 miles from home, we had filled up a
community park with our stuff, and the raft was broken beyond our ability to
repair. The current was so strong--I had concerns that the raft would
remain intact during the night. But Scott was steady and optimistic; we
tied off on the side dock at four points and planned to sleep in the cabin
that night. Mr. Foster consoled me with "our lows are our highs."  I wasn't
sure what that meant at the time. Perry assured us that it would be okay to
sleep in the park. At that point he left to go fishing with a man who was
casting a net off the dock for baitfish. We went in the cabin we built for
the raft and fried some pork chops and eggs on the camp stove, tasted good
and we felt better. The cabin was all we had other than a park bench. We
set up our sleeping bags and spent our only night on the raft.

Oh, the answer to that request about inspiration was, "you shall not go by
raft . . ."

I remembered hearing a person's character is only truly seen when going
through difficult circumstances. It was encouraging to me, that we remained
stable and resourceful during the mishap. That both men were trying to make
it work and not dwelling on disappointment. In fact, new circumstances were
revealing more character. I had greater appreciation for those who'd found
ways to travel rivers and use them as the country's first interstate highways.
We were learning things through our adventure.

Decisions
Here is what we decided. We would try to find someone who wanted the raft
as a dock, duck blind, swimming platform, or ice-fishing house (which Scott
managed to do before turning in). That saved us having to disassemble the
raft and haul it to the dump, which effectively would end the trip. I kept
reminding myself our purpose was to travel 400 miles of the river, not the
vessels or gear we had gathered together. Next, we would try to reduce our
gear to essentials and take the canoe the rest of the way--respectfully
acknowledging that the raft had accomplished the first 100 feet. We would
give away all of the support gear for favors and rides, and try to sell the
Mercury engine, which was very sad for both of us. We would later, regret
not bringing it. We boxed up the personal belongings we wanted and shipped
them home UPS. A man by the name of Scott Wilson, a fisherman, took me to
his place of employment (a company that builds windmills) and helped ship
our stuff home, cost $60. The rest we loaded into the canoe. This
accounted for our first day and night on the river.
The next morning at 9:30 we made arrangements to move the raft, sold the
motor, give away a lot of our food and gear, shipped belongings home, loaded
a canoe with an extra 300 lbs to complete the 400 miles of river and had
finally launched our trip. We were in the stream, the boat stable?though
low in the water. The Evinrude motor was working well. We soon came to
parts of the river that explained what I thought was the reason for the
?answer? of the night before. It seemed the accident at Yankton provided
the encouragement for us to reduce our enterprise. It was clear the raft
would have been unmanageable on the sandbars, our motors too small in the
current, and all of our belongings and supplies put at risk. With the water
as cold as it was here, I am not sure we would have fared well. When
building the raft, I had put on my wet suit to go underneath for finishing
attachments. I left the flap on my shoulders open one time and the river
entered the suit chilling my whole body. It made my head hurt. If we had
been carried into the ?strainers? or snags, of which there were many, or
forced into one of the low bars, the work could have been hindered greatly
by the cold water. The problem with the raft idea was the area was
completely unknown to us. With as ungainly a vessel as the raft was, the
current, the undersized motors, the cold water, and lack of experience with
the raft, just all added up to not so good of an idea.



On the Water
We were traveling now at 16 MPH, a good speed in the Grumman square back
canoe. It was named the Kaw Warrior, because every mile on the Kaw River is
a fight. We never had to get out of the canoe, though we did ground a few
times. As the sun got higher, the day grew warm with only a light breeze.
It was everything I had imagined on the dock. We loved seeing the country
change, the birds with all their interesting manners, odd changes in the
river?s course, the occasional john boats that were always on the other side
of the river from us going full speed. I liked hearing the water spray from
under the front of the canoe and seeing the miles slip beneath our bow. The
smells of fields and marshes, trees and leaves all seemed so fresh and
correct that October morning. And we would be on the river for days ahead.
?That was the happy thought? remarked Scott, that the next day we would be
on the river again. It is hard to find a friend like Scott Mansker. He
likes the river as much as I do and is undaunted.
We began our journey at Yankton, river mile 812 (meaning 812 miles to the
Mississippi). Our goal this day was Sioux City, river mile 732.6, a
distance of 79.4 miles. There was only 12.5 hours of daylight, which we
could easily travel. At 3:30 PM on 10/20/00 we stopped at Ponca State Park
and tied up for lunch. This account taken from Scott?s journal:



The fearless crew of the Kaw Warrior makes a stop at Ponca boat ramp.

Hopes are high for hot showers but the facilities are less than desirable. We do
manage a bathroom break. Russ braves the men?s room while I find a safer
harbor in the women?s latrine. Russ whips up great lunch as we try to use
up perishables. Cold hot dogs, milk, turkey and peanut butter and jelly
never tasted better.
We [Scott] help a father and his two little girls launch their boat for an
afternoon on the river. I asked them what they liked about going out on the
boat. The youngest answered, ?we just like to go play on the sandbars.?
Maybe there?s hope for the world after all. With our bellies full and our
bladders emptied, we set out for the 21-mile journey to Sioux City, Iowa.

I drove for a while at this point. The river began to change to the
channeled character created by the Corps of Engineers. Now it was deeper,
faster, and straighter. We would not see the broad planes, braided
channels, or sandbars again in any great amount. A free wild river is
varied and amazingly diverse, but difficult to travel. I will miss this
kind of river found in South Dakota, the islands, shoals, sand mountains,
blue-green clear water, wide vistas, and with some tender feelings for the
final resting place of our raft?Yankton, SD.
I observed that the experience of river travel was so compelling and
absorbing, there was no room for the ordinary things people do for
entertainment and amusement. The only music I desired was the sound of
river boils and whirlpools, water skipping along the bank, wind burbles
across ripples and rustling in the trees. Movies were replaced with the
real thing. Leaves turning the color of orange and purple, birds diving to
catch fish, sky changing all day long, seeing clouds form, and the sun
coming again to warm your face and hands. There were some other amusements
too. Changing gas cans in an open canoe, not easy. Patching rivet holes
with duct tape. Trying to read a map, timing distance traveled, and
calculate miles per hour in hopes of reaching a town before dark.
Strange Women and Stranger Men
In a little over two hours we reached river mile 732.2 (Sioux City). We
searched for a marina or dock to secure for the night. After two
unsuccessful attempts we went back to the city?s defunct marina to get gas
for the next day which would be a run of over 100 miles. Most of the docks
are sinking into the water and the only open part was a nightclub. The guy
at the marina?s bar told us they didn?t sell gas any more but about a mile
back up the Missouri there was a Boat Club that sold gas. It was getting
dark. It was almost four miles one way. Perry said it best; ?people on the
river give bad information.? When we arrived at the alleged ?Boat Club,? I
walked up to see if they had any gas. There were only one or two boats;
dock was in poor repair and the surrounding grounds looked unkept. When I
opened the door and walked in, I was greeted with a scene that reminded me
of the Cantina episode from Star Wars. There was a mix of people that
seemed very unlikely and loud. There were older women acting too young and
there was one young woman trying to act old. There were dozens of men that
had every type of clothes and garb you could imagine. The air was thick
even for this time of the evening. I have no idea what was going on. When
I asked about fuel, an older woman next to me waited a while and then said,
?no, there?s no gas.? I thanked her and left, I could hardly wait to tell
Mansker we were leaving.
Finally we got the boat tied up at the city marina, it was dark. We were
picked up by the hotel van across the Interstate (incidentally, the Hamilton
Inn was a property I had installed a machine in 1983 for CMA, I checked it
out the next morning). At the hotel we made calls, got hamburgers and pie
with milk, HOT SHOWER, and sleep. Things were really working out.




Next morning we prepared to leave, got gas across the street at a station, and
stopped at the Sergeant Floyd Museum, an old riverboat built in the 1930?s.
Saw pictures and models of the area, Lewis and Clark exhibits, and Sergeant
Floyd remembrance (the only man to die on the Lewis &Clark Expedition), who
was buried on a bluff overlooking this city. Learned that steamboats of
that era had toilets mounted at the rear highest deck over the paddle wheel.
I never knew that. Some of the very elegant ships had eight holers over the
paddles. We were told the paddles did kind of a processing activity for the
traveler?s waste. We forget how tough life is without plumbing. Just
simple things really.
We took a video of our little boat from the lighthouse hill above the
marina, got back together and headed down river for our longest day of
travel?Omaha. We called Scott?s brother-in-law to pick us up there, he
lives in Omaha. Ends up that Brad would be a greater help to us than either
of us were thinking that morning.
Betty's Cafe




The morning held great promise and we even looked forward to a lunch stop
at the town of Decatur, river mile 691. One of the few towns still on the
river. There was a ?marina? but it was closed for the season. We walked to
town a distance of about a mile. Walked up to Betty?s Caf鬠which was open
at 2:00. Betty advertised food the way grandma used to cook. Betty herself
was a short woman with a tattoo on her left arm and was sporting a hairdo
that looked athletic. We wondered what kind of cook her grandma might have
been. We were served by another woman who mixed Scott?s ordered chocolate
milk from a Hershey?s bottle and forgot what we ordered several times. The
hamburgers were good, but the fries were very good! Betty came out to
explain the wait; she had to change the ?grease.? Betty?s had become one of
our favorites for charm and cleanliness. After this refreshing visit we
headed back to the boat. It was 3:00; we had 63.7 miles to go and four
hours of light left.
The afternoon wind was picking up. Boaters were more numerous. I had
driven that morning and Scott was driving now. He always picks good paths
and safe water; he has a keen sense of the channel. I was comfortable in
the front seat and propped myself up on our bags. As the sound of the motor
and long days of preparation took their affect, I became drowsy and dosed in
and out of sleep. But I didn?t want to miss anything; I could sleep at
night so I fought to stay awake. Suddenly Mansker shouted, ?Look out? and
as I open my eyes a wave larger than our boat was breaking over us. I was
instantly soaked and my seat compartment was awash. Another boater had
cruised past setting up a large wake. Scott was headed into it, which was
the only safe way to take waves in a canoe. But the frequency of the wave
was too great and our nose went straight into the next roll. From then on
we tried to negotiate those boats from a distance. It was getting on
towards 6 PM and soon would be dark. We were about an hour from the Omaha
landing, so Scott called Brad and told him to get to the pickup point.
About 20 minutes later the faithful little Evinrude coughed and came to a
halt. It would never turn again. Something in the 30-year-old motor had
seized. Somewhere around Boyer Chute on the Calhoun Bend, we were out of
engines. Called Brad, told him to wait a few hours. About eleven miles to
Dodge Park at river mile 627.3. We began to paddle. Our speed dropped
dramatically form 14 or 16 MPH to 6 or 7. Actually it took us until about
9:00 to reach Dodge Park.
Motorless
It was interesting travel. We could talk easily. The wind was not a
problem. We could travel without a wake. And we had a light so other boats
could see us?things were really starting to go our way. We found that we
could slip by camps along the river without anyone seeing or hearing us. We
could, however, see and hear them. Loud music, wild screams, and terrible
efforts to accompany some 20-year-old rock song. It was not long after one
of these stealth crossings that we heard the strangest noise coming up the
river. A light near the other bank was steadily advancing to the loud beat
of a familiar thumping. As it got closer I could hear Neil Diamond
straining at the words of ?Brother Loves Salvation Show? from a sound system
that could be heard back in Decatur. It was a party boat and they were
getting religion. Funny how life seems to bring you up smartly and shows a
picture of how utterly foolish we must appear at times. Onward paddled the
stealth crew, quietly taking notes.
Towards the last two or three miles I kept checking the time to see if we
were there yet, and sure enough, we were not. But the lights of Omaha were
lighting the sky, the stars were out, we could see the river and the land,
it was great. As we approached Dodge Park dock we saw flashing lights three
times, it was Brad. We pulled into the dock knowing we only had one chance
against the current. We came close to the pilings when all of a sudden
there was a big splash. Brad was throwing large rocks at us covering us
with water. It was his welcome home-well done salute. They (he brought a
friend, Steve) helped us unload the boat and put the boat on the lawnmower
trailer they brought. Then they took us on a sightseeing trip of Omaha, the
Temple sight, and Mormon Visitor?s Center. After arriving at Brad and Trudy
?s house, Christy?s sister, we had some dinner and then went on a mission to
find a new motor to finish the trip. Brad hauled us over to a large garage,
opened the door walked over to a pile of junk and pulled out an oil smeared
4 HP Johnson motor. He pulled up a trashcan and stuffed the little motor
into it. He asked if we should test it before leaving. I suggested that we
should. We didn?t have any gas so Scott and Brad drove back to pickup our
gas can. We had an unusually large surplus of everything. When he pulled
on the starting rope a few times I was startled to see that it did, in fact,
run. I remarked to Scott that things were looking up. Although in the back
of my mind I was trying calculate the difference in performance from 10 HP
to 4 HP?I was way off.
A Borrowed 4HP Motor
Anyway, hot shower, change of clothes, good bed to sleep in, come morning I
was feeling like we might make two hundred river miles, that was the rest of
the trip. Brad fixed me some toast and told me about some of the hairiest
hunting stories he had faced. He outfitted us with rain gear. He was a
good guy. The news said rain and wind next two or three days all the way
down to Kansas City. We can do most anything in an open boat except wind.
Wind is the one thing there is no preparation for. Nothing can modify or
persuade wind. It just takes everything away. Mixed with rain and lower
temperature, you have a real problem. Loss of body heat that we have no way
to recover. In the boat, we had no way to find warmth. On the bank, it was
unlikely we could do much better. We had good sleeping bags and a tent; we
could have put up a good effort if we could keep a few things dry. We once
again went through our gear and eliminated everything possible and kept only
basic items. We would send these back with Scott?s wife, who was visiting
her sister this week. Brad helped us load up as we left for the last two
hundred miles. These were kind people who went out of their way to help.
At the rainy dock, once loaded, engine warmed, and everything tied down, we
made a video recording of the event and Brad prepared his send off salute.
It was a 3? shell from a professional fireworks show. It was the kind that
goes high and explodes with a deafening bang. Usually these are shot
straight up. Brad aimed his down river, over our heads. About 100 yards
out, he lit the fuse with a great bang and shriek. It was right over our
heads when it went off. The air seemed to leave our lungs and our eyes
rattled in their sockets. To say it was loud would be like saying
childbirth might be uncomfortable. Our only revenge was seeing Brad leap
back from the explosion and out of sight, as if, he had been burned by his
own fireworks. Later he said it was nothing really.

Pulling away from the dock and motoring out into the stream verified some of
my earlier calculations the night before. There might not be enough time
this year to reach Kansas City. At least the motor wasn?t loud and it was
not difficult to start. Something Brad had mentioned more than once. We
were rounding the bend of the Omaha Airport when I realized we were
traveling the remaining half of our trip propelled by the equivalent of a
weed eater. I wondered how many weed-miles that would come to.





It was raining, but a nice rain. As we passed the Riverboat Casinos we could tell
the onlookers felt some envy as they saw our small support ship piled high
with gear. We were headed for parts unknown and days of undetermined
length. How pale and lifeless their entertainments must seem compared to
those two courageous canoers slipping silently into the mists (the Johnson
weed eater made very little noise). On the other hand I was reminded of
Norm Clark?s ominous phrase ?. . .Good Luck.? What did he mean by that?
We continued, enjoying everything associated with river travel. We were
seeing what it was like for countless generations of people who have
traveled on rivers of the world. I was thinking how dependent we were on
basic items that are only ornamental in our society, a good coat, gloves,
hat, glasses, lighter, foot ware, knife. A working watch, a map,
directions, and a call on a phone all become the stuff of rescue. Sometimes
it is as simple as a piece of rope to tie on the ors. We looked forward to
reaching Bellevue, Nebraska. Our map said there was a marina there and we
thought we could get some hot soup. My choice was clam chowder, seemed
appropriate and Mansker agreed. However when we pulled up to the little
dock, made difficult by the fact we didn?t have enough power to go around
against the river, there was no place to buy food. In fact, there was no
place at all except a park with signs ?closed for the season.? So we took
out our remaining food stores, peanut butter and jam, apples, and water. It
tasted good.
At this point we saw a barge being pushed up river. It was about 300 yards
away and I thought it would be interesting. I would take a picture of that.
Then it dawned on me that the barge was an approaching problem. A big
problem. Scott said, ?look the water is going down.? The line of water was
now four inches below its original level. The bow wave in front of the huge
barge was so great it was pulling the water up and out of the river channel.
It was too close, maybe 50 or 75 feet from our small dock. It was going to
swamp the canoe and maybe our lunch. We pulled the boat up and stood back.
As the giant tug passed by it seemed to be eight stores high. Then the
waves started hitting the dock and the back of the boat, splashing into the
back compartment. Had the canoe not been moved it would have taken a
beating. I don?t know what would have happened if we were on the water
during such a passing. The huge waves continue for about 10 minutes
afterward.
When it settle down enough, we pack up and started the motor. Scott was
going to drive for a while. We had 44 miles to go to reach Nebraska City,
river mile 563 and it was late in the day. Then a problem occurred. Our
very last motor sputtered and stopped. Started again, it ran rough. We
edged over to the bank and while Scott held on to a branch, I worked with
the motor. It would not idle. No idle control is a problem in any boat but
for a boat on a river, that spells serious problems. There are times you
need to power out of or around difficulties, all while the river is trying
to pull you down stream.
We could not go upriver, the only thing we could do is go down river until
we came to a town or road. Pushing away from the bank, I got the little
motor to come to life once again but only marginally. It was not running
well and I didn?t know how long it might last. When a two-cycle motor is
missing, that is a sign of problems not easily fixed with a screwdriver. I
held the two controls for a while but my arm was going to sleep in that
position. We travel about two more hours that way, sixteen miles to the
Plattsmouth Bridge. I recommended to Scott we call on his cell phone, to
see if we could get some help. It was disappointing to both of us to end
the trip this way. Considered going by paddle, but it was 193 miles to
Leavenworth, almost as far as we had come in three days with a motor. It
was raining, would rain another two or three days, we had little food,
doubted we could make the next town that night, only one paddle but two ors.
We had done our best, it had cost three motors, one craft, many of our
supplies and gear but we had come down the river 221 miles in four days. We
had seen South Dakota, Iowa, and Nebraska. We met interesting people. But
mainly the river taught a lesson to us. We had not given up because of
circumstances or disappointment. We enjoyed the experience for what it was;
knowing that it was the experience that was our goal, not the destination.
The river determines, regardless of our preparations, if we pass or stay.

We called home. I got my wife and asked if they could stage a rescue of
sorts that night. We were about three hours away by car. If they could
find us at the Plattsmouth bridge off I-29, we would be there waiting. My
son, Brandon and his wife Leisel drove Scott?s pickup and arrived about 8:15
PM. Meantime, we walked into town and talked to two young men at a pizza
parlor. Asked if they would give us a ride back to the bridge and could
they help us get the canoe and gear up to the bridge, about 300 feet above
the river, we said it would be worth $20 to us. They had a truck and helped
us pull the boat up the twenty-foot riverbank, loaded gear in the back and
drove to the top of the bluff. Dropped off at the bridge we only had twenty
minutes to wait before our kids showed up. The drive home was full of talk
about our journey. If others thought our raft project foolish, I did not.
I loved my days as a traveler along the Missouri River. I learn things I
never knew. I learned how much our lives today are blessed with abundant
time. When we are without the comfort of our homes, exposed to wind and
rain, it takes all day to accomplish the simplest tasks. I felt a new
gratitude for a home and good family.

Russ Payzant
10/23/00

The next year we made a trip of 520 miles to Nauvoo, Illinois in the Kaw
Warrior. We would return in the spring of 2002 and complete this trip all
the way to Kansas City in three stages. On the second leg, we went through
the night of a thousand lightenings. Tied to a log at 2 AM, we finished the
rainy night in sleeping bags on the newly built Riverkeeper. We finished
that day in Brownville going upriver. We returned several weeks later and
went up to the Plattsmouth Bridge. We continued to the Platte, but as we
entered the river, the depth was only one foot and we returned to the deep
water of the Missouri River.