Today’s word: AUTONOMOUS. I know I was on my own yesterday, but somehow it all felt sort of odd, not ordinary. Seeing Jennifer in the morning, being cloaked in the fog, the miserable conditions of the Warsaw park and contrast with the new and old friends that closed the day… this was not the “alone on the river” experience I had expected. Today was more like my mental picture.

But first… An interesting coincidence, well I think it’s interesting, so you’re going to read it… I got a text from my mom today. She’s traveling for leisure in Taos and staying at a few AirBNB locations. She’s about to transition to a new location, but found out that even at $300/night, the place she booked does not have heat. I’m not sure what the weather’s like in Taos these days, but I imagine it’s elevated and one of those locations where 40-50 degree day-night gradients are common. Before you all start thinking like Lecy that we’re not capable of surviving a little chill: I think my mom is a pretty tough woman, from tough stock – see the comment she made back in Red Wing Minnesota about her great grandmother. I like to think that toughness is a trait that I’ve inherited and that will be passed on to my children. After all, my wife Christin has willed herself through a few marathons in New York, Chicago and London; moreover she gave birth to our first two kids without so much as a Tylenol capsule. If we lived in Brainerd I think I would get her a pink Jeep that says “One Tough Mudder” on the sides. And Lecy, the “Mudder” reference does bring to mind that Camp Grenada tune, but contrary to your request, that song will never make the Riverquest playlist. It’s stupid.

Wait, where was I? Oh, Taos. So my mom cancels her $300 nightly ice box and books a new place; AirBNB response says something along the lines of “Congratulations/thanks – you’ll be staying in the Huckleberry House!” So, as Huckleberry Hager closes in on Mark Twain’s hometown of Hannibal, my mom will be reminded when she plops her head on a warm pillow the next few nights. Maybe she’ll find free time to knit me a cardigan?

Now, I woke up in the Warsaw Gun Club recliner before sunrise. I found the coffee, and passing on the nightcrawlers, I made myself some bacon and eggs. I saw Kathy’s mango pepper jelly in the fridge, but I didn’t want to go down to the kayak for bread. Maybe next year I’ll come back for sauerkraut and there will be a fresh batch.

As my breakfast was finishing, Craig walked in. Before he and Doug went out fishing, he wanted to make sure I didn’t need anything, and he wanted to hear about my engagement with the members yesterday. Again, I should’ve gotten a photo but forgot, especially as it was Craig’s proactive friendliness and care that afforded me this opportunity, but alas I forgot. But thanks Craig, and the rest of the Warsaw Gun Club.

After breakfast I made my $2 deposit to the sauerkraut fund (yes, there really was one!) I passed on the Keystone Light, and headed out before any other members tried to keep me around. Yesterday we joked about the club sometimes acting as a paddlers Hotel California.

One previous visitor from Belgium stopped and somehow left his boat on shore in a way that it tipped over in the middle of the night, leaving all of his gear adrift toward St Louis or sunk to the bottom of the brown water. He stayed until Randy took him to an outfitter for replacements. When his foreign credit cards wouldn’t work, Randy sprung for all of his gear. Several weeks later, Randy was elated to get a check in the mail from Belgium. River people are generous with hospitality, and know not to take advantage of one another.

Another time the club had two Canadian kayakers stop in. For one of the guys, this was the end of the line: his friend pushed on to the south the next day, but this guy just stayed at the club. And stayed. And stayed. A few weeks later, Randy again helped him sell his kayak and put him on a train back towards Canada – take off ya hoser, eh?!

I knew the best way to escape was before the Keystone Light day drinkers arrived, and I imagined that would be shortly after the coffee got cold. I pushed out into a calm morning.

As I rolled out of Warsaw, a massive train rolled by; I was able to count as I traveled: 125 train cars of coal heading south. There was no graffiti visible on these cars, and I wondered about the differences in overnight parking locations for a coal train, or maybe the artists didn’t want their work associated with the contents on the inside of these cars. The train passed for a long time.

There were frequent movements in the water of obviously big fish that I seemed to startle along the way. I was surprised that Craig and Doug weren’t down here because the area seemed to be teeming with trophy fish. Otherwise, things were very peaceful on the water. At some point, I felt sure that there was no other human within a mile or more of me. This was my personal private playground for now, and I was happy to be blessed with a beautiful day to appreciate it. I just drifted for a while in the silent solace.

The next town I came upon was La Grange, Missouri. The ZZ Top riff kept running through my head. I was glad to see that there was no inviting shack on the outskirts of town, though there was some abandoned commercial building along the railroad tracks. I knew that after La Grange I should start seeking my stealth camp for the night.

I arrived at Hogback Island; I had circled this location in advance as a likely good spot for camping. There was a couple with a boat parked at the island, fishing and sunning themselves. They assured me that nobody would bother me if I set up camp here for the night, so I went to the south and of the beach and pulled my boat ashore.

A little while later, a pontoon boat came in and pulled up next to the couple. A while later, they yelled down to me the familiar call of the river, “Hey, you wanna beer?” I went up to meet my fellow Hogback visitors; they each had homes on the river north of Quincy and this was a frequent evening social activity. We talked about my travels and they told me a bit about their lives and experiences on the river around Quincy. When they gave me a second beer, they realized I had fully depleted their remaining inventory. They seemed nearly disappointed that they had wasted their last 2 beers on me, and they quickly indicated they would lift anchor and head home. They sent me off with a dog poop bag half-filled with salty roasted peanuts that I enjoyed as an appetizer to my freeze dried spaghetti and meatballs.

The island was now in my sole possession. It was peaceful as I had my meal by the tent. That solitary existence was short lived when another pontoon boat arrived, blaring loud rap music riddled with profanities and chest-thumping bass. I wasn’t excited about my new neighbors, but I wasn’t expecting any trouble and I would be tolerant. They played Spikeball on the beach and continued blasting music that wasn’t remotely my style.

As I sat and blogged, a scrappy looking dog walked up and startled me. Shortly afterwards, there was a shout up the beach that I think was directed my way, but I couldn’t be certain. A few minutes later, Chad and Trevor walked down to introduce themselves. They were surprised and elated to learn about my travels. They handed me a Budweiser and we chatted for several minutes. I then followed them back to the pontoon where they wanted to make sure I didn’t mind if they “blew something up”; they had a name for this IED that began with a “T” – but I can’t recall it. It was basically a mix of fertilizer and gunpowder in a plastic container that required the heat of a high powered rifle bullet. I didn’t think it was my place to tell them no, but when I realized these 30-something kids hadn’t done this before, I did advise some caution. When the semi-automatic rifle and the explosive came out, I felt like I was abetting some illegal act, especially as a barge tow was approaching from upstream. But, these guys seemed well meaning if only a little misdirected, so I didn’t offer any resistance. After the “event” they realized it would be a dark boat drive home, so they all boarded and departed, again leaving me chief of the island.

My mom’s been a longtime Warren Zevon fan; enjoy your Huckleberry House mom while I enjoy my Splendid Isolation