Hannibal, MO to New Madrid, MO (through St. Louis)
374 Miles (1,389 Total)
Traveling through the Port of St. Louis was, by far, the riskiest section of river that we’ve paddled through. The Port is 20 miles of non-stop bumper to bumper barge traffic. Load after load of six by two barges go up and down stream constantly, while smaller tugs criss cross through the channel between the left and right banks to shuttle single barges into position to be linked up with larger loads. Lined on both banks are parked barges waiting to be filled or offloaded. They sit there as still as can be, as the wake from passing barges barrel into them, sending the waves back in the other direction, now magnified in amplitude.
“Seriously, wear your life vest through the Port,” Muddy Mike told us over a roaring campfire the night before tackling the challenge. Muddy Mike is the owner and operator of Big Muddy Adventures based out of St. Louis, a guided canoe service that takes clients for multi-day trips on the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers. He picked us up at the Chain of Rocks dam and let us crash at his place for the night to shower and do laundry. He was a wealth of knowledge, having completed the Mississippi River from Source to Sea himself, as well as having years and years of guiding experience. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about canoe tripping down the Mississippi.
“Your going to take a gift from me,” he said. “I’m going to give you a yellow, floatable rope. The coast guard requires it. You have that baby on your boat, with your life vests firmly fastened, you’ll have no trouble at all going through the port.” He clapped his hands in a “well, that’s that” fashion. Embers from the fire rose up into the clear but starless night, the soft glow of light pollution filling the darkness with a milky yellow hue. Light from the fire danced off his face as he half smiled, a dark gap revealing itself between his front teeth. He took out a cigarette, put it in the gap.
“Terrible habit,” he said, flicking his lighter. “Started smoking at the age of 41. A pro NBA player got me hooked on ’em during a guided trip in the boundary waters. They’re so hard to quit, man.” He shook his head.
Mike’s dog, Dolly, came up to me and nestled her nose in my hand gesturing me to pet her. She was a sweetheart. Big dog, 130 pounds at least, with large droopy eyes that made your heart melt. On the right side of her nose you could see a few pale blue stitches.
Muddy Mike lived just east of Ferguson, MO and north of St. Louis proper. Ferguson is one of the original cities where the Black Lives Matter gained international recognition after a white police officer shot and killed Michael Brown, a young black man.
“There’s still a lot of unrest here,” Muddy Mike said, referring to Ferguson. We then heard gunfire across the street, a small 22 caliber pistol. The pop pop pop of the pistol came from a large abandoned wear house nearby. Dolly perked up her ears. Mike lives near large silos that tower 100 feet above his house. The gun fire echoed off the heavy cement.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “It’s just the cops practicing.”
When Muddy Mike picked us up earlier in the day, the first story he told us was how Dolly wound up getting stitches in her nose.
“She got shot right in the face,” he told us. “From the fucking pizza delivery guy.”
I looked at Mike in amazement.
“I told the guy, call me when you get to the driveway,” Muddy went on. “Dolly, she does a good job, but damn, blood was squirting all out her nose. I thought I was gonna lose her.”
The gunfire seemed to stop, and the crackle of the fire was all that remained. When we first got to Mikes house, he showed us around and brought us to the front porch. There was a bullet hole in the glass sliding window.
“Stray bullet from some assholes shooting at the sign down the street,” he explained. “You don’t have anything to worry about, though. Dolly does her job well.”
Out on the Port of St. Louis, the waves were increasing. There was a strong head wind pushing into us, and barge after barge passed us going up and downstream. A few large waves rolled into us as we paddled past the Arch, the “Gateway to the West”, it’s surface looking bland and matte, reflecting the grey cloud cover that has been above us for the past three days.
Past the arch, the water began getting more problematic. The reverberating waves were increasing dramatically. We were getting battered around like a rubber ducky in a bathtub with a three year old kid on a tantrum. And then the REALLY big waves began rolling in.
Oh crap, I thought. Three huge waves approached us in succession. We went up and over the first one, the bow completely out of the water, and then crashed down just as the second wave hit. Smack. The bow became completely submerged as gallons of water poured into the canoe.
Oh, no.
We rose up on the third wave, then smacked back down as another wave rolled into us. More water came in and our canoe was about 50 percent full of water.
“Oh, crap,” said Qball. “Don’t move. Don’t move. Keep it steady.”
My heart began to race. Thump. Thump. We were so low to the water it was almost up to the top edges to the main cabin. Because of all this water, the canoe was incredibly tipsy. A wrong sudden move and we would be swimming in the Port.
To our right, Beardoh and Sweetpea were paddling past us. They had witnessed the big waves and drenching we received, and Beardoh, unaware of the dire situation we found ourselves in, began laughing.
“Dude!” I shouted. “You need to come over here quick. This is an emergency!”
His smile turned into somber surprise as he quickly realized the trouble we were in. They both began paddling frantically towards us. I grabbed onto their canoe once they reached us to stabilize the boat. Qball began scooping the water out with a bucket like a mad man.
One. Two. Three. Swish.Swish. After about 40 buckets of water offloaded, our boat was stable again.
We both drifted in the water and caught our breath. “Ho-ly shit!” Qball yelled. I turned around and looked at him, shaking my head.
“That was close,” I said. Too close.
We paddled another half hour and were finally free of the Port. We found a nice beach and stopped for lunch. The sun was trying to come out, but it was still hidden behind a layer of thin clouds. I was wet from all the recent water attacks, and a firm breeze, coming out of the south, chilled me to the bone and I began to shiver.
Muddy Mike was right, I thought. The Port wasn’t something to take lightly. Between gunfire and bullet holes, the real threat in St. Louis was really canoeing someplace you probably shouldn’t.
I ate a lousy tortilla sandwich with pepperoni slices and gazed into the water. It was flowing very strong now, a large mass of brown muck barreling towards the Gulf of Mexico. Large pieces of drift wood floated by, something we haven’t seen before in such volume. Plastic bottles and other pieces of trash floated down the river too, discarded items that somehow got away form a trash can or a recycle bin. They’d float down the whole river and emerge into the gulf, still completely intact. From there, ocean currents may take it all the way to Europe. Or maybe even the Arctic Ocean. I hear Polar Bears love Coca-Cola.
We had passed the last lock the previous day, and had merged with the Missouri River just south of that. It was a different river now; a wild river; a free flowing river. And the rules of engagement, on how best to navigate the river, had changed again.
“The river opens up just south of St. Louis,” Muddy had told us around the fire. He opened his arms to show us just how wide it would get. His eyes flared up through the flames of the fire, a passion for the river burning deep inside him. Embers popped. Debris sizzled into the cool night.
“Stay in the channel,” he said. “That’s where the flow is. It’s much safer there in the flow.”
We all looked into the flames. They danced around in circles. Nobody said anything for some time.
“There’s not a lot out there after Memphis,” Muddy said, breaking the silence. “It’s open. It’s wide open.”
He took a stick and stoked the coals, another burst of cracking embers awakening.
“And damn man, it’s just so fucking beautiful out there. You’re going to absolutely love it.”
