The day started promising. Then the word for today turned to: CAPITULATION.

We were up before the sun, after a somewhat restless night. We slept across the river from a den of coyotes; they didn’t really howl, but they did a lot of yip-yip-yip type noises as the younger ones whined a lot. Then in the middle of the night on at least four occasions, there were loud splashes in the water. Chad and I agreed in the morning that it must have been a beaver whacking his tail in some sort of territorial or aggressive behavior. They were impressive splashes. 🦫

As we drank our coffee we realized a bear had also come through the beach sometime in the night. Neither of us saw or heard it, but the prints were recognizable and headed straight past the kayaks.

Our plan for the day was a mammoth 38 miles to arrive at the Bridge Tavern for dinner. So we wanted to make an early start.

The Bridge Tavern was one of what I expected to be a highlight from my journey with Chad. I imagined us laboring in from our toils to a dark room, with low ceilings, smelling of pipe smoke and burning coal. The room would be full with beards and battle axes, wizards and dwarfs, tankards of ale and platters of roast meat. Chad and I would each order a tankard of the finest ale, then I would order two turkey legs and Brussels sprouts, while Chad orders the undercarriage stew and a side of tator tots.

Our kinsmen, the league of weary travelers and traders who daily ply themselves to the mighty Mississippi will be anxious to hear tales from our Riverquest. I’ll tell about the time Mr Potato Chad tried to catch bass with his lure bassackwards. Chad will respond that I’m a terrible captain that doesn’t know his charging port from his discharge port. The barroom will go silent expecting my ferocious anger and a flash of my Hobie blade, but with a loud chortle and a hearty slap on Chad’s back, everyone will know that our bond of friendship can never be put asunder. Then we’ll all share our collective disgust for the slow pace of the river; perhaps Sauron is scheming something in Mordor that is using all the river water; we’ll contemplate forming a raiding party to foil his schemes, but in the end we’ll just settle for another round of ale before we settle our respective bills.

38 miles would be worthwhile in order to be rewarded with such an evening. As I said, we started well. We were on the water at first light. A short 1/4-1/2 mile later, we passed Hassman Camp which was marked incorrectly on both Google maps and the DNR map. Then, as we ran the river in poor light, we hit a few rocks and logs with the fins. A few of the blows were hard and we noticed the fins were less efficient than before. We wondered if we could get 38 miles with these conditions. But after 2 miles, that worry was over.

We passed a flood diversion canal around Mike marker 1066 and suddenly, the river stopped flowing. We went past downed trees and bridge pilings without seeing a vortex of swirling water. Then, the sun came out fully and we started to swelter. After about 6 miles of that, we stopped for lunch and compared thoughts with one another. We were traveling at less than 3 mph and seemingly getting slower. Would we reach the Bridge Tavern before closing? If so, would we be in the mood for entertaining wizards and dwarves after a 38 mile trudge through static water in stifling heat?

After another 4 miles, I threw in the towel. It’s NOT the big towel – “I quit, Christin come pick me up with a can of gasoline so I can set fire to these boats!” But it’s an appreciable towel “I’m not going to see every mile of this river.”

Chad and I could make the 38 miles, and the 34 and 32 the following days, but at what cost? Our intent was to enjoy this journey, if not, why are we doing this? I would inform Chad at our next rest stop the we would not make it to the twin cities – we would shorten our duration each day and have Christin pick us up somewhere like St. Cloud. Towel thrown.

When we pulled into the campground at Aitkin, we were done for the day and exhausted after only 12 miles. 5 of our 6 propulsion fins are bent and in need of repair; and one had a compound fracture. We were limping into port less than 1/3 mile from our tavern plans, but we were determined to make it 26 miles to enjoy that festive evening tomorrow.

The campground was possibly the least inspiring and natural I’ve ever stayed. It was situated right next door to the waste water treatment plant, and it double as the country dump. Our site was next for to a couple in a rundown old camper who did nothing but argue with loud,colorful language; they drove a rusty old pickup truck with a bed filled with broken concrete blocks, pieces of wood, and a gas can. It all seemed so fitting for us quitters to stay here, which we did. But the camp had a shower, and the ground was flat, and the neighbors 3 cats were all friendly.

We took the available time to repair our damaged propulsion fins, and duct tape over the holes where the second propulsion fins go (since I’ve previously proven you can’t drive from there).

After we showered, we walked 1/2 mile into Aitkin for a burger and a beer. The bar tender (Logan) was very fun to get to know, and it was fun walking through another small town scene. We went to sleep to the sound of swearing from the trailer next door, but the words were relatively indistinguishable and didn’t keep us awake long.

Maybe it’s an obvious choice, but tonight I’m offering music from the pride of Rockford Illinois as an homage to our minor defeat today: Surrender by Cheap Trick