A friend and I were supposed to hit the Big Muddy (Missouri River) this morning but he called me around six of the A.M. and said he was under the weather. Plan "B" found me traveling to Clinton, Missouri to see what the west end of Truman Lake was doing. Truman is the largest lake in Missouri and was created by damming the Osage River in 1979. Eager to get on the water and looking for a new place to explore, I put in off Highway 13 just south of Clinton, the nearest bit of lake.
Looking at it on the map, the west end interested me because the South Grand River flowed into the lake near this point. I found an access road just before the highway bridge but found that the lake shore was not developed for a put-in. I did not trust a flat and freshly graded area that looked as if it might be an effort meant for this purpose--the ground looked soft and devious. Instead, I chose a rocky embankment just up the road, with a carry of about twenty yards, having to go at it diagonally because of the rocks. The wind reminded me of a rookie mistake; I had not checked the weather forecast. Straight and incessant from the south, the wind pushed small waves against the shore. I could only hope it did not gain in force.
The put-in.
Muddy water enters this end of the lake from the Grand River; I could not see the end of my paddle blade in the water. Most of Truman Lake has average water clarity, so this was a disappointment. Complicating navigation, this end of the lake is very shallow. It is clogged with forests of dead trees, stumps, and snags. This was a Sunday, yet I did not see another boat. By the end of my adventure I would discover why.
The bones of an Osage orange.
I paddled into the wind going across the lake. The waves were lively and the hazards plentiful enough to keep me focused on seamanship. Despite a bright sun in a spectacular hard blue sky, I found that the wind moaning through the waste of dead trees, the unhealthy color of the water, and the deserted condition of the lake all combined to create an apocalyptic setting. Reaching the far shore, I found thick willow sloughs and fringes of wetland that did little to dispel the grim and dismal atmosphere gripping this arm of the lake.
What the south shore looks like.
Birds and other wildlife were not apparent in the quantity of which I had become accustomed. Perhaps they felt the same aura of lonely despair that was creeping up on me. While on the south side, I did see a white blob moving back and forth in the distance. Closing in, the blob turned itself into a white pelican feeding on the lake floor with a great air of unconcern for my approaching yellow kayak. At last, when I was perhaps forty yards away, it took flight, rising into the air with a look of disdain. Several times cormorants, stationed in the high branches of the dead water timber, their necks stretched, watched me like nervous old ladies. Wherever I encounter a Missouri cormorant, the bird has always been shy, and I've yet to catch a decent photo of one of them. Bird life elsewhere was minimal, only a few great blue herons and a mere scattering of woodland and field birds to be seen or heard.
I paddled under the railroad bridge and entered the mouth of the South Grand River. By this time the wind had increased in force; it rushed down the river channel pushing at me as if I had affronted it personally. In conditions like these, I can understand how someone could attribute supernatural traits to the elements and provide the water and the wind with spirits. Whether it was a spirit or a plain case of meteorology, the wind persuaded me to turn back. Snags, submerged stumps, and rafts of strainers that had formed near the river's mouth caused me to pick my course with increased care as I headed for the north end of the (to me) unexplored lake. The water had roughen since my foray up the river, but was still no real concern to me.
I paddled through more dead trees to a small island and stopped for lunch. Stunted shrubs populated the sloping shore just up from the reed-garnished waterline, creating a natural transition to the crown of trees at its top. Though the morning temperature had been in the fifties, it was almost hot at noon, so I kept an eye out for snakes. Being bitten by a rattler or a copperhead would have made a successful escape from the island questionable, especially considering the vast minefield of tree trunks and snags, the wind, and choppy water. The windy, lonely little island reminded me of my own solitude. All paddling experts tell you not to go out alone (then do it themselves), because there is safety in numbers. I finished my sandwich, snapped a few photos, and headed out.
The wind, which had been rising all morning, had now become a force to be reckoned with as well as the waves, which were now white-capping and close together. Here my rudder became indispensable. Without the rudder, it took me considerable effort to turn and way too much time to accomplish the maneuver. So, with Stolen Moment's rudder down, I plotted my way through an extensive dead tree and snag infested area with some concern as the waves, a following sea that swept past me and several times leaped into the open cockpit with chilly glee, demanded constant attention. I found myself thinking with great sentiment about spray covers and weather forecasts.
I decided not to take the short route across to my launch point as this would mean taking the waves on my starboard beam for longer than I wanted to deal with the strain. Keeping near the shoreline, I paddled through the dead forest, seeing surprise stumps pop up in front of me as the wave trough dipped low. I scraped over a couple, not hard, but enough to feel them. Making the turn on the north shore, I traveled across the waves, rocking my hips and the boat away from all rising waves, the waves so close together I felt like I was doing some weird boat version of the Hustle. Finally, I was able to turn my bow into the wind and, taking the spray on my face and waves over my foredeck, escape Deadman's Cove, which is how I had come think of the place.
The sun was still bright, the sky still clear when I loaded the Stolen Moment onto the Durango, the wind taking advantage of every moment to complicate the task. With boat and gear loaded, I popped the cap on my saved-for-the-end G2, took a sip, and let the Durango roll slowly down the access road, the wind blowing dust off the gravel. A truck with a trailer carrying two 12 ft plastic kayaks (no rudders) pulled onto the road from the highway. I lowered my window and stopped. "It's rough out there today," I said, in case the guy had not seen the heaving lake. The driver, a fifty-ish round-faced man, nodded but said nothing. I shrugged. Either he was a local who knew well his own limits and abilities, or he was a tyro who had no understanding. I hope it was the first case.
Fair winds.
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