When I think of fall, I think of cooler temperatures, campfires, apple pie and football. I also think of a few things that aren't so nice -- shorter days, dying flowers and putting the pontoon boat away for another winter. Of the three, putting away the boat has to be the worst...
I had written those words last fall in anticipation of putting Muddy Waters to bed for another six months. Fortunately, I didn't have it in my heart to finish writing the post, which I had titled "The Worse Day of The Year."
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Most writers have a short list of reasons for not writing -- fear of rejection, fear of inadequacy and fear of criticism among them. I think I found another one: fear of doing something unpleasant. And there isn't anything more unpleasant than putting your boat away, high and dry, for almost 180 days. People have built houses, or gotten married and divorce in less time. So it can be a big deal to not do something for half a year. This horrible pandemic has only lasted two months, and it feels like forever.
My brother and I always remind each other how long we have to go before we can put the boat in the water. Snow can be swirling past the window, with a forecast for more than 10 inches, and we will ask each other, "How long before we can put the boat in? This blizzard can't last forever."
I didn't always love boating. In fact, it took a while for Liz to convince me that we should buy a pontoon boat. I'd always heard the worn out expression about owning a boat -- the two best days of owning a boat are the day you buy it and the day you sell it. But since owning our pontoon boat, I can honestly say that's not true. For us, the two best days of owning a boat are the day we bought it, and the week of April 15th when we can take it out of storage.
I think that means we'll be boaters for life.
Every year I make a Shutterfly photo book of my favorite memories. Many of them include pictures from our time on the muddy Mississippi, enjoying sunsets, taking friends out for dinner on a sandbar or jumping in the boat during early fall mornings to go looking for white pelicans and tundra swans migrating their way south.
They say pictures tell the story of a thousand words. While that may be true, they don't always tell the whole story...
The smell of grilled steak hangs in the air like the humidity clinging to the northern red oak and sugar maples above us on Wildcat Bluff. As one of the highest points along the Mississippi River, the bluff overlooks Lawrence Lake Marina where a cluster of pontoon boats, houseboats, ski boats and cruisers are tied down haphazardly wherever there is room.
The acoustic sounds of Joe Cody and Dominic Orrico can still be heard as I back the pontoon boat away from the dock, careful to avoid the two boats on either side. On board is a motley crew if ever there was one -- Paul, Kelli, Doug, Peggy and Liz. We are scattered about the boat, with Liz pulling in the bumpers, while others retrieve their drinks that were left in their cup holders. I aimlessly grab the iPhone and select an early evening playlist, including the Cranberries, Zach Brown Band and maybe a little steel drum music from Jimmy Buffet.
We have spent the last three hours enjoying the start of our weekend -- leaving work early to beat the mass migration of boats and people that will arrive between 4 and 6 o'clock. That migration continues on Saturday and Sunday mornings as fast boats full of bikinis, inner tubes and cold beer rush to find a tiny patch of sand on one of the many sandbars between Dresbach and Genoa.
One of the best parts of the summer is coming down by boat to Lawrence Lake Marina to eat steaks on the grill, drink a few beers and listen to live music. I'm sure there are many things to enjoy in places much bigger -- Chicago and Minneapolis have their rooftop bars overlooking city views, free music in the park or hitting microbreweries after work -- but I honestly don't know how anyone could have a better time than we do by grilling steaks and buttered french toast, indulging in adult beverages and meeting some of the nicest people you will ever know.
If you own a boat or know someone who does, it is the essence of a good life on the upper Mississippi River near La Crosse.
I refocus on the business of driving the boat, which is challenging when you are surrounded by laughing people and trying to decide on dessert being handed out by Liz. The boat has reached the main channel of the Mississippi where we pass a large mile marker jutting from the water. Throughout spring, summer and fall, barges mark their turns by locating these green and white buoys. At night, you can watch a barge's powerful spot light searching the river for these reflective markers.
From the front of the boat I could hear Peggy saying, " ... so Doug thought really hard, looked at the cards and said whale!" The boat erupts in laughter, much to the discomfort of Doug, who looks skyward and shakes his head. I had missed most of the joke, but vaguely remembered her telling this story before. It had something to do with the letter "r" getting confused with a pirate's pronunciation of "arrr!" It is a pretty funny story, one I'm sure Doug is going to take to his watery grave.
"So when are you and Liz getting a looper boat?" asks Paul, taking a sip of bourbon from his red solo cup.
It's a question he's asked many times before and my answer is always the same. "As much as I'd love to do, it's not going to happen. I've been watching those videos you mentioned and I'm not so sure I'm ready for that." I glance to my left to watch a ski boat speed by, its wake barely noticeable as our center pontoon cuts through the chop and keeps us riding high.
Paul never gives up. He says, "Come on, how fun would it be to travel down the Mississippi to the Gulf then cruise east to Florida? We can follow you in our RV, then together we can float up the Intracoastal Waterway to New York City. You and Liz could continue up the Hudson to the Erie Canal, then across to the Great Lakes."
"Yeah, we'd be living the dream!" I agree, thinking how nice it would be to retire, buy a looper boat and take a couple years to make the trip. It would be a great adventure and I could do some writing along the way. Stay in marinas, maybe take some time RV'ing with Paul and Kelli. Drop anchor in the Florida Keys. Enjoy the barrier islands near North Carolina and float by the Statue of Liberty in the Big Apple.
Then I think about everything that will go wrong along the way -- storms will roll in, tanks will leak, engines will die, lightning will strike and fires will start. In addition, I'll have to fix a broken part, unclog the head and investigate another strange sound. I'll have no choice but to blow hundreds, even thousands of dollars on a suddenly flooded engine. It's the price you pay -- the colossal ingredient -- for living the dream.
And like that -- POOF --I'm back to our perfectly good pontoon boat, and I feel pretty good about everything. I notice Liz is keeping an eye on me, so I say in a loud enough voice that she can hear above the wind and motor, "It's just not going to happen, Paul. But don't let that stop you from buying one yourself!"
I throttle the boat faster before Paul can answer.
As we hit our cruising speed, I trim the motor up a little to give us a nice smooth ride. Liz and Paul keep everyone's drinks filled and more dessert is unloaded -- this time chocolate covered blueberries. Since the sun is not setting until 9:00 tonight, I decide to head south toward Genoa. It's the perfect evening, with temps in the upper 70's and very little wind. At times like this I imagine myself standing in the bow of the pontoon and yelling "I'm the king of the world!" I don't care if Leonardo DiCaprio beat me to it... At least I'm not going to hit an iceberg and sink to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Instead, I stand and bump hips with Liz to the sounds of Bon Jovi singing "Livin' On A Prayer." Soon the whole boat is singing together,
"Whoa, we're halfway there
Woah-oh, livin' on a prayer
Take my hand, we'll make it, I swear
Woah-oh, liven' on a prayer!"
(It could be the rum, but I don't think I've ever heard us sound better.)
Eventually, we are past Brownsville and into the Upper Mississippi Wildlife Refuge, consisting of 129 acres of islands, among them Horseshoe, Turtle and Boomerang. These islands -- home to the great blue heron, great egret and ring-billed gull -- are little more than sand and mud, with a little topsoil and ryegrass built in to hold them together. But it works.
It is here, where the Mississippi widens to over four and a half miles wide, that I find my love for the river at its greatest. The busyness to our north, where the river snakes its way between La Crosse and Brownsville, has given way to the serenity of fewer boats, more wildlife and an occasional barge delivering grain, coal and oil.
Making the experience even better tonight is the sight of the Queen of the Mississippi, a modern paddlewheeler taking passengers from Minneapolis to St. Louis. I slow the boat and everyone grabs their phones to take pictures of the steamboat, inspired by Mark Twain and his wonderful stories of life on the Mississippi River.
As if to acknowledge our pesky presence and perhaps to warn us from getting too close, the captain grabs the whistle handle and send a couple of long, low blasts. A moment later, the echoes come from the surrounding bluffs as if the whistle has awakened the ghosts of previous steamboats that traveled this river almost 175 years ago.
A half hour later, we can see the towering power plant that marks the city of Genoa. We've been discussing the possibility of driving to Door County next summer. "We can stay at an Airbnb, rent a pontoon, kayak and explore the Green Bay shores we've never seen before," Liz says excitedly, her face flush from drinking wine. "Sister Bay or Ephraim? Or we could try Bailey's Harbor?"
Her conversation fades as a train roars past, a reminder that we have approached the Great River Road and the railroad tracks that share this side of the river. From our vantage point, we can see the train stretching for what seems like miles.
I gently throttle the boat down, the stern of the boat lifting as the wake overcomes the boat. I then swing it to the North and back toward La Crosse. Despite being the same river, we are about to encounter a completely different ride. Sometimes, when it's hot and windy, and we have been traveling in one direction, the simple act of turning the boat can suddenly bring instant relief from the heat and humidity.
Tonight, against this current, it should take us almost forty minutes to get back to Pettibone. Plenty of time to enjoy the long ride home, watch the setting sun and re-tell stories we've told to each other many times before.
The bimini isn't really much use anymore as the sun is low enough that I need my sunglasses to shield my eyes. By the time we are past Crater Island, the sun will be behind the bluffs and we will enjoy a nice orange and yellow glow tracing the tops of the trees before it gives way to a darkening cobalt blue sky.
As we continue north, a quietness has settled over the river. There are a few boats heading back to La Crosse, but they are spread out and don't infringe on our solitude. As is typical on a warm summer night, tree swallows are darting, pirouetting and diving -- snatching bugs from the air like a second baseman nabbing line drives at Miller Park. I'm reminded of a military air show where the Blue Angles aerial maneuvers are astounding. Yet the jet's daring dives and banks pale in comparison to these swallows.
I drop my arm over the edge of the boat and with my hand I catch the warm water as it splashes up along the side of a pontoon. It's my "dog sticking its head out a car window" moment, and it feels like I'm a part of the river. It's amazing the water running through my fingers originates from Lake Itasca in northern Minnesota before mixing with other rivers that converge and fill the Mississippi River with their own stories and adventures.
As the conversations quiet and everyone settles into the realization that the evening is drawing to a close, we are reminded in our own private ways just how lucky we are to live near this great river.
And so the story goes.
Like I said, I haven't always loved boats. Liz and I moved to Michigan after college and quickly fell in love with the eastern shore of Lake Michigan. Like the love we had for each other, we also fell in love with the natural beauty of towering sand dunes, fire engine-red lighthouses, sandy white beaches and glorious red sunsets. But as wonderful as it was, our admiration for the lake was always from the shore or crowded boardwalks filled with tourists.
It wasn't until we returned to La Crosse years later, that the idea of owning a boat became a possibility. And with the boat came an understanding of the history that runs with this river. A reminder that tugs at you like the current does when you are up to your waste in the flow and you know that it would be far wiser to not venture further out into deeper water. It is out of respect for our part of this river's history that I appreciate the opportunities we have while boating with friends or putting through the locks near Dresbach and Trempealeau.
While we are not making history on the river, we are a part of the history of this river. For better or worse, our experiences become part of the same history where 29 sunken civil war ships lie near Yazoo, Mississippi. Or part of the passage between the Fox and Wisconsin rivers where the first Europeans reached the upper Mississippi.
Christians believe we all came from Adam and Eve. For many, you can say the same thing about the Mississippi River. From its inauspicious beginnings in northern Minnesota to its sprawling river basin near the Gulf of Mexico, the river has embraced millions, if not billions of people by boat or land.
The best part is this experience is that it's never the same. No matter how many times we go out, with friends or by ourselves, it is always different. It's why I look forward to pulling the boat out of storage, connecting the battery, cleaning its pontoons, wiping down the cushions and restocking everything we will use this summer.
Unlike the fall, when the rains begin and darkness comes too soon -- today is truly the best day of the year.
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