Summer of ‘17, as had become our standing tradition, my brother, cousin and I would make a two-day canoe trip on the Upper Mississippi. Slightly above Winona (and indeed scattered about the river) are large piles of dredging sand scoured from the channel bottom to make room for barges. It was on one of these piles where we would always make camp.
Now, night on the river has a particular peculiarity, as the small waves tinkle like black diamonds and the stars make themselves known like in the days of pre-history. But on a dredging mount, which can often tower high above the dense treeline, the whole of the miles-wide river system span in a deep cut between the bluffs. The only light is from the moon and stars, and Winona in the far distance.
But every now and then, thundering and rumbling like an aqueous workhorse, slowly the barges approach, ray and night. So big, in fact, that they themselves can be hundreds of feet of shunted rafts. Any craft foolish enough to nightcruise without lights would surely perish beneath their unyielding hulls.
Us three kids knew this must be the case, since each barge has lit with it an enormous spotlight, as big as a man, and brighter than a thousand campfires. Sweep, sweep, sweeping the dark water of the mysterious river, it would rush over, stop, then rush again to the next place. A lingering eye so uncanny, evoking the image of demons and creatures of the dark, akin to our treasured bushwhacked D&D games.
Hiding ‘hind a dune, pebbles digging our palms, we watched the barges lumber, all the while their searching eyes alert for prey. The only thing louder than the tug’s uncompromising engines were the unified chirps of a million thriving insects and nocturnal creatures. A new barge emerged around a bend, preceded by that glaring lamp, and we silently watched it make it’s inquisitive approach…
The light made a different turn. We all felt it; boats, water and flotsam were not all this barge hungered for. No, the spot of luminosity sped up the side of the dune, and faster than we could react, engulfed us three in a hail of blinding flare.
We hit the deck, but it was too late. Our eyes seared and we panted, backs cold on the sand, darkness returning with only us brave enough to watch the stars.
We waited; listened as the muffled barge meandered past, wandering it’s way to the next lock in search of more victims.
We had been spared of fate that day, but none of us ever forgot the wisps of wind, the churn of water, and the seeking, craving light of that barge. And it won’t soon forget our faces either…
Summer of ‘17, as had become our standing tradition, my brother, cousin and I would make a two-day canoe trip on the Upper Mississippi. Slightly above Winona (and indeed scattered about the river) are large piles of dredging sand scoured from the channel bottom to make room for barges. It was on one of these piles where we would always make camp.
Now, night on the river has a particular peculiarity, as the small waves tinkle like black diamonds and the stars make themselves known like in the days of pre-history. But on a dredging mount, which can often tower high above the dense treeline, the whole of the miles-wide river system span in a deep cut between the bluffs. The only light is from the moon and stars, and Winona in the far distance.
But every now and then, thundering and rumbling like an aqueous workhorse, slowly the barges approach, ray and night. So big, in fact, that they themselves can be hundreds of feet of shunted rafts. Any craft foolish enough to nightcruise without lights would surely perish beneath their unyielding hulls.
Us three kids knew this must be the case, since each barge has lit with it an enormous spotlight, as big as a man, and brighter than a thousand campfires. Sweep, sweep, sweeping the dark water of the mysterious river, it would rush over, stop, then rush again to the next place. A lingering eye so uncanny, evoking the image of demons and creatures of the dark, akin to our treasured bushwhacked D&D games.
Hiding ‘hind a dune, pebbles digging our palms, we watched the barges lumber, all the while their searching eyes alert for prey. The only thing louder than the tug’s uncompromising engines were the unified chirps of a million thriving insects and nocturnal creatures. A new barge emerged around a bend, preceded by that glaring lamp, and we silently watched it make it’s inquisitive approach…
The light made a different turn. We all felt it; boats, water and flotsam were not all this barge hungered for. No, the spot of luminosity sped up the side of the dune, and faster than we could react, engulfed us three in a hail of blinding flare.
We hit the deck, but it was too late. Our eyes seared and we panted, backs cold on the sand, darkness returning with only us brave enough to watch the stars.
We waited; listened as the muffled barge meandered past, wandering it’s way to the next lock in search of more victims.
We had been spared of fate that day, but none of us ever forgot the wisps of wind, the churn of water, and the seeking, craving light of that barge. And it won’t soon forget our faces either…