Today’s word: VOLUMINOUS. I don’t know how long it takes to read a typical blog. For this one, find your comfy chair and top off your coffee; I don’t think this one is a regular read. Today was my first day alone on the water, and it did not disappoint.

Though I only planned for about 20 miles today, after an early bedtime I wanted to make a sunrise start. Plus, I had this recurring vision of James Caan in that movie Misery; Peg had a little Kathleen Bates ‘suspiciously kind’ vibe and I wanted to get out before being chained to those 4’x8’ plywood flip flops. With no tent to breakdown, and opting to forgo the morning coffee, getting on the water quickly was not a problem. Just before I put in, Jennifer came by with Bonnie & Clyde, leaving for their morning “walk”. I did notice the very small Connection Bank in town yesterday, maybe she’s on her way to make a “withdrawal”, so I launched as soon as she departed.

The fog we experienced with Caroline had returned. Though unlike with Caroline when it burned off about a mile after launching, this fog thickened as I went and stuck around for 4-5 miles. I knew the main channel was on the other side of the river, so I should be out of barge traffic lanes, but I couldn’t see a single buoy. I went on for an hour, and still no indicators as to where I was. Though I was confident I was heading south and unconcerned about other boats, the 50’ visibility was starting to be tiresome. Just before 8am, the fog began to break up; there was a slight westerly breeze that made the vapor dash along like some river specters in a long distance race for the sun.

After the fog cleared, I came upon an operation involving the US Coast Guard; they were helping to replace river channel buoys. (Or maybe they were just peddling spare buoys for use as lawn ornaments; in military fashion, I didn’t ask and couldn’t tell.) My nephew Giovanni is in the USCG and I wondered whether he might peddle buoys up ‘Ol Muddy one day. Giovanni – Trade the fishing, surfing and pirate chases on the Atlantic for a quieter river life? I think he would prefer court martial, or even execution.

As I approached Keokuk Iowa, lock & dam #19 came into view. The massive hydroelectric plant looked like a floating Parthenon; this was the biggest building I’ve seen since the Twin Cities, and I didn’t expect it in the middle of the river. To power the dam, the height of water here was 38’ – about 4-5 times the drop of every other lock so far. The lock was also large enough to hold 15 barges – I think 50-100% more than other locks upstream. I was impressed by this massive operation. However, I was a little perplexed when the water dropped some distance and something that looked like a broken Q-Tip stuck to the wall started peeing in my boat. A concerning fissure to monitor? Defense mechanism of a new aquatic species? The ‘Mississippi Mannequin Piis’ installed by a practical joker engineer? This may forever remain a mystery.

The 20 miles for today passed quickly, too quickly. With my early start I reached my destination before noon. It was getting hot, and I had plenty of blogging to do, but never had I called it a day before PBJ. Also, while visibility and access to the Warsaw Goose Landing municipal park were great, this one rated an 11 on the crappiest campground scale. (I can’t believe I didn’t get a photo!) There were 8 uneven gravel pads, each with a picnic table covered with bird droppings. There wasn’t a single tree, but there were two unmatched large streetlights overhead. It was daytime, but I imagined the newer light would light up the entire facility with blinding white, while the other would glow pale yellow and produce a loud hum all night. All the sites were unoccupied, and I imagined this was the case every night, all year. There was a rusty old barrette, one black Croc, and a pile of charcoal briquettes that indicated some humans had been here since the invention of Crocs, but that was hardly reassuring. I lugged my bags from the kayak to what I thought was the most level of the 8 gravel spots. Then, I did a little blog catch up, ate PBJ and pondered my camping existence. My friends Dean & Cindy Fry were going to be passing through later today, so at least I had dinner with them to look forward to even if the campground is depressing.

After about 90 minutes I was heading down to the water with soap and towel; if I was going to sit miserably in this campsite I might as well be clean. Then a shiny beige pickup truck rolled slowly through the parking lot. He parked as I pretended to fidget with something at the kayak; I could sense he was watching me. A man got out and walked towards me: “How far ya goin’?” came a somewhat soft, kind voice. This isn’t what I was expecting. “New Orleans, I hope!” He asked how long I’ve been going and we had a brief dialogue while he descended the bank. He introduced himself as Craig Cunningham, and he told me about a local gun club where he’s a member, saying it’s a little ways downriver and I could stay there. Really? We agreed this municipal park is the saddest excuse for a campground; Craig also informed me if I wanted to pay the $9/night camping fee, I would have to walk to the library for the envelope to fill out and deposit my cash. He said the few people who do stay here likely never pay for it.

He said he would like to meet me at the gun club if he didn’t have to meet his wife somewhere. He told me the club is about a mile downstream, just after the three houses; there’s a boat ramp at the club, and there will probably be a white car and some other vehicles. Also, Craig’s been doing some repairs on the place, so he put up some yellow scaffolding. “You can’t miss it.” He said he’s sure the guys would have a few beers with me if I didn’t mind. He said they might even have something for dinner for me there. I said I had some friends from New Mexico coming to take me to dinner tonight, so dinner won’t be necessary. “Coming by boat?” Craig asked. “No, by car.” Craig looked a little quizzical, “That might be a problem. There’s a bridge out and you have to drive two miles further down and then come back another 2 miles to get around it. But I guess with the GPS they can figure it out.” Sure they can – I’ll just send them my location I thought.

I took my soap and towel back to the camp site, closed up my bags, and started trudging back to load up the kayak. Just then, Craig’s friend Doug drove up with a boat; he was also a gun club member. I don’t recall Doug inviting me to stay, and he didn’t seem as friendly as Craig, but he did seem to indicate that Craig’s description of the gun club was accurate. So I loaded up and headed further downstream.

Once on the water, I saw the three houses Craig mentioned, the gun club should be “just after those.” There was a small screened building, but no gun club signs and no obvious yellow scaffolding. I paddled on another mile. At this point I was well over a mile downstream, and Craig had indicated “it’s probably a mile, just after those houses…” It must be that screened building that I passed. I paddled 1/2 mile back upstream and close to shore to get a good look at that building. It was basically a 15’ by 30’ screened porch; there was no gun club sign, no guys drinking beers, no humans anywhere to be seen. So, I paddled back downriver.

I had texted my son Isaac earlier in the day wanting to check in with him sometime when he’s free. Now Isaac was calling me. “Sorry, can I call you back in 20 minutes or so? I’m looking for the gun club and should be there soon.”

I must’ve gone over 1.5 miles down from the park, but there was nothing. I attempted a Google map search for ‘gun club’ but there was no service. Twice I scaled the bank to look through the trees. Nothing. Now, for the first time since I’ve been on the river, I was angry. At myself for not being able to find the club? At Craig for his poor adirections? At myself for not verifying the exact location with Craig on Google maps? I don’t know why, but I was mad. I decided the club was a lost cause and I need to turn back to the derelict municipal park. But first, I’ll pull to the bank and call Ike back to get my head right.

Ike and I talked, he seems to be doing well. We both miss one another. We have a great father-son relationship that I hope to maintain. Most of our time together probably revolves around sporting events or the billiard table, but we have some occasional deep conversations and I think we both know we have a mutual trust and responsibility to one another, without having to say so. As intended, the talk with Ike put my mind right, and I would paddle back to the campsite content with the missed opportunity.

As I started to bring my bags up the bank again, a guy pulled up from the upstream side on a small 4-wheeler. “I must’ve just missed you as you came by!” Well, I explained I was just coming from downstream in a failed attempt to find the Warsaw Gun Club. “Oh, who told you about that?” I explained my meeting with Craig. He introduced himself as “Ducky” and we shook hands. “It’s a real nice place, the gun club. I’m not a member but my boss is. They’re good ol’ boys and they’ll show you a good time. And sure they’ll have a few beer for you.” I told him about my failed search for the club and Ducky said “You were right there! Just around that next bend and down a little ways.” He said, “I don’t know how much gas you got left in the tank, but it’s a far cry better than this if you can make it.” Suddenly enlivened by Ducky’s words: pack bags back on boat and launch again!

I got a half mile downstream and saw Ducky by a camper on the bank, just before the screened porch building; with a wave he said “just keep on goin’!” I waved. Then I thought, was that more encouragement? Or was that “git yer city slickin’ ass outa here; we don’t much care for your type round here.” How was it that Ducky showed up immediately as i returned, and now he was here making sure I heeded his advice to get out of town. I began to get suspicious.

I paddled around the bend where I stopped before. No sign. I went another half mile. Nothing. Now I’m thinking: those guys definitely sent me on a snipe hunt to get me out of town. But now if I turn back to the park I’m likely to face a mob in the middle of the night with a boiling barrel of high fructose corn syrup and a bag of pelican feathers. I can’t turn back. But if I don’t, where will my friends from Santa Fe find me?

I went around another slight bend, and another. Now I’m at least 2 miles from the municipal park. Then… yellow scaffold! A boat ramp! Still no gun club signage, but no doubt this was it. It looked like several other houses I’ve seen along the river, elevated on stilts with a broad deck overlooking the water. There were 4 vehicles there; members were certainly present

Now, another scene crossed my mind: This is an ambush. Again, “encouragement” from Ducky was part of a coordinated ruse to get me in their lair. “Well sheriff, this scrawny guy come in wielding some kinda peppery spray an’ a deadly lookin’ paddle with shiny ‘flectors on it… we was just fixin’ to shoot some clays and guess we just unloaded 10 barrels on ‘im in dee fence of our selfs.” I imagine the sheriff scribbling a few notes to himself, then dipping his hand in the open sauerkraut fund bucket and putting a fistful of loose bills in his pocket. Looking a little perplexed, unsure how to retract his fisted hand from his pocket, the sheriff leaves stating, “Now you boys clean up your mess here.” Did I really want to risk this gun club encounter?

I decided to ascend the stairs and enter the club. On opening the door, I was greeted by a wall of Keystone Light 30 packs: some sort of bunker to shelter from enemy sniper on the levee? I’ve never been to a gun club; I don’t know what kind of things transpire here. Why would they need these walls of beers if not for some kind of protective defense?

I noticed voices as I ascended the stairs, now as I opened the door the room went silent. I walked in…

“There he is!” “We had about given up on you.” “Want a beer?” “Hope you like Keystone Light!” The friendly greetings were almost alarming; I felt a little disappointed as I quickly realized there would be no ambush. I met Randy Froman, and his brother Doug (Craig’s friend from the boat ramp), another brother Leo with his wife Kathy, and fellow member Danny. I grabbed a Keystone Light from the refrigerator, then I grabbed a chair. I didn’t see a gun anywhere, though there were a lot of fishing photos. Over time I began to realize that the primary purpose of the club was to keep Keystone Light in business. It looked to me like they were part of the Warsaw mafia that had just hijacked a Keystone truck. They talked of plans to build a connecting spur if that Keystone pipeline ever goes through.

As I made myself at home, I went to the fridge for a second Keystone Light. I was glad to see this was the kind of place where you keep the nightcrawlers next to the bacon and eggs. I was also impressed by the system the guys have developed to ensure you have a cold 30 pack on deck in the fridge, while a third one is starting to chill. Unsurprisingly, Kathy was touted as the only wife that ventures into the club; though I learned she and Leo were just visiting from their home in Stuart Florida. The two talked of possibly moving back to Warsaw and I wondered if the guys would consider accepting Kathy’s membership to make the club co-ed. She made a great soup with some honey button mushrooms harvested from logs around the club; jests about the hallucinogenic quality of the soup proved to be expectedly false.

I learned that the Froman brothers were sons of Ray, who finished his career as master brewer at the local Bergermeister brewery. Ray was a founding member of the club, which now includes several Froman family members. The Bergermeister brand was prominent in the decor of the large room; Ray was known to be a great guy. I was disappointed to learn that the brewery, now turned into a restaurant, wouldn’t be open for dinner tonight, I’ll have to find somewhere else to go with my friends Dean & Cindy.

On my third beer, the members were preparing to go to their respective homes for dinner. Randy was first to leave; shortly after his departure he phoned to inform us that he put a white bucket in the road so my friends would know where to turn (I guess this place really is harder to find from car than by boat; this white bucket sentinel seemed somewhat commonplace). I texted Dean to let him know to look for this marker. A short time later, as the sun was getting low, Dean’s truck appeared and stopped at the top of the levy; as I descended the stairs to greet them he pulled up next to Danny’s car.

I hugged Dean & Cindy while saying goodbye to my new gun club friends. I didn’t really appreciate that I may never see my new friends again. Certainly if I’m ever back in Warsaw I’ll look for them, but it’s not an area that is convenient for me to visit. Dean & Cindy came down to the water to tour my ship. Then they gave me some fantastic gifts: smoked salmon to provide some protein with my PBJ dominant diet, some dried cherries to ward off the scurvy, and some kind of recycled material rubbery egg carton thingy to sit upon and keep my cheeks dry! I think the seat cushion was made of the same ingredients as Sally’s dump bars. How thoughtful of them to provide these gifts; with this generosity I’m finding it difficult to blog anything honestly disparaging about these friends!

The Fry’s took me across the river to Keokuk as they hadn’t checked into their AirBNB yet, and there were more dining choices than in Warsaw. We met AirBNB owner Ginny who was very friendly; she showed me her coffee shop where she roasted her own beans, her tea shop at the end of the street, her artist studio where she held painting parties, and she had pottery roasting in the kiln next to her beans – Ginny has a lot of irons in the fire. Ginny introduced me to Brett, the owner of Sweet Sally’s Ice Cream Shop & Bar next door; he allowed us to bring the Fry’s dog Blanca into the restaurant where we dined. It seemed strange to have an establishment that was part ice cream shop and part bar & grill, but it seemed to work. All of his clientele enjoyed seeing Blanca. One woman was particularly enamored with the dog, then she looked at Cindy and said, “I love your hair… it’s so gray!” I think Cindy wanted to get up and claw her eyes out, but she was afraid of making a blog worthy scene. We all just wrote it off as the strange ramblings of a crazy, but brutally honest woman.

We enjoyed peanut butter old fashioneds and Mississippi Mudslides for dessert. Then the conversation ended with Dean sharing photos of the myriad skunks he has been compelled to permanently remove from his property (apparently a high concentration of carbon monoxide makes an effective skunk deterrent). I was impressed by Dean’s proficiency in dealing with these Pepe Le Pews; if you’re ever in need of a skunk hit man, Dean’s your guy.

After dinner, the Fry’s delivered me back to the gun club. I realized now that not only was the route to the club quite complicated, but you also had to drive around large ‘road closed’ barricades to get there. Danny had thoughtfully left lights on so we could see our destination from miles away. Driving up the steep levy was also daunting as you couldn’t see down the steep bank on the other side; I see now why Dean paused a while on the levy on his initial approach. The members had told me that the couch was notoriously uncomfortable, but most members have found slumber irresistible in the recliner.

I borrowed a fleece Illini drapery for use as a blanket. Then I sat down to attempt catch up on the blog. But, it was late, I again wanted an early start tomorrow, and the recliner was working its magic on my consciousness.

To finally bring this post to a close, I am compelled to relay a story that Danny told me of Billy Stoneking. To appreciate this story, I think you can now appreciate that the Warsaw Gun Club is about 3 miles south of town on a desolate road. About a mile before the club, there’s an old farm house, and to get to the club you have to drive on the farmers property for a stretch about 100’ from the house. The old farmer used to act as a sort of sentry for the club, allowing only members to pass and sometimes invited guests, but oftentimes guests were turned away if not in the escort of a member. The flood of 1993 dumped water into the old farmers house and he never repaired or returned.

Billy Stoneking was one of the original gun club founders. In the early 1990’s there were only 9 members in the club, and most were ready to expand to include sons and trusted friends, but the club had a rule that a single ‘no’ vote would nix any membership additions. Stoneking wanted no expansion and was a continual naysayer. Some animosity built between him and other members that grew to the point where Stoneking wouldn’t enter the club, except to cast a ‘no’ vote in regular meetings. He would drive down to the club most days and just sit in his car by the river with a bottle of brown liquor.

In 1993 Stoneking was in his 80’s and his health was declining. He was overweight and walked slowly with a cane. But most days he could still be found outside the club, watching the river pass through his windshield.

After the flood of 1993, there was a lot of debris left piled on the levee and surrounding floodplain. In the winter when things dried out, fires were set to trees left behind from the flood; smoldering coals from these were commonplace for several months.

On a cold January day, through a moderate snowfall, Stoneking drove down to the club to exercise the demons in his mind with the bottle of brown. In need of heat, he left the car running. He spent the day watching the river, until late in the day when he ran out of gas. He started walking back to town, but it was bitter cold and he was in no condition to travel 3 miles. He went to the old farmhouse, but finding nobody home he walked back toward the club.

The next day they found Stoneking’s body layed over some smoldering driftwood coals. The official report would say he died of hypothermia that wasn’t helped by his blood alcohol level. In reality he died because he was too proud to break into the old farmhouse, and too stubborn to go into the club and start a fire in the wood burning stove. The club members hope that Stoneking has found some happiness in his eternal rest that eluded him in his final years here. Incidentally, Danny was one of the first new members admitted after Stoneking’s passing.

Today’s music offering could go many directions: I’m lost? Gun theme? Boys club? Reunion with skunk assassin? But, as I’m on my own, and frankly feeling a little like king of the castle, master of my domain, I know it’s a bit of a swing in mood after the somber Stoneking story, but today I’m going with Go It Alone by Beck (you read my mind Shootman!)