I paddled gently onto the sandbar and stepped out into water just above ankle deep near the back of my canoe. As I waded past the bow I lifted it a bit farther onto the sand and grasped the anchor line.
Stretching the rope to its full length I placed the anchors as far from shore as possible. Then busied myself unloading what seemed to be half the gear in the boat, sorting what I would need for the coming night’s camp. As I placed the small camp chair facing the west, the better to enjoy the pending sunset, I paused.
At the far end of the bar, some three hundred yards upstream of the point I had chosen, another paddler seemed to be setting up his camp as well.
Puzzled, I considered his presence. For three days I had traveled the great river without encountering another paddler. I’d seen sand dredges and fishermen in outboard powered Jon boats. I’d been passed by a towboat pushing barges headed for St. Louis no doubt. And once a family had waved from a park on the shoreline. That was at Glasgow I remembered.
But in the three days on the water my own had been the only canoe I’d seen.
Curious about the other boat and how he’d slipped up on me, I decided that I just hadn’t noticed him easing up from behind as I sought an acceptable camp for the evening.
I busied myself setting my tent and building a small fire with driftwood gathered nearby. As I placed my bed roll and the possibles bag that held odds and ends of items I might want easy access to into the tent, I stood and glanced again at the stranger now silhouetted by the lowering sun.
He seemed for the first time to notice me and waved a hand in a neighborly fashion.
After one last chore of mixing a concoction of a sort of camp stew and setting the small Dutch oven in coals raked from the fire. I washed my hands and began a leisurely stroll back up the bar toward the other fellow’s camp.
As I approached I let out the customary greeting, “Hello the camp” in my best imitation of a boatman of old.
The stranger waved and smiled and continued to piece together a small fire of his own.
At my approach he looked up and asked, “Don’t mind if I share your sandbar do you?”
“After three days on the river, I’m glad for the company friend.” Was my reply.
“Three days.” He repeated with a distant look to his eyes. “I’ve been out here a bit more than that.” But he didn’t elaborate.
I surveyed the fellow and liked what I saw. His boat was secure, his campsite tidy and clean. He obviously was no stranger to river travel and just had a competent air about him that told me I might enjoy an evening in his presence.
He grasped a small pot from the edge of his fire and offered it in my direction.
“It’s real coffee and you’re welcome to a cup if you care. I just don’t cotton to the instant, if you know what I mean.” He offered.
“Yes, if it’s no trouble.” I accepted. “And I’m pretty much of the same opinion on the instant stuff. Though for the sake of simplicity, it’s what I carry in the boat.” I informed my new companion.
He stepped around the fire and offered me a steaming cup. As we stood face to face he then offered his hand and said, “Bill is my name. Bill Dayton.” And we shook.
I introduced myself and thanked him as I took a sip of what might have been the best coffee I had ever tasted.
Bill was recovering a second cup from his pack and settling in to enjoy it himself.
“You might want to slow your life a little.” he surmised. “A fellow who can’t take the time to brew real coffee might want to re-access his priorities. Few things deserve their allotment of time more than a good leisurely cup of coffee.” He said with a slow smile.
And my liking for Bill’s gentlemanly manner deepened just a bit more.
“Oh, it’s a small thing. But as you get older you’ll find that some things, though small, are no less important.” He related.
In the darkening twilight and by the jaded light of the small fire, I tried to judge Bill’s age. Somewhat older than I, though better preserved I guessed. My best estimate put him in his late sixties or early seventies. He appeared a bit older than the usual river traveler, but certainly not one handicapped by his age.
We made small talk for another two cups of coffee as I told him the basics of my situation. Recently retired I was taking a week to travel the river from Kansas City back to my home near Chamois.
I’d played on the river all my life, but it had been spent an afternoon here and a weekend there. This trip was the fulfillment of a long held desire to actually retrace a portion of the steps of the explorers and trappers of old. To float at my own speed was my intent and remember the history of the valley as I followed their trail.
Bill, for his part, told me he was doing somewhat the same thing. Though the trail he followed was retracing a portion of a trip he had taken some years earlier with his wife. He had been a widower for half a dozen years now and he was seeking to reconnect with memories of happier times.
Talking to Bill turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable way to pass the evening. We sat and shared a glorious sunset. And as we chatted long after the sun was gone we continued to relate tales of our various times on the river. And far too soon it was time to return to my own camp.
I found my little oven of stew warm and much better tasting than most of my cooking. The 'hands off' culinary approach was a good thing I decided as I cleaned the pot and my bowl before turning in.
I lay in the tent that night reminiscing about the evening. Bill had warned me he intended to leave early the next morning and promised he’d try to break camp without disturbing me. I had told him I would happily rise early and paddle with him the following day but he declined saying he had a few people to meet and he doubted I would want to maintain his pace for the thirty odd miles we had before reaching Jefferson City.
I had planned to take all day to reach the park, but he seemed to be determined to meet someone there earlier in the day.
Ah well, I thought as I dozed off, He’ll wake me on his way out anyway.
The next morning just after dawn, I rolled out of my bedroll and exited the tent. I was mildly surprised to see Bill had, true to his word, packed up and gone without rousing me.
I was even more surprised to see my fire had been freshly banked and there balanced on a pair of stones was a small tin of steaming hot, fresh and unusually good coffee,
I thought back over the evening and realized that I considered Bill Dayton a true friend. This surprised me as I seldom took to anyone so much as I had him after a single evening together. But I felt the warmth and camaraderie when I thought of him that I usually reserved for much longer acquaintances.
I wanted to pack up camp and get back on the river, but true to Bill’s advice I sat for a while and savored both my new friendship and his gift of great coffee.
Something like six or seven miles down river that morning I paddled to the left-hand bank and pulled my canoe onto the bottom of the boat ramp at a small resort called Cooper’s Landing. It was a well-known resort/campground and watering hole and considered by many to be the best stop along the whole length of the Missouri river.
My only regret here was that I hadn’t landed at meal time. Cooper’s is renown for the food they serve but neither did I wish to waste too much time. I still harbored a hope I would catch up with Bill at the ramp at Jefferson City.
So I renewed my acquaintance with Mike Cooper and bought a few items to replenish my supplies. I iced down my cooler and was back on the water again by late morning.
It was a twenty six mile paddle on down to Jeff, but an easy trip with the current carrying my little craft along. I delighted in the fact that the headwinds so dreaded by paddlers on this stretch of river were absent this day and I relaxed and gloried in the trip.
On a normal day I would have stopped at a sandbar or two and explored the river a bit more closely. But today I continued to think of Bill and hoped I’d connect with him again at Jeff. So some six hours later I paddled up to the boat ramp at Jefferson City.
There at the ramp I met a good friend of mine. Joe Wilson was a little bit of a Midwestern legend to folks familiar with the river. He was one of a group of so called
‘River Angels’. People who volunteered to help paddlers coming down the river. They might help with supply replenishments or even a simple fresh water drop. But the biggest services provided by these people were often just connecting with paddlers who by now had sometimes spent a few months on the river and just craved a good conversation or meal with a friend.
As I landed my canoe I watched Joe back his trailer into the water and load his Jon boat.
“Walt!” he called as he recognized me and came forward to shake my hand. We caught ourselves up on news and happenings and then I related my meeting the night before on the river with Bill Dayton.
I told Joe I had hoped to catch Bill here because he had meant to meet someone at this park today.
As I told Joe of our meeting on the sandbar he grew very quiet. “Walt, come on over here, have a seat.” He said as he led me to a nearby park bench. “We need to talk.” He stated softly.
And then Joe related his tale.
“Walt” he began, “Every word I’m about to tell you is the gospel truth. What you think when I’ve finished is up to you but never doubt what I have to say.”
Then he fell silent for a time as if to gather his thoughts. Finally he began.
“It was right at a year ago that I had put my boat in and ran upriver a couple of miles to catch what catfish I could find. I’d spent a couple of hours with only a little luck when I noticed a speck far upstream in the center of the channel.
I watched it off and on as I fished and finally decided I was looking at a canoe, adrift on the water. I packed up my lines and started the boat and idled toward what was now clearly a loaded canoe. Pulling along side I found the paddler lying in the bottom of the boat and he was dead.” Joe paused again.
“Of course I towed the whole rig back here to the ramp and called emergency services. And well, it turned out the poor fellow had had a heart attack and died alone on the river. That fellow Walt, his name was Bill Dayton. We had talked by phone and I’d intended to meet him here for a supply run. But I never met him in person until I towed him in.”
With that Joe fell silent and I was speechless.
“He was real, I know he was. I shared his coffee, Joe.” I said softly. And Joe remained quiet looking at the ground in front of our feet.
Then he asked “You said he told you he had to meet someone here today?”
“Yes.” I replied, “He mentioned it a couple of times last night.”
“Bill had a son and a daughter,” Joe related. “They had arraigned to meet me here this morning and we went up river about mile, maybe two, in my boat. That’s why I was loading it when you arrived.”
Joe looked me in the eye and continued. “Just an hour or so ago his kids spread Bill’s ashes across the river he loved.”
I sat silent as the lowering sun left a red trail up the river to the west. I thought of Bill Dayton and his concern to make today’s meeting. And I wondered.
