All posts by Ryan Jeanes

The End Game – Part II

Where are we now? Library in the Secret City, Oak Ridge, TN.  The film festival is done.  We did not get an award, but several people came up to us and told us The Hitchhiking Movie was kick-ass.  Phil and I cringed through scenes that we would have changed – the intro was too long, oh my god that joke did not go over well, my god what the hell were we thinking putting that scene there, the music needs some help – but it did not matter.  There were loud guffaws during the screening.  People were fascinated with the journey.  They bought DVDs afterward.  In fact, over 1/4 of the people who saw it bought a DVD with comments such as, “I loved this; this was great,” and, “I’m gonna get this for my daughter,” and of course the, “I wish I could have done something like that.”

I Wish I Coulda Done Something Like That

That phrase seems to be our mainstay.  I am in the audience, I am watching the man who took top honors for the festival.  He made a film called That Evening Sun with Hal Holbrook.  Oh my god, I mean, may I drop dead here Hal Holbrook is the greatest actor who has ever lived.  Go to the website and then get your ass to a screening of that movie.  It is, holy shit, I mean I am nearly crying thinking about it.  If you ever saw Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino, with his portrayal of a grumpy old man dealing with approaching death, all I can tell you is imagine that performance amped up four hundred thousand fold, smoothed over with a beautiful sunrise and a down pillow, hardened by the fires of hell and smelted by the cruel cool winds of real life.  It blew Clint’s performance into the Adriatic Sea.  Then it set its remains on fire, and those remains sank to the bottom where they were fed upon by fish and sharks and horrible squids.  Then those fauna shat the remnants of Clint’s digested performance out, and the droppings were obliterated by an underwater fire bomb.  I don’t know how the fire bomb got underwater either;  just… Holbrook’s performance was that good, it really was.  Go see That Evening Sun (it’ll be in select cities in November) whichever way you can.  Best performance… ever.

I continue watching the executive producer take top honors with his Audience Favorite Award and his Judges Choice Award and his Best Southern Film Award and Best Feature Film, Best, Best, Best…  The Hitchhiking Movie wins nothing; only people coming up to us telling us they enjoyed it and would like to buy it.  And then, of course, the phrase:  “I wish I coulda done something like that.”  And then I relax.  We did not win top accolades but we know we are tapping into something.  The people who read this blog love life and know that The Hitchhiking Movie and The River is Life blog are… life.  People come back to this site because they want a slice of that life amped up and lived out.  We know we choose interesting and provocative ideas – paddle down the Mississippi River, hitchhike across the U.S., find out how not to go to hell, have religious experiences on Ayahuasca in South America, go and live with the street children of Mexico City for a month, cross the U.S./Mexico border with a real life illegal immigrant family…  These are some of the ideas we are kicking around; this is what we want to bring to you.  This is our contribution to you.

More on the film festival later.  Y’all ready to end this Mississippi River Trip!!!!  Me too.  This is the end!  Here’s how we got from New Orleans to the Gulf:

The End Game – Part II

“This is the end, my friend.” – Jim Morrison

New Orleans.  Phil snaps a photo of me with the city skyline in the background.  I look sullen and angry.

Sullen and angry.
Sullen and angry.

I don’t know why I know but I know I have to keep my emotions in check.  I know I can’t get too excited this close to the finish line.  I know this is where missions are failed – celebrating too early (George Bush, anyone?).  I remember the Obama Campaign gave this video

to its campaign workers one week before the election.  I did not want to be that guy on the bike, I did not want to get complacent.  It was possible – great ventures have caved in in the final minutes.  We had to focus.

The West Bank

A reporter calls.  She asks if we’re camping on the West Bank, and I laugh.  Yes, and there is sporadic gunfire from the Palestinians!  Come quick! She wants to interview us but we’ll have to wait for her till tomorrow.  Great ventures are lost in the…, goes off in my head.  This is a delay, I decide.  I tell Phil what the reporter wants to do.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“I think it’s a trap.  I think we go.  I think we don’t worry.”

“Me too.”

We go.

The Wind

The wind is a bitch, flat out.  Phil (different Phil) and Rich of Huckleberryfinn09 knock our inflatables (who hasn’t?).  “I mean,” he says, “that’s like paddling a feather out there.  You’ll be blown around.”  We already have been, my friend, we already have been. We don’t have the right boat but we’re pressing on.  Reporters will not stop us now, wrong boat will not stop us.  We will make the Gulf.

The Waves

The waves get horrible in the last few days.  They are whitecapping.  Phil and I fight over middle of channel (more current) or paddle along the bank (less waves).  We compromise and follow the bank with short trips into the waves.  My forearms are jelly.  The Miss’sippi is throwing everything at us these final days.  “You want it?” She whispers.  “You really want it?  You gonna have to get it… the hard way.”  The next day the wind picks up more.  There are no more barge captains offering us beer and Gatorade, congratulations and macaroni and cheese.  Past New Orleans, barge captains have no reason for being.  Only ships, giant ships, who have nothing better to do than barrel down the channel at 45 mph.  We are a blip on their radar.  We are a blip on their bow if we are not careful.  We have nothing to do… but make the Gulf.  The wind blows harder.

The Threat of Silence

A trip such as this thrives on noise.  Cool things happen and I can write about it.  Noise.  We call the radio, TV and newspaper stations and we are noisy – “We’re doing a trip, we’re doing a trip, we’re doing a trip!”  The threat of silence (What will we do when the trip, the noise, is over?) is looming.  I remember a high-school friend who dropped out with one month of class to go.  Why?  The threat of silence.  What would he do when high school was over?  What, I mean, what!  He didn’t know.  He’d have to take a trip into the silence.  That was scary.  For three months I’ve been living in a tent, living in strangers’ homes, paddling, paddling, paddling.  The Gulf would mean the end.  That was scary.  There would be silence.  We would have to move into the silence.  Will people still read our blog if there are no more waves and fights and barges?  What will happen to us?  What is in the silence?

I gotta keep goin’, I think to myself.  For better or worse, the silence will not beat me.  I will join you, Silence; you will not beat me.  We will become one at the Gulf.  Throw wind and waves and ships all you want; I will join Death (and if I’m lucky, Rebirth) on the other side.

Phil Takes a Chance

“I’m gonna get Pizza,” Phil says in Empire, LA (thirty miles from the Gulf), and I don’t like it.  I don’t know why I don’t, but I don’t.  The Silence scares me, the fear of getting too complacent scares me.  “I don’t…” I start and then stop.  Becoming too much of a hardass can be a barrier to your mission too. “That’s cool, Phil,” I say.  “Go for it.  I’ll set up the tent.”  Phil leaves happy; he’s not as concerned as I am of the demons that can kill you at the end.  Maybe I should follow his example. I examine the tent poles.  I’m not going to put up the tent, I think and have no idea why.  Logic has failed me.  I think that I must go join Phil in the bar he has gone too.  I think I must leave the tents packed.  I feel I must go……now… there.  And I do.  The gear is lonesome in its package.  When we come back to camp tonight, we’ll have to unpack in the dark, but I don’t care.  Somehow it’s all gonna be okay.  I don’t know how, but it will.

Revelry

Reverie at the bar in Empire, Louisiana.

Reverie.
Revelry. John, Saints Fan, Wes and Buddy Love in front.

Phil has struck up a conversation with some boat captains.  One drives personnel out to the oil platforms in the Gulf, another pilots a barge, another is an oyster fisherman who slings stories of what he has or hasn’t done between drunken ramblings and puffs on a doobie that the bar staff seems all too willing to permit in the broad moonlight.  It is a party.  Phil has bought me and himself pizza, and it is good.  The captains all want to know what we’re doing, want to buy us beer, want to offer us showers.  It is all gonna be okay, I think again.  John is well-spoken.  Does he belong here? Wes is a conglomeration of gumbo and almost unintelligible Lafayette Cajun screaming and hollering:  “Ooooooo boy,” he say, “y’all cain’t leve dis herah plase wifout eatin’ some crayfish – we  callum mudbugs – I’m gon’ make y’all some gumbo too ‘for you leave, ooooooooo.”  Phil and I are laughing because Wes has the thickest Cajun accent we’ve heard so far.  He’s almost like a cartoon character.  Buddy Love, the doobie smoker, is telling Phil he loves him pressing his forehead to his, and I nearly fall out of my chair.  Saints Fan is old and pruny and smiling like mad when we tell him stories from our adventure.  Wes offers even more places to shower (though we don’t need them) and more Cajun cookout possibilities (though one would be enough), and John offers us a ride back to New Orleans after (which we will need, desperately).  Phil was right not to worry.  Worry is a demon as well; it can kill a venture too.  I’m glad I came here.

More, Even More

A man walks in with his Mexican wife.  Jeff Johnson, who I wrote briefly about in this post.  He tells us, “Damn guys, that’s amazing, I wanna put y’all up in my cabin.  And I’ll even help you get your shots of the Gulf and the sunset.  Shoot, guys, that’s amazing.”  His wife is silent, but I hope she approves.

Good thing I didn’t unpack the tent, I think.  Jeff brings his big pickup and helps us pack all of our stuff in it.  His wife – silent.  He takes us back to his cabin which is amazing, gives us keys to his truck so we can drive ourselves to the marina (which is amazing), tells us we’ll have showers and fried fish when we get back… amazing.

Phil and I take hot showers and air our gear out and rejoice.  Damn I’m glad I listened to you, Phil.  Only one more demon to slay and his name is Tomorrow.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow, Phillip says that we should take one boat.  Risk it all. “We might as well make this our last day.”  “That means we’ll HAVE to make it to the Gulf today,” I respond.

“Yes, I know.”

“Shit,” I say spitting into the dirt, “let’s do it.”  One more demon, just one.

The Last Day

We leave early.  Leave nothing to chance. Driving to the nearby marina gains us seven miles but we will still have to paddle 40 miles today to make it to the gulf.  Our best in this type of wind, with these types of conditions, has been 28.  Shit, I think spitting into the water, bring it on.

There is a small lock we’ll have to go through to get back out onto the Mississippi.  I remember the 20 or so locks I’ve gone through on the Upper River.  This one is about 1/100 the size.  That don’t mean, however, dat duh lady who operates the mom-n’-pop lock don’t have a Upper-Miss’sippi-Lock-sized ego.  She does!

Phil and I lock through the first set of doors; their height is about 7 feet.  I hear a rapping from somewhere.  “Do you hear that?”

“Yeah, look up.”

It’s an old, fat, craggly woman in glasses rapping on the pane glass of the observation deck.  “Yes?” I mouth.   She starts making wild hand gestures that end in a pronounced clap that I can only take to mean something or someone is getting smushed.  I give her the international, palms-in-the-air “I have no idea what the hell that means,” symbol which sets her off into a frenzy.  Papers go flying behind her.  It’s like watching a Glen Beck meltdown.  Yes, you want to do something; yes, you want to help; but, can you?  I mouth, “What do you want me to do?”

“Stop!” she barks.  I swear I saw drool.

Normally to be able to stop, there are ropes on the sides of the locks.  Not so here.  I paddle to the side and use my oar to scrape the side and slow us down.  That “stops” us more or less.  Phil and I hang tight under the watchful eye of Mordor.  We thought that was the end of it until…  The rapping!  Oh shit, it’s back. Crazy lockmaster lady’s bangs are bouncing with even more fervor.  She slams a homemade sign on the window which reads…

CONDITIONS ROUGH:  LARGE WAVES, WIND, DANGEROUS!

“I know,” I mouth and turn away.  “We know,” Phillip says and keeps looking at her.  “What’s she doing?” I ask Phil.

“She’s dropped the sign and is pacing back and forth.  I can’t say for certain but I’m pretty sure I saw an S, F, and an I-word.”

“I-word?”

“Idiot.”

“Well, we may be, but ain’t no demon (lockmaster wannabe or otherwise) gonna slay me today.”  The double doors open and the Mississippi is as promised – windy, terrible, dangerous.

“Forty miles, brother,” I say.

“Yup,” Phillip says curtly.

He’s not worried, and neither should I be. We’re gonna finish this thing.  We’re gonna go into the silence.

Part III coming up!  Stay tuned!

The End Game – Part I

The End Game – Part I

Ryan and Jeff at the gulf.
Ryan and Jeff at the gulf.

How does one end something?  For me it was paddling like mad to the finish, no pain, no glory, just paddling.  My muscles were like something possessed; I felt like I had to finish.  Phil kept it up with quicker and quicker strokes; he could see the end, he could feel it.  Go go, and go go go go go go go.  It kept building – there’s the gulf there’s the gulf there’s the gulf.  And we did; we finished in six foot swells on the setting sun.

It was wondrous:  dolphins dancing in the sand, feeding on freshwater fish the Mighty Miss’sippi had brought them.  Jeff Johnson, the man who agreed to put us up for a few days, was in his boat deftly handling the camera and steering wheel at the same time.  A strange elation, a strange joy – first in my solar plexus, then whole body… wondrous.

How Does One End Something?

First there must be a pre-end.  Something came before the end.  What came before? I think to myself.  How did we go from there to here?

Baton Rouge

Ah, yes, Baton Rouge… I had forgotten. I had forgotten the news crews competing for our attention – awesome!  I had forgotten the Cajuns holding up catfish desperate for life, my inkling suspicion that, as I get older, I will become more vegetarian – poor fish.  Forgotten the railings against Phil in the night where the ‘which way?’s got on his nerves and his lack of communication – the silence, the bloody silence, maybe I can’t stand it – got on mine.  I had forgotten this:

Post-Baton Rouge

Ships, giant mother-of-god ships.  “Holy shit!”  I have gone through this process before. The first time I encountered a barge in my life was on the Cumberland River preparing for this trip.  We said to ourselves, “If we can paddle the Cumberland, we can paddle the Miss’sippi.”  We were wrong, and right, in part.  The Cumberland throws you a barge, a single container.  She is big, yes, but only one container long and wide; sometimes two are pushed… but no more.  Two containers pushed by a lonely tug.  “Oh my god,” I first thought, “there’s not a way in hell we can handle these; they’re massive.”  Life disagreed, the River disagreed and threw us more.

My first encounter with barges on the Mississippi:  three containers wide, five deep.  “Holy shit!” x 15.  I was out of my mind with despair in Prescott, WI.  “There is no way I can handle these,” I thought, but then I got over it and got past the locks and dams. I’m in St. Louis now.  There are no restrictions:  “I am a barge captain, I can stack my containers as wide and deep as I like… I have no locks to push them through.  If I feel skilled I could pack them with only an inch on either side of the channel to spare; I can also pack them as deep as I want – 7, 8, 9, more.  I can do this.  I am a captain.”

Forty-two barges on a single load we counted.  Many thirty-sixes, several twenties… no fifteens.  Fifteens are babies now. “I can handle anything you throw at me, Miss’sippi,” I said aloud.  “You will keep getting bigger until I stop getting scared.  I am no longer scared.  Throw what you will at me.”

Ships

Barges can get wider, they can get deeper.  They cannot get taller.  Ships can.  They can get much taller.  “Ten stories – that’s one-hundred feet,” Phillip said the first time we saw one of these behemoths.  The Cajuns south of Baton Rouge held their catfish sucking air and shouted and whooped and said we’d be swamped (in jest, I think).  We pushed on.  What else were we to do?  Stop?  No.  The Gulf.  Ever the Gulf, taunting.

“Which way do you want to go?” Phil asked in response to the fear of the ship.

“I don’t know, which way do you want to go!”

“I don’t know, I’ve never handled these ships before.”

“Me neither – I don’t know what to do.”

I don’t know what to do.”

We were arguing over who knew what to do least.

Phil and I worked out a system:  hide.  Go to where that ship cannot.  “Do you see that anchor point over there?”

“Yes.”

“Go to it, paddle behind it.  If he wants to run us down he’ll have to skip over that concrete slab.”

“I don’t think he’ll do that.”

“I know.”

“No, I know!”

Now we argued over who knew the most.  I was comfortable with this argument; even if I lost, I won.

Deftly, Ever Deftly

We were able to dodge ships now.  (Barges were babies; forty-twos were nothing.)  We felt immense.  They would come barreling down the channel at 45 mph, and I would feel no sense of worry.  Very liberating.  Phil would implore me to move closer to shore, and he was probably right most of the time.  Though I wouldn’t have died, he did save me from close calls.  Thank you, Phil.

Deftly, ever deftly, we were able to shield ourselves from headwinds; navigate between that barge, that USACE unit, that ship and that dock; glide past the big corporate chemical conglomerates’ docks:  Monsanto, adios; Chevron, good-bye; and Bunge, see ya later.  We were men now.  In the thick of industry, we were men in inflatable boats.

Where Were the People?

The people were finding us.  Barges waved us over with arms and lights and fog horns.  Doctor Peppers were given along with macaroni and cheese and pork and beans and Gatorade.  ‘Good job!’s were given along with ‘how long you think till the gulf?’s and ‘man, I been a barge captain for 25 years and gotta give y’all credit’s.  We were feeling good and riding high.  We knew how to do this:  you just… go.

We were hooking up to McDonalds’ outlets with our laptops and GPSs and cell phones.  We were writing posts with creative flare.  We were buying economic pizzas and cooking beans and instant potatoes.  No day was easy, but we knew how to do it now.  The Mississippi had reared us from single barge to ocean-going ship.  It had reared us from stuff falling off the side of the supply boat to impeccable packing and strapping.  “Nothing has fallen off the side of the boat since Lake Pepin,” I told Phil.  “Humph,” he responded but knew I was right.  Impeccable.  The River was trying to rear us, bear us, and we were born.  Hard love it was, but rear us it did.

People came in the form of reporters and short interactions with barge captains and snide teenagers on the banks:  “Does the coast guard give you a hard time for being out here?”

“This is still a recreational channel,” I told the young’n.

“Yeah, but nobody does it.”

“We do,” I said pointing to my head and Phillip’s.

“Yeah, but…”  Teen was angry to be wrong and whooped a weird whoop to end the conversation.  He made fun of me under his breath to his tanned girlfriend.  I wanted to say, “Say it to my face,” but what would be the point?  We were on the river, we were almost done.  People expressed their incredulity with mocks, with disbelief, with “ooooohhh buddy, y’all got duh life, don’t ya?”  They did it with surprise and with anger (Phillip got a door slammed in his face when he asked for water.  Ha!).  New Orleans was in view, and we were almost done.

Donaldsonville

Phillip is a celebrity... if only to children.
We are celebrities... if only to a few at a time.

Pre-New Orleans, the gap between Louisiana’s two biggest cities, was just a slide down the kiddie slide.  It happened so quick.  But there was one bump, a joyous one before the kicker into the sand – Donaldsonville.  Phil and I walked in tired and angry and hot and hungry.  “You go to the library,” I said.  “I gotta fill my medication.”  On the way to the pharmacy (the GPS says there’s one so there is), I see the painting of an austere Indian on a pane window.  The lettering underneath says THE CHIEF.  I have no idea why I do this when my brain chemistry is screaming for Cymbalta, but I walk into the local paper.  “Oh my god, hi!  I saw you on the news,” the secretary says.  “Oh I’d like to do a story on you,” the editor says.  “Y’all want some Po’ Boys?” the only reporter says because “you can’t leave Donalsonville without tryin’ a Po’ Boy.”  “I’ll drive you to Wal Mart pharmacy,” the editor also says and “I’ll put you in touch with the Advocate [Baton Rouge’s paper].”  Good things happen when you’re wandering, I think.  Very good things.

Leaving Donaldsonville, a group of kids runs us down, their mother in tow.  “Maaaaam, maaaam, dese ah duh guys!  I saw ‘em on TV, and heah dey ah!”  The mother has no idea who we are, and I always feel wary of parents’ concerns for their children when I, as I will continue to be as long as I do these adventures, am the stranger.  “Howdy, ma’am,” I say Texan.  “We’re paddling the river, and’ll be on our way now.”

“Maaaameeeeeee!” Little Boy says, “I tol’ you I’d go to the river every day till I saw deum, an’ I dee-uhd!”

Mom is happy but wary.  (They’re always wary.)  We walk off as if we don’t need them, but I do… need them.  Jugs of water are punching through the cheap garbage bag I brought into town to fill up.  “Weeeeeeeuhl help you carry the-um!”  Kids are scrapping up jugs and trinkets and laptops.  “Weeeee’ll carry them, weeee’ll carry them.” They accompany us to our boats (right past the old oil pipeline, it doesn’t work anymore).  I keep walking, I cannot ask Mom for anything.  I cannot turn around.  They need to offer; I won’t ask.  I won’t be a vagrant, asking, with my hand out, wanting, needing.  You want me?  You ask me.

Ever wary of the parents' wariness of me.
Ever wary of the parents' wariness of me. That bag has all the Fleur de Lis stuff. Thanks, Janet.

Mom is coming around now.  She sees the boats, she believes the children (“By god, they were on the news… maybe.”).  We get in to leave and she stops us.  She wants me now; now this is different.  “Wait!” she says.  “Don’t leave!  You gotta tell me about this journey.”  We give her the short version and get in to leave.  “No!” she says and “hold on” and “um, can I give y’all something?” and “I wish… I just wish I could give y’all something for the… for the…”

“No, don’t worry about that, Janet.”  I set my oar across the bow.

“No, but…”

I like this, I like feeling wanted.  To feel needy is hell.

I say thank you and your boys are great and look for us in The Chief.  Then, off-hand, because I love them, I comment on her Fleur de Lis necklace.  It’s stunning.  Real diamonds, I hope.  The beautiful, beautiful Fleur de Lis.

“Oh my god!” she says, “I love fleur de leeze!  I’m gonna get y’all some!  Hold on!”  She runs home and comes back with fleur de lis ____________ and fleur de lis ____________, fleur de lis ___________ and ___________ and _____________.  It was glorious.

“Thank you,” I say.  “Thank you.”

Four days later Janet wrote us to say that she saw the article, that she wishes we would have stayed longer, that her kids miss us, and that she hopes we enjoy our fleurs de lis.  I certainly do.  I certainly do.

Part II coming in 48 hours!  We are in Oak Ridge, TN where we’ve just seen The Hitchhiking Movie on the big screen!!!!  We didn’t have huge DVD sales afterwards, but 1 out of 3 people who saw the movie bought the DVD – awesome!  In the next post, New Orleans, New Beginnings, Katrina becomes important, destitution becomes important and the wiping out of things – beginnings.  More ships will come… of course.  Headwinds, difficulty and Jeff Johnson… of course.  A rowdy romp at a barge captain bar.  The end is near.  Hang on till the ride is over.  And to answer some of you fans, OF COURSE WE GOT MORE ADVENTURES COMING!

Ryan

So What Now?

There is no more paddling to do and things are quieter.  Weird.  There are no more beans to make on the riverbank, no more news crews to notify, no more fights to be had over continuing down the curve or cutting to the next bank, no more clacking of paddles, no more singing of dirty songs whether Phillip likes them or not, no more dirty water and “oh my god there’s only three inches of visibility today, theres snakes in the brush, there’s a barge coming; paddle light so you don’t splash my camera, pass me the camera for a sunset shot, I’m tired of you, thank god for you, I don’t want this to be over, I want this to be over.”  No more.

Now is a small town called Empire, Louisiana.  Now is the fortunate running into a man, an ultra right-wing Republican (I attract them like flies) telling me he doesn’t want to pay for my health care, but I can stay in his house; he doesn’t want Socialism, but is glad to help us because “shoot, guys, you do a trip like that, I gotta give you credit cuz, shoot, I could never do something like that, and y’all can stay in my cabin, Number 33, cuz it’s unoccupied now, and, hell, we’ll even drive you to New Orleans if you want because, shoot, that’s what you deserve… but don’t expect no handouts.”

That’s our reality now that the Mississippi River is done.

Now will be film festivals (we’re on our way to Oak Ridge on Wednesday for the Secret City Film Festival for a big-screen showing of The Hitchhiking Movie), now will be editing, fighting over which scene goes where and why, figuring out where we will live in Nashville, how I will earn money, how I will appease my adventure addiction while living in the “real world,” how we will continue to write interesting blog posts about the Go to Hell movie, our next film, which Phil will be telling you about in the next few days, how we will do… everything… and I stop.

It will be no different than the Mississippi, I think to myself.  The title of our film will be The River is Life, and this is Life.  Editing will be life.  Going and talking to fire-and-brimstone preachers will be life.  I also want to do a train-hopping adventure I want to write about; people will want to know about that; there’s tons of new material to come; tons of things to do with the website; people will want to know what we’re doing (as long as we’re doing something interesting) and I can do that – I can do interesting things… and I can share them with our fans… I can relax.  Things will be okay.  What’s next won’t be barges, or cookouts, or staying in strangers’ homes (actually, that’s the one thing I hope never goes away) or lifting 300 pounds of gear into trucks, out of trucks, down levees and up embankments – rocky, smooth, muddy, clay-y or otherwise.  But in a way, that’s exactly what will continue.

Life will continue; life does not stop at the Gulf of Mexico.  It can’t, and Eleven Visions won’t.  The River will still be there; making movies, entertaining the hell out of people is our thing, and we have blog posts to share about that.  The River… has not finished; it has just become… a much larger body of water.

So What Now?

Good question.  I think… this is my calling.  I think I am supposed to be an explorer and commenter of life.  I think travel writing is my calling; I think people enjoy it – our interactions with people, emotions, things, objects… Life again.  I think my partnership with Phil – making movies – is my calling; so, we will blog about that.  I think Eleven Visions is a celebration of exploration; and people will want to know how we’re exploring next.  None of it… will stop.

Some things to expect are the following:

  1. We’re making a film called Go to Hell that hopes to answer the question “How exactly does one keep from going to hell?”  Our biggest adventure yet!  Whereas our old adventures were about going to a place, this will be about how NOT to get to a place.  How do I, Ryan Jeanes, keep from going to hell?  Who’s right?  The Adventists?  Mormons?  Presbyterians, Russians, Socialists?  That’s a good question, and EVERYONE has an answer… and damned if they’re the same answer!
  2. More travel writing – I’m going on a train-hopping excursion that I will be more than happy to write about, share videos about, show pictures about.
  3. More tales from the insides of the editing process – You’ll see footage we’ve decided to keep in the River is Life movie, footage we’ve decided to keep out; if you stick with us, you’ll get a sneak peek, you’ll be along for the ride; the tide does not stop where the Gulf of Mexico begins; this, my friends, is only the beginning.  Eleven Visions is your home if you choose to stay, and we’d love to have you.  Do you take coffee in the morning?

In short, what now is more adventure in this beautiful world, more dialogue about life and what it means, more entertainment from Eleven Visions coming your way in the form of videos, audios, photos and writing.  We have more, much more, to share with you.  Come with us… deeper.

In a few days, Phil will give you the lowdown on our upcoming projects.  I will finish off the travel writing aspects of the Mississippi River journey.  Remember, we left off in Baton Rouge.  Um, yeah! a whole bunch of stuff happened between here and there.  Wanna know about it?  K, working on it.  It’s comin’ your way.

We want you to stick with us.  Eleven Visions does not die with the Mississippi.  It flows on into the Gulf of Life.  There is more, a whole ocean to explore; and, train-hopping, giving you a sneak peek into our latest footage on both The River is Life and Go to Hell movies, and more philosophical connections with you, dear reader, on the dimensions which make up this life… are just the beginning.  A new beginning… for all of us.

We’re glad you’re here.  Wait for Phil’s post on the Go to Hell movie.  Wait for my “just what the hell am I going to do with the English Channel?” post.  Wait for our New Orleans posts, paddle-to-the-Gulf posts, celebration posts.  Wait and listen.  Eleven Visions has more visions in store.

So don’t blink.  🙂

Ryan

I Cannot Go where Love is Not

Natchez, MS

Magnanimous.
Magnanimous.

Courtney is magnanimous – money flowing, love.  He says, “I’m gonna take y’all out t’night an’ I don’ wanna hear no shit about you can’t cuz…”  I cut him off:  “Not a peep out of us.”  Smile.

It’s The Corner Bar again.  The same bar we met.  The same bar where the newspaperman told us we “needed to show [him] how we do what we do.”  Music is playing; it’s beautiful; I don’t drink but Courtney’s buying.  “Colorado Bulldog,” I order and the bartendress looks like she’s going to punch me in the face.  “Can you make a White Russian?” I say trying to wipe away her scowl.

Now she looks like she’s going to kick me in the face.

“Good.  Make that in a tall glass.”

She does.

“Now fill it with Coke.”

She looks like there is something on my face.

“I swear to god it’s good,” I promise.  “Tastes like a root beer float.”

She serves; it’s good; and from here on out I’m known as root beer float boy.

Ole Miss is playing South Carolina on the TV.  Ole Miss fans (the whole bar) are hooting and hollering:  “C’mon you gol’ darned mother f—er!” and “aw shit that’s a personal fowl” and “ you gotta be sh— what the god damned…!”  Ole Miss loses.  Grown men are crying like babies.  The bartendress serves root beer alcoholized floats until I am as the Germans say blau.

“Don’t break the seal!” a woman shouted to me one time in a bar.  I was on my way to the men’s room; she stopped me.  “If you break the seal, you’re drunk,” she implored and tugged on my arm.  “Huh?” I said and did my thing.  She was right – after your first pee, you’re usually drunk.  I stumble out of the bathroom where grown men are cursing Ole Miss to high heaven, throwing tantrums – “goddamned number 4! knocked off by the gol’ damned South Carolina, gol’ damned hump me with a hose!”

“Ryan, you want another?” Courtney says.  Magnanimous. And we’re off to what’s next.

Courtney is drunk too, and if you are a member of law enforcement, not driving.   “I’m gonna drive you to The Castle,” he looks devilish.  Dunlithe Mansion – the most famous of the Natchez antebellum mansions.  Columns all around, front, back, sides… all… columns.  It is the eye candy in front of The Castle Restaurant, and we pass it on the drive in.

“Dig me,” Courtney explains.

“What?”

“It’s all about ‘dig me.’  It’s all about who can build the best shit, who can look the best.  Take my house.  Looks good, don’ it?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit, that’s like having twenty-inch rims.  This house [the Dunlithe]

Dig me.
Dig me.

is like having 24-inch rims.  Ain’t no difference between them.  Shoot!  These old, crotchety white people think they’re different than blacks with their bling bling.  No difference!  None!  It’s all about ‘dig me’ – who can look the best.”

Once again Courtney has taken my breath away with his insight.  It won’t be the last time he has laid me silent tonight.

The Castle

“Hey Ryan, this is Miss Miriam…”

“Oh dear!  Courtney don’t be bothering these nice young gentlemen…”

Gentlemen?

“Ah now, Miriam, listen, Ryan, this…”

“Stop!”

“This hot young thing…”

“Courtney!’

“…I used to work for her.  She is the sweetest lady…”

“Courtney!  All right, now what are you boys doing?”

“We’re paddling the river.”

“Oh!”  She covers her mouth, then her heart.  “That’s… my, that’s…”

“I know.”

I’m drunk.  I have no filter.  For some people that’s a bad thing; but, for me it tends to make me more soulful.  “I’m so glad I ran into you boys,” Miriam says.

“Shit,” I say, “we are complete fools next to you, madame!  We are nothing!  Thank you for allowing us the pleasure of talking to you, mademoiselle!”

Madamoiselle, if you please.
Madamoiselle, if you please.

She’s laughing now.  Flirting in French gets ‘em every time.

Miss Miriam’s husband was a son of a bitch.  He cheated on her and made her life a living hell.  He’s dead now, and she tells us that it’s hard getting over him; and, though I’ve never met him, I want to strangle him.  F—ing good, I think, if I knew where it was I’d pass this drink through my kidneys and empty it out on where Mr. Miriam’s is now. I offer Miriam a drink.

“Oh, Ryan, you dear, no, I’ll get you one though.”

“Colorado Bulldog,” I tell our waitress/bartender.

“Oh my god!”  Her face lights up.  “It’s been so long since I’ve made one of those!”  She looks like she wants to kiss me in the face.

Miss Miriam gives me a hug and tells me she wants to follow our journey but she can’t because she doesn’t use internet but will call, but I can’t remember if I gave her our number – the night is hazy and so is my memory of it.

Dunlithe is large and wavy on the drive out.  Dig me, I think to myself.  Dig me.

Back at the ranch, Courtney’s wife is angry.  He was supposed to spend time with her tonight before she left for Jackson in the morning.  He didn’t; he spent time with us.  “What’s she gonna do?  Divorce me?” Courtney asks.  “No,” I say, “probably not.

(Before you judge the cat, I saw him make his wife breakfast no less than thrice, tell her he loved her no more than 800 times and pretty much convinced me he was the coolest, best husband around.  That’s why she wasn’t going to divorce him.)

“She’ll get over it,” Courtney assuages us.  We’re about to walk up to the carriage house, our guest home, when he stops up.  “Boys,” he says, “listen.  Y’all are going to make this movie and there’s something important you need to know – make it about the people.”

Way ahead of ya on that one.

“No, listen,” he says reading my mind.  “You make it about what matters – love.  Look, Jesus Jones — I used to play in a rock band.”  He’s told us this before. “I remember we were doin’ this gig down South, and we got a copy of Rolling Stone and on the cover is:  Jesus Jones – The Savior of Rock and Roll.  The Savior of frikkin’ rock and roll.  C’mon.  I guess he could have been, but the problem was he believed it.  When he was just makin’ music, he was fine.  Remember the…”

“Riiiight here, riiight now,” I sing.

“Yeah!  That’s it!  That was his only hit!  After that, he was nothin’.  Nothin’,” he marks.  Courtney gets deeply, deeply silent:  “You boys need to focus on your work – nothing more nothing less.  You focus on making movies that matter, just like Jesus should have focused on his music.  That’s all he needed to do; instead, he bought into it – savior of rock n’ roll,” he mocks.  Same thing happened to me,” he says and looks away.

Courtney’s band was to do a photo shoot with Rolling Stone in the 90s when the lead singer got cold feet.  Courtney sighs: “Didn’t want to be portrayed in that light, he told me.  What the hell does that mean?  Focus on your work… don’t take it seriously… just play, just play.”

Courtney, I promise you… to just play.

St. Francisville

Courtney has dropped us off in St. Francisville, and good thing too.  The river slows way down between here and New Orleans; and, if we are to make our Oct. 5 deadline, we’ll need all the help we can get.  The river between St. Francisville and Baton Rouge passes by like a droning song.  Phil and I paddle unceremoniously.  It’s work now; it’s good work, but it’s work.  Paddle, one two, paddle, two three, paddle.  The miles pass on.  A certain amount of effort is required to produce a certain amount of result, a success guru once told me; and, I know how many paddle strokes will be needed to make it to the Gulf – more, one more, and one more.  Stroke, to Baton Rouge.

Baton Rouge

Phil and I have not been getting the press coverage I would have liked since St. Louis, and I am not happy.  “I don’t know what to tell you,” Phil offers sympathetically.  I’m still mad; I want someone to blame – my vibe, myself, something.  But nothing.  You win some, you lose some.  In Baton Rouge, we’re about to win big.

Bam, an email comes back – “We want to cover you.”  Bam, a cell call comes in – “Ryan, where are you on the river; we will meet you under the I-10 Bridge in Baton Rouge.”  Two big-city reporters want our blood, and I am happy.

Baton Rouge is beautiful.  In the words of Allen Tumey, “Our Capitol Building sticks up like a penis.”  I laugh because Allen is 60 years old and shouldn’t be saying things like our capitol building looks like a penis.  I laugh because he’s our reporter for Channel 9 and shouldn’t be saying these things in front of important interviewees like Phil and myself… snicker, snicker, snicker.  I laugh again when Allen is watching Chris Nakamoto, the bigger, scarier and younger and cooler and hipper reporter from Channel 2 (the big boys in Baton Rouge TV news) finish up their interview with Phillip.  Allen leans into me.  Chris’s hair is perfect and spiky; his shoes are 400 dollars.  Phil tells me later his cameraman’s sunglasses were $200.  Allen is wearing New Balances and doing his own camerawork.  “I have something up my sleeve,” he whispers.  He winks at me, and I hope to God he’s straight.  Chris comes up and shakes my hand.  “Great interview, Ryan,” he says.

“Thanks.”

“We’ll let you know when it’s up.”  He nods at Allen.  “Allen.”

“Chris.”

Chris and his nicely-frocked cameraman are off in a clean, white news van.  Allen pulls his camera out of the back of a Toyota Camry.

“I’m going to film you guys on the water,” he says.  “The Port Allen Police Department is going to take me on their boat so I can get some on-the-water shots.  Like I said, we’re friendly in the news business, but I don’t have to give my secrets away.”  Devilish, not gay.

The Port Allen Police Department zooms their twin-275HP motors by us like we were standing still.  Allen gets his shots.  The police wish us well, and our day in Baton Rouge is done.  Devilish.

Side note:  The news pieces ran in Baton Rouge and were excellent.  Both Chris and Allen did an excellent job.  They even ran the piece several times and several people even 100 miles downriver came up to us and told us they saw us on the news.  Terrifique!

Scathing Friction

South of Baton Rouge, Phil and I fight in the boat.  I am being too negative.  I am; it is true.  But I don’t like him calling me out on it, or I don’t like how he calls me out on it.  We fight.  It is vitriol – the worst we’ve had.  We really want this trip to be done.  We are tired of one another, tired of the boat, tired of the water, towns, people, everything.  Though we love it, we hate it.  A teacher once told me that the opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference.  This trip, this life, this boat has been anything but indifferent.  It has been life, good or bad, through and through.  Those twenty minutes of fighting were ugly, really ugly.  That’s all I want to say about because it hurts too much to talk about.  I was possessed, a demon – mad and angry… devilish – the bad kind.  When we got to shore to camp for the night, we said nothing and got in our tents.  I looked at the roof of my tent.  I’ve got to stop this, I thought.  I don’t know whose fault this is, but this has got to stop.  I just… can’t do it anymore. The next morning, I planned to offer an apology, but the pain-body as Eckhart Tolle likes to call it (sort of like an angry demon that can travel from body to body) has traveled to Phil.  He’s angry and spiteful and I am not.  Downstream he snaps at me and tells me that we need to be on the other shore.  Where yesterday I blew up, today I calm down.  I take in deep breaths and am not angry.  “That’s cool” I say.

“Yur goddamn right it’s cool!”

“Yes,” I say and am not fake calm; I am real calm.

“You wanna always fight and I’m…”  Blah blah blah, vitriol, vitriol, vitriol.  I face the pain-body with calmness.  I do not get mad at Phil.  I can’t do this anymore, I promised myself yesterday and keep the promise today.  Phil lets the demon escape his body, and we are levity itself for hours and hours.  We paddle on and find a group of Cajun fisherman hooting and hollering and throwing catfish into their nets.  They offer us beer and tell us to turn our cameras on them because “they gon’ be mov’ee staws!”  One big ol’ Cajun self-labeled “Cracker”

Ooooooeeee, Cracker, you gon' be on duh Cineplex!
Ooooooeeee, Cracker, you gon' be on duh Cineplex!

says, “OOOOOEEE you gon’ see me one day on the Cineplex!  Shoot!  A’least get me on PBS!”  Cracker shows us his dog, Chopper, whom he gets to play dead for 7 minutes straight, and frowns when I throw the stick for Chopper who fetches it.  A nice but dirty Cajun has gaps between his teeth and points my eyes out into the “wawtuh wheah you gon’ see a sink bawge; duh sink bawge kin just throw them big ol’ smokestack lookin’ things into the wawtuh, an’ he don’ hav’ tuh use no ankuh (anchor).  An’ den ooooh lookey here!  Das a big ol’ ship a comin’!”

And so it is – a big ol’ HOLY CHRIST! ship.

“I never knew they could be that big on the wawduh, um, water,” I say.

“OOOOOO,” he says, “dey jus’ gon’ get bigguh!”

G U to the L to the P.
G U to the L to the P.

Phil and I paddle on.  The demon is not here, has not been here for some days.  (We’re in New Orleans now!  Go us!)  I think about Courtney, Baton Rouge… people.  All ways of thinking and being, they are. One stroke, two three stroke.  A certain number of strokes will get us to the Gulf.  How many to go?  It doesn’t matter.  I’m here; this is now; Courtney is Courtney; I’m me, and Phil is Phil.  We are… us, moving, flowing, life.  What will happen when this is over?  How long will the film take to edit?  Matters not.  I can take life one stroke at a time.

Rednecks are not Southern – Part I

“Show me how y’all do what you do!”

Imagine this man without a goatee, with glasses, with a skeptical squint and with a constant askance of just how the hell you get complete strangers to talk to you on camera; and, you'll know what we went thorugh our first 2 hours in Natchez.  Ben, you've got to be the most interesting reporter we've talked to on this trip, and that's saying a lot.  Thank you for a wonderful AND INTERESTING time.  Natchez Democrat, hope we can use this photo!!!
Imagine this man without a goatee, with glasses, sporting a skeptical squint and constantly asking just how the hell you get complete strangers to talk to you on camera; and, you'll know what we went thorugh our first 2 hours in Natchez, MS. Ben, you've got to be the most interesting reporter we've talked to on this trip, and that's saying a lot! Thank you for a wonderful AND INTERESTING time. Natchez Democrat, hope we can use this photo!!!

I have no idea what to tell him, no idea how we do what we do.  We normally ride up into a town like a couple of scraggly ruffians and people start asking questions:  “What’chall doin’?”  “Are you guys bikers, paddlers, runners, killers?” “You guys smell horrible, will you please leave my place of business?” But a reporter for the Natchez Democrat in Natchez, MS wants to know how we get people to talk to us, and I feel like a total tool for not knowing exactly.

“Um, we pretty much just let the Universe bring us people,” I say.

He’s not having it.  “I’m going to follow y’all ‘round,” Mr. Reporter Man says, “and y’all just do what you normally do.”

Normally we would paddle for days on end until someone pulled up beside us in a boat, asked us what we were doing and offered to put us up for the night.  We would then film, eek out the quirkiness of the family or person in question (via my insightful and incisive questioning, ahem) and that would be the footage we will use when it’s time to make a movie about people on the Mississippi River.  But this man wants a demonstration of God’s power, and he’s on a deadline, so God better start working fast.

“How ‘bout that guy?” he asks.  It’s a young black man cooking sausages on the street.  Natchez, a beautiful town, is surrounded by a humidified haze as the sun goes down.  “Um,” I say, “I guess I could ask him.”  I feel like a total dork.  I really can’t come up with a definable method we use to get people to interact with us, nevermind get them to invite us into their homes.  People just tend to show up.  I know I can go up and say, “Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy, cookin’ sausages?  Coooool.  So like what do you think of a couple of guys paddlin’ down the river, cooooool, n’c’est pas?”  He will either grunt or fart and look at me like I’m nuts, or he will start talking and introduce me to his boss who knows a guy who knows a guy who will put Phillip and me up for the night.  It could go either way, and I’ve always felt more comfortable when God was flipping the coin.  But Ben (an excellent reporter by the way; thank you, Ben, for an awesome interview and photo session, did you get my good side? J) is asking me to force things; and, though I don’t like it, I’m going to ask the Universe to pick up the pace.

Prayer timmmmeeeeee! I say to myself.  So like look, God, we need a goddamn demonstration of your power, send us a dude who is interesting on camera, has a cool house, an interesting life situation, and more importantly can give us showers and breakfast, so we can show this here reporter how exactly 11 Visions whoops some documentary-making ass.  Cool?

“Cool!” God said (his voice sounded a lot like the one from the Charlton Heston version of Exodus) “Thou shalt go to a bar and order a beeeeer!  And also don’t steal, lie, or mess with other people’s wives.”

“Aren’t there seven more?”

“Will you just get your ass to a bar for the love of Christ!”

Geez, God is testy today.  To a bar we go.

“Where’s a bar?” I ask Ben.

“Weeeelll,” he says.  “Where y’all were was perfect; there’s a saloon right off the river.”

We ain’t on the river! “Anywhere closer?”

“Weeeeeeellll, there’s the corner bar right over there.”  A nice-looking hole in the wall with a green awning.  That’ll do.

The Corner Bar

Lights, camera, action.  It’s picture perfect.  Just what we were looking for.  Everyone is middle-aged.  Awesome, I think, middle-aged people generally

  1. think we’re crazy
  2. want to do what we’re doing “and if [they  were] just a little bit younger and had a few less kids [they]’d do it too in a heartbeat”
  3. have disposable income to buy us beer and food and god knows what else
  4. own their own homes, have already booted their kids out and are itchin’ to fill those extra rooms even if it’s just for one or two nights

Through the door, it’s a long walk to the far end of the bar top.  We sweep the length of it like movie stars.  Every head turns as Ben snaps pictures – his digital SLR, a telephoto lens.  “What in the hell are these guys?” they think, and I respond, We’re movie stars, duh.

We take our seats.  Men, black and white, with golf hats, golf shoes and rolls of cash hit on the only female bartender.  “It’s kinda like the rabid dog in To Kill a Mockingbird,” Courtney Aldridge, the man, who in two hours will put us up for the night, says.  “Y’all are unusual – the only game in town worth watchin’.”

Ben is asking me with his eyes to work some movie magic.  Shit, um, I guess I could…  “Order a damn beeer!” God says again.  To the bartender!  “Howdy, ma’am!  My friend and I are paddling down the Mississipi River.”  More heads turn.  Maybe I know how to do this after all.  “And we would like to know what beer specials you have.”  Big smile on my face – goddamned if I don’t know how to do this!  “Well,” she says, “it’s happy hour, so you got domestics for $1.25 and imports $1.50.”  “Bud,” I say.  “Guinness,” Phil says.  Ooooo, got an extra quarter to go fancy I guess – drunken Irish bastard!

Black men in Polo shirts are eyeing us.  They could work. Elder women on the far side of the bar.  “What’s he doing?  What’s he doing?” Snap, snap, goes Ben’s camera.  A balding post-baby boomer with a nonchalant gait walks past.  Headed to the john are you? “Hey my friend…”

“Hey, yourself,” he cuts me off.  “Bikers, are you?”

“Nossir, paddlers.”

Courtney - on right.  His friend and colleague - William - on left.  I know Presbyterians are pretty open, buddy, but I talk to God personally, and HE REALLY DISAPPROVES OF YOUR SMOKING!  LOL.
Courtney - on right. His friend and colleague - William - on left. I know Presbyterians are pretty open, buddy, but I talk to God personally, and HE REALLY DISAPPROVES OF YOUR SMOKING! LOL.

“Figured as much.  You got wading shoes on.  Bikers don’t wear wading shoes.  I biked all across France; wouldn’t be caught dead wearin’ shoes like that.”  Ben is ultra-interested now.  He can’t believe that we’ve gotten someone to talk to us and is snapping pictures like a madman.   “Tell us about Natchez,” I say, and Courtney, who will make us tomato basil grits with Vine Brothers Sausage in the morning, says, “Well, shoot, I’ll tell ya about Natchez,” and forgets about the bathroom entirely.  “Natchez is an artsy town.”

“Figured as much,” I say, “I told Phillip – this is my friend Phillip – paddlin’ up here that this town had a different feel than Vicksburg.”

“Oh it totally does,” Courtney says.  Ben eases his shutter speed off to a slow crawl, more interested.  “Vicksburg fought the Union soldiers like hell.

Vicksburg:  Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.  Natchez:  My give up, my give up.
Vicksburg: "Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin." Natchez: "My give up, my give up."

We didn’t.  Their citizens dug holes in the ground to escape Northern shelling.  They put their furniture and pictures down there to decorate the ‘place.’  They ate rats, killed dogs in the street for food as General Grant tried to starve ’em out.  Shit, when Grant rolled up on Natchez, we put our hands up and said, ‘We give up.’”  Damn, this is interesting.  Thank you God; I knew You’d come through for me – Ben is still amazed! “Natchez was settled by Northerners.  They wasn’t gonna fight.”  Courtney turns the questioning on me:  “How far y’all paddlin’ down?”

“Started in…”

“Minnesota, din’ ya?”

“Yes”

“Goin’ to New Orleans.  Yeah, you’re only about the tenth guy I’ve talked to that’s done that.  I put up guys like you in my house all the time.”  He pulls out a Marlboro Light, sparks his Zippo and looks like he’s about to fall asleep my story is so boring.  “So y’all just order what you want to eat.  Y’all want steak?  I’ll order it – hey, Mary, get these guys some steaks!  Y’all want mashed p’tatas?  Mary!  Get these guys some mashed tatas.  Biscuits?  Mary!  Salad?  Mary Mary Mary!  Y’all’ll be set.  Who’s this guy?” he asks referring to Ben.

“Reporter.”

“I’m Ben Hillyer…”

“I know who you are,” Courtney says like he’s looking at a crushed bug on the sidewalk.  “I gotta take a piss.”  He’s gone.

“Sooo, Ben,” I say, “that’s kinda how it works.  Um, I hope…”

“Ohhh, no, guys, that was perfect, can I get a few shots of you guys in the boats?”

“Yeah, you can,” Courtney says returning.  “I’ll give you guys a ride down there.  You’ll come to my church tonight where there’s a little cookout, shit, my wife’s calling, hey baby!  What’s up?  There’s these boys that’s gonna stay with us tonight paddlin’ the river?  Well, you’ll meet ‘em tonight?  You boys killers?  Naw, honey, they straight.  I love you.  Get in the car, boys.  Nice to meet you Ben,” and he’s out the door while I stand there with one thought in my head:  God, You work in mysterious ways.

Ben Gets His Shots and is Satisfied

Ben takes our pictures at the boat launch while Courtney backs his King Ranch pickup down the ramp.  I try to say to Ben something like, “So this is how it all works,” but I know it’s bullshit.  I have, Phillip has, we have nothing to do with how this all works out.  It just does.

D’Evereux Mansion

Pretty badass, ain't it?
Pretty badass, ain't it?

Back at the bar, Courney has too many interesting things to say to include in one blog post, but we learn that…

  1. Rednecks are not just Southern; they’re everywhere.  “You take a look at Natchez, you’ll scarcely find a redneck.  They just ain’t here.  Good education here, and we’re 53% black and poor as shit.  Rednecks – shit – L.A.’s full of ‘em.  Redneck is just a socioeconomic mindset limited by I.Q. and opportunity.”  That, my friends, is about the best and most insightful definition of “redneck” that I have ever heard in my life.  Maybe, indeed, I am speaking to God.
  2. “You can be who you want in Natchez.  Hell I have several gay, OPENLY,” he marks, “gay friends in Natchez.  We don’t care.  It’s a liberal town.  You should talk to our local golf pro, Tom, sittin’ right over there…”  Tom, one of the older black men in golf hats, hears us talk about him but deliberately decides not to turn around.  If he is the saint Courtney says he is, he cannot turn around, will not seek the spotlight and indeed stares squarely at the television.  “Tom was here during the sit-ins of the Civil Rights Movement.  Hell, he sat in!  My family was friends with his.  My daddy had KKK burned in his front yard just cuz we was friends with black folks.  It was a f—ed up time.  But that’s how it was.  Natchez – settled by Northeners back in the day.  We weren’t like the rest of Mississippi.  Poor as shit ‘cept for a few millionaires who made it big in cotton, but we had culture.  And that’s the big difference.  Rednecks?  No culture.”  I really want to pick Tom’s brain; I want to know what it was like being black in Mississippi in 1962, want to know how he became the golf pro, but it’s time to go.  I go to shake his hand.  “Courtney had tons of nice things to say about you,” I tell him.  “Who?” he asks, and “About me?” he asks, and “Yes” I say, and I know he’s a saint.  But before we go Courtney offers us…
  3. Katrina.  We’re getting ever closer to one of the biggest debacles in U.S. disaster-handling history.  It’s a sore point for everybody.  It’s a political bombshell.  And we’re getting closer and closer to the gaping wound – we’re getting closer to New Orleans.  Courtney offers no politics – he has a personal story to tell:  “I put people up,” he says.  “I own five houses in town, and I don’t like renting ‘em out, but when Katrina hit, shoot, I put tons of people up.  They had nowhere to go.  Clients of mine who I hadn’t talked to in years found me off of an old invoice when their home was destroyed.  Natchez had ‘em in the convention center, kids and all, living on pallets – they had their entire possessions in pillow cases – I found ‘em and put ‘em up in one of my houses.  Couldn’t stop there; had to do something.  Put five more families up.  I mean these weren’t poor folks; these were people with jobs and insurance who lost everything.  Where do they go?  I had to do something.”  Courtney, I think, must be a saint as well. Politics now:  “Yeah, Bush fucked up.  Of course he did.  But so did [now ex] Govenor Blanco and Mayor Nagin.  They had the busses in place to bus people outta there – I mean, shit, 60% of New Orleans doesn’t have a car! – they NEEDED to be bussed out of there – so Bush thinks Blanco’s handling the busses and vice versa and it’s a big f—in’ mess!  Ridiculous.  Bullshit.  It’s just people, man,” Courtney adds at the end.  “I usually vote Republican because I’m fiscally conservative, but you gotta do somethin’ for the people – that’s just a no-brainer.”

Courtney has us back in his King Ranch.  Rain falls and the windows are up.  “This place is a f—in’ mess; I been livin’ out of this thing for weeks,” he says.  “Drove to Fort Worth and back yesterday, meeting with some clients, fourteen hours in the car, yeah,” he says looking at my wide eyes, “I know.”  He swings us by his church.  Presbyterian.

“Scottish, are you?”

“Psst.  No, might as well be, ornery as I am.”  He lights another Marlboro.  “Cookout is done, know you boys had them steaks at the Corner, just wanted you to meet some church folk.  No matter, let’s go to bed.”

The drive to Courtney’s house is long and slow and rainy.  I feel good.  I’m in the arms of a saint, I think.  A saint who drinks and smokes and uses the F word more than I do (can you imagine!) and seems about as interested in us as a dog in its own butt, but through that relaxed exterior offers us room and board and food and pearls of wisdom.

As we pull up on D’Evereux Mansion, I think about Ben.  Damned, Ben.  I guess there is a method to this madness.  But I’ll be damned myself… if I can put it into words.

Stay tuned for Part II,

Ryan

The Hitchhiking Movie to Premiere at Secret City Film Festival

The Hitchhiking Movie
The Hitchhiking Movie

Nashville, TN — September 24, 2009 — Nashville based filmmakers Ryan Jeanes and Phillip Hullquist are premiering their first feature film The Hitchhiking Movie on October 9th at the Secret City Film Festival in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. The movie follows the pair’s attempt to cross the entire continental United States in less than a week, using nothing more than their thumbs.

“After over a year of work on this project, we can finally see The Hitchhiking Movie play on the big screen,” said Hullquist, who also served as editor for the film, which is already receiving positive reviews and press. First time filmmakers often times get bogged down in the overwhelming amount of work involved in actually completing a movie, but as Jeanes explains, “The real work is done in the editing room.  Successfully filming our hitchhiking adventure was an accomplishment, but I was more excited when we had the finished product.  The positive reviews have just made the experience sweeter.”

“Before we left for the trip, people told us we’d be stabbed or murdered,” Jeanes says. “Very heartening.”  The 101-minute feature film chronicles the filmmaking duo’s experiences as 23 complete strangers stop on the side of the road and take them from New York City towards Los Angeles. (You will have to watch the film to see if they actually make it.)  “I had already bought two return tickets from L.A.” Jeanes continues. “We had to make it or we’d miss the flight back.”

The pair created the website 11visions.com which not only sells their DVD but also highlights their current adventures which include a kayaking trip down the entire length of the Mississippi River. Adventure travel seems to be their mainstay, but as Jeanes explains, “I think many people have the desire to leave their current existence and do something crazy. Where most people stop at that impulse, we actually go do it and get it on film.”

The Hitchhiking Movie is funny, insightful and full of unexpected surprises.  Hullquist explains, “I was a one-man crew with no script, so it was challenging to set up the shots we needed to make the film. We wanted to capture the realism of being like any other hitchhiker on the road, so our camera gear was kept to a minimum.”

What about the danger? “That’s what we wanted to dispel,” Hullquist says. “This is a realistic portrayal of hitchhiking unlike what you see in your average horror movie.”  ”There’s no blood and guts,” Jeanes adds. “The only real fear was whether we could make it before the deadline.”

Entertaining scenarios abound in this documentary:  A hysterical yet attractive young woman offers to drive them all the way from New Jersey to Los Angeles, a Seminole Indian entreats them to smoke his prayer pipe, a rowdy, one-eyed construction worker instructs on the basics of train hopping, and the pair finds themselves desperate in Denver with over 1000 miles to travel and less than 48 hours in which to do it.  If a real life adventure is your thing, this film is for you.

“A lot of people probably aren’t going to finish watching the movie and then go stick their thumbs out on the side of the road,” Jeanes points out. “The beauty is that The Hitchhiking Movie is for both the armchair and active adventurer. You can share in the fun without ever leaving your house.”

But Jeanes and Hullquist aren’t stopping there. Just two months after the DVD release of The Hitchhiking Movie, photography for their next film began in Minnesota. Their new film is titled The River is Life, and it tells the story of people they meet while paddling down the entire Mississippi River. A third documentary, a lighthearted exploration of heaven, hell and the idiosyncrasies of religion, is also in the works.

Tickets for The Hitchhiking Movie as well as more information about the festival are available at www.secretcityfilms.com. To purchase a DVD for home viewing go to www.hitchhikingmovie.com, or visit the parent website www.11visions.com. The film is available in streaming video and DVD which includes bonus scenes, an audio commentary from the crew as well as a special “drunk commentary.

Sandbar, Sandwich, A Knife Carves Your Heart Out

A sandbar in the middle of the night, we stop.  This is where we shall sleep – one inch from the water, middle of the canal.

Two hours earlier Phil said, “If there was going to be a canal, it would be on the other side of the rock dam.”  Night falling fast; we see nothing.

“No, if there was going to be a canal to the city it would be in front of the rock dam.”  Still can see… nothing.

Darkness.  “I think it’s on the other side.”

Black.  “Phil,” I plead, “just go with me on this one; I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

We do not fight; the canal is in front; I say nothing; Phil says nothing; we are content; we’re on our way to Lake Providence through the canal in the dark.

All I can see.  Blackness.  And the faintness of Phillip's red hair.
All I can see. Blackness. And the faintness of Phillip's red hair.

Hunger…

…is like a knife in the chest.  It carves you out, and neither of us have eaten in a long time.

Five hours earlier Phillip and I dug through the food bag – a can of snow peas, a can of sweet corn, a small tub of chili.  (Thank you, Tamia, for the chili.  :))  “Okay,” I said to Phil, “you take the veggies, I’ll take the meat.”  “Deal,” he said.  We stave off hunger for two hours and then the knife.  “How many apples we got left?” I ask.

“Two.  Both rotten.”

I bite the rotten parts and spit the chunks into the river.  The rest of the apples is soft but good.  Hunger, the knife, is staved off… for thirty minutes.  I try humor.  “Hey Phil, how many T-bone steaks you got up there?”

“Only got tenderloin.”

“Well then forget it!” I laugh.  Phil laughs.  “If all we had was tenderloin would you eat it?” I ask Mr. Vegetarian.

“Of course,” he says, and I know he means it because his voice is devoid of levity.  The knife has carved out his chest as well.

It, the hunger, moves to my solar plexus.  It is a full two hours before we will reach Lake Providence, Louisiana.

“Lemme see the map,” Phil says.  I show him and know he’s looking at the canal.  “It’s good you’ve got this map,” he says.  “My GPS shoes no canal whatsoever.  I would have parked the boat on the river, walked over and gone ‘oh shit!'”

“You woulda got yo’ knickers wet!” I laugh, but I’m laughing to keep myself from thinking about the hunger which carves… deeper.  What food is in the food bag? I think, paddling, night, knife.  The canned bread dough Tamia gave us.  I could eat it raw.  No, Phillip wants to save that for when we have an oven.  There’s green beans.  Green beans without bacon and butter?  Might as well eat dirt.  What else?  What else?  Hormel, mechanically separated meat product.  Oh jeez, raw???  I’d rather eat processed death.  God it’s getting dark. Paddle, paddle, night, death, knife, carving.  How the hell are we out of food!  All right, when we get to Lake Providence, it’ll all be all right.  There’s gotta be something open.  There’s gotta be at least a gas station to get peanut butter and jelly.  Gotta be. “What did your GPS show in town?” I ask Phil, sunlight gone now, twilight.

“It showed a Sonic.  What’s there?  I’ve never been to one.”

“Ha ha ha.  No vegetables.  Trust me.”

Two days earlier –

Greenville, MS.  The park ranger who said he’d look the other way if we wanted to camp in his park says, “Ha!  Closest supermarket?  Oh, das about 6 miles away!”  “Screw it,” I said to Phillip, “we got low supplies, but we’ll run into somethin’.”  “Yeah,” he agreed, “it’s not far to Lake Providence, and it looks like it’s right on the river.”  We were right – Lake Providence is right on the river, but we were wrong about how long our supplies would last.  Beans only went so far; potatoes only went so far.  Food ran out.  Lake Providence had to work.

The knife has moved to my stomach; I am hollow.  Geez, I hope that Sonic is open. “Check the GPS,” I tell Phillip.  He says he did.  “Do it again,” I snap and realize I’m letting my physical malady affect my communication skills.  “Sorry,” I say.  “Could you please look again?  I don’t want to miss this road.”  There is a hook-like road a thousand feet from the canal.  Phil says it’s called City Dump Road, and I laugh.  Walk through the trash to eat our stash. An hour and a half has passed in the canal.  There is no current and I know we must be going not much more than three miles an hour.  “Phil…” I say ready to pass out when he says we should stop here because the road is close.  Perfect!  A half-mud/half-sandbar is near where we beach the boats.  I grab my headlamp and he grabs what he calls his “jerk off” flashlight, named such because you have to shake it back and forth to charge it.  Through the brush.  The man who will sell us our peanut butter, jelly and holy bread will tell us that that that little stretch is full of cottonmouth snakes.  But it is a good thing that now we are completely oblivious to that fact because we are hungry and there is a Sonic and I am going to kill someone and the sawgrass is cutting up my shins and burrs are sticking onto my ass and the knife… turns and turns and turns.  We’re out of the brush.  We walk up a levee wall, and it’s like that scene in the movie where the fellows on the road trip drive up on the lights of Las Vegas.  Lights, city spreading wide!  Food!  Where’s the damn Sonic!

We walk down the embankment.  A playground on a Saturday night and children are playing.  Why are children playing at 9pm? Poor area, I realize.  This is all there is to do. We walk a mile, the only white people in the area.  The town is dead.  Signs in clothing stores selling Fubu and Sean John.  They all say TRAVELERS WELCOME and I laugh and say, “At least we’re welcome.”

Desolate.  No one.  Late.  Hungry.
Desolate. No one. Late. Hungry.

Four more blocks and there is the Sonic.  “Holy Sonic, Batman!”  “What do they have here?” Phillip asks again.  “Who cares,” I say and tear a hole between me and the speaker on the menu.  “Hi!  Two large breakfast burritos!” I say and rejoice.  Phillip studies the menu carefully and finally settles on tater tots with cheese.  We eat in silence.  Oil is dripping from my burritos.  “Looks like motor oil,” Phil says.  “Probably is,” I say and take a bigger chomp.  Then I meditate.  I sit with my eyes closed feeling very very good.  I’m tempted to pig out – slushies and cherry limeades and Blizzards and corndogs and chili dogs and I could really, really stuff myself.  But I don’t.  I meditate.  I close my eyes and bless the food in my stomach.  I feel good.  I’ve staved the knife off.  The knife is no more, and that is good.

“What ch’all doin’!” Latasha, the manager says.  You know what I will say:  “Paddlin’ the river.”

“Oh, shoot, I wouddn’t even get on a bridge.  I’m scared.  Y’all scared?”

“No.”

“Ah, no, I wouddn’t even…  Haw’d y’all get here?”

“Cut through the brush.  From the channel.”

“What channel?”

“There’s a channel that parallels the river.”

“Dere is?  Where?”

“Well, right that way.”

“I lived here 25 years; ain’t never known there was a channel.  I keep away from that river,” she says.

Another guy comes up to me and shakes his head when I tell him what we’re doing.  I ask him to use his cell phone.  “Hey mom, I’m in Lake Providence, Louisiana, it’s 9:30 pm, and I love you.”  I hand the phone back and he shakes his head.  “What ch’all travelin’ in?” he says.

“A kayak.”

“A whose ak?”

“Kayak, like a canoe.”

“A canoe boat?”

“Yes, a canoe boat.”

He shakes his head harder.  “You need to call somebody else?  Psychiatrist?”

I laugh.  “No.”

Gimme some tots!
Gimme some tots!

Latasha comes out and says her employee can take us to the corner store so we can buy some bread and whatever else we need.  The employee comes out and says he can take us but he has to run his momma some food.  He leaves and comes back thirty minutes later and says he forgot.  We get up and leave without a word.  We are not angry.  There is no knife in our solar plexus.  What is a broken promise when one has food in one’s stomach?  I meditate some more.  It is a mile walk to the corner store, and I feel good.  Grimy, sweaty night and I feel good.

The store owner is not suprised when we tell him we’re kayakers, is more than happy to hook us up with peanut butter, jelly and cookies and macaroons.  And we are even happier… until he says where we have to walk back through is full of snakes.

It’s night now.  Phil and I have our food to last us till Vicksburg (where we are now!).  We paddle in the dark, dark channel until we hit a sandbar.  It’s a sign.  It’s time to camp and make sandwiches, so we do.  Our tents are one inch from the water, but the sandwiches are one inch from our mouths; and, a plastic utensil smeared with Jiff is the only sign left… of a knife.

Phil and I Have it Out, For Real

Phillip has made another snide comment about my shortcomings and I’ve had it.  “You have something you want to say to me, you say it to my face,” I say.

He demurs.

“No, no, you’re not getting away that easily; I’m tired of the comments under the breath, the implications, the innuendoes:  You wanna say something?  You go ahead and say it, cuz, buddy, that’s it!”

“Okay,” he says, “you’re not careful with things.”

“We’re still bringing that shit up?”

“No, no, listen – my camera case is marked up, my Flip (it’s a type of camera) is marked up, and you’re not careful.”

“I had the damn Flip in the dry box the whole time…”

“Well, it’s all marked up…”

“So you’re saying that if you had been here that never would have happened?”

“Yes.”

“Well, guess what, buddy?  YOU WEREN’T HERE!  You gave me the equipment and took off!  I did the best I could with what I had, what I knew and what you gave me.”

“Well, if…”

“So if you had been here…”

“Yes,

“K.  Prove it.”

“Well, I can’t prove it; I just know that…”

“Bullshit!  You can’t prove it!  You can’t because you weren’t here under these circumstances, dealing with what I’ve had to deal with!  You can’t prove it because you came up to me 20 minutes before your cab was leaving for Minneapolis airport saying you were bailing on the trip!”

“I didn’t bail on the…”

“You can’t prove it because you like to sit there in your high-and-mighty chair and say ‘Duh, if I had been there, duh boat wouldn’t have flipped.’  ‘Course you’ll never say that to me directly, will you?  You’ll just make your damn comments!”

“I didn’t bail on the trip,” Phillip says looking down.

I’ve hurt him.  I’m mad about his if-I-had-been-here-this-wouldn’t-have-happened BS, but that was unfair.  I change tactics.  I try to focus on where we go from here.

“Look,” I say, “we’re going to have a difference of opinion on whether or not X would have happened if you had been here, but you weren’t here, so it’s not fair to recriminate from afar.”

He agrees.

“I’ll agree that I could have been more careful with your camera case and the Flip, but with what I knew, with what you gave me at the time in terms of training and instructions, that’s what I did, so it’s not fair for you to keep on with your ‘should haves,’ ‘should haves’ and more ‘should haves’.”

“Agreed.”

“If you have something to say,” I continue, trying to lower my heart rate, “say it directly.  No more snide comments, side comments, indirectness.”

“Okay.  Will you be more careful with things?”

“Yes.  Now that I know.”

“Well it’s common sense…”

We have it out for another twenty minutes after he challenges my common sense.  Then we say that we are sorry, that we’ll agree that each other’s point of view is not necessarily the correct one and that this is stupid. We have not fought significantly for three days since… going on four.

Tunica

Phil’s ex-roommate, Wes, drops us off in Tunica, Mississippi.  He’s trying to get me to admit that his girlfriend, whom he has brought with him, is hot.

“I don’t know, Wes,” I say packing up our boats.

“But I mean…  Jessica, come here.  Ryan, tell Jessica, she’s hot in Spanish.”

“Jessica, you’re hot in Spanish,” I say.

“Noooo,” Wes says.  “Say it in Spanish.  I know you know Spanish, now say it.”

“Jessica,” I say in Spanish, “you are going out with the biggest buffoon in Memphis.”  She laughs, we pack the boats, we move on.

The Rain

“And the rains came.” – Unknown

And they did.  I had never had more than two consecutive days of rain on the Mississippi.  Past Tunica we have had rain every day – rain in the morning, evening, night.  Rain when it’s time to set up camp, rain when it’s time to tear down.  Rain when we’re eating, rain when we’re sleeping.  Thinking – rain.  Breathing – rain.  As I type this – rain, rain, rain.

“Thank you, God,” I said yesterday going to sleep, “thank you for the rain.  The rain waters the crops which I eat.  Thank you.  But for the love of God, let up sometimes!” I looked into the Sky and laughed hoping… He got the joke.

Greenville, MS and Podunk, Podunk

Past Memphis, it is Podunk.  There is nothing.  One town every three days.  No cell reception.  No internet.  No nothin’.  We have a 15% signal off our Virgin Mobile Broadband right where I sit.  If I move two inches to the left – no signal.

A black man pulls up, a park ranger.  “I’m s’posed to charge ya for stayin’ here.”

“Oh, we’re not stayin’ here.  Paddlin’ down the Mississippi.”

“Humph!” he says with a wide smile, “third group this year!  Last guys gave up right at the spot y’all standin’ in.  Said they was hitchhikin’ home; y’all hitchhikin’ home?”

A challenge he has given me.  A challenge behind a wide, loving smile.

“No sir,” I say and smile back.  He smiles even wider.

“Gooood,” he says.  “Y’all didn’t seem like the quittin’ type.”  He’s carting around a member of the Mississippi Convict Labor Force in his truck.  A white boy – city labor done by the city jail.  He turns to him.  “Told ya, din’ I?  Told you they was paddlin’.  Now look,” he says to me.  “You ain’t s’posed to camp here lest I charge you 15 bucks.  But I can’t be ev’rywhere at once if you know what I mean.”  He winks at the convict.

“Thank you sir,” I say, “but I think we’ll be movin’ on.”

“Humph!” he smiles.  “You boys just might make it.”

“Yessir,” I say.  “I think we will.”

A Deceptive Gun Points at You

This is redneckville.  People are shot here; I know because a man is holding a gun, and it looks like he’s pointing it at me.  A sillouette.  He’s in the cab of his pickup truck; I am behind him. A long hunting rifle – a scope that can kill animals, that can kill me – the barrel points out the window.  He has a hat on – a ballcap.  I can’t see his face, but when I run up on him to ask him to help portage our boats, he points the gun out the window.  No face, but to me, from this distance, with this vantage point, with this silouette of a man jamming a gun out the window, I am terrified.  An angry face I see in my mind.  Redneckville + gun + scope + he pointed it out the window right when I ran up on him = Fear = Oh my god, this guy is going to shoot me. = I need to get out of here.

portage
The perfect bottleneck - ripe for a portage.

“No need for that,” I say… scared.  “I’m just… I just wanted to see if you could help me move my boats.”

He’s looking into the rearview mirror, it seems.  He has seen me and deemed me a nuissance or a threat or something “he just don’ wanna deal with ‘roun’ these parts.  We don’ take kindly to strangers.” He spits chaw on the ground without spitting.  I can see, swear I can see him looking at me through the rearview mirror when I turn around and walk the other way.  I’m angry now.  Fucking rednecks, I think.  I swear to god what is the deal with them.  Small town bullshit.  I mean, dude, I just wanted help.  You pull out a FUCKING GUNNNN!!!  For what?  For asking questions!  For not knowing me?  “Duuuuuhhh, oohhhh, I’m just a dumbass redneck and dis here guy run up on me an’ I tink duh best ting id too pull duh gun out, duhhhhhhhhhhh.” I’m so mad, uncontrolably mad.  Every beef I’ve ever had with small-town, isolationist mentality surfaces:  clinging to guns, clinging to mistrust, clinging to stupidity.  Someone, afterall, just pointed a gun at me.  I didn’t deserve that; no one does.  F-ing rednecks.

I walk to the west side of the portage point.  It’s a no go.  We can’t do it.  Tons of brush, tons of rocks.  Phillip would complain so much if we had to carry these boats over this mess, I think.  I just got a goddamn gun pointed at me, I think.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so mad in all my life. I feel sad at the experience now, sad at the mistrust.  I feel angry and disappointed I’ll have to walk all the way back to Phillip and tell him we can’t portage.  He will be right, you know.  He wanted just to paddle on and not worry about the portage.  Now he will say I’ve blown 30 minutes scouting when “You knew!” he will say “there was no way we were going to be able to transfer all this gear over that road!”  I will feel stupid and have to admit he was right all because some redneck who had a pickup truck couldn’t be nice enough to move our boats .8 miles across a damn bottleneck and chose instead to point a goddamn gun at me for wanting to walk up to his window and ask a damn question.

I’m almost to Phillip now.  Up this ramp, over the bank and “I’m sorry, you’re right, let’s get goin’, it was worth a shot though, wasn’t it?” He will nod yes with his head, but he will think no in his heart.  We will load the boats in silence and launch and Phil will be smug and right, and I’ll feel bad for “wasting time.”

A car.  A rumbling in the distance.  Gravel.  Dust.  It’s the redneck.  This mother f—-er stops and I’m giving him a piece of my mind, I think.

He stops.

I eyeball him.  I am right, I think.  Gun or no, I am right and you can go to hell! “Howdy,” I say as smugly and rightly as I can.

“Hi,” he says not looking like he’s going to pull a gun out and try to intimidate me like he did the last time.

What the hell, I am thinking.  This guy just threatened my life, now he’s gonna pull up on me as if nothing.  Fuck that!  He’s not getting away with that. I bring the issue right out into the open:  “Sooooo, you gonna point that gun at me again?”

“What?”

“I ran up on ya back there and you pointed the gun out the window like you were trying to scare me off.  You don’t need to do that you know.  Some people just want help.  Not everyone is a nuisance or someone that’s tryin’ to kill ya.”

“No…”  He looks genuinely hurt, and I feel the first rumblings of feeling like a complete and total dumbass.  “No,” he continues, “I was cleanin’ that gun.  I don’ think I ever sawya.  I’m sorry.  Did I scare you?  No, that’s my new hunting rifle…”  He turns to the story behind the gun – it’s the only safe ground for an awkward moment.  “I got that rifle for my gran’son and I had it on the dash and was just cleanin’ it; I swear I didn’t see ya.”

I feel incredibly stupid.  “I’m sorry myself,” I say.  “From where I was standing, it looked like I ran up to your cab from the back and you pointed the gun out the window…”

“Naw, nawww, naw,” genuinely hurt.

We have an uneasy peace now.  The misunderstanding has been sorted out, but the stone, that pit in your stomach that is left after all your rage and hurt and pain have subsided, is floating around under my solar plexus.  He must feel it too, I think.  He must know how pissed off I must have been and what I must have thought about him and his town.  He must feel bad about my misjudgment.  Now, he must just want to help.

“How can I help you?” he says.

“I’m just tryin’ to portage…”

“Portage your boats!” he affirms.  Tony, his name, tells me that I’m only the eightieth kayaker to try and portage that bottleneck, that it’s practically world-famous for that, and that that’s the first thing he should have thought of when he saw me, and that he’s sorry.  I say I’m sorry about fifty more times and accept his invitation to get in the cab, where the rifle sits ominously on the dashboard, and drive to Phillip.

The Gun - Ominous
The Gun - Ominous

Phillip looks semi-surprised to see me there in the passenger side of a pickup.  He wished, secretly, for my insistence on finding a way to portage to be in vain.  I was here now; I was right, sort of; and, it was time to find a way to drive one mile to save twenty miles.

Tony hops out of the truck and surveys the boats.  “Ahhhh,” he says.  “Inflatables.  Ain’t never seen that.”  He has an honest and quiet gait.  I notice he has an inhaler instead of a phone in his cell phone holster.

“You got athsma?” I ask, trying to slather on some sense of common ground over this still uneasy peace.

“Yeah.”

“I do too.”

“It bother ya much?”

“Not much.  I was up aroun’ (I’m talking southern again.) the Iowa border, an’ it got real bad there, not so much here.”

“Yeah, I gotta whole host of ailments.  Pulmonary Fibrosis id one of ‘em.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Phil and I say simultaneously.

Tony decides he’s going to drive back and get his boat trailer because he “think [he] gotta empty wun, an’ I also gotta few watermelons I wanna giv’ yuh.”

What a cool guy, I think.  And what a moron I feel.

Tony makes good on his watermelon promise.  “You just cut duh hart out uvit,” he says.  “Don’ even worrih ‘bout dem seeds.”  The heart of the watermelon is pink and juicy and just about the most delicious damn think I’ve ever had in my life (Yes, I know I’ve said that before J.).  Tony says it’s okay to leave the rest for the flies, helps us load our boats on his trailer, and says he’s going to drive us around town because “you cant leave Tiptonville, KY without learning a lil bit ‘bout duh history of dese parts.”

During the ride into town (where he’ll not only help us cut off those pesky 20 miles around what is known as Kentucky Bend but also 8 more by taking us to the Tiptonville boat launch – there indeed was no viable put-in point directly across the bottleneck – Phillip was right about that), Tony continually asks if we “need anything?”  “Cigarettes, supplies, anything?”

“No,” I say watching him smoke his Pall Malls one after the other secretly wishing he would stop because though we are new friends, we’re still friends, and I really don’t want to watch Pulmonary Fibrosis consume his lungs.

Tony and I - An Uneasy Peace
Tony and I - An Uneasy Peace

Tony takes us to Reelfoot Lake, formed by the Great New Madrid Earthquake of 1811.  He says there was an old Chickasaw Indian chief with a clubfoot who fell in love with a Choctaw princess down south.  When her love was denied to him, he stomped his foot causing the great earthquake.  He smiles because the legend is good and can tell I like the story.  He points out the Cyprus trees in the lake and I think they’re beautiful.  Phil snaps some photos, and we’re off to the boat launch.

The boat launch is at Mile Marker 873.  Tony helped us cut 27 miles and stoked my mental fires about the history of the area with his stories of the clubfooted chief, the greatest earthquake in U.S. history, and the Battle of Island Number Ten where 700 Confederate soldiers held off 15,000 Union soldiers.  300, anyone?

An old farmer with no teeth has parked in front of the boat launch.  I think he sees that we want to get down there but chooses to walk down to the riverfront to watch the current.  Fucking red…, I start thinking and stop myself.  I’ve already done this, I think.  I’ve already misperceived today; I don’t want to do it again.  Maybe he’s just old and doesn’t realize we’re there, I think.  Tony isn’t having any of it.  He rips the boat trailer around the guy in reverse and deftly steers the trailer over young saplings parking it not 12 inches from the water.  Damn, I think.

The old farmer walks up the hill not giving us a second glance.  He has been bested, I think.  Tony didn’t get mad at him, challenge him, and tell him to move out of the way.  He just went around him.  Maybe that’s what I need to do – not get mad at people.  Go around them.  Not take them personally.  Because, as with the case of Tony, I am wrong many times.  I don’t see things as they really are. I said a small blessing for the skinny, old farmer with no teeth and wished him well.  Tony had taught me to do that without saying a word.

Phillip and I are good at offloading things now, and have the boats packed and ready to go at the water’s edge before Tony can finish half of his new cigarette.  All we can do now is talk.  Tony tells us that he left home when he was 18.  He worked in the barge trade on the Ohio River working his way up to Steersman.  When we tell him about The Hitchhiking Movie, he says he hitched out to California and got stuck in Arizona.  He noticed a man walking through the middle of the desert and decided to follow him.  The man was a Native American going to see his tribe.  Tony stayed with the tribe drinking his fill of peyote and spending his days in sweat lodges until he wore out his welcome.  He hitched on to California where he stayed in Timothy Leary’s compound and had “all the windowpane [he] could handle.”

I ask him what windowpane is and Phillip (Mr. I Grew Up Seventh Day Adventist) knows that it’s LSD.  Misperceptions; things are not what they seem:  Phil knows LSD, I know portages and saving time, Tony is not a redneck.  He is a world traveler who tells us that the Mississippi River is life, “a source of life” he says.  “I don’t just fish for fishing,” he says.  “I fish for meat; it feeds my family.  You’ve got to respect life; you’ve got to know that the Mississippi can take your life.  I seen people live on this river for 20 years and die because they get too cocky.  You don’ want that; you gotta respect life.”

I feel extremely stupid now.  This “redneck” has outschooled me and outclassed me.  I thought he was going to kill me and now he teaches me about decency having given me 3 new watermelons out of his garden as well as sacks of apples and pears from his orchards.

Maters and Peppers - Mmmmmmmmm.
Maters and Peppers - Mmmmmmmmm.

Boy do I feel dumb, I think again and then stop myself.  Misunderstandings are blessings, I think.  We might never have had this special moment had I not got so angry.  Without these levels of embarrassment and humiliation, I would never have got the lesson that the world needs so dearly: Things are not what they seem.

Apples and Pears
The Orchard... is Life.

Tony ends the conversation and gives me his phone number.  “I’m takin’ care of my grandson,” he says, and I wonder where the father is but then thank god that Tony’s raising the boy instead of his deadbeat dad.  I wish Tony could be my father, I think.

Tony invites me to go catfishing next year, and I all but take him up on it.  There is much more I need to learn about respecting the Mississippi River as a source of life.  There is much I have learned today about respecting people.  “You’re not always right about everybody,” Tony says without saying it as he gets into the truck.  “You have much to learn,” he says after he is gone.

And I do have much to learn, for today I have misperceived.  And in the future I hope I can forever be pleasantly wrong.

Thank you, Tony, for teaching me today.  I hope one day, I can perceive things as you do where one can find the respect first, and the answers to his questions later.

If You Had to Stay with One Family, Who Would It Be?

Wickliffe Cross
The cross overlooking Wickcliffe, KY. Though I don't have a picture of the Woodses, this'll give you an idea about the town.

Phillip and I are in the boat.  We are fighting a lot.

“Paddle toward the shore!”

“I am!”

“No, you’re not, you’re paddling toward the middle of the current, I can feel it.”

“You’ve got such a stick up your ass, what the hell!

“Don’t talk to me like…”

Phillip and I are in the boat, joking a lot.

“Do you believe that guy who claimed old barge captains used to run their barges onto shore to camp for the night…”

“I know!”

“That’s ridiculous.  How the hell would you…”

“How would you get it off! laugh laugh laugh!”

“That must have been when barge piloting was rogue.”

“Yeah, back in the seventies the barge pilots used to ram the shore like nobody’s business.  They would fix gun turrets on the bough and fire rounds into the hulls of passing boats, laugh laugh laugh.

“And then they’d run those big oil tankers toward Cairo.  This dude, laugh, poked a hole in the side and let a stream of oil run out, then he dove in with a lighter and lit the thing on fire as it careened into Cairo setting the whole place on fire, laugh laugh double laugh.

Phillip and I are running into people a lot.

The Woodses

Shawn Woods is fat.  He may be reading this, I know; but, it’s the truth, and he knows it.  “Ima little on the heavy side,” he will soon chuckle. An hour ago Phillip motioned me to come up the only boat ramp in Wickcliffe, Kentucky (that’s right! we’re in Kentucky, yay us!); a couple sat in a pick-up truck handing him a Wal Mart 12-pack of bottled water.  “Howdy,” I said as southern as I could. Why the hell do I do that?

“Howdy, yerself!” Smiling… cool. “Where y’all stayin’ fer tha night?”

“Dunno,” Phil and I said simultaneously.

“Well,” Shawn says, “itsa bit out in tha cuntry, but y’all kin stay with us.  We gotta huntin’ cabin, mah daddy usetuh use it, but isgot runnin’ wawder an’ Direct TV, even now.” Holy Mother of Jesus!  Direct TV??? May you be anointed with oil, my son, and sent to heaven with the angels!

“Sounds good, Shawn, we’re there.”

Shawn wuddn’t (see, I’m talking southern now) lyin’.  His “hunting cabin” had a shower, two toilets, a dryer, big screen TV, and carpeted floors. Holy Jesus, I thought.  There were two beds – one for Phil, one for me.  How happy I am when these things happen.  If I could be grateful for one thing during this trip, it’s that I am much more appreciative of little things – showers, homes, warmth, good cooked food (Sharon, his wife, makes pork steaks and baked potatoes with butter and chives and holy crap it’s good and oh my god MILK! you blessed woman and cornbread!? you gotta be kidding me – may you sit at the foot of God in Heaven! “This is great, Sharon,” I say.  She demurs, but Shawn picks up the slack – “It is good, ain’t it?  My brother, he use a special seasonin’ that makes that pork steak taste good; it don’t taste good if you don’t cook it raght.”

I can’t believe my eyes but Phillip is eating pork.  “Uhhhh, you sure about that buddy?” I ask, and he glares.  “I told you I’ll eat anything once.” You’ll eat anything when you’re starving, I think and laugh to myself. (Yes, though you not believe it, Mr. Hullquist, Phillip ate pork, lol J.)

Sharon shows me a picture of her little boy – he’s in a policeman’s uniform attempting to draw a toy gun out of a holster.  He’s got taxi cab ears and a protruding lip that makes him look just like an 8-year-old Barney Fife.  “Looks like Barney Fife!” I say. Sharon laughs, “That’s what I said!”  Shawn disagrees:  “I just thawt he looked like a crazy, old po-leece-man. Ha ha ha ha.”


Backdraft is on and a little boy that looks a lot like the boy in the picture bolts through the door.  “I luuuhve this movie!” he says and hops over the back of the couch plopping down.  “Don’t ewe jump on the furniture like that!” Sharon says.  “Ooooohh, goooo on, yewww!” the little boy responds.  A girl walks in.  She looks a lot like the girl in another picture Sharon showed me.  The cabin, I find out later, is actually on the Woods’s land; and, young kids anxious not to go to school tomorrow are more anxious to jump on the furniture and find out who these strange guys standing in their granddaddy’s cabin are and tell their mother that paddling the river is crazy and that these guys must be insane and probably should sleep outside.

Sharon asks me if I need anything else.  “Nothing,” I say.  “Don’ lie to me,” she says.  “Whatchu want?” Can’t lie to a mother. “Milk,” I say.  “I drank it all, sorry.”

“Ooooh, shewt, you gonna say sahrry to me?  You just hush.  I’m gonna get you some…”

“Oh, no ma’am, don’t go to the trouble, I can drink…”

“I said hush!  Shawn, I’m goin’ to the store an’ get this boy some milk; what else we need?”

Shawn shows me the snake skins he found in his garage, the heads of animals he shot, his duck call which he plays and my lord in heaven does it sound like a duck!  Little Barney Fife, Mason actually, says, “That ain’t no way to play a duck cawl!” and grabs it from his father.  He bellows out a few good duck tunes.  I think I heard “hey baby, I’m ready for sex,” “oh my god there’s a fox in the nest!” and “did you see Quaggle McQuacksmith’s new hairstyle, she looks like a total tramp,” but I could be wrong.


Barney (Mason! J), Sharon, Shawn and Daughter shuffle off to bed.  “Here are the lights ef yew need’em.”


“Thanks, Shawn; this is great.”

“Yeah, I gotta say I gotta get up at 4 in the mornin’ to go to work, so I’ll take you boys intuh town fer yer boats ‘bout 4:30.”  I about fainted.

“Ok, great!” I lied.  Phillip and I worked on the internet until 2 in the morning.  “Two hours a’ sleep, buddy?”

“Yup,” he said, “two hours.”

We made it to the boats in the morning without falling over and paddled pretty much the whole day without a nap – don’t ask me how.

Four miles downstream, a fisherman stopped us.  “Where y’all headed?”

New Orleans!  Stayed with a guy last night in Wickcliffe; got started a little while ago.”

“Who’dja stay with?”

“Uhhhh, Shawn and Sharon somethin’ or other.”

“Woods?”

“Um, maybe.”

“Big ol’ hippopotamus ears?  Big ol’ guy, heavy set?  Bald on top with fair skin?”

“Ha!  Yeah, that’s the one!”

“Yeah, I known him ferever.  Y’all stayed with a good bunch.  Real good people.”

In the next few days, Phillip and I fight some more, we joke some more, and run into more people.  Most will be short interactions: Where y’all goin, oh that’s neat, oh ya’ll have a good day. And some will be special.  Some will last a long time. For some, you will see Granddaddy’s hunting cabin, you will hear Son’s duck call, you see Sharon’s tan skin and wonder how she got so tan.  Daughter will make faces when you tell them you’re paddling the river, and a man you’ve never seen before will say he knows who you stayed with and that you were lucky to stay with people so nice.  And you will say, “Yes I am lucky.  I’m lucky to have stayed with people as good as the Woodses.”  And you will feel very, very content.