Why Nov. 19 is a Day for Reverence and Joy

I always approach the day of November 19 with religious reverence and a large dose of grateful joy.

When I wake up on the morning of November 19, I give thanks to the universe and to a greater power. And then comes a laugh and a day of happiness celebrating the simple facts that, No. 1, I once completed a rugged journey that few folks in our modern age have made; No. 2, I survived; and, No. 3, I’m still alive to tell the story.

November 19 was the day of the year—back 45 years ago—when four of my friends and I reached the St. Louis Gateway Arch, completing a half-year, 3,700-mile journey along the trail of the Lewis and Clark Expedition.

Our excursion was undertaken when I was a young man, a very young man, and it was by backpack; canoe and kayak on the rivers; and by foot across the Rockies.

Sometimes, as we hiked the Lolo Trail, the mountain forests were so silent all we could hear was our own beating hearts.

It was a poetic ballad of sweat, Nature’s beauty, friendship, aching muscles, blisters, sunburns, the fresh smell of pine trees, starry nights, snowy mornings, unbounded enthusiasm, at times gut-wrenching fear, great laughter, cold rain, and more sweat, always sweat, and always wind in our faces no matter which way we faced, a great mystery how that always seemed to be.

We started in early June at Fort Clatsop near the mouth of the Columbia River at the coastal edges of Oregon and Washington. The fort of today is a replica of a long-gone winter fort constructed there by the Lewis and Clark explorers in late 1805 after they spent the previous year and a half traveling through the wilderness from St. Louis. They lived at their Fort Clatsop for almost four months and in the spring of 1806 undertook a 6-month journey back to civilization at St. Louis.

One member of our group, Mike Cochran, was a cartoonist. This was his version of how Lewis and Clark and the dog Seaman felt at times as they moved along the Lolo Trail. A slight bit of editorial license here—back then, Lewis and Clark rode horses across the mountains. Poor ol’ Seaman, though, had to hoof it!

From Fort Clatsop, we paddled up the Columbia, Snake, and Clearwater rivers, hiked across the Lolo Trail in the high mountains of Idaho and into Montana (our boats were trucked over the mountains), and then paddled down the Beaverhead and Jefferson rivers to the Missouri River. The Missouri took us north—to within 50 miles of the Canadian border—and then curved us directly south through the Dakotas, along the edges of Nebraska and Iowa, and southeast across the state of Missouri to that beautiful Gateway Arch towering 630 feet above the river.

Today’s Missouri River, by the way, is still free-flowing, clear, swift, and gorgeous through a stretch of Montana. But then, with 19 dams that now back up huge reservoirs, the mighty river becomes what seems like one endless lake. Some areas are so wide you can’t see across to the far shore. High winds skim along the surface of the water, churning up giant, dangerous waves. Travel by muscle power was so slow that some days we struggled to make a dozen miles of progress across the reservoirs.

Forty-five years ago I stepped across the source of the Missouri River. This photo was published in an article that I wrote for the Denver Post’s Empire Magazine. Click here to read the article. On August 12, 1805, Lewis and some of his men reached the source not far from where I stood for this photo.  Lewis wrote in his journal that one of the men, Hugh McNeal, “had exultingly stood with a foot on each side of this little rivulet and thanked his god that he had lived to bestride the mighty & heretofore deemed endless Missouri.”

The best of us was a tall, rosy-cheeked Idahoan, Clay Asher, who had just graduated from the Twin Falls high school and reached the age of 18 only a few days prior to our departure. He could paddle all day. Even with a 60-pound pack on his back, he would keep a long-legged stride going for hours along rough and steep mountain trails. He loved the outdoors. He knew the wildlife and the plant life. He had a natural instinct for navigating rapids. Most importantly, he knew how to laugh while standing soaked in a freezing downpour in the middle of nowhere. Lewis and Clark had a youngster with them, too, George Shannon, who sometimes got lost but knew how to hunt. I’ve often wondered if Asher was Shannon’s reincarnation.

By the time we reached the Gateway Arch on November 19, I had lost 50 pounds, capsized 22 times, almost drowned once when I was stuck under a capsized canoe—and would’ve certainly not survived if one of my companions, Mike Wien, hadn’t happened to spot my hand sticking for help out of the water. Another time, we almost lost a companion, Mike Cochran, when giant waves, kicked up by a sudden windstorm, swamped his canoe in the cold Snake River where it flowed through an isolated landscape of nothing but boulders, sagebrush, rattlesnakes, and a bit of driftwood. By the time we rescued him, he had slipped so far into hyperthermia that we had to encircle him in a ring of campfires to bring warmth back into his body.

Mike Cochran drew this cartoon after he nearly died from hypothermia when huge waves capsized the canoe he was in.

A few times we became lost as the path disappeared while we trekked through the great mountain forests of the Lolo Trail. At such times, our always optimistic leader (I say this with great admiration), Bob Miller, emphasized we weren’t really lost because, truly, we knew where we were, just that we didn’t know for sure how to get where we wanted to be. He was right. We always got there, wherever there was.

We were awed just to be out there, lost or not, standing at times on the ridge of a high mountain and viewing nothing but dark green forested mountains ahead and, beyond them, more mountains and, still, beyond those, even more mountains, fading into the hazy horizon of a blue sky. At night, in places where the ambient light of communities didn’t exist, the sky was so thick with stars seeming so close to us that I felt like I could reach up and touch them. Such views few of us in today’s world seldom enjoy.

{What food did we eat? How experienced were we prior to this journey through Nature? Why did we go? And what became of the five of us after our journey? Click here to find out.}

Looking back now, I find it’s interesting to compare those days of Lewis and Clark’s expedition and, likewise, our journey in 1973 to what’s around today, in 2018.

Back then, 45 years ago, most locals knew only scant details, if any, about the travels of Lewis and Clark through their region. They had no idea of the connection between the names of local rivers and other geographic features to Lewis and Clark. The same goes for local flora and fauna. Lewis and Clark identified hundreds of plants and animals previously unseen by Americans of the early 19th century. Many local folks in 1973 had no idea of Lewis and Clark’s role in identifying birds and other wildlife in their area.

How Mike Cochran showed what it was like to reach St. Louis on Nov. 19, 1973.

The prairie dog is a great example. The explorers viewed it as a small dog that barks, and one time they poured buckets and buckets of water into the hole of a prairie dog colony in an attempt to flush out and capture one of the tiny critters to send back to President Jefferson, a fellow with quite an inquisitive mind. In 1973 and even today, some locals merely consider prairie dogs as a growing nuisance, not as a biological oddity as Lewis and Clark did.

Now, thanks to the popularity of the 2003-06 national bicentennial celebration of the expedition and groups like the Lewis and Clark Trail Heritage Foundation, it’s pretty darn hard to spit along the trail without hitting a historic marker commemorating Lewis and Clark, or Sacagawea or York or, for that matter, Lewis’ dog Seaman.

This is what it was really like. Bob Miller, in the bow, and Clay Asher headed to the Gateway Arch on Nov. 19, 1973.

Today, school kids easily recite dates, adventures, and Lewis and Clark journal entries that describe what happened and when and where it happened in their locality. Historians and interested authors continue to publish books with new insights about the explorers. Annual Lewis and Clark festivals are held. Bridges are named after the explorers. So are streets, schools, and even a college.

{To learn more about Lewis and Clark, click here to go the website of the Lewis and Clark Trail Heritage Foundation. While you’re there, become a member—it’s a worthwhile organization that is the keeper of the Lewis and Clark story.}

Today’s widespread popularity of Lewis and Clark speaks to the yearning desire for great adventure that many Americans have but are unable to pursue beyond short canoe trips or day hikes along the trail, or expeditions by car to follow parts of the route of the 1803-06 expedition.

Bob Miller on the Missouri River as it passes through the White Cliffs region in Montana. In a lengthy, eloquent description on May 31, 1805, Meriwether Lewis journaled that the enchanted cliffs “exhibit a most romantic appearance.” Here’s what else he wrote…

In 2018, we have a nation that is politically and philosophically divided in harsh ways. Back in 1973, it wasn’t so much different. A disgraced Spiro Agnew resigned the vice presidency as we paddled the Missouri River, and Richard Nixon was lying about Watergate and many other matters.

During the time when Lewis and Clark were forging their trail, Alexander Hamilton was fatally shot during a duel with Aaron Burr, the ultimate price of political rivalry. And Jefferson was involved in a war with Barbary Pirates, the first terrorists to haunt the psyche of America.

Anyway, those are just some of my musings as November 19 comes around for its annual visit. It’s a good day of the year. A fine day to remember the way things were and to think about how they are today.

How did Lewis and Clark spend the day of November 19 in 1803, 1804, and 1805? You’ll be surprised! Click here to find out…

 

 

How Lewis and Clark almost got me murdered

My new year started with a volley of gunshots, a night sky ablaze with fireworks, a cacophony of honking geese, and a memory of a forgotten time.

The last in the string of those events is the most important to me. How often does it happen when an incident of the present ignites a time of the past? Often, of course. But when the memory is a gem, it’s worth recounting as the opportunity arises.

I was fortunate in 1973 to spend a half-year with four other guys retracing the trail of Lewis and Clark by canoe and foot. One of the guys, Mike Cochran, was a cartoonist. He drew cartoons to record our journey. These scared geese? Ride this blog to find out the story. Time to Read: less than 3 minutes.

I was fortunate in 1973 to spend a half-year with four other guys retracing the trail of Lewis and Clark by canoe and foot. One member of our journey, Mike Cochran, drew cartoons to record our journey. These scared geese? Read this blog to find out the story. Time to read: less than 3 minutes.

My bride of two months, Patty, and I are spending the winter at her home in Independence, Mo. Her home is in a nice neighborhood interspersed with lakes. The lakes are homes to geese that were too lazy to have flown farther south for the winter.

A couple of minutes after midnight I stepped outside. Firecrackers and gunshots could be heard everywhere as revelers brought in the 2017 New Year. Explosions of fireworks burst here and there over the neighborhood, lighting the sky with sparkling blues, reds and whites.

The geese wanted none of this. They took to the air, honking hard and loud, and flew by overhead. They blocked out the stars.

It was then, thanks to their loud protests, that I remembered the time so long ago when geese and Lewis and Clark about got me done in.

Five of us, all young guys, spent a half-year retracing the 1804-06 journey of Meriwether Lewis, William Clark and their companions, including a dog, into the unexplored lands of the Louisiana Purchase and Pacific Northwest. Our quest was to follow their return route from the mouth of the Columbia River in Oregon to St. Louis, which was the farthest western outpost of civilization in the early 1800s. We did this by using two canoes and a kayak to paddle the Columbia, Snake and Missouri rivers. We hiked across the Rockies in Idaho and Montana.

All in all, 4,200 miles of sweat, weary bodies, blistered feet, meals over campfires, cold rain, big winds and, best of all, adventure. We experienced America like few others have in modern times, paddle stroke by paddle stroke, stride by stride. This was in 1973 and I was 43 years younger than I am now.

In the Dakotas, we journeyed down the Missouri River as a million geese made their fall migration south along the river. One day our immediate destination was Pierre, South Dakota’s state capital. We were scheduled the next day to meet the governor to conduct a ceremony about Lewis and Clark. This we had done with governors of other states along the trail.

A million geese and ducks migrate south along the Missouri River in the fall. We journeyed down the river at the same time, often seeing huge flocks like this one. Photo by the Omaha World Herald.

A million geese and ducks migrate south along the Missouri River in the fall. We journeyed down the river at the same time, often seeing huge flocks like this one. Photo by the Omaha World Herald.

Smelled of soured sweat: The afternoon became late, and we knew we couldn’t reach Pierre by nightfall. We secured our boats and equipment on shore and headed for a road that our map showed was nearby. We intended to hitchhike into Pierre and camp the night there.

With sleeping bags in hand, we climbed up a steep river bank. Our sun-faded clothes were ragged from five months on the trail; our long beards, scraggly. We smelled of soured sweat and smoky campfires.

On top of the bank, we stepped into a huge field covered with dried stalks of corn. Suddenly, thousands of geese sprang skyward from feasting on the corn, their honking deafening, wings swirling the air around us.

Clay and the two Mikes scurried off in a failed attempt to catch stragglers waddling through the corn. Their intention was dinner, much as we had eaten rattlesnake back on the Columbia. Fresh meat would be a good change to change our steady diet of freeze-dried and dehydrated food.

Bob, eyes studying the miracle of the geese flying above, wandered farther into the field. I remained behind, still, awed. I’d never seen anything like this mass of geese and likely never would again. Most geese merged into V formations and flew away. Hundreds, though, re-landed on the field.

A pickup sped away from a nearby farm house and came barreling straight at me. It fishtailed through the corn. Geese took flight again. The truck almost hit me before skidding to a stop. The driver, burly, red-faced, flew out. He bulled his way right up to my face. His neck veins bulged with rage.

“Just what the hell of damnation are you doing here, you lop-eared sumabitch?” Bulging Veins screamed. He was an old guy. His breath smelled like the inside of a cow barn.

“…you lop-eared sumabitch”

He turned to reach for a shotgun hanging on a rack across the back window.

Murder was on his mind. Of that, I was sure. Suddenly I realized our Lewis and Clark excursion might be my fatal Waterloo. Just my luck, done in by trying to reach across the past to guys 200 years ago. Who would’ve guessed?

The passenger, a younger man, stopped him by reaching up and firmly holding down the weapon in its place on the rack, thankfully.

“But this idiot just cost me ten thousand dollars!” Bulging Veins violently snapped.

He rounded us up, yelling in rage as we tried to explain to our sudden appearance in the cornfield. No go. At least, we offered, let us get our boats and paddle away…

He aimed a dirty forefinger toward the road. “If you ain’t off my land in five minutes, I’m gonna blow your heads off,” he swore harshly. “You got my word on that.”

He added with spittle blowing out of his mouth, “Don’t never come back here again, not even for your gawdamned boats. You got three minutes.”

Two minutes later, we were on the road, thumbs out. In Pierre, we found a public park to lay out our sleeping bags. We also sought out a conversation with the law. The state patrol entered into a pithy phone negotiation with Bulging Veins.

Lewis & Clark’s confrontations: Later, as the darkness of night spread over us, I recalled entries in Lewis and Clark’s journals where they faced off against local natives. A reluctant gift of tobacco to the Sioux ended one Missouri River standoff. A Montana brawl left one member (possibly two) of the Blackfoot nation dead when they attempted to steal guns and horses—a tragedy that would mar U.S. relationships with the Blackfoot nation for decades.

Lewis’ dog for dinner: In search of dog for dinner, Columbia River natives snatched Seaman, Lewis’ beloved Newfoundland. Captain Lewis dispatched three armed men to bring back Seaman or kill the kidnappers. Seaman came back without loss of life.

The day after our encounter with Bulging Veins we strolled into the capitol building. To our surprise, the hallways were empty and we couldn’t find a sign directing us to the governor’s officer. Finally, a stoop-shouldered gentleman came along. We gathered around him and asked if he knew where we could find the governor.

Were we there to assassinate the governor?

He took in the sight of our mangy beards and mud-splattered clothes. His nose wrinkled from the onslaught of our odor. His eyes tightened. I could read his concern: Were these bums here to assassinate the governor?

Blinking, he stuttered, “Why, uh, why, I am the governor.”

It was then that Richard Kneip remembered our appointment. We followed him to his office. A stuffed goose hung on the wall. He was a hunter.

The Lewis and Clark ceremony proceeded as expected. His aide informed him about our previous day’s encounter. The governor knew the quick-tempered farmer. He said the farmer purposely left corn in his field to attract migrating geese. He charged hunters $15 a day to shoot the birds.

I made a quick calculation. Bulging Veins claimed we cost him $10,000. That amount divided by 15: more than 600 hunters. No wonder he wanted to keep the geese on his land. It was a small fortune back in those days.

“Every goose hunters in our state wants to stomp through his fields and chase those geese away, but everybody’s afraid to, including me,” Gov. Kneip admitted. With a laugh, he added, “And you fellows did it without knowing any better.”

By the end of the afternoon, the state patrol had delivered us back to our boats and equipment. We were on our way again, following Lewis & Clark. And, unbeknownst to me back then, I had a memory to help bring in the New Year of 2017.

Find out more about our journey and what happened to the five of us in the ensuing decades And see more Mike Cochran cartoons.