| BY MARK COATNEY
Joel
Stein has lost his luggage, and things look like they could
turn ugly. We've been on our boat, the Grampa Woo III (No.'s
I and II didn't sink; they were simply retired) for only
10 minutes, and Joel is already facing a week on the river
without clean underwear. Which would not be fun. On the
other hand, it is grist for his weekly column, and there's
no art without a little suffering.
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| DIANA WALKER FOR TIME |
| Mark and Joel Stein scan the horizon for Joel's missing luggage |
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We're a
baker's dozen of us from TIME, and we're going to spend the
next two weeks on this boat running the Mississippi from Hannibal
to New Orleans, sending notes on the natives, the flora and
fauna back to the home office in NYC, on the assumption that
they will be interesting and revealing. This river drains
half the North American continent, and is the lifeline for
thousands of river towns — and the sewer too (fertilizer
runoff from farms along the upper river may
be responsible for a "dead zone" area at the river's
mouth). It's the historic home of Mark
Twain and the riverboat gambler, of biblical floods and
massive, increasingly controversial projects by the Corps
of Engineers to tame them.
This
trip is also, let's face it, a bit of a junket, a chance
to get out of the office on the company dime, which is the
big perk of being a journalist and one reason we're not
off making millions as dot.com whiz kids. One of several.
Our transportation
from St. Louis to our starting point in Hannibal, Mo., is
a minivan, a silver Chevy Venture. A Warner Brothers edition
silver Chevy Venture (it has a TV and VCR with a Bugs Bunny
logo), which seems a particulary goofy form of synergy.
On the other hand, it has pretty good pickup, and a slammin'
stereo system. And while I was worried that the other kids
here would be making fun of me driving the family car, it
turns out everybody in the Greater St. Louis Metro Area
also owns a minivan. And ours is much cooler than theirs.
Because
it's a two-hour drive we go through a Steak n Shake. Walter
Isaacson buys us corncob pipes at the Walgreen's next door,
and we barrel down the interstate leaving an enormous cloud
of smoke and the smells of delicious burgers behind us at
a prudent 65 miles per hour.
Though
Hannibal is famous because of the Mississippi, the first
thing you notice isn't the river; it's the dirt. Deep brown
chocolate devil's food fields lining the river, moist in
the rain, and though I've just eaten, suddenly I'm starving;
I want to cram huge chunks into my mouth. Hannibal itself
looks more like a museum than a town, at least the old part.
It's not because everything downtown has the expected Mark
Twain reference (Puddinhead Wilson's Cafe, etc.). It's because
it's so empty that the streets look like a set. It's Easter
Sunday, and it's raining, and the only people around are
three guys on a bike tour sitting out the storm. Not a particulary
stirring beginning to the trip, but, well, there you are.
The Woo crew is gracious and welcoming, and the boat already
feels like home.
And in
the end, it's not just a junket. We're truly curious. Hell,
I'm curious. I've never cruised this river, the Mississippi,
the Father of Waters to the Indians, the Rio Grande to DeSoto
(the Spanish seemingly named every river they saw here the
Rio Grande, which must have made maps confusing). There's
adventure at every turn, I just know it. That said, I want
to hear from you. E-mail me fun facts about the river (even
if they're made up); stop by when we dock along the way.
We're very friendly folks, every last one of us. And so
we launch with our eyes bright and clear and our arms wide
open, flush with hope.
And fresh
laundry. Joel's found his suitcase.
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