Adventure Magazine

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)
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