My notes during the portage are a bit disjointed, but this newspaper article had it together:Written by April Scheinoha for the Northern Watch Online | |
He is biking and canoeing his way to New Orleans Five hours. Usually, the 17-mile trip from Newfolden to Thief River Falls doesn’t take that long. For Kevin Saff, it did. “At one point, I was a mile or two away, and I thought I was not going to make it,” Saff said. He was probably grateful that Hardware Hank and Anderson Power and Equipment are located on the west side of Thief River Falls. Saff is traveling via bike and canoe from Calgary, Alberta, Canada, to New Orleans, a trip of about 2,500 miles when traveling on roads. He rides the bike when he can’t travel by canoe. Prior to heading out, Saff put his rig together. The rig consists of the bike, a boat trailer and the canoe. The bike folds up for those moments when Saff can actually canoe. Besides the rig, Saff brought along a tent for those moments when he wants to sleep. He also brought along other necessities like a journal. This is the first time that Saff has participated in anything of this magnitude. In Missouri, he participated in a nine-day bike trip. He has also participated in “little bike trips here and there.” On June 22, Saff began the largest bike – and canoe – trip of his life thus far. In his words, he threw his boat into the Bow River in Calgary. It took him three months to travel to Winnipeg, a trip of about 825 miles when traveling on roads. From Manitoba, he made his way into the United States. Saff plans to travel down the Mississippi River to New Orleans. He expects that the Mississippi River leg will take about three months. “I’m just hoping I beat the freeze,” said Saff, who has read about similar travels on the Mississippi River. However, in Saff’s case, he may face difficulties that those travelers haven’t faced – darkness and colder weather. Saff has already faced some formidable foes that would have forced less hardy folks to abandon the trip. There was the foe known as the Red River. Saff was traveling upstream, when he encountered a set of rapids. Of course, then a wind gust blew him 20 feet backwards. The next day, it rained, and Saff was so sore that he decided to stay in his tent all day. Later, Saff continued making his way to New Orleans. On Sunday night, he found himself in a different city with “new” in the title: Newfolden. Saff was staying at the Newfolden City Park, when he was approached by Pastor Phil Rokke. “I thought I had to see this thing,” recalled Rokke, who noticed Saff’s rig. Saff looked like he needed to warm up, so Rokke invited Saff to his house for food and a place to spend the night. On Monday, Saff was off again on his trip. That’s when an axle broke on his boat trailer. It was hard for him to pedal, but he made it to Thief River Falls five hours later. At about 4 p.m. Monday, he arrived at the businesses Hardware Hank and Anderson Power and Equipment. Employees tried to find Saff the necessary parts to fix his trailer. They were unable to find the parts in Thief River Falls. Then employee Jim Voytilla salvaged some parts from his farm in Viking. Some spare tires were also given to Saff. By the time the parts were found and put into place, it was about 8 p.m. It was too late for Saff to put up a tent. Instead, Saff stayed overnight at employee Scott Hemingsen’s home in Viking. In the meantime, Saff’s bike and canoe were safe at Anderson Power and Equipment. On Tuesday morning, Saff was off again, leaving an envious employee, Lyle Hanson, in his wake. However, before leaving the city, Saff went to the Thief River Falls Public Library to check his e-mail and write in his blog, “Kevin’s Little Floating Adventure.” The blog is available by logging onto http://kevinfloat.blogspot.comOne thing she didn't mention was Jim's side of the story. He had seen me at a gas station and driven a good ten minutes down the road before thinking "That guy's canoe said Calgary. I bet he's in a lot of trouble." He turned back for me and in the end it was the bike wheel in his garden that had what I needed to make it to Itasca. Day 114 ended: Scott Hemingsen's home in Viking |
Thursday, April 11, 2013
October 13: Kevin's little floating adventure
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
October 12: Iron Man
Jeremy H, the uncle of two of the boys, helped me out in an incredible way: he loaded me up with an extra jacket, donuts, canned food, a pair of tennis shoes for cycling, and all the cash in his wallet: $12. I decided to leave the gopher trap the boys wanted me to have. I pedaled out hoping for a 50 mile day; the leaves and grasses glowed in the rain, more golden than the sun.
Every crank of the pedals was harder than the rest. I blamed the wind, which angrily shook trees at me and shoved bugs in my face. I'll admit in retrospect the wind was blameless at this time... Anyway, only 32 miles later in Newfolden, I found another Wayside Rest that had a little dry patch of earth. I still don't really know what these are; most are little more than a rest stop on the side of the road, but this one was pretty nice. Inside it had lights and a fan that worked, running water, and on the exterior wall there was even an outlet I could use to recharge my camera.
I had hardly been there a jiffy before local pastor Phil Rokke showed up, insisting I spend the night inside. I did think about it, and my two thoughts ended up being it's raining and I need a shower. Phil biked with me back to his house and introduced me to his wife Marlene and their friends Jessica and Darin. I ended up getting not only a shower, but a wonderful pancake dinner, Iron Man on DVD, and a "Minnesota Mom" or two to worry about me on my way.
The next day Jessica and her 3 kids started out on their bikes with me on the way to Thief River Falls. One of them, Ruby, spent weeks making canoes out of newspaper in my honor.
Day 113 ended: Newfolden, MN
Every crank of the pedals was harder than the rest. I blamed the wind, which angrily shook trees at me and shoved bugs in my face. I'll admit in retrospect the wind was blameless at this time... Anyway, only 32 miles later in Newfolden, I found another Wayside Rest that had a little dry patch of earth. I still don't really know what these are; most are little more than a rest stop on the side of the road, but this one was pretty nice. Inside it had lights and a fan that worked, running water, and on the exterior wall there was even an outlet I could use to recharge my camera.
I had hardly been there a jiffy before local pastor Phil Rokke showed up, insisting I spend the night inside. I did think about it, and my two thoughts ended up being it's raining and I need a shower. Phil biked with me back to his house and introduced me to his wife Marlene and their friends Jessica and Darin. I ended up getting not only a shower, but a wonderful pancake dinner, Iron Man on DVD, and a "Minnesota Mom" or two to worry about me on my way.
The next day Jessica and her 3 kids started out on their bikes with me on the way to Thief River Falls. One of them, Ruby, spent weeks making canoes out of newspaper in my honor.
Day 113 ended: Newfolden, MN
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
October 11, Part 2: Brainstorm
Here's how you catch gophers. Put some peanut butter in this trap. You can turn them in for $3, or you can eat them. This guy around here made a living just killing gophers for awhile. You can have the trap. Really? Yeah, my friend bought it at a surplus sale and I won it off of him.
Hey, why don't you just break into that building over there and spend the night? Nobody's using it. My tent will be fine here. It's going to rain again. I don't think you're supposed to camp at the Wayside Rest. What's this? That's my tent. It's kind of a small tent.
Don't camp on the side of a hill. My cousin was in boy scouts and it rained and their tent filled with water because they camped on the side of a hill.
What is that? That's the trailer I built to pull my canoe. You don't just drag it on the ground?
Here's how you can catch fish. Just get a stick, some string, and cut up a can to make a hook. Then what? You can just let it hang out behind you. You can probably get bluegill or crappies.
Here's a scar from fighting dogs. Here's one from climbing a cherry tree. Um, here's one from riding my bike into a stop sign. Really? Cool!
[If you're ever lost outside with no money, then a bunch of 8-10 year old rural boys -- in this case, Brett, Blair, Bailey, and Bryce -- are probably your best bet for a great brainstorming session about survival. In return I had to field an earful of questions about my bike, my trailer, my canoe, and everything in it. Every question was asked four times as each of the B's discovered each item.]
Day 112 ended: Lake Bronson Wayside Rest
Hey, why don't you just break into that building over there and spend the night? Nobody's using it. My tent will be fine here. It's going to rain again. I don't think you're supposed to camp at the Wayside Rest. What's this? That's my tent. It's kind of a small tent.
Don't camp on the side of a hill. My cousin was in boy scouts and it rained and their tent filled with water because they camped on the side of a hill.
What is that? That's the trailer I built to pull my canoe. You don't just drag it on the ground?
Here's how you can catch fish. Just get a stick, some string, and cut up a can to make a hook. Then what? You can just let it hang out behind you. You can probably get bluegill or crappies.
Here's a scar from fighting dogs. Here's one from climbing a cherry tree. Um, here's one from riding my bike into a stop sign. Really? Cool!
[If you're ever lost outside with no money, then a bunch of 8-10 year old rural boys -- in this case, Brett, Blair, Bailey, and Bryce -- are probably your best bet for a great brainstorming session about survival. In return I had to field an earful of questions about my bike, my trailer, my canoe, and everything in it. Every question was asked four times as each of the B's discovered each item.]
Day 112 ended: Lake Bronson Wayside Rest
October 11, 2008, Part 1: Crossing the medicine line
Supposedly at one time the Indians referred to all white man's magic as "medicine," and no medicine was as potent as the 49th parallel. Crossing this invisible border was a way to earn salvation, a wall unbreached by American armies.
It can still be a place of changing fortunes.
I had always worried a bit about the border crossing. Crossing on a road meant I wasn't just sneaking over like I considered doing if I cross via the river, but still I was worried what response I was going to get as I walked down the line, pushing my contraption in the long line of cars. The worst scenario I could imagine was the border agents deciding my vehicle wasn't road-worthy. In that case they could turn me around and the Canadian agents might stop me too, until someone came to rescue me from the no-man's land between the borders.
As it turns out, I had no problems at that particular point. The agents maintained serious faces, but I felt like I amused them. One only asked what the mysterious powder in one of my unlabelled canisters was, and was satisfied by my insistence it was just brown sugar. The other questioned me at length about my trip: where I had come from, where I was going, and whether I was being treated well on the road. He spoke at length about his son's trips: walking across Spain, biking across the U.S., and later north from Tierra del Fuego. In fact, I think I was the one who cut the conversation short, trying to look out for the long line of cars behind me.
I stopped at the first gas station I saw. It was my friend Calvin's wedding day and I was determined to get ahold of him. My calling cards were dead, and I had no American cash or bank cards. I knew I would eventually have to make it to a Bank of America since I had lost my check card, and I needed to free some of my long-term savings to use it. I assumed a BoA would be findable relatively early on entry into Minnesota. In fact, there are no Banks of America anywhere in the state.
So, I decided to withdraw money from my Canadian bank at an ATM. First, I needed to check how much was available, so I asked for Account Balance, which resulted in the puzzling response "Invalid Operation." So I blindly attempted to withdraw first $60, then $40, then $20, to be met with, respectively, "Insufficient Funds," "Insufficient Funds," "Insufficient Funds."
Scrounging around in my canoe, I found a few loonies and toonies, and the $20 bill Sarah King had left in the Tilly hat she gave me. I had been saving it for a special occasion, and this was it. I bought a phone card and counted my money: $6 US and $13 Canadian plus change. Money was one less burden on the trip.
Calvin has organized a bicycle flotilla of groomsmen for his wedding; I interrupted their grand ride from a little gas station in Minnesota.
Day 112 continues.
It can still be a place of changing fortunes.
I had always worried a bit about the border crossing. Crossing on a road meant I wasn't just sneaking over like I considered doing if I cross via the river, but still I was worried what response I was going to get as I walked down the line, pushing my contraption in the long line of cars. The worst scenario I could imagine was the border agents deciding my vehicle wasn't road-worthy. In that case they could turn me around and the Canadian agents might stop me too, until someone came to rescue me from the no-man's land between the borders.
As it turns out, I had no problems at that particular point. The agents maintained serious faces, but I felt like I amused them. One only asked what the mysterious powder in one of my unlabelled canisters was, and was satisfied by my insistence it was just brown sugar. The other questioned me at length about my trip: where I had come from, where I was going, and whether I was being treated well on the road. He spoke at length about his son's trips: walking across Spain, biking across the U.S., and later north from Tierra del Fuego. In fact, I think I was the one who cut the conversation short, trying to look out for the long line of cars behind me.
I stopped at the first gas station I saw. It was my friend Calvin's wedding day and I was determined to get ahold of him. My calling cards were dead, and I had no American cash or bank cards. I knew I would eventually have to make it to a Bank of America since I had lost my check card, and I needed to free some of my long-term savings to use it. I assumed a BoA would be findable relatively early on entry into Minnesota. In fact, there are no Banks of America anywhere in the state.
So, I decided to withdraw money from my Canadian bank at an ATM. First, I needed to check how much was available, so I asked for Account Balance, which resulted in the puzzling response "Invalid Operation." So I blindly attempted to withdraw first $60, then $40, then $20, to be met with, respectively, "Insufficient Funds," "Insufficient Funds," "Insufficient Funds."
Scrounging around in my canoe, I found a few loonies and toonies, and the $20 bill Sarah King had left in the Tilly hat she gave me. I had been saving it for a special occasion, and this was it. I bought a phone card and counted my money: $6 US and $13 Canadian plus change. Money was one less burden on the trip.
Calvin has organized a bicycle flotilla of groomsmen for his wedding; I interrupted their grand ride from a little gas station in Minnesota.
Day 112 continues.
Monday, April 8, 2013
October 10, 2008: I have troubles
I have troubles describing the music that ails me. That music! That music! Won't someone make that music stop! You all know that music I mean. That music at night, that's what I'm talking about. The only problem is I don't know what what what - what what - what what I'm talking about. It's that music at night that could be trance or rap but is probably just top 40 played all distorted like from a nasty sound-system distorted by the wind as it whips over the tallgrass prairie. Everyone has had this experience.
So you're biking along in southern Manitoba and you see some kid drive by on an ATV. He is not the one dragging a sound system, but some other kid musta been -- this is what you figure later. There's not much to do except set up your tent in the prairie. This place is called the "Tolstoi Tallgrass Prairie Preserve" and must be named after Leo Tolstoy because there are some decrepit pre-Soviet buildings in the area. So you're happily pretending your little edition of Hemingway stories is Tolstoy and you're sleeping and you're walking out under the distant stars when the distant booming starts.
It's nasty, pudding on the floor music. Nobody knows what genre it is so we call it ugly boom-boom mu'sic.
When this happens, you have to put on some pants. That means you have to find your pants. And that usually involves several minutes of frantic searching for fresh batteries for your flashlight. And that usually results in discovering that you're already wearing pants. Then you put your flashlight in your mouth and crawl through the itchy grasses. Remember, there's ugly boom-boom mu'sic in the distance and you're itching all over because you didn't put on a shirt and you're crawling through grass, which wasn't very wise, so you're really frustrated and trying to imagine what you would do when you find the kids playing the music. These are the options usually considered:
#1: Jump up in the middle of their frenzied dance circle, surprising them so that they cry out and the kid who had a joint hanging from his lip loses it in the grass which catches fire. Everyone starts running from the towering inferno which only amplifies the ugly boom-boom mu'sic in the folds of its flames as it angrily casts evergreens at your naked torso. Whenever you have struggles in the future you will remember how you nearly overcame them on this day.
#2: You will just stand there off to the side, slowly shaking your head back in forth in disgust. One by one the kids will see you and shame-facedly walk to their ATVs and drive away silently -- not crying yet, but some day soon they will examine their lives, stop listening to ugly boom-boom mu'sic and apply themselves at school. They will do well enough to go to university; they will study and become lawyers. When you meet one of them, years later, you will wonder if this trade-off was worth it, but for now, you slowly fade down the music in the middle of the prairie and pack out their garbage, still slowly shaking your head.
#3: Not ever be able to find them, and realize you are cold, itchy, and don't actually want to be wearing pants anyway. You'll walk back to your tent and pray for rain. In only a few minutes the first drop will flick your rain fly, then another until the music fades into the static of the night. You won't even be able to hear the ATVs drive away, nor pity their drivers. The rain will put you to sleep, and in your dreams, there is no ugly boom-boom mu'sic.
Every situation calls for its own judgment; in this case, I went for #3. The rain did its job efficiently; there was just enough to drive away the party but by the morning it had all dried out.
Day 111 ended: Tolstoi Tallgrass Prairie Preserve.
[Note: my GPS froze and lost its recorded data sometime later on the Mississippi River. Since it had been some time since I had copied the data into my notebook, there are no precise GPS waypoints available after day 110. I may later go back and determine approximate locations, but this would have to wait for a book version of this blog.]
So you're biking along in southern Manitoba and you see some kid drive by on an ATV. He is not the one dragging a sound system, but some other kid musta been -- this is what you figure later. There's not much to do except set up your tent in the prairie. This place is called the "Tolstoi Tallgrass Prairie Preserve" and must be named after Leo Tolstoy because there are some decrepit pre-Soviet buildings in the area. So you're happily pretending your little edition of Hemingway stories is Tolstoy and you're sleeping and you're walking out under the distant stars when the distant booming starts.
It's nasty, pudding on the floor music. Nobody knows what genre it is so we call it ugly boom-boom mu'sic.
When this happens, you have to put on some pants. That means you have to find your pants. And that usually involves several minutes of frantic searching for fresh batteries for your flashlight. And that usually results in discovering that you're already wearing pants. Then you put your flashlight in your mouth and crawl through the itchy grasses. Remember, there's ugly boom-boom mu'sic in the distance and you're itching all over because you didn't put on a shirt and you're crawling through grass, which wasn't very wise, so you're really frustrated and trying to imagine what you would do when you find the kids playing the music. These are the options usually considered:
#1: Jump up in the middle of their frenzied dance circle, surprising them so that they cry out and the kid who had a joint hanging from his lip loses it in the grass which catches fire. Everyone starts running from the towering inferno which only amplifies the ugly boom-boom mu'sic in the folds of its flames as it angrily casts evergreens at your naked torso. Whenever you have struggles in the future you will remember how you nearly overcame them on this day.
#2: You will just stand there off to the side, slowly shaking your head back in forth in disgust. One by one the kids will see you and shame-facedly walk to their ATVs and drive away silently -- not crying yet, but some day soon they will examine their lives, stop listening to ugly boom-boom mu'sic and apply themselves at school. They will do well enough to go to university; they will study and become lawyers. When you meet one of them, years later, you will wonder if this trade-off was worth it, but for now, you slowly fade down the music in the middle of the prairie and pack out their garbage, still slowly shaking your head.
#3: Not ever be able to find them, and realize you are cold, itchy, and don't actually want to be wearing pants anyway. You'll walk back to your tent and pray for rain. In only a few minutes the first drop will flick your rain fly, then another until the music fades into the static of the night. You won't even be able to hear the ATVs drive away, nor pity their drivers. The rain will put you to sleep, and in your dreams, there is no ugly boom-boom mu'sic.
Every situation calls for its own judgment; in this case, I went for #3. The rain did its job efficiently; there was just enough to drive away the party but by the morning it had all dried out.
Day 111 ended: Tolstoi Tallgrass Prairie Preserve.
[Note: my GPS froze and lost its recorded data sometime later on the Mississippi River. Since it had been some time since I had copied the data into my notebook, there are no precise GPS waypoints available after day 110. I may later go back and determine approximate locations, but this would have to wait for a book version of this blog.]
Sunday, April 7, 2013
October 9½, 2008: City without a face
"You're an idiot," the man remarked. The "you" was me. "An idiot," he said, "Idiot."
I put my feet down on either side of my bicycle, my canoe firmly attached behind me. The man was small, standing in the middle of a small road in a small town that considered itself blankly.
"Idiot. Idiot. Idiot."
To my left was a warehouse clad in steel siding. To my right was a naked warehouse. These were only the first warehouses on a street of warehouses, none of which, seemingly, were actually warehouses. They were other buildings -- buildings with no names, windows, or colors. I was looking for a grocery store. Was one of these plain buildings a grocery store?
"You're an idiot," the small man noted, to anyone who might be listening. I could only assume some people were; I imagined them sitting on wooden benches in their metal warehouses, putting their ears to the trumpets of a system of pipes that ran all through the town and also opened, no doubt, to a nearby gate or drain. The children waited behind their parents for a turn to listen at the pipes for anything to happen, and since all the pipes were connected, they would also hear other children, giggling, and then giggle themselves. At the moment they were listening to a man call me an idiot.
I decided to stop listening to him. I already knew how ridiculous it was to be caught, canoeing by bike in October in Canada in this city. I parked and, eventually, found food.
My method was this: I walked to each warehouse in turn. I examined the tiny sheet of paper scotch-taped to the side of it with the magnifying glass on my multi-tool. Each paper showed the approximate times that the store was open, which I would compare to the precise time-of-day calculated by measuring the length of my shadow in multi-tool lengths. If the store was open, good, I opened the door for a second to determine what was inside:
- Taxidermy
- Onions
- Pets; mostly mice
- Finally foodstuffs in cans and boxes (which was all I knew how to eat at the time; I did not become accustomed to raw mice until later in the trip)
"Idiot," the man said as I came out with a bag full of food. Then he put his hand to his brow, stared at the sun, put both hands down in his pockets, kicked a heel, and spun himself away from me, walking down the street. His shift was finally over.
The next man was perhaps more annoying. As I tried to sleep in the off-season municipal park, in a cul-de-sac off a cul-de-sac off a strange squat structure that resembled something like a warehouse -- as I tried to sleep, I say -- he circled me slowly and continuously in plain gray steel car, his headlights dancing like ghosts on the walls of my tent right there in Dominion City, MB.
Day 110½ ended: 49*08.460½N, 097*09.081½W
I put my feet down on either side of my bicycle, my canoe firmly attached behind me. The man was small, standing in the middle of a small road in a small town that considered itself blankly.
"Idiot. Idiot. Idiot."
To my left was a warehouse clad in steel siding. To my right was a naked warehouse. These were only the first warehouses on a street of warehouses, none of which, seemingly, were actually warehouses. They were other buildings -- buildings with no names, windows, or colors. I was looking for a grocery store. Was one of these plain buildings a grocery store?
"You're an idiot," the small man noted, to anyone who might be listening. I could only assume some people were; I imagined them sitting on wooden benches in their metal warehouses, putting their ears to the trumpets of a system of pipes that ran all through the town and also opened, no doubt, to a nearby gate or drain. The children waited behind their parents for a turn to listen at the pipes for anything to happen, and since all the pipes were connected, they would also hear other children, giggling, and then giggle themselves. At the moment they were listening to a man call me an idiot.
I decided to stop listening to him. I already knew how ridiculous it was to be caught, canoeing by bike in October in Canada in this city. I parked and, eventually, found food.
My method was this: I walked to each warehouse in turn. I examined the tiny sheet of paper scotch-taped to the side of it with the magnifying glass on my multi-tool. Each paper showed the approximate times that the store was open, which I would compare to the precise time-of-day calculated by measuring the length of my shadow in multi-tool lengths. If the store was open, good, I opened the door for a second to determine what was inside:
- Taxidermy
- Onions
- Pets; mostly mice
- Finally foodstuffs in cans and boxes (which was all I knew how to eat at the time; I did not become accustomed to raw mice until later in the trip)
"Idiot," the man said as I came out with a bag full of food. Then he put his hand to his brow, stared at the sun, put both hands down in his pockets, kicked a heel, and spun himself away from me, walking down the street. His shift was finally over.
The next man was perhaps more annoying. As I tried to sleep in the off-season municipal park, in a cul-de-sac off a cul-de-sac off a strange squat structure that resembled something like a warehouse -- as I tried to sleep, I say -- he circled me slowly and continuously in plain gray steel car, his headlights dancing like ghosts on the walls of my tent right there in Dominion City, MB.
Day 110½ ended: 49*08.460½N, 097*09.081½W
October 9, 2008: Return of the land canoe
As the hours of daylight dwindle, my conscious thoughts are buffeted by cold, by wind, by physical exertion, while my subconsciousness rages at night. I begin dreaming in surprisingly cohesive, realistic short stories and novels, ensconsed in the warm dark of my tent.
I lay there thinking I would simply recreate the dubious system I used in that initial short ride, patiently repairing its faults at every bump and corner. In any case I must once again purge all excess weight; get rid of the canoe covers that have always frustrated due to my inability to attach them well; eliminate the warm weather clothes I rarely used even when it was warm; drop the books I have finished with; throw out my Missouri license plate "985-ESC" brought for purely sentimental reasons.
When I came to Calgary, I came in a white, 1989 Cutlass Sierra that my parents expected to die at any moment on the road. But it was a survivor. Racing the sunset to a camp site one night I drove off the side of a road in the South Dakota badlands, where one or two hundred yards further on would have been fatal. I was pulled out and my tires reinflated by a ragtag team consisting of a crippled war vet, a policeman, an Indian, and a dog. I had a couple flat tires in Wyoming, and although it dropped its muffler somewhere in Montana, I was napping in a pull-out at the time so I easily recovered it and threw it on the passenger seat, where it spent the rest of its life.
The car was simply left out back of my first place in Calgary, weathering eight months of winter without a single use, but when it came time to move it started without any problems. My insurance had expired, but that was okay -- I planned to simply once again pack up my possessions, drive the couple of miles to my new home, and leave it again until the next move.
I left it sitting on the curb that night, and the very next morning the winds came up, and the car was totally smashed by a tree, falling from the other side of the road.
I woke up to the sound of workers clearing branches from it, joking, "The show-me state? Well, we sure showed him!"
It was a total loss. I rescued the driver and passenger seats from it, as well as the license plates and the car stereo. At one time I had the car stereo and motorized driver's seat both running off of a heavy-duty computer power supply, but before this latest trip all that stuff was thrown out, the lone license plate surviving as a souvenir.
As I lay in my warm sleeping bag, almost against my will my mind forms the image of the license plate folded up on the front of the canoe, a horizontal groove placed where it should maintain its place on the back of the bicycle rack. It's a saddle joint, like in the thumb; this groove allows the boat to pivot up and down, while the notch between the carrier wheels on the bicycle rack limit the side to side motion. The plate even protects the canoe from being scraped by the rack, as it was the first time.
That business settled, I fell into a deep sleep.
In the morning the thing began to take shape. The notched plate was fitted over the right place in the canoe, screwed there to prevent its motion. I only had vise grips to turn the screws into the hull, so they couldn't go in all the way, but this was a boon in the end; the extending screws provided additional points to attach bungee cords, in the most critical place near the joint. Epoxy putty was placed over the tips of the screws inside the boat to strengthen the connection, prevent them from tearing out the hull under the applied loads.
And so I was committed to trying this thing. I would make a change here and there, and then bike the thing around the park, over grass, up and down the slight slope. By trial and error the bungee cords assumed a streamlined shape about the pivot point, until the bike could smoothly turn this way and that, accelerate and decelerate without the slightest jarring. When I got off once without propping up the bike, and it easily fell down in place without anthing coming undone, I knew I had it. The plate on the boat and the rack were the bony plates of the joint, bungee cords my tendons, and a carved up inner tube was the soft cartilage in the middle.
I did leave many things behind, including all the curmudgeon's tools, writing "free" on his fence post and leaving it over the pile.
I biked towards the bridge on Manitoba highway 23, hauling my 15.5 foot boat behind me. A big brown sign told me I was crossing the Red River. The bridges of Manitoba are generally much better kept than those of Saskatchewan, and even now construction work was going on, and a kid was tending the "stop/slow" sign as I approached.
"How's it goin'?" I asked.
"Alright, how about you?" he said.
"Oh, just doing a little bit of canoeing."
Day 110 ended: 49*08.460N, 097*09.081W
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