Locked in the river’s embrace

“Calling, LOCK 17, come in,” I yell into my hand-held radio as my rafting buddy holds his oars against the current.

“Come back, Cap,” a gruff voice from the lock’s command center crackles. I love being called “Cap,” even though I’m more of a deckhand on this homemade junk boat that I’ve been crazy enough to copilot down the Mississippi.

“This is a raft on the upriver side of your lock,” I say. “Requesting lock-through.”

“Come on in, Cap,” the amused voice says. “We’ve left the light on.”

My new favorite Mississippi River challenge -- besides dodging uprooted trees and keeping the seat of my pants dry -- is “locking through.” Between 1930 and 1950, locks and dams were built to control the depth of the Mississippi River’s channel. The locks work like watery escalators, allowing boats to travel over steep inclines. We confront one of these 29 contraptions every day or two.

But there is a pecking order. Our raft ranks below government boats and industrial tows, but to our astonishment, we command more respect than pleasure boats.

Sometimes our pop-bottle mini-barge waits more than two hours for the lock’s rusted metal gates to swing open in welcome.

Inside the chamber, we cling to thin ropes draped along moss-covered walls as the water is slowly released and our boat drops dozens of feet. We let the ropes slowly slide through our numb fingers as we try to keep the boat from banging the wall.

Minutes later, a siren blares, the far gates creak open, and we wave goodbye to the workers gawking at our weird-looking watercraft.

After five times locking through, it has gotten easier for me, but I always feel a sense of trepidation. At one lock near Clinton, Iowa, we attempt to beat a 15-barge tow to the gates, but fail miserably because of our inferior acceleration. A jovial yacht captain gives us a tow instead.

At the lock above Hampton, Ill., the gatekeeper orders us to back away from the gate because an upriver barge is about to exit. We see the back end of the barge sweep out over where we had been and imagine it crushing us.

I have been living on the river for two weeks with Mark Eriksen, who has the dubious distinction of being my ex-boyfriend as well as most of the muscle powering our ping-pong-table-size boat.

We propel around erupting boils of water that can stop the current cold. I cling to my small chair as we are sucked into fast-moving eddies that threaten to capsize us.

At night we unload our stuff, lug the heavy boat onto shore inch by painstaking inch, eat a quick meal of canned vegetables and crawl into our sleeping bags.

Only 1,300 miles to go.

We are trying to outpaddle the cold weather that coats our boat with frost and turns the woods along the river gorgeous hues of red and gold. So every day, despite occasional downpours, we pedal and paddle as many miles as we can.

Three days after our latest lock triumph, we arrive in Oquawka, Ill., a hardy little town of 1,500 with a defunct button-making industry and a memorial to a 6,500-pound circus elephant named Norma Jean.

Traveling from town to town to entertain the sons and daughters of towboat captains and button polishers, Norma Jean headlined the Clark and Walters Circus in the early 1970s until lightning hit the tree to which she was chained.

The electrocuted pachyderm, too heavy to move, was buried near where she died in the town square.

As I stand in front of her less-than-life-size memorial, I feel kinship with the poor beast. Today a strong headwind forced us to turn back, stranding us in Oquawka.

I think about how lightning could strike our mostly aluminum and steel frame boat at any time. How easily I could be the Norma Jean of the sea.

To be continued....