Mississippi River and Hannibal
October 31, 1997
Bang! Then bang, bang! The sound of duck hunters murdering mallards, golden-eyes, and pintail ducks on the Mississippi River wakes me from a shallow sleep where I was dreaming of - well, naw, better not tell what I was dreaming cause telling my dreams always gets me in trouble. Rolling over in bed, I notice that the clock reads 6:00 AM. Every morning on the river, we can set our clocks with an error of only about 5 minutes by the sound of the first shots. Since I am wide awake by now, figure I might as well get up. Leaving the light off so that Pat can sleep a little longer, I flounder around in the dark and finally find the sweatshirt where it airs from the hook on the bedroom wall. Opening a drawer as quietly as possible, I remove a clean pair of socks, slip out into the bathroom, and quietly slide the bedroom door closed. Well, at least I try to close it silently, but as always it makes a grinding noise when it slides shut. “Probably woke up Pat, but she will go back to sleep easily, as she usually does,” I thought. So begins a day in the life of a couple of aging, homeless gypsies.
Slipping on the sweatshirt, I smell the musty, familiar aroma that recently used sweatshirts often emit. I climb into my running shorts, lift a few weights, and go for a jog. Leaving the Mark Twain Cave RV Park on the river road south of Hannibal, MO, there is no place to jog except the shoulder of the highway. Then I hear the noise that makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. My caveman ancestors knew the feeling when confronted by a saber-toothed tiger. It is the one thing in life that I really HATE, HATE, HATE. Yes, I know better than to use the “H” word. I really try not to use the “H” word, but can’t help it. As much as young guys with their high testosterone levels and sports cars hate slow motorhomes, I hate trucks. Not all trucks, but mostly dump trucks, logging trucks, and grain trucks.
Dump trucks always have at least one spare rock from their last load that is bouncing around somewhere waiting for me when we pass each other. This little rock somehow knows to fall off the truck at the exact time when it will bounce into my windshield. My insurance agent is so savvy by now that I imagine when he recognizes my name, he asks himself, “Which windshield got it this time?” Drivers of logging trucks in the north woods and grain trucks in the mid-west must be paid by the speed at which they deliver logs or grain. They drive just as fast as they can, sometimes even within the limits of the law. Knowing that they are working for a living, I try to speed up when one comes roaring up behind me so as not to slow them down too much. But, I cannot drive as fast as they do. Thus, when they finally get a chance to pass, they sometimes come up beside the motorhome, look over at me, and present some odd little one-fingered salute. I smile and wave back.
So, this morning I run along the shoulder of the road. First comes the gravel truck, roaring down the hill toward me. Afraid that the one little rock will find my head, I leave the highway and step further out into the grassy ditch. Seeing or hearing no flying rocks, and relieved, I climb back onto the highway shoulder and continue. Three large grain trucks pass, stirring a little dust but causing no injury. Tiring of the noise and dust, I leave the road and walk down to the bank of the Mississippi. A small cloud of birds explodes from some dried weeds. Some remain so close that I can recognize the gold spots. Apparently, these goldfinches were finding a few seeds in the weeds to provide energy for their migration south along the Mississippi.
Back at the motorhome, a breakfast of orange juice, coffee, and a bowl of Wheaties with banana awaits. Pat is returning from her morning walk and we prepare Serendipity (our motorhome) to leave and continue our trip down the Great River Road of the Mississippi. I open all the curtains, crank down the satellite dish and local TV antennae. Black and grey water tanks are drained, water hose and electrical land-line disconnected and stored. Tire pressure and oil levels are checked. The diesel engine starts and air pressure begins to build in the air tanks, providing pressurized air for the air brakes. Levelers are lifted, and the tow bar is hooked up to the Honda toad (a vehicle which is towed.) Pat eats cereal, makes the bed, washes the dishes, gets dressed, stores loose items from the counter and table tops, fastens the straps on the sliding doors, stores the shampoo from the shower, places the bedside clock on the bed where it will not fall on the floor while traveling and steps outside. Behind the Honda, she signals to me when the left turn signal, then the right turn signal, the brake lights, and the tail light are activated. After walking around Serendipity to make a final double check to determine that everything is stored and ready, I slowly move the motorhome forward while Pat watches the tow bar to make sure it engages. Once satisfied, we start rolling slowly out of the RV park, listening for the telltale sounds that accompany some forgotten task. Pat gathers the assorted maps, guides, and books that a good navigator needs.
We leave Mark Twain RV park about 9:30 AM on the river road toward the town of Louisiana, MO. The sky clears, revealing brilliant hues of red and yellow leaves on the hillsides. The highway climbs steeply out of the river valley. We look at each other and smile. A mid-level euphoria has set in. A sign says “Overview 1/4 mile ahead.” I check the rear-view mirror and signal to make a right turn. My intention is to slow down to check the pullout to determine if it is large enough for a 35-foot motorhome pulling a Honda to enter and turn around. Deciding the turnout is too small, we pull over onto the steep shoulder, and walk up to the overview. Spread out below us on the right is a large valley containing narrow, winding roads through the hilly farmland. Distant hillsides are covered with fall colors - now familiar but always exciting - each scene different than the last. Directly in front, we look down on the Mississippi River Valley as we have done so often on this trip. The river stretches out toward the south, winding around islands, leaving the impression of several rivers that part, cross, and combine in a complex maze. To the left, across the river, lies the patchwork of corn and soybean fields of the Illinois bottom-land farms. Far to the east, lies the ancient bank of the river that was formed when glaciers melted, filling this valley with water. The river grows narrow and finally disappears far in the distance behind a humid haze.
A few miles further south, a second turnout appears. We are unable to see the end of the turnout to determine whether we will be able to turn around, so again we stop on the shoulder of the road. By now the temperature is about 70 F., quite warm for October 31, but very comfortable for us. Walking about ½ mile, the overview appears. The turn-around would have been sufficiently large for turning our motorhome, but it is a nice day, we have plenty of time, the air is filled with the smell of alfalfa, and we are happy. This overview is on par with the last one. A large flock of Canada geese and assorted ducks can be seen on the river surface several hundred feet below. Later a third overview appears, but there is no shoulder on the highway so we regretfully are forced to pass it by. After maybe 20 miles of steep climbs and descents, hills and valleys, forests and corn fields, we arrive in the small, riverside town of Louisiana, MO. We turn east and pass over a long, narrow, metal bridge into Illinois. Large trucks, pass so close in the opposite lane that I fear their rear-view mirrors will strike mine. Pat says, “Glad I am not driving.”
Crossing the flat, Illinois River bottom farmland, we happen upon a roadside historical sign. It explains that Father (Pere) Marquette and Louis Joliet had passed this way in 1673. Behind the sign lies an empty, gallon, plastic, herbicide container. Cranking on the generator, Pat makes coffee and I heat a bagel in the microwave. We are now heading for the Pere Marquette State Park, directly north of and across the river from St. Louis. Along the highway in the town of Pleasant Hill, IL are signs encouraging the local football gladiators to beat up on some other local team. “Wolf Power” reads one of the signs. Large, painted wolf prints march up and down the street and sidewalks to the High School on the edge of town. Balloons probably matching the school colors are tied to every post along the highway as we leave town. Mixed among these signs are porches and yards exhibiting pumpkins, and scarecrow-type witches and other decorations of Halloween. Further out of town a roadside stand advertises sweet local apples and apple cider. Displays of many varieties of squash and pumpkins add color to the scene. Norman Rockwell might have found several ideas here for his paintings which once adorned the covers of the Saturday Evening Post.
At Kampsville, IL we find the Center for American Archeology on the banks of the Illinois River. It is closed for lunch, but while I read the sign, the door opens and I am invited in. I explain that Pat is taking a nap and that we must eat our burrito lunch before we visit the museum. Our hostess replies “Good! I will eat lunch too.” After lunch and naps, we enjoy an informative visit - learning about the mound-building Indians that have inhabited the local area for thousands of years. In one spot, archeologists have dug down through 30 feet of soil, revealing successive Indian cultures as indicated by middens, artifacts, and remains of dwellings. Parallels between historical events in the new and old world are drawn to demonstrate that a civilization was present on the Illinois River at the same time that the Egyptian civilizations were at their zenith. We watch a short film on the 1993 flood that ruined their museum, forcing them to rebuild, then resume our trip.
Arriving at Pere Marquette State Park, we stop and chat with the hosts at the entrance of the campground. Two men and their girlfriends sit around a roaring campfire. The younger man comes around to my window. When I ask which direction is south, a quizzical expression adorns his face. I explain that our satellite dish must find the satellite in the southern sky. Consequently, we must find a site with no trees to interfere with the signal. He stifles a laugh, possibly amused that anyone would wish to watch TV instead of enjoying good conversation beside a warm fire. He instructs us to choose any site of many that are vacant. Pat asks how to pronounce “Pere.” “Pier,” answers one of the women in a strong southern accent. We quickly find a site, plug in the land-line electrical cord, attach the water hose, activate the levelers and crank up the satellite dish - the signal comes in loud and clear.
But we are not ready to watch TV, because the previous Sunday, we had phoned the Escapees Club in Livingston, TX and informed them to forward our mail to Winfield, MO. Subsequently, we had changed our minds and decided to travel on the Illinois side of the river, and had stranded our mail in Missouri. It is about 3:00 PM on Friday, and we don’t know if the Winfield Post Office will be open on Saturday. At the visitors center, we ask the ranger if it is possible to drive to Winfield so as to arrive before the 4:30 closing time. It has been our experience that most post offices close about 4:30. It is now 3:30, so we have an hour to drive about 20 miles to Winfield. Unfortunately, both the Illinois and Mississippi Rivers form a barrier between us and our mail and there are no bridges in the area. If we do not get our mail today, we might not be able to get it until Monday. The ranger explains that if we start now and waste no time, we can reach Winfield by 4:30. We waste no time! Checking the Honda toad to make certain there is plenty of gas, we set off on a little adventure. The only reasonable chance of success is over a route that includes two ferries. The Brussels Ferry will transport us across the Illinois River. When we arrive, the ferry is just leaving our side of the river. Glancing at my watch, I see that we still have plenty of time, so we wait patiently for the ferry to return. The ferry consists of a side tow boat that attaches to the barge on a swinging hinge arrangement. The towboat shifts into reverse and pulls the barge out into the river current, then it swings away from the barge in a half circle, and pushes the barge to the landing on the other side of the river.
We are now in Calhoun, County, IL - an area between the two rivers that frequently floods from one river or the other. A narrow, winding, country road takes us through Deer Plain, Brussels, Meppen and Batchtown. Small signs at the intersections explain directions to the Winfield Ferry. We drive rapidly, but with some rapid stops and turns when we see the turn signs at the last second. Pleased that we have not made a single mistake, we arrive at the Winfield Ferry. Now it is about 4:15 PM, but through the brilliant reflection of the evening sun on the waters of the Mississippi, we observe the ferry leaving the other side. Partly on the ferry landing, a fellow is welding on a beat-up boat trailer. Behind us, the river bluff is ablaze in autumn colors, made particularly bright and clear in the soft, yellow, evening sunshine. We attempt to capture these colors with a photograph.
The ferry in “manned” by a woman. She is about 25 years old, and when I point to the fall colors on the bluff, she claims that they are the most colorful she has seen in her life. For $7.00 we obtain a round-trip ticket - saving one dollar on two one-way tickets. Entering Winfield, we have about 5 minutes to find the post office in this town where the city limits sign claims 100 residents. But we find no post office on Main Street, so I question an old fellow in front of a nursing home. He cannot hear my question, so he wanders over to the car, places his hand behind his ear and says “Huh?” Down the hill, past two stop lights, it’s on the left,” he instructs.
At almost exactly 4:30 PM, we screech to a stop. The sign on the door of the post office reads “Hours 9:00 AM to 4:00 PM, Monday through Friday.” We are too late! The post office is closed! The outer areas are open, but the windows are clearly closed. I enter anyway and hear movement behind the closed door of the office. The door opens and the postmistress emerges and asks if she can be of help. We are so relieved that we could give her a big hug. But, fearful that a hug might drive her back into her office, we ask if she has received any General Delivery mail in our name. She requests identification, finds our mail and hands it to us with a smile. We are indeed lucky!
Retracing our route, we now can travel more slowly and enjoy the scenery as the sun begins to set. A small country hotel advertises “good, country food.” A full parking lot suggests that the local customers agree. But, not wanting to drive after dinner in the dark, we decided to celebrate our mail success by eating at the Park Lodge. Tonight they offer a fish buffet for $10.95 each. We are seated by a young girl who exhibits the long pointed canine teeth of a vampire when she smiles. Our waitress is dressed in the black costume of “death,” complete with veil. We sample the smoked salmon, shrimp, and salad appetizers and then “pig-out” on several other types of baked fish that were a delight to the palate. The broccoli and other vegetables were cooked to near perfection. Topping the meal with a piece of cherry pie, we then explore the large lodge built of logs. It reminds us of the log lodge at Yellowstone National Park, but it is smaller.
We return to Serendipity, take a couple of Digels, and watch the news. The weather man explains that it will rain tonight, but tomorrow it will clear. Sleep comes easily - just another day in our humdrum life.
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