Have you Hugged Your Guide Today

"In the end we will only conserve what we love: we will love only what we understand; and we will understand only what we have been taught."
-Baba Dioum

Several of my dearest friends, brothers and sisters really; work as kayak and camping guides along the mighty Missouri River in South Eastern South Dakota. It is easy for us to see the duress this beautiful river is under. Its integrity seems compromised from a new direction every day, despite federal protection.

It's hard not to notice the enormity of the threats to the natural world. It sometimes seems discouraging and at other times like there is a glimmer of hope. If it's not natural processes like erosion, drought or sedimentation; it's pollution, overuse and general mismanagement. And the Missouri River is certainly not alone in those regards. Environmental issues take shape world- wide with heated passionate arguments on each side of the line.

On outings we speak of these issues amongst ourselves and with our guests. As professionals we try to maintain an optimistic view versus getting trapped under the potentially crushing weight of negativity. Admittedly, playing devil's advocate would seldom be easier. "Will we save our natural resources in time or will we pollute and overuse ourselves to death?"

Several of us have worked with other guide companies from all over the U.S. and abroad. Our profession blesses us with a wonderful collection of diversity; thousands of guides of all different ages, nationalities, education and experiences, areas of specialty and motivations.

Guides can be an interesting lot, let me be the first to tell you. Sometimes they are the poorly balanced ones at the end of the bar at closing time trying to order "just one more Jagermeister". But they are also the grad students, the journalists, the teachers, the waitresses, the semi-retired firefighters, Kung Fu instructors, tree trimmers, computer techies. The list goes on and on. There are guides for climbing, hiking, horseback riding, sailing, diving, kayaking, canoeing, camping, hunting, fishing and every other possible hobby.

And in effecting an actual and tangible shift in practice to protect our environment, it is the guides who in so many ways possess a real ability to connect. We only number in the thousands but we have clientele from around the globe numbering in the millions. It seems not only our option to promote environmental stewardship; a way to extend our livelihood beyond the end of this season. It seems with our potential for impacting views of others; our responsibilit

When those millions of adventurers are on an outing with us we have their attention. Their ears, eyes and minds are wide open. Given the opportunity most travelers will immerse themselves in the experience, opening their minds to new views and practices. It is here that we have the ability to spark change in the world! Sure that is a grand, idealistic notion but

We have the opportunity to not only show real, every day people the natural world and its wonders; we do it right there on the battleground where Earths struggle to survive, heal and replenish can be won or lost. Or rather, these are the field training locations where unwitting tourists can be armed with an arsenal of understanding through experience; personal commitment to reversing negative ecological trends and a new level of appreciation of the outdoors.

Perhaps most powerful are the experiences shared in multi-generational groups. As parents and grandparents see their kids and grandkids explore and learn, grow and challenge themselves; it happens. They see in their offspring a flash of themselves at an unjaded time of wonder in their own lives decades past, and realize how valuable it is. "I wish I could…" is replaced with, "for the sake of my children I must…"

Fostering education, introspection and new views of our places in the natural world; we are the teachers. We are the optometrists offering a new vision. Guides are the belonged to and originally came from. We are the interpreters encouraging masses of people to listen to the quiet sound of a rivers speech, a sunrises song, a campfires own ageless legends.

I say to all my fellow guides and other comrades: "How blessed we are! We are doing more than enjoying a wonderful occupation. Remember we are accomplishing more than safe trips, comfortable camps and nice pictures. We have the rare and fantastic opportunity to really affect some change all over the world.

We all know this place is our occupation, our office. But more honestly- it is our home. By inviting others into our domain and by getting them to take ownership, we gain allies in protecting it.

They trust us, depend on our judgment; are in many ways vulnerable to our intentions or lack of them. Leading by example, we hand them the lenses with which they can see the world and their role in it in a whole new way. Of course it is up to them whether they choose to look through those lenses but we can offer. We can make them want to."

Tourists, adventurers-to-be, hikers, bikers and divers… the guiding profession truly calls for your guides to carry more on their shoulders than a pack or boat. Indeed they shoulder up much more. And they do so not only willingly, but enthusiastically. Most would have it no other way.

Indeed we are in a sense the Earth's homeroom teachers. This all is why at the end of the season it's not hard to find a recently unemployed guide with a spark in their eye and an aching, empty spot in their heart.

And for doing that… for being that, maybe you might offer them a handshake, show them that picture in your wallet or purse of your first paddle or solo ascent and the guide who got you there. Tell them thanks for all they do.
And spring for that last shot at closing time.

"A lake is the landscape's most beautiful and expressive feature. It is the earth's eye; looking into which the beholder measures the depth of his own nature."
-- Henry David Thoreau

Copyright 2004 Tony Kellar, NorthCountry Enterprises

Tony Kellar Story

They stared in confusion. Sideways looks at each other and raised eyebrows betrayed their nervous skepticism. What had Mom gotten them into this time? The two and a half hour trip across brown, flat, harvested, boring prairie wasn't a good start. They looked at this mass of skinny poles, a heap of browned canvas and each other for any sign that this would all turn out alright. Based strictly on looks- I'm quite sure Robin and I did nothing to reassure them. They zipped up their coats to the top. It was a bit chilly.

He and I finished the lashing and prepared the lifting pole. They watched with… apprehension. Geese flew overhead, calling out to us. We grabbed the canvas- laden pole and helped it into place amongst the others. Our young guests shuffled their feet and looked about. The final pole now pointed up at the fluffy white clouds drifting in lazy pursuit of the geese.

The canvas was rolled out and lacing pins were pushed into place, joining the two halves into a tall cone. Stakes were pounded and bottom lashings tied. As Robin unpacked the liner, I took it inside and began to lift it into place and tie it to the poles.
The kids peeked in through the door and stared in growing comprehension. Mellow sunlight filled the interior. The little boy looked in, then to the fire pit, then to his older brother and said as only a child could,"…cool."
Robin looked over at me and smiled.

I don't think the kids had heard a word of our explanation about a tipi's structural integrity or of Robin's recounting of his Lakota peoples history with this sort of thing.
Their doubt and skepticism had bled through like spilt ink. Gail- their mother nodded politely and smiled. What was she thinking? (Too late for a reservation at the Kelley Inn- poolside? Order pizza?)

Robin and I put the finishing touches on the liner, drawing it taught and making sure it was flush to the ground. As we stepped outside, I explained that the last part would be a contest- to try to maneuver the tips of two 24 foot poles into each of the two very small pockets on the smoke flaps. The flaps hung at the tipi's side, about 10 feet in the air.

They would work in two teams, one coached by Robin, the other by myself. The first team to get their pole in the pocket and adjust their smoke flap correctly would be relieved of fire- tending duties after bedtime.
It was a fun test of teamwork and patience. Eventually Robin's team won, through sheer luck of course.

After helping us stack firewood near the door and praying a blessing for us with burning sage, Robin bid us farewell and headed back to Vermillion. The sun set and I began dinner.



Gail and her brood watched, now looking a bit more confident as the tipi warmed with the growing campfire.

This strange shelter had turned into a warm and inviting area where each had their own space and their own view of the fire. They settled in comfortably. Now they were impressed. Now they had confidence that they might actually sleep here tonight and be "o.k."

Actually, Gail had seen tipis years before, which had piqued her interest. Now, she sought a novel weekend away for her and her kids- a wilderness adventure. Some education.

The pleasant essence of wood-smoke and browning meat filled the lodge. We dined on stuffed fire- roasted tenderloin and sautéed morel mushrooms atop a bed of creamy skin- on mashed potatoes laced heavily with butter and sour cream. The kids wiped their plates clean with slices of fresh garlic bread.

That cold night the stars were bright as our fire crackled and popped. We sat around the warm fire and heard the coyotes howling and yelping just across the river. A screech owl added to the eerie chorus. The kids had no brave poker faces- coyotes were scary, period. I saw Matt scoot casually closer to Gail and Jake a bit closer to Buck, my golden retriever. Buck didn't mind the extra attention.
"Mom, can we put more wood on the fire?"
"Yeah, can we Mom?"

As an exercise, we each took turns seeing who could tell the best story, no matter whether funny or scary- just storytelling. Laughter abounded.

Chocolate cake from the Dutch oven and hot tea before bed was the final straw. The kids fell asleep staring at the quietly crackling fire, each nestled warmly into their bedroll, comfy. Their lazy smiles flickered in the warm glow of the firelight.

The losing team (Zach and Jake) had stacked some short oak logs within reach, to stoke the fire through the cold night. The deep bed of hot glowing coals radiated an assurance of heat, safety and comfort.

I bid them goodnight and headed to my own tent, a two man just big enough for me and Buck. As I walked away, I looked back and stopped to admire the way the tipi glowed and pulsed like a beautiful, perfect conical candle in the night

My alarm went off every third hour- each time I checked that the fire in the tipi was being fed- just fine. I envied the family warm around the fire. Buck is a fine dog and a wonderful companion, but no campfire.



I arose at 7:30, made coffee and watched the sun rise over the river. Every color on a painter's palette was represented. I could never deny a higher power was at work.
I'm not sure I've ever seen folks so reluctant to get out of bed. Even with offers of fresh baked cinnamon rolls and scrambled eggs with ham and potatoes- the kids wanted breakfast in bed! It was their vacation- they got breakfast in bed.

After Gail practically pried her youth from their sleeping bags and pajamas we all spent the day exploring the riverside, throwing rocks and sighting animals. (Real and imaginary, I think.) We hiked up and down the shoreline, through the trees and across the sand. The kids were able to play hide and seek. We saw tracks of all sorts. Buck was able to flush out pheasants. I took some great pictures of the family with their camera- Gail said she'd use them for Christmas pictures. More geese flew overhead.

By noon we were all ready for lunch. Grilled cheese and tomato soup hit the spot. We had hot apple pie and hot cocoa for dessert. Then the kids laughed as they gave Buck leftover grilled cheese booby-trapped with peanut butter. (Ugh!)

Later that day, Gail packed the kids and their gear into her minivan, expressed their thanks and said that they would no doubt return, perhaps for some kayaking during the summer months. The kids said, 'only if Buck comes!" That was the first weekend this family had spent in a tipi. They have now returned. Another year older- we, the geese and Buck have returned to share another South Dakota winter weekend along the banks of the Missouri. We all have new stories to share with each other.

This year they brought me a nice wreath of evergreen boughs, red ribbon and pheasant feathers to hang in the tipi.

I guide for many reasons, and it is clear to me every time, why. When I get to share in experiences like this; seeing families bond, teaching youngsters about respect for each other and the natural world, I see flashes of my own youth. Fresh air. Cold water. Coyotes howling. Wood smoke. That bright, magic spot way down deep in the coals that I can just seem to stare at… for hours.

We stayed and slept that night in the tipi, just me and Buck. We shared leftovers. Before bed I brought out my flask and toasted the night and my good fortune in life. The fire was warm again, the stars glittering bright in the sky. I lay in my sleeping bag and stared into the flames absolutely mesmerized.
Coyotes called out somewhere in the distance. Buck got up, circled and laid closer to me. Life was good. Life is good.
Mitakuye oyasin.

Copyright 2004 Tony Kellar, NorthCountry Enterprises

Native Heartbeat

Being a river guide for the past five years of my life has been much more than a good experience, it has made me a better person. It has taught me many of life's little lessons, including not taking your own backyard for granted, and the true meaning and sanctity of friendship. When we are young it is easy to take those closest to us for granted. Many do not appreciate all the little things that come from having someone there who truly understands and cares about you.

One trip in particular stands out in my mind as showing me how much true friendship really means. It was late June and the wind was uncharacteristically calm all afternoon. The reunited group of high school compadres basked in togetherness as they floated behind me on the pristine waterway below Ft. Randall Dam. The entire day was spent rehashing old memories and telling private jokes, which seem to have gotten funnier since the last time they were told. As we rounded the home stretch and camp one came into view, the men broke into cheerful song. The song which had been collecting dust since the men had been together 10 years prior was now filling the gaps in the river bluffs. As we reached camp one, the men began settling into camp as I prepared dinner. A light breeze ran its finger through my hair and wafted promises of mediterannean pork chops to my guests.They made short work of the hefty meal and settled down around a cooler of ice cold beer for a song or three.

They were not the only ones on the river with a reason to celebrate that night. The Sioux's ceremonial drumming was echoing throughout the river bottom as rhythmic chants serenaded the sun as it raced for the horizon. The summer solstice was upon us and the twilight of the year‚s longest day was warm and mild.

After dinner, I paddled out over the glassy water to find my favorite vantage point to take in the harmonious evening to its fullest extent. The native heart beat continued to grow in intensity as I stealthily approached my sand strewn perch. The wake from my kayak seemed to flow to the melody of the Sioux drums as the kayak came to rest on the lonely sandbar. Overcome by the scene unfolding around my kayak, I became awestruck at the fluidity of nature, perfect harmony. The music flowing from the drums was the same as the song from the eagle or the frog. It was clear that the melody came from the earth as the river flowed to it and the cottonwoods swayed with it. The beat of the native heart bumped wildly as hints of pink and orange spread across a tattered blanket of clouds.

To this day I am still convinced that the eagle's scream had been orchestrated by one of the holy men upriver. The mature baldy appeared out of nowhere and glided above the crimson river, his snowy crest now orange in the eve's fading glow. At one point I could see every stroke of God's paintbrush, sliding across the sky in time with the drum. As orange turned topink and pink to red, the sun quickly dipped down to the west. Just as the last sliver of sun sank below the ancient cottonwoods on the horizon, the drums stopped abruptly. As it did my soul was consumed by the silence of this well kept secret I call home.

As I paddled back to camp, my group of paddlers had resumed singing old chorus tunes from their glory days. Although they carried a tune very well, nothing could match what I had heard on that lonely sandbar in the middle of this mighty Missouri River. Later on that evening as the men retired to their tents, I couldn‚t help but throw up my hands and thank God for the scene I had witnessed earlier.

To this day, I have never experienced a situation resembling the balance between man and nature as I did that night. Everything was perfect, pure harmony in the truest sense of the word. Scenes like the one I have described are rare but happen everyday in all parts of the world. Not only must we have our eyes and ears open to these experiences, we must keep our hearts and minds open as well.

A Sioux elder once said, "To love the mountains one must simply open his eyes, to love the prairie, one must open his soul." Please come and enjoy this beautiful river with us this season, you won't regret it.

--Chad Cadwell

Missouri River 340

A race down the Missouri River from Kansas City to St. Louis?….wow, simply brilliant.  When I found out about this race in July, I immediately wanted to participate.  So, while on a paddling trip to the Upper Missouri River, I talked it over with a good friend of mine, Chad Cadwell.   Chad operates a kayak guide service on the Missouri River and he too was psyched to do this race.  The plan was for us to use a tandem kayak and we even began to discuss strategy, such as how one of us could rest while the other keeps things moving, pushing through the night, food, etc.  However, it was not to be.  Try as he might, Chad simply could not re-arrange his client bookings.  We both conceded that we would do the race next year and frankly, I was relieved.  It is a long distance to paddle non-stop for 340 miles.  I remember stretching my fingers on a map of North America and the distance was equivalent to crossing Lake Michigan lengthwise!  Additionally, I had not trained for this event.  I paddle on the river all the time, however this is most often recreationally.  So, with some regrets, I emailed Scott and withdrew our entry and tried to think about next year.

  Fast-forward 3 weeks…. only 7 days to the start of the race.  I could not sit still….AHHH….I have to do this thing!!  In a snap decision, I called my wife Alma and pronounced that I was entering the race as a solo kayaker.  She told me I was nuts…"you cant do this off-the-couch"…my reply was defensive "hey, I paddle a lot and I am in good shape from road biking"…she still objected, but knew me well enough to let me go for it.  I should mention…she speaks with some authority on these things.  She has been an outdoor athlete all her life, run several marathons and competed in the adventure race ECO-CHALLENGE. Logically she was right, however, I simply felt I had no choice. I love this river and could not stand the idea on not being in this event.  Even if I blew up during the event, I had to try….I had to!

  So there I was Wednesday morning, surrounded by other paddlers and about to embark on the Missouri River 340 from the confluence of the Kaw River in Kansas City.  I put my boat on the water and walked around and talked to the other boaters.  We were all nervous to get going.  I noticed some of the very serious boaters present, with long sleek kevlar lay-up specialized racing canoes and kayaks.  My kayak on the other hand, was a nice wooden kayak that I had built.  It was only 16 feet long and length equals speed.  I felt like a pickup truck entering a Nascar race.  I kept telling myself; "you have to run your own race…let those racers go…and paddle your own pace…not someone else's".  Everyone was soon on the water and the horn is sounded and the race was underway.  I waved to my family and started the first stroke of a rhythm I would be in for the next three days.

  It did not take long for the group to spread out.  West Hansen (in a specialized black racing canoe) was off like a flash…paddle smacking the water in fast cadence.  I passed a few boats and a few boats passed me "run your own race Hopkins"…I repeated to myself over and over.  Several miles down river I pulled along side Brian Smith, a racer from Texas .  He had competed in the grueling Texas water safari race and we chatted about the race and about the river ahead.  He asked me "what is your strategy?" The question caught me off guard, however I replied "I plan to go all day and all night…you know when you pass a driver on the highway who is going only 45 mph.…however, when you stop for a soda and pull back on the highway…surprise, surprise, you are right behind the slow driver again…my goal is to be like the slow driver…never stop"  I also told him that I had partially torn the rotator cuff in my right shoulder last year and that I was worried about this injury.  I had resolved that I was not going to exchange months of immobility for this race, and if the shoulder flared up…I would get off the river.

  I had 4 gallons of water on the boat with me and all the food I would need for 4 days.  I had no formal plans for a support crew…this was for two reasons…(1) I re-entered the race at the last minute and Alma would have trouble getting off work at the last minute (2) I did not want to worry about coordinating with a support crew. .. I wanted to make sure that I paddled at my own pace and could just focus on me and the river.  In retrospect this was a mistake. I carried way too much weight for most of the race and I would have deprived my family of cheering me on and feeling like they had participated.  The fact is, I was not all that sure I would finish (shoulder being a major concern).  Later in the race Alma and kids did provide support and it turned out to be all the difference in the world.  I am so glad they got to feel like a part of this event and meeting them always raised my spirits and allowed me to push harder.

  The first day slipped by and fell into night.  Before dark…Scott Mansker (a race organizer) motored up and let me know that there was a storm on the way and to expect thunder storms in the night.  I perversely welcomed this news…as I knew this river and paddled on her at night all the time.  I felt that adverse weather conditions such as a head winds or storms would give me a home-court advantage.  Night on the river is amazing…I felt really good, but did notice that the sky behind me was full of lightning from the approaching storm.  I knew from experience that storms on the river can bring dramatic high winds and with nowhere to hide, these winds can be a threat to boaters.  As the storm continued to build all around me, I was watching for any sign of wind.  I planned to get off the water immediately at the first hint of strong winds.  I paddled closer to the L-dikes and the plan was to tuck in behind one of these when the storm struck me.  The storm continued to build, with lightning and thunder doing its best to intimidate me. Crossing the open river to the channel on the outside bends became a nerve wrecking gamble. I did not want to get caught out on the open river when this storm let loose.  Each crossing became more and more intense as I looked up and around and tried to judge if it was time to get off the river.  Just before another channel crossing, I passed a group of Jon boats tied to the bank and something inside me said "now—get of the water".  I actually turned around and paddled back up river to the boats on the bank, tied off my kayak and set up my little bivy tent.

  I had just as I got inside the tent when a gigantic train came down the river…the train was the wind and it ran right over me pushing my tent down over me.  I was partially under a grove of huge cotton wood trees and I winced at the thought of a tree limb falling down on my little nylon shelter.  However, exhaustion soon took over and I simply fell asleep.  I awoke two hours later and looked out of the bivy tent.  The night was calm and the lights of two kayakers were slowly drifting by my campsite.  I would later figure out this was Brian Smith who had taken Katie Pfefferkorn under his wing during the storm.  He was a strong paddler and I respect him for putting aside the race for a fellow paddler…kudo's to you Brian.  I packed up my stuff in a flash and got back on the river.  I silently passed by Brian and Katie on the inside of a bend in the river.  Another storm hit as I approached the ramp at Waverly.  I hoped this storm would pass over fast and I pulled over on the ramp and lay down in the mud next to the ramp with my rain fly over me.  Katie and Brian came in a little later and beached their boats and walked up to the top of the ramp.  As soon as the winds died down…I got back on the river.  It was raining hard but the pushy part of the storm had passed.  

  Hours later dawn broke on the river and I pulled over to cleanup and move some water from my holds to my camel back.  I felt good…sore and tired, but good…the river was simply beautiful in the calm after the storm.  Suddenly, my cell phone began to sing and it turned out to be Scott.  "Your alive…man I was worried about you…I pictured your wooden boat smashed on a wingdam"  I assured Scott I was fine and he let me know that I was in second place of the solo paddler group….second place!…no way…I could not believe it.  I put the cell phone away and looked up to see James Fawcett paddle by….oh well so much for second place.  The next several hours were torture.  I was exhausted and everything hurt….my body wanted to stop and my mind had to simply override this message and push my body forward.  Paddle, pain, paddle, pain, paddle, pain…on and on.  My spirit revived at Glasgow.  A sign was hung on the river front that said "Welcome Racers"…at the ramp I got water and bananas and positive encouragement from several members of others support teams….river people are such a good lot.

  My family planned to meet me at Taylors landing.  We live in Columbia and this section of river is my backyard.  I had looked forward to arriving here and knew I could keep my chin up on this section of river.  Alma and kids were great…I got fresh Gatorade, water and shared fruit and sausage with my kids for 20 minutes or so. "Got to get going"…I kissed all goodbye and set out on the river as the sun was setting.  I paddled by the ramp at Coopers Landing around 11:00 p.m. and it seemed quiet.  I did not need anything anyway and so kept pushing on.  Soon I padded past a rivermile marker (168)…200 miles with only 2 hours of sleep…I was too tired to be elated, but felt proud to have come this far.  Paddle, paddle, paddle. Around 4:00 a.m, the lack of sleep began to reveal itself.  The stars in sky started jumping around in mysterious patterns.  I saw a huge snapping turtle….four feet across…it blinked its eyes at me and I paddled closer for a look…got to within 3 feet of it when it suddenly turned into a log.  Snakes were swimming up to my boat…good thing that I am not afraid of snakes…but I realized I was hallucinating.  This was not safe.  Time to pull over and reprogram my brain with a little sleep.  Four hours later, dawn was breaking and I set out with 3 feet of mist over the top of the river.  Around a bend in the river and I see a dark form in the mist leaving a sandbar…with two figures flailing at the water…I was the McHenry's in their fast racing tandem kayak…they were gone in flash, disappearing into the mist ahead of me.

  Wind, Wind Wind….that is what I remember the most about Friday and this section of the river…a head wind…strong and demoralizing.  Many times I had to fight to just move forward at all.  Stop paddling and you move up river…so much for current.  Wind, pain, wind, pain, wind…and beauty.  At this point in the race I began to enter a predictable pattern of several hours of pain followed by euphoria.  It was like my body said…"hey I have been telling you to stop…and you are not listening…so I am not going to talk to you anymore!"  Hours at a time I would be free of discomfort and would paddle hard and enjoy the amazing scenery unfolding around me…the mouth of Osage, the mouth of Gasconade…simply amazing, this river is truly a gift.  Then the pain would seep back in and visit me for a few hours…wind, pain, wind-pain.

  I got word that Alma and kids had left Columbia and would try to meet me at boat ramps along the way.  By then I had passed Herman and we agreed to try for Washington.  I was getting exhausted and I would not be able to paddle all through the night. I used my cell phone to do the required race check in and was told that Fawcett had gotten stomach cramps and that Marek Uliasz was last reported to be in Portland at 7:30 p.m. Portland….That was way behind me, he will never be able to make up that ground.  I may actually have a chance at second place in the solo division of this race…no way…I could not believe it!  The news got me going again…but exhaustion soon kicked in with a fury around 2:00 a.m. and I began to look for a sandbar.  I knew there were lots of sand bars in this area, but I could not find them.  A haze had built up on the river and my lights faded into this mist after 100 yards or so.  I was so, so, so tired.  Finally, in desperation I approached a fisherman anchored at the end of a wingdam and asked "do you know of a sand bar around here?'  After he got over his surprise, he got out his spotlight and showed me a sand bar that was only 50 feet away! I told him what I was doing on the river, thanked him and went and set up my tent.  Six hours later I awoke…way too long to sleep and not long enough…oh I was so stiff and sore.  The fisherman was still there and had evidentially spent the night in his Jon boat.  He informed me that another kayker had just come by 15 minutes ago.  What??….who the hell was that…I called Christie Mansker (also a race organizer)…woke her up at 6:00 a.m….with twenty questions on who just passed me.  She was sure everyone was behind me up river.  We both concluded that the kayaker must be a local enjoying a Saturday morning on the river.  I set out to catch this kayaker and talk.  Several bends in the river later and I saw the flash of a paddle going in and out of the water.  I pushed a little harder to catch this recreational kayaker and talk a little.  Man this person is fast…this must be a fitness paddler out for a Saturday morning workout….I could not catch them and did not want to burn out trying to catch some local kayaker.  I got back in a groove and just kept moving forward at my own pace.  

  Later, a mile or two from Washington and where my family was to meet me, as I drifted by a notch in a wingdam.  I looked to my right to see a long, black racing canoe and someone bent over it arranging equipment.  We both just stared at each other, dumbfounded.  I stupidly croaked…"are you in the race?" He replied in a thick Polish accent  "ya"…I told him Fawcett was out of the race and then I drifted by. I could not believe it.  Marek must have paddled all night to close that gap.  We were only 70 miles from the finish and now he had caught me.  Something clicked in my head and I dropped the hammer….go, go, go….I got to the ramp at Washington with Marek only 500 yards behind.  I yelled to Alma …"throw me the water and food…I have to get going…If I can break him now…maybe I can still beat him"…she waded into the river and threw me the supplies and I took off.   I paddled and paddled and paddled….but soon I heard and gentle slap, slap, slap behind me.  It was Marek, he had caught me with apparent ease. We talked for a while about what we do for a living, etc.  All the while I am thinking "how did you catch me?" I did not want to paddle his pace and so told him I needed to get my long sleeve shirt off and dropped back and let him go.

  Oh well third place is not so bad and this guy is an animal…built like a boxer and in a kevlar-everything racing canoe….let it go Hopkins.  I met up with the family at ramp near Klondike and told Alma that I did not want to race neck and neck to the end of this adventure…and that I wanted to enjoy 40 miles I had left to go. She simply stated "You could still catch him…you never know, and told me she was proud of me". I kissed the kids and set out to finish this great adventure.  I even stopped to cleanup, change into shorts and get water out of my cockpit.  Around 15 miles later, I passed the boat ramp at Weldon Spring and noticed that Marek's wife, Connie was just packing up supplies on the ramp. She yelled support to me and clapped her hands.  Wow…Marek cant be that far in front of me…but I can never keep up with the hull speed of that 20+ foot racing boat of his.  Then the wind began to blow and blow hard…right in my face.  Slowly it dawned on me that this wind could actually slow down his longer boat…do I have a chance??

  I rounded a couple of bends in the river…with a fierce headwind and lo and behold, there he was.  No way…20 miles to go and we are gonna do a sprint to the finish!!  I tucked my head down and started to pull, pull, pull, pull.  I hit the runners wall and all pain slipped away.  I caught Marek with only 7 miles to go and passed him on the inside of a bend in the river.  Pull, Pull, Pull, Pull.  The wind was fierce and I was pulling ahead.  Then we would hit a doldrum, with the wind dropping off and Marek would begin to reel me in….crap, crap, crap….Wind, wind, wind….yes, yes, yes….I would tuck my head down low and pull, pull, pull

  The end result is I feel it was the river that gave me the chance…without the head wind I never would have been able to compete with Marek.  When he pulled up to the finish line, I said "promise me we will never do that again…no one should ever have to sprint 20 miles at the end of a 340 mile race!"  We talked several times over the next day and I respect him immensely. I have been changed by this race.  I will race next year for sure…but next year the field will be full of extra powerful paddlers, that I am sure.  During this race, I became friends with pain and found I could push though it…and most of all the river is amazing, beautiful and remote and I feel blessed to just have been out there.

Bryan T. Hopkins
Environmental Education Specialist
Missouri Department of Natural Resources
P.O. Box 176, Jefferson City MO 65102-0176