As we left Cairo, the Ohio River current conspired against our boat urging us back to the Mississippi River, but we fought its power with more and more engine rpm’s. With the engine at 2400 rpm’s, my GPS indicated we were travelling little more than six mph. After 3 ½ hours of this, Bob agreed to let me plane the boat out. Once we reached 3000 rpm’s the boat was planing out at about 24 mph. There were supposed to be two locks and a third lock under construction on this 46-mile stretch of the Ohio River, but we never noticed them. I guessed the high water was flowing over the dams. We slowed down as we came upon a riverboat casino near a small town (I believe Metropolis, Illinois). We scrutinized the shore looking for any sign of a gas station, but never spotted one. At 4:15 P.M. we arrived at Paducah, Kentucky, and entered the mouth of the Tennessee River. To our relief, the Tennessee River’s current was not near as strong as the Ohio’s. We saw numerous small pleasure boats in the area and eventually got directions to a floating fuel dock. At the dock, we took on 32 gallons of gas, and bought groceries. Gas was two dollars a gallon there. (What can you do?) It was 6:30 P.M. by the time we were ready to leave. It was getting late, and I queried the dock attendant about any nearby sloughs or off channel protection for us to stay at overnight. He said there was nothing around Paducah, and that we should continue up the Tennessee River 23 miles to Kentucky Lake where there were numerous marinas. We figured it would still be light out at 7:30 so we decided to go for it.

As soon as we reached the outskirts of Paducah, I brought our speed up to 30 mph, and we skimmed along the relatively clean and calm waters of the Tennessee in a race against the setting sun. At 7:30 P.M. suddenly a huge dam loomed in front of us. We were only a half-mile from Kentucky Lake, but it was over 50 feet above us. I radioed the Kentucky Dam Lock master, and he indicated we were going to have to wait a while. We turned on our navigation lights, and watched monstrous storm clouds on the horizon as we made lazy circles around the base of the dam. I turned on the FM radio and picked up a weather report stating there was a tornado watch in this area for the next two hours. There was only a slight current here, but it required continuous repositioning of the boat to stay near the lock entrance. Fortunately, the moon was nearly full, and the sky directly above us was clear.

Finally, at 9:30 P.M. they opened the lower gate to the lock. I eased up to a floating bollard and secured a line to it. A floating bollard is a hollow iron tank that floats up and down in a vertical channel in the concrete lock wall. Wheels and rails keep the tank in the channel. There is a large curved metal horn on the top of the iron tank for attaching the line to your boat. My earlier question, of how we would secure the boat’s line for large lifts in locks, was then answered. It took another 20 minutes to fill the lock with 30 million gallons of water, which lifted our little 18-foot boat to the top. This lock has an area of 60 x 110 feet, and a lift of 57 feet.

Kentucky Lake was huge. We set a course for bright lights a mile away on the western bank. We kept our flashlights and beam light trained on the water ahead of us in search of debris. At 10:30 P.M. we arrived at the lights, and after negotiating a winding rock channel, we arrived at Kentucky Dam Marina (a large modern marina and the one we expected to find). I was certainly relieved as we tied up to a dock at the outskirts of the marina. There was no one around, and all the shops were closed. I called Arlene from a public phone, went back to the boat, and was asleep in no time.

Wednesday morning, the 28^th of April, at 7:00 we were ready to go. Although Kentucky Dam Marina was large, it had no restaurant, showers, or laundry. So, we quickly departed in search of Kentucky Lake Sails Inc. (listed in Quimby’s as having all facilities). We crossed Kentucky Lake over to its eastern bank, where we spotted a plethora of masts sticking up in a small bay. The gas pump was out of order, but everything else was available. We spent the rest of the morning taking showers and doing loads and loads of laundry. While Bob continued the laundry, Ted and I walked a half a mile to Grand Rivers in search of food. We spied a place called the Iron Kettle. I expected it was a place like the Copper Kettle restaurants. It sounded good to Ted, but when we arrived we found no entrance. Soon, we sniffed out the entrance via a curio shop next door. Once inside the cafe, we came upon a large, well-laid salad bar. At least half the dozen tables were empty, and we chose one to the rear of the dining area. A waitress asked what we would like to drink and then left. There were no menus, and I finally realized the only item that would be there would be buffet. Ted and I got up, created our salads, and walked to the end of the salad bar to get the entrees. There we saw a couple of large iron cook stoves whose iron tops were covered with an array of pots and pans filled with delicious southern fried meats, giblets, potatoes, meatloaf and gravies. Biscuits and cornbread were being placed on an upper stove shelf by an old lady carrying a stirring spoon. I felt bad that Bob was not with us, but perhaps we could somehow get him here for supper. It was his idea to eat in shifts.

After lunch, Ted and I went across the street to an IGA grocery store and bought sandwich makings and fruit. When we returned to the marina, we took over the laundry duties for Bob while he took a shower. At 2:30 P.M., with the laundry done and stowed away, the Commodore wanted to shove off. Ted and I were willing to stay here for the night, but with numerous facilities dotting Kentucky Lake, I reasoned it wouldn’t hurt to go further today. There was no sign of the Tennessee River’s current as we followed the western bank of Kentucky Lake southward. Occasionally, we hailed fishermen to verify our position. The river charts I procured for the Illinois and Mississippi waterways were of no use to us now. In three hours we traveled 40 miles under clear skies to reach Paris Landing State Park Marina. We were now a few miles south of Kentucky in the state of Tennessee. After filling the gas tank, I asked if we could dock here tonight. They said, "Yes." And, added a dock fee to our fuel bill. This was the first time we had to pay a dock fee. At every previous docking we had arrived so late that no one was there, and we had always left early, completely unaware of dock fees. (I think we must have paid a dock fee back at Starved Rock Marina in Illinois, but I hadn’t scrutinized our bill. I believe Bob paid that bill.)

A park ranger drove Bob and me one half mile up to the park lodge where we ate a buffet in a large crowded cafeteria (Ted was not hungry and stayed with the Sippi.) The park ranger returned us to the marina later. I got my first mosquito bite here. While Bob called Dorothy, I sat on the dock and listened to a fisherman relate his entire lifetime of fishing experiences. He knew how to talk but not how to stop! After a half-hour, I pried myself away to go to bed.

Thursday morning, the 29^th of April, we awoke early, but hung around till 7:30 A.M. so I could get coffee, and Ted could have ice cream. We purchased maps of Kentucky Lake and Pickwick Lake. They both had longitudinal and latitudinal markings, so I would be able to use the GPS to determine our location. The lake was calm, so I was able to plane the boat up onto water surface much of the time. Passing boats and floating debris slowed us down occasionally, but we made 50 miles to Cuba Landing in Waverly, Tennessee by noon. After refueling, we left at 12:30 P.M. with conditions being the same as in the morning. The Kentucky Lake soon narrowed, and we were in the most beautiful country we had seen so far. The Tennessee River wound its way south, snaking its way through lush green hills (the highest we had seen). The atmosphere was serene and peaceful. Occasionally a break in the hills allowed the wind to raise some swells.

This portion of the Tennessee River offered numerous marinas, although most were primitive. It was easy to miss a decaying plywood sign at the entrance to a slough, when the leafy drooping tree limbs obscured your sight. By 3:00 P.M. we had traveled 43 miles from Cuba Landing to reach Clifton Marina. I urged Bob to stop there for the night since they had a restaurant, but he said, "No, we gotta push on." After a fill up we were back on the river. It began to sprinkle. With reduced visibility we had to slow down, but the rain ended soon. Bob wanted to go for Pickwick Lock and Dam today, but I argued that it was another 50 miles to Pickwick, and we might have another two-hour delay at the lock. I did not want to travel at night again as we did on Kentucky Lake. I insisted we stop at Saltillo Marina for the night. Saltillo was the last marina we could stop at before reaching Pickwick Lock and Dam.

We were thirteen miles upstream from Clifton when we spotted some buildings and barely made out the mouth of Doe Creek. We snaked up the creek around roots and tree branches to a pool harboring an aging tin roof covered marina with a few dozen slips. I eased into the nearest open slip. Bob and Ted tied up the boat while I walked up to a large house overlooking the marina. I stepped up on the porch and knocked on the screen door. From within, a male voice called out, "Come on in. Take a nap." Opening the door a bit I spied an elderly man and woman sitting in recliners watching TV. Joe Grissom introduced himself and his wife to me, and walked down to the marina to guide us to an available slip for the night. He charged me ten dollars for the dock fee, and I bought a six-pack of beer from his store.

Joe’s store was in the middle of the rectangular marina with walkways extending both directions providing access to the covered slips. A large confederate flag hung on an outside wall of the store. Geese swam around the store in an out of the vacant slips. When my tennis shoe toe got too near the edge of the dock, the gander would furiously swim up to it and bite it. I enjoyed the play. I found a small chair, moved it out onto the dock, and began updating my journal with my six-pack at my side. Meanwhile, Bob had cornered Joe and was telling his tales. Earlier, when I had talked with Joe and told him our plans, he pointed toward a boat in a slip on the outskirts of the marina and fumed, "I wish you’d take that damn Yankee, that hangs around here, with you." As I watched turtles swimming near shore, a breeze rattled the tin roof of the marina. A skimpy lattice of aging rough wood supported the pitched roofs. I estimated the area of each of the two covered areas to be 50 x 100 feet. I couldn’t believe this place hadn’t been blown away long ago. I suspected that if this breeze continued we might need to attach the boat’s rear tarp for the night, even though we were docked under the marina’s roof.

Bob was still talking with Joe, as I wrote in my journal, "Pickwick Landing Lock is just 35 miles upstream from here on the Tennessee River, and after that, the remainder of our journey will be downstream." Joe brought his cordless phone down to the marina, so Bob and I could call home. Joe told me he wanted to sell his harbor, house and 21 acres for $500,000, and he would finance half of it. He said he and his wife were in poor health. As the sun set Joe walked back up to the house. We ate some of our groceries that night, but my stomach was set on breakfast. Joe had agreed to take us to town at 6:00 A.M. to the local diner. I couldn’t wait for morning, and having finished my six-pack I dropped off to sleep the second I hit the sleeping bag.

April 30, 1999, Friday morning - It’s a beautiful morning, and I am up at 5:30. As we have progressed southward, a cacophony of bird songs have been greeting the first hint of light in the morning sky. I anxiously aroused Ted and Bob. I didn’t want to miss our 6:00 ride to breakfast. I dreamed about breakfast several times last night. I was in a large family room with about 30 or so assorted men, women and children. They seemed to be southern folks. In a cluster of older ladies, sat the grand dame – a large black woman puddled into the middle of a couch. She had long tight curled hair hanging to her shoulders, a six inch curly black beard, and warts all over her face. Thinking it must be proper; I went up to her and kissed her cheek. The old ladies all giggled and seemed to approve. I then found trays of food along the walls of the room, but there were no dishes or eating utensils. I watched as one of the younger men walked up to a tray of greasy looking meat (maybe pork belly), grabbed off a few chunks with his hand, started eating, and headed off to another tray of greasy looking meat. I guessed that was the way it was done here, so I grabbed a few chunks with my hand, but didn’t remember eating any. Later, at the other side of the room, I met a lady who dished out something that looked like a couple of oysters in a "banana split" type bowl. Then she handed it to me. I asked her, "How much?" And, she said, "Ten dollars." I think that woke me up. Anyway, back to reality.

At six o’clock sharp Joe was at the marina walkway with his car. I hustled Bob and Ted in, and we set off for the local diner. At 6:15 we sat down at a table in a humble, but charming diner, amidst a half dozen local farmers at other tables. Joe remarked, "They all know me, and are envious cause I always get the damn Yankees to buy me breakfast." The food was good and reasonably priced. Bob paid for breakfast, and we left the diner at seven. After a quick goodbye to Joe, we glided out of the marina and down the creek back into the Tennessee River at 7:30.

At 9:15 A.M. we had traveled 27 miles upstream from the Saltillo Marina, when we came across Shilo National Cemetery, as was evident by the monuments on the left descending bank. Bob wanted to stop here, so we asked a fisherman who was nearby if there was any access to the monument. He said, "A quarter of a mile downstream there are some steps leading up the boulder covered shore." We found a soft place to beach the boat just 100 feet downstream from the steps. After I jumped ashore and secured the boat’s line, I found some rocks to make steps from the boat to shore to ease unloading. While Bob and Ted walked off to the monument, I watched the boat and updated my journal. I had tied two lines to the boat (one on each side of the bow), and I couldn’t believe how well the boat remained perpendicular to shore, considering the current and wind. Every 30 minutes I had to tighten the lines, and soon I realized the water was rising, since my steps were now covered with water. I found more flat rocks to add to the top of the steps and tightened the lines again. Ted and Bob had been gone two hours when I realized the water had risen four inches since we arrived here. I decided to go out and check the depth of the water around the boat. After poking all around the boat with a gaff, I realized why the boat stayed so perpendicular to the shore. The out-drive was down and buried in the mud. I decided to wait for Bob and Ted before I tackled this problem.

At 12:45 Ted and Bob returned. I could see Bob had really enjoyed the tour. I told Bob of our predicament, and he volunteered to wade out to the rear of the boat, and lift it, while I raised the out-drive. I believe I failed to turn on the ignition switch, so when I pushed the out-drive control lever up nothing happened. Then we got Ted out in the water to help lift the rear. Still, nothing happened when I pushed the lever up. I got out of the boat, and with them lifting the rear and me pushing the bow from shore, we managed to move the boat into the river. Just as we were freed, I jumped onto the bow and then assisted Ted in scrambling onto the bow. Suddenly the offshore breeze spun the bow around, and into the current of the river. Bob was too deep in the water to hold the boat with the line he held. The boat quickly began to tow him away from shore. Bob released the line and swam back to shore. In our ignorance, we hadn’t prepared ourselves for loading from the water. We had no stepladder to attach to the rear deck. I started the boat and circled around while Bob searched the shore for a deeper place to pick him up. He found a rock two feet under water and stood on it as I eased the bow up to him. I couldn’t hold the boat in position, and he slipped off the rock as he grabbed the railing on the bow. He hung on as we drifted back into the river, so Ted and I both went out on the bow to help him climb on. We dragged him up, inch by inch, by the feet while he held on to the railing, until we finally had his rear end on the bow. With most of his weight onboard the worst was over, and with a final effort from his weary arms he boosted himself the rest of the way on to the bow of the boat.

___Beached at Shilo 4/30/99___

Bob had collected a souvenir rock from Shilo, and I guess we traded for it, since I had left Chris’s hammer on shore. It had taken 45 minutes to get launched. As I cruised slowly up the river, Ted and Bob organized themselves and the boat. Soon, Bob commanded, "Plane it out." After only a couple of miles, chop and swells slowed us down to seven mph. There was little wind and no boats about, so I could only guess the turbulence might have been created by a discharge of water from the Pickwick Lock a few miles upstream. When we were a mile from the lock, I radioed the lockmaster, and he told me to switch to channel 14. After I switched the channel on the radio, he told us he was lowering the water and we could enter when he sounded the horn. (Usually they turn on the green light to enter and sound the horn to exit.) Soon, the gate opened, and we entered the lock. Per the lockmaster’s instructions, I proceeded to the most forward floating bollard, where we secured the boat with a line. After we rose 50 feet in 20 minutes, the upper exit gates opened, and the lockmaster sounded the exit horn.

Out on the unsheltered Pickwick Lake the wind created swells and choppy water, which kept us to a slow pace. At 4:00 P.M. we entered the Tom Bigbee canal, and memorably, we were back to a downstream voyage. One mile downstream we pulled up to the gas pumps of the Pickwick’s Tenn-Tom Marina to purchase fuel and get a slip for the night. We had just left Tennessee and were barely into the state of Mississippi.

|Chap-1 Prologue and Preparations |Chap-2 Illinois Waterways | Chap-3 The Mississippi |
| Chap-5 The Tenn-Tom Waterway| Chap-6 Mobile Bay| Back to Index|