We had no special plans for Kevin’s birthday.

We walked in to the Purple Cow in the middle of the afternoon, discouraged by strong head winds. It’s a purple shack on the side of the river, raised up high on stilts for when the water’s high. We thought we’d stop in for a drink in honour of Kevin’s birthday – then we figured we’d continue on paddling into the night.

As we open the door, we’re greeted by three grey mustaches that turn from their beers at the bar to look at us. We take a seat at the bar, me in my filthy yellow rain pants and Kevin in his plaid shirt. We take in the ambiance – a cooler with beers in it at the end of the counter, signed dollar bills taped all over the walls, and lots of fishing and hunting swag.

10. Our food never rots (it freezes).

9. The locals are impressed. (ok, maybe they think we’re crazy)

8. Low water means the canoe will never drift away if not tied town.

7. When it doesn’t freeze at night, we remark how warm it is.

It will never cease to amaze me how much can happen if you let it. We’re staying in a studio apartment in Davenport, Iowa through the generosity of Dustin, another warmshowers.org host. He’s a printer – he makes the big signs on buses and t-shirts and giant sticks of gum the size of you.

He does all sorts of things. His apartment is above a newspaper publisher in an old brick building downtown. His apartment is his office, and a museum of creativity – Mississippi driftwood and bike pieces made into art. He’s working on a side project right now – making giant lollipops for an upcoming Christmas event. Big styrofoam balls and brightly coloured foil lay on the floor.

Hope we didn’t scare anyone (ie our mums) with the last post – it’s not all terror and danger. We’ve paddled to some of the most charming American towns one can imagine; the kind with men on ladders fixing red painted shutters, women unraveling holiday garlands for storefront decorations, lots of smiles and hellos, and church rummage sales with absolutely amazing sweaters and earrings, etc for about fifty cents each.

Yesterday night it was t-shirt weather. Record highs for the day were set in the area at midnight. It was recorded to have reached 66 degrees (19 Celsius for us Canadian-folk).

It’s the early evening, dark already, and we’re in a lock. We’re sharing it with one other boat, a sailboat, and other than the wind the only sound is the clanging of its mast. Combined with the orange glow of the lampposts, it sets a foreboding atmosphere. Something’s coming. We watch in silence as the dark water sinks lower and lower, the concrete walls growing taller around us. The lockmaster comes to check on our ropes – “you guys have any lights at all? Are ya camping soon?”

Aside from a few people in the food coop proudly sporting little “I voted” stickers on their lapels, you’d barely know it. There’s the occasional “tonight’s gonna be interesting, eh?” but for the most part the Americans we’ve been talking to have kept pretty quiet about it. Maybe they roll their eyes or heave a sigh. There’s not a lot of buzz.

Unless of course you turn on the radio (or worse – the television), which is a non-stop parade of political propaganda. My favourite radio ad goes something like this: