Downriver
Chapter Two

"We were now ready to begin our southward journey in earnest so untied and pushed off into the faster current. We were still surrounded by a busy St. Paul and could hear traffic on both sides rushing and rushing while we traveled quietly, and slowly we passed the entrance to Pig’s Eye Lake, Red Rock, and Newport, and Iver Grove and finally St. Paul’s Park, where one mile below, we tied up for our second night. We had traveled a distance of about twelve miles. That’s about what our pioneer people did with their oxen on their trek west. "   .... Carl Franson

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Editor Note: To the left is an overview of the Mississippi River flowing through modern-day St. Paul, Minnesota. St. Anthony Falls is at the uppermost lock & dam symbol, Lock & Dam 1 is the lower symbol. The Minnesota River rises out of the lower left to meet the Mississippi River just as it curves upward. Hastings, Minnesota, would be at the very lower right. The light rectangles numbered 9, 10, 11 represent pages in the US Army Corps of Engineers navigation charts. We will use the charts to plot locations noted in the narration of SECOND AGE. Enjoy!

Click Here to purchase your own copy of the Upper Mississippi River Navigation Charts.

 

In Search of a Motor-By Hook or by Crook

First we felt that we needed some sort of power to help us maneuver into the many locks and dams on the river and also to get us out of the way of coal barges, etc., that plied the stream. We therefore hunted high and low for a good, used outboard motor, but with our limited means finally gave up and settled for two Model T Ford engines, complete with transmissions and propeller shafts for five dollars each.

By hook and crook we also acquired two propellers (not the same size), and also two forward or reverse thrust bearings. Using scrounged lumber we mounted the engines on the porch, one on each side. Our theory was that when we wanted to turn, we would accelerate one engine in forward and the other in reverse. This would push one side ahead and pull the other one back. (We were definitely not engineers.) After much measuring, trying, and fitting, we were ready for a test, and with both engines running, we slowly backed out into the current and then tried to get back to our landing, but would have failed except for a rope we had left tied to a tree, and our pike poles.

We couldn’t see where we were going....

There were several defects in our design. First, with two engines, it required both of us to operate; second, we couldn’t see where we were going; third, it didn’t control or steer the house worth a damn; fourth, the propellers were too big, or had too much pitch, so we could not accelerate the engines much beyond high idle, so we had very little horsepower to work with.

Well, the time was running into early fall, and if we were going, we had to get, pronto. I had informed Dr. Wilson of our plans, and he was very cooperative and interested, and allowed me to work up to the very last day before our planned departure, on a Sunday. We had spread the word around of our planned departure, to be at twelve noon, and during the last evenings of our stay many friends came by with their well wishes and gifts of one kind or another. It was really exciting.

Editor's Note: From here on, I have added emphasis to words that highlight some of the heritage and natural history documented by the author during the course of his journey. The emphasis is mine, in an effort to help the reader note observations of particular interest. It's very interesting reading. This is OUR Mississippi River. 

Finally on our way!

On the appointed day, our morning was filled with last-minute preparations, but at twelve noon, we, my brother Irving, and Virginia pushed off into the current, and our trip had begun. People on the Washington Bridge cheered and waved us on as we slowly floated without power downstream and when we passed under the Franklin Avenue Bridge we were again cheered and waved on.

Our elevation on the river at this point was about six hundred eighty-five feet, so if we ever did reach the mouth of the Mississippi River, that is the amount we would drop. It was downhill all the way.

Not a Dull Day-First night on the Shantyboat

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We continued to drift with the current and the help of a slight breeze from the north, past Meekers Island, and with densely populated Minneapolis on one side and St. Paul on the other.

The river was murkier and filthier, if that was possible. In due time, we spotted the twin cities lock and dam and started our engines to try and head us directly into the chute. Within five minutes, one of the engines blew a head gasket so we shut them both down, then stood ready with our pike poles. Amazingly the current pulled us almost directly into the lock, and after we exchanged a few pleasant words with the operator, he closed his back lock, opened the front one a little way and gently lowered is to the next level. Again, the current took over, and about a mile below the lock and directly across the river from where the famed Minnehaha Creek entered the river, we used our pike poles to push to shore on the St. Paul side, where we tied up for the night. It had not been a dull day. That night we feasted on many of the goodies our friends had brought us, especially those that would not keep without refrigeration.

Food for the Journey

We still had a number of loose ends to complete so decided to stay where we were for that day, because we could catch a street car close by (we had sold our cars). We therefore tallied our staple food items as follows: a fifty pound sack of dry beans, twenty pounds of sugar, two gallons of molasses, a large, one hundred pound sack of potatoes, a twenty-five pound crate of raisins, a twenty-five pound sack of rice, a twenty-five pound sack of wheat, twenty-five pounds of onions, twenty-five pounds of rolled oats, twenty-five pounds flour, plus sundry baking powder, baking soda, spices, etc. Also, our folks had sent along a home cured ham and two slabs of bacon, real prizes to us.

Buckets of Vegetables

We also had four, almost-always-in-use utensils, namely, two five-gallon milk cans with covers, the kind in which farmers ship milk or cream to the creamery. One was for fresh water which we carried from sources on shore, and the other was for buttermilk or skim milk, both throwaways at a butter or cheese factory and free to us for the asking. The other utensils were two three-gallon tinned buckets. Almost every small riverside town we were to visit would see us carrying a five-gallon milk can between us and each a bucket in the other hand. Our return saw us with buckets full of fresh vegetables, fruit and groceries, our five-gallon case full of butter, or skim milk, or fresh water.

Ready to Begin our Southward Journey

Monday saw us cleaning up most of the odds and ends, but we returned quite late so decided to stay another night.

We were now ready to begin our southward journey in earnest so untied and pushed off into the faster current. We were still surrounded by a busy St. Paul and could hear traffic on both sides rushing and rushing while we traveled quietly, and slowly we passed the entrance to Pig’s Eye Lake, Red Rock, and Newport, and Inver Grove and finally St. Paul’s Park, where one mile below, we tied up for our second night. We had traveled a distance of about twelve miles. That’s about what our pioneer people did with their oxen on their trek west. It was here that Irving and Virginia left us and caught a bus home.

Three miles all day

We pushed off early next morning, but early on a brisk breeze came up from the south, which was almost strong enough to counteract the power of the river current. We were traveling very slow indeed and late afternoon found us only three and one-half miles downstream. We were guarding our gas supply carefully for an emergency, so did not use power. We tied up at Pine Bend on the inside curve. Frost had already come to the land, and the foliage was in full color. Corn was shocked in neat rows and the pheasants were calling to each other. Already the cares and the worries of our worlds had diminished, and we were becoming receptive to nature and its mysterious beauty.

A new friend

We were about to sit down for supper when there was the friendly bark of a dog. Clarence went to the door, and this dog immediately bounded aboard and came into our kitchen. At first glance, he appeared to be a German Shepherd, but noting his powerful haunches, I decided he was a neighborhood mix.

You know, that doggone dog came right up to me, sat down and held up his paw for me to shake, all the time looking at me with a mischievous, friendly grin-like stare, as if to say: “Hi ya, matey. So we’re going on a trip, are we?” Withdrawing his paw, he inspected our bunks both top and bottom on both sides, then went up to Clarence and offered his paw to him. Then he nosed the door open and went out, walked around the outside, came back to the front porch, laid down, and went fast asleep, secure in the knowledge that he had us both hooked good. And we certainly were.

He was a fully grown but young dog in perfect health, teeth white and coat shiny. Scraps of food from our table went untouched, and for the six months he was with us, never once did he eat of our food, nor once did we ever see him eat anything. He apparently had his own method of getting anything he wanted for he was always robust and in the best of health. The outstanding thing about him was his personality (almost human) and his endless joy in living.

Squirrel Hunting

Next day the wind was still blowing from the south even stronger, so we decided to take our single shot twenty-two rifle, with twenty-two long loads for it, and hunt for a fat gray squirrel, maybe a rabbit or perchance a pheasant. I cruised through the west side of a corn field and entered a small wooded area where I did shoot a nice squirrel out of an oak tree. Bagging him, I started to retrace my steps along this trail when, passing a large bush, here sat our dog, waiting, with that quizzical, half humorous look in his eyes and kind of comical grin on his face as if to say, “Ha ha, we are really having fun, ain’t we?” Now he didn’t follow me home, because he was his own dog, but he did arrive shortly after.

I dressed out the squirrel and put the carcass to soaking while Clarence finished up some writing he was about. We named our dog Jack.

On our way again!

About noon the wind subsided, so we untied and pushed out into the current. Jack couldn’t have been any happier. He stood on the very front edge and alternately stared into the water directly in front of the boat or intently watched the slowly passing shoreline. We traveled about five miles and tied up on the inside curve of the river, on Gray Cloud Island.

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The water had now cleared up a whole lot and soon we would start fishing. One group of five barges, loaded with black coal aboard, had moved north, pushed by a puffing sternwheeler. We were informed that each barge held the equivalent of seventy car loads, so here was the same as five seventy-car trains being pushed against the river’s current by one small but powerful shallow draft boat, with its dripping rear paddle wheel churning fiercely and flashing in the sun. Another group of six barges moved south. They were empty and riding high in the water, and with the current in their favor they moved quickly past.

Because the river was very shallow in places, the boat builders tried to design boats with the least possible draft. The story goes that a contest was held to see who could build a paddlewheeler that would go in the shallowest water. It was won by a boat that would travel on only a heavy dew, but on its test run, the captain got drunk and ran up onto a farmer’s corn field, and when the sun came out, the dew evaporated, leaving all stranded.

 

What a powerful, magnificent living thing: the Mississippi River!

We were just now beginning to realize what a powerful, magnificent living thing the Mississippi River really was. And we would learn much more as to how it was master of all its domain.

Now the wind had changed to the north, and at dawn we pushed out into the current, moving at a good pace all day and arriving at the Hastings lock and dam at sundown. Again we entered the lock without incident and gently lowered, to be spit out and returned to a much narrower river. One mile further and we tied up at the Hastings city dock. It was dark by then.

We were hoping for mail here, especially my last check from the University. Come morning we carried our two buckets and our five-gallon milk can uptown. Noting first the location of the Post Office, we then found directions to the creamery and there collected our five gallons of fresh buttermilk, no charge. It was a beautiful Indian summer morning, and walking back, we stopped on the sidewalk to chat with a lady who was working in her large vegetable garden beside her home.

Maybe we looked hungry...

Maybe we looked hungry, but she was putting the garden to bed for the winter anyway so offered us our choice of anything or everything we might want. We filled both buckets to overflowing with carrots, parsnips, huge squash, turnips, and finished with apples to fill our pockets. There sure were wonderful people everywhere.

By now it was time for the Post Office to open, so while I guarded our treasures, Clarence mailed our letters, picked up mail for us and arranged to forward whatever might yet come. Jack had stayed home that night for the first time, so with all there we again shoved off to the south.

Learning a few things

One engine had suddenly stopped the previous day, so we removed the head, thinking another head gasket was blown. Instead, we discovered a piston with a hole in it, and a major overhaul was now in order. Instead, we decided to ditch that engine and move the other to the center of the porch with some kind of a rudder. Also, we decided to secure a better matched propeller to allow the engine to reach higher revolutions per minute and thus increase horsepower. We were learning a few things, weren’t we?

Some three miles below Hastings, Minnesota, the St. Croix River joined and increased our river’s size considerably. From now on we would travel with Wisconsin to the east and our own Minnesota to our west.

For some time we had traveled with a small anchor to stop us if need be. Also, our anchor rope, one hundred feet of one-half inch sisal, was tied to the left rear corner, and it was our hope that when used, the anchor drag would turn us toward the west bank. The anchor was light, however, so I tied the now useless head from our engine on in addition. Well, as things sometime happen, a sternwheeler pushing three barges suddenly appeared around a bend. Clarence raced to the anchor and threw it overboard but forgot to let go of the rope.

Two Splashes

There were two splashes: first the anchor, then Clarence and soon a yell as he came up out of the cold, cold water and swam back to our house. When he was safely again aboard, the pushed barges had already passed and we were standing still but closer to the left bank. In this case, our theory seemed to have worked. All this time Jack had been alertly watching our antics and was now sitting at his usual spot on the porch, and seemed to be laughing and laughing. If this was not true, why was he looking at us instead of watching the water and the shore as was his usual interest?

The glory of autumn, wildlife, waterfowl, and splendid laziness

All the glory of autumn seemed to be in this day as we drifted mile after mile through fall colors. There were all manner of water craft skipping about here and there, rafts, boats, high power speedy runabouts ("moonshiner’s specials"), a few house boats built on flat bottom scows, row boats and kayaks.

Sometimes there was nobody on the water and it was then, if we stayed inside and quiet, we could see all manner of wildlife along the shore: deer, a bear once in a while, otters, muskrats, a small herd of apparently wild pigs. There were waterfowl of many varieties, by the thousands feeding in the shallows, and we floated right through their ranks as if we were just another stick of wood. When we felt the need to harvest one for dinner, we simply poked the twenty-two rifle through the window and popped off a head. Most of the time we drew the floating carcass to us with the pike pole. Or we could always use our rowboat to retrieve it.

This day I felt a certain languor, a laziness or I know not what, but I climbed to the roof and stretched out with my eyes to the sky and just let everything kind of soak in. Geese in “V” after “V” were flying south amid much cackling and changing of leadership. Ducks were sailing in from farmers’ grain fields. Pheasants were calling from the corn shocks, crows were gathering and selecting their winter quarters, and there was much argument among them. These sights and sounds added to the balmy soft sunshine of fading summer and led me to a pensive but very satisfying feeling.

A cozy day and a moonlit walk

The river had been fairly straight and the current rather fast, I thought, and in checking the map we figured we had traveled about nineteen miles when we tied up just south of Diamond Bluff, Wisconsin, near dark.

It was nice and cozy in our house with the wood kitchen fire burning and beans soaking in tepid water for tomorrow’s eats. Clarence was deep in concentration trying to put into words some idea or feeling that was his. He was just like a dog chewing on a bone when he got down to putting together a verse, all concentration and attention.

I decided to go for a walk in the moonlight so quietly left, struck a trail that led north and hiked for some time, maybe a couple of miles, then turned to the upland and was cutting across a field of shocked corn when sitting there, big as life, was Jack. Well, he didn’t move, just sat there and barely greeted me. I squatted Indian fashion beside him and looked where he was looking. The harvest dust had now settled out of the air, and the large yellow moon had been replaced by a smaller brilliant gray one, the color of newly forged cast iron, one that was sterner and with less love to give. From the river bottom a hoot owl was hooting at whatever hoot owls hoot at, and then I heard a mother pheasant, from inside the corn shock where she and her chicks had taken refuge for the night, quietly soothe her brood.

A certain reverence

These sights, sounds, smells, and sensations caused me to contemplate the great works of the Master of the Universe and all His creations, and I would have stayed longer, but it was cold and I was chilly. Saying good night to Jack (he just sat there with no acknowledgment), I returned home with a quick stride but still pondering the strange behavior of Jack.

Clarence had thoughtfully hung our kerosene lantern up to brighten the narrow gang plank, and I brought it with me into the house and set it on the table. I was removing my shoes and enjoying the warm, cozy feeling of our home when the teakettle sang its last cheerful notes. In that instant I solved the strange behavior of Jack. I remembered the hen pheasant’s soothing voice. I had walked up on Jack just as he had found his dinner. He was even now probably dining on young, tender, moist, mostly grown pheasant chick a la corn shock. I went to bed with pleasant thoughts and a certain reverence for the way things are in nature.

A very close call with a tow!

It was an hour before dawn, when night was at its blackest, when I became instantly awake, fully alive, alert and completely poised for “fight or flight”. Right outside my porthole a red light about ten feet above the water and ten feet away was slowly passing. This could only be a barge, and yelling like a demon I awoke Clarence and we dashed for the door and out onto the porch. Had this tow  come our way just a few feet more, we would have been reduced to kindling wood, blood and bones, and the river would have moved on coughing up the debris. Then there would have been a little talk of he and me, then no more talk of me or he.

Standing on the porch in our long underwear in the night’s chill, we watched our threat move on. We could hear the throbbing exhaust of the steam engine and the paddle wheel pushing water to the rear. A powerful search light was probing the two shore lines for navigation markers, and all at once it landed on us for a second or two, then whisked away. There were five huge scows in this group, all pushed by one little sternwheel paddle boat.

It was too late to return to bed, so we poked up the fire, dressed and set the coffee out. We were both elated to learn that our bodies still possessed that intuition that enabled us to become instantly prepared to meet the situation and handle it. 

Jack, his own Dog  

That day we pushed off at daybreak and entered country which seemed full of sloughs.

Quaking aspen and willows grew everywhere, and among them muskrats had built thousands of homes. Cattails, reeds and rushes were in profusion, and along a few creeks we spied beaver dams near where young trees had been felled by them. Coming around a bend, there was a farm set back on a piece of higher ground and we heard a dog bark. Jack heard this too, and the next thing we knew he jumped into the water and swam to the shore, where we last saw him climbing a low bank. We were drifting almost out of sight when we heard a dog challenge and then a dog fight begin.

We continued to move south while we discussed whether to go to shore and tie up, or to drop the anchor, or to go on. We decided to float onward because we knew that Jack was his own dog, and that he was going to do what he was going to do regardless of what we did. It was late in the afternoon when we heard his bark, and there he was some fifty feet away swimming strongly to us. We grabbed his fur on the back of his neck and gave him just a little help, and that was all he needed to scramble aboard, where he thanked us at once with a cold shower. He then sat down facing us, with that so much like him, quizzical, merry eyes and smiling face as if to say, “Boy, oh boy, was that fun”.

Shorebound and scavenging

We continued onward and tied up that night where farms occupied most of the space. As usual Jack went ashore at once. Morning brought with it a stiff breeze from the sough and traveling against it would be impractical. Inasmuch as we were shore bound, we decided to remove the wrecked engine and move the other to the center of the front porch. We had no clear idea how we would do this but knew we needed to scavenge something somewhere, so left our house by itself and took off along one of the many game trails.

This river had many islands and many people, at one time or another, had lived on one or along the shore. Eventually a dim path led us to what we figured was an abandoned still. We spied a small coil of one-half inch copper tubing and a spool of one-eighth inch flexible cable, very rusty, also an old sign of rather heavy sheet metal. These might all be useful so we appropriated them and returned with our loot. This now stimulated us to plan a regular pilot house on the stern roof and run all the controls from there, using our flexible cable. We would then be traveling backward at all times when using the engine, and this was okay, except to Jack, who loved to stand on the front porch and watch.

"Don't drop your tools in the water"

Finding lumber was no problem as there were many abandoned houses on stilts, or tree houses. While moving the second engine to the middle, Clarence dropped our only hammer into the water. It was of his doing, so he stepped down and went into the icy water to retrieve it. The water was deep and he was barely able to touch the mud below with his feet to feel around to find the hammer. He eventually did, however, and then reversed himself with his feet up and his hands down but could not readily find it so came up for air, dived twice more and finally came up with it. He was blue with cold by then, but the air was warm, the soup hot, and he recovered okay. He learned the moral: “Don’t drop your tools in the water.”

We expected to be in Red Wing, Minnesota before too long so spent the balance of that day writing letters and doing some needed housework. At dinner, which was of buttermilk and rice soup with raisin pudding, we got to thinking how good fresh, whole milk would taste.

An Escapade

Now came an escapade. There was a fairly large and prosperous farm about one half mile back from us, and it looked as if it was a dairy farm, where, in cold weather, they kept the cows tied in stalls. We waited until about two a.m., then each of us, with a bucket covered with dark cloth so the shiny metal would not reflect the moonlight, walked stealthily forward. Jack, who had probably seen our furtive skulking, quietly joined us from somewhere out in the dark. As we approached the barn through the pale moonlight, the farmer’s dog suddenly sounded a warning which Jack immediately dashed ahead and answered. In the minutes of the first dog engagement we entered the barn, and finding the cows with the help of a weak flashlight, we kicked up a couple and milked furiously. With about a gallon each and the buckets again covered with our dark cloths we cautiously left the barn again by the same back door and lost no time hurrying home. We could hear Jack and the farmer’s dog somewhere down the road on the other side of the house.

It wasn’t right what we did, but we enjoyed the fresh milk for several days, and we wondered several times what the farmer thought when he milked the next morning to find two cows not putting out as much milk as usual. It was an escapade not to be forgotten.

“What the hell are you doing here?  Get out!"

We now had the engine moved over to the center of the porch and a makeshift wobbly rudder in place. We pushed off into a rather coolish dark gray day and tried our engine. It worked better that the two engines as far as steering was concerned, but the low RPM, because of the too-large propeller, was the problem. We arrived at Red Wing and tied up on the Wisconsin side just below the bridge about the time when most rural folks were having supper. We had ours, and then taking our kerosene lantern, we picked up a game trail to reach the bridge to cross over into Red Wing. All at once a voice came out of the darkness. “What the hell are you doing here? Get out!” to which we replied, “We just came in on our floating house and need to go uptown.” He said, “You can’t make it up this boulevard without a drink, come in.”

Well, he had a shanty a few feet farther on, almost hidden in the shrubbery, a dirty lantern was on the table with hardly any light coming through the smoke blacked chimney, and a gallon jug of moonshine half empty beside it. We sure did not want to be his guests but felt the need to be neighborly. He tilted the jug to his lips for a good swig, then passed to us where we each did likewise, except used our tongue to stop the flow. Much of the moonshine at that time was flavored with anise seed and this sample must have had a heavy dose, for it seemed I tasted it for most of two days. After another round and much babble we left with good directions to get to the road, and a much easier and better way to return to our house.

“Were you and another boy
                                carrying a milk can over the bridge this morning?”

This town was the home of the famous Red Wing Shoe Company, maker of fine leather sport and hunting boots We walked past this, located the Post Office, and the creamery and an iron foundry, where we noted a large grinding wheel, which gave us the idea of cutting the size of our propeller down. Rising early we were at the creamery around seven a.m. and secured our buttermilk, no charge, and carried it back to the house. Returning at once, while Clarence went to the Post Office, I took our spare propeller to the foundry to see if it could be ground down.

When I asked my question of a man who looked like he might be a foreman, he looked at me closely and asked, “Were you and another boy carrying a milk can over the bridge this morning?”

“Yes,” I said. Anyway, after more visiting, he took the propeller and expertly ground about one third off the back of each blade and balanced it as well as he could. Handing it to me he said no charge and good luck.

News from home and friends at the University was good for me while Clarence received a check for some poetry he had submitted. We were feeling great with a few bucks in the pot again.

Stuck on a Sandbar

It took just a few minutes to replace the propeller with the modified one and being egged on by an impatient Jack, we pushed off. About five miles downstream, we came to a slow, gradual, and then complete, stop. We were stuck on a sandbar. Our best efforts to push together on our pike poles, back or forth, sideways or one end at a time, all went unrewarded, We finally rowed to shore with our flatboat and secured two stout pry poles, but these were also inadequate, so we just sat there and wondered what to do next.

Late in the day, a sternwheeler, pushing four loaded scows, went by and believe me we were ready with our poles. When the backwash came in, we pushed furiously and with success. Another one half mile and we entered Lake Pepin headwaters.

 

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Shanty Boaters Arise!

 

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