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The smell of wood smoke and burning sage filled the lean-to. Rain pounded the roof. Soggy clothing hung helter-skelter overhead, and river mud coated the floor.
Still, the mood was magical. All eyes watched our camp cook, Tony Kellar, who is part Creek Indian, as he read aloud from "The Lakota Way: Stories and Lessons for Living," a book of Native American wisdom. The story was a parable about humility, which we would all learn by the end of our kayak trip.
Tony finished reading, and our eyes turned to Robin Morgan, a 30-year-old Lakota Sioux. "All my life, I have wanted to journey on the great Missouri River," Robin said. "Sharing this journey with family of the first white men to explore this region brings the experience full circle."
On this June night, our last together on the upper Missouri River in north-central Montana, we — six kayakers and four river guides — had been joined for the evening by brothers David and Jason Lewis and their three children. They claim to be descendants of Meriwether Lewis, who, along with William Clark, had plied these same waters 200 years ago, during the first official U.S. overland expedition to the Pacific Northwest.
I had wanted to make my own "Voyage of Discovery" to mark the bicentennial of the Lewis and Clark trip. Initially, I considered a 2,000-mile trip down the length of the Missouri, in a reverse, or west-to-east, re-creation of their expedition.
But after meeting 25-year-old Chad Caldwell, who owns and runs Missouri River Expeditions, I was convinced I would get an authentic Lewis and Clark experience on a shorter, more manageable kayak trip down the river, traveling nine days from Fort Benton to the Fred Robinson Bridge. This 149-mile stretch of the Missouri is designated a national wild and scenic river, and the landscape has changed little from the spring of 1805, when Lewis and Clark traversed the area.
The river carries with it the stories of Native Americans like Nez Percé Chief Joseph, of outlaws like Kid Curry and of the homesteaders and trappers and explorers who helped shape the character of the West.
If I could find six to eight kayakers who shared my delight in that history, Chad would line up support staff. My wife, Colleen, signed up immediately, even though she had camped only once before. Next, we recruited my sister-in-law, Mary Beth McGraw, and her teenage son, Matt, from St. Louis; Bernice Kuca, from Boston; and Jeff Smith and his son-in-law Jamie Burnett, both from Minneapolis.
We convened in Great Falls, almost 199 years to the day when Lewis, Clark and their crew manhandled their boats around the cataract.
Under a weeping sky the next morning, Chad led our soggy band to a put-in west of Fort Benton. There we began what would become a daily struggle: trying to maintain our footing in slick Missouri River mud while stowing our gear in the kayaks.
The crew — Tony, his teenage son, T.J., and Robin — loaded four coolers and 15 boxes of food and wine into kayaks and a canoe. As I slogged down the bank with my own gear, Colleen stood looking down the Missouri's gray waters, pondering the days ahead.
"Bring my stuff back," she suddenly yelled down to me. "I'm going home."
After 26 years together, I knew her too well to force the issue. She set off for our Kansas home.
*
The journey begins
Tony led us in a paddling tutorial. "Keep your nose over your belly button and you can't tip," he said reassuringly.
Before our launch, we joined hands, and Chad read an Indian prayer for our safe passage. "Spirits of the water … accept my sacrifice … draw us not down to our death in your cold, dark realm; cast us not upon the rock hidden by the foaming."
Then we climbed into our fiberglass ocean kayaks, crammed with sleeping bags, tents and personal gear, and set off down the wild Missouri.
As we cleared the Fort Benton Bridge, the mist lifted briefly, and a flock of white pelicans did a slow flyby, the birds tipping their wings as if to salute us. A pair of bald eagles eyed us suspiciously. A beaver slid down the banks and then disappeared into its lodge.
Still, the mood was magical. All eyes watched our camp cook, Tony Kellar, who is part Creek Indian, as he read aloud from "The Lakota Way: Stories and Lessons for Living," a book of Native American wisdom. The story was a parable about humility, which we would all learn by the end of our kayak trip.
Tony finished reading, and our eyes turned to Robin Morgan, a 30-year-old Lakota Sioux. "All my life, I have wanted to journey on the great Missouri River," Robin said. "Sharing this journey with family of the first white men to explore this region brings the experience full circle."
On this June night, our last together on the upper Missouri River in north-central Montana, we — six kayakers and four river guides — had been joined for the evening by brothers David and Jason Lewis and their three children. They claim to be descendants of Meriwether Lewis, who, along with William Clark, had plied these same waters 200 years ago, during the first official U.S. overland expedition to the Pacific Northwest.
I had wanted to make my own "Voyage of Discovery" to mark the bicentennial of the Lewis and Clark trip. Initially, I considered a 2,000-mile trip down the length of the Missouri, in a reverse, or west-to-east, re-creation of their expedition.
But after meeting 25-year-old Chad Caldwell, who owns and runs Missouri River Expeditions, I was convinced I would get an authentic Lewis and Clark experience on a shorter, more manageable kayak trip down the river, traveling nine days from Fort Benton to the Fred Robinson Bridge. This 149-mile stretch of the Missouri is designated a national wild and scenic river, and the landscape has changed little from the spring of 1805, when Lewis and Clark traversed the area.
The river carries with it the stories of Native Americans like Nez Percé Chief Joseph, of outlaws like Kid Curry and of the homesteaders and trappers and explorers who helped shape the character of the West.
If I could find six to eight kayakers who shared my delight in that history, Chad would line up support staff. My wife, Colleen, signed up immediately, even though she had camped only once before. Next, we recruited my sister-in-law, Mary Beth McGraw, and her teenage son, Matt, from St. Louis; Bernice Kuca, from Boston; and Jeff Smith and his son-in-law Jamie Burnett, both from Minneapolis.
We convened in Great Falls, almost 199 years to the day when Lewis, Clark and their crew manhandled their boats around the cataract.
Under a weeping sky the next morning, Chad led our soggy band to a put-in west of Fort Benton. There we began what would become a daily struggle: trying to maintain our footing in slick Missouri River mud while stowing our gear in the kayaks.
The crew — Tony, his teenage son, T.J., and Robin — loaded four coolers and 15 boxes of food and wine into kayaks and a canoe. As I slogged down the bank with my own gear, Colleen stood looking down the Missouri's gray waters, pondering the days ahead.
"Bring my stuff back," she suddenly yelled down to me. "I'm going home."
After 26 years together, I knew her too well to force the issue. She set off for our Kansas home.
*
The journey begins
Tony led us in a paddling tutorial. "Keep your nose over your belly button and you can't tip," he said reassuringly.
Before our launch, we joined hands, and Chad read an Indian prayer for our safe passage. "Spirits of the water … accept my sacrifice … draw us not down to our death in your cold, dark realm; cast us not upon the rock hidden by the foaming."
Then we climbed into our fiberglass ocean kayaks, crammed with sleeping bags, tents and personal gear, and set off down the wild Missouri.
As we cleared the Fort Benton Bridge, the mist lifted briefly, and a flock of white pelicans did a slow flyby, the birds tipping their wings as if to salute us. A pair of bald eagles eyed us suspiciously. A beaver slid down the banks and then disappeared into its lodge.
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