Missouri Life September 2023

The river journey began as an almost effortless float down the Missouri, but later a strong headwind made the journey slower and more challenging than

For the bike ride, we started at Dutzow and rode out 25 miles west then turned around and came back. The hike was a mishmash of city and wilderness trails— the best part was the Lewis and Clark trail, a loop near Defiance with beautiful overlooks of the Missouri River. The canoe leg came first, and we put in at Mokane, heading east. We put up a brisk pace from the first paddle stroke. The river flowed steadily below us, and the sun warmed our cheeks. Trees lining the river stood tall and green with just an occasional hint of the color change that was soon to come. We talked back and forth among the six canoes about how easy this was compared to last year’s 50-50-50 slow-motion slog on a different river. The irony of this will become clear: The first notes I took celebrated taking the slow way. “The other side of the river always looks faster,” I wrote. “The key to life is deciding not to care.” Yeah, well, I cared an hour later when the wind picked up, straight into our faces. It was subtle at first, the dif ference between walking on the sidewalk and walking on the driveway. But soon it became a steep incline. My pastor, Mike, sat behind me. Using his paddle to steer, he tucked us close to shore, hoping the trees along it would cut the wind. That helped, but barely. We chased the fast bubbles, which revealed the river’s channel, always its fastest section. That helped, too, also barely. For hours, we fought the elements, our faces turning pink from effort, sun, and wind. Our language hewed closer to blue. Paddle hard, paddle hard, paddle hard. Go nowhere, go nowhere, go nowhere. Finally, a bridge emerged in the distance, high above the river, carrying cars to and from Hermann.

Almost there. Almost there. Almost there. We still weren’t close.

I brought up something Shane told me as we drove over that bridge on the way to the put-in spot near Mokane. I used my paddle to point and hollered to my friend Josh in another canoe. “Shane called that the Bridge of False Hope because you can see it for miles. You think you’re done, and then it takes forever to actually get there.” His smile turned into a smirk and back into a smile. “He’s got that right,” he said. Our itinerary called for us to paddle under that bridge and keep going another 15 miles. We had to abandon that plan because it would get dark too soon. We were already three hours behind. When I collapsed into bed that night, I felt woozy. I never sleep well on adventures. Sometimes it’s garden-variety insomnia. Sometimes my heart rate hasn’t sufficiently slowed after a day of exertion. Sometimes anxiety about leading the trip grips me. This time, the bed felt like it was moving, swaying, drifting as if I was still bobbing up and down with waves. The bed moved faster than my canoe ever did. At least it seemed that way. b b b We arrived at the river the next morning to see it shrouded in fog. The bridge into Hermann — the Bridge of False Hope — disappeared into it, like a straw into a milkshake. Instead of being visible for miles as it had been the day before, now it was invisible from close-up. As we loaded our canoes and readied to push off toward New Haven and Washington beyond that, Shane

the men had anticipated.

JOHN URHAHN

42 / MISSOURILIFE.COM