The Lake Itasca Controversy

Mrs. Finch, my fourth grade teacher, was the first person to teach me that Lake Itasca was the source of the mighty Mississippi River. Well Mrs. Finch, it turns out you may be wrong. Elk Lake is a smaller lake that feeds into Lake Itasca, by means of a 50 yard stream. That stream, would appear to be the first of many streams connecting the Minnesota lakes which make up the uppermost part of the Mississippi River. Why has this been kept silent for so long? Why doesn't anyone besides native Minnesotans seem to care? The Lake Itasca Controversy or shall we say Lake Itasca Conspiracy might find a worthy opponent if the fraternal brotherhood of the Elks discovers this, and champions the cause of it's namesake, Elk Lake.

6/14/10

The Headwaters

Regardless of what my brother may write, he is not, in fact, an early riser. At 5:30AM daylight was readily visible and when asked if he was going to get up a near comatose Wild Will, just grumbled “mgggmphf” and rolled over. With time, constant annoyance, and the aid of a bottle of Frappacino, Will rose and began securing the Kayak. The news on the radio said it was a chilly 43 degrees and I believe it, having no doubts that it won't be long until I yearn for anything close to 43 degrees while sweltering in the sticky heat of the deep south. It took just over an hour for Wild Will to pack and the boat probably weighted close to 140 lbs, compared to its empty weight of about 45 lbs. After he set off in Lake Itasca, I drove to the Mississippi Headwaters visitor center to see if I could catch him entering the generally acknowledged start of the Mississippi River. I walked the trail to the headwaters without time to examine the various different displays and informative kiosks. Luck was with me and I caught Will just as he crossed the little rock dam that starts the river. I regret not having a camera with me and though Wild Will has the official camera and video camera of this expedition, he seemed somewhat reluctant to let me grab a snap shot of his rather unromantic pull through the rocks. As anyone who has been to Lake Itasca can tell you there is a little foot bridge made from a split tree trunk that lets one cross over the mighty Mississippi, in a matter of steps. Yet for the boaters, sailors, or adventurers who choose to use the waterway the bridge would hit them some where in the middle of their chest and do some considerable damage to their head and face. Again wishing I had a camera or at least a witness I watch as Wild Will, leaned way back in his kayak like he was about to go under the limbo pole and attempt to pass his paddle to himself over the bridge. All of which he did manage to do only to get stuck in the shallowing of the stream, I mean river, just a few yards down. I read on the placards that the river runs on average of 1.2 miles per hour and that a drop of rain in lake Itasca would take just over ninety days to reach the Gulf of Mexico. I also heard from a woman who was working at the center, that although the nearest town of Bemidji is only about 30 miles away as the crow flies it is supposed to take 5 days to get there. Will and I had estimated he'd get there in the first night. Armed with this information, I drove downstream and hollered to Wild Will that the river's average speed was 1.2 miles per hour and it was supposed to take him five days to get to Bemidji. I then drove out of the park and waited for him at another crossing which he reached just before 9 AM. He told me after I let him know about the five day time frame he got out and started pulling the kayak through the shallows which in many places measure in just inches. He told me with high spirits that he was still aiming for Bemidji tonight and we'll see if he makes it.

If I'm Not Listening Then Who Is?

The sun was shining through fluffy cotton ball clouds and I was driving down MN route 71 from the Mississippi headwaters. I turned on the radio to try to keep myself engaged as I continued my trek through what must have been the neighboring towns of Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone. I start at the bottom of the dial and pass through two different public radio stations, a few country stations, and a couple of christian ones when I turn to 97.5 FM.

"Hello, we have lines open." A voice says, "Anything you want to talk about, anything at all."

He then gives the number out, and I miss it, as I am driving and cannot readily locate a pen, but I am sure that he will repeat it as radio stations back home do or for that matter as do radio stations pretty much anywhere.

"Well," the voice says, "It doesn't seem like anyone wants to call. Hello! Hello!"

Another pause.

"Man, it is really dead out there today." The voice exclaims, apparently disgusted that we the listeners have failed him.

All the while I am just begging for him to give the number out again, I've been waiting five minutes and have been pulled into his call, like a ship trying to respond to a may-day call of some lone stranded schooner. Then suddenly it strikes me; Am I the ONLY person listening to his broadcast? After all this was the middle of rural Minnesota. It was possible, if only he'd say the number once more...

"Well if no one is going to say anything, I guess I'll just have to play a tune." The voice says somewhat disgruntled. Indeed he played a 'tune' which definitely predated a fellow by the name of Presley, as well as those four mop topped Brits, and quite possibly was recorded before an antsy little leader with a Charlie Chaplin mustache decided it was a good idea to annex the Sudetenland.

The tune played on, but my attentions were directed elsewhere as the Wonka Bread from the night before, or possibly the fried salami from the previous night's dinner informed me that I was in immediate need of finding a rest stop.

I returned to the van refreshed, and with my cellphone ready, for I was determined to call in and let this lonesome announcer know that my brother had just set out on his expedition to be the youngest person to Kayak solo down the length of the Mississippi. Now, that would be something to talk about, that would be something interesting!

As I turned the car on again I heard the announcer conversing with another person who had a laid back Minnesota accent. I couldn't help but wonder if the announcer had gotten so desperate that he ended up calling someone, just to have someone to talk to. I listened in, and they were talking about the county commissioner, and the inflated property taxes that hadn't been adjusted  to match the declining land values.

"I know someone who sold a piece of land for $6,000." said the phone in guest. "And do you know what the taxes had it valued as?"

"How much?" said the announcer.

"$40,000. Can you believe that?" said the caller. I should note that the caller didn't sound too agitated, or upset, or even very emotional. It was said in the same manner that he might have told us it was going to rain tomorrow.

The announcer then proclaimed that this was why he was running for the county commissioner seat, and railed on against politicians local and federal.

"Ah ha!" I thought we have ourselves a politician as the caller finished and I just managed to write down the number to call in. I was going to do it.

"And now it's time for our medical minute." the announcer said. "Do we have the tape set up? No, well why would someone want to help old Eddie out?  I can do it. I'm the most self-reliant man on God's green earth." He sourly proclaimed.

I had a lot to chew over during the medical minute, which by the way concerned heart health. First, our announcer had a name, Eddie. And Eddie, had just thrown out what I could only feel was some pretty boastful and over the top language for central Minnesota. Claiming to be the most self-reliant in an area that prides itself on self reliance, yet never dares to brag about it was some pretty edgy stuff.  I had apparently stumbled upon the Minnesota version of a Shock Jock. Say what you want about Howard Stern or Rush Limbaugh, but Eddie was a man who knew how to stir the pot.

Nonetheless I called in, assume as had occurred in previous times in my life when I called into a radioshow, that first I would talk to a switchboard operator who would ask me what I wanted to talk about, then wait on the line for a couple of minutes until I was allowed to say my two cents. I turned off the radio and called.

The phone rang.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end sounded suspiciously like Eddie's.

I realized I was now on the air. "Yes, hello. I just wanted to call to let you know that a young kayaker just set out to kayak the entire Mississippi river."

"Why on earth would he do a thing like that?"

"Well, to see this great country of ours, and to see our natural beauty and experience the rich culture and history of the Mississippi, with such cities as New Orleans, Saint Louis, Vicksburg where the civil war battle was, Natchez has some great pre-Civil war mansions. and..."

Eddie did not seem much interested "I think there are better things he could do with his time."

"And he's trying to be the youngest person to kayak the Mississippi River solo." I added quickly, hoping that a shot for the record book might interest him. Who knows maybe Eddie would be pleased to know some one was setting a record and starting in his neck of the woods.

"Why doesn't he do something more productive and get a job." came Eddie's reply.

It suddenly dawned on me that maybe the reason nobody was calling into Eddie's show was due to the fact that nobody wanted to talk to Eddie. And I, the unknowning traveler had wandered into the phone-in venus fly trap that was old Eddie's Show. Nobody called, because nobody liked talking to Eddie.

I tried to stay upbeat "Well, he's in college and he's in the ROTC."

"Well if he's in the service then God bless him. But I don't get it, you hear about people riding their bikes across America, and it seems to me that there is something better they could do with their time." Eddie was obviously not one to be taken by the spirit of adventure.

"He started out in Elk Lake because someone told him that since Elk Lake feeds Lake Itasca that would make it the true source of the Mississippi." I replied trying to change the subject, as well as get some clarification on the issue.

"Well some say it is, but it feeds Lake Itasca from underground..." Eddie was unsure of himself as he spoke. Odd that I could stumble upon a Native that knew so very little about some of the state's most famous geographical features.

I did correct him "Actually, it was above ground and had about a 50 yard stream connecting it to Lake Itasca."

"Well then, he should be covered." Eddie agreed.

I then gave out Will's Website and thanked him for letting me on the air.

Eddie once more blessed Will for his service and then spent the next few minutes after I hung up grumbling about what would drive a man to do that. He couldn't understand it.

I can't help but wonder what may happen in the future as my long days of waiting by the river might lead me to call into other local talk shows on the way. If Eddie taught me anything, it's that they are guaranteed to be interesting.

What Is Wonka Bread

Some of you may have read an earlier entry in Will's Journal about Wonka Bread, and you may find yourself wondering "What is Wonka Bread?"

Wonka Bread is the name for any bread that has absorbed the flavors and or scents of surrounding food items. Well I suppose it doesn't have to be a food item, as in the case of the wood smoke flavor Wild Will describes, but ideally I try not to venture too far off the path of edibles because that can get one in a great deal of trouble. An example of a Wonka Bread combo could be coffee, banana, and cinnamon. Sounds delicious right?

"Now Joe," you ask "Where does the name Wonka Bread come from?" An excellent question, let me disspell some common myths about Wonka Bread. It did not get its name because it makes you want to wonka, nor does its name come as a way to describe it's many wonky flavors. Wonka Bread derives its name from it's similarity to the multi-course chewing gum that the child Violet eats in the factory of one Willy Wonka. Thus the name Wonka Bread.

I should probably clarify that unlike the gum in the story, Wonka Bread will not turn you into a blueberry, well at least not yet. It's going to take more time in R&D before we get to such levels.

A true Wonka bread experience should have the flavors come to you in stages. First comes the ashy taste from the pine wood smoke -fresh, yet bold, and all together rustic. Then comes the flavor of the bread itself -hearty, wholesome, comforting, and perhaps a little stale. And just as the bread turns to mush in your mouth the overwhelming taste and smell of ripe banana permiates your mouth and lingers with an after taste better than any dinner mint. In a word, indescribable. 

Admittedly Wonka Bread was a happy accident, which I hope to replicate for Wild Will's dining pleasure in the coming weeks. Pickles, berries, soy sauce, and oranges are all potential future flavors.

I'm glad I got a chance to explain that Wonka Bread is not some Franken-Loaf, and really is on the cutting edge of flavor inovation in the world today.

PS For those of you trying to make Wonka Bread at home, flavors mingle best a room temperature, but watch out for mold!

Getting Ticked

It was during my most luxurious time of the day, while in the shower, and I was scrubbing away. Amidst the suds and the singing, I noticed a fleck of dirt on my left shin that had not washed away. "How strange." I thought to myself as I lifted my leg for closer examination, and imagine my horror when I saw that this speck had eight legs, and a head, which was well attached to me. I had been ticked. Thinking back, I realized that this tick had probably been on me for at least 24 hours and now I had to sterilize a set of tweezers and fire up the trusty ol' internet in order to identify the tick which in turn would help me decide whether to see a doctor or not. It is not easy to remove a tick that has a head start in the grasping of flesh but after a few tries that I can only describe as "icky" my parasite was removed and placed in a little jar to drown. I drew an arrow next to the bite so I could keep an eye on it in the coming days and tried not to dwell on the thoughts of how long the tick had resided on me or what if the tip of its head was still under my skin. I then proceeded to try and identify the little sucker. This was essential because only the deer tick carries Lyme's disease, and think of my delight when I learned that the dog tick is known to carry Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever. I was pleased to note that the tick was not engorged with my blood and was thus easier to identify as it did not look like a swollen lima bean. So after about an hour on the internet I had found some pretty neat stuff, but then I remembered I was supposed to be searching for tick identification. It turns out that ticks many tick identification pictures compare the size of one species to that of other ticks, which was not helpful as I had only one tick on me and had no others at hand for comparison which doesn't do me a whole lot of good. Yet after over an hour of deliberating and looking at pictures I concluded that the little white horseshoe marking on its back meant it was a dog tick, thus no Lyme's disease. What a relief, I was sure to share my newly improved tick knowledge with Wild Will, who has had more than his share of ticks.

Lock and Dam #2

"Man is not judged by what he has, but rather by what he doesn't need." Wild Will shouted to me as he hopped his way to a port-o-john.

"I don't think that saying applies to toilet paper." I countered, and secretly hoped that there would be more than enough T.P. for my little brother. 

Last night we settled in the quaint river town of Hastings, after Wild Will battled some fierce winds and he'd come ashore sun-burnt and frustrated. I on the other hand had spent much of my day yesterday on the observation platform of Lock and Dam #2. The slow and steady rise and fall of water in the lock is almost imperceptible, and yet the 600 ft long lock could fill and drain nine feet of water in about ten minutes. Observing from my camp chair stationed in the shade of the visitor platform, I noted that there were plenty of pleasure boats going up and down the river, but no barges. I'd heard that much of the barge traffic had been put on hold do to the oil spill down in the gulf, but I figured I'd see at least one. I did see a pretty snazzy yacht, though. Perhaps a yacht that is a little too pretentious for the Mississippi river, but then again the old river boats used to be rather fancy too. 

I counted a 80 car freight train while sitting at lock #2. Read into that statement what you will.

I tried to meet up with Wild Will today at lock and dam #3, today and had to drive though an Native American reservation to do it. An unusual piece of driving as I left picturesque Hastings for some country driving, the followed the signs for the casino, Treasure Island. Not the name I would have chosen for a casino in Minnesota, and I probably would not have built a mega-sized pink casino in the first place. Then again, Bill Cosby is preforming there in the end of July, so I might have to rethink. I did see a sign telling me I could win a motorcycle on a one dollar slot, and it was tempting, as many things are when you are driving. "I could win a motorcycle or a lot of money!" I thought, "But I could also lose that dollar, for nothing and that would be disappointing and a waste." I settled my inner conflict by purchasing a one dollar ice cream bar when I gassed up at the reservation station, because ice cream is a guaranteed reward and a sure thing. I then continued my drive towards lock and dam #3. I thought I saw the large domes of a nuclear reactor, and sure enough unannounced and out of nowhere I came upon a nuclear power plant, still no lock and dam. I drove on and came up close and personal with a turkey vulture and its meal which happened to be a roadkill snake. "Bon Apetit, vulture."

I finally got to the lock only to find it closed. Not just closed, but shut down, off limits, VERBOTEN. I guess Wild Will, will have to portage that himself, I guess thats what makes him Wild Will. Now we had been informed earlier from a maternal reader that lock and dam #3 would be closed but I was hoping I could still access the site. Yet in this post 9-11 world security is tight, and I figured that a sketchy guy with a big bushy red beard streaked with white and an unkempt appearance should not be found snooping around a government property lock and dam site, especially when its located so close to a nuclear power plant. Which lead my back to the road out of town and towards then next town while pursuing my newly adopted hobby of getting lost. Not just a little lost, but really lost. I end up all sorts of places, loading docks for barges, ethnic Somalian neighborhoods of Minneapolis, dead end country roads, you name it.  And since I don't have a really pressing schedule, I just try to drive my way back on track without asking for directions.

"Don't Be Afraid to Make the Wrong Turn." is my new motto, but perhaps it should be joined with "Just Be Prepared to Turn Around."

The Power of a Shower

It was four days and counting since I had last had the pleasure of one of the great hygienic luxuries of the modern era - a shower. To say that I had gotten a little grimy was an understatement. My hair had gone from greasy to stiff through a combination of sweat, grease, dust, and whatever grim it had taken on when I went swimming in the twin cities at a lake (I was under the misguided notion that there would be a bath house at the beach.) Inquiring minds in the world far removed from the real struggles of this river gypsy may question as to why I had not informed my reading public of this predicament earlier. Having no desire for pity I keep my state of unwashedness hidden until I had showered and my previous state of filth was nothing more than a memory. I can honestly say that the 50 cents spent (yes it was a pay shower) were by far the best use I had found for my money thus far and the ensuing 180 seconds of warm shower water were a delight. I just barely managed to refrain from singing. Where did I manage to find this rare oasis? On the shores of Lake Pepin, in the town of Lake City, birthplace of water skiing. That makes sense I suppose as you'd have to have a lot of skis lying around before some one said, "Hey, I bet you five bucks I could ride these on water." and with the addition of a motor boat, water skiing was born. I realize that I haven't talked much about the lake itself. First I must note that lake Pepin is gorgeous, first in that it is somewhat in a gorge due to the high bluffs with their limestone cliffs and second because it is downright beautiful. Lake Pepin is quite easily labeled as the Lake Geneva of the upper Midwest (meaning the Swiss lake not the one in southern Wisconsin, though there are similarities in the numbers of boats on the water.) Alas, I have no pictures as my batteries failed in my camera, and today it rained the majority of the time. Lake Pepin is a pretty big lake, about 20 miles long and a mile and a half across. All of this is nice information but when you consider its size and the fact that the wind was blowing against Wild Will made for an exhausting couple of days. Did I mention that there were lots of boats?

New Hobby Update: I got lost again trying to find a park with good river access, while in the town of Red Wing. I saw an interesting tower of sorts. "I'll go check it out." I thought "Maybe it's a museum!" Nope. Minnesota state penitentiary. So if anyone had been assigned the task of following around the mysterious red bearded man, they would have seen him driving to a nuclear power plant, a lock and dam, and a state prison. All I was really looking for was a shower.

The Mosquito War at Wabasha

Wabasha, is a nice town, picturesque. It has a bundle of charm and a museum about bald eagles (kind of a narrow focus if you ask me), and they put on a nice fireworks display. Oh, and they have camping/camper friendly laws. Something I've become sensitive towards since mine is the task to find a place to sleep at night, and while Wild Will might get by on charm and the story of an amazing adventure, a bearded guy sleeping in a van doesn't get quite the same degree of sympathy.

On to the most important events of the Fourth of July, that is the attempt to move softly into a restful repose. We were parked close to the water (yet again under a bridge) and Wild Will complained about the mosquitoes and said he was going to sleep outside in his one man tent. "Mosquitoes," I said, "How bad can it be? Sure there are a few where I'm at but I'll manage." I moved to the back of the van to lay down. It was hot and more than a little humid as that it had been raining earlier in the day and the temperature was still in the 80's  at night. "Well, if I just take this sheet and cover myself like so, I should be fine." I thought. I thought wrong for it was mere seconds after closing my eyes that I became aware of a louder high pitched drone coming right for my face. I slapped my hand at it. The drone stopped, but them my ears picked up an all surrounding drone, much like that which accompanies the World Cup soccer matches. Unfortunately it was not due to a stadium full of soccer fans playing on plastic horns. It was all mosquitoes. I felt like I was the city of London going through the London Blitz.

"Bogey at 3 o'clock." Bzzzzz. Miss!

"Bogey at 7 o'clock. WAIT make that two! INCOMING!!! "

<crackle> Sir, this just in from the legs and they are getting pounded down there! What are you orders sir?

I readjusted my position. I set up the sheet as a kind of protective tent. I started to get smothered, and was still getting bit. BUZZ, BUZZ. I began to think they started mining through the sheet. I readjusted again. I set up the sheet in a mummy wrap, then a new type of tent. Half way through what I thought was a protective set up I was alarmed to find that the mosquitoes had found a crack in the bottom of the bench and had come up from underneath to feed on my fleshy side. I was drenched in sweat.

I changed seats. I opened all of the windows. I  closed all of the windows. Midnight, 1AM, 2AM, and I went outside to walk around where my combined movement and the slight breeze keep the bugs at bay, but I couldn't walk all night. I thought about lying on a bench with a sheet. That would make me look homeless. I tried lying on a bench, no use the mosquitoes still came.

I returned to the van, and I was through hiding. If anyone had passed by a parked maroon dodge 1500 conversion van between the hours of 3AM to 4:30AM they would have seen the soft glow of either a ceiling light or flashlight accompanied by the intermittent thuds and whacks, and perhaps see a hand fly out of the dark to hit the window glass. In the old days, when people trained a dog to kill rats, they would tie the dog in a sack with three rats, and if the dog came out alive, it would forever after kill ever rat it saw. The same applies to a stocky red beard man in his mid-twenties, when he is enclosed in a van with hundreds of mosquitoes.

I was beyond tired, and sought my vengeance with no mercy, as the windows of the van began to fog over with moisture. I was hopping from one seat to another attacking them as they flew against the glass, or tried to hide silently along the walls. I even relished the buzzing of a kamikaze mosquito as it flew right for my face (a tactic that had worked in the past as I had once slapped myself out of a sleep aiming for one buzzing over my face). Slowly but surely the droning sound of hundreds of wings began to go down. I began to see the cost of this war, for with each one I killed, it was my own blood that was spilled. I realize this may be a very deep analogy for what occurs during a real war, but in this case it also accurately described what happened that night. Bloated with my blood and hours of  feasting the mosquitoes would soon come to be smeared on the window glass and the seats and walls (Note to the grandparents, owners of the van, I've cleaned the seats and the walls) but I've left the carnage on the glass as a gruesome reminder of the war that was waged on the night of the 4th in Wabasha, Minnesota. I finally had killed enough that I feel asleep some time after 4:30 AM.

The next morning I discovered I had well over 200 mosquito bits on my feet and ankles.

From the North Wood to Grant Wood

The transition from Minnesota and Wisconsin to Iowa was remarkable. From the high bluffs and surrounding forests and the occasional lumber mill, I drove into the rolling cornfields which seemed to come right out of a Grant Wood painting. Friendly farmers would wave to me as I drove past them, and one citizen suggested meeting Wild Will at the lock with American flags to welcome him in. Guttenburg was a lovely town and as a whole Iowa has been much more camping friendly than either Wisconsin or Minnesota. That is when your idea of camping is for free, in a river side park and for one night. Where as Minnesota's idea is in a select park for at least $25 and maybe pay showers. Wisconsin also closely guards its parks, thought they were very friendly and understanding in Prairie du Chien, a town in southern Wisconsin with a lovely riverside park and historical sigh dating back to French fur trading days and played a part in the war of 1812, if I read my placard right and the Blackhawk wars which Lincoln led some men to but never actually fought in. Here are some pictures from Wisconsin and Minnesota, and we look forward to getting to Dubuque where our uncle gets to host us. Will's first time sleeping in a bed in almost 4 weeks.

From Willbewild Mississippi Trip 2010

From Willbewild Mississippi Trip 2010

From Willbewild Mississippi Trip 2010

Oh also I saw some Amish fishing at the Lock and Dam near Genoa, WI.

From Willbewild Mississippi Trip 2010

From Willbewild Mississippi Trip 2010

7/10/10

The Last Homely House

We arrived as pilgrims one third of the way through our two thousand four hundred mile journey, and our uncle, Father Gabriel Anderson, welcomed us with legendary hospitality. We did laundry that practically screamed to be washed, we emptied a refrigerator of its contents, and for the first time in almost four weeks Wild Will was able to talk a long hot shower and sleep in a real bed- True Luxury. Gabe himself has been an adventurer, climbing the Himalayas in Nepal and traveling the world. He even supplied us with support and provisions, of which Wild Will was really excited about cans with a pop top, ingenious. Gabe showed us around the interior of his church, St. Columbkille which was absolutely lovely, and we boys destroyed his fridge, choked full of remnants of a potluck the day before. A green pistachio pudding, gone. A breakfast pizza? gone. A pound of salami? gone. Angel food cake for breakfast? you bet. It was glorious. We awoke the next morning, and it was very very hard to get Wild Will out of bed, but who can blame him it was soft and cool and he was tired and probably could have slept til three. Us older brothers can be a real nuisance. We met the delightful ladies of the parish office who were very supportive and told us that they would be praying for us, and Wild Will got back on the water, buoyed by a night in a real bed and a day of good eating. Our many thanks to our uncle for such a stop at the last homely house (Yes, it is a reference to Rivendell).

Will's Life versus My Life

Will's life seems to go something like this: paddle 13 hours and come to shore at dark looking like this.

From Willbewild Mississippi Trip 2010

Where as my days are spent driving around and getting lost. Kind of plain until I seem something like this.

From Willbewild Mississippi Trip 2010

Wild Will is making real progress now and we hope to be in Missouri either tomorrow or the day after. Oh yeah check out the video section to see three of Will's videos.

Missouri Loves Company

I sit in the Hannibal Public Library as I write this, underneath a portrait of some famous local with a long mustache and wild hair. The immensely quotable Mark Twain, or Samuel Clemens, has stalked me down the river and I have finally come to the town of his childhood. There is a good chance that I will find at least one Mark Twain quote at every information station that I come to along the Big Muddy, or is it Old Muddy? Either way the river is definitely muddy and is marked with quotes by Mr. Twain. One begins to wonder whether he was the last person who had anything to say about the river, or perhaps the only thing worth saying or reading twice. I can't help but feeling the need to join in the quoting of Mark Twain, but in more everyday situations, such as: "It is hot as blazes." -Mark Twain

or

"Excuse me, could you show me the way to the nearest lavatory?"

Do you know who said that? No? I'll give you a hint, Mark Twain.

What about this one: "Can I get something to drink." -Mark Twain.

To be clear, I enjoy reading the works of Mark Twain, from Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court to The Man Who Corrupted Hadleyburg and Other Stories. He is a great writer, and humorist, but to some he is perhaps the only skilled scribbler to have penned anything about this river, and thus any quote no matter how obscure should literally be put in bronze. My one great comfort as I wander through this town stuffed places like with Becky's Ice Cream Parlor (Which Becky? Of course, you know, the one from a little book called TOM SAWYER, yeah it's kind of a big deal.) or Tom and Huck's Souvenir Shoppe (Yes, some do feature the the extra P and E), or Mrs. Twain's gifts or my favorite Mark Twain's Family Diner, equip with a giant rotating beer mug emblazoned with the restaurants name for its sign. I am yet to get a picture of it, but I will. Where was I? Ah yes, my great comfort, would be to bring Mr. Twain back to see exactly what has been done in tribute to him here in Hannibal, and I am sure he'd have some excellent quotes, even if they are not suitable for the  young ears at the Mark Twain Family Diner. On the off chance he would be full of himself, and remark how this tribute could not be given to a more deserving fellow, I'd have to ask him to pretend it was all for some other writer of his day. Cue the quotes.

As far as the river travel goes, we hope to be in St. Louis by Friday, and Wild Will has been tearing up the miles, and comes in at night totally wiped out. We have a heat advisory today from noon til 9. Some comfort for those who have to be outside.

Your Support, Our Appreciation

Last night we stopped under the bridge at Keokuk, Iowa which borders Missouri, and Wild Will came in early and decided to keep going so we pushed to Canton, Missouri. But I wanted to share an anecdote on the kindness of strangers and the support we've received. Wild Will was off in search of a toilet, when a couple on a motorcycle came up and asked if it was our kayak. I answered him 'yes, it was'. He asked 'How far are we going?' a normal question. 'All the way to the gulf.' is our usual reply. 'Where did you start?' the normal second question. 'At the beginning, Lake Itasca (but really Elk Lake)' I replied. We then discussed where we stayed and he gave me some really good directions on a potential campsite that we tried for but did not use because it was flooded. He and his wife ended it by telling us "Good Luck, We'll be praying for ya." and they drove off. This is not a unique occurrence, many people (some radio hosts excluded) have been very supportive of our trip when they hear about it and have kept us in their prayers. I just want everyone to know how much we appreciate this, and all of the support we have gotten thus far. It means a lot to us.