Tag Archives: kayaking

The End Game – Part I

October 9, 2009 Ryan Jeanes 1 Comment

The End Game – Part I

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. 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

The River is Life

It Is Finished!

October 4, 2009 Phillip Hullquist 18 Comments

There is a feeling you get after battling 20 mph headwinds all morning, after eating nothing but trail mix all day in order to meet a deadline, after getting the first glimpse of the ocean far in the distance, after paddling together without missing a stroke for nearly 10 minutes during the final stretch, after hitting that first crashing wave rolling into the shore, and after setting your paddle down in victory.

But I will be unable to accurately describe that feeling to you because you will never know it until you paddle the Mississippi River.

The River is Life

I Cannot Go where Love is Not

October 3, 2009 Ryan Jeanes Leave a comment

Natchez, MS

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]

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!”

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!

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.

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.

The River is Life

A Lesson in False Assumptions

October 1, 2009 Phillip Hullquist 4 Comments

DSC01337-small — This boat is now short four bottles of Gatorade.

“Can you hear me out there?” the loudspeaker on a nearby barge crackled loudly. I waited for what I thought was coming next: This barge captain is probably upset we’re in his way in this busy traffic corridor. Barges are scrambling around on both sides of the river like giant ants moving their loads. But the next sentence suprised both of us. “Ya’ll want some Gatorade?”

Huh? What? Yeah! We eagerly paddled toward the towering barge. Two deck hands related how they had seen Allen’s story about us on the news the previous night. They tossed down a package of Gatorade and two granola bars. McKee brand– Adventist food, I noted.

There really wasn’t any reason for me to assume the captain would be upset with us. You often cannot see the operator of the barge and therefore assign a personality to the boat based on it’s size and appearance. But in over 2000 miles of traveling the Mississippi, not one barge has communicated any kind of negativity toward under-powered boats such as ours. In fact, we’ve never received any significant communication from them.

The only negative comment received to date was from a Army Corp worker on the shore near Greenville, MS. As we paddled past their work site, a man looking to be in charge got on his loudspeaker and announced: “You boys are gonna drown if you keep paddling like a bunch of dummies out there.” I wanted to respond and say, “I guess it’s a good thing we’re not a bunch of dummies then!” but decided it wouldn’t make any difference anyways.

The only other loudspeaker incident happened north of Lake Providence. We were paddling very close to dark and a barge approached on our left side. Instead of reminding us how dangerous it is to paddle near dusk, the loudspeaker began playing a few bars from a famous Conway Twitty song. “Darling, I’d just love to lay you down.” I wasn’t sure for a moment if he was just being friendly or if we were being hit on!

Gatorade and Mac & Cheese are the official barge crew foods.

Same Lesson (Times Two)

Not ten minutes after receiving our first hospitality from a barge crew, a second vessel motioned us over. This boat was parked on the shore and just wanted to chat and help as well. Another friendly crew passed us a couple more cases of Gatorade while the captain gave us some advice about “Suicide Stretch” which would be coming up downriver. The younger of the two deck hands agreed: “It’s going to get much tougher up ahead. Ya’ll be careful.” He handed over their lunch leftovers consisting of mac & cheese, pork & beans, and some fish sticks.

As Ryan and I stopped to eat the barge food further downriver, I realized this was a lesson that was being given to us. We had both been fighting (again–yeah, big suprise) both the evening before and this morning as well. The basis for some of the disagreements were based on false assumptions. Now, twice in a row we had received hospitality in place of what we assumed might be a scolding. Sometimes you assign a value where it does not exist. This boat is bigger than me and therefore he’s probably mad I’m in his way. But that’s not necessary the case. Big or small we’re all on this same river, country, or planet together. Let’s make assumptions that fall on the positive side.

The River is Life

Holy Ship!

September 29, 2009 Phillip Hullquist 3 Comments

The times, they are a-changin’ (and the boats on the Mississippi too!).

We paddled into Baton Rouge on a bright Saturday afternoon, our first city in the last state on the Mississippi River. Ryan generally tries to give the news media a “heads up” about our journey a day or so prior to arriving in a city. We like to have the press cover the story, but since we are on a fairly tight schedule it doesn’t always work out for them to come out to the river and meet us. Today would be different…

We only paddle this hard for the news cameras.

Around noon, Ryan got a call from one of the Baton Rouge television stations saying they would like to meet with us when we arrived in town. He agreed to meet before 2 p.m. at the boat ramp south of the I-10 bridge. As we neared the bridge, another reporter named Allen from a different station called us saying he would also like to cover the story. Ryan told him that the first station would be meeting us at the boat ramp and we would be there if he would like to meet with us. Ryan negotiated between the reporters as skillfully as a man with multiple simultaneous girlfriends. I wonder where he learned how to do that, I thought.

The young men from WBRZ did a great piece which aired on the Monday morning news. Allen arrived just as they were finishing and he had something else entirely up his sleeve.

DSC01251-small — Those dual-225's outrun our dual-paddles!

Allen called up the local Sheriff and had them send a boat out so that he could shoot some footage from the water. At first, I assumed this meant they would be coming down the river, but then the trailered boat came down the ramp with three deputy sheriffs on-board. Although a single great shot does not a news story make, it sure helps to have some great connections when you need them and I can’t wait to see Allen’s take on the story as well.

On advice from the locals, we left the dock and made camp several miles south of Baton Rouge on a sandy beach which already had a temporary structure on the shoreline. There wasn’t any sign of human (or animal!) life so we set up our tents and quietly went to sleep. The morning light bought out a brood of beer drinkers who were breaking up their routine with a little fishin’ as well. Their warning to us was that more ocean-going vessels would begin to crowd the river as we continued our journey. As Ryan packed up the boats, I noticed an example in the distance. “Ryan” I called as I grabbed the camera and began taping, “look behind you.”

Holy Ship!

DSC01305-small — You can't imagine how large this ship is!

Ryan glanced over his right shoulder and gasped just slightly as the huge vessel pushed it’s way rapidly upriver. It would be the first of several ships we would see over the course of the day.

The story is that the former-governor of Louisiana wanted to keep the traffic (and money) from the big ships in his own state. When a new bridge was being built in Baton Rouge, it was intentionally built short as to not allow large ships to go to ports upriver in Mississippi (such as Natchez).

Farther downriver, another boat stopped and told us more about what was to come. After handing us a couple Coca-cola’s each, Terry gave us the straight dope: “Our boat tops out at about 40 mph, but the ships you’ll find past New Orleans will easily pass us.” Terry continued, “Sometimes the waves will reach as much as 12 feet high. They crash over the bow of our boat.” I silently debated if we’ll survive the last few days on the river. Holy ship!

The River is Life

Rednecks are not Southern – Part I

September 27, 2009 Ryan Jeanes 2 Comments

“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

think we’re crazy
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”
have disposable income to buy us beer and food and god knows what else
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.

“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

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

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.
“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…
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 River is Life

I Can Sleep on Windy Nights

September 25, 2009 Phillip Hullquist 3 Comments

An old story I read as a child told of a farm-hand who promised the farmer when he was hired, “I can sleep on windy nights.” The farmer didn’t understand what he meant until the night of a terrible storm in which the farmer was certain all his hay would be blown away. His new help slept peacefully through the storm while he rushed outside and was instead surprised to find that everything was already secured. When you’re prepared for the storm, you can sleep through it without worry.

Well, it’s been a-stormin’ here in Mississippi. Not a day (or night) goes by it seems without at least an hour of driving wind and rain. But Ryan and I have been remarkably able to sleep at night without worry. Between the both of us we have established a certain level of comfort with the elements.

Just south of Helena, Arkansas, I managed to leave half of my tent poles high on a ridge above the river. I didn’t notice this loss until we camped in near darkness later that night and I had to improvise by propping up the tent with wire ties and my tripod. The reduced ceiling height of this new arrangement felt like sleeping inside a large plastic bag (i.e. very claustrophobic)! A new 8’x9′ tent purchased in Vicksburg restored my standard of living for the final few weeks of the journey. Ahh, sweet comfort!

Ryan would be very happy if our boats were tied up this high every night.

Ryan’s not comfortable at night unless the boats are well above the water line and tied down securely. I’m perfectly happy if they are at least 18 inches above the water, but I let him choose how high we will put the boats up each night. In this case, it’s probably good that he is so concerned because that may save our boats one night when the water actually rises above my level of comfort.

Both of us have succumbed to not worry about the rain anymore. The only essential items which cannot get wet are the camera and laptops. Since these items are always kept wrapped in plastic, protected from the rain, storms can come and go without us ever having to think about these possessions getting destroyed.

MP-00016-C — D'evereux Mansion, Natchez, Mississippi

Other items like the tents, sleeping bags, and pillows are in a constant state of being soaked. “My pillow smells like piss!” is a common complaint ringing out in the night. My sleeping bag is often wet, but fortunately it’s warm regardless of how wet it is. Ryan reminds me nightly to just think of it as a giant warm vagina. Uhh, right…

But tonight we don’t have to worry about rain at all. We’re sleeping at the D’evereux Mansion in Natchez, Mississippi where we are the welcomed guests of the mansion’s owner. There is a large comfortable queen bed in the guest room. I’m on one side of the bed zipped up in my sleeping bag while Ryan propped himself up on tons of pillows on the other side. It’s windy outside, but tonight we’ll sleep just fine.

Claustrophobia

The River is Life

Screw it! I’m Hitchhiking Outta Here

September 23, 2009 Phillip Hullquist 1 Comment

It’s a strangely familiar setting–standing by the side of the road with some camping gear beside me and a large pack on my back filled with supplies. I’m in Vicksburg, Mississippi and there seems to be no other solution right now other than to start hitchhiking. You’re probably thinking that I’ve had it with Ryan, the paddling, and the rain, and have decided to hitchhike back to Nashville. You’d be wrong…

Two hours earlier, Ryan and I split up in Vicksburg so he could work on the blog while I did some much-needed shopping. Walmart is only a mile from the river, but the guides at the welcome center pointed out a route that didn’t involve walking illegally down the interstate. The new route took two miles so I brought along Ryan’s giant pack so that I would be able to carry everything back should there not be effective public transportation. Once in the store I went crazy and bought nearly tons of food (I was hungry after walking the two miles!) and already knew there was a bus which could take me back to the casino.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The young woman at the checkout stared downward while I made small-talk about the change to white packaging in Walmart’s “Great Value” product line. I then asked about the N-Route (Vickburg’s bus) schedule. She didn’t know the times, but left mid-checkout to ask someone who did. She returned in a moment with the answer:

“The N-Route comes by every hour.”

“What time is the next bus?”

“5:30”

“What time is it right now?”

“5:30”

“Are they usually on time?”

“They always are.”

“What about a taxi?”

“Don’t have any in this town anymore.”

Damn it! I began adding up the weight of the food already bagged and in the cart. There has got to be at least 100 pounds of food in that cart. How the hell will I carry all that back to the boat? I walk out the front door and ask an employee on break if the bus has arrived yet. “Just left 5 minutes ago,” she cheerfully responds. Okay, then. Let’s load up this pack and walk it back. Ryan had showed me some of the features of his Gregory pack just before splitting and I’m glad now that I was listening to him. I extend the buckles outward so that it can hold the maximum amount of gear. All the food goes into the pack save only the bread and powered milk which I worried will get crushed and damaged.

As I walk out to the road, a tan Oldsmobile car which has seen better days slows down as it enters the parking lot. The rear window rolls down as it parks and a young black boy gestures to me with his hand. “Mister, mister!” I turn and look back at him and him and his brother as they exit the rear seat. “Do you want some food?” he asks and hands me a big box of donuts. I already have 100 pounds of food. What I need is a ride! “They’re fresh!” The boy’s shrill voice breaks my line of thought. I mumble a genuine thank you and feel the sugar rush after only one bite. “I really need a ride back to the casino,” I volunteer, but the boy just grabs his father’s hand and skips into the store. I imagine they thought I was a homeless man and they were helping me get something to eat for the day.

I’m already exhausted after barely walking out of the parking lot and decide to try a old trick–hitchhiking. So that’s why I’m out here on the side of the road with my thumb out. 30 minutes pass slowly with no results. Ryan’s gonna be wondering where I am. I was supposed to call him when I left Walmart so we could meet at the boats. That could be hours from now though if I have to walk the entire way. I put the pack back on and walk about a half mile to a better spot on the highway. Another 20 minutes pass with no luck. After walking awhile longer, I can’t take it anymore and stash the goods under a tree on the side of the highway. There has to be another solution. Now free of the pack I walk unencumbered to a Shell station near the casino. Three female clerks tell me they know a guy to call for a ride and one of them makes the call while the others watch in amazement as I guzzle down two large bottles of Gatorade.

An unmarked Town Car pulls up beside the Shell station chauffeured by a driver who bears a resemblance to Morgan Freeman. God himself came to rescue me, I think as I cautiously ask: “Are you the cab driver?” The man responds softly without making eye contact, “You could say that.” I get in the car and describe my situation. He listens quietly and pulls out to the road asking only, “Which way?” We drive in silence and pick up the bags from my not-so-secret hiding spot. I ventured a question which finally got the God look-alike talking:

“How long have you lived in this town?”

“You don’t want to know the answer to that question, but I spent 50 years on the road as a truck driver.”

“And you’re still driving?”

“Yes.”

This line of questioning seemed like a dead end, but then “God” continued.

“This town used to be jumpin’–it was like Vegas back in the day.”

“When was it jumpin?” I questioned using his same manner of speaking.

“Oh, that was probly before you was born.”

We were almost back to the casino before he made a new observation:

“You’re paddling?”

“Yes sir, down the entire Mississippi River.”

“Well, I guess I better not get in fight with you ’cause you could prob’ly kick my ass.”

I laughed awkwardly and he quickly followed up with, “Don’t get upset, I just jokin’ with ya.”

It’s nearly dark as I unload the gear from the trunk on his car and I already spot Ryan down near the boats. “God” got me back to the river and hopefully God will get us both safely all the way to New Orleans.

The River is Life

Phil and I Have it Out, For Real

September 18, 2009 Ryan Jeanes 1 Comment

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.”

The River is Life

Where’s the Party?

September 15, 2009 Phillip Hullquist 1 Comment

DSC01099-small — The ramp is getting dark and we still have no beer.

We’re finally at Memphis, Tennessee! The next big city on the map. I can’t see it from here, but I know it’s just a few miles farther down the river–37 miles farther to be exact. Ryan and I are waiting on a boat ramp for my friend Wes to come pick us up where his family will host us for the night. This particular ramp seems to be a popular party spot in the rural town of Ripley, Tennessee. About every 10-15 minutes a vehicle will drive down the dirt road to the top of the ramp and begin driving slowly down until they see us sitting there. Then the vehicle stops and backs up to the road and leaves. There seems to be a lot of confusion as to the new party spot as dozens of vehicles continue to check the ramp as the moon rises. I used to live in Prim, Arkansas and a similar ritual occurred each weekend as the local party-goers would settle on a location to drink that night. I’m not sure why, but the Prim folks were somehow more effective in their selection process. Everyone somehow ends up at the same spot without a whole lot of confusion.

Another Ripley partier who still hadn’t received word that two strange paddlers were sitting down at the dock drove up to the boat ramp with Kid Rock music blaring. Instead of turning around and driving away, the young man walked…I mean staggered down toward us on the ramp. “How are ya’ll?” he asked loudly. Without waiting for an answer he introduced himself and shook my hand pausing longer than necessary to grasp it as though he wasn’t sure what to say next. “Cracker” as the drunk girl in the truck addressed him gave us his phone number and said to call if we needed anything. Ryan asked for a beer and “Cracker” reiterated that we could call him if we needed anything. Apparently a beer didn’t count. “Cracker” told us he had vodka in the truck, but that seemed like a bad idea considering what it had apparently done to him. Their headlights turned back down the road and we were again left in darkness.

The fire I had built before sunset kept dying down due to a lack of substantial wood. There is plenty of driftwood pieces lying on the shore which burn well for about 5 minutes and then disappear into ash. I used the light from an oncoming barge to pick up more wood to build up the fire again. We’ve been on shore for about 5 hours now waiting on Wes. The lastest news is that his brother Riley will be driving out to get us. Apparently the 37 miles cannot be driven quickly due to there being no direct roads so it will take then an hour and a half to arrive assuming no wrong turns are made. I call Riley a few minutes after midnight to see if he is close yet, and yup, they had gotten lost on the rural, nearly unmarked back roads. I waited beside the road for them and Ryan and his girlfriend Lindsey arrived about 12:40 am. On to Memphis! Maybe there will be a party there?

dream it. live it. film it.