Mile 850 of Upper Mississippi, just north of Caruthersville, MO – November 17, 2012
I lay next to the Looksha on a giant sandbar, staring at an open sky of stars, waiting for meteors to streak across the darkness.
They say that the Earth passes through an old comet’s tail every November, that those little flecks of rock and ice spun off long ago to burn across our atmosphere as we hurl through the comet’s wake, but laying on a sandbar, it doesn’t matter why. I just want to watch shooting stars.
To me, the beauty isn’t in the cosmic origins, it isn’t in a comet’s tail, or the Earth’s orbit around the sun. The beauty is in the fleeting unpredictability, the sense that if you close your eyes for just a moment you may miss something extraordinary or you may miss nothing at all.
But you have to stare, to fight against weariness, fight against all desire to sleep and give in, fight for nothing more than the hope of a moment’s wonder.
What else can you ask from the world than that?
Predictably Lost 
Most excellent! So much wonder happening all the time…. 🙂
When you get close to Memphis please contact me. I can help you with logistics etc. Dave Corthwaite and Mark Kalch have both stopped here. fdales@aol.com.
Contact me at Memphis. Both Dave Cornthwaite and Mark Kalch can vouch for me as well as John Ruskey, Clarksdale MS.
If you are reading this it means you have avoided getting stuffed under any of those moored barges. Good for you. Enjoy the river. The northern part of the Florida gulf will be a challenge. There is a reward however when you leave the last of the condos behind after Marco Island. Are you experiencing paddlers high? Much like the well known runners rush of endorphins and endocannibinoids. If not try upping your cadence A trick I learned is speeding way up about 3minutes before stopping. Seems to prevent that lethargic feeling as you drag stuff from the waters edge. Are you going to turn left into pontchartrain? It’s not a fun paddle all the way to M zero. Sent from deep in the backcountry, not a soul within thirty miles unless I count Donna. Remember: it’s the boundary waters without the portages. Jb.
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