Part 1:
The Launch

Traveling on I-40 down into central Tennessee on the west side of the Appalachians with Dellus and Benton seemed surreal. Just six weeks earlier I was in Key West, FL, and had been for 10 years. Benton and I had not seen each other for well over a decade and Dellus and I had only managed to get together twice in the same time period. I still vividly remember meeting them in the foyer of my father’s house some time back in 1974. We were about five and instantly wanted to play together, but it was around dinner-time and our dads would not let us. But, from the next day until about 1986 we were inseparable.

We were on our way to Memphis, TN to launch Dellus’ 21-foot Carolina Skiff into the Mississippi River for a spur-of-the-moment, throw-caution-to-the-wind, put-life-on-hold adventure to the Gulf of Mexico and back. I still am not sure what we were trying to accomplish—or if any of us knew—but we had each other, lots of food, and an unbelievable number of empty gas containers.

The fall leaves were inspiring in their silent magnificence through the early November mountains and then calming as they rolled slowly down into middle Tennessee. I could not help but feel the peace and laughter we were experiencing would be in contrast to the trip that lay before us. The color of the leaves changed with descending altitude because of climate and temperature. The trees we left behind had already peaked and given up for the winter; the ones ahead of us were just beginning to blush, painting and pointing a spotlight towards the river that was beginning to seem an entity unto itself.

It took much longer than we had planned to reach Memphis and we came to the realization that it would be an impossibility to launch the boat that first day, so we decided to get as close as we could and find a place to camp. Around mile marker seven or so we knew we were getting close to the river that served as the Tennessee/Arkansas state line, so we pulled off on an exit that had a camping icon to investigate.

The entire trip would be an exercise such as this in adapting plans to suit actual situations. So much so, that we eventually gave up making plans at all.

We drove up and down the highway the camping signs kept pointing us to but never found any semblance of a campground and decided to improvise. We turned down an unkempt country road in the hopes of finding some inconspicuous place to conceal the truck and trailer for the night. We found what we were looking for by an old abandoned farmhouse that was back off the road a bit, providing us with a good-sized dirt driveway to maneuver the boat around and blocked from the road by an entire forest. Sure, part of us wondered if this was a good idea or if we were going to be woken up in the middle of the night by men with shotguns (or worse), but felt, at the time, that it was our best option.

We pitched the tent and built a fire—the first of the trip—and were silently pleased with ourselves with the ease in which we were able to recall all the things we had practiced regularly 20 years before. After a few belts of whiskey, Benton and I even got up the nerve to explore the old house. There was not much inside it except peeling paint and the smell of rotting wood. But, in an unknown place with only a flashlight to see by, it is human nature to carry on with caution. A few rooms were filled with junk as if whoever owned the property just used it as a storage facility; it didn’t feel right so we abandoned our search for dead bodies or some other fantastical thing that we were going to bring into light much like the way we felt exploring mundane things as if they were magical at the age of 10. Back outside, we took pictures and drank more whiskey and the three of us talked about the trip ahead and reminisced about experiences we had already shared. Now we were adding another. When we finally retired into the tent, we discussed who would sleep in the middle and decided we would alternate this privilege every night and drew straws to ascertain the first. Benton won, which was humorously ironic. As children, Benton always won, so much so that Dellus and I, long ago, had resolved ourselves to the fact that if cheating was an art, Benton excelled at it, and would always, somehow, win.

The next morning was cold and Dellus and I, closest to the sides of the tent, had definitely learned not to touch the dew-soaked walls. I was up and out of the tent quickly because I was on the down slope-side of the tent and had slept all night with my sleeping bag against the fabric. My sleeping bag was soaked and I was wet, cold, and cranky. I had learned something: the rest of the trip would be full of things to avoid. I rebuilt the fire to dry myself as Dellus awoke and proceeded to sand, caulk, and place holes for his new GPS transponder while Benton rolled up the sleeping bags and began to break down camp. This was all good practice because we would need to be very proficient at setting up and breaking camp again and again and again.

Knowing that we were very close to our launching point, we filled the boat’s 27-gallon gas tank and eight additional five-gallon containers before getting back on the interstate. Dellus had consulted with the Coast Guard who told us that our main problem would be fuel so we were not taking any chances. Basically, we were hauling a bomb of almost 70 gallons of gasoline, hoping to launch our boat as soon as possible.

“Keep it between the cans” and “Stay out of the way of the barges”...

We found the Memphis Yacht Club off of Mud Island Road about an hour later and took care of all the details: Where to leave the truck and trailer, if anyone would be watching it, and getting last-minute pointers from everyone there that all pretended to be experts on the Mississippi but strangely none of them had been all the way to the end. They told us things like “Keep it between the cans” and “Stay out of the way of the barges,” which we sort of thought of as common sense. I backed the trailer down the ramp and Dellus ignited the Yamaha engine, which sputtered a bit but soon warmed up and began to purr. When he pulled away from the trailer I parked the truck in our designated spot and met him and Benton at the dock.

“You guys have everything you need?” asked the Dock Master, Jerry. “We’ve got food, gas, and a 12 pack,” Dellus shouted. Jerry laughed and one of his buddies added, “A 12 pack won’t even get you through the day!” We all laughed and continued backing away. “Stay warm,” Jerry yelled as his friends chuckled, but the three of us already had our focus on the river.

It felt good to finally be underway! The weather was as perfect as it possibly could be for November and the water was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. We were elated but apprehensive, trying to feel out what this trip would be like. It did not take long, as within 15 minutes of casting off, we encountered our first barge. For those of you that are not familiar with barges on the Mississippi, one alone may be 20- to 30-feet wide and up to 150-feet long, loaded with anything from coal to natural gas, raw lumber to toys for tots, anything, all going somewhere into the heartland of America to be sold and passed on or transformed into something that ends up in Johnny Consumer’s hands. It really was exciting to see this process happening right before our eyes. In order to increase efficiency and maximize profits, each tug boat captain wants to pilot as many barges as he or she feels their boat can push. So they strap these huge barges together to the point that one, or sometimes two, tugs are manipulating as many as 30 to 40 individual barges at once. Anyway, we encountered our first barge and got past it pretty well. We had heard horror stories about eight-foot wakes coming from them and were pleasantly surprised that these wakes were only three to four feet, something we could easily deal with by heading straight for them and then allowing the boat to slowly rise and fall with the water. The first barges we saw and dealt with were only four wide by five long; however, the farther south one goes down the Mississippi, the wider and more able to navigate large barges become so the system we discovered to turn into the wakes and ride them out became increasingly more of a bad idea as we traveled closer to the Gulf. But, we lived and learned.

About two and a half hours out of Memphis, we were feeling pretty good about the way things were going, and became curious about the banks of the river we were following. After leaving Tennessee and then following the river downstream between Mississippi and Arkansas, there was only shoreline. Not having any kind of agenda, we decided to stop and investigate. There was sand everywhere. I suspected that the river was probably low because of drought but in places there were stretches of up to 200 yards of only sand and fallen trees on the shore. Was it always like this?

We were just beginning to understand the mud we were going to have to deal with.

So we made our first stop and, after securing the anchor, each of us went separate ways to explore. One thing we all immediately found that’s synonymous with the Mississippi: Mud! We had done our share of getting dirty in our lives but never had we seen such thick, black, rich, clinging, syrup-like mud as on the banks of this river. Another lesson learned. Beyond it was beautiful, though. There were all manner of tracks coming from the tree line that led all the way down to the shore. We each had different stories of deer tracks, huge indentations of bear paws, chaotic raccoon claw marks, evidence of bobcats eating birds, and live snakes out sunning themselves. We had all seen plenty of dead wood in every direction so we were glad to know that as long as we picked a good spot to camp, fire would not be a problem. I took off my shoes to avoid the mud on the way back to the boat and we were off again with just a bit more knowledge than we had before stopping.

Two hours later we spotted another boat—a rare find on this leg of the trip—and approached it slowly, blowing the horn to let whoever was aboard know we meant to speak with them. We found a married couple just fishing and camping that lived only 20 miles from where we were. They were helpful, explaining to us about the jetties, and how to hide behind them when it came time to camp. We thanked them and headed on downstream and did not see another boat, besides the barges—that were getting bigger —the rest of the day. We traveled about 125 miles that first day and then began losing the sun; we were beginning to wonder how desolate this trip might be. We spotted a perfect site behind a jetty, like we had been told, and high upon a sand bank. We could see the forest only 200 yards beyond the bank. We landed and broke out all the gear (no small task), and I headed to the tree line to search for firewood. I walked about 100 yards and realized there was a lagoon between our perfect site and the wood we needed.

It is strange the things that run through one’s mind during important moments and I remember as I hurried back to Dellus and Benton, who were finishing the campsite, thinking of the movie Raising Arizona and the famous line, “You can’t get there from here,” because that is exactly what I had to tell them. We could not reach the forest, and therefore firewood, from where we were. They did not question me and instead reacted quickly to get things back onto the boat and find a spot where we could find wood before losing the sun entirely. We did not even break down the tent; we just held onto it as we sped to another place. We found one just as the sun disappeared and it had to be it, fire or not. It ended up being a good choice, with only a two-foot mud pit before it opened up to a wide and deep, forgiving, shoreline complete with a wind-blocking sandy ridge between us and the forest. Once comfortable, we settled down by a brilliant fire and opened cans of beef-a-roni and hash, placing them directly into the fire to heat while indulging ourselves on canned black olives and peanut-butter crackers. As I’ve mentioned, the entire trip was about learning, and this night we had definitely learned to scout out a campsite before proclaiming it as the perfect place. We were also beginning to understand the mud we were going to have to deal with. That night by the fire, I spent at least an hour scraping two inches of dried mud from by boots to the point that I decided to stay barefoot most of the trip which, in retrospect, was a mistake.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

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