Splashing in the shallows, the man guided his canoe out from
the oozing of Round Springs and into the main flow. He leapt into the stern and began to paddle.
Dip and draw, dip and draw... Down this
stream of inevitability, the current moved him.
He was not sure if he was standing still and the landscape was moving or
if he was the one travelling past it.
Down the river of life. Was each
stroke of his paddle pulling the shores upstream?
He soon lost his ability to reason logically. All sounds, all sights, all smells, the feel
of the spruce sure in his hands, all seemed to merge into one. He felt now that he was on a different
journey than the one he had started out on.
A journey not only forward into space and time but also backwards to the
Current River of his youth. A journey into itself. The Current was the play, not his
paddling. He was not even the actor but
rather the observer. So this is what
they mean by the observer changing that which he observes, he mused. He was changing the outcome of the experiment
with every stroke. The result of each
stroke was different sights, different sounds, and even different smells. The feel of the air and the spray from his paddling
varied with the speed and strength of his paddling.
Suddenly, something radically new forcefully inserted itself
into this experiment, this journey. It
seemed to his reveried mind, and then to his very Self, that there was a dull
roaring sound off in the future. This
roar was becoming gradually louder. The
current seemed to be getting stronger, faster as if it existed independently of
his mind, of his consciousness. Does a
tree make a sound if no one hears it fall in the forest? Apparently so as he had to adjust his
paddling continuously to compensate. It
was only then that he noticed the Springtime waters had risen outside their
normal banks. Many trees normally not in
the water were now easing into the depths of the stream.
He would have to stay more alert to this...reality. But, what did that mean? This reality.
What would happen if he did not disengage from one journey to travel on
this new one? Was he ever even
"travelling" or was it, and everything else, all in his head. What was it that caused him to even react to
these new sounds and sights? Would he
ever be able to continue the other journey if he made this switch fully? Regardless of his thinking, his conscious
self - what he conceived of as his self - was pulled into this new reality by
forces unknown and unbidden. The switch
was being made for him regardless of any action on his part.
The roar was now upon him.
He could see the white horses of the rapids up ahead and the water spray
rising feet into the air. The sounds
became deafening. The landscape up
ahead, past the whitewater, seemed to be much lower than that he had been
travelling in before. His natural
abilities steered the canoe towards the longest downward-pointing
"Vee" in the rapids. He
automatically sped up the canoe to be travelling faster than the current but,
being only one man, this was in vain. Oh
bowman! Where did you go? Did you ever even exist?
He was able to call upon his whitewater navigation knowledge
of the past and manage to steer safely through the surprisingly difficult
rapids. The past he drew upon was as
real as the present. All seemed to merge
into one and suddenly he was in the deep eddies below the river’s sudden drop. Apparently, he did not need a bowman after
all!
Suddenly, out of the fog, an old wooden ferry appeared. Seeing no boatman, he put his two coppers away
and turned the bow to point behind the ferry's course. Then he saw the thick rope strung across the
river on which the ferry, attached, could cross back and forth using the
current by simply adjusting the angle of approach. A diminutive figure could be seen now
huddling near the rudder, attempting to hide from the heavy, damp evening
air. The ferry connected two gravel
roads on either side of the Current.
Just before passing the ferry, he noticed a branch of the river rushing
into and adding volume to the stream.
He remembered now the name of this branch and the name of
the ferry. Jack's Fork. Soon now, he should be drawing abeam of an
old abandoned cabin. Many a night had he
and his companions spent warming up to the cabin's old iron pot-bellied stove. They had called this Maloney's Cabin. It was complete with its own bat-filled cave.
He steered the canoe over to the left bank and beached the
canoe on a convenient sand bar, tying it off against the current to some old
pile of driftwood. He then grabbed his
gear and headed up the bank towards the cabin.
He moved excitedly ahead, imagining the warmth and dryness of the
cabin. Perhaps he would get the old
washtub out and heat up some hot water on the stove for a bath, just like in
the old days. Just then the dripping air
was torn asunder by a lightning strike so close the hairs on his arms and face
stood up. A torrential downpour began
and the man quickened his pace towards the cabin. But, the faster he ran the farther away the
cabin seemed to get! It was as if he was
wading thru molasses. Finally, the cabin
was lost to his sight and he was enveloped in a fog so thick you could cut it
with a paddle. The ground turned to deep
mud in the heavy rain and he turned around to head back toward his canoe.
Sliding down the river's edge, he grabbed the canoe and
overturned it, propping it up with some of the driftwood. Then, into his make-shift shelter he ducked,
only partially hidden from the wind-whipped rain. He was shivering and shaking mightily as the
suddenly cold wind knifed through his soaked clothes. No fire possible in this weather, he huddled
as best as he could to try and get warmer.
This reminded him of a similar circumstance when he and eight other Boy
Scouts got lost in nearby Blair Creek Cave.
This cave was just a little distance downstream and up on
the bluff south of the Creek near the confluence of the two streams. The boys
had lost their way in a complex maze and became separated from their
Scoutmaster and the rest of the Troop. Realizing
they were lost, their training kicked in and they stopped crawling around. They chose one spot to stay in until they
were found by rescuers. Soon, the cold
from the cave, their damp clothing and their inactivity began to set in. They decided to huddle in a group of 3 layers
of 3 people. They would rotate the
bottom layer when the load became too much to bear. For 14 long hours they waited to be found. It seemed more like forever! At last they heard voices and suddenly a face
appeared over their heads. The
University of Rolla Caving Club had found them and began to guide them out back
to the surface. However, they ended
coming out of an entirely different entrance!
Apparently, they were the first ones to ever connect what had been
thought of as two separate caves. At
least something constructive was accomplished!
Another nearby bolt of lightning jolted the man awake from
his dream. Or, was he still asleep? Had the last few hours since the rapids all
been a dream? Was he still there, except
instead of free, stuck submerged in the branches? Was he dead and this was the afterlife? If so, this was Purgatory at best! Perhaps the entire trip was a dream. It might be argued that everything before the
trip was the dream and the trip was reality.
It dawned on him that the fact he was arguing with himself might
indicate he was now awake.
He began to drift off again with the steady rhythm of the
rain and the lessening of the lightning and thunder. This time, he began remembering the first few
occasions he had explored the Current River, here in wild Southeastern
Missouri. Back in the mid-1960s. Although now the area had become civilized
and was christened a National Wild and Scenic Riverway, back then it was wilderness. A man, or especially a boy, could get lost in
the wide expanses of hills, streams, forests and caves. Any roads in the area were dirt and many were
only traversable by four-wheel drive.
Each time, the boys in Troop 15, Boy Scouts of America,
would gather at Blankenship’s there near downtown Marion, Illinois. The sponsors of the trip would show up, one
of them driving a red and white Chevrolet Suburban towing the canoe trailer
loaded with six aluminum canoes ranging from 15 to 17 feet in length. Several of the canoes had cracks that had
been welded shut as signs of the River’s dangers.
The boys had all purchased their own gear for the
trips. A good paddle that stood at
eye-height from the ground, waterproof duffle-bags or, if you were lucky,
waterproof metal ammunition boxes.
Changes of clothing. And, of
course, all the normal camping gear. The
boys were a mixture of old hands and newbies.
They would be distributed, when the time came, to each canoe according
to what would be the safest way. The old
hands would man the stern and do most of the steering and navigating. The newbies would be relegated to the
bow. If the stern-man was lucky, the boy
in the bow would be strong and therefore best able to assist in propelling the
canoe faster through the water. The
bowman also had a role to play in whitewater.
They would be able to push out sideways from any threatening rocks that
might rise up out of the rushing waters.
They loaded up the trucks with their gear and piled in. It was at least a couple of hours to their
destination down past Ellington, Missouri or further north, depending on where
they were going to put in at. Sometimes
they would go as far north as Akers Ferry, but more often they would start at
Round Springs State Park. One time, they
even went to the south and started at Big Springs State Park. The river down there had a different
character. Wide and less
whitewater. The whole way there they
would listen to KXOK, the AM station from St. Louis and talk and talk.
They would arrive late at night and set up camp for an early
start down the river the next morning.
When they awoke, they made breakfast, broke camp and packed, and then
off-loaded the canoes, beaching them on the river bank. The early morning light, the birds chirping
and the sounds of the rolling, cascading river served as their reward for the
long drive.
If at Round Springs, they would always go check out the
spring before leaving downriver. The
large, blue spring quietly oozed out of the ground from a circular
depression. The volume of water coming
out of there though was indicated by the size of the outlet stream which went
on for a while before finally dumping into the Current. This early in the morning, a mist usually
gathered around the icy cold waters. It
was always a little spooky for some reason, that much water just rising out of
the ground with hardly a sound.
There were other springs in the area, most being designated
as a State Park. Alley Springs, out on
Jack’s Fork. Blue Springs. Big Springs.
Cave Springs. Seven Springs. All were unique but similar in their ability
to mesmerize. Without exception, each
spring added significantly colder water to the main branch of the river. He always thought it was neat how, especially
if you were swimming alongside your canoe, you could tell when you had passed a
spring’s outlet due to the sudden colder temperatures of the water. Even the many smaller springs that could be
found up and down the river served to add their chilliness to the overall river’s
environment. He was fascinated by those
type of springs described as Ebb and Flow springs. Often small, you followed their narrow outlet
streams up to their source and then sat there eating your lunch or whatever as
the spring would flow strongly and then, after some amount of time had passed,
usually 30 minutes or so, suddenly would slow down markedly and nearly stop
flowing. Then, after another 30 minutes,
just as suddenly pick back up and flow strongly again. The mysteries of Nature.
After loading up the canoes with their gear and lashing it
all down tightly with rope and carabiners (against the likelihood of
capsizing), they would sort out who was going in which canoe and then step
inside them to shove off downstream.
They would quickly sit down as standing up in a canoe that is underway
is a surefire way to capsize one and end up in the drink, soaking wet! Then there they were, six canoes off on their
20 to 30 mile journey downriver. They
would meet up with the drivers at an agreed-upon location on the morrow. Frequently, it was down at Powder Mill Ferry
near a cave bearing the same name. They
would make camp somewhere tonight along the river on one of the many sand or
gravel bars.
This Powder Mill Cave was a little bit of a source of pride
with the Scouts. A few boys, who were now
older and in Explorers instead of Boy Scouts, had donned scuba gear and made
their way well into the cave, often being submerged for fair distances. They also, while they were at it, mapped the
entire cave! It was the only known map
of this cave for many years. Perhaps it
still is the only map. One of these boys
was the man’s cousin.
It was not long before the tell-tale signs of whitewater
ahead would show themselves. The noise
and the sudden quickening of the stream, especially headed over to one side or
the other of the river. You could see
the “whitehorses” of the tops of the waves crashing off of submerged rocks long
before reaching the feature. It did not
take the newbies long to figure out the standard ways of dealing with
navigating white water. Rivers had a way
of forming “vees” of quieter, deeper water pointing downstream through the maze
of rocks, submerged or surfaced.
Normally, these were sure routes through the rapids. However, you needed to avoid at all costs the
“vees” that pointed UP stream! These
signified the location of large rocks at the crux of the vee. Also, to have the best control over your
canoe, it was essential to be travelling faster than the surrounding current.
It was normal to experience whitewater every 1/8 mile or so
at a minimum. Often, they came up one
right after another and you sometimes had to shift all the way to the other
side of the river before getting sucked up in the strong current flowing
towards the rocks. Upon occasion, there
would be tree branches either fallen into or leaning down into the very place
where you had to route your canoe!
Paddlers would sometimes be swept from their canoes or injured by these
branches. You had to try and hold onto
your paddle when this happened or you would literally find yourself “up a creek
without a paddle”! Some of the boys
would actually tie their paddles off in some fashion to the thwarts inside the
canoe to prevent such an event.
When not in whitewater, much of which, by the way, was able
to be handled in a routine, relaxed manner, you were able to enjoy large
stretches of quiet, slow, deep water. On
the banks of the river, cliffs often rose up to tall heights and you were
surrounded on all sides by forests and hills.
You would see buzzards or other similar large birds circling
overhead. It was a very relaxing and
enjoyable journey down this river all in all.
As evening approached they would sight a likely place to
pull in for the night and make camp. In
those days, there were no restrictions on where you could go or camp or what
you could do really. No one even knew
you were there and you very seldom even saw other people all day long. Very different from the crowds of drunken college
students frequenting the river and filling it up from bank to bank now that it
had become “civilized” and advertised.
So, sad really. It probably
needed the protection offered by the Wild and Scenic designation, but, in the
man’s mind, it was ruined for all time.
His children would never be able to experience it in the same way that
he had. Even the Powder Mill Cave,
“their” cave if ever there was one, was now locked up and blocked. Probably most of the many other caves they
had explored in the Blair Creek Valley and the surrounding area had suffered
similar fates. Progress.
The evening routine consisted, as usual, of setting up camp
by selecting some level, rock-free sites and then pitching tents and tarps,
rolling out sleeping bags and foam pads, and then preparing the evening
meals. Meal preparation varied widely
depending on the trip. For an
overnighter, folks often brought fresh milk, bacon, eggs, and a T-bone
steak! For longer trips, freeze-dried
foods were usually the fare. Food could
be kept cool by building a little “cooler” in the river out of rocks. A roaring fire was, of course, standard in
those days. No thought of fire
restrictions anywhere ever entered the boy’s minds. It was usually kept going all through the
night to ward off animals and to provide heat in the cool evenings and mornings
by the riverside. Tired after a full day
of paddling, usually the Troop would head off to bed soon after the Sun
had. It would be an early sunrise.
During the night, all sorts of sounds could be heard, given
their location out in the middle of nowhere.
Most of the boys were used to these sounds, but the newbies could
experience some sleepless hours as they tried to discern just what it was that
was out there. There was an urban – or
was it wilderness – legend about one particular varmit out here. It was not quite known what it really was,
bird or reptile or mammal, but it was called a “coot”. There was even a mountain downstream from
Jack’s Fork called Coot Mountain. Which
one, if any, of the myriad of noises heard during the night was a coot it could
never be known. Was it a complete myth
like a “snipe” of snipe-hunting fame?
Or, was it just a local critter?
Small or large, tame or vicious, it would always haunt the boy’s
imaginations.
The man awoke with a start.
Had he dozed off again? Yes. But, why had he awoken? What was different? The rain.
It had stopped. Only the sounds
of water dripping from thousands of branches disturbed the silence. And, the rolling river of course. It never fell silent! He suddenly realized that his shelter had
been inadequate in that water had coursed underneath it and soaked his back and
buttocks. In the middle of the cool
Spring night, he felt a chill. He rolled
out from under the propped up canoe and began looking for dry wood to build a
fire. He then realized where he was and,
instead, gathered up his belongings and walked upriver towards Maloney’s
Cabin. There would be wood there and,
soon, a piping hot wood stove would be going!
There would be old coffee in the cabinets and, with luck, maybe some
useful canned food for dinner. The place
operated on the idea of trust in that folks were – unspoken – expected to
resupply the place on their next visit.
The Scouts had always been good about doing that, so he had no qualms
about freely using the hospitality tonight.
He walked up onto the front porch after having noted the
yawning hole in the ground behind the cabin that was Maloney’s Cave. It was then that he realized that he was not
alone. He looked in the window and saw
two men sitting around the wood stove drying out. Odd that he had not noticed the smoke that
must have been pouring out of the chimney!
He knocked on the door and was warmly welcomed. The coffee was already ready and so were some
beans and rice. He put his gear in one
of the empty corners and sat down to good old-fashioned country
hospitality. Many a wild and
occasionally true story were told that night!
It turned out that one of the men, both hunters, was ex-Navy and the
other a retired Marine. Small world
thought the former sailor. He reached
for his big cup of dark, strong coffee and lit up his pipe. Puffing away without a concern in the world,
his clothes drying on the rigged clothesline near the stove, he began to tell
the hunters stories from his year on a “gator freighter” (an amphibious ship
that often had Marines on board). The
hunters hunched over closer, the better to hear his tale.
There was never a present to be more fully present in than
this.
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mindbringer, original draft: 26 December 2012, expanded 18
May 2013
