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Rafting Down the Mississippi

By Don E Johnson

People often ask me how I got interested in the topic of river cruising. Some of the blame goes to Mark Twain and his tales of the Mississippi, but only a small part. The truth is a more interesting story that goes back to the days of yore, when people actually did things.

Several older, but maybe not wiser, friends of mine from our tiny village in central Iowa, decided to traverse the entire 2300 miles of the mighty Mississippi River.

It was impossible to make the trip in one shot, so they decided to do it in segments. Their plan was to start at Minneapolis and float as far as they could during their week's vacation time and then start the next year from where they had left off. At less than 200 miles per week, it would take at least a dozen years to accomplish the entire journey.

They built a raft of two giant war surplus rubber pontoons somehow bolted and lashed together. It was topped by a wooden lean-to and propelled by a tiny outboard engine. Sitting on its trailer, it looked like an out-house riding on two giant 30-foot long hot dogs. These obviously were men of great courage - or stupidity.

I followed this epic for several years, listening to their tales after they returned home as they unloaded, deflated, and dried out their equipment. Tying up on the riverbank and sleeping overnight on hard, solid ground may sound reasonable to some; however, to me it seemed that was more like a long, wet, camping trip.

They told tales about nearly being crushed in a huge lock surrounded by gigantic, terrifying raft-smashing chains of grain-filled barges; or almost being swamped by the wakes of the huge barges they met; or of the huge northern pike - more likely a sturgeon - they "almost" caught - and pulled one of them overboard.

Perhaps the most frightening event happened near St. Louis when they were in the center of a terrible storm that destroyed the "out-house." That was almost enough to make them decide it wasn't worth the effort.

But they prevailed. Year after year.

I went off to the Army and never heard any details of the downriver leg of the tale. However, they kept the dream alive each year, 200 miles by 200 miles. Finally some time later, my mother sent me a newspaper clipping: "the boys" and raft had finally cruised successfully into New Orleans and they were on their way home - via bus.

It would be nice to believe that there was some sort of recognition of the journey, but there was none. At the very least, the raft belongs in a maritime museum.

Instead, somewhere on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico rests this wonderful makeshift rickety raft. A raft that has the distinct honor of outdoing the imaginary feats of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. As for me, oft-tempted, but deciding against repeating the trip, probably in a comfortable house-boat, I settled on writing this article about it. Much safer by far, but not quite as exciting.

Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Don_E_Johnson


	Rafting Down the Mississippi By Don E Johnson People often ask me how I got interested in the topic of river cruising. Some of the blame goes to Mark Twain and his tales of the Mississippi, but only a small part. The truth is a more interesting story that goes back to the days of yore, when people actually did things. Several older, but maybe not wiser, friends of mine from our tiny village in central Iowa, decided to traverse the entire 2300 miles of the mighty Mississippi River. It was impossible to make the trip in one shot, so they decided to do it in segments. Their plan was to start at Minneapolis and float as far as they could during their week's vacation time and then start the next year from where they had left off. At less than 200 miles per week, it would take at least a dozen years to accomplish the entire journey. They built a raft of two giant war surplus rubber pontoons somehow bolted and lashed together. It was topped by a wooden lean-to and propelled by a tiny outboard engine. Sitting on its trailer, it looked like an out-house riding on two giant 30-foot long hot dogs. These obviously were men of great courage - or stupidity. I followed this epic for several years, listening to their tales after they returned home as they unloaded, deflated, and dried out their equipment. Tying up on the riverbank and sleeping overnight on hard, solid ground may sound reasonable to some; however, to me it seemed that was more like a long, wet, camping trip. They told tales about nearly being crushed in a huge lock surrounded by gigantic, terrifying raft-smashing chains of grain-filled barges; or almost being swamped by the wakes of the huge barges they met; or of the huge northern pike - more likely a sturgeon - they "almost" caught - and pulled one of them overboard. Perhaps the most frightening event happened near St. Louis when they were in the center of a terrible storm that destroyed the "out-house." That was almost enough to make them decide it wasn't worth the effort. But they prevailed. Year after year. I went off to the Army and never heard any details of the downriver leg of the tale. However, they kept the dream alive each year, 200 miles by 200 miles. Finally some time later, my mother sent me a newspaper clipping: "the boys" and raft had finally cruised successfully into New Orleans and they were on their way home - via bus. It would be nice to believe that there was some sort of recognition of the journey, but there was none. At the very least, the raft belongs in a maritime museum. Instead, somewhere on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico rests this wonderful makeshift rickety raft. A raft that has the distinct honor of outdoing the imaginary feats of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. As for me, oft-tempted, but deciding against repeating the trip, probably in a comfortable house-boat, I settled on writing this article about it. Much safer by far, but not quite as exciting. Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Don_E_Johnson © 2009 EzineArticles.com - All Rights Reserved Worldwide.