Joe & Isaac's Adventure: Episode 2 - Chapter 7

Through most of the month of June then we slowly worked our way back through the refuge stopping sometimes three days in a dam pool to explore the backwaters, to fish, and to explore the local towns along the river.

All of the UMWFR was a delight to see but I especially enjoyed the backwaters of dam pools 8, 9 and 10. Dam pool 8 is just below La Crosse and there is a campground and recreation area there called Goose Island. We were able to spend one night on shore at the campground. In dam pool nine the town of Lansing is the gateway to wonderful backwaters both above and below the town. Lansing was one of my favorite towns to visit in the UMWFR. We stopped there one Sunday afternoon for lunch at the local town restaurant. A couple of families were eating there as well. The young children who looked to be about four or five years old were clearly known to the restaurant staff and had the run of the place. One of them repeatedly came by our table to try on Isaac's hat. The adults, I was amused to note, would help themselves to sundry items from behind the counter like more napkins for the children. It was a nice atmosphere.

I ordered the salad and soup bar with my lunch, and there I encountered a dish Isaac and I had to laugh out loud about. I've noted before that the Upper Mississippi isn't the place to go if you're looking for a world-class meal. German and Scandinavian peoples settled the river valley in Iowa, Wisconsin and Minnesota. This is were you come to eat sausage and potatoes cooked in beer and washed down by a beer with a name you can't pronounce because it hasn't any vowels. So, here in Lansing, Iowa, arguably the epicenter of German immigration the soup of the day was sausage potato and sauerkraut. It was really very good once you got past the idea that sauerkraut could be an ingredient in soup. I went back for seconds.

Isaac and I have some German blood in our otherwise mongrel heritage and after hanging around places like Lansing and Guttenburg, the German in us was surfacing. In Guttenburg we had a bratwurst and sauerkraut pizza at Joe's. It was different, but we both decided we could eat it again. In Fountain City, Wisconsin we stopped in for lunch at the local restaurant and bar where bratwursts were setup at the end of the bar -- help yourself $2.00 apiece. Ample supplies of sauerkraut, onions and other fixings were there. We each grabbed a plateful and sat down to enjoy the best bratwurst we've ever tasted. They were so good and so much better than any bratwurst we had eaten before that we were compelled to inquire after them at the kitchen. They told us the brats came from Ledebuhr's in Winona -- just one dam pool south and on our way. We had a new mission.

When we arrived in Winona we set out in search of the world's best bratwurst. With some local assistance we found Ledebuhr's on Harriet Street near the waterfront. It was an amazing place; a butcher shop and market where all the various meat products were produced, or should I say processed, on the premises. Behind the counter was a young man in a blood stained apron. It was a bloody place with chopping blocks, meat grinders and lots of very sharp implements in clear view. Momentarily I thought back to my years spent as a vegetarian. We purchased a selection of different sausages and hurried back to the boat to put them on ice. At a small gas and convenience store we picked up a couple cans of sauerkraut and for the next few days we grilled sausages in the evening for dinner. As the saying goes; it doesn't get any better.

In Savanna we had another episode reminiscent of our earlier engine troubles. The Corps had just installed a new wing dam at Savanna and it was of course not on our charts. We hit it. Isaac saw it in the changed water surface, but not quite in time to save our prop. We hobbled back into town and at the marina asked if there was a dealer in Savanna that sold props. M&M marine, we were told, was a few blocks away. I called them and asked if they could send someone to replace our prop since we didn't have the proper tools. Half an hour later a red truck pulled into the marina. The truck was full of props. The driver removed our old prop and installed the new one for us. It took about half an hour. He then drove me back to the shop so I could pay the bill with my credit card. In the shop an old woman worked the cash register. She handed me the bill and I looked it over to discover a service charge of $15.00. Imagine your car breaking down on the highway and your car dealer sending a mechanic out to fix it there on the spot and charging you $15.00 for service. I protested. I told the woman she could not charge me $15.00 for service. She looked up at me alarmed until she saw me smiling. I insisted that to preserve my sense of reality she had to charge me at least $85.00. She politely refused.

We were headed home now. The pool behind Lock and Dam 13 is the last in the UMWFR. The twin cities of Savanna and Sabula are located near the top of the pool. Exploring the backwaters is not permitted here. You stay in the main channel. The surrounding backwaters and wilderness areas are known as the Savanna Depot. Once a military facility, the Depot was abandoned still full of unexploded ordinance. The Army has been working steadily to clear the Depot and it should open soon. It was an anticlimactic ending to our stay in the UMWFR. We were three days away from the Missouri Iowa border and with our major objective behind us we focused on making good time toward home.

At Lock 17 we chatted with one of the attendants who told us that just the day before a strange fellow on a raft made of soda bottles had rowed through. It was Alex! We had met Alex further north almost a month before. If you spend a considerable amount of time with the river, you're going to meet unusual people. Rivers are extraordinary focal points in the natural world and they attract extraordinary people. Alex was from Belarus. He had constructed a raft made entirely of 2 liter soda bottles and chicken wire and he was rowing down the Mississippi. Wonderful! Hung from the side of his raft was a banner with the message, "recycle." His progress was slow but steady. Isaac and I were delighted to hear news of him. Later that day we caught up with Alex and spent some time getting an update on his adventure. We hope he made it -- we expect he did.

Back in Missouri Isaac spied a canoe ahead of us. We slowed and moved closer. The canoe we noted was clearly packed for the long haul -- an older bearded fellow was steadily paddling south. We pulled alongside and I suggested he might benefit from a cold beer and short rest. His name was Jim Specie and, as we had assumed, he was heading for the Gulf. We had stumbled upon Old Man River himself. This wasn't the first time Jim had paddled a canoe down the Mississippi. Neither was it the second or third of his trips. I'm not sure how many times in total he told us he had paddled down the Mississippi. After talking with him for a while keeping count didn't seem to matter. It's just what he did. For the next hour or so Isaac and I listened in amazement as Jim recounted one story after another from his adventures. During the winter he lived in retirement with his wife in their home along the Wabash. When the winter broke Jim would head for the river. Sometimes he'd just start right out his back door and head down the Wabash to the Mississippi. Other times he'd arrange a ride to Minnesota and start at the top. I asked him if he ever considered writing down an account of his adventures on the river. I was beginning to think I'd even volunteer to write for him if he wanted, but he was quick to reply. He said the experience of canoeing down the Mississippi was between him and the river and he wasn't doing it for anybody else's benefit. It's just what he did -- not a big deal and nobody's business. Isaac and I plan to be back on the river again next summer; we'll be keeping an eye out for a red canoe and crusty old man with a white beard.

Appendix: Pig Boats.

This trip was a revelation for the whole family. There were things about boats and boating of which we were entirely ignorant. As a young man I logged many hours in a sailboat even sailing across Lake Erie. I have always enjoyed canoeing; Clare and I spent our honeymoon canoeing the Boundary Waters and my brother and I did some canoeing in northern Quebec. Yet, I knew almost nothing about power boats until this trip.

Last summer Isaac and I adopted the name pig boat to refer to the larger cabin cruisers we encountered as we neared population centers. A pig boat is typically thirty feet long or longer. It's hull is V shaped and it is equipped with a powerful inboard engine that can propel it at speeds exceeding 40 miles an hour. We first decided to call them pig boats because of the trouble they caused us with their wakes. Pig boats throw unusually large wakes -- much larger than even the river tows. Their wakes can easily capsize a canoe. Isaac and I further noted that of all the types of people on the river, it was the pig boat operators who demonstrated the least amount of concern and courtesy toward us while we were in the canoe. A boat full of fishermen would typically slow to a no-wake speed when approaching us. We would wave back our thanks. The fishermen were prepared to share the river with us; we felt safe in their company. Many pig boat operators on the other hand would roar past us in their $250,000.00 pig sties without the slightest concern for the damage their wake could cause. On a few rare occasions we were even tormented by some young pig boat drivers who found us momentary good sport. In general the pig boat operators considered the river their personal playground; we felt threatened and frightened in their company.

In LaCrosse we met two young men on the city dock. They were examining the dock carefully and I decided their behavior warranted some conversation. I soon learned that these fellows had designed and built the dock. They were checking for damage. It seems that this was the second dock they had designed and built for the city riverfront. The first one was battered to shreds by the wakes from the pig boats. I complimented them on the robust appearance of the current dock. They thanked me, but didn't speak in hopeful terms about the dock's long-range prospects. At that I asked why the city didn't simply post a no-wake zone for a mile along the riverfront. Surely that would solve the problem. The young men agreed it would but said that the pig-boaters wouldn't stand for it. It seems that would spoil their fun.

Now that we've had the experience of traveling with an engine doing the work, we have another reason for calling them pig boats. We had no idea that powerboats required so much fuel! Our pontoon boat was twenty--four feet long and equipped with a 115 horsepower engine. We averaged three miles to a gallon of gas. We were shocked! We were even more shocked however to discover from marina operators all along the river that we were doing really well.

It makes sense if you think about it. Boats don't have brakes. They don't need them. If you stop the engine of your car going thirty mph, your car will roll for a hundred yards or more slowly and gently coming to a stop. If you stop the engine of a boat going thirty mph, the boat will suddenly slow in a few yards and, if your not prepared and holding on, you'll be thrown off into the water.

The pig boats, Isaac and I soon discovered, are doing really well if they manage 1 mile to a gallon of gas. We were told the larger boats more typically get only one-quarter mile to a gallon. For that reason they have tanks that hold up to 300, even 400 gallons of fuel. They need to carry that much fuel to be able to go anywhere. There is an obscenity in this that should outrage us all. Upon realizing how much fuel we would require for our trip, Isaac and I seriously debated canceling. How dare we use so much gas? We could afford it, but could the earth afford it? At least we were doing something educational. Most of the pig boats, using gas at a rate 1200% higher than we were, just go very fast in circles. Their gross consumption is obscene.