A Crash Course on Pioneering the American West: Exploring the Familiar Frontier
Just across from my beloved Portland neighborhood, along the banks of the Ohio River, Lewis and Clark launched their famed expedition into the unknown. It was a strategic spot, nestled just downstream from the Falls of the Ohio—the river’s only natural barrier from its origins in Pittsburgh to its confluence with the Mississippi in Cairo, Illinois.
Years later, William Clark returned to the very spot that once launched him into history, this time—to care for his older brother, George, in a humble, handmade cabin. George Clark, who is celebrated as the founder of Louisville, spent his final years there, overlooking the growing city he helped build. Though George Clark passed away in 1818, the cabin has lived on in various states of preservation ever since.
Oddly enough, a few years back, Katie and I spotted a man walking on the side of the road with a raccoon perched on his shoulder. Anyone walking a raccoon is worth a detour, and I pulled the car over immediately to meet the man, or more importantly, his friend.
We learned he was homeless, and the raccoon was his pet. He pointed into the woods, explaining that he lived there. While his love for woodland creatures made living in the forest less surprising, the direction he indicated was a small, but well-traveled state park. I was puzzled at the choice, given the relatively few places for privacy and even fewer options for shelter.
Had the raccoon been fashioned into a hat, he would have fit right in with the cabin’s surroundings. I didn’t think about the encounter much, but a few months later the cabin was engulfed in flames. The timber burned quickly with only the chimney left standing. The cabin was a protected historic site, and a source of pride for many. It was an enormous loss.
Before long, a wanted image was splashed across several local news outlets—grainy surveillance footage of a suspect. No one knew his identity, and the reports didn’t have a name, but I recognized him instantly. My jaw dropped as I stared at the screen, picturing a raccoon perched on his shoulder.
Remnants of George Rogers Clark Cabin
I was puzzled about what to do with this information, if I even had any. Sharing his last known “address” was useless, and his four legged accomplice seemed irrelevant. I initially believed the fire was an accident, the result of him squatting in the cabin - maybe building a fire for warmth. However, I soon learned four other fires burned nearby that night, and all their origins were determined to be arson.
I didn’t have to wait long to figure out what to do. He was caught in a matter of days.
The park will try to replicate the cabin and preserve the chimney, something they’ve done before in the cabin’s 200 year history. But for now, the only visible remnant of their journey is an unremarkable boat ramp a few miles away. Whether or not it’s the actual spot they launched from is anyone’s guess—some believe it is, but confirming that feels impossible. Still, it stands as one of the last tangible links to their 1804 departure.
You can’t have the last name “Newland” without at least some adoration for the American West, if for only the adventure it promises. Consequently, that site has intrigued me for years, for a visit downstream to retrace a small leg of their journey, at least to the Mississippi River - the gateway to the west.
I figured the only thing standing between me and that adventure was a boat. To my surprise, boats without tags or titles are really cheap. For just $600, my buddy Stephen and I landed a 14-foot fiberglass boat with an old 2-stroke outboard engine. It got even cheaper for me after I traded $100 worth of fireworks for an old vending machine. I ended up selling that vending machine to cover my half of the boat—quite the bargain for a slice of freedom on the final frontier.
Several people I spoke to didn’t realize it was possible to boat to the Mississippi River. It took me calling all seven locks and dams downstream from Louisville to feel confident that the route to the Mississippi was as connected as it looks on a map. The operators seemed a bit baffled. Apparently, leisure travelers don’t often ask for directions to Cairo, but they did ultimately concede that if I showed up, they’d have no choice but to let me through. It was practically an invitation.
The operator briefly alluded to some paperwork (an RSVP perhaps?), but my brain quickly suppressed any mention of it. In all the unknowns I faced, I surely wasn’t going to let some forms stop me. Our boat was just like the pioneers - no insurance, tags or title. Heck, we didn’t even have a name for the log book guest book.
For a course that has no intersections, river maps are a bit much… We launched from the black arrow
On the morning of the launch, we brought along a teenage kid from the neighborhood. Even though he’d lived nearby most of his life, he had never laid eyes on a boat ramp before. As another truck slowly backed toward the water, inching its rear wheels into the river, he erupted in panic. He bolted toward the driver yelling at the top of his lungs, “Stop! There’s a river back there!”
I couldn’t help but relish the fact that I was no longer the least competent skipper. Even so, I gladly deferred to my sidekick, Stephen, as the true captain. He had taken a deeper interest in mastering the boat, especially the motor—an old relic we’d determined to be a 1957 2-stroke Johnson.
We’d never actually started it before, and as the current began pulling us downstream, we gave the engine its first pull. Nothing. Another pull sparked a faint sputter—there was a glimmer of hope. I had already started rowing by hand when, after ten minutes of coaxing, the engine shook to life.
The journey was slow going with our vintage motor. I clocked us at a leisurely ten miles per hour, draining my phone’s battery every so often to convert our speed to knots, just for the fun of it. At that pace, we quickly realized we’d be on the water much longer than expected for the 700 mile round trip, likely cruising well into the night if we wanted to reach the Mississippi. One thing was clear—we wouldn’t have time for the return trip.
We reasoned we could find a nice dock and sell the boat to someone for a few hundred bucks. I could make a joke about the deal being better than the Louisiana Purchase, and we could all feel good about it. Then we would use that money to rent a car and drive back to Louisville before work in five days tops. I’d probably take a loss on some fireworks, but that would be worth the adventure.
As we traveled further west, the landscape around me began to shift dramatically. I watched as the rolling hills on the Indiana side seemed to melt into the river, only to rise again on the Kentucky shore. It was a spectacular way to experience the river.
Around one bend, we found ourselves face-to-face with a massive 200-foot barge—the only other vessel on the water. Had our vintage boat been a bit more robust, we might have collided head-on. Instead, the wake from the slow-moving giant nearly capsized us.
We quickly adopted the watchful eye of an old-fashioned sea captain, scanning every turn for potential hazards. At our starting point, the river had been nearly a mile wide; now, it had narrowed to just a few hundred feet, making the barges seem even more imposing as they rounded the bends.
Despite knowing time was not on our side, we couldn’t help but stop and explore little coves and curiosities along the way. On one occasion, we spotted a huge ballroom hall perched at the top of a cliff – completely abandoned and adorned with broken glass and graffiti. As we climbed to the top, we watched bright blue skies turn grey, and a storm began to set over the river. We took shelter in our newfound lookout, waiting out the storm from a pirated watchtower.
As the river grew choppier, I was promptly relieved of steering duty. The unpredictable water had already slowed us down, but with the sun sinking lower, we knew we had to push forward. Sticking close to the coast, we avoided towering barges and tried to dodge the roughest waters, but that was mostly futile. We had completely underestimated the river.
Suddenly, the boat jolted violently, spinning out of control. The motor screeched, sending us veering toward the riverbank. In an instant, we were dead still. We had run aground.
We tried relentlessly, but the motor appeared hopelessly lost, barely offering a sputter. Our small coast was about thirty feet wide, tucked in-between the water and an inverted embankment too high to see over. It stretched as far as I could see.
Back at the abandoned ballroom, I barely had enough service to check our location. Now, the signal was completely gone. We weren’t shipwrecked, at least by any rational point of view, but I felt a bit of fear start to creep in, and I heard a twinge of angst in Captain Stephen’s voice.
Still, there wasn’t time for panic. We estimated we were about five miles upstream from the nearest town. If we could walk to it, we reasoned there could be a boat ramp, a tackle shop, or maybe a good samaritan to offer a tow. I pushed aside my most intrusive thoughts- the ones that begged me to befriend a volleyball, and I welcomed my level-headed self. The one that doesn’t suppress mentions of paperwork, or river maps, or weather forecasts, or the mechanics of an engine.
We had maybe an hour of daylight left. Behind us was nothing but miles of river; ahead was a hope that something, anything, awaited us if we walked far enough. The decision was unanimous. The sun hovered above the horizon, casting long shadows across the water. We walked closer to it, into the fading light and toward the American West.
Maybe, in that moment, we were more similar to Lewis and Clark than we’d expected. We were moving through the same unfamiliar waters, now guided by our own instincts, no matter how futile.
I could make it through, in part, by embracing that connection. It was a connection I could feel getting stronger. I may have never met Mr. Clark, but I met the man who burned down his cabin—and I hoped that was close enough.
Confluence of the Ohio River and Mississippi in Cairo, Illinois; Paul Schneider
Locations mentioned:
Site of George Rogers Clark Cabin | 38.28697, -85.77611
Abandoned Ballroom \ 37.95665, -86.05234
