Part I - North American Rivers
In August 1990, Ladd transported Squeak by van across the Rockies and launched her in a mountain stream. It fed into the Missouri, which fed into the Mississippi. He sucked in the airy freedom of the High Plains, and rediscovered Mark Twain's Middle America, but by December he was rather chilled. From New Orleans, he worked aboard a Norwegian freighter for his passage to Panama.
From "Three Years in a 12-Foot Boat":
"The lake was a fjord knifing through a mountainous desert. Sun and biting flies ruled out bare skin, so I wetted my clothes frequently to stay cool. Powerful tailwinds gave me good progress, but the waves grew to alarming size where the lake aligned in the direction of the wind. After almost capsizing while struggling to reduce sail area, I changed the way the sail is lashed to the mast to make reefing easier.
"The lake twisted and widened, beyond all sign of man. The wind blew ceaselessly, rippling the grass, ruffling the water. As the lake deepened it became clear. I camped away from the waves, in sandy coves, and listened to the coyotes as they sang their evening vespers. They howled with a passionate wisdom beyond my understanding.
"On September 9 the wind faded. The sun was wilting hot. I rowed half-heartedly toward a distant, tree-covered island. The sun slowly burned down to the horizon on my right. I guided myself by reciprocal heading on the hills far astern, looking forward every fifty strokes for hazards and to correct my heading.
"The island didn't show on the Montana road map, my only guide. I was far out in the middle of the lake, losing my race with the sun, which cast deepening violet across the heavens. Slowly, for it was further than I had thought, my isle grew and took shape. It became a very special place, my own discovery. The flatness of the water and my focus on reaching the island before dark put me in a trance. Squeak and I were one. We toiled smoothly, cleaving water apart and sewing it together behind. The sun set. Red, then orange, flared up from the place where it had disappeared. The evening star suddenly blazed through, like a pinprick hole in the iron wall of a furnace.
"With the joy of a Christopher Columbus, I leapt onto the island's gravely beach. Before white man it was simply a hill, but the reservoir had submerged it. The drought had then made it an island. Saplings grew up in nature's never-ending search for equilibrium. I ran to the highest point and was shocked to see, in the utimate light, the dam only a couple miles away. It was detectable as a perfect flat on the northern horizon -- an immense, earth-filled dam. The first of the great Missouri River reservoirs was almost behind me."