To Omaha

After saying goodbyes to family in Sioux City, it was back to the high, fast river. Below Sioux City is really where I started seeing a lot of evidence and damage from the floods that started in the spring and kept up until recession of some of the really high water in the last few weeks. I had rain off and on all day, and I wore a jacket as I’m not sure the temperature climbed much above 65 degrees – on July 31st! I’d get out the golf umbrella I carry with me for the heaviest downpours, usually only for about 10 minutes in length, and just drift with the current and watch the millions of drops hitting the muddy water, kind of mesmerizing.

I passed what would be the last Native American reservation land I’d encounter on this trip, the Omaha Reservation that starts just below Sioux City and ends just short of Decatur, NE. I paddled by a group of young men fishing on the banks and waved. They asked me where I was going. Replying St. Louis, they told me good luck and gave encouragement. One guy exclaimed in pride – Native Omaha! I pumped my fist and gave them thumbs up, a welcome encounter as opposed to some of the nerve racking experiences further up the river.

After about 43 miles, I paddled under the bridge at Decatur, NE and pulled onto shore to camp at the nice riverside campground. The water was high here, but not high enough to damage the campground. A friend shared an article with me that explained how the bridge over the river here was built sometime in the 1950s and was actually built over dry land! The story was that the Army Corp of Engineers, who control many aspects of the river including channelization, had plans to shift the channel of the river, so the bridge was built over the anticipated path of the new channel. However, after the bridge was completed, priorities shifted, funds were diverted and for years, the bridge sat unused as the river crossed the road a few miles away. Finally, the ACE circled back to the project and shifted the channel to pass under the Decatur Bridge. Today, it provides an efficient (yet noisy when one is camped under it) crossing to those passing between Nebraska and Iowa.

The next day, I covered roughly 43 miles again and made it to Blair, NE. Along the way, I encountered a lot of evidence of the flood. Massive deposits of driftwood along the shores, vacation homes or cabins that either were sandbagged successfully to save them from flooding, or obviously given up to the rising waters and muddy aftermath. I was exchanging messages during the day with a member of the Missouri River Paddlers group who had their cabin flooded along the river on this stretch. When I encountered the string of cabins and campers she indicated, I saw some pretty devastated sites:

Then, of course, in the true sense of resilience and suggested debaucherousness of a recent visitor or resident, encountered this heartening message. America!?!

I pulled into the riverside park at Blair later in the afternoon and decided to set up my tent behind some piles of sand that were either part of the flood prevention, or perhaps the result of the cleanup. They provided some good cover from the procession of cars that would pull into the park, face the river for about 20 minutes, then pull back out and leave. I didn’t expend any amount of energy or thought on what the hell these people were doing there. I took a short walk over to the Blair Marina – which I learned was no longer a true functional marina, but still a pretty amazing restaurant. I opted for the 4 piece fried chicken dinner which was substantial to say the least. After polishing it off, I got to talking to the owner of the place, Steven. He gave me the rundown on the history of the place, how there was at one point an inlet that led to the marina, but had been filled in over the years. He gracioulsy picked up the tab for my meal, while I paid for my beers, then offered to drive me back to my tent at the park. Wonderful hospitality in Blair!

The next morning, I packed up and paddled around 6 miles downstream to the DeSoto National Wildlife Refuge. A former 7-mile long oxbow lake (more on oxbows and river channelization in a separate post), the wildlife refuge also contains the site of the recovery of the Steamboat Bertrand. I pulled off the river and walked the mile to the excavation site. The story of the Bertrand involves the steamboat running into a snag on a bend in the river near here in 1865. A tree hidden below the water busted a hole in the hull. The captain was able to get the boat to the shallows and offload all the passengers safely, before it sank. Fast forward around a hundred years, the wreck and its location was pretty much forgotten (among the roughly 400 wrecks up and down the river – no wonder train travel quickly replaced the risky, yet romantic steamboat industry). A couple archaeologists/researchers theorized the location where the wreck might be and started taking samples. They located the wreck below dozens of feet of mud and began the painstakining recovery process. Much of the material on the boat was well-preserved under all the mud, so they managed to recover almost everything except for the original hull of the boat, which they left submerged under a pond and a few layers of preserving sand:

The visitor center for the DeSoto Wildlife Refuge apparently houses the recovered items from the steamboat, but I opted not to walk the additional 3 miles to get there. I was back on the water and headed to Omaha!

Approaching the outskirts of Omaha, I planned to stop and camp at Dodge Park, what would otherwise be a nice campground and marina just north of Omaha. Upon arriving, I encountered a muddy mess. Water still covered the parking lots, the docks were twisted and broken. I paddled between submerged park benches and light posts and pulled my boat up into a (car) parking spot. I got out and walked around. The campground was a muddy pit, rusty fire pits littered the ground, the roads and camping pads were barley visible. The only patch of decent grass I found under a nice shade tree was covered in duck/goose poop. I was the only person around for a mile. Once again, it was the depressing aftermath of devastating floods. I got back in the boat and headed into central Omaha.

Omaha airport is nestled into a large bend in the river, and I was somewhat disappointed that no airplanes flew directly over my head as I paddled by the very beginning of the runway. I passed by another flooded park/campground, the Narrows, before covering the final couple miles to get to downtown.

There is a small “marina” downtown, otherwise a small parking lot for boats that had been closed and fenced off due to the flood. I stealthily parked my boat, tied her up and grabbed essential gear before hopping the fence. I rolled my eyes at the sign saying the charge for parking a boat overnight was $50.

A few minutes later, river angel Scott Redd walked down from his downtown office at Union Pacific to retrieve me. I stayed in Scott’s beautiful 7th floor condo overlooking the river and the rest of downtown.

After we grabbed dinner and a few beers nearby, we hit a popular ice cream stand, later learning that Bill Murray and Warren Buffet stopped in for a scoop and I’m sure some pretty riveting conversation a few hours before Scott and I. Back at Scott’s condo, he baked me a loaf of fresh bread and some hummus to take with me on the river the next day. We talked about his pursuit of sailing, not only as a hobby, but potentially someday a lifestyle, taking his Laka Manawa, Iowa-based boat all over the world.

After a groggy morning thanks to a couple Scotch nightcaps, I packed up, took some of my gear back to my parked boat then visited the nearby regional National Park headquarters/Lewis and Clark visitor’s center. I guess I expected a more substantial museum, but turns out this is just a pretty small visitor’s center as opposed to a full-fledged museum. In terms of Lewis and Clark history and artifacts, nothing I’ve encountered yet holds a flame to the museum in Great Falls, MT, although Sioux City is a close second. I spent the next few hours ripping around downtown Omaha on one of them Lime scooters – really the first time I’d experienced one. After hearing about horror stories of scooter injuries from careless riders, I was very nervous about the prospects of having to postpone or cancel my trip after falling off a damn scooter and injuring a body part critical for paddling. I luckily avoided any calamities and checked out the Old Market area as well as doing a lap around the baseball stadium where the College World Series takes place. Unfortunately, I was unsuccessful in hunting down a Nebraska-shaped decal to add to my kayak after completing the state.

Around 1pm, I was back on the water and passed under a train loaded with wind turbine blades crossing the river as I made my way out of town.

My next city of significant size: Kansas City in my home state of Missouri!!!

mf

From Yankton, SD to Sioux City, IA

After covering the 5 miles from Gavin’s Point Dam to the boat ramp at downtown Yankton, I spent the rest of the day having a few beers at Ben’s Brewing while catching up on some blog posts, then went around the corner to Cheers/the Blue Pig for a New York style pizza. Of course I couldn’t say no to adding my new favorite ingredient on to the pizza, sauerkraut. I talked with the owner for a few minutes about my trip, and his story about being a Wall Street guy who moved to South Dakota after the 2008 crash to open a NY pizza joint because there was none here was pretty interesting itself. I then got a message from another local paddler, Chuck, who picked me up, then had me join him and a buddy for a late dinner and sharing of river stories. Chuck dropped me back at the riverfront as the sun was setting, and I stealthily erected my tent behind the outfield fence of a baseball field among some trees. I’m pretty sure camping is not allowed there, but I took my chances.

After getting nailed with the sprinklers from 5:30 to 6am, I packed up and got on the water. As I was getting ready to paddle away, I heard someone calling to me. Turns out it was Jarett Bies, who had been coordinating river angels for me the past few days. Coincidentally, he was at the boat ramp helping his boss do some repairs to his boat. We talked and made tentative plans to meet up later before I took off. It was a warm day but I made good miles on the flowing river. I was getting close to Ponca State Park in Nebraska and exchanging messages with Jarett. I paddled on past Ponca until about 7pm to make 53 miles on the day and take out on the South Dakota side of the river where Jarett could easily reach me. He brought my boat and me back to his house where him and his wife Laura offered food, a shower and some cold beers.

With only about 20 miles left to reach Sioux City, IA, I slept in a bit at Jarett’s then enjoyed a good breakfast from my last SD river angels. Jarett and his wife are frequent paddlers and organize two races on the Missouri – the Fort to Field 50 and the South Dakota Kayak Challenge. Although next year is the last year he will be organizing the SD Kayak Challenge, I hope to come back to do one or both of these races in the coming years.

Being a beautiful Saturday afternoon, the 20 miles of river to Sioux City was packed with rec boaters, pontoon boats and wave runners. The river was a little wavy as a result, but not a big deal. I stuck close to the shore to avoid any close calls, and made crossings when I had plenty of clearance. As I got closer to town, there were some massive houses built on the shore, apparently unaffected by any flooding this year. Looking at the map, there was one last tiny strip of South Dakota, where the Big Sioux River joins the Missouri and which forms the border between South Dakota and Iowa. I stopped to get a picture on it:

Sioux City was going to be a rest stop for me – taking 2 full days off. My sister and two nephews were coming to see me as were my parents. I arrived in Sioux City a day before I had been projecting so the first thing I did when arriving at the marina around 4pm was to call around to a few hotels. My sister Lynn and two young nephews Henry and Clayton were going to get in late Saturday night after the delay of tire problems and the long drive from Peoria, IL. I found a relatively basic hotel downtown and walked over. After a shower, I got a quick dinner and had a nice chat with interesting local Sioux Citian and juvenile probation officer, Moon. He gave me a few ideas for how to spend the next couple days with fanily around town.

As I was winding down for the day in my nicely cooled hotel room, my sister and the kids arrived around 11pm. Two young boys after 7 hours cooped up in a car – wow! Their rambunctiousness could hardly be tamed but eventually they settled down.

The next morning, we headed over to the Sergeant Floyd River Museum then next door to the very cool Lewis and Clark Museum. The Sergeant Floyd Museum is on an old riverboat and has many cool aritifacts from early civilizations, the exploration of the river and the west, the steamboat era and modern uses of the river. The highlight for the kids (and me) is going to the captain’s bridge where you can ring the bell on the top of the boat.

The Lewis and Clark Museum right next door to the boat was excellent as well, complete with animatronic likenesses of Thomas Jefferson, Sergeant Floyd, and Lews and Clark. The museum does a good job catering to kids as well, allowing them to collect various stamps in a mini-passport as they hit different exhibits.

My parents arrived in the afternoon. After a nice lunch as it started to rain a bit we went to a different hotel on the east side of town. I had my kayak tied up securely at the marina. They told me it would be $15 a night to keep it there. I paid for the first night and told them I might make alternate arrangements for the other two nights. I thought I might load the boat on my sister’s or my parent’s vehicle but decided it wasn’t worth the hassle. (Eventually when I departed SC on Tuesday, the marina was closed, so I unfortunately couldn’t pay the balance…sorry guys, I.O.U.)

The kids got to enjoy the hotel pool, then later in the day we all drove up to the nearby Sergeant Floyd Monument. Sergeant Floyd was a member of the Lewis and Clark expedition who got sick 98 days into the trip. Eventually, he died near present day Sioux City. He was the only fatality on the entire 3-year journey, which is pretty amazing itself. It’s likely he died from a ruptured appendix, untreatable during the early 1800s. The sandstone obelisk sits on the bluffs above Sioux City and provides some pretty nice views of the town and the Missouri River valley:

The next day, we all drove out to Stone State Park just north of Sioux City, checked out a couple overlooks and hiked a trail around a nice lake. We then went to War Eagle Park – where a beautiful statue pays homage to a Sioux Chief named War Eagle who as ‘friend of white man’, ensured good relations between early explorers and settlers and was generous enough to offer two of his daughters in marriage to an early fur trader. Please, enjoy my daughters.

Back to the hotel for more fun at the hotel pool with Henry and Clayton, then we had plans for my birthday dinner then a Fingerhut family vacation tradition – go to the local minor league team’s stadium to watch a game. I learned that there was a nearby establishment that was, get this, a combination toy store/bar and grill all housed in the same building, which turned out to be a medeival castle for some reason. The kids loved the toy store and it was hard to pull them away so we could head next door to eat. The bar and grill portion was pretty underwhelming, but we enjoyed all being together and catching up.

Afterwards, the minor league game was entertaining, with former Cardinal Jeremy Hazelbaker making his Sioux City Explorers debut, and flamethrower Pete Tago throwing a complete game shutout 3-hitter for the Explorers. Henry and Clayton were delighted to run the bases after the game.

The next morning we said our goodbyes. Lynn and the boys dropped me back at my boat at the marina where I loaded up my gear. I had found a baseball where I had camped behind the field in Yankton a few days ago and had that in my kayak. Of course the kids found it and wanted me to autograph it for them. Wow – their hero Uncle Mark, doing an amazing paddle journey on the Missouri River – sure I’ll autograph the baseball. But, wait: “Uncle Mark, could you sign Jeremy Hazelbaker so our dad thinks we got the ball from the game???” So of course I signed Jeremy Hazelbaker’s name on the ball. Disaster was averted after Clayton dropped the ball off the dock into the water which I then retrieved as I paddled out.

I left the marina cove and hit the open water of the Missouri and was on my way once again. I couldn’t resist exploring a tunnel before leaving town:

A few more days of paddling would get me to Omaha. More updates to come.

mf

The Last Lake on the River – Lewis and Clark

Getting caught up after making it to Omaha and couch crashing at a generous river angel’s high rise condo overlooking the downtown area.

Waking up at the North Point Campground, I didn’t have a solid plan as to how I was going to portage my boat and gear the 2.5 miles to the put-in below the dam. I had the phone number of the superintendent of the state park where I was camped and was told he’d probably be able to help me. I was going to wait until after 8am to give him a call. Around 7:30, I saw a truck driving through the campground with kayak racks on the roof. Sure enough, Jon Corey pulled up to my campsite and offered to drive me down. I packed up my gear then we loaded my boat onto his convenient rollers on the roof of the truck. He drove me down below the dam, where normally there’s a hopping campsite, but it hasn’t even opened this year after the flooding earlier in the spring.

As I paddled into the main channel from the boat ramp, I was delighted to once again be in moving water. My boat moving without me paddling? Wonderful. I paused to take a look back at Fort Randall Dam:

I had a fairly relaxing day, letting the current do a lot of the work.

Around 4pm, I paddled up to the Verdel boat ramp, tucked in among some modest vacation homes just out of reach of the high water. I sat in the shade cooling down from the afternoon heat. I decided to go ahead and push on another 10 miles to get close to the town of Niobrara. I also reached out to a river angel named Jarett Bies who lives in the area. He told me to look for a gentleman named Bob when I made it to the Running Water take out. I made the last 10 miles at a good pace, having to navigate some shallow water, sandbars and braided channels where the Niobrara River joins the Missouri. Just upstream of here on the Niobrara in the spring, the Spencer Dam was totally destroyed by ice flows and high water, which also took out a highway bridge. As I passed the mouth of the Niobrara, I saw the cranes a few miles upstream where they are working furiously to reconstruct the bridge.

I pulled into what I thought was the boat ramp at Running Water, no Bob to be found. I walked up the gravel road to the main road and the next car to drive by pulled over and introduced himself as Bob Foley. He’s a member of the local South Dakota Canoe and Kayak Association, a pretty active group of paddlers in this area. I had actually pulled out at the old ferry landing, rather than go a few hundred yards further to the boat ramp. Ah well, we loaded my gear into Bob’s car, got the boat secured to the roof, then drove up the road where Bob treated me to a good greasy dinner and some cold beers. He then drove me into the nearby town of Springfield, where Jarett had arranged for me to set up my camp inside a screened in porch of a friend’s riverside cabin.

The next morning, Bob picked me up, drove me to his hometown of Tyndal, SD, where he took me to the local bakery for some snacks and then breakfast. He knew pretty much everyone we saw and introduced me as kind of a local celebrity, the guy paddling the whole river. After a quick stop in another town to grab some jerky from a local meat shop, we hit the river. Bob was going to paddle with me for the day. We put in and immediately had to navigate some pretty confusing channels as the Missouri starts braiding out as it enters the top of Lewis and Clark Lake.

Many of the big lakes on the Missouri have the issue of silting: As the typically muddy river enters the upper end of a lake, the current ceases and the silt in the water will tend to settle to the bottom. Constant settling build islands, sandbars and mudflats and creates new channels where the river meanders before hitting the open water of the lake. Many of the lakes are so large, that the mudflats stretch for perhaps a few miles before open water. But Lewis and Clark Lake is today only about 25 miles long. As Bob and I paddled among the islands and mudflats, he told me all of this was open water just 25 or 30 years ago. The lake is filling up from the back end and it’s a big problem. It’s estimated that possibly within 100 years, the entirely of Lewis and Clark Lake may be fully filled with silt. Nobody really knows what would happen if that occured. The Army Corps of Engineers, who control the river, lakes and the dams, are looking at some solutions to the issue, including possibly dredging and pumping mud and silt to the river below the dam. Another solution is to completely re-engineer the dam at the end of Lewis and Clark Lake to allow silty water to pass through. Any solution will be costly both financially as well as environmentally, so it will be interesting to see what happens.

Bob and I eventually emerged into the open water of Lewis and Clark Lake. We pulled in at the Navritil boat ramp – where we walked up the road to a local bed and breakfast, Cogen House, where Bob of course knew the owners. We visited with the owners briefly before they dropped me back at my boat and drove Bob back to his car. I battled some pretty big waves for another 6 miles to get to the Tabor boat ramp. The road into Tabor had been impassable since the spring so I encountered a vacant and slightly overgrown campground, but it was perfect to pass a windy, rainy evening.

There were still waves in the morning, but I was excited to finish the final 8 miles of non-moving water I would encounter on the entire 2,450 mile trip. As I passed around the point the dam is named after, Gavin’s Point Dam came into view, and I paddled by the crowded campgrounds full of people just getting up for the day.

I pulled into the marina at the dam and met Kasi who asked around for someone who could load my boat up for the short ride below the dam. I celebrated finishing the lakes with a cold beverage, even if it was only 9:30am. I got a ride from a manager at the marina, Heath, on a flatbed truck to the put in on the swiftly running water below the dam. I decided to go ahead and paddle (or pretty much float in this case) the short 5 miles to the town of Yankton.

There are 810 miles of river between the final dam on the Missouri River and its confluence with the Mississippi just above St. Louis. Every mile of this river is moving and it’s moving faster than it normally does, with water levels being higher. Things are about to get faster, indeed, but also muddier and more challenging to locate a decent spot to stop or camp. I know the last few weeks of my trip will go quickly, so I will be savoring every minute and every mile. I am approaching the home stretch.

mf

Lake Francis Case

After spending the evening at the downstream campground at Big Bend Dam, I was ready to get an early start on Lake Francis Case. As I opened my eyes very early as it began getting lighter, there was a crack of thunder and soon it was raining pretty hard. I rolled over and went back to sleep for an hour or so. The early morning downpour let up a bit and I emerged and started packing up. My campsite was equipped with a weird wooden half-shelter that covered part of the picnic table, so between that and my umbrella, I was able to pack up and sip my coffee in relative dryness. About 100 ft away, there was a group of fishermen huddled under a shelter who had put their boats in the water, ready for a long day of fishing on the lake, but were apparently opposed to going out in the rain. The rain would slow down, they’d walk over to their boats, then the rain would pick back up, then they’d go back to the shelter. This happened 2 or 3 times as I was getting ready to go, and I found it a little bit funny.

I timed my shove off with the completion of the rainstorm and the plan was to paddle around 18 miles to Chamberlain, SD. Chamberlain was my halfway stopping point when I drove from St. Louis to Montana to begin this trip. The meandering nature of the Missouri means that Chamberlain is a lot more than halfway on the river vs. on the road. I had gotten wind that the riverside campsites in Chamberlain had been flooded recently and may or may not be operational. I messaged Norm Miller in the morning and got him on the case. As I paddled to Chamberlain, I was receivng updates on what was open, what wasn’t, where I should paddle to and where I should avoid – the wonder of technology and a virtual ground crew…

I paddled up to American Creek campground around 2pm. The boat ramp I landed at generally delineated the half of the campground that was open vs. the half that had been flooded and was still in the process of being drained and cleaned. Even a site 18 miles downstream from a dam has to deal with the unpredictability of flooding, as the ordeal of managing flows, floodwaters and prioritization is a massive challenge up and down the Missouri. Volumes could be written about this challenge and all the factors that go into the decision making, and it’s quite controversial. In order to save certain spots along the river, others must be flooded. Who suffers, who gets saved, who loses business, who loses crops, houses, livelihoods – it’s generally up to the big boss at the Army Corps of Engineers who sits at the master controls of the 13 dams up and down the river.

I met Brenda, one of the owners of American Creek and she pointed me to a nice shaded spot next to the boat ramp where I could put up my tent for the next two nights. It had been a while since I took a day off, and Chamberlain was a good place to do just that. I spent the rest of the day relaxing, picked up a package of more dehydrated food that my wife sent to the local post office, then had dinner at the local watering hole and restaurant at the marina – the Smoking Mule. I ordered the chicken gizzards – I generally will eat anything and the deep friedness of these was good, but damn they were gross.

My goals for the next day were to rest my arms, shoulders and back, catch up on some blogging and journaling, and then keep an eye on Scott Hite as he biked into Chamberlain. The ever-impressive Missouri River Paddlers Facebook group turned me on to the journey of another paddler – Scott. He paddled the Missouri to the Gulf in 2015, and has done a ton more paddling on the Mississippi, Illinois River, and extensively around the Gulf, Florida and the Everglades. He’s an all-around interesting dude. I learned that this year, his adventure was bicycling from Michigan down to St. Louis, then up along the Missouri River to the source in Montana.

I had Scott’s Garmin tracker and I watched him get closer and closer throughout the day. While I blogged and drank coffee at a local sexily-named shop called Tranquil Desires, then grabbed lunch at The Anchor then browsed vintage books and baseball cards at and antique shop topped off by a McDonald’s sundae on a hot afternoon, Scott was getting closer. Back at camp, I sat in the breezy shade and read for a few hours. Sure enough, Scott rolled into camp around 7:30. We chatted as he set up his tent. Through his journey, he’s raising awareness and money for waitone.org. Scott started a hotline aimed at those who are contemplating a mass-shooting. Similar to a suicide hotline, it gives those ready to do the unthinkable a chance to talk to someone before they go through with it. I had so many questions. He told me about me about how the Colorado theater shooter explained in an interview after the act that he had called a mental health hotline prior to the shooting, only to get no answer. Scott carries three cell phones with him and answers calls 24/7, should someone call. His main priority for this trip is to get media attention and spread awareness for his hotline. He hopes to get national exposure at some point along the way. It’s also critical he stays within areas where he has cell phone reception on this trip, which dictates his route to a degree.

Scott and I returned to The Smoking Mule, where we enjoyed some food and drinks and volleyed river stories back and forth, his vast experience dwarfing my short, uneventful time on the river so far. Back to camp, we sat around in the dark getting chewed up my mosquitos, telling more stories before retiring for the night. It didn’t last very long. At 5:30am, the tornado sirens blared. I peaked out into the faint light of the early morning, it was windy, the waves were big on the lake, and the cottonwoods above us were bending. I turned on my phone to check the radar: storms moving in but not an obvious tornado. Scott and I got out of our tents, secured some of our gear, then decided to walk over to the bathroom/shower building for shelter. Lots of other campers left their RVs to do the same. When the front hit, we got inside the women’s bathroom, groggily acknowledging the other campers and waiting for the storm to pass. The wind raged and the rain poured down. After a good 45 minutes, we emerged and walked back to our camp. Branches were down everwhere. It didn’t look like there was significant damage. Arriving at our tents, Scott’s was leveled and sitting in 3 inches of water.

My tent held, but was misshapen with bent poles. I helped Scott relocate and re-erect his tent in a dry spot and we went back to sleep for a couple more hours in the not-quite-as-strong wind and rain.

After I packed up, Scott and I bid our farewells, him continuing on the road north and me on the river south.

The lake calmed down quite a bit after the violent storms of the morning and I cruised southeast. It was much cooler than previous days, a cool front moving in with the storms. I paddled straight through to around 5:30, pulling up at Elm Creek ramp. I set up my tent in a nice shady spot near the ramp, talked with a gentleman arriving to do a little fishing and set up a bonfire to keep the bugs away. I had a dehydrated dinner and went down with the sun.

My goal for the next day was to meet up with friends from St. Louis – Doug and Shelly were starting their vacation by driving up to meet up with me. By around noon, I had made it to Snake Creek, where a bridge crosses over the lake and where there’s a real nice bar and grill where I enjoyed a burger and couple Busch Lights, even grabbing two for the road to go along with some of their homemade jerky. I paddled 10 more miles in some intermittent rain then into the Platte Creek Cove where I was greeted with calls of “on on”, the standard directional confirmation of the hash house harriers, the source of my friendship with Stinky and Swallow. I pulled up on to the muddy shore of their campground, gave some big hugs then enjoyed a cold beer they’d brought me.

We relaxed and caught up on the events of the summer, Stink made some fantastic porksteaks, a staple of summer barbeque in St. Louis, then we enjoyed a good driftwood bonfire well into the night.

I bid farewell to Stink and Swallow the next morning as they continued on their journey to the Badlands, Black Hills, Colorado and beyond. I had about 32 miles to the end of the lake, which I was content to split into 2 days. However, I soon learned that this was probably going to be the absolute best day on the river I’d yet to experience. The wind was nil, the water was glassy, and temps reached a high of about 75 during the day. Several times throughout the day, I simply set the paddle down, looked around and just absorbed everything that each of my 5 senses was feeding me – pure bliss. The lake was about 2 miles across all day, and I made several crossings with no problem whatsoever. Later in the afternoon, I turned on my phone and got a little reception – seeing that Norm had posted in the South Dakota paddlers group that I was nearing Fort Randall Dam. The first message was from a lady named Jackie who said she wanted to come and paddle but couldn’t make it, but would let friends know who were boating on the lake that day to keep an eye out for me. I shit you not, I looked up from my phone and saw a pontoon boat about a quarter mile ahead. As I approached, the guy called out. It was Jackie’s friends, Dave and Eileen. They waved me in for a chat and a cold beer. As I crossed the lake again, the next boat I came across was a group of retirees who also waved me in, asked me what I was doing and plied me with beer. South Dakota hospitality at its finest.

The day was too nice not to keep paddling, so I continued all the way to the dam – doing about 32 miles. I pulled up at North Point campground and got a good spot right on the water. After an uneventful evening, I was again in bed with the sun and slept well. Another lake bites the dust.

mf

PS – To save you a wikipedia click, Francis Case was apparently a US Congressman/Senator from South Dakota from 1937 to 1952. I don’t know that he did anything noteworthy, yet he gets a pretty nice lake named after him, go figure.

Lake Sharpe

After leaving the gracious hospitality of the Kuhls at Oahe Dam and Pierre, SD, it was time to tackle Lake Sharpe. Lake Sharpe is 81 miles long and its main feature is a massive 21 mile bend, where after making the big loop, you end up about 1.5 miles from where you were 21 miles ago. Jack dropped me off at the downstream boat ramp at Oahe Dam. I called to inquire about a dam tour at Oahe, but they confirmed that you do need a car to take the tour – I ran into the same issue at Fort Peck. Due to security, you have you drive your car into the powerhouse following a tour guide. Those who are on foot, or kayak in my case, are apparently out of luck unless you find an accommodating fellow tourist’s car to ride in. This time I let the terrorists win and skipped the tour and went ahead and shoved off.

The water was swift, cold and clear. The city of Pierre, capital of South Dakota, is around 6 miles downstream of the dam.I passed by without stopping, enjoying the underside of an old rotating railroad bridge and well as the lovely Framboise Island. The muddy Bad River joined on the right adding some chocolatey sediment. As the river turned east, I got a pretty good tailwind, strong enough that I put up my umbrella, set down my paddle and sailed for a good 2 or 3 hours. I was moving just as fast as if I was putting in a pretty good effort paddling. With an opaque golf umbrella, I would just have to lift it every once in a while to ensure I was moving in the right direction.Pretty soon the current slowed, then stopped completely and I was into Lake Sharpe proper. There was some wind around, but not too strong, so I continued to make miles. Around 5:30, I was around 30 miles in and approaching DeGray boat ramp. I pulled in to the rocky boat ramp and settled on a small patch of grass next to a gravel parking area for camp. The flies were pretty bad, but I got set up and made a dehydrated dinner and enjoyed a good sunset. I woke up several times during the night as a mild storm rolled through. A bit of thunder and lightning and some rain, but nothing too rough, enough to ensure I packed my tent away wet the next morning.

The plan for today was 32 miles to get to the western side of the Big Bend, where there was a pretty good campsite with good facilities. It was a fairly calm and uneventful day. It did get very hot in the afternoon, and I stopped several times to fully immerse myself in the cool lake water. I passed many herds of cattle who had the same idea as I, taking a mid afternoon dip. I can’t help but practice my most accurate moos as I pass them, knowing I’m doing a pretty good job if the entire herd happens to stop and stare at me.

As I approached the bend, I had a bit of a headwind. But as I made the turn north, then eventually back west, the wind was now at my back and I did a bit more sailing. The campground came into view and I made the last few miles among some wave-running kids. The campground looked pretty packed with RVs and vacationing families. There was a sandy swimming beach with cabins on the left. The far left cabin looked unoccupied and there was a good bit of shaded, mowed grass next to the cabin. So I pulled in and quietly erected my tent on the far side of the cabin, out of the view of the main campground and any officialdom that might make their rounds.It was a long, hot day, so after a nice shower in the ‘comfort station’ of the campground and a quick dinner, I was asleep. Not for long, storms rolled in around 11:30 and lasted pretty much the rest of the night. Now an expert at thunderstorms of the northern plains, I judged from the coordination of the frequent thunder and lightning that this was not a direct-hit storm. It was very windy with heavy rain and I was lucky to have a bit of shelter in my tent, next to a wood cabin and some stout cottonwood trees, but I know we weren’t getting the absolute brunt of this storm. At one point, probably 2am, I got up and made sure my boat was still out of reach of the big waves on the lake, it was. I later learned this this same storm spawned 60 to 80 mph winds in nearby towns that flipped over a few trailers.

Come 6am, the storms seemed to be strengthening and I could tell by sound that the waves were bigger. Once again, I ventured out of my tent and walked over to my boat. This time I was not so lucky. The waves were crashing over the back of my boat. The back hatch was no longer on my boat; water, sand and seaweed was swamping my back hatch, which still held some of my gear. Shit. I quickly and with much difficulty pulled my boat all the way off the beach and into the grass. I gave a quick silent thank you to Jim Emanuel, who early on in my trip insisted I attach my hatch covers to my boat with 550 cordage. Without his sage advice, the rear hatch cover would have been halfway to Pierre and I would have been an awful situation having to find an alternative way to enclose my hatch on a custom boat. Jim, cheers to you!

After a few more hours, the rain died down and I got to work draining the water, sand and other detritus from my boat. Eventually I took off and crossed directly across to the very northern edge of the bend. Once I went around the top of the bend, I decided to make another crossing to the eastern edge of the bend to save a few miles of paddling. I was getting close to the end of the lake – Big Bend Dam. Quite hot again today, I stopped for a quick swim/cool down. I made one final long crossing and arrived at the boat ramp at the dam. I didn’t have a plan for portaging my boat down below the dam. At the ramp, there was a young Native American couple trying to get a wave runner to start. I relaxed in the shade for a few minutes, seeing if they’d have any luck. Luckily for me, they did not and started to load it back on their trailer. I approached and asked if they might be able to drive me down to the campsite below the dam. Ken was very nice and willing to help. He unhooked his trailer with the wave runner and left that with his lady friend. We loaded my kayak into the bed of his pickup, somehow tying it down and jamming it in somewhat securely. A 20 ft kayak in a short-bedded pickup means even at an angle, it will be hanging out quite a bit. Ken carefully drove across the dam, with the back of my kayak about 6 inches from the guard rail. He dropped me at the campsite just below the dam, about 100 ft from where I’d put in on Lake Francis Case in the morning. I slipped him 20 bucks for his troubles. Lake Sharpe was complete.

I grabbed an open campsite near the boat ramp and happened to set up next to Ron and his wife, the campground hosts. Campground hosts are people hired by the campground owners, in this case the Army Corps of Engineers, to just kind of watch over the camp, help people out if they need anything, police the area a bit and act as host for all campers. Ron offered me a cold beer as I was setting up, then after I had made a good meal of dehydrated taco meat on tortillas, invited me back over to sit and talk with them as the sun went down. Ron and his wife spend the summers here at this campsite, then spend the winter down in Port Aransas, Texas, their entire year in a huge RV. Sounds like a pretty good life to me. He told me stories of flooding, massive storms and his interactions with familiar thru-paddlers from years past. Into my tent I went, ready to take on the next lake in the morning.

mf

Completing Lake Oahe

After an evening of cold beers, a great burger and good conversation with fellow camper and proud South Dakotan Russ at the bait shop at West Whitlock State Park, he generously brewed me some fresh coffee back at his camper to fill my thermos to get me started on the right foot the next morning. I awoke to a nice sunny day, but winds from the South. I immediately crossed over to the South side of the lake and for about 8 or 9 miles was able to paddle in the shelter of the shore in fairly calm water. I enjoyed passing under the very long route 212 bridge over the lake. When the lake made its turn South, I was once again paddling into the wind. I made some hard miles before things calmed down later in the afternoon. I passed a boat ramp around 4 but kept going, as I wanted to tackle Little Bend the next day and wanted to get as close as possible that night. I made about 6 or 7 more miles before finding a pretty nice beach in a partially sheltered cove. I had a lovely view of the sunset to the West, even though it was pretty warm and my legs were targets of the biting flies.

There was a bit of wind and rain overnight, but nothing too bad luckily, as I has absolutely no shelter or windbreak on that beach. I packed up my damp gear and was on the water early. Slight winds from the North, mostly at my back for the moment, I crossed from the East to the West side on the approach to Little Bend. At Little Bend, Lake Oahe makes a hard West turn for around 8 miles before doing a complete 180 back to the East for another 8 miles. A massive U-turn that some have actually portaged up and over the thin spit of land at the neck of the turn, but I was there to paddle. I crossed over once again, aiming for the very end of the bend. I encountered strong winds from the North and pretty large waves. I surfed may way across and landed on a beach to collect myself and ensure no leakages from waves crashing over my hatches. A couple more miles and I was out on the end of the bend, with the waters of Lake Oahe for nearly 270 degrees in every direction:

Once around the bend, I was once again sheltered from the wind and paddling in calm water. Sure, the wind is can be tough to paddle in and make for rough waters, but at least it keeps you cool. The Southern end of Little Bend was hot, so I stopped at Little Bend Conservation Area ramp for a quick swim to cool off. I made one last crossing for the day in glassy waters to Pike Haven Resort, where I was given a nice spot to pitch my tent overlooking the lake. I grabbed a shower in the spider-infested shower house, then settled into their nice bar/restaurant for a few cold ones and a nice steak. I emerged from the coolness of the bar just as the sun was setting in order to avoid the evening heat and was greeted with one of the nicest sunsets of my trip so far:

From Pike Haven to the end of Lake Oahe is around 32 or 33 miles. I planned to tackle it in 2 days, stopping about halfway. Pretty quickly after getting out on the water, I saw a distant boat coming towards me. Normally, if I am facing a boat coming my way, they turn off well in advance of any kind of close calls. This boat kept coming, I nervously watched it approach. As it got closer, the driver cut the engines and drifted up to me. Jack Kuhl introduced himself as my host for the end of the lake and Pierre. I had gotten Jack’s contact info early on, and was planning to contact him when I got to the dam, but Jack was able to locate me on the lake via my tracker and decided to come out to see me. After discussing plans to meet, he went off to do some fishing and I continued on with relatively calm conditions. As I approached two resorts that I had contemplated stopping at later in the afternoon, Jack returned. He suggested I paddle on a few more miles to Peoria Flats, where he could load me up on his trailer and drive me 10 minutes to his house where I’d have all the comforts of River Angeldom.

Approaching Peoria Flats, I saw Oahe Dam in the distance. Ensuring the forecast was not expected to be very windy the next day, I decided to leave the last 6 miles of the lake for then. Jack backed his flatbed trailer all the way into the water and I paddled the kayak right up onto it, tied it down, then off we went – by far the easist offloading of my boat so far this trip. Back at the Kuhl residence, I met his wife Sue and cooled off with a beverage and shower followed by an amazing meal of freshly caught Walleye and corn on the cob. Jack had paddled the entire Missouri River in 2015, so we exchanged stories and notes, I think Sue might have been a little bored listening to us go on. But we also talked about our travels, with the Kuhls being pretty wordly travellers themselves.

The next day, Jack dropped me back in the water at Peoria Flats and I paddled the last 6 miles of the lake. There was some wind and waves but not too bad. I also did a Facebook live video during this stretch. While it worked fairly well, I don’t think my reception was super clear, as the video kept dropping. Still, a lot of people joined, said hello and asked me some questions. At the dam, I cruised back onto Jack’s trailer, then we located a nearby rock, under which resided a small stash of keepsakes and treasures left there by previous through-paddlers. I checked out what was there, including some bug spray, a head lamp, a buff, some energy bars, a (sought after) purple hat awarded to those who have paddled the entire river – which I left in the stash. I also found a small baggy into which someone had left a nicely rolled joint, still smelling pretty nice and potent. Alas, the ziplock bags of the stash were no match for mother nature, as water had seeped in to soak everything and make it all pretty nasty. I added a few stickers that I collected along the way on my trip so far, nestled in next to the soggy joint. I also nominated Jack for another summer project: clean up and place the stash in a more weatherproof container, so that perhaps the next paddler coming through could actually enjoy the wonderful generosity of previous paddlers and maybe even a few puffs of the sticky-icky.

After the short day of paddling, Jack graciously showed me around nearby Pierre, SD, including the site of Fort Pierre, the South Dakota Heritage Museum and the Verendrye site – a big hill overlooking the town where in 1913, a few teenagers discovered an engraved lead plate planted by French explorers way back in 1743. The plate itself is stored in the museum, where they also had a pretty cool exhibit on Minuteman missiles, which have played a big part in the history of the Dakotas. After a quick stop into the local Wal-Mart to load me up with fresh cherries, which have become my preferred snack while paddling, back to the Kuhl residence for another amazing dinner.

The next morning I was loaded back up and ready to begin the next lake – Lake Sharpe. I thanked the Kuhls for their generosity and for being wonderful River Angels.

To summarize Lake Oahe: I spent 10 days paddling this 231 mile long beast of a lake. I took 3 rest days – 2 at Bridge City Marina in Mobridge and 1 at West Whitlock State Park. The reputation of Lake Oahe is that it can be unbelievably rough and dangerous based on the weather conditions. I’ve heard many stories of paddlers being stuck on the shore for days at a time – 10 days in one case. Jim Emanuel had to take shelter in a shower house last year as 100mph winds came through, flattened tents and brought down an electrical pole at the campsite. Folks have been caught out on the water as massive storms appeared almost out of nowhere and stirred things up. My Oahe experience was luckily not as exciting. I consider myself extremely lucky to experience the weather and conditions I did. Other than that one terrifying storm in the middle of the night that I weathered in my sand-covered tent near Cannonball, I didn’t have a ton of overly challening conditions. I was also lucky to have my awesome boat from Timber Longboard Co., which I confidently paddled into (up to) nearly 20mph winds and the waves that were whipped up by them. Peck, Sakakawea, Oahe – the big three lakes on the Missouri. I’ve now completed all of them. I am hoping that within another week of paddling, I will descend past the last dam of the Missouri at Gavin’s Point/Yankton. From there I’ll hit the fastly moving water of the lower Missouri and begin the real home stretch.

mf

Oahe Shows Its True Colors

The longest reservoir on the Missouri River, Lake Oahe, is generally oriented North to South. It stretches 231 miles from Bismarck, ND to Pierre, SD. Because of its orientation plus weather and winds generally moving from West to East, Oahe has a reputation for being the most challenging passage of the 3 big lakes. So I was quite pleasantly surprised with how my first 4 days of paddling on the lake turned out. I think the strongest winds I encountered were 10 – 12 mph and were from the Northwest, so I wasn’t battling wind or waves for the most part. I even had a truly legenday day conditions-wise as I crossed over the lake from West to East near Fort Yates:There was the late night storm I had to endure, but I’d much rather deal with severe weather on shore, in my tent versus potentially being caught on the water for it.

After a couple relaxing days at Bridge City Marina in Mobridge, it was time to hit the water again. As I paddled out of the marina around 9am on Monday, July 8th, I was facing a fairly strong headwind. Paddling on the East side of the lake, I tried to paddle in the shelter of coves along the way, but was still facing tough wind and waves. The waves weren’t generally a big issue, typically a 2 or 3 foot wave would break on the front of my boat, water might splash on the top of the front of my boat, but generally the splash dissipated by the time it reached the cockpit where I was sitting. I didn’t wear the skirt and didn’t really get much water splashed into the cockpit. The bigger challenge was the wind itself. It was in my face, and it seemed to push both my boat and my body backwards. The main effect was lack of mileage covered vs. the effort I was putting forth. As I checked my Garmin throughout the day, I was consistently surprised how few miles I was covering. I made a fairly long crossing of several coves from 2 – 4pm, targeted a cove where I might set up camp and was disappointed to see I had only hit 15 miles that day.

Luckily I dodged some approaching thunderstorms that night, as my tent was perilously perched on a gravel isthmus between the lake and a tidal pool with no trees or windbreaks to be found. The wind throughout the night had waves lapping up a few feet from my tent, but I made it through. After a short early morning rainstorm that kept me in my tent a little longer, I was quickly packed and on the water by 6:45am. The wind forecast for the day was calmer in the morning, increasing to 10 to 15mph from the West later in the day.

With fewer waves, I made a good 5 miles before 8:30am before things started picking up. When they did pick up, they did so quickly, creating 3 to 4ft whitecapped waves out of the West, coming in from my right to left. Although the waves were big, I prefer this to headwinds, as I am still able to cover mileage as opposed to strong headwinds. My general approach is to keep and eye on the waves that are forming around 30 yards ahead of me and at a 45 degree angle from my boat to my right. Those are the waves I am going to hit as I move through the water. If I see whitecaps in that space, I can generally expect to encounter some pretty rough stuff when I cover that 30 yards. If no whitecaps, I know it’s probably safe to grab a drink of water, or snatch a quick bite of snacks. My Timber Longboards Co. boat performs wonderfully in these conditions. I roll across the top of big waves. The whitecapped waves may break against the side of my boat and may send water crashing over the top and sometimes into the cockpit. A few times, I got a good soaking when I wasn’t expecting it, otherwise I welcomed a splash of cool water on a warm day. I didn’t use the skirt in the morning, and had to bail out some water with my bailer cup/toilet and my sponge periodically.

I pulled into Dodge Draw Cove around 1pm, where there was a boat ramp, parking lot and drop toilet. I had covered 14 exhausting miles and was prepared to call it a day. I checked the weather forecast for the rest of the day and the following day. I was dismayed to see forecasts of 25 to 30mph for the next day. This meant that I would most likely be shorebound the next day. So I could indeed call it a day and likley be stuck at a pretty boring boat ramp for a day, or I could put up with the 10 – 15mph winds for another 10 miles and make it to a pretty nice campground with full facilities at West Whitlock State Park. I decided to go for it. This time I put the skirt on, as I could expect to get swamped quite a bit more in the increasing winds. I dug in and really cranked out some paddling. I covered the 10 miles in around 3 hours and pulled into West Whitlock before 5pm. I’d made a very difficult 25 miles for the day, possibly my hardest physical day of the trip so far. I found a really nice state park campground, parked my kayak on the swimming beach, grabbed a campsite right up the hill, then got a ride from a friendly family down the road to a bait shop/restaurant for some cold beers and a delicious burger for dinner, while chatting with some very nice folks who were also staying at the park. It sure beat Dodge Draw.

I heard strong winds blowing through the trees around my camp all night and into the morning. I woke early and was reassured at my decision to take a rest day after seeing a whitecapped Oahe:The last 10 miles really took a lot out of my upper body yesterday as well, so I’m quite happy to give that a rest today. Tomorrow’s forecast is for 10 to 15mph winds from the South, not perfection like my first 4 days on Oahe, but something I can deal with. My first 8 or 9 miles is due West, then the lake turns to the South where I may once again be facing headwinds. It’s certainly been interesting having the added challenge of winds, weather, lake orientation and lots of other little factors to consider rather than just getting in the boat and paddling. I did a little repair work on the boat this afternoon, updated my blog and journal, will enjoy a hot shower later before heading back to the bait shop to grab some beers and dinner with Russ, the ethanol plant worker on vacation and camping just down the road.

mf

Garrison Dam to Mobridge, SD

Currently, I’m sitting in an air-conditioned cabin, 20 yards from Lake Oahe at the lovely Bridge City Resort and Marina. I have the TV on and am about to root for the US Women’s team to win the world cup. My hosts at Bridge City, Mike and Jessie Norder have been amazing hosts, super generous in feeding me, inviting me to their twin sons’ 18th birthday party and even lending me their small pickup truck to check out some cool sites around Mobridge. I plan to hit the water again tomorrow, Monday, July 8th if the wind cooperates.

Since completing Lake Sakakawea, I’ve paddled 198 miles. Half has been flowing river, half has been on the often challenging Lake Oahe. Here’s my story of the last 198 miles:

Garrison Dam to Bismarck, ND

I spent two relaxing days in Pick City and Riverdale, ND, where Garrison Dam is located. I enjoyed the dam tour, I can’t get enough of learning about these massive mid-century infrastructure projects. I even got to see a 4 ft Paddlefish hanging out below the dam. My cousin Dave arrived after flying in to Bismarck, then driving a rental car north an hour to Riverdale. We had a great night eating delicious food and enjoying some drinks at Iron Oar with the owner Nate and his friend Derrick.

After a good night sleep in the lodge, I packed up all my gear and McGyver’d my boat to the top of Dave’s rackless rental car and we drove to the bottom of Garrison Dam in a steady drizzle to the boat ramp. Looking back at Lake Sakakawea from the top of the dam and seeing big waves and whitecaps in the rain, I was so happy to be done with the lake (for now). I put in a few hundred yards from the dam and the rain let up pretty quickly. About a mile downriver, Norm had told me to look for a massive petrified tree that is even visible from space via google maps. With high water levels, I didn’t expect to be able to see it. But as I approached the spot, sure enough, there it was:

Norm says it’s a Redwood, left over from many thousands of years ago, very cool. Proceeding on, the wind increased and I was paddling into 2 to 3 foot waves on a very wide stretch of the river. With the luxury of a cool cousin driving a support vehicle for this stretch of the river, I was able to pack my boat with only minimal gear and much less weight. So I had to get used to paddling a boat that sat higher in the water and was more susceptible to being pushed by the wind. Although it generally moved faster in the water, it also sat up higher with less weight and would therefore catch more wind. Once I made a southward bend in the river, the wind seemed to decrease a bit. Around mid-day, I encountered the Knife River where it joins the Missouri. I paddled two miles up the currentless Knife to a small boat ramp to meet Dave. I hopped in the car and we drove a mile to the Knife River Indian Villages historic site. We took in the small museum, the amazing reconstructed and restored earthen hut and viewed the craters of long collapsed earthen huts of the Mandan and Hidatsa tribes. Back on the water, it remained fairly windy the rest of the day, and I pulled into Washburn, ND to meet Dave at the riverfront city park and complete a 40 mile day. Dave drove us north to Coleharbor, ND, past what was easily the largest digging crane I’d ever seen mining coal, to the Harbor Inn, a small hole in the wall bar specializing in steaks. I had a massive Prime Rib to replace some of the calories burned that day.

After sleeping in tents on the Washburn waterfront, I was on the water early for an amazing calm and serene morning with the objective of Bismarck, ND. My classical music mix was the only appropriate soundtrack to accompany this scene:

Later in the afternoon, I started seeing more recreational boats, a sure sign of approaching Bismarck. A few mid-river sandbars had a handful of boats parked with partiers enjoying a liesurely Sunday afternoon on some of North Dakota’s finest beaches. The final 10 miles into Bismarck was a veritable gauntlet of speedboats, pontoons and a few fishing boats all making the river much wavier than it had been earlier. I kept very close to the east shore out of the traffic, also enjoying views of some pretty elaborate and ornate riverside houses. At one point I made a shortcut through a side-channel where there were a few boats, mainly families, enjoying a bit of a quieter piece of the river away from the bustle of the main channel – that is until a likely inebriated, moronic driver of a pontoon sped through feet away from me, upsetting the quiet scene.

Passing under the bridges of Bismarck, I got to paddle by a huge paddlewheeler full of tourists seeing the sites and shooting strange looks at the lone kayaker among the speedboats and wave runners. Finally, I pulled into the South Port Marina, where I was greeted by Dave with a cold Busch Light and some welcome appetizers in the cafe. Dave sprung for a room at the nearby Fairfield Inn, where I had a wonderful shower and did some laundry before we went out to a cool beer, pizza and vintage arcade game bar where we celebrated Dave’s 54th birthday.

In the morning, Dave drove all my gear back to my boat, then dropped me back at the hotel room to relax for a few more hours. He headed to the airport for the return trip to St. Louis. I called around and managed to get in for a much needed massage at a nearby spa. My back tightness was noted by the masseuse and she skillfully loosened everything up to get me back into paddling shape.

Bismarck, ND to Mobridge, SD – Lake Oahe

After a few errands to pick up a couple needed provisions, I walked back to the marina, had some lunch then hit the water. My objective was an easy 10 mile paddle to a sandbar that Jim Emanuel had recommended as one of his favorite camp spots on his trip downriver last year. As I arrived at the spot and set up my tent, I flinched as shots started ringing out from a boat ramp slightly upriver on the opposite bank. I huddled behind my tent with my binoculars and observed 3 young guys indisciminately firing guns near the boat ramp. They didn’t seem to be shooting across the river and I don’t think they even saw me, however their careless gunplay certainly made me nervous. Eventually they left and I enjoyed a nice sunset and a long phone conversation with my wife.

According to maps, Lake Oahe actually starts at Bismarck. However, the river continues to flow for around 20 to 25 more miles until it dumps into the top of Lake Oahe and truly becomes a lake. As the river turned into a 2 to 3 mile wide behemoth of a channel, there was lots of willows and other water plants growing from the shallows, making navigating a bit of a challenge. But again with water levels being generally high, I had no trouble paddling through some shrubbery to make the crossing to the east side of the lake.

The conditions on the water were pleasantly calm, and as I got close to the Cannon Ball River entering the lake on the opposite side, Norm messaged me and suggested I cross to check it out. I made the crossing relatively easily, but was happy to stop and take a full immersion in the lake at the Cannon Ball. The river was named by Lewis and Clark after the cannonball like rocks that mark its convergence with the Missouri. I saw a few of the rocks, but I’m sure many more were hidden under the high water. Close to the Cannon Ball is also the site of the DAPL protests of 2016 and where the gas pipeline was constructed and passes under the river. I saw no signs of the pipeline.

As my mileage for the day approached 40 miles, a rainstorm loomed ahead of me and I began looking for a campsite. I was on the west side of the lake – which is part of the Standing Rock Reservation, but I was advised it’s generally acceptable to camp over here, just try to do so surrepticiously if possible. Spots to set up a decent camp were few and far between. As the rain started, I was forced into a swampy area and an obvious cow pasture. I quickly set up my tent under the shelter of a low Cottonwood tree and was able to actually tie up my boat to another tree to secure my craft for the coming storm. I sat in my tent waiting out the quick rainstorm. Exhausted from a 40 mile, very warm day and not wanting to deal with the mosquitoes or the damp 3 ft high grass around my tent, I made a quick dinner in my tent then laid down. With spotty reception on my phone and listening to local radio forecasts, I was made aware of a bigger storm moving in. I dozed off around 9:30pm, warily seeing this on my phone (I was camped a few miles south of Cannon Ball and the storms were moving in from the west):

About an hour later, I awoke to the flashing of lightning and a slowly growing rumble of thunder. As the storm moved in, both the thunder and lightning became nonstop. I could not distinguish individual thunder sounds, just a very low constant rumble accentuated with loud, violent cracks every few seconds. Lightning was flashing literally every 2 seconds if not less. I huddled under my sleeping bag hoping my tent would hold up in the wind, the Cottonwood would not break and crush me or get struck by lightning and spread the deadly electricity to my tent it was touching. A few cracks of lightning illuminated even the insides of my tighly closed eyes and I was certain of a direct hit. Luckily I was wrong. On top of the violence of the storm, because I had camped on a sandbar the previous night and packed up my dew covered tent on the sand, as my tent shook in the wind this night, I also received a shower of fine sand from the underside of my rain fly. Sand covered the sleeping bag I was tightly wrapped in, the floor of my tent and peppered my face which I also buried inside the sleeping bag. I felt quite helpless as the storm made its was across the lake. As the thunder and lighting became less frequent, I peeked out of the tent and was pleasantly surprised to see my boat still there strapped to the tree. Relieved, I sent a message to my wife that I was ok and just rode out a doozy of a storm. Storms is St. Louis can get bad, for sure. But rarely have I had to experience such a violent storm without the luxury of a structure to take shelter in. It was a short night after the storm, but I managed to get some rest then quickly pack up my damp gear in the morning.

The next day was fairly calm in the morning, then gave way to nearly perfectly calm water later in the afternoon. I first made around a 9 mile crossing of open water to get to the reservation town of Fort Yates. There I stopped on a gravel beach and hid my boat pretty well, then walked into town where google told me there was a burger and pizza joint called The Rock. Sure enough, I devoured a huge double bacon cheeseburger and a medium fries, which was actually an entire large plate. From Fort Yates, I decided to make a 6 mile crossing back to the east side of the lake, as there was a developed campground and resort another 10 miles downstream. I made the crossing on a full stomach, then stopped to snap some photos of the picturesque conditions of the afternoon:

I paddled the last 10 miles to the Stateline Campground and Resort which appropriately straddles the line between North and South Dakota. I found a crowded campground – mostly RVing families gathered to celebrate the 4th of July, but was told by the owner where I could find a quiet spot to set up my tent and enjoy the two cold beers one of the campers had graciously given me. I didn’t mind the fireworks late into the night, a city boy has been training all his life to sleep through night-long 4th of July celebrations.

With around 42 miles to Mobridge, SD, I planned to paddle around half that, camp then do the other half the following day. I slept in a bit on July 4th, then enjoyed a coffee and made some oatmeal with some of my raspberry fruit leather. I paddled from around 10:45am to around 5pm and found a quiet cove to camp in. I selected a rocky beach and had to scoop out quite a bit of cow dung to make it a livable camp. It was a lovely evening overlooking the huge bend in the lake which I’d paddle the next morning. I added the sticker of North Dakota to my boat, marking the completion of my second state of the trip.

It was a grey but dry morning, until I was almost fully packed and ready to pull out. Then the rain came. I grabbed my umbrella and huddled over my boat against the sideways rain. After a solid 45 minutes of steady rain, it let up and I got on the water. Around 12 mph winds from the north made paddling the big east to west bend in the lake a wavy challenge. As the lake turned south again, the wind subsided, I saw the two bridges of Mobridge in the distance, and I even used my umbrella for the second time today, this time as a sail to propel me forward and give my paddling arms a rest. I got some pretty funny looks from some fishermen – a dude in a big wooden boat with a golf umbrella directly in front of him with a paddle in his lap. I could care less, I had to get to Burger King.

Pulling into Mobridge mid-day, I was aware of the Burger King strategically located mere steps from the river – this is when the water is high. When the water is not high, it can be a half mile to mile long slog through mud and swamp to get there. I spotted the sign from the lake and pulled in, and stuffed my face with the bounties of our fast food nation. I even popped into the meat shop next door (‘Merica!!!) and picked up some amazing homemade beef and buffalo jerky.

Well-practiced in paddling Lake Oahe on a comically full stomach, I made the last 3 miles from Mobridge to the dock at Bridge City Resort and Marina. River angels Mike and Jessie welcomed me and set me up in a cozy camper for the night. I got a hot shower, did some laundry, enjoyed a cold beverage, and made plans to stick around for a few liesurely days to relax and recover from 198 hard-earned but memorable miles.

mf

Missouri River Relief Plug

Since the start of my trip, I’ve gotten a lot of new followers on IG and FB and my blog right here!

Just a reminder and plug that I am raising money during my trip for Missouri River Relief. If you feel so inclined and would like to contribute to an organization that focuses on protecting our great River and educating those about all things Big Muddy, you can do so at my Facebook link below, or through MRR’s website. Thanks to all who have already contributed!

https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10161628236415107&id=893355106

Here’s a statue of a cowboy riding a Walleye.

Resources Used, Resources Abused

As I finished paddling Montana and entered North Dakota, I noticed very obvious and sometimes instrusive signs of the use of two naturally occuring resources. This post is not (entirely) an opinion piece. I have an obvious bias as an outdoorsman, and aspiring Boatman, and an armchair environmentalist, but I am also a life-long resident of large cities and recognize the importance and need for large-scale farming and gas/oil production. For better or for worse, I consume food products farmed all over the world, and I fill my car with gas so I can drive the 30 minutes to work every day (when I’m not paddling 8 to 10 hours a day, of course). I’m merely trying to educate and show what the impact of these industries is on this quiet but otherwise pristine stretch of the Missouri River.


First, the use of river water for irrigation purposes. From Fort Peck Dam through the border of Montana/North Dakota, I saw dozens of these along the river:

I thought they might have a more technical or industrial name, but when I slowed to talk to a guy who was working on one, he told me they were floating water pumps, obvious enough. Basically, it’s a big tube that pumps water from the river to farmland that otherwise wouldn’t get enough water to support crops. Usually they are hooked up to either a noisy generator or power lines that have been run to the river’s edge to power the movement of the water. When looking for places to camp along the river, I avoided these pumps, as the noise from the generators was loud and didn’t quite provide the ambient sound I desired when I was trying to relax, watch a great sunset or sleep at night.

I also had the fortunate experience to talk to a gentlemen after the 5k run at the Fort Union Rendezvous who worked in the agriculture industry, though wasn’t a farmer himself. I quizzed him on the use of these pumps, so ubiquitous along this stretch. He explained that these were indeed used for irrigation of farm fields. The primary crops grown in Northeastern Montana are corn and…a surpise to me, sugarcane. I’m not an expert by any means, but he confirmed a thought I had that typically sugarcane is a fairly water-intensive crop. I usually think of big sugarcane plantations on islands or along coasts of Caribbean nations. He further explained that typically annual rainfall here is 10 inches, and these types of crops grown here require at least 30. So the shortfall is pumped from the river. Another somewhat alarming fact he told me, was that there is little (i.e. none) regulation as to how many pumps are put into the river and how much water they pump out. If you own land on the river, you can pump as much water as you’d like out of the river.

2019, as all of us have unfortunately seen, has been a historically high water year. From the still snow packed mountains of the Rockies in Montana, to the water-logged prairies of the Dakotas, to the failed dams of Nebraska, to the busted levees and sandbagged main streets of towns up and down the river, there is no shortage of water this year. And most years, the Missouri holds so much water that a few pumps in Montana are but a drop in the literal ocean of river water. And my agricultural industry buddy confirmed the same. There is no thought to the impact of water levels from the irrigation here. But my thought immediately went to the Colorado River. The countless articles, maybe a documentary here or there, explaining that due to overuse and abuse of the water resources of the Colorado River, it no longer even reaches the Sea of Cortez; it runs dry far before that. I am by no means advocating for limiting the use of Missouri River water to irrigate farmland and provide much needed food and resources. I am simply remarking at what seems like a fairly slippery slope of unregulated water usage on the Missouri River, or pretty much any body of water.


Almost immediately upon crossing the eastern border of Montana into North Dakota, I was warmly greeted by this sight:

Then I began seeing the bright flares of something – I assumed the oil or gas, being burned at the site of the pumps or wells. Like this one at the very upstream end of Lake Sakakawea:

At an amazing spot near Williston, ND, I camped at the edge of the river one evening and enjoyed a full moon coming over the horizon. I was on the phone with my wife and remarked to her how beautiful it was, and how from the door of my tent, I could also count about 8 gas flares in the surrounding hills (if you look closely, they are there):

Again through articles I’ve read, documentaries here and there, I was aware of the oil and fracking industry and how prevalent it is in North Dakota. However, witnessing it in person was bit of a shock at first. As I paddled the first few dozen miles of Lake Sakakawea, I would turn a corner on the lake, see three or four more flares in the distant hills, and joke to myself the Eye of Sauron was still watching me. I was paddling about 50 yards from shore, heard what I though was thunder on a cloudless day, but it was more sustained. I felt actual vibrations coming from the water, through my wooden kayak and into my posterior. I paddled around the next decline in the bluff and saw a massive pumping station or oil well a quarter mile from me. I pulled into the cove of Tobacco Gardens late on a Monday afternoon and noted its peaceful and beautiful surroundings, then once I got on shore, counted 5 active oil sites with flares surrounding it. For the next two days at Tobacco Gardens, I heard the rumble of large trucks coming to pick up the oil on the road behind my cabin. When the sun went down, after I enjoyed the spectacular sunset, I witnessed another show in the sky – only this one went on all night:

When my friend Dan and I were camped at Four Bears further down the river, we enjoyed some beverages into the late evening hours, then walked to the edge of the peninsula to see this:

At Tobacco Gardens, I had the pleasure of joining the owner Peggy’s daughter Jade and son-in-law Levi for Jade’s birthday dinner. Both Jade and Levi work in the oil industry so I got to ask them some pretty good questions and get their perspective. Obviously, the oil industry and oil boom in North Dakota in the past 10 to 15 years has led to unprecedented growth in the population, income and overall economic strength of the state’s economy and its residents. A lot of Peggy’s business comes from those who are in the area due to working in the industry. Having a well-paying job in the industry allows young people to stay in North Dakota, or incentivizes others to move to North Dakota as well as lead pretty good quality lives. As we rode the wagon train into Watford City, I remarked at the brand new apartment complexes, condos and subdivisions of new homes that wouldn’t look out of place in the growing cities I’ve spent time in – Nashville, Chicago, St. Louis (uh, yeah sure, St. Louis). Peggy confirmed much of the development of tiny Watford City was not there 10 years ago.

A couple other facts I was pretty shocked to learn: the light pollution caused by the flares at night in this region of North Dakota exceeds the light produced by the metropolitan area of Minneapolis! The flares that are burning off gas or oil are mandated by law to only burn 2% of excess oil produced. That means that theoretically, 98% of the oil and gas is captured, the flares represent only the 2% that has to be burned as excess because storage is full until the next truck arrives to move out the inventory. (Some stations are connected to pipelines that spiderweb the state, I witnessed a few pipelines being built.) That’s fairly shocking, because flares were everywhere! They must be producing massive amounts of gas if what I saw being burned off was only 2%. I can’t even begin to imagine the impact the industry here has on climate change, and frankly I’m a bit nautious when I think about it…

I was also fortunate enough to have time to speak to Peggy in pretty good detail about her experience with the industry as a life-long resident, a successful land and business owner who I expect would have pretty strong feelings on the topic. I won’t include everything we discussed, but I’d summarize her views as mixed. Many of her kids and kids’ in-laws work in the industry and lead pretty good lives. She has to constantly deal with the industry through everything from her campers sharing the roads with the oil trucks (including her literally chasing down and reporting speeding drivers – where they pretty much get fired if Peggy reports them), the encroachment onto her or friends’ property, and restrictions being put in place by the Army Corp of Engineers, who manages the Lake and works closely with the oil industry. She is well known by those in the industry as someone who won’t bend to their whims and will put up a fight for what she feels is right, and that gives me great comfort and makes me admire her beyond just being a world-class River Angel.

Riding the wagon train from the outskirts of Watford City to the county fairgrounds provided some good opportunities to capture more of the impact of the industry:

Like I said, I am not in a place to make a definitive determination that these things I’ve seen are positive or negative. I think it very safe to state that there are both positives and negatives to the use of river water for irrigation as well as the mining of minerals and resources from the Earth. We could debate endlessly on which may outweigh the other, but I have many more miles to paddle, more things to learn and endless more experiences to encounter.

Thanks for reading.

mf

P.S. – Within the next week, I will paddle through the upper end of Lake Oahe, where many of you will remember is where the intense and sometimes violent protests of the Dakota Access Pipeline (DAPL) took place within the past couple years. It’s my intent to see where it happened, witness the impact of the pipeline construction or aftermath and hopefully speak to people that were involved or somehow affected by it.