Later, along the Missouri, I found myself on the periphery two derechos (Derechos are fast-moving bands of thunderstorms with destructive winds) as they blew their way past. But they passed to either side and I was safe. The following year two sets of twisters blew their way through several states. I was with a family in downtown Demopolis at the time who had a “safe room” in their home for such occasions, so we were safe. With such storms you get severe flooding, so I had to hold up here for an entire month to wait for the flood waters to recede, twice. Later along the Kentucky River, I got a flash flood warning on my phone just before last light, followed by a severe thunderstorm warning. I slipped and slid and scrambled myself up a muddy embankment, with all the expedition gear and canoe up the hill as high as I could get. I slept like a baby through the storm and come the morning, when I zipped open the front flaps of the tent, the water was right there. It had risen at least 10 feet overnight and I had been lucky not to have been washed away. How much was up stream and how much downstream? 7,500 miles total. Upstream: 2700 miles; Downstream: 3963 miles; Portage: 410 miles; Flat (lakes and gulf) 666 miles. A note, the majority of “downstream” was the Missouri River (2,196 miles), the majority of which is dammed up, and thus with the wind against you a whole lot, a real challenge. Seeing the trip seemed to coincide with the Covid Pandemic did it play a major role? The Covid-19 virus really hit about a month and a half into my journey, those early days ravaging both states I was travelling between, Washington and Oregon. That we all finally understood that the pandemic was on in a very real way. And I stopped, and I reached out to trusted friends – journalists and an ex-Army Special Forces friend, who teaches the Army to this day survival and how to dive in the “wacky tides” of the Columbia River Bar. I got in touch with them and asked point blank what they thought, and the overwhelming answer reverberated in one chord – “You are in the safest possible place. And you absolutely have to keep going.” The flip side to that decision was that there was nowhere else to shelter in place. Americans were no longer able to travel back to Taiwan, Americans were not able to travel to South Africa, both places in the world where I also hang up my hat and call home. So, in essence, the journey itself -- the canoe and my tent and all of my gear -- the expedition itself became my home. And sheltering in place meant continuing the journey. Did you see a lot of wildlife – were there any dangerous encounters? There was a Grizzly bear near the top of the Continental Divide, who passed 50 feet in front of me as I made my way down the mountain towards Helena, Montana. I was fall harnessed and attached to my canoe with a big shipping rope and by the time I got my snow gloves off and my camera out of my pocket, it was gone. Which made me realize had it come for me, I wouldn’t have had time to reach for the buck knife or bear spray attached to my belt. In Lake Pontchartrain at Bayou Lacombe, a giant gator made its way out of the water and towards my tent at 2:30 in the morning. I woke with a start, clapped my hands in a half sleep and it didn’t stop. So, I grabbed my diving light (which is super bright) and shone it out the front of the tent, and it stopped, turned around, and walked back into the bayou. Later, on a night paddle from Deer Island near Biloxi, Miss. on the Mississippi Gulf Coast to Horn Island, a good 10 mile stretch across open water, a bull shark repeatedly rammed the canoe (three times) at last light. I knew what it was, but I still had another 7 or so miles to paddle into the dark gulf, so I blocked what had happened out, a mind over matter positive affirmation of sorts. The shark didn’t come back for me, and at twelve midnight, my open canoe pushed up onto the sands at Horn Island and I was safe. What was the best part of the trip? Seeing the beacon hand of the Statue of Liberty in NY Harbor, and the entire journey coming back to me in rapid-fire flashes, the illumination of that flame shining in every single face that I could conjure. The least of us, the best of us, the flame of liberty alive and well and burning ever so bright. Your home is in Taipei? I’ve spun the continents between Cape Town and Taipei for the past thirty years. I paid my PO Box forward for three years before embarking on this second attempt at the cross-America journey so I like to say the closest thing to a residence for me is that PO Box. With the pandemic still on and Taiwan closed down, I plan to hang my hats in America for the near future. What do you do there? I have taught English in Taiwan and reported as a freelance journalist. Is there anyone you would like to publicly thank? We talk about supported vs unsupported adventures, and I can say that I’ve been supported. By smiles and waves and warm meals and showers and well wishes. From folks across America from all walks of life, by friends out in the great big world who have cheered the expedition on from afar. I have travelled solo but I have never been alone. And for that, I’ve got to say cheers to one and all. Above left to righ: Receiving a warm welcome / The 22 rivers from sea to sea / The interesting locals you meet on the way Right: Departure from Esopus Island, the Hudson River. Photo courtesy Ranger Kevin Oldenburg (National Park Service) 32//WHERE ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS/#230
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