The Racing News

by John Brady August 24th, 2014
*disclaimer - I borrowed a few photos from the MR340 facebook page and credited the photographer for each. ~MC


The week before last, I participated as ground support crew in the 9th Annual Missouri River 340, the longest continuous paddling race on the planet. This race, open to many classes of paddle propelled craft, is organized by rivermiles.com and sponsored in chief by Missouri American Water and is intended to be both a grueling contest of paddlers and their ability to complete, unaided, the race course from Kansas City, Kansas to St. Charles, MO, a distance of 340 miles. It is also held to heighten awareness of the great and unique resource that bisects our state and provides drinking water to more than half of its inhabitants.

I have participated in the past a number of times as crew on one of the safety boats required by the U.S. Coast Guard as a condition of the race permit. This year, I had agreed to be the sole support for my son, who was entered for the first time. I promised myself early on to do the support job to the best of my ability, but also to try to maintain awareness of the feel of the race and the racers from a new, ground-based perspective. To that end, I tried to notice the little new things I saw and heard and to keep some sort of record of them to recall later. I say “try to” as the combined effects of the hustle of maintaining support for my son and the consequential sleep deprivation worked against a coherent record after the first day. Here are some of the snippets of my impressions during the race.

Boone Brady, photo by John Brady

photo by Jennifer Owens

Day One
The start of some 258 boats from the mouth of the Kaw (Kansas) River was, as usual, quite a spectacle. The cheering, squirming mass of fresh paddlers churned the water to froth as they sought either a leading position or safe haven from the chaos. A flitting drone aircraft, like a high-tech dragonfly, darted overhead recording video of the melee. Amidst the bumping, darting boats, the strongest and fastest craft soon bore to the lead in this, perhaps the most dangerous, fraction of the long course ahead. The near carnage resulted in only three boats being upset and they, too, were soon underway to thread the five bridges in the next mile of the Missouri.

                                                                                                                        photo by Melanie Cheney

                                                                                                                     photo by Melanie Cheney
 
LaBenite Park - I snuck in to this unofficial viewing area to see if my son was still afloat. He was and waved off any assistance or concern with a look of grim determination. The weather, unusual for August in Missouri, was beneficent, cloudy and only 85 degrees. At this point, all but the very fastest boats were still clumped together in a string around two miles long.

photo by Karen Thomas

 
Napoleon - I caught the near-leaders here, still stroking fast and rhythmically as they had at the start. Sometime later, along came my charge, still needing nothing, still paddling resolutely. I figured then that he had adjusted to his pace and took a look around the crowd of viewers. An extended family, noticeably absent of adult men but including two or three women and many young children, all clad in matching lime green tee shirts set up next to me and the very youngest proceeded to attempt the most realistic near tumbles down the bank into the river. Their shrieks of joy, when mingled with their mother’s constant shouted cautions set the tone for a circus-like atmosphere. I moved on to quieter quarters.
 
Lexington - A huge parking lot was near full of the vehicles of support crews and onlookers. It looked like many were locals out for the yearly spectacle. The clouds had burned off and the temperature was up a few degrees. A grandmotherly sort worried aloud if her relative was drinking enough and using sun screen. I got a lesson in smart phone technology from the checkpoint official. Did you know they can access aviation meteorology forecasts that can predict where and when the likelihood of fog will be present? I resupplied my son, scolded him for not eating and drinking enough and headed off for more ice and the next checkpoint.
 
Waverly - My son arrived at dusk, very tired but willing to go on as he wanted to get used to navigating at night. This is where I really had to let go and trust his abilities and common sense. He was prepared to spend some rest time before the next check point with light sleeping gear. I pushed him off with an unexpected tightness in my throat. The check point was not a place to linger as it straddles a busy railroad track and has a resident gang of bully mosquitoes that train all year for their part of this event.
 
Miami - I got in just after dark and scored a premier parking place at the crowded lot-near the ramp and amenities but semi-secluded and relatively quiet. I got the tent-cot set up on a nearly level spot and went to look over the place. This was a real river Shangri-La. Tiki torches lined the path from the ramp to the al fresco café. There were hot and cold foods and beverages for sale and a warming bonfire. Temperatures had dipped into the mid-sixties. I set the alarm on my cell phone and tried to catch a few winks before my son arrived, to no avail. There was just too much caffeine and too many little worries. My biggest worry was a thirty year old one out on a river he does not know in a boat that he is very new to. 
 

 photo by Constance Allen  

Day Two
He got in half an hour after midnight. I led him to the cot where he asked me to bring him some Ibuprofen. He was asleep five minutes later when I got back. I woke him up to take it. I tidied up his boat, made preps for the morning and tried again to sleep. No dice there. I spent the rest of the night carrying arriving boats up the launch ramp and got him underway at five-thirty a.m. He looked and acted fresh and ready. I felt good in spite of the lack of rest. The feeling of Miami was subdued and laid-back, I suppose from the tired nature of its occupants. There was an intangible air of relief at having survived the first day in the crucible. 
 
Glasgow - My original plan was for my son to rest at Glasgow. I set up accordingly and went to the ramp to help out. One of the safety boats was laagered there, so I gave them a ride uptown for real breakfast food. They were pretty docile after coming down from the start. Breakfast induced torpor and I loaned my son’s bivouac to one of them. At the ramp, the familial gaggle in their lime green shirts was there, and I noticed for the first time that all of their shirts were captioned with their team name- “Drowning Dads”. Now, is it really a good idea to send the fathers of a brood of really young children, much less their mothers, in support of a boating crew of “Drowning Dads”? I mean, “Dabbling Dads” or “Dueling Dads” maybe, but “Drowning Dads”?. I suppose the ignorance of young childhood is a blessing sometimes.

Drowning Dads crew in Glasgow.  photo by Constance Allen

 
Traveling between Miami and Glasgow, I experienced one of the most beautiful views of ground fog I have ever seen. As I dropped down into the Mendon Bottoms, the fog was a blanket on the cropland that appeared as a silver lake in the early sun. Here and there its surface rose in tent-like up-wellings, all the same height above the lower surface. The tops of trees appeared as Mangrove islands in a silver lake of mist. That vista was worth the sleepless night to see.

Eerie fog on the river.  photo by Boone Brady

photo by Krystal Phipps

 
Katfish Katy’s - This whimsically named checkpoint was notable only for the heat and the universally tired nature of the arrivals. I was able to finally fall asleep in the cab of my truck, to be awakened by my son who had just arrived. We ate some “real” barbeque food with his new-found paddling companions and their dad. They were very nice and plain folks from eastern Illinois. They had been encouraging my son when he lagged and he wanted to press on to the next check point with them to motivate him to keep up the pace. I had encouraged him to keep company with just this sort of amiable companions to help pass the time and to have company during the nights. They left an hour before dusk.
 
Jefferson City - Wilson’s Serenity Point was gleaming like the riverside diamond that it is. Sand beaches, roaring fire and plentiful cool drinks and warm food met me when I arrived after switching vehicles to a van and thirty-foot boat trailer I had agreed to shuttle to the finish line. I am getting a sense here of the deep all-encompassing fatigue of the racers as they arrive. I had seen some of this while in the safety boats before, but here it is palpable to a much greater extent as they stumble in and anguish over whether to rest for a time or go on. 
 
Some express a near fear of another night on the water, some long to enjoy its beauty again, exhausted as they are. Ground crews reason or cajole as they see fit. All of the ground crews share the fatigue and agonize with the boaters. Then there are those few, tired as the rest and just as toasted by the day that land with a splash, stretch and have a cool drink and are back in their boats as soon as the resupply is done. I am amazed at their pluck as I share their sleeplessness if not their pain. About twenty-five percent of the starters have dropped out by now. Usually that number is near forty percent by Glasgow.

Day Three
My paddler and his companions/motivators arrive at nearly one a.m. Their dad, Jack, is a friendly man who is enjoying a rare respite from farming a very large acreage and his son’s great progress in his first endurance race. Our joy is very similar and I like him immediately, as I do his nineteen year old son. We bed them down immediately, them in a tent shared by three (his son is part of a tandem crew) and my boy in his tent cot. He is nearly delirious with fatigue and cannot talk coherently. He does manage to call his fiancé and mumble that he is OK and loves her. I fumble around and learn how to turn off and charge his smart phone (mine still is the crank up variety).

I pull his boat up, swamp it out and prep it for the day. I sleep fitfully, curled up in the van around the protruding brackets that mount the vacant second bench seat. It’s cool and I miss my pillow which I have given to the cot. I toss for four hours, then get up and prep the boat some more and fix the days supplies. At six, the voyagers are away. My son hugs me and thanks me for my support. In my ignorance of what he needs, I feel that my help is barely adequate but know my presence does him good. No other paddlers are preparing to depart when he leaves. I head off for ice, some foodstuffs and the next stop.

 John Brady prepping his sons boat.  photo by Boone Brady

 
Hermann - A safety boat crew of friends is on station when I arrive. I bring them fresh pastries from a local bakery. They smile and we chat about the nights doings.
 
Sometime during the night a drunken fisherman has lost his boat and nearly his life and scared paddlers in the night with his calls for help. He is OK and out of the river but minus his boat. A Highway Patrol boat stops in and we talk about the incident. We have not seen the errant boat pass by. Later in the long, hot day, around two p.m., my paddlers stop in briefly, take an hour for café food courtesy of Jack and depart for the next way point. They are tired but euphoric at their progress. They are on the way to stacking up three 100 mile plus days in a row. This will mean a cake walk on the final day and they are really stoked. 
 
I leave soon after them. My plan is to drive to the finish and drop the albatross of a thirty-foot trailer and then return to the last check point for the night. The trailer is making it very hard to maneuver and park anywhere near the river and cuts down my options to get things done. The drive to drop the trailer is a daytime nightmare for me. Edgy and extremely sleep deprived, I drive in five o’clock traffic into the city, twitching around the solid traffic and watching the trailer in the mirrors, hoping to avoid contact between the trailer and the aggressive evening drivers. 
 
I make the drop and get to the last check point in early dusk. I prep the tent cot and help at the ramp for a while. It is manned by a friend of mine but he is resting. The paddlers arrive just after ten p.m. and my son is spent and can barely walk. He makes his call and goes down. I prep the boat and tomorrow’s supplies. The atmosphere is similar to the last overnight stop, hope and despair among the racers and quiet support by the crews. There is an overtone of elation at the finish being only twenty six miles away. A tearful new arrival wants to go on but is tired and scared of the fog. I talk to him for an hour, telling him that safety is more important than finishing a few hours earlier. He goes on.

Day Four
The paddlers are away at six. Very gung-ho they are, too. My rest was fitful as it turned off much cooler and I had given my son the only other available blanket after he complained of being cold last night. I then had none and attempted to sleep curled in a ball around the seat brackets with my head right under a hanging raft of smelly old rain gear. At dawn, my kinks had kinks. I wrap up the gear and take off for the finish line. On the way, a restaurant sign seduces me in to the first hot food of the week. I dawdle. As I arrive at the finish and search vainly for an open parking place, I get a text from my son. “Arrived finish line at 10:25”. I am so disappointed to have missed that moment by just moments. I never expected him so early. He consoles me and we celebrate with a hug and several cold sodas. His mom is there, nearly in tears. We hug him repeatedly.
 

 photo by Jan Bryant 

The Awards Ceremony
My son is back after a shower and a few hours rest. His fiancé is there and they look so good together. My afternoon was spent pulling boats up the bank and just reliving race moments with friends old and new. The paddling companions depart for the east with the thanks of both me and my son.
 
As the awards and medals are passed out, applause from the audience is continuous and avid. I notice that my son applauds somewhat gingerly. Each arrived paddler (they are still coming in to the finish as this is going on) is called up to get their trophy or medal and their total time announced. My son has had a great race for someone on their sixth or seventh time in a kayak. He is so happy and I am so happy for him. This is an accomplishment that he will remember for the rest of his life. There are enough tears among the finishers and support crews to go around. A palpable air of elation and camaraderie floats on the air along with just a hint of unwashed flesh.

photo by Dave Marner

 
I notice the crew in the lime green tees. They are all there. Including the Undrowned Dads.

 photo by Karen Thomas

A collection of photos, stories and videos about the MR340 can be found here:  http://www.riverrelief.org/updates/entry/read-up-on-the-mr340-race/

Kansas City Star photo gallery:  http://www.kansascity.com/news/local/article1201383.html

MR340 Facebook photo gallery:  https://www.facebook.com/groups/188849561244166/photos/

MR340 Race Forum:  http://www.rivermiles.com/forum/YaBB.pl?board=Race 

Cindy Hiles Photo Gallery:  http://www.cindyhilesphotography.com/-/cindyhilesphotography/galleryindex.asp?LID=&c=24411  

Downstream to Washington!

Big Muddy Clean Sweep
Rennick Riverfront Park, Washington, MO
Rivermile 68
October 10-12, 2011

Washington sunrise. photo by Melanie Cheney

One of our favorite river towns is also a place that uses the river the most. The busy Washington boat ramp has a brutal current, and is difficult for motorboaters and paddlers alike to launch and land. Yet it sees more traffic than any other Missouri River access in the state.

But the reason we love it here is the people. We have been so lucky to become friends of wonderful batch of folks here that have made it part of their mission in life to welcome River Relief to town, and to pave the way for our easy travel there.

Gloria Bauermeister decided to become our Washington ambassador for the Clean Sweep. She worked up a diverse series of events in town, bringing a huge slice of Washington down to the river to become part of this journey. It all started off with a wonderful welcoming party at MannWell’s coffeehouse…always my first stop when I come by Washington by boat. Cheryl, the owner, baked up a blackberry cobbler with berries she saved in the freezer from the summer, and a whole bunch of people filled a table with wonderful appetizers.

The Washington mayor, Sandy Lucy, read off a proclamation declaring this to be “Missouri River Week” in the town and welcomed our trash barge crew. It was a humbling experience for sure. On display at MannWell’s is an intricate quilt, formed of squares patched together by a long list of fiber artists from across the state called the Rambling River Quilters. Each created a window into a vibrant river world, all designed to stitch together perfectly into a wild flowing river that spilled across the coffeehouse wall.

Then we headed back to the barge mooring, and lit up a sweet little campfire in the sandpiles of an old sand plant. Mike Smith brought a truckload of firewood and Gloria and her husband Michael whipped out some sweet tunes on guitar, mandolin and banjo. So perfect as the full moon popped in and out of the gathering clouds.

Wednesday started our series of education events with local students. Most were able to walk down from Immanuel Lutheran and Fifth St. Elementary. We had one booth about the changes of the river in the past couple hundred years and one about our work as river trash cleaners. Colby Wrasse and Brian from the Columbia Fish & Wildlife Conservation Office set up shop in the parking lot with a tank of live wild fish caught the day before describing the conservation challenges that faced each species.

Tim Nigh and Jodi Pfefferkorn explain the ins & outs of trash getting. photo by Melanie Cheney

Colby Wrasse (USFWS) shows students a shovelnose sturgeon. photo by Melanie Cheney

Lunch was followed by a presentation by the World Bird Sanctuary, featuring a smattering of native birds of prey…kestrel, red-tailed hawk, barn own and turkey vulture. The kids sat on straw bales as the trained birds flew above their heads, tapping their shoulders as they zoomed by. They loved it.

As our afternoon shift of presentations ended, our attention shifted to the Missouri River 340. Several of our crew were out there, with near sleepless nights camping on the banks and tending to the courageous racers. (To follow the race, check out the race forum: http://rivermiles.com/forum/YaBB.pl?num=1318251963/all-0 )

We filled a couple checkpoint holes (and witnessed a gorgeous golden rainbow sunset) before getting back to the barge. Jodi’s mom and sis, and Colby Wrasse stopped by for dinner on the barge (whoa! Baked salmon with herbed white sauce…thanks Tim Nigh!)

Rain started to fall as we headed indoors, warm and dry, thinking of our buddies and all the paddlers out there on the river and hoping they are all keeping safe and loving their river time.

Formed by a river - the MR340 phenomena

Missouri River 340
Kaw Point Park to the Lewis and Clark Boathouse
Kansas City to St. Charles
August 4-7, 2009

text by Steve Schnarr, photos by Vicki Richmond
(for more photos, see our flickr page:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/8478409@N03/sets/72157622039363992/

The Mission of Missouri River Relief is not limited to cleaning up trash on her banks. To get our citizens to work for the health of the Missouri River, we first need to get people to know her. Get people out on the river. Through action on the river, we work to create ripples that will, in the short and long run, change the way people view the river. And therefore, change the way people treat her.

No event that I’ve been witness to accomplishes this goal like the Missouri River 340. This paddler race, from Kansas City to St. Charles gets a bunch of people who have never been on the river together with others that have already fallen under her spell. They start training on the river, learning about its communities, its weird, fickle ways, and the mysteries of navigating it. They get out on it at night, when moonlight transforms the river into a wilderness of water. They discuss intricacies of the Missouri River on the race forum.

Because of this, Missouri River Relief is honored to be a part of this massive river ramble. We provide safety boats on the river during the race, available to respond to calls for help or rescue. We get to meet the racers at checkpoints and on the river, becoming part of that roving family sweating its way downstream.

I remember one of the first times I paddled on the Missouri River, over a decade ago. We put in at Rocheport, grabbing a snack at the Trailside Café before hitting the river. The owners of the store, when hearing of our plans, begged us not to get on the river, warning of whirlpools that would suck our boat down and currents impossible to navigate through.

Luckily, my friend had been paddling on the river many times, so we thanked them for their concern and hit the river. As the sun set and the moon rose, lighting up the Manitou Bluffs, we rarely set our paddles in the water, letting the current gently twist our boat around.

And we saw no one else on the river that night.

It’s usually like that here in mid-Missouri. We often see fishermen, and their numbers are growing – working trot lines and jugs, line fishing and exploring newly opened side chutes. Jet Skis and speedboats pop up on the weekends. But you can often get out on the river and see nobody.

What really popped out at me this year was the number of paddlers out on the river. Anytime of the week, paddling at night, making miles. This is part of a general growth in Big Muddy paddling, thanks to the work of people like Brett Dufur, Mike Clark and Heather Bass – taking large groups of folks paddling on the river to show how it’s done. And all the other folks who gave it a try and then told their friends how cool it was.

Let’s face it, the word is spreading: the Missouri River is huge, its channel is strong and tricky, it’s remote in some places and it changes day to day. But in most situations, a good paddler can be as safe out there as on any small stream in the Ozarks. And the feeling of floating silently on top of the flow from 1/6 of the United States is powerful.

But there is no doubt to me that the explosion of Big Muddy paddling this year was because of the Race. Racers spent their free time getting out on the river and learning its ways, practicing their strokes and pace. They exchanged tips about certain tricky bends of the river and discussed nighttime barge lighting.

During the last night of the race, I was walking down the road in New Haven, picking up passing discussions amongst ground crews, those dedicated souls that gave up a week of their lives to make sure their friend or family was safe, fed and cheered as they approached each checkpoint. I heard some people that didn’t really know this river before this race. Talking about wing dikes and chutes, Berger Bend and Asian carp.

All the checkpoint volunteers become instant ambassadors for their town, and they see “their” boat ramp or riverside park from the point of view of these flocks of visitors by road and by river. They meet each and every racer that passes through on their shift, and chat with the ground crews.

Everyone meets everyone else. It’s a web of relationships formed by a river.

We’re honored to play a part in this drama, and we learn a ton every year. Thanks to Scott, Karin, Russ and Travis for inviting us to help. These are some of the most generous and humble folks you’d want to meet.

Rivermiles, the organizers of the race, have selected MRR as their charitable partner. Proceeds from sticker sales from the race go to support our efforts. Racers organize fundraisers to donate more money. Some racers even donate their awards to our clean-ups. It all creates a kind of synergy that is impossible to describe.

We are humbled by the generosity and good will of all the racers and the race staff.

Special thanks to:
Racers:
Jeff Totten and Larry Day – these guys raised $800 in a local fundraiser for MRR, and $800 for another charity.
Bryan Hopkins – and others put on a paddling clinic and raised $360!
Alpine Shop Team – They asked customers to donate to MRR during the race.
David and Teresa Lackey – placed a sticker order for $200!
Carol Heddinghaus and Abigail Tuttle (team "We Got This, Go Home!") - won second place in Womens' Tandem and donated their award to MRR - $250 in quarters from Tiny Bubbles Laundromat!
Natalie Courson – Donated her 2nd place award to us: 62.50!
Jason Locke, David Hill – both donated $100.00!
Don Wilkison - who donated $68.00!
JoJo Newbold - she helped us at a fundraiser at Whole Foods Market in Brentwood!


Special recognition to “Team Kruger – Race to Heal” - this three-boat fleet included a team with 12 and 14 year-old friends that raised over 10,000 for breast cancer research!
Check out their blog here.



And special thanks to Thad Lefebvre, who has donated hundreds of dollars worth of welding on River Relief boats, including one last minute job the week before the race!

Observations on the MR 340, 2008

Missouri River 340 - 2008

Kaw Point Park (KC) to Lewis and Clark Boathouse (St. Charles)
July 15 - 19, 2008
text by John Brady, photos by Dylan Lehrbaum

Blogmaster's note: Missouri River Relief Quartermaster John Brady gave this to me during the winter, and I just never got around to posting it. Sorry John! But here it is, in anticipation of this week's fourth annual Missouri River 340.

I have just had the privilege of participating in my first MR 340 paddling race across Missouri. Not as a contestant, mind you, as I have no experience at that type of thing. No, I was a crew member on one of Missouri River Relief”s safety boats that escorted the racers from Kaw Point to St. Charles. I learned a lot last week, both about the race and the racers and about human spirit.

Monday:
The highlight was Scott Mansker’s safety meeting. I was warned that he is pretty good with a word and his presentation to the full house of excited contestants and support crew conveyed all that could reasonably be expected to be absorbed about the river and the race as well as allaying the anxieties of the novices and the support crews. What a varied audience he had there! It was apparent from his talk that he had pared it down to the essentials, that he knew his subject very well and that he had great concern that all participants had a grasp of what they would need to know at a minimum.

Day One:
Kaw Point was a circus. From an early rise to get our chase boat ready to go, we onlookers were presented with a real spectacle. Every kind of paddle boat from sleek six-man racing kayaks to dented outfitter-surplus aluminum canoes were on hand. The racers and their crews were as varied as the boats. From tie-dyed straw hatted hipsters dragging beat-up boats to a likely launch spot to compression-suited warriors marching their sleek craft to the ramp in lockstep, the whole spectrum was assembled.

The flailing madness of the mass start was simply astonishing. Sprinters and slow-movers frothing the water of the Kaw to a fair-thee-well was a scene unique in the universe I think. The lead team canoes and kayaks flew along and were soon out of sight, leaving a river full of boats snaking down the channel in a mass of flashing paddles against the best view ever of Kansas City’s skyline.



At Miami, we were asked to hurry downriver to find and escort a commercial barge tow up through the paddlers during the night. I was concerned that this would run us short of fuel and went about in the crowd inquiring about securing some more fuel. The mayor of Miami was there cooking hot dogs and welcoming racers and crew. He said he would be glad to get me some fuel in Marshall, MO., 15 miles away. I got my empty tank out of the boat and gave it to him. He turned to put it in his truck without a word. The guy didn’t even ask about the money for the 12 gallons of gas. At $4.00 a gallon! I gave him the required money and the next morning, as arranged, he had the fuel, the change to the penny and a receipt back at the ramp. That doesn’t happen everywhere to be sure.

The night cruise down to Glasgow was one of the best runs I’ve had in years. Full moon high, glassy water, paddlers going by seen simply as tiny lights on the water; the effect was spiritual in a high degree.



Day Two:
After a 2:00 a.m. arrival at Glasgow, we were asked to lay over until the morning. We secured the boat and my crew members turned to the sod at Stump Island Park to attempt some rest. I wandered up to the top of the ramp where I encountered Scott’s dad, obviously deeply sleep-deprived, worrying about near-overdue paddlers, the rush to his next check point and the race logs. I was impressed how important it was to the race organizers that the record of contestant’s arrival and departures be kept accurately and get to the finish before the first competitor arrived there.

Scattered pods of paddler zombies wandered by, arriving, departing, slamming fuel, taping and medicating- all in all a supercharged Dante’s Inferno of racers and supporters empathizing with the sheer weight of what the racers were enduring.


I finally crashed in the boat under a rough tarp with a PFD for a pillow. Nothing could have felt better. Toward dawn I woke up as an intense solo kayaker slipped her craft into the water. Barely revived, she ghosted into the misty river. I talked a bit to her mom, there as her support team. She related that she had awakened her daughter at the designated time with the words “Honey, it’s time. Are you ready?” To which her daughter sleepily replied, “Mom, I was born ready!” and hopped up, indeed ready to rumble again. I was told later that this was Katie Pffeferkorn, the racer that won the women’s solo class.

Our chase boat was told to stand by there until further instructions. Too excited by what I was witnessing to rest further, I ambled uptown, got a plate of crepes (yeah, in Glasgow) and trailed back to the park.

Shortly, we got instructions to high-tail it down to Cooper’s Landing in search of a towboat thought to be heading up into the rough river below Glasgow. Soon we learned that the tow in question had already transited the area (we had passed her tied up late the night before) and we headed down to Cooper’s Landing and assist with the checkpoint there.

What a great afternoon voyage we had! Winding our way down through the infamous Jameson Island country, slowing near the paddlers and then letting the boat stretch out a bit, we landed at Cooper’s at around 4 p.m. We tied up and my crew melted into the scene. They had boats to pick up and move the next day and were to man a section downriver after that. I am still amazed at the delicate dance we did to make this escort thing work out with available crew and machinery.
At Cooper’s, we attempted to get some sort of light out on a submerged dike which was making it difficult for paddlers to land. There followed a Keystone Cop sort of affair that, while ending successfully, involved placing a light on the underwater dike while avoiding approaching racers. I was able to adroitly complete the tricky task by momentarily getting the boat hung up on the dike and then successfully colliding with a pontoon boat moored above it.

Oh Yes! This happened at my home port with a large audience, many of whom know me. At least they used to admit to doing so.

I spent the night snug in my van (remember Chris Farley on SNL?-“Let me get this straight. You’re living in a van, down by the river?”) Sometime in the night I was awakened by a nearby voice, plaintive and drunken, exclaiming over and over “ All I want to do is take off my clothes and jump in the river!” When I could stand it no more, I selfishly opened the window and yelled “Go ahead! Jump!” My sentiment was echoed by at least one neighbor and put an end to the drama.

Day Three
I spent the day on R and R, maintaining a communication station for the chase boats and shepherding a succession of paddlers that I knew into my van to rest or into a nearby cabin. During mid-afternoon, my replacement crew mates arrived, bringing coolers full of unbelievably great sustenance, along with fresh vigor, to the process. I had already cleaned and serviced the boat. We were asked to follow the last racers (arrived a few hours earlier) downriver.

We left several hours before sundown, running sweep after two very tired and very game young first time racers. Along with another escort, we headed to Jefferson City, landed and quickly departed down again. Again, the night run was awesome. The river was up over the dikes, the full moon made navigation a breeze and the pace set by the last paddlers was leisurely and peaceful.
In order to not outrun our charges, it was necessary for us to motor for a bit and then shut down the machinery and just float for a while. Gliding along, under a gorgeous moon in near complete stillness was a pleasure beyond price and beyond my ability to describe.

Having never run this stretch at night before, I was alert and paid attention to the task. It was all cake until around ten p.m. when a mist began to form on the water. Sometimes it was barely there and sometimes almost a shut out. We were able to take it in stride and relax, though. The only problem was the pace.


The team we were following, running on fumes of awareness, was zig-zagging back and forth across the river to get a real close up visual on EVERY day board so they wouldn’t get lost, crossing back and forth from one side of the river to the other and going far more distance than they needed to. You had to admire their grit if not their technique.

We made landing at Chamois, not a checkpoint but where the two paddlers had support people (Mom and brothers and sis) waiting. On the approach to the ramp, we were on the phone with Scott, who was there tending the last of his flock. I was having trouble in the mist picking the landing ramp out from all of the lights at the power plant just below and asked Scott to show a light if he could. He switched on a spotlight so powerful that I swear it burned through the back of my retinas. Man, what a beam!

The racers decided to rest a bit so we walked up to the adjacent park to sleep under the pavilion to ward off the dew. We needn’t have bothered. The mosquitoes were so thick that the dew couldn’t have found us using Scott’s mega-light. I swear, it was the softest gravel I ever laid a tired body down on.

Day Four
We got up before dawn and downed coffee, cake and sardines with mustard. (It really didn’t seem that strange at the time). Wow. Fresh, hot coffee, courtesy of our accompanying houseboat. Thanks, Jack. We ambled down past Washington, a former checkpoint that was abandoned due to high water making the approach to the ramp really hard for the unaware. Stopped and got-DONUTS!!

Our weary paddlers soon slipped back into their zig-zag pattern of navigation. We joked about it a little but had to admire their never-say-die spirit. At times their strokes were in perfect union but their paddles barely dipped in the water and their strokes were but a foot long. Running on the autonomous nerves I guess.

We went by Herman and into a hot and breezy afternoon. The country down, there, from Herman through St. Albans is my second most favorite scenery on the middle reach of the Missouri River. Through the Berger Bottoms (the locals use a “soft” G) where another of our boats had a rough encounter with a box dike the night before. “Pride goeth”, as they say.

Long, long reaches which were lengthened further by the slow wayward path we followed. In late afternoon we landed at the last checkpoint, I believe called Weldon Springs. There we met up with some of our forward contingent of chase boat crew that had been manning the post and combating the “skeeters” since last night.

Impressed with our lamentatious account of the meandering progress of the day (embellished to just the right degree) they graciously directed us to speed on ahead to the finish line on some probably unnecessary task, knowing that there was refreshment and enjoyment to be had there.
As there were no other paddlers between that point and very near the finish line, we went ripping down the river at max motion, theoretically gaining back every hour in twenty or so miles that we had lost in the previous 320.

After slowing briefly just above the finish to allow the second and third to last racers to cross the line, we landed at St. Charles just after the awards ceremony. As I walked up the bank to the bonfire, Scott’s dad once again appeared. “We have several cases of donated wine that we didn’t use in the awards dinner”, he said. “We’d like to give them to your group”. “Oh”, I nonchalantly replied. “You’ve heard of us, then”.

The wildest collection of race craft ever seen in St. Charles.

Possibly the best part for me among many memorable scenes, was watching the last racers, our flock for many miles, finish the race. Down they came toward the finish line, paddling with renewed energy dredged up from God knows where. There to cheer them on, among tooting horns and screaming approval, was every, and I mean every, living soul still on the premises.

Hail Warriors!