Storm Clouds Gather
Faced with falling temperatures, I knew the show must go on. I backtracked to Boonville by highway on Sunday, Oct. 24, 2021, and relaunched the canoe. Hank and I hit a rain shower, light enough, and I paddled while he napped. Conditions cleared but the worst lay ahead through the heart of Missouri.
From Boonville the river headed east five miles then hooked south. I paddled past the Les Bourgeois Winery, scene of family merriment the day before. I regretted not having spent more time among these majestic bluffs in my college years. Columbia and the University of Missouri were but a few miles from the river, and I remained fond of the area.
As I paddled south the wind shifted to push me from the north, and I was wary. A northern front’s collision with southern winds typically meant storms. None was forecast but within minutes an ominous black cloud boiled up behind me, bearing toward my position. Whipping out my phone, I pulled up the weather app; sure enough, a severe storm warning was issued for the next five hours.
Minutes later the dark clouds were on top of me, and options were limited along the shore. Steep rocky banks rose on both sides of the river, interspersed by muddy holes with poison ivy and poison oak. At right, bottoms ran atop the riverbank. On the left or east shore, wing dams led to forested bluffs. The winds were already intense, overriding the risk of falling tree branches. I opted for the left side, pulling the canoe behind a wing dam.
Hank jumped out and proceeded to explore as he usually did, unconcerned about the pending thunderstorm. I hurriedly juggled gear, slipping up the rocky dike and sandbank to a little clearing among trees, an acceptable camp. Quickly anchoring the tent and rain tarp into place, I tossed in gear that shouldn’t get wet. Lightning flashed, thunderclaps followed one after another, and drenching rain unleashed on us. Hank and I hunkered down under the tarp to observe.
Thunderstorms were among my favorite events but getting caught outside was humbling. Normally I was sheltered, watching electrified skies from inside. This was about my 11th storm on the expedition, and each was different. This one came quickly, a billowing black form suggesting a load of rain, lightning, and thunder. I knew tornadoes were a distinct possibility. The rain eased to a drizzle, the wind died down, and the sky shifted from black to olive drab. Returning to the weather app, my fear was confirmed—a tornado warning was in effect for my position until night.
The experience was unnerving, exposed to elements during a tornado warning. I had never faced this predicament and wondered how to take precautions. The wind picked up again, rapidly to a wail, joined by torrents of rain that tested the tarp. Throwing my rain jacket on, I ran down to the canoe and grabbed two extra cargo straps. I double-checked the marine line securing the canoe, knotted around a tree root up high. I used the line to climb the bank, and I staged the cargo straps at the strongest pair of trees available, roots exposed. If extreme winds threatened me and Hank, those giant roots could anchor us.
The supercells blew south of us, hammering spots in Missouri and Illinois. An EF-3 tornado left major damage at Fredericktown for winds estimated at 160 mph. No serious injury was reported anywhere, which testified of tornado readiness in the region. We Missourians knew storms like Minnesotans knew snow. Making it through storms was also metaphor for life in these parts, promising renewal, blessings in fury’s wake.
Hank and I witnessed a heavenly sign that afternoon, with the sky a green pallor. A bright rainbow dropped straight from above to settle over the river ahead of us. The vibrantly hued arc was visible long in the sky, until clearing and a blazing sunset of orange, hinting at good weather the next day. The ancient mariners had a saying: Red sky in morning, sailor take warning. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.
The classic intuition proved correct the next day, Oct. 26, 2021. I woke to a clear and brisk 46 degrees. My body was adjusting to colder temperatures, but I clothed in layers for a chilly jaunt of sailing. Wind was out of the northwest at 7-10 mph. Up went the sail mast that Dad and I built for the canoe, dropping efficiently into the foot stand. I had sailed successfully on more than 30 days of the trip thus far, but I was frustrated on others for wind directions, weak breezes, or strong gusts. Now I was better at reading the wind and water.
On this day the wind was cold but perfect. The sail popped full, taut as a balloon, and I felt elation as the canoe gained speed. Next stop, Cooper’s Landing! The 24 miles were no sweat.
Cooper’s Landing was a beautiful property on a high bluff south of Columbia, with campsites, snacks, beverages and event space. I tied the canoe to a boulder and lugged gear up steep steps. Claiming my reserved campsite, I was glad to meet Steve Schnarr of the Missouri River Paddlers group. Steve was a notable outdoorsman and executive director of Missouri River Relief, a nonprofit directing cleanups and more public engagements along the waterway. Steve inquired of my journey, and we enjoyed a brief chat.
I was expecting visitors, two cousins with their family and friends. Cousin Phyllis Cope stopped in to say hello, residing nearby and having followed my trip. Cousin Meredith (Hoenes) Buckman and husband Ryan had two wonderful children, Finley and Steele, who were patient in coaxing Hank for some affection. Rescue dog Hank was in close contact with kids for only the third time around me, and he was nervous, agitated. His eyesight was sketchy in the dark, compounding his anxiety. But the children bravely plied him with treats until all were buddies. Our good company bade farewell, wishing the best for me and Hank. We bundled up for bed in the new tent recently gifted us and drifted off to sleep.
Next morning was colder, with a forecast high of 46 for the day. The blufftop camp overlooked the river, and my eyes bugged, taking in the view below. Yesterday, I tied the canoe to a huge rock 20 feet upside the bluff. The water rose about 10 overnight, as predicted, and the canoe swirled in an eddy amidst logs, sticks, lawn furniture, a soccer ball and more debris. I was relieved to find the canoe still attached to the marine line.
Quickly taking down the tent and packing, I shuttled everything down to water’s edge. I hauled the canoe to shore and loaded up, hoping I detected a north breeze. The steep bluff made it difficult to tell. My faithful companion curled into his nap nook in front of the canoe, brown eyes pleading for fluffy cover. Hank was mostly a fair-weather dog, no fan of triple-digit heat in summer, nor cold days in fall. Complying with his clear request, I pulled out his tie-dyed fleece blanket and threw it over him on the cushy pillow. Spoiled? Yep, he was.
Launching, I met headwind from the south, not a northern helper. This day would require paddling without any ease of sailing. I summoned “the tough” inside, a dogged determination to make strides toward Jefferson City.
I was more than a hundred days on the trip, exceeding 2,000 water miles. I was only some 260 miles from confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi above St. Louis. That might have sounded far, but the distance seemed small from my perspective, having traversed Lake Oahe of the Dakotas.
No matter what happened next, this was every bit the adventure I sought.
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