Tales From The Crater

With each step, the worries of the day begin to drain away like water draining from the hanging baskets that add color to nearby houseboats. As Liz and I move down the dock area, a small painted turtle slips into the brown water, anxious for the cool down that must feel good after sunning itself on a floating cable.

Our pontoon boat, positioned straight ahead and to the left in slip D10, is ready.  The canopy is extended, providing a patch of shade against the hot summer sun.  A cooler with food and ice cold beverages promises a good time on the river as we prepare to drive down towards Brownsville, Minnesota.

Tonight, the winds are mild and the temperature in the mid 80's.  A perfect combination that makes boating so enjoyable.  We've had a good start to the summer -- with a couple of journeys to Lawrence Lake Marina for their Friday night steak fry and a weekend journey north through the locks to Trempealeau, WI for their Cajun Music Festival.  It was our first overnight stay and remains one of the highlights of the young boating season.

It's an experience that cuts both ways.

During the frigid months of January and February -- while standing in front of the picture window watching snow pile up in our front yard -- I have mixed feelings. I relish the memories of nights on the river to get me through our long, dark and cold winter.  But it's agony knowing that we have a ways to go before I can get the boat out of storage.  Such is the life of someone with a boat in Wisconsin.

I untie the ropes holding us to the dock and push the boat into an open area between docks D and C.  Liz, who is comfortably sitting in the captain's chair, slowly maneuvers us into the marina's waterway leading to a gas hut and new clubhouse.  She slows the boat to allow two mallard ducks, with a gaggle of young ducklings swimming behind them, to pass on their way to safer waters. We idle pass an odd collection of houseboats, runabouts and pontoon boats that remind me of an old Skipper Liner ad that ran on television during my high school days --   summer on the river and some are not.

With river levels down, I am able to see a line of white rocks that lead us toward the main channel.   Within minutes, we are leaving Pettibone Marina and heading toward our night's destination -- Crater Island Cove.  It's an area that holds many memories for me, including a couple of summers from 1978 and 1979.


*     *     *     *


When I was twenty years old, I was part of a small group of young men who traveled down the Mississippi River to take part in a sporting event that pushed our young bodies to their limits.

In Pool 8 of the Mississippi River was a large island of sand -- a remnant of dredging by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to keep the main channel of the river open for barge traffic.  Over the years, the amount of sand that was piled onto that island was enough to create a hill that was easily over 25 feet high.  In the middle of the island was a 100 yard long area that remained flat.  When combined, the island looked like your typical football stadium -- with the flat area resembling the football field and the piles of sand surrounding it resembling the stadium seats.

It was here, in an area surrounded by piles of sand, that the annual event known as the Crater Bowl was born.

The Bob Johnson family was your typical river rat family that spent every weekend and sometime weeks in between, on the Mississippi.  One of the areas that they would dock their houseboat at was a small sandbar that attached itself to Crater Island by a strip of sand bordering a small inlet that ran behind it.  It was common knowledge that if you wanted such a prime location for the weekend, you would need to grab it Thursday night or at the latest Friday morning.

Their son, Dave, who hung out with some of us during the summer, and his younger brother came up with the crazy idea of playing football in the middle of Crater Island.  It was an idea born out of the competitive spirit of young men needing a good excuse to run around and drink beer.

You might think that hot sand and sun would not make for good football.  But you'd be wrong.  Playing good football was never our intention.  Winning at football while playing in the sand and sun was our intention.

Our formula for winning was to stay sober long enough to last into the third and fourth quarters.  If the score was close, then we felt like we had a chance.  If you've ever walked on a sandy beach or played sand volleyball you know how hard it is to get any kind of traction, so cutting left and right required an equal amount of skill and strength. Our goal was to take advantage of their bad footing and miscues -- an interception or blown coverage  -- and turn it into a big gain or score.

Game-time temperature in the bottom of the sand bowl easily reached into the nineties if not closer to a hundred degrees.  All of which led to more beer, and then more football.

Our games featured two teams -- the young guys (a group of high school kids led by Dave Johnson's younger brother against an "older" team, with Dave Johnson as our captain.  That older team included myself,  Tom Carr (Bun), Doug Schoenfeld (Clud), Paul Mundinger (Stein), Tim Wuebben (Wib) and Glenn Gossfeld (Goose), to name a few.  None of us were great athletes, but we were still in our twenties with lots of time playing touch football in the grassy field next to Bun's house.  What more did we need?  We were banking on our experience to bring home the trophy, which was nothing more than the knowledge that we were better than them for another year.

To show our level of seriousness, we video taped the game and kept statistics (thanks to Goose, who would later keep the books for the La Crosse Catbirds and Milwaukee Bucks).  Fans -- other boaters who happened to climb the outer edge of the bowl -- would watch with the friends of the Johnsons who were not playing.  They must have thought we were crazy.

A newsletter was printed, which covered all parts of the game and sent to participants.  After the game, we would eat and re-watch the game and other movies until we dropped from exhaustion.  Or a day of drinking.  I can remember falling asleep in someone's boat, which wasn't a bad idea until it started to rain.

For me, the Crater Bowl never got past the second summer.  If it continued, I don't know.  But as I began spending summers with a certain brown-eye girl who I met at Dell's Bar, and later chased to Michigan, my summers on the river dwindled to none.  The river was replaced by Lake Michigan, although it was usually from the shore.  An occasional night spent on a friend's houseboat kept the flame flickering, but for the next fifteen years most of my time on the Mississippi River and Crater Island was spent in my head.

Remembering the fun we had thinking we were better at football than any of us ever admitted.



*     *     *     *

I turn the ignition key and slowly back the pontoon boat away from the sandy shore.  Ahead, the sun's reflection is scattered into tiny pieces of light as we maneuver through the opening and head into the main channel.  Behind us, the motor's wake sends ripples through the water's smooth surface.  It is time to head north -- back to the land of hot concrete and humanity.  There is an evening chill in the air that prompts Liz to grab her sweater and put it over her shoulders.

Leaving the quiet confines of Crater Lake, I reflect on its transformation from the pile of sand we enjoyed in my twenties to the shrinking cove it is today.  From 2006 to 2010, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and U.S. Army Corps of Engineers closed Crater Island and began barging sand from the island to create new islands further downriver.  Twenty-six islands were created or protected as part of the Corps Pool 8 habitat restoration and enhancement project built along the Raft Channel in Wisconsin.

When they were done, they had transformed Crater Island from a massive pile of sand into an island with a small cove that filled with water from the Mississippi River.

In many ways it is better than before -- a larger area for beaching boats and for swimming.  On a windy day, you are protected and can safely beach the boat, instead of anchoring it so it you don't float downstream.  On week nights, it's quiet enough that you can enjoy the beauty and sounds of the Mississippi River.  And eat a light dinner of pizza or chicken or sub sandwiches.

But on weekends it's the party capitol of the Mississippi River.  Between fifty to one hundred boats crowd the beaches on your typical Saturday or Sunday.  A quick look on Facebook will show pictures of bikinis, boats and booze.  Lots of booze.  As one poster said, "It's the place to party your ass off!"

As I've gotten older, I'm thankful I survived my wild, younger days.  Had I known how stupid we looked, I never would have done it.  But if you're looking for a party, with the smell of suntan lotion and diesel gasoline in the air, I know a place you can go.

Like football in the sand, it's just not for me anymore.

Every season brings a different look to Crater Island -- from the lengthening shadows of a late summer night, to the colors of fall as they spread across the bluffs rising above the small town of Brownsville, Minnesota.  If you're lucky (and have enough notice), you can climb the southern end of Crater Island and wait for the majestic paddle wheelers coming down the river from La Crosse.  Or sit back in a partially submerged beach chair and bask in the warmth of a hot summer sun.  There have been evenings when we will grab a life preserver and float around the cove area.  Climbing back into the boat, we literally feel the aches and pains of the day sliding from our bodies as the water drains from our drying bodies.

In the skies above Crater Island we have watched American white pelicans circle by the hundreds as they migrate south to avoid the inevitable chill of late fall and winter. They will appear in a flash as the sun reflects off their white plumage, only to vanish seconds later as they change direction.   Much like our visit to the cove tonight, it is but a stop for these pelicans along the way to another destination.
 
Liz and I don't know what our destination will be in ten or twenty years.  We struggle with talk of retirement and old age.  Some of our boating friends plan to leave Wisconsin for the warmer climates of Florida and Arizona.  Perhaps Liz and I will follow suit, or find our way back to the Great Lakes and Michigan.

Regardless of where our future takes us, I will always remember the friendly confines of Crater Island where young men played football, and boat lovers found temporary relief from a hot summer day.

It's The Thought Police!

Pat -- my conservative lifesaver in a sea of liberalism at the office -- stopped at my door recently and asked, "Does it offend you if I say "shut up"?"

"Depends on if we're talking about Bret Favre or not," I joked.  Then I see his face and realized he's being serious.  "Not really, why?" I asked.

"Because my kids are telling me that it's not nice to say that to someone."  He stepped into my office, in the hopes that our conversation wouldn't travel past my door.  "Their school is telling them that they can't say it anymore because it may hurt someone's feelings."

I pushed my chair back and thought, what the hell?  Just another sign our schools are screwed up.  "That's nuts, " I said.  "I could see not be able to talk to your teacher that way, but to other students?"

"Yeah -- you can't say anything today without offending somebody.  It's nuts!"

In light of Pat's comments, I'm reminded of one of my favorite bands from high school, Cheap Trick.  They had a hit song called "The Dream Police."  It was a catchy tune with the following lyrics:

"I try to sleep
They're wide awake
They won't let me alone
They don't get paid to take vacations.
Or let me alone
They spy on me
I try to hide
They won't let me alone.
They persecute me
They're the judge and jury all in one."


What seemed paranoid more than thirty-five years ago now seems pretty common as political correctness has taken over the mindset of our children in school who have been indoctrinated with nonsense about sensitivity, equality and self esteem since entering kindergarten.

How bad is it?  Worse than I thought.  I try to avoid as many of these stories as possible because they depress me and make me want to sit in my boat and float down the Mississippi River.  Unfortunately, I can't ignore some of the stories that pass my way, and so in the interest of reminding my two sons that they are truly screwed I give you the following:



1.  A physiology professor at the University College in London was recently forced to resign from his position for remarks he made at a conference on women in science in South Korea.  Tim Hunt, a biochemist who won the Nobel Prize in physiology in 2001, was accused of being sexist over a joke he told during the opening of his speech at the conference.

Here's the joke:

"Let me tell you about my trouble with girls.  Three things happen when they are in the lab.  You fall in love with them, they fall in love with you, and when you criticize them, they cry."

That's it.  There's nothing more to the joke.  Mr Hunt wasn't high on drugs or drunk when he gave the speech.  He didn't use profanity or use the N word.  All he did was tell the truth.

Some women do fall in love with their lab partners.
Some men fall in love with their lab partners.
And in my experience I have seen girls cry when criticized.

The fact that this joke caused such a major uproar indicates that feminists are still without a sense of humor and our colleges are run by a bunch of administrative pansies who will throw a Noble prize- winning biochemist overboard in favor of some politically correct instructor who will faithfully toe the liberal line.

Comments -- coming from those who were offended -- indicate how colleges today have become untethered from reality:

The University published a letter on its website that said, "UCL was the first university in England to admit women students on equal terms to men and does not agree with the comments Hunt has made."  Connie St. Louis, director of the science journalism program at City University in London, heard the comments at the convention and tweeted, "Really, does this Nobel laureate think we are still in Victorian times?"

I don't know what times we are in, but I know no one should ever tell a joke at UCL.



2. Angelique Clark, a sophomore student at West Career and Technical Academy in Las Vegas, said the Clark County School District denied her application to charter a pro-life club as a chapter of Students for Life in America, the nation's largest youth pro-life organization.

The school district explained itself like this -- "It was too controversial, and it would be too exclusive and it would leave out pro-choice people."

Huh?  My first thought was this is too controversial?  How about a teacher in a human sexuality class asking students to witness a live sex act between a woman, her boyfriend and another woman?  Or what about a class called "Queer Musicology," based on the idea that if you're gay then music by gay composers will sound different than it would if you were straight?  Or a class favorite called "Phallus 101" -- which uses a survey of critical theory and social justice of "feminist and queer takings-on of the phallus?"

And isn't the purpose of a club to attract student of like mind and skills?  Using this rational, a Spanish Club excludes students interested in German, French and Russian.  How dare the Chinese Club plan a trip to the Great Wall of China, when there are people who want to visit the Louvre in Paris?

It makes no sense, unless you are a liberal school administration determined to censor opposing views.  My guess is they are the same leftists who ridiculed students who opposed gay marriage. -- calling their opposition "hate speech."  Or who led the opposition against conservative speakers like Ann Coulter and Star Parker, a young African-American speaker on the harmful impact of abortion on black families.

Their hypocrisy, intolerance and tyranny are common throughout high schools and colleges who fashion themselves as institutions of independent thought and free speech.



3.  Jerry Seinfeld, who had one of television's biggest hits in the 90's, has been making the talk show circuit lately complaining about college students being too "culturally sensitive."  Too politically correct, and as a result they can't take a joke anymore.

While talking to ESPN's Colin Cowherd, he said:   "I don't play colleges, but I hear a lot of people tell me, "Don't go near colleges.  they're so PC'."   He said teens and college-aged kids don't understand what it means to use certain politically-correct terms.  "They want to use these words -- racist, sexist and prejudice."  Seinfeld said, "They don't know what the hell they are talking about."

As proof, Seinfeld shared on of his favorite jokes -- a commentary on the nature of cellphones which relies heavily on the way gay men move their hands when they speak (in a "flourishing motion").   The punchline -- which involves a comparison to a "Gay French king" -- has fallen flat with politically correct crowds, who think, ‘What do you mean gay? Why are you talking about being gay? What are you doing? What do you mean?’

I thought, ‘Are you kidding me?’”  Seinfeld continued: “I could imagine a time where people would say that’s offensive to suggest that a gay person moves their hands in a flourishing notion, and you need to apologize. There’s a creepy, PC thing out there that really bothers me.”

So, you want to hear a really funny joke?  Chris Rock recently said that he's stopped playing colleges not because they're too politically correct, but because "they're too conservative."  Now that's a good one!



To tell you the truth, I don't feel much sympathy for these coddled students who can barely read and write.  After all, they are the offspring of parents who rioted in American streets and planned its overthrow during the 1960's.

Nor do I have sympathy for the high schools and colleges who must be wondering if the monster they created (like the monster in Mary Shelly's Frankenstein) is beyond their control.  When the monster refers to himself as "the Adam of your labours," he is reflecting back onto Dr. Frankenstein and trying to justify his feelings of vengeance and remorse.  Just like today's students who are trying to justify their feelings of political confusion and misery -- courtesy of an education system so offended by the founding principles of this once great country.

Let's hope this story ends better than the one where the Frankenstein monster drifts away on an ice raft that is soon lost in darkness, never to be seen again.