Читать книгу Coastal Missouri: Driving On the Edge of Wild - John Drake Robinson - Страница 4

It was one of my first memories of Hannibal. Mark Twain had been dead for forty-five years. I had been alive for four. From behind the front seat of our ’49 Chevrolet, my heart jumped, feeling my father edge our old sedan closer to the Mississippi, that giant river whose black waters blended into the dark night sky. Inching down the cobblestone bank that has been Hannibal’s welcome mat for two centuries, we parked among a hundred other cars. Together, we sat bathed in the popcorn glow of a thousand yellow lights outlining the decks of the Delta Queen. The Queen filled our windshield picture, wider than the eyes of a four-year-old. In an instant, steam the color of Sam Clemens’ hair began belching from a topside calliope, its maestro tapping out the familiar syncopation of “Down Yonder.” As the calliope’s last throaty steam whistles echoed back across the black water, applause burst forth in a most unique manner. Horns honking and lights flashing, the cars came alive in their enthusiastic approval of a sound, a style, and a mode of travel that the internal combustion engine had driven to the edge of extinction.

But not quite.

The Delta Queen was still the grande dame of the rivers.

A few years back, our family rode the Delta Queen from St. Paul to St. Louis, a voyage of seven days, with stops in a half dozen river towns along the way. When Cheryl and I first stepped aboard, we lowered the average age of passengers to eighty-five. It’s too bad that young travelers have no patience for Victorian pace, no taste for Gilded Age grandeur. With a passenger-to-crew ratio of two to one, we were never more than an arm’s length from superb service.

On the day we steamed into Hannibal, passengers went ashore to scour the town, whitewash a fence, get lost in a cave, and generally relive childhood adventures. As the time to depart Hannibal grew near, Cheryl and I sat on our stateroom balcony, reading. For half an hour, the Delta Queen’s whistle had blasted steam signals, calling passengers to get back aboard the boat. The last long whistle echoed between the bluffs as I looked up to see a lady running, nearly out of control, down the hill toward the steamer, arms loaded with packages. The lady’s family and friends shrieked and waved frantically from the Texas deck, hoping the pilot would wait for her to board.

“Cast off all lines,” came the call. Surely the captain wouldn’t penalize her for having too much fun retracing the trails of Tom Sawyer.

With cinematic flair, and no time to spare, she leapt onto the stage—lubbers call it a gangplank—and the Delta Queen shoved off, setting a course downriver to St. Louis.

From the cozy comfort of our stateroom veranda, we heard the calliope hiss and spit a chorus of “Down Yonder,” and watched townspeople trade farewell salutes with riverboat passengers. We raised our wine glasses to the town as it grew tiny in the wake of the churning sternwheel.

Our pilot navigated downriver, between forested bluffs that for the most part remain surprisingly unspoiled by civilization.

* * *

Nothing beats the sunset on the Mississippi. Unless it’s dinner on the Delta Queen. Dinner aboard a riverboat eclipses any feast on a giant modern cruise ship. Every bite is better, as you’re seduced by the elegant intimacy of America’s inland waterways.

On the second night, Cheryl and I donned our best attire to dine with the captain. After the appropriate ice-breaker chit chat, I asked him directly, “Why don’t you take this boat up the Missouri?”

He looked as if I had summoned the Devil to dine with us.

“Dangerous river,” he drew out his words for emphasis. “Swift current, treacherous bends. My steamer will not travel up the Missouri.” Captain John Davitt was true to his word. With a rare exception in the past three decades, when a steamboat visited St. Charles, the royal sisters—Mississippi Queen, American Queen, Delta Queen—avoided the waters of the Missouri River.

As we ate, we watched the scenery through big picture windows. Ol’ Man River unfolded to the steady beat of those eighty-year-old pistons that turned the paddle wheel, pounding out a gentle, hypnotic rhythm.

We prepared for another great night’s sleep. Next day, we’d fly kites off the stern, then retreat back to a favorite read while sitting on our personal veranda, mimosas in hand, watching Mark Twain’s Mississippi from the inside out, the way he intended. Well, it’s one of the ways he wanted us to see it. At the time I wasn’t aware that the river and I would meet again many times, and I would experience her from whole new perspectives.

* * *

The rules of the river, as reported by Sam Clemens, remain intact. We awoke the next morning to thick fog rising from the water. The ship was noiseless, engines silent. Fog is nature’s great eraser, and it had forced each boat to stop and tie up to a tree or two along the river bank. We choked a stump, in riverboat parlance.

The biggest change from Clemens’ time is not the shore line, but the river itself, transformed into a chain of lakes thanks to some of our ancestors who thought they could improve on the beaver. During the 1920s, Congress ordered the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to build a series of locks and dams on this river. The Corps balked, knowing that it couldn’t control flooding on this mighty waterway, the continent’s main drain. But nowadays, the river is the Corps’ domain, and now Congress balks at the cost of taming a river with aging dams.

These broad lakes have spawned hundreds of pleasure boaters and water skiers who dart around the Delta Queen and cut across her bow. Looking like a cover on a Mark Twain novel, the Delta Queen casts a magical spell over boaters, who routinely sidle alongside the ship, and moon the passengers. Twain would heartily approve, I suspect. So do most of the octogenarians on board.

Moons notwithstanding, the views along the river serve deep inspiration. But the best inspiration often comes from within. It was a revelation at dinner that propelled me to continue my journey inland, to further explore the backroads, to drive every mile of every road in Missouri. It may have been the third dinner course, maybe the seventh, I don’t remember. At some point, I tossed my napkin into my plate and leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. The ornate designs of the tin ceiling stared back at me. And I wondered out loud, “Who came up with that gaudy shit?”

Cheryl looked surprised at my blurt, but before she could speak, the server, always at hand, said, “Right in your backyard.”

“Do tell,” I said.

“There in Nevada, Missouri. There’s a place been makin’ tin ceilings for more’n a hunnert years. . . . ”

I made a mental note to find that tin stamping company. But even as the server pulled the last plate away from the table, a clarinet wailed like a Gershwin, and the dance band lurched into a tango, luring out the most elegantly dressed elderly ladies I’d ever seen, each on the arm of a handsome young dance partner. The ladies wore evening gowns, mostly black, in memory of their dead husbands, I’d like to think. And their jewelry, purloined from Cleopatra’s gem box, sparkled in the eyes of their dance partners, these young men, perfectly manicured and tailored in tails.

No doubt about it, this boat specialized in pleasure.

It was tough saying goodbye to this old steamer with its link to the past, its commitment to style, and its doting crew. We docked beneath the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, and I stepped away from Mark Twain’s Mississippi, unsure when I’d ever touch it again.

* * *

Less than a shotgun blast from the Arch, Eads Bridge stands against time. The old bridge, made of iron and stone, was the first span across the Mississippi, and it’s nine years older than the Brooklyn Bridge. In the shadow of this historic old bridge, the riverfront is called Laclede’s Landing, named for one of the city’s most prominent fathers. Today, Laclede’s Landing offers a carnival atmosphere of food and drink and music and gambling. There’s even a place where you can rent wax figures. Kinda like a Midwest Madame Tussaud’s, for hire. No shit, the Laclede’s Landing Wax Museum, Chamber of Horrors, and Ice Cream Parlor rents wax figures for parties and events and such. You can rent an old Missouri legend, maybe a Steve McQueen, or Satan.

I almost bit. After all, it’s lonely on these backroads of Missouri, and I could use some company, a reliable companion who wouldn’t talk much, and might scare away hijackers or Sasquatch. So I thought about checking the cost to rent Jesse James or Jesus to ride with me into the bush. You know, the ultimate protection. But at a minimum of $300 per day, these wax bodyguards were expensive, plus they would have to bend to fit into Erifnus’ shotgun seat. My biggest concern was for Erifnus: What if things got hot, and Jesse James melted in the car?

* * *

Erifnus took me west a few miles down old Route 66—now called Chippewa Street—to the Hill, the home of great Italian culture in St. Louis. This is the neighborhood that nurtured Yogi Berra’s words to live by and Joe Garagiola’s gab. It’s a tidy community with modest homes surrounding great old storefronts painted green and red, framing big plate glass windows, and cast-iron doorways leading into Italian produce grocers and old-fashioned meat markets.

And restaurants. For lunch, you can’t beat the cafeteria fare of Rigazzi’s, a favorite of locals, where you drink Budweiser from a giant frosty fishbowl the size of your head. There’s nothing fancy about Rigazzi’s, and that’s what makes it authentic. There’s no need for pretenses. You come for the food.

I had fried catfish and mashed potatoes and gravy with stewed tomatoes and a side of mostaccioli.

With a full belly and a satisfied soul, I set our compass east a few blocks to the edge of Tower Grove Park, where St. Louis Botanical Garden unveils its floral treasures. Its nickname is Shaw’s Garden, in honor of founder Henry Shaw, one of the preeminent movers and shakers in St. Louis during the mid-nineteenth century.

Shaw was a major landowner, an investor and philanthropist. His botanical garden is his crowning achievement. The highlight of my walk through this cultivated jungle was the garden tribute to my idol, George Washington Carver, patron saint of recycling and crop rotation. Yet the monument to Carver left me feeling a bit conflicted, knowing where I was headed later that day, to confront a flaw in Henry Shaw’s character.

* * *

A couple of miles up St. Louis Avenue sits the Griot Museum of Black History and Culture. At the museum entrance, setting the tone was a 170-year-old raffle poster. It announced that a “Dark Bay Horse named Star and a Mulatto Girl named Sarah” will be raffled for chances at one dollar each.

Museum curator Erica Neal met me and showed me around. I saw inspirational exhibits featuring some of St. Louis’ greats: Miles Davis, whose horn couldn’t hide his emotion. Josephine Baker, who left racism for Paris. Clark Terry, the trumpeter who taught me a bit of his mumbles routine. The museum commemorated the life of George Washington Carver and the trials of Dred Scott.

Throughout the museum, reality smacked me, showing a nasty underbelly of our culture. I folded like an embryo to fit in a life-sized recreation of the hold of a slave trade ship. Even without the threat of seasickness and dysentery and starvation—and the shackles and chains of enslavement—sitting in the cramped underdeck of this display made me physically ill. The saddest part of my museum experience was the realization that not enough children will see what I just saw. And we’re doomed to a culture of ignorance. The end is near.

Wide-eyed, I thanked Erica. Erifnus took me back to the river.

Driving to the Mississippi, we followed the Riverfront Trail north to see Mary. But we were 150 years too late. On this river bank, at the site of an old Coast Guard station, there stands a modest monument to Mary.

Back in 1855 on this spot, a vigilante coast guard busted a boatload of folks trying to make it to freedom. Mary was their leader. Like her husband, legendary teacher John Berry Meachum, Mary Meachum was a free black. John established a school on a riverboat in the middle of the Mississippi so young black Missourians could be educated, while Mary risked her life to help local slaves escape through the St. Louis underground railroad.

From this spot, Mary arranged for a group of runaway slaves to launch a boat by the moonlight to cross the Mississippi to the free soil of Illinois.

But Henry Shaw had other ideas. As great as Henry Shaw was with his plants and gardens and science and money and benevolence, some of the people in this boat were his slaves, and he wanted them back. He got them back, too.

Mary’s crossing was in vain. Only recently has the city publicly acknowledged this conflict in its history. The Mary Meachum monument is small, compared to the Gateway Arch and Shaw’s Garden, and it’s accessible only by taking a back road and crossing to the other side of the tracks.

We drove to the Chain of Rocks Bridge, a span that attaches itself to rocky shoals in the Mississippi. The bridge makes an abrupt thirty-degree turn in the middle of the river. For a time, the Chain of Rocks Bridge was part of Route 66. And throughout its history, there have been many bloody wrecks and even murders on its decks. Erifnus couldn’t cross it, since the bridge has been closed to vehicles for decades. Pedestrians and cyclists cross the bridge freely, connecting hiking/biking trails on either side of the river.

I walked to the middle of the bridge, where it makes its deadly turn, and looked out over the deadly shoals that can shred boats careless enough to try to navigate this section of the river. That’s why the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers built a canal to circumvent this part of the Mighty Mississip.

As I stood in the middle of that bridge, I had no way of knowing that one day soon I’d be paddling into this river in the dead of winter.