Voyages of Discovery
A Missouri River Odyssey
One man. A big river. And a very small boat—a 12-foot pack canoe, to be precise. This could be a recipe for disaster. Or a passport to delight. Tyler Higgins choose delight, and if you, too, are itching to light out for the territory, you’ll want to follow along as Tyler paddles down the broad Missouri.
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By Tyler Higgins, with an introduction, note, and afterword by Tamia Nelson
March 13, 2018
Introduction
What follows is the story of Tyler Higgins’ October 2010 journey down a 340-mile stretch of the broad Missouri, told in his own words. It’s not your everyday paddle. For one thing, Tyler covered prodigious distances between dawn and dusk. For another, he made the trip in a diminutive Old Town Pack. At 12 feet and 30-odd pounds, this little pack canoe isn’t often thought of as a “big water” boat. But it did Tyler proud on the mighty Mo. And vice versa. As you’ll soon learn.
Tyler’s Journal
I put in about four in the afternoon [Saturday], figuring to get to cousin Johnson’s place[, my chosen jumping-off point,] by dusk. I remember well how important each mile gained is. So I left next morning about four miles south of Atchison, Kansas. It was a terrific day, weatherwise, and I even encountered three pairs of canoeists between Leavenworth and Kansas City, Missouri. I enjoyed some barge wake south of Leavenworth, as well.
By dusk I was nearing La Benite Park, and I camped across and just downriver. Nearly 70 miles—not at all a bad first day.
Monday. I headed out, and soon yet another Indian summer day developed. Nearing Lexington, I got drizzled on a bit, which my new rain suit repelled easily. It also got a bit gusty, but nothing too bad. I stopped about 9 miles past Waverly, making it a well over 60-mile day. I had maybe a half hour of daylight left, but I saw a spot too nice to pass up.
Tuesday. Today I headed out before dawn, and I soon encountered fog—the nights are as chilly as the days are warm. The fog was fairly dense in places, but soon the sun burned it off.
My strategy was to paddle to Stump Island Park in Glasgow. Along the way I stopped at Miami to eat at St. Cloud’s, a place recommended in A Paddler’s Guide to Missouri, but I was told St. Cloud’s has been closed for some years, so I stopped at a small mom-and-pop place, instead, picking up a pencil there, as well. Now I can fill in the blank pages in my journal. Imagine my chagrin when I discovered on my first night that I didn’t have a pencil in my gear bag! I didn’t begin a journal until my third evening on the river because I’d forgotten that pencil.
Soon it got quite warm, and I felt exhausted—maybe heat exhaustion. I drank lots of water but had no appetite to speak of. Not to mention that I was quite sore and aching. Nevertheless, I hit Glasgow about 6 p.m., well before dusk. Tomorrow my goal is Marion Bottoms, and from there I hope to arrive at Hermann by Thursday evening. Compared to last year, it has been a most auspicious beginning.
Wednesday. Today I wake feeling renewed. Manna from heaven cannot compete with Beckett’s flame-grilled burger, or maybe it was the hot shower. I am certainly glad I stopped to explore Glasgow, a fine town.
It goes without saying that today turned into another splendid day. I slept so well last night it is nearing daybreak as I launch. Nothing of real import happens, not even a barge. I simply paddle as though I were a machine. Which reminds me, I forgot to mention the giant barge coming upriver yesterday. I was just getting back to my canoe after leaving the small store in Miami. I knew if I didn’t put in at once, I’d have quite a wait. Riding the wakes was good fun. I have lost all fear of barges. [NB: Canoeists who lack Tyler’s experience should give barges a wide berth and take care to avoid their wakes. To get some idea of the dangers these can pose, see this account of Tyler’s earlier Missouri River trip, posted on the RiverMiles forum. —Tamia]
The 68 miles I gain make it near nightfall by the time I reach the ramp at Marion Bottoms. As I approach there, I keep thinking, “Just stop at one of those nice sandy beaches. What’s a couple more miles?” But my determination often borders on obstinacy, and I continue on.
I have reason aplenty to rue continuing, though. There is a railroad crossing and a road right by the entrance. Only a sadist or a nitwit would have designated this place suitable for camping. But I’ve already dragged my canoe up the bank and trundled up my camping gear, and it is quite dark. Oddly enough, there is a tent and bicycle here, on the one spot actually suitable for pitching a tent. I am certain the cyclist wishes he had pedaled on, as I should have paddled on, for I crowd right in. I will try to be a good neighbor.
All the same, it is vindication to be 61 miles from Hermann this Wednesday night, for I am certain to arrive tomorrow evening. It almost seemed unreal passing the spot early today where I had pitched camp last year on Thursday, 110 miles from my goal. Now if I am lucky enough to get a decent night’s sleep… But at least it’s my last night on the river.
Thursday. Although I am frequently awakened by the clamor of numerous trains, I fall asleep as soon as quiet is restored. Thus I feel suitably rested when I wake at 6 a.m. My neighbor is an older fellow, and seems to be of a most surly and hostile nature. I thus abandon attempts at conversation and strike camp. Soon the canoe is loaded and I am off for Hermann.
There is a shroud of fog in places, but the rays of the rising sun soon dispel it. These same rays will be an irritant for some time, as I am headed east. It is to be once more another sunny and cloudless day. It’s really too much. I was prepared for anything this time.
Approaching Jefferson City, I see a large island of which no trace had shown last year. I had noticed the same thing yesterday, at one point having to wend my way through a group of them. Also, the river seems languid and sluggish, more like a long lake. Any ground gained will be due chiefly to my unstinting efforts.
At times I face a wind, though not more, really, than a steady breeze—more a vexation than a real impediment. But show me a paddler that wants to feel the wind on their face. It starts to feel like a slogging match, this constant paddling just to maintain momentum. But at last I espy the final bend, and know my goal will soon be obtained. It seems that an interminable amount of time passes between sighting the bridge and finally reaching it, but the distance must be a good 8 miles. My speed is a steady 6 mph, for I reach Hermann at 5 p.m. on the nose, to the minute of what I predicted. It has taken 10 hours to cover the last 61 miles of this river voyage. There can be no question this year of taking Frene Creek, but I am fortunate to have friends here. While waiting, a fellow strikes up a conversation with me. The denizens of this town seem of a warm and amiable character, once they perceive you have respect for their community and are not here just to play the drunken fool. I run into him again at Sharp’s Corner, where I have been told they have a good burger.
I have surpassed all my expectations arriving here Thursday afternoon, yet I had sensed it was possible at the end of my first full day on the river. Certainly I am a more seasoned paddler than last year, but I cannot say I vindicated myself more. This round, Mother Nature opened her arms and clasped me to her bosom. Compared to the adversities I faced last year, the days I’ve just spent on the river went by in a blur.
Friday. I walked around town today. I think I have found a worthy piece of cast iron, and I may try to barter with them. I wind up at camp in early afternoon, and I am sitting there munching on deer jerky and dried bananas when someone drives by. He stops and backs up, and soon we are in fast conversation. Another local has taken me under his wing. Chris lives within sight of the park, and is a dyed-in-the-wool river rat. He insists I accompany him and his friend to the bars tonight, his goal being to get me good and drunk.
We wind up at the bar right on the river, and I see once again the fellow who was at the landing when I arrived. Then to my great delight I run into Mark, the friend I made here last year. Eventually the night comes to an end, and I am dropped off at my tent most pleasantly inebriated.
Saturday. I awaken with no ill effects. I cannot wait to see what today holds in store for me. I soon decide food will do me good, so I walk over to Sharp’s Corner. The breakfast there is especially good and a real bargain, to boot. Then I walk about perusing the shops. I find an ornate old pair of bellows at the Bargain Basement which will make a fine wall decoration. The next shop I find is almost a firefighter museum, and I cannot resist showing the proprietor my find.
At the Kunstlerhaus I have quite a good conversation with Artur Hohl, who hails from the Bodensee (Lake Constance) region. He is interested to hear of my old watercolors of Rothenburg an der Tauber, and I promise to e-mail him some photos of them. I really doubt I’ll sell, though.
By the time I return to camp it is time to attend a birthday celebration I have been invited to. As Leroy is a hunter who likes to travel, antelope chili is on the menu. It is quite tasty.
Later in the evening, I go to The Bank on Schiller Street, where my pal Keith’s band, The River Rats, are playing. It is quite a good show, and the fiddler especially is an amazing vocalist. They play folk and bluegrass, among other things. At show’s end, I beg off on having some beers, for I find myself quite weary. It does not take me long to succumb to a deep slumber once I am in my tent.
Sunday. So here I sit once again, all packed and ready to go. It has been a great week, but I cannot wait to see my lovely lady drive up. There have not been many moments since I saw her last that she has been far from my thoughts. Hermann, and my friends new and old, I bid you farewell.
Afterword by Tamia
I trust you’ve enjoyed Tyler’s account of his trip. I know I did. And his journal illustrates just how much our inland waterways have to offer canoeists. These vital arteries are canoeing’s neglected stepchildren, ignored by paddlers so intent on pursuing the illusion of wilderness that they close their eyes and minds to the beauty, history, and, yes, surprising solitudes that await discovery on their doorsteps. Of course, not every trip goes as smoothly as this one. A case in point: Tyler’s first Missouri River odyssey was bedeviled by violent headwinds, monstrous waves, and a day-long “drenching drizzle.” You’ll find the full story of this “exciting and challenging” trip on the RiverMiles Forum, and I’d urge you to read it. You won’t be disappointed.
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About Tyler Higgins Tyler is working towards his dream of an off-grid homestead, and lives a quiet life with his young daughter, who has many times been precious cargo in his Pack canoe on the local streams and lakes of Northwest Missouri. He is active in his small community as a Dark Sky activist, and still dreams of bigger expeditions to come.
