The Last Voyageurs

by Lorraine Boissoneault

  To celebrate being reunited with their beloved vessels, the crew held a second christening ceremony. The boats had made it through their winter storage looking no worse for the wear. Just the day before, Kulick, Gorse, Fialko, and Hess had driven fifty miles south to Cape Girardeau, Missouri, to retrieve the boats from their storage spot at the St. Vincent’s Seminary. UPS had donated the use of one of its trucks to get the canoes back up to Chester, Illinois, on time for the launch. Bill Watts and George LeSieutre stood over the boats now with open bottles of champagne, letting the bubbly liquid splash onto the bows. Father Loran, looking austere in his black cape, gathered the group around for a short prayer. The men removed their woolen toques and bowed their heads as the priest blessed the voyage again. When all the benedictions, private prayers, and superstitious rituals were finished, the men hopped in their canoes and shoved off onto the mighty Mississippi.

  A steady current sped the canoes on their way, helping them cover eight miles in an hour without much difficulty. They hoped to be in Grand Tower, Illinois, by the afternoon, a thirty-mile trip.

  “That’s two days of walking!” Rich Gross exclaimed to the other men in his canoe as they dug their paddles into the river.

  As the fleet continued down the river, the cloudy sky cracked open and spilled its innards. Heavy snow pelted them in the face and was swirled away by the water. The combination of wind and snow chilled everyone, but the minor discomfort couldn’t put a dent in their moods. Hopefully this would be the last snowstorm of the year, and if not, at least they weren’t walking through it with heavy packs tugging at the weary muscles of their shoulders and backs.

  Though spirits were high, ongoing personal problems still dogged the crew. The loss of Wilson, Garcia, and Marr didn’t help, and it didn’t look like the last two would be rejoining the group at any point, though Wilson was hopeful that he might still heal in time to paddle the last bit of the expedition. Braun, at least, had been back with the group for some time since his injuries had been the least severe. Several people were also out sick, including DiFulvio, which put Kulick in the position of gouvernail for the day. Such rearrangements had been made in nearly all the canoes to compensate for the missing paddlers.

  The lingering disagreements between the adult crew members were also lying just beneath the surface of seemingly every conversation. But everyone was in agreement about the joy of being back on the water again. Whatever issues remained from the long winter were momentarily dispelled as the canoes arrived at their destination. The sun broke through the clouds as they landed at Grand Tower. There to meet them were members of the community and one of Reid Lewis’s old friends, teacher Dean Campbell, who had participated in the Jolliet-Marquette expedition. Campbell had constructed a replica Iroquois longhouse along the river and invited the crew to stay in it for the night. The shelter had a frame made of sticks tied together with twine, which was covered by dark brown fabric. The rounded roof was high enough for some of the shorter crew members to stand up without hitting their heads, and a crackling fire inside the shelter made the air warm and smoky. The clouds that chased the men down the river during the day had dispersed by nightfall, and the sky was filled with gleaming stars. Outside the makeshift longhouse the canoes lay on their sides, waiting to carry their passengers farther down the river the next day.

  New Madrid, Missouri

  February 20, 1977

  If the Great Lakes are the inland seas of North America, the Mississippi is its Nile River. It has enough superlatives to merit its Ojibwa name, Misi-ziibi, or “Great River.” At 3,900 miles, the Mississippi is the fourth-longest river in the world, ranking behind only the Yangtze, the Amazon, and the Nile. It winds through ten states in the center of the country and its watershed stretches across more than 1.2 million square miles and thirty-one states—enough territory to fit France, Spain, Portugal, Germany, Austria, Poland, Italy, Greece, and Switzerland, with more than 250,000 square miles to spare. The river has shifted courses a number of times over many millennia, always following the path with the shortest and steepest gradient to reach its destination at the Gulf of Mexico. In its natural state the river sways from east to west and back again, like a monstrous serpent slowly undulating across a bog. At the start of the 20th century, the river was poised to change paths and join the Atchafalaya River to the west. It likely would have done so if not for the massive engineering efforts that went into forcing it to follow its current trajectory.

  In 1879 Congress created the Mississippi River Commission to prevent floods, permanently fix the river’s current path, and improve its navigability. The fight that ensued is still ongoing. Human engineers are holding their own against Mother Nature, but only just. The battle proved that throwing as much money as possible at a problem doesn’t ensure its resolution.

  In 1927 a violent flood tore the river valley apart and killed hundreds of people. The Flood Control Act of 1928 saw more than $300 million spent on rebuilding and fortifying the region against future floods—more than had been spent on Mississippi levees in all of colonial and American history combined. But less than half a century later, $500 million more was spent to repair another safety valve in the river system. A side channel called Old River was expected to be one of the main sites at which the Mississippi hopped over to join the Atchafalaya, so the Army Corps of Engineers built a floodgate system to regulate the amount of water leaving the Mississippi and entering the Atchafalaya. Like the handles of a faucet, the floodgates could be opened and closed according to the amount of water that needed to be bled off the Mississippi to prevent flooding. It seemed like a foolproof way to stymie the river’s wayward behavior, but a flood in 1973 nearly succeeded in ruining the Old River Control System. The precipitation that caused the flooding was only 20 percent above normal for the time of year, hardly a one-hundred-year flood. But it was enough. That spring, two million cubic feet of water surged down the Mississippi per second. That’s twenty times the amount of water that thunders over Niagara Falls. The Army Corps of Engineers scrambled to build an auxiliary system farther up the river to take some of the strain off the floodgates at Old River.6

  As Mark Twain wrote in Life on the Mississippi, “One who knows the Mississippi will promptly aver . . . that ten thousand River Commissions, with the mines of the world at their back, cannot tame that lawless stream, cannot curb it or confine it, cannot say to it, ‘Go here,’ or ‘Go there,’ and make it obey; cannot bar its path with an obstruction which it will not tear down, dance over, and laugh at.”

  These were the forces La Salle: Expedition II would be coming up against in their voyage down the Mississippi. This wild, wily river could be dangerous at any time of year, but during the springtime all the melting snow from the north and rain from thunderstorms added to the churning mass of water. Huge trees were regularly sucked into the river and could destroy large ships without any trouble, to say nothing of birch-bark canoes. The ubiquitous trunks had their own names depending on how they were floating: those that stood up like spears in the riverbed were “planters” while the trunks that bobbed up and down in the current were “sawyers.” Add to this the dozens of towboats pushing huge barges through the water and the thousands of wing dams that lined either side of the riverbank to reduce the need for dredging in the main channel, and the Mississippi was an extreme obstacle course for the canoes.

  When Reid Lewis met with a member of the Coast Guard who worked on the Lower Mississippi before the expedition began, he explained that he’d already paddled much of the Mississippi during his earlier expedition. He was acquainted with the river and had a great deal of respect for it. Many of his crew members had knowledge of the river as well. John DiFulvio had passed numerous summers riding a speedboat down the Mississippi with his family and camping along its banks. Sid Bardwell spent a summer drifting down the river on a pontoon boat with one of his friends prior to joining the expedition. And by the point the men reached the Mississippi, Lewis reasoned, they would’ve already covered
two thousand miles by canoe. The men would be experts at handling the boats. The Coast Guard officer gave his permission for the men to travel the river in the spring of 1977, but added, “If my son told me he was gonna go on the Mississippi in a canoe, I’d tell him he was out of his head.”

  Even with the reductions in their crew and the unique dangers posed by the Great River, the men felt hardly any trepidation. They’d survived windstorms on the Great Lakes and a capsizing in frigid Lake Michigan, weeks of paddling around icebergs, and two months of hiking through snow. Four men capsized and survived hypothermia, three more were injured, and one almost killed. They’d overcome every challenge thus far. Clif Wilson had even made a miraculous recovery and found a doctor who fitted him with a back brace so that he could get back in the boats and paddle again. The men didn’t see the Mississippi River as a final hurdle, but as a clear path pushing them toward their destination with its rapid current.

  The paddlers covered thirty-three miles in a relatively short amount of time on February 20. The water was choppy with a strong wind blowing out of the west—whenever they came to a horseshoe bend in the river they were paddling straight into the wind. Not the easiest day of work, but they were able to get where they needed to be. Since the men weren’t due for a presentation until the following day in New Madrid, they landed on an empty stretch of shoreline in the late afternoon and set up the shelters for a relaxing evening. The crew members had different ways of entertaining themselves now that it was warm enough to wander away from the fires. Some read or wrote. Others went off for long walks to be alone with their thoughts, or to talk with friends, or to practice throwing the tomahawks they’d made. George LeSieutre was becoming particularly adept at eyeing a target then whipping the ax around at just the right angle so that the blade buried itself in the tree he’d aimed for.

  Everyone returned to the three cooking fires when it came time for dinner. They had antelope steaks given to them by a stranger, one of the many supporters of the expedition who offered what they could to keep the men going. The meat was a good addition to their beans. They cooked the steaks like shish kabobs, skewered on sticks and held over the fire until the outer layer was grilled. They would eat the first cooked layer, then return the meat to the fire to roast the next layer, proceeding until it was gone. The fire emitted the occasional loud pop as the men sat around it, eating and talking. The air smelled of smoke and cooked meat, and the temperature was comfortably warm if they stayed close to the fire. In the woods around them, coyotes howled and yipped, calling out to one another and singing the songs of their nightly hunt. As the men relaxed in the evening air, enjoying the comfortable sensation of full stomachs, they could hear the honking of Canada geese. The sky was clear, with a bright, pearly moon that illuminated the birds as they flew through the darkness. The last time they’d seen geese was in Georgian Bay, when the birds were flying south. It was strange to realize they’d seen nature’s cycle all the way through, from summer to fall to winter and now a return to spring. The voyage was drawing close to its end.

  Memphis, Tennessee

  March 3, 1977

  The rain fell in an oppressive deluge, as if all the moisture in Earth’s atmosphere had converged upon the Mississippi River at Memphis. Each canoe became a ghostly island in the downpour, almost invisible as the men struggled to peer through the nearly opaque curtain of water. For once the wind was helping them, blowing at their backs and providing a small amount of visibility. It also occasionally sent waves of dirty river water crashing into the sterns of their boats, which was less helpful. The rain soaked through the men’s ponchos and clothes in minutes and shriveled the skin on their hands and feet. The huge droplets came down so hard and fast that their collision with the surface of the Mississippi made it almost impossible to distinguish where the rain ended and the river began. At least one man per boat had to dedicate his energy to bailing out the waves and rainwater that quickly accumulated in the bottom of the canoes. Though the air was relatively warm, the rain was icy. It drained the men’s body heat as effectively as snow and ice, if not more so. Before long, half the crew was trembling. Terry Cox felt more frozen than he’d ever been during the winter hike from hell, and Father Loran, who’d chosen that day for his return to the canoes after being absent since October, was shaking uncontrollably. They were all at risk for hypothermia if they didn’t get warm and dry soon. The men had covered twenty-five miles despite the rainstorm; it was time to call it a day and find a campsite for the night.

  The crew chose a soggy but easily accessible patch of earth to land. They hopped out of their boats, stumbling on limbs leaden with cold. The tempest had eased to a light drizzle, which made it possible to erect shelters that weren’t leaking. Everyone stripped and hung their sodden clothes up to dry on trees and the ropes that held up the shelters, but unless the rain ceased completely, it seemed like they’d be paddling in damp clothes the next day as well. The gloomy weather kept the men from staying up after they’d eaten their dinner of hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. By 7:00 nearly everyone had retired to the shelters. They tried to ignore the water seeping into their sleeping pads. It was a dismal way to spend the night. And to think, just twenty-four hours earlier they’d been preparing for a party at the home of Memphis police lieutenant Edward Hudgens.

  The five days the expedition had just spent in Memphis would set a pattern for the coming weeks. The men’s schedule was stuffed full of nightly performances and daytime visits to schools and hospitals, leaving the men only the occasional evening or two away from crowds to blow off steam. Most of the extracurricular activities in Memphis had been organized by Lieutenant Hudgens, who went by the nickname “Hudge.” The 53-year-old cop was in charge of escorting the members of the expedition around the city during their stay and helping with any issues that arose, including things like negotiating with the fire department after the voyageurs were told they couldn’t build fires on their campsite in Tom Lee Park. Hudge and his officers spent several evenings with the crew, swapping stories about the police force for stories of paddling across the country. It was easier for the men to be frank about their experiences and the challenges of life on the water when they weren’t being careful not to swear or presenting information in an educational, easily digestible format. Though the expedition’s intended purpose was to educate the public, more and more crew members were avoiding visitors who came to their campsite armed with questions. Fialko was disappointed to see this response, but recognized the same unwillingness to engage with people in himself. With their busy schedule and lack of personal time, they all felt the strain of constant publicity. Adoration by crowds of young women hadn’t lost its charm, but the visibility involved with being a minor celebrity was growing irksome.

  For better or for worse, the expedition’s reputation had only grown since the men had reached the Mississippi River. A film crew from an Arkansas news station had come to Memphis to start work on a documentary about the voyage. The cameramen planned to stay with the modern voyageurs until they reached the Gulf and planted a cross in the sand. The expedition was even followed by a reporter from People magazine, who watched several of their landing formations and took pictures that would be published to a national audience. The surge in publicity was welcome, but it also brought the men a degree of notoriety that they couldn’t easily escape.

  Fialko was happy to see the warm welcome the crew received in many of the towns they visited and especially appreciated the people who involved themselves in the spirit of the expedition. He was less pleased with how the crew members were treating one another. He tried to separate personal issues from the task at hand, but sometimes it felt like ongoing tension between crewmates overshadowed everything else.

  In Memphis, there had been some hard feelings when the men wanted to cut loose for an evening and have drinks with Hudge, which made Reid Lewis uncomfortable. On the water, the paddlers were having trouble staying within sight of one another, those in the lead canoe forgetti
ng to keep an eye on those who paddled behind them. They often found themselves bickering about where to land if a spot hadn’t been arranged in advance. Wilson, who was a member of Fialko’s module, contended Lewis was lying to the group about their schedule and protecting the liaison team from what he thought was valid criticism. In the teen’s opinion, the women still weren’t doing enough advance prep work or taking care of the essentials. Hobart no longer seemed to trust Lewis’s decisions, and Cox sided with Hobart in criticizing every choice their La Salle made. If they all followed the psychological training they’d received before the expedition and delved to the root of the issue, maybe the problems would have been dealt with and dismissed instead of lingering and creating rifts. Instead, tension continually bubbled beneath the surface and every major decision Lewis made was resented or criticized.

  “I think a lot of the criticism is unfounded, based on prejudice, mistrust, rumor, pressure, the tediousness of what we’re doing,” Fialko wrote in his journal. “I suppose I should talk to someone about this. Maybe I’m all mixed up. But tonight I feel good because of a telephone conversation I just had with Linda.”

  Two weeks later in March, Fialko had time to reflect on another aspect of the trip in which it seemed the crew wasn’t meeting his expectations: their voyageur identities. It had been a short day on the river, only eight miles of paddling since they’d managed to cover fifty-five miles the day before, thanks to the strong current at their backs. For once the crew was complaining about Hobart instead of Lewis, who had directed them to a less-than-ideal campsite. In the morning the navigator told them they’d stop on the Louisiana shore not far from Vicksburg, Mississippi; but when it came time to get off the water, Hobart told them to head for a small island in the middle of the river because he thought it looked like a better campsite. The island was thick with grapevines and Virginia creeper, and the men had to spend time clearing vines off the ground in order to pitch the shelters. It wasn’t the worst place they’d ever camped, but the extra work made everyone irritable. At least there was plenty of greenery all around them instead of the dead, brown plants they’d grown so accustomed to over the winter.