Pilgrimage

There is no explanation for it, but as a young girl I developed a fantasy about the Mississippi River. My intent was to live on a raft like Huck Finn. I imagined I'd lean back and watch the stars at night, content in my autonomy and androgyny, my provisions mysteriously procured, never a care in the world. Sometimes I’d hear a snippet of fiddle music drifting from the shore or the whistle of a paddlewheel steamer, other times just the sound of sparkling waters lapping against the raft. All the satire, darkness, and conflict of what is still my all-time favorite book were absent from my childish vision. I retained only the most idyllic sense of the river, and it represented a time and a place and a freedom that I yearned for.

This was all rather incongruous (if not downright disturbing) when you consider the fact that I was based in 20th century New York -- and I didn’t even know how to swim.

But when I was nineteen years old, I had an opportunity to actually see the mighty Mississippi firsthand, and you can bet I didn’t say no.

It was an exciting adventure from the onset. I had never been west of Pennsylvania and was urban enough to find the sight of cows and cornfields surprising and delightful. We lapped up the miles in our ’67 VW bug, stopping only for gas (about 35 cents a gallon) and ice cream cones (I favored butter pecan -- nothing could be too sweet for my taste). We pushed through Ohio. Then into Indiana, past Gary, a city with jaundiced skies, and to Chicago where it rained, and eventually to the Illinois-Iowa border that the Mississippi forms.

Whatever they’ve done to the rest of this place, I told myself unconvincingly, there’s a spirit there that cannot have died.

"Interstate 80 Bridge," the sign read. "Interstate 80 bridges the Mississippi at one of its most historic points. Here the prehistoric red man hunted, fished, fought, and died. Through this region roamed such proud warriors as Black Hawk and Keohuk. Through this same area ranged Zebulun Pike, Jefferson Davis, Zachary Taylor, Winfield Scott, and Robert E. Lee. William F. (Buffalo Bill) Cody was born on a farm not far from this overlook in 1846, the same year Iowa was admitted as a State. The first bridge across the Mississippi was erected between Rock Island and Davenport in 1856.”

Here. Right here.

We drove along a narrow by-road, past a hog farm and a grocery store. I had to come closer. I walked behind a railroad track and down a dusty, weedy ridge. Father of Waters, here I come.

A beer can and a tire lay in the dirt, washed onto the shore as though belched up in sickness. Her murky waters, sun-glossed and gray, slid by in motion almost imperceptible, like a sluggish elder weary of life. I bent and scooped a precious ounce or two into the plastic container from my Zooper Duper fruit drink. Then I found a little stone and put it in my pocket.

The water spilled on my way back to the car. I watched it slowly trickle off in Lilliputian rivulets. I didn’t go back for more.

I guess it's hard to relate to my disappointment. Anyone with even a slight foothold in reality would have long ago guessed that things had changed a lot since Mark Twain's childhood.

(But isn't that the gift of literature after all? It IS still there, anytime I want it: entry through the portal of a book.)