The boat had a rather large deck in the center of which was a dark room with several bunk beds and a small kitchen. From the sleeping quarters, you could descend below into the mechanical guts of the boat. Above the kitchen was the bridge with the wheel sitting proudly in the morning sun. The bridge contained a couple notebooks, mostly blank, with unintelligible business records in them. The only personal touch the owners had left in the boat was a page in the notebooks that listed a review of porn movies. All of them rated very poorly except for Deep Throat which netted several stars and The Palace of Kinky Vixens which earned a rating of "freaky shit!!".

Our snooping found nothing else of particular interest in the boat, but it was intriguing to finally see what the inside of the big boats were like. I don't know how the Harold Joseph compared in size to the tugs carrying large loads whose crews worked for months at a time, but it did not look like it was well suited for living on weeks at a stretch without shore.

The remainder of the day was peppered with minor calamities. At one point the Mississippi appeared to fork around a series of islands and we took the slower, narrower fork which we thought would keep us out of the way of barges and be more picturesque. We were right, the route was very picturesque, but it was also a pain in the butt. In several places the water became so shallow that we had to get out and walk alongside the canoe and in some cases we had to backtrack to look for deeper water. The worst mishap came when we were attempting to cross a steep rocky decline. From afar, there appeared a small but passable route through the rocks but as we got closer we realized this was an illusion. By then it was too late to turn around and the current pinned the canoe against the first large rocks. We got out of the canoe and we were eventually able see-saw Pi down off the rocks without capsizing, but not without a good deal of banging. Luckily Pi did not appear to earn any leaks. A father and son fishing downstream a bit came over to congratulate us and told us how to get back to the channel.

July-still

There was now just one town between us and Memphis, Osceola. The goal for the day was to refill our water jugs and then we could probably make Memphis early the following day.

One bend in the river was particularly picturesque. The Tennessee bank consisted of a tall (by the river's standards) cliff face. Just around the cliff the river was flanked on either side by long stretches of trees. And in the middle of the river, there was a boat so large it could only have come from outer space.

The boat was not pushing anything or for that matter, moving. Rather, a large tube extended from it, out of which it pumped muck off to the side and it was flanked by two much smaller boats. The boat's paint job looked vaguely Klingon. As we drew closer we could read "Army Corps of Engineers" on the side which explained the exoticness. Based on subsequent research (I asked Tugboat Joe), this was probably the "dustpan dredge" Hurley. Dustpan dredges like the Hurley use something very much like a giant vacuum cleaner to keep the Mississippi's boating channel deep enough for traffic.

Into the afternoon, we finished the last of the water and Osceola was yet to be found. Osceola was not on the river's edge but it was close enough that we had assumed that there would be some signs of civilization (water towers, docks) visible from the river. We had now come to the conclusion that this had been a bad plan and that we had probably missed Osceola.

While discussing what to do next, a small boat came into view and I flagged it down. It was a Coast Guard boat from Memphis out on patrol. The two friendly guardsmen on bard informed us that we were long past Osceola and that there was no place to get water between here and Memphis. JR had been wanting to paddle upstream some rivulet to find a source of water but the guardsmen offered us a ride to a Memphis campground.

We had been looking forward to entering Memphis triumphantly under our own power, but I did not want to depend on JR's water purifier or the chance of finding a farmhouse for water, and we accepted the guardsman's offer.

The boat ride gave us a chance to get to know a bit better the unsung branch of the U.S. armed services. Hickman, KY had given us our first glimpse of the Coast Guard. We had inquired at the Coast Guard post there about camping on their property. Although the building and outdoor volleyball court looked well-maintained, no one seemed to be around. We eventually found someone inside, watching TV in a room with comfy chairs, and pool and foos ball tables. The only things the place was missing was a wet bar and Jimmy Buffet on the stereo.

We asked the guardsmen who wasn't driving why he had joined the Coast Guard and he told us that before he joined, he had seen a TV news special on marijuana smuggling in the U.S.. At one point, Mike Wallace or some other anchor, addressed the camera from a Coast Guard boat traveling down the Mississippi, over-stuffed with illicit marijuana, and our (then young) guardsmen thought to himself, "There's no way all of that stuff makes it back to port."

After a laugh, the guardsmen indicated that he had been kidding and proceeded to tell us his second funny answer to that question, which was simply that the Coast Guard was the only branch of the armed services that hadn't recruited him. On second thought, this answer might have been sincere.

Near sunset, we reached Memphis and sped by the riverside attractions of downtown. A bit downstream, the guardsmen dropped us off along side the Arkansas bank, where we tied up Pi and scaled the concrete rubble on the bank to arrive at Tom Sawyer's Campground and RV Park. We had arrived.

A week in West Memphis

For being so close to two major urban centers, Tom Sawyer's was relatively secluded. It was surrounded by trees on all sides but the one bordering the river. The quiet of the place was only occasionally broken by the sounds of the park owners speeding around in their golf cart and the TV's and radio's of the RVs up by the main office and showers.

Our yellow tent was the proud solitary occupant of "the campground," a long stretch of grass between the river and the shaded RV lots. On either end of Tom Sawyer's were ponds, and as the sun set a few hours after our arrival, there were two men fishing on the smaller pond, James Egan and his grandson.

James was a master electrician up from Texas temporarily on a job in Memphis. He saw no point to staying in a hotel when he could stay outside in the fresh air and fish when he was done at work. His grandson and son were up here working with him though they sometimes opted for the hotel.

We spent about a week at Tom Sawyer's and most of those days ended talking with James over by the pond or at his camp. He talked about his family, Texas and the various deadly critters that lived there, rivers, and a couple times he gave us fishing lessons. We should've met James at the beginning of the trip.

About a 20 minute walk from Tom Sawyer's was commercial West Memphis. The nearest grocery store there sported an unflattering cartoon of former governor Bill Clinton. Down the road a bit was the exact milkshake I had been looking for in Times Beach. And down the road a bit more lay one of the reasons we stayed in West Memphis as long as we did, Willie Mae's Rib Haus.

For the less BBQ naive, Willie Mae's might not have been such an experience, but the BBQ chicken was like nothing we had eaten before. I have gone to a few Hoosier Hog Roasts and sampled ribs & hot wings from West Virginia to Iowa, but never was BBQ anything more than something pleasant to fill your stomach or to keep your mouth busy. But at Willie Mae's you noticed every bite. The chicken was so rich and spicy that your fingers were still tingling the day after.

We ate at Willie Mae's about half of the days we were in West Memphis. This wasn't long enough to learn anyone's name (or to meet Willie, a woman who apparently is not related to the homophonously named baseball hero). But at our last meal, the chef came out and personally gave us samples of his new dippin' sauce (but why would you want anything that might get in the way of the BBQ?).

Graceland is a fascinating and marvelous place, but if you have one day to live in the Memphis area, go to Willie Mae's.

The Last Day

Our goal had been to make Memphis, at which point we'd decide if we wanted to go on to Vicksburg. There was not enough time for us to go to New Orleans. After a few days deliberation and a few aforementioned BBQ meals, we decided to stop. JR had some issues he wanted to deal with back home and I thought the lack of riverside towns on the way to Vicksburg could make getting water difficult.

We asked around town at the pawn shops and army surplus store if anyone wanted to buy a canoe, but no takers. The owners of Tom Sawyer's expressed interest and in the end James bought Pi to use for fishing on the larger pond. He would donate it to the campground when he went back to Texas.

All that remained then was packing, a trip to the Greyhound station, and farewells. We spent the last night around James's fire with his son and grandson, eating fresh fish. We spent the night in an extra hammock under James's spacious tent and learned that he has a ritual of falling asleep listening to the Jeff Foxworthy hour, a mixture of redneck jokes and top 40 country tunes, on the radio.

The next day we said goodbye to the owners of Tom Sawyer's, who told us had they been in our shoes they would have saved the $10 camping fee by camping on the opposite bank and sneaking in to use the showers. We took a last look a Pi and thanked both it and the Mississippi. James then gave us a ride to the Greyhound station.

To unload us and say goodbye, James had parked his pickup in the bus lane and the employee there promptly came out to make James move. James has little tolerance for senseless obedience to regulations, and he thought it senseless to move now when after a farewell he'd be leaving anyway. Eventually the situation was resolved when James moved his truck and the employee agreed to take our picture in front of the sign proclaiming the offending rule.

James said goodbye, we gave him our thanks and he went back to fishing. He thought that we were making a mistake to stop before New Orleans.

Greyhound took us across the river to downtown Memphis where we'd have to wait out the evening for an early AM bus. We finished off another half liter of Old Crow between us and stepped out into a weekend night on Beale St. The star attraction that night was a small group of boys doing flips on the street. For the grand finale, the boys lined up 10 members of the audience in a row, bent over fully at the waist but legs straight. Volunteers in position, their leader then ran down the street flipped head over heels a few times and then he flipped right over the row of 10. It was awesome. As the boys were passing around the collection bucket later, I overheard someone asking the leader what he was going to do with himself. In a few months he was going to join the army.

We purchased three cigars from a shop, one for Kenny up in Chester, one for Browning back in Illinois, and one to torture ourselves with. We spent the remainder of the night trying to make a respectable go at the cigar while listening to street musicians and avoiding the open air bar with the Eagles/Billy Joel cover band. There was one fellow who sang he was from Cape Girardeau. We hollered out "Auntie Alberts!" along with a few encouraging hoots. The troubadour acknowledged us, but when he realized we weren't going to give him any money he ignored us and reverted to song.

As Beale St. was winding down we headed back to the Greyhound station and waited in line to get on board. After we pulled out of the station I kept a look out for another sight of the river, but no dice. I doubt Old Man River looks so good out a bus window in the middle of the night anyway. JR and I parted ways in Chicago.

Epilogue