PREVIOUS CHAPTER    SECOND AGE  by CARL FRANSON          NEXT CHAPTER My Year on a Mississippi River Shanty Boat

                    Pepin and On Downriver

                                                                Chapter 3

Lake Pepin seemed to have everything, both summer and winter

          Lake Pepin is a large, long, deep body of water with the Mississippi running in one end and out the other. Its destiny was to be one of the great water sports resort areas pf the Midwest. It seemed to have everything, both summer and winter.

          We traveled somewhat east by south as the deep channel was close to the west shore, where the heavy traffic would be. At dark we pushed into the shore and tied up. There was hardly any current in the river, and this was the first time this had happened since leaving Lake Johanna; it seemed months ago. It was not quite dark, so I went ashore to rustle up some stove wood if possible, while Clarence lit the lamps and prepared dinner. We had quite naturally assumed our everyday work. I liked to hunt game and rustle up wood while Clarence liked to cook (and he was quite good at it). Other tasks like washing clothes and cleaning floors we more or less did together. I also liked to fish, and now, with clean cold water under us, I opened the trap door under the table and dangled a line, with several hooks attached, among the floating barrels. I tied the line to a piece of bicycle tire inner tubing, closed the door and replaced the table. I would check this line twice a day to remove fish, if any, and rebait the hooks. We caught mostly sunfish weighing one-half to three-fourths of a pound this way. There were two nice fillets on each, and four made a nice meal for two. This sure was not sport fishing.

Goal: Lake City

Our goal now was to cross over to the Minnesota side and tie up at Lake City about one-half the way down the lake. The south wind had switched to the north, and this was ideal to propel us ever southward with a very sluggish river current. We now started our engine to move us across the lake with our new, modified propeller. Man-o-man, did it ever work great, with the engine now turning up its RPMs and the horsepower pouring down the drive shaft to the propeller. However, when we applied the rudder, it dang near flew apart from the pressure, so we had to cut the engine’s RPM.  All in all, it was the best performance we had.

We were floating along now close to the western shore when we herd a splash and Jack was gone from his usual spot. Well, we looked and we called, and we looked, but we could see him nowhere. He had just simply disappeared. At least a half hour went by when we heard his bark on the starboard side, and in a moment he was aboard with our slight help, gave us his shower, then sat facing us with that “guess I fooled you guys” look. We finally figured out that he had gone under the boat, come up among the barrels and simply swam along until he found his way out from under.

 

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Somewhat Celebrities

It was almost dark when we poled into the Lake City harbor of refuge and tied up to our first honest-to-goodness dock, with a plank walkway leading to the street. We had become somewhat celebrities by this time and many people drove by or walked to the street to see the two boys floating a house down the mighty Mississippi, as was reported in the river news bulletin. Other people in past times had gone down in odd ways: an elderly lady had rowed an eight foot rowboat almost to the mouth; another person had paddled an Alaskan kayak; a young man had ridden a log; another floated a bathtub.

By now we began to realize that we were not going to make it down before freeze-up and that our cook stove would not be enough heat to keep us warm. We therefore set out for the town junkyard about a mile out of town and found an old coal burning stove in good condition, but the entire bottom was burned out. We found a short pole and with a light rope we had with us, we tied this on, and with the stove between us, we carried it through town and to our house. We had two sheets of corrugated iron roofing lashed to the roof, and cutting this to size, we placed it on the floor and the stove on top. From lumber we also had on hand, we then built a box eight inches deep, then filled it with bucket after bucket of sand until the missing bottom of the stove became a bottom of sand. It was then simple to install new stovepipe and haywire it through one pane of our window. It looked like heck and stuck out like a sore thumb, but it did the job and was affordable. We also loaded up with a can of free buttermilk, shopped for needed odds and ends, reinforced our wobbly propeller and were now ready to again travel. 

Jack did not like towns, and he was restless and eager to get going. However, a strong south wind was blowing and without a strong tide to counteract it, it was impractical to try. Therefore another day passed without progress, but we caught up on a lot of things and really enjoyed the heat from our new stove.

It was the first of November.

It was the first of November. We arose in the dark at six thirty and noticed a brisk northwest wind blowing, but as that was what we had been waiting for, and since the waves still seemed small and without caps showing, we lost no time in loosening our house’s ropes from the dock and starting our engine. Soon we were out past the safety and security of the rock wall and committed to our struggle with the lake. Our idea was to push our house far enough eat into the lake so as to pick up some of the river’s current, which would assist us from being blown ashore on the south side.

The engine became useless.

The wind kept rising by the minute and the waves became more monstrous and threatening. The engine became useless as a means to direct our path, and as we reached the long sweep of the lake, the wind and the waves just took over and gave us a real good thrashing. Most of the time our house was broadside to the wind and therefore in every wallow and on top of every wave crest. It rocked, careened, went this way and that, groaned, shrieked, rose and fell until we were hard put to it to just hang on. The pictures came off the walls, the books off the shelves, the clock off the desk, the guns rattled to the floor, the waves came over the deck, water through the planking. At times, we came out of our sideways roll, and it was then when one corner of our house was in a wallow, and the diagonal corner was on a crest, that this corkscrew power threatened to pull every spike and nail loose. From the groaning and the screeching we heard, we imagined that this might happen and to the roofing it did, because we had to repair many cracks.

In spite of this ordeal we “rode her out”, so to speak, in a happy-go-lucky manner, and our elation and adventurous spirits were high, but not more than Jack, who literally quivered with excitement.

Then the wind lessened, the waves shrunk down, the river’s current took charge, and soon we were at the lake’s south end and about to enter the river proper. At this point, there were literally thousands upon thousands of waterfowl of all types and kinds. They barely moved out of the way as we drifted among and through them.

Music through Half-Leaved Trees

Somewhere beyond where the Chippewa River came in from Wisconsin, there was a jog in the Mississippi where a bit of high land stuck out and which looked quite heavily wooded. Our wood box was full, but our extra supply had washed overboard during our wild ride on Lake Pepin. We therefore toed up early and then went hunting for some. We found a dead red oak, probably killed by lightening. It was down and dry, and we soon had two good loads slung over our backs by ropes and two more ready for our next trip.

Having more daylight to use, we took a walk along a heavily used game trail through this elevated area of maybe twenty or thirty acres, and as we approached the other side we heard music filtering to us through the half-leaved trees. A few more steps brought us to where we looked down into a sort of cove in which floated a read houseboat. It was probably four times larger than ours and half double decked. Its hull was fat bottomed, and a heavy duty gasoline powered boat was cabled to the rear and used as a pusher, while to the front a separate float carried what looked like a small garden for growing vegetables. We later learned that is exactly what it was. The classical music continued to emanate from the open windows and we moved a bit closer to better hear. At a point, the music stopped, and a man came out and beckoned us aboard.

“Are you the two boys floating a house down the river?”

“Are you the two boys floating a house down the river?” he asked. “Yes,” we said. “I thought I recognized you from when I was in Lake City with the boat, filling up with gas,” he said.

Their home was beautifully done with a mixture of the sea and the riverboat gamblers motif. Brass lamps and ship’s bells decorated the mahogany and teak walls and a polished winding stairs led to their bedrooms above, where there was a small pilot’s table before a window looking forward, in the main or master bedroom. It was from this point that they guided their three piece outfit to where they wished to go.

We had been introduced to this man’s family when we first came aboard: a middle-age wife, one daughter, perhaps twelve, two boys, one about sixteen and the other maybe eight, and we had learned they were all musicians. A piano, three violins, a viola, and a cello were laying around in one corner where they had just been playing them. As our conversation developed and expanded, we learned that they had spent most of the summer on the beautiful St. Croix River near the town of Stillwater, Minnesota and had performed several times in Minneapolis and St. Paul. They had also performed at the Minnesota State Penitentiary in Stillwater, and of interest too, at the Chippewa Indian Reservation in Wisconsin, where most of the people still lived in their teepees.

Refined and talented people on the River

On the following morning, they were on their way south and would winter on a small river somewhere in the south, a spot they knew well but I cannot now remember. They were all hooked up so all they had to do was pull in the gang plank, untie, and take off. They would travel at half speed, for economy, and down river at about ten to twelve miles per hour. They were well equipped with powerful search lights, detailed river maps and a confidence of long experience. Usually they would travel one hundred twenty-five miles per day or more if they needed.

For us this was a wonderful experience, to meet such refined and talented people on the river. They had chosen this lifestyle and were living in perfect harmony with their surroundings. Most other people we met were survivors like us, making do with what we had, and that wasn’t much. Perhaps, in the long point of view, it was just as well that we did not have adequate finances during our young, restless lives because it “tempered our steel”, so to say. However, it made us very sad to see so many people in their Golden Age living hand to mouth in hovels and in poverty, some killing their sensibilities with rot gut moonshine, others in a dream world where only their physical body functioned. It seemed that most of them were soldiers of one kind or another who could never seem to find their way back into society after the battles or training. Most were proud, however, and carried their pride with a sort of belligerence. They would share almost anything they had and would trade with pleasure, but if you tried to give them something they would instantly become suspicious, and so we learned lesson after lesson.

Thirty to thirty-five miles, our best yet!

We left in the early morning hours while a cold moon was ruling the sky, quickly passed our land outcrop that had given us the nice wood, and passed the cove which our musical friends had left empty. The river had been pushed together by bluffs on both sides, so it was quite straight and the current fast. A pontoon bridge jutted out from both sides, but the center was open, and we jetted through maybe five or six miles per hour. We made a detailed examination of our house structure and pounded in a few nails and spikes that had pulled loose, but in general all was in good condition, despite our Lake Pepin pounding. That is, all except the rolled-type roofing which was cracked and torn. We would have to retar and repair it as soon as we could get the material. Oh, yes, we noted one barrel was missing, and maybe more, but we still rode high in the water and did not worry.

It was almost dark when we started our engine and slowly pushed into the inner curve of the river, and tied up beside a grove of swamp alder trees. Jack, as was his wont, immediately dashed ashore and was gone for the night. Clarence had put a pot of beans to soak the previous night, and they were now in the oven approaching their ultimate tenderness and flavor. Checking our map, we figured we had traveled thirty to thirty-five miles, our best yet, and were cheered.

We awoke early and were ready to push off when Jack bounded board, all energy, all happiness, all pleasure and just glad to be with us and looking forward to another day of adventure. We often wondered just what his thoughts were, what he did at night, where he got his food and how. Whatever he did was right, for he was always in perfect condition, and his joy in living knew no bounds.

Winona, Minnesota

Our goal now was Winona, Minnesota, where we expected to receive mail, perhaps money, and newspapers with news from home. The mornings now found frost on the earth, and now and then we detected ice on quiet waters. Time was running out for us. Under rather dark and troubled skies, we reached our goal about one p.m., where a small check was waiting for Clarence for some poem he had submitted. Part of this was used to purchase repair material for the roof, and a few necessary groceries. We also collected five gallons of buttermilk and five gallons of skim milk, compliments of the management. It was cold enough so that both would keep until consumed. It was fairly warm that afternoon so we preheated the tar for the roof and then covered every crack we could find in the roofing with flat spatulas that we cut out of some sheet metal we had aboard. We must have done a good job, because nary a leak developed.

It was late in the day, so we decided to lay over, went up town, looked in windows, ogled the girls, visited with a few shopkeepers and returned to our floating house.

 

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Dark, troubled skies in Trempeleau, Wisconsin

Under dark and troubled skies we moved ever southward that Saturday through what must have been an unstable river bed, for there were many rock wing dams in place to keep the river where it now was, and to keep it deep enough for the heavy traffic.

At about four p.m. we tied up at the small town of Trempeleau, Wisconsin, at their dinky dock, and walked up their stairs to the town’s level. Having walked through the town, we turned back and noticed a new beer joint (Franklin D. had recently announced, “You shall have your beer”), and stepped in to inquire if they would like some accordion music to dance by. Yes, they would. So after eating our dinner, we carried my accordion there at about eight thirty p.m. Now when you are plain sober, my music was not much, but after a few beers, a polka beat or a waltz rhythm, and the happy feet took over from the brain. And nobody noticed whether a note was early, late, or entirely missing. It was fun, and though the crowd was small and times really tough, we still came home with a few dollars from the kitty. We returned home at the river’s edge through a sleet of icy snow, and had to sit down on the icy steps one by one, and finally slide down with my music box. We now revived our banked fire and waited for its welcome warmth. The sleet seemed to be coming at us with increasing fury, and we were uneasy because we had tied up on the out curve of the river where the current was fastest and the wind could really get at us.

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