Gayle Harper

Photographer ~ Author ~ Traveler

Day 10 – Lake Waukanabo

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Yesterday I stood on the Laurentian Divide. If you paid more attention that I apparently did in Geography class, you know that a drop of rain falling on the north slope of that ridge will drain to the Hudson Bay and on the south, into the Mississippi and eventually the Gulf. I met the Laurentian once before on this trip, back by Itasca. It curves north from there and then northeast across the state of Minnesota.  Apologies to my geography teachers, but I didn’t even know there was a Continental Divide other than the one in the Rockies!

The land here flattens out considerably and farm fields appear for the first time since the headwaters. Enough tributaries have now joined the Mississippi that flooding can be an issue. The first dam on the River was at Grand Rapids – there will be many more. But, Aitkin, MN, has an interesting way of dealing with the threat of floods and it is the only thing like it on the Mississippi. After a horrendous flood in 1950, a solution was devised and a diversion channel was created. It’s a passive system that allows water to do what it naturally does, run downhill. When the river level is normal, all water stays in the main channel, but a “low head” dam diverts flood water into the 6 ¼ mile long channel. It’s been working without a hitch for more than 50 years now. 

The river is bisected in numerous places near here by islands, made by man, although not intentionally. During the logging era, vast numbers of logs were floated down the river and often some got hung up on boulders or low spots. That would catch more logs, then silt and eventually an island was born!

My current home is a simple cabin on Lake Waukanabo, not far from Palisade. It’s the only time during the entire journey I will be in one place more than two nights. It is exquisitely quiet. Although there are other cabins, I am the only guest. The owner has a job in town and a husband in the hospital, so she is seldom here. But her son kindly installed a router before my arrival so I have internet access and she rummaged around and did find a key so I can lock up when I leave. Abby, the resident Golden Retriever goes for walks with me, greets me when I come home and sleeps on my front porch. The lake, which has no public access, is my front yard. It’s a perfect little respite sandwiched between what has been and will be again, very full days. I stayed home yesterday to catch up on all the correspondence, details, logistics, backing up of images, etc., that are required to keep this journey going. I and my camera were called out to the lake once in the morning when the sky was an eye-popping deep blue and dotted with puffy little marshmallow clouds.

Then again toward evening, my attention was ripped from the computer by the call of a loon and I looked out to see this incredible sky.

This morning on my wanderings, I came across Lisa Aragon visiting her two horses, Tanner and Musta. “They aren’t  ‘rideable’, she says, “just big pets”. But, clearly, they adore her and her visit is a high point of every day.

Lisa is Ojibwe and Musta (pronounced moos-ta) is an Ojibwe word meaning “strong-willed one”. I joked that I should have named my daughter that – and yes, Mom – I also said that my Mom would say she should have named me that! 

One of my abiding guidelines for travel is that if you see a little espresso shop with a name like The Beanery and its 10:30 on a chilly morning – STOP! And – if they have made a batch of fresh caramel rolls this morning – GO FOR IT! You will walk the calories off later and even if you don’t OMG it is worth it! The young woman that made my cappuccino said she had grown up near the headwaters and got goosebumps and shivered when I gave her a postcard and told her about our raindrop.  

As I settled in with my cappuccino and my big, fat, warm, gooey caramel roll, I also settled in to another of the delights of travelling alone – tuning in (ok – technically it’s eavesdropping, but it can’t be helped!) to the variety of conversations going on around me. There was a very earnest one taking place where I couldn’t see the people and only one voice could be heard. I couldn’t catch the words but it clearly had something to do with music because it was occasionally punctuated with something like, “boom-cha-boom-boom” and then “thum-thum-boom” and “boom-thum-boom-thum”.  At another table, two women were talking about getting together after the first frost touched the apples to make applesauce.  An older gentleman stopped to say something I couldn’t hear to a cute young blond, who blushed rosy pink and laughed. After he left, she told her friend he wanted to fix her up with his grandson – “and he’s a pretty cute guy too!” Two old guys across the way were talking about the best way to deal with woodchucks in your yard. I just leaned back in my big overstuffed chair, sipped and smiled. 

As I headed home, some pretty big, awesome clouds appeared. By the time I arrived home, they were even “awesomer”!! 

Five minutes later the lake had vanished from sight and the thunder rolled. I held my digital audio recorder out the door to capture some of it for the slide show to come (yes, Dave – I promise there truly will be a slide show this time!) I’m snuggled in for the night – life is good!           Gayle

Encounters

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It was raining when my alarm went off at 5:00 this morning. I smiled in sweet surrender and snuggled back down. When I awoke again 45 minutes later, it was no longer raining, was still dark and was (of course) the perfect time for me to get up and out there.  The sky was painterly, with billows of grays and white, which made the greens pop. The Great River Road between Grand Rapids and Palisade stays close to the River with frequent access roads and very little traffic, perfect for a dawdler like me.

It makes my heart sing to see how people love this River and how they respond to hearing about the journey of the raindrop. Early this morning I was stopped for road construction. The flag woman came to the car to explain what was happening, saw the camera on the seat beside me and asked about it. I gave her a postcard with the blog address and told her about the raindrop. She was thrilled and said she would follow it and share it with her nephew who was also a writer – so I gave her a second one for him. It was a great interaction and when the truck came to lead me through the construction site, she told me her name was Joan and that she would pray for my safety the entire way. It was a bright moment in the morning for both of us.

Down the road a few miles I pulled off for a river access road, but mistakenly went up a private road instead. As I turned around, a very unfriendly voice yelled, “Can I help you?!” I couldn’t see anyone but I said – no thanks, just turning around – and left. I went across the road to the river access and walked down to the river. A truck pulled in behind me and the unfriendly voice said, “You were on my road – why?” I stood up to my full 5’10”, looked him in the eye and said simply, “I was looking for the river access and took the wrong road.” He looked back at me levelly for a moment, then all the hardness softened and he said, “Yeah, people do that all the time.” So, I explained what I was doing, and the softness became smiles, and for 10 minutes or so he told stories about the history of the area and some things I should not miss seeing. When I gave him a postcard, he said he would put it on his fridge, then asked me the date I would arrive at the Gulf. I told him November 21 and he asked me to write that on the card. When I did, he said he would include me in his prayers every day until I arrived there. It wasn’t yet 7:30 a.m. and two people had blessed the journey.  These sorts of things happen all day – at the ice cream shop, the gas station, the Tourist Information Center, the roadside stand where I bought tomatoes, on the hiking trail. The Great River Road is lined with people who love the River, want to share their love of it and be a part of this journey of the raindrop. I am filled with gratitude.

I wandered my way to the Forest History Center at Grand Rapids and followed the sound of some lively music to find this gentleman playing his “squeeze box”. He said it was often played at the logging camps of 100 years ago and the loggers all danced with each other. The camp cook, blacksmith and a logger were also at the restored site to interact with visitors. The “wanigan”, a floating cook house that was rafted downriver as needed, was moored at the river bank. Films and interactive exhibits told the history of logging in this area and several miles of interpretive trails taught current forest management and restoration.

Our raindrop has traveled about 265 river miles from the headwaters to where I am now, near Palisade, Minnesota  – only 2,083 miles left to the Gulf!  The River actually flows north for bit, makes a big question mark and is now heading south. No longer a tiny wilderness stream, it looks like a river now. There’s very little development or agriculture along its banks yet, so it still feels lush, wild and free. It reminds me of some of the Native kids of about 9 years old I saw at the powwow– strong, lithe, confident, athletic and yet still with an innocence, a freshness, bursting with potential, with hints of greatness to come.

                                                                                     Love,   Gayle

Day 6 – Cass Lake, MN

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My body was allowed to sleep until it was finished this morning – so it was almost 7. It’s a bit murky looking out there and it is time to let myself enjoy this morning here. I’m in a cabin at Stony Point Resort on Cass Lake, MN, in a big soft cuddly lazy boy with my cup of tea and a beautiful view. Nothing more is needed. The swimming dock and water slide are both nearly solid white with seagulls. I love the sound of their call. Yesterday the crows woke me before first light but today they are elsewhere.

The Gangelhoff family has had this resort since 1939 – there are pictures in the guest book of how my cabin looked in 1942. It’s been lovingly redone and is airy, cozy and comfortable. School starts after Labor Day here so the place is loaded with families enjoying the last of summer. Yesterday there were packs of kids running, shrieking, laughing, swimming. Now all is quiet. My cabin has a wooden screen door, patched and reinforced, that sticks open and bangs shut. Every time I go through it, I hear the echoes of 3,000 moms yelling, “Close the door!”

This journey is about surrendering to the moment. If I think for a second there will be a plan or a “usual” way things are done (like being out shooting for every sunrise), I will be immediately shown the error of my thinking!

There’s a little boy out there now in his jammies, pushing his toy lawn mower and there’s a big brother pushing his sister on the swing. The gulls still rule the swimming dock.   A couple of sibling squirrels are harassing each other unmercifully. Now there’s a man singing a groggy, off-tune sort of polka-sounding song – I can’t hear the lyrics, but I’m sure they are raucous – a woman is laughing. I am content to be alive in this moment, being a silent part of all this waking up.

Now there are 3 little ones making what sounds like chicken noises and waving their arms at the seagulls. The gulls agree it is time to move on and lift off in a great upward spiral, flashing white in the morning light. The kids march away, triumphant. The man who was singing is making animal noises – I’m sure he is entertaining a grandchild.

Yesterday I went to the Cha Cha Bah Ning Powwow sponsored by the Leech Lake Band of Ojibwe people. Dancers in gloriously colorful regalia circled around 4 groups of drummers in the center. I shot photos for a while and then just sat and observed. The drumming seems to resonate deep inside. It was a hot afternoon and the dancers were repeatedly encouraged to stay hydrated, but it seemed clear to me that when they were dancing there was no concern about the heat. It was beautiful to watch and to wonder about the countless generations before them that have danced like this.

I had called before I came to be sure it was open to the public and was warmly invited. When I explained what I am working on, it was suggested that I speak with a particular man who is very involved in the community. At the powwow, we were introduced and sat down together to talk. I explained this project and said I would like to include something about the Ojibwe people because of their importance in this area. His response was, “In our tradition, when you ask someone for information, it is customary to give a gift of tobacco, rice or something else you value.” I was embarrassed and felt like a bit of an oaf that I needed to be told that, and that I had nothing to give. And, yet, I can’t know the etiquette of a tradition until someone is willing to teach me. So, I am very grateful for the lesson – and you can be sure there is both tobacco and rice in my car now for future occasions.

He went on then to tell me how strong and cohesive his people are and how valuable powwows are for bringing people together and maintaining their traditions. He told me about his seven children, most of whom were there participating in various ways – and about their accomplishments in education and life. He’s a teacher of the Ojibwe language and a special education teacher in public school who loves being there for troubled kids. There was gentleness and happiness in his eyes and I have no doubt he is a gift to many people.

I made it back to my cabin on the lake just in time for the sunset last night. Boat loads of folks were coming in from fishing and going out to enjoy the evening.

I spent a few moments on the swimming dock soaking it all in until the mosquitoes let me know the day had ended.  See you soon!  Gayle  

Paul-and-Babe-land

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Bemidji, Minnesota, is the “first city on the Mississippi”. It seems to be filled with fresh-faced, bright-eyed, friendly people. It’s a fairly good barometer of a place when the vast majority of its citizens from kids to oldsters look you in the eye, smile and say hello. It’s an artsy community of about 13,000 people, with sculpture on the downtown street corners and several columns of exhibits and performances in the small local newspaper. The winters are long and hard here – with temps as low as 60 below (yikes!!!) and less than 8 hours of daylight at times. So, people are out everywhere in this fine weather we are having now on roller blades, bicycles, walking, running, canoeing or just strolling the shore of Lake Bemidji. Giant statues of Paul Bunyan and his sidekick, Babe the Blue Ox have been watching over the lakeshore since 1937, and a huge statue of Chief Bemidji is just down the street a ways.

My job in the mornings is just to roust my heiney out of bed and show up for the sunrise. Sometimes there is a sort-of plan where I will go and sometimes that plan is sort of followed, but it’s really not up to me. I caught Chief Bemidji watching the sunrise this morning and then wandered some back roads. (Thank you, Mike, for the 3,000th time for my GPS!) I just follow the pretty light or the fog or whatever is drawing me at the moment with no thought of where I am. Then when I want to find my way back, the trusty GPS leads me.

I showed up at the Concordia Language Villages because I was fascinated by what I had read about it. Students from all over the world from elementary to adult come for total immersion learning of a language and culture. There are separate villages designed with authentic architecture, cuisine, even road signs in Arabic, Chinese, Danish, English, Finnish, French, German, Italian, Japanese, Korean, Norwegian, Portuguese, Russian, Spanish and Swedish. 

It was still early when I arrived, but the only staff member on duty dropped what he was doing, got a van and took me for a tour. This year is their 50th anniversary. What a wonderful way to learn!

They do know how to make a good cappuccino around here! After that nice little perk-me-up I wandered into the Headwaters Science Center just as staff member, Chris, and volunteer, Amy, were heading down the sidewalk with a huge white cage. They were taking O’Reilly, a Red Tailed Hawk with a damaged wing, to the lake for some sunshine and fresh air. So I tagged along and ended up spending an hour or so sitting at a picnic table chatting with them and occasional passers-by while O’Reilly took in the sights and sounds.

Midday when the light is harsh is time to make phone calls, answer emails, scout locations, and read about possibilities in the area. I seldom make appointments ahead of time, but I love to know all the possibilities an area has to offer. There is a big traveling file box of information on the floor of the front seat with files color-coded by state and a folder for each town (aren’t you proud, Mom?) – and then I just let Serendipity put me where I need to be.

Then as the light softens and warms in the evening, I show up at some beautiful place like Lake Bemidji State Park and see what opportunities present themselves. This time some ducks added the perfect touch to this serene moment. If you look at this part of Minnesota on the map, it looks like a piece of baby swiss cheese – there are lakes everywhere. The Mississippi passes right through some of them, including Lake Bemidji. I’m told that in certain conditions, you can actually see the current as it enters one side and passes out the other.

An understanding of the history and culture of the Ojibwe Indians seems vital to understanding life in this area. I’ve heard about two powwows coming up soon – so I’ll look into that tomorrow and we’ll see what our raindrop has in mind!    See you soon!  Gayle

Spirit of the River

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Hi! I’ll try to catch us up! It’s clear it will take me a bit to find my groove, let all the amazing things happen and still write about it. But I promise to do my best!  I moved on from Itasca after one more visit to the headwaters and a bit of time among the enormous old trees. I’m told that many people come here for the River, but come back for the trees.

One of the very best parts of these past couple of days has been meeting up again with my friend, Terry Larson. I promised to tell you more about him, but it won’t be easy to do him justice in this space. He’s somewhat of a legend in these parts – practically everyone seems to know him or at least know of him. He operates Northern Adventures Guide Service, taking people fishing, canoeing, ice fishing, exploring. He seems to know everything there is to know about this fragile, infant Mississippi River and the life it supports and delights in sharing it. He’s a naturalist, a storyteller, a poet and a sweet, gentle man. He gets truly excited about the color of berries and the sound of a Grouse drumming and seeing the first tinge of red in the maple leaves. Bouncing along back roads with him in his truck, he is constantly watchful for wild grapes, crab apples, wild plums or cranberries and he dives into the thickest brush and comes back bursting with enthusiasm to show you his prize. When we came upon some Western Puffball Mushrooms, it was as if he had won the lottery! He leapt out, gently harvested them and wrapped them in a cloth and informed me he planned to cook dinner for us and they would be the perfect addition. The dinner was amazing – Northern Pike he had caught and smoked on crackers with jelly his wife, Mary, had made from berries he picked, wild rice and the incredible sautéed wild mushrooms!

We have canoed several small stretches of the River, so he could show me how the river changes and grows and how wild rice is harvested using two poles, one to bend the plant over the boat and the other to whack the grain free. This morning we canoed a stretch downriver near his home in Cass Lake so he could pick “high bush cranberries”.  This evening I will join he and Mary for a backyard fish fry. Terry is the spirit of the Mississippi here. If you ever come near here, I can imagine no better way to experience this land and this young Mississippi River than with Terry as your guide, whether for days or a few hours – you will be much richer for knowing him. I know I am.

Tomorrow I will move on, and we’ll see where our raindrop leads us next. See you downriver!   Gayle

Blessing of the Journey

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It was hard saying goodbye to my sweet husband, but I look forward to his visit downriver. I put 848 miles behind me just to begin this journey, most of them Interstate – mile after mile of homogenized America where one state is hardly distinguishable from another. Fortunately for me, I am easily entertained. I was reminded of the dolphins who sleep with one-half of their brain at a time, while the other half takes care of business. After weeks of intense left-brained preparations, the right brain felt like a kid kept indoors for too many rainy days – playtime was needed!  So, the left brain watched the road, the traffic and the countless green interstate signs while the right was allowed to frolic and follow  whatever nonsensical bit of whimsy it cared to entertain. And there was no shortage of that! 

I stopped for lunch in Iowa and as I snuggled in for a close-up of this family of Holsteins, I heard the clip-clop-clip-clop of a horse and turned to see an Amish buggy. I waited until it passed me, then turned to take a shot of it from behind and was surprised to see this young girl swinging her bare feet in the hot August sun.

Eventually the road delivered me here – the North country – the land of wild rice and loons and yah-sure-you-betcha’s. There’s something delightful about the Minnesota accent – there’s a lilt to it that makes whatever they are saying sound cheerful. There does seem to be a preponderance of robust, good-natured, outdoorsy folks who appreciate what they have here. I’m in a cabin in the woods and the only internet is up at the bar & grill – so when I have this ready to post I’ll head back up there.

The birthplace of the Mississippi is in Itasca State Park, a little south and west of Bemidji. The Mississippi River is a shallow stream here that tumbles out of Lake Itasca. When I arrived yesterday, it was filled with families taking pictures of each other as they waded across. When I went back this morning to be there for the first sunrise of this journey, I was alone with the River. Thoughts, questions and emotions swirled briefly, then a profound stillness settled in and there was only gratitude. There is no expectation of how these 90 days will be, just curiosity and appreciation for the opportunity. So, it begins.

Before I left home, I received a phone call from Terry Larson, who lives near here. His grandparents owned land along this first stretch of the River and now it belongs to Terry and his siblings. He loves the land, the River and everything living here with a passionate and yet innocent enthusiasm. He is a wise and knowledgeable river guide and he generously offered his time to share it with me. We met first yesterday afternoon and he drove me around in the rain, showing me where he grew up, the one-room schoolhouse he attended, where his grandparents are buried and glimpses of the tiny river as it winds through marshes thick with wild rice. A book could be written about Terry alone, and I’ll tell you more later, but for now – one of the things he told me was that he had recently seen a huge Timber Wolf in the woods. He said it was solid black and stopped the truck to open the door and show me how tall it had been. I was amazed and intrigued.

This morning, after being at the source of the Mississippi for sunrise, I decided to take Wilderness Drive, an 11-mile loop road within the park that winds through some enormous ancient woods and periodically opens into gorgeous lake views. I was driving slowly with the window down, hearing the birds and breathing deeply the crisp air. I came around a curve and there he was in the road before me, perhaps 30 feet away. I would never have known what I was seeing, but because of Terry’s description there was no doubt. His stance seemed proud and strong, head up, no fear – then he effortlessly disappeared into the woods. My heart was in my throat and I could only say, “Thank you. Thank you.” Terry tells me that many people live their entire lives here and never see one, and that their territory can be a 10-mile radius so it was likely the same one he had seen. I felt the journey had been blessed.

There is more to tell about this first day – much more. But it’s late now and there will be another sunrise to greet tomorrow. In the words of my new friend, Terry, “See you downriver.”        Gayle

Warm Hearts and Cold Watermelon

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I leave soon, heading for the birthplace of the Mississippi River. Day 1 of the 90-day adventure will be Tuesday, the 24th. Months of preparations are now down to the last details. There has been so much support, love and encouragement from so many directions, I am awed by it all. Thank you!

From the beginning, this project has had a life of its own and I am privileged to participate. On each of my previous Great River Road trips, friends were made – real connections with open-hearted people. It is clear from the hundreds of communications I have already had that the path ahead is lined with welcoming smiles. Thank you!

One of my favorite things about traveling the GRR is the festivals. Nearly every town has a festival celebrating something – their heritage, their local crop, or some tradition that gives them a reason to come together and have some fun. Luckily, I will catch several on this trip. A few years ago I made it to Montrose, Iowa for their Watermelon Festival.

Every August for 65 years now this river town of about 900 folks has been throwing this party. Somewhere around 9 tons of free watermelon is served up to thousands of friends and neighbors. There’s a parade, a midway of games and rides, music, a seed-spitting contest AND “Chicken Poop Bingo” (I didn’t get to see the actual chicken do its thing, but I’m told you bet on a number and if the chicken hits it, it’s your lucky day!).

It’s a weekend of reunions and yard parties.

There’s a mighty rivalry between groups of firefighters from surrounding towns pushing a suspended barrel with their fire hoses.

The river is vast here – nearly a mile wide. I was wandering back roads scouting for a good place to be on the next sunrise when I passed a woman tending flowers in her front yard. She looked up, smiled and waved so I stopped. When I told her what I was looking for, she knew exactly the place.  She decided it was too complicated to tell me how to find it, so she hopped in my car and took me there. This was how I met Peg, who decided that I must meet her neighbor, Rhoda, whose house had a lovely deck looking out on the river. As the three of us chatted on Rhoda’s deck, they decided to call another neighbor with a pontoon boat to see if he would take us all for a ride to see the flock of White Pelicans that stayed near the opposite shore of the river. After the ride, Rhoda invited me to stay in the cabin next to her house, so I could step out in the morning and shoot the sunrise over the river.

This is the magic of life as it unfolds without an agenda. This is the open-hearted beauty of river people. This is why I am making this 90-day journey.

Rhoda passed away since I was there. Her family found a thank you note I had written among her belongings, so they let me know of her passing. I know her spirit lives on in the River and the River lives in each of us. See you soon!   Gayle

The Legend of Helena

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The previous post about a foggy sunrise in Helena, Arkansas, brought to mind the rest of that visit…

Helena has seen some tough times. The downtown streets were deathly quiet and many of the buildings boarded up. Although I’m told the town comes roaring to life each year in early October when up to 100,000 Blues fans arrive for the Arkansas Blues & Heritage Festival, it was hard to imagine on this November morning. The only person I encountered was an itinerant preacher who said he was just passing through and “waiting to see where the Lord would send him”. (I understand that!)

A bit of exploration, though, shows Helena has some beautiful architecture, including the gorgeous 1904 Colonial Revival mansion which is now the Edwardian Inn B&B, where I was a guest.

Later, it was near the end of a long, chilly day and it was raining (again) so I went in search of a hot meal. A brochure at the entrance to the café told me Helena is the home of a legend. “Sunshine” Sonny Payne is the host on the longest running Blues radio program in the world! The King Biscuit Time  radio program went on the air in 1941 and Sonny’s first broadcast was in 1942. Blues fans the world over now tune in via the internet. I was greatly intrigued! In chatting with the waiter, I asked him if he knew Sonny. “Yes, he actually has dinner here every night. In fact, that is his table right there and he should be here any minute now. Would you like to meet him?” (Do you see why I named this blog Surrendering to Serendipity?)  

Sonny was delightful, and after we talked a few moments he invited me to visit him in the studio at the Delta Cultural Center before his broadcast the next day. The Delta Cultural Center in downtown Helena is well worth a visit, whether you are a Blues fan or not – it’s a fascinating museum about the life and music of the region. But, it was quiet the day I visited Sonny and we just talked. He has a dry, quick wit and as he told me stories of his life, he had a way of smiling with his eyes regardless of what his mouth was doing. When he began to talk about his wife, who had passed away several years ago, those eyes took on a bit of mistiness. His voice got softer and he leaned closer as he told me of their love and their life together and eventually of their last moments together. I thanked him for the gift of sharing such tenderness and promised to keep love in my heart and to “stop back by sometime”.

I called Sonny this morning and told him I’ll be back by before long. He will be 85 in November and recently celebrated his 16,000th broadcast! He said he would say hello to me in today’s broadcast and I could download it tonite – and he’ll see me when I get there!

9 Days and Counting…

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With just 9 days until our little imaginary raindrop begins its odyssey, preparations are coming along well. If you are just joining us, I am sharing some moments from previous trips along the Great River Road to get us all in the mood for this grand adventure! 

Here’s an image and its story from a mid-November morning in Helena, Arkansas –

If ever I wanted to stay in bed and luxuriate like the rest of the guests in this beautiful B&B, it was this morning. It was chilly, drippy and foggy. A look out my window told me I could barely see the yard light through the wet fog. The big feather bed and mountain of soft pillows wanted me to stay. I could smell coffee, then I could smell what I am sure was warm cinnamon rolls in the oven. This is what went on in my head…

 – aaawww jeez – just relax – you won’t get anything out there this morning anyway

       – You don’t know that – it could change in a heartbeat – get up                                          

– You had a long day yesterday – you deserve a break

       – You are not here on vacation – get up!

– God! That smells good! No need to be rigid about this…

       – GET UP!

– ALL RIGHT!!!!  (mutter, mutter, grumble…..)

So, I went – out in the murky drizzle, not even allowing myself to go through the dining room to grab a banana because I knew I would cave!

I had arrived in town late last night so hadn’t scouted the area and didn’t have any idea if there was river access. I had seen only some big industrial stuff that turned out to be a terminal where the barges were off-loaded onto semis. I followed a rutted, muddy road across the dike to an even muddier road to who-knows-where. I was still feeling a bit sorry for myself and a bit resentful and out-of-sorts. The fog was even thicker – I could feel I was getting nearer the river, but I could see no more than 10 feet in front of my headlights. If it got too muddy to go forward I couldn’t imagine how I would turn around – it was pretty swampy on both sides. I wondered grumpily if I would be rewarded for coming by getting stuck! 

Then in spite of myself, I started to marvel at the mystery of the fog – how it so totally transforms everything. I could drive this road on a sunny afternoon and never know it to be the same road. I turned up the heater and rolled down the window and smelled the river – that musky, earthy scent that never fails to stir something deep within me. I turned off the engine and listened. I imagined I could hear it – just over there – although maybe it was sensed by something below the level of physical hearing. I put the window up part way to lessen the chill, closed my eyes and meditated, letting the fog hold me and my car full of stuff in its soft, gauzy arms. Fog has a way of playing with sound. Deep in my meditation, the sounds were amplified and dispersed in funny ways – a bird call seemed to come from all sides like some high tech surround sound. A rustle in the brush sounded like an elephant coming my way. Eventually I opened my eyes, and all the rough, grumpy edges had been smoothed away. I was content to be alive in this moment. The fog was less dense, the drizzle had stopped and the air seemed a bit warmer. The birds were greeting the morning.

I decided that in the unlikely event anyone else came down here this morning I would be able to hear them, so I put on my rain jacket, took my tripod and camera case, left the car where it was and started down the road. My boots quickly got heavy with mud, but there was a sense of joy and wonder in my heart.

In a short ways the roadbed rose higher and there was water on both sides. The fog started to disperse from the top down and the bottom up, leaving the ground and trees shrouded while the sky above started to show blue and pink. As the warmth evaporated it more, I could see there was a bayou in front, then a strip of land, then the river beyond. I set up the tripod and by the time I was ready to shoot, the water in front of me had cleared and was now reflecting the trees and the soft warm sky. Thank you, God!  Thank you for dragging my lazy butt out of bed and bringing me here! I was so filled with gratitude and humility at the beauty in front of me that tears spilled from my eyes and a sound somewhere between laughing and crying came from my heart.     

Have a great day!    Gayle

Cairo – A Different Perspective

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Cairo, IL – pronounced not like the city in Egypt but more like KAY-RO

It’s an area perched on the invisible boundary between North and South. The states of Illinois, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee and Arkansas are all within 100 miles of each other and the accents, foods and ways of the people are a rich stew of these varied influences. It’s also a transition from one climatic zone to another, so the plants and animals native to each intermingle here.

Here, also, the Ohio River surrenders its individual identity and becomes part of the Mississippi, creating the border between the Upper and Lower Mississippi. The Ohio is itself a river of consequence, as it has been gathering water from its own tributaries for nearly a thousand miles. Mark Twain had said the Ohio water resists mixing with the Mississippi as long as possible – that you could actually see the blue-greenish tinted Ohio water clinging to the bank and trying to hold itself apart from the muddier Mississippi for a good distance downriver. I was curious to see if this was still true, so I was searching for a vantage point.

The land is low and flat here, so there is no possibility of a bluff or high bank. There is a bridge across the Mississippi and one across the Ohio, but none near enough to the confluence. Fort Defiance State Park lies at the very tip of the peninsula jutting between the two rivers and I had been told the Boatmen’s Monument there had an elevated platform that might work, but the view was obstructed by trees. So, I needed to fly.

A kindly man named Ron answered the phone at the Cairo Airport, filling in for his niece, who is the airport manager. Ron had access to a small plane with a window that opened and loved to fly, so he agreed to take me up at sunrise. The sky was just beginning to show pink when we took off in the tiniest plane I had ever been in. Our two bodies and a camera case maxed out the available space inside. The steering mechanism was duplicated on my side and moved as Ron moved his, so I needed to stay clear of that. The window opened from the bottom out, only about four inches, which meant I would need to shoot down and at an angle. There was a wing strut just in front, so my field of clear view was pretty narrow. But, “Freedom is Flying” was painted in large red letters on the side of the plane and whatever happened would be perfect.

The window kept blowing shut at first, but Ron reached across and somehow fixed that. Later, though, the handle actually fell off and we watched in wide-eyed horror as it tumbled toward the ground. Fortunately, we were over an empty field, so no harm done. Between the noise of the engine and the wind, there was no chance of hearing each other, so we communicated by gestures. I would see something I liked and pantomime how I’d like to approach it and he would grin and put me there. The morning was glorious and we were both having great fun!

It turned out that it was indeed possible to see the different colors of the two rivers and the long, gradual blending of the waters. It was mid-April and the fields were that impossibly green shade of new growth and the first rays of morning sun were casting long, soft shadows from the trees. The two rivers arched into each other gracefully from this perspective in long, sinuous curves, like dancers striking a pose. When I saw a tug pushing its massive load of barges upriver and the water around it sparkling in the warm light, my heart raced and I gestured excitedly to Ron. He nodded and maneuvered us into position. I got the shot I wanted, thumped him on the back and gave him a big “thumbs up”.

On the way back to the tiny airport, there was a smile coming from my heart, not just because of the photography, but because of this shared, wordless experience of watching the sun awaken the earth from the vantage point of the sky. When I glanced at Ron, I saw the same little smile tweaking the corner of his mouth. Another day on the Great River Road….