The Lewis and Clark Aquaquest

PART I - Duluth to New York

Sing, Muse, of the daring soul who answered the call of the waters,
Through storm-swollen rivers and ocean's wild, white-fanged highways,
Seeking the western sun by the trail of the storied explorers,
Crossing the land with no step upon soil, a pact with Poseidon.

From Duluth's iron-rimmed bay, where Superior crashes her breakers,
The racer launched forth in the gray of a freshwater morning,
Bearing the crest of the Aquaquest high on a fiberglass prow.
Steel-eyed and steady, they wielded the paddle like spear of Achilles,
Cutting through chop where the wolves of the wind made their howling patrols.

Past Huron’s pale cliffs and the thunder of Erie’s wide fury,
Through locks where the iron-bound gates held the tide like chained Titans,
They traveled with haste, lest the storm-god awake in his fury.
Ontario lay like a mirror to dreams, serene and unyielding,
Till the mouth of the Hudson appeared like a serpent of silver.

Now in New York, the racer beheld the high towers of marble,
City of gods and of commerce, Olympus in glass and in iron.
Here was the port where the vessels of empire once crowded the harbor—
From here would the true odyssey start, toward the Gulf and beyond.

PART II - New York to Miami

Sing now, O Muse, of the coast-hugging voyage through salt-bitten channels,
Where brine-crusted hulls beat southward, chasing the tropic horizon,
And sea-kings of modern kind danced on the waves with their engines.

From Manhattan’s broad bay, past Lady Liberty’s fire-lit beacon,
The racer set sail in a sleek-bodied yacht, bright as Apollo’s own chariot,
Swift on the tide that pulls men to greatness—or wrecks them on granite.
Down past the shores where Washington once watched with hope toward the breakers,
They charted the course of the colonies, now joined by marinas and skylines.

Charleston received them with cannons retired and palmettos in vigil,
Savannah gave shade and the hush of old oak, with ghosts in her waters.
At nightfall they anchored where lanterns of shrimp boats glimmered like fireflies
And dolphins danced by the hull like naiads in playful procession.

Past capes of storm and reefs of menace they thundered—
Through Hatteras' wrath, where the winds bear old whispers of shipwrecks,
Till at last, in a sunrise of fire and gold, they saw the flat stretches
Of Florida's backbays and mangrove-thick harbors of herons and silence.

Miami stood waiting—a goddess of sun and illusion and motion,
Palms outstretched like a priestess of leisure, her pulse in the ocean.
Here would the racer dismount from their dolphin-quick steed of the sea,
Trading for swifter machines, bound upriver through bayous and legends.

PART III - Miami to St. Louis

Sing, Muse, of swamps and rivers that coil like serpents through history,
Where the salt gives way to the silt, and the air thickens with songbirds and secrets.
From Miami’s dazzle, the racers turned north, where canals like veins
Pulsed with the life of the land—the Everglades breathing beneath them.

Oars dipped through sawgrass shadows, fanboats howled in the marsh-wind,
And the racer, now lone or with crew kept in reverent silence,
Passed gators half-submerged like ancient gods of forgotten tribes.
Where the Seminole hunted, they now surged forward with outboards and paddle,
The line of the Aquaquest threading between cypress knees and cattails.

Through manmade locks and flood-tamed waters they climbed,
Meeting the Kissimmee, the Apalachicola, the tomb-fed Suwannee,
All leading toward that muddy titan: the Father of Waters,
Old Mississippi, who swallows all names and gives none in return.

New Orleans rose like a hymn from the mist, jazz curling above levees,
Where the delta yawns wide and the Gulf sighs farewell to the river’s red cargo.
Here they refitted—some onto houseboats, others to skiffs or pontoons,
Each craft like a steed bred for the peculiar madness of this race.

Then north, against the push of the current and the weight of centuries.
Past Natchez, where bluffs tell stories no book dares to bind,
And Vicksburg, whose hills remember fire and fury in brotherly war.
In Memphis, guitars wept and welcomed them; smoke rose from rib-basted alters.
Still they pressed on, through dusk and driftwood and barge-wake.

The river grew younger, though the racer grew older—sinew stiff, mind sharper.
And in St. Louis, under the silver gate that splits east from the west,
They rested once more, beside storied stones of explorers long buried,
Preparing to cross from the memory of empire into wilderness unmeasured.

PART IV - St. Louis to Yellowstone

Sing, Muse, of the weary arms and windburned eyes
That turned from the arch of St. Louis toward the land of whispers—
Where maps grow vague and rivers braid like tangled hair.
From the wide brown belly of the Mississippi,
They met the mouth of the Missouri, a restless child of plains and peaks.

Here the waters turned fierce and strange,
Running against the will of gravity and racer alike.
Gone were the houseboats, the gracious current,
Now the contest lay in sweat, in portage, in craft lashed from will.
The paddles bit like teeth, the wind mocked each stroke.

Through the farmlands of Iowa, where cornfields knelt in rows
Like silent witnesses, they pushed upstream.
In Council Bluffs, they found carved canoes waiting—
Left by friends or by fate, carved from cedar, stained with prayer.
Each racer changed vessels like a warrior donning new armor.

Then came the Dakotas—vast, bare-boned, buffalo-breathed.
The Missouri twisted through Badlands and buttes,
Where thunderheads hung like judgment, and coyotes laughed by night.
They passed Fort Pierre, and the ghosts of trappers watched them
From cottonwoods whispering in wind older than statehood.

At Bismarck, the river grew defiant, littered with snags and sandbars,
And there the racers faced their first great trial:
The Gollum Run—riding logs like madmen,
No oar but their limbs, no guide but instinct.
Some fell, some floated, one wept and sang to steady her breath.

Montana rose like a challenge on the horizon—
Mountains sharp as regret, rivers fast as memory.
The air grew thin, but the soul grew rich with resolve.
They passed Three Forks, where the Jefferson, Gallatin, and Madison converge,
And then came the Bitterroot, sharp with meltwater and myth.

At last, Yellowstone’s basin greeted them with steam and wonder,
Bison stared like sentinels, and geysers rose in applause.
And from a lake named for the mountain it shadows,
They rested—bone-weary, river-slick, but blazing still with purpose.

The Pacific still lay leagues ahead,
But the worst of the climb was behind them.
Now came the plunge.

PART V - Yellowstone to the Pacific

Now sing, O Muse, of the water that runs like prophecy—
From Isla Lake’s high whisper to the ocean’s open roar.
For here begins the fall, the swift descent,
The racers’ final test in the lands of stone and shadow.

From Yellowstone’s steaming crown, they entered swift channels,
Creeks like flint blades slicing downward—Lewis River,
Then Snake, coiling and spitting with white foam and fury.
No longer did they fight the current; now it flung them forward,
Tumbling like prayer beads loosed from a desperate hand.

Through the gorges of Idaho, they flew on narrow kayaks,
Their hulls skipping over rapids like stones blessed by gods.
Where rocks snarled and cliffs loomed like watchmen,
Some fell, and the river took them gently or not at all.
But always the current bore their names downstream.

Near Twin Falls, a narrow cataract snarled like Cerberus.
There, some racers scaled with ropes pre-set by unseen hands,
Friends gone before them, ghost helpers in windbreakers.
At the top, a raft waited—its nylon skin sun-scorched and strong.
Onward they surged, teeth gritted, lungs singing.

In Hells Canyon, deepest gorge of the land,
They met the river’s wrath and wonder both.
Jet skis screamed across the Snake’s wide mouth,
Water shattered in veils behind them like wings of saints.
The cliffs echoed with cheers—both real and remembered.

Then came the Columbia, mighty and proud,
Wide as a promise, cold as a doubt.
Here the water slowed but grew immense.
Houseboats emerged again, and pontoons with weary crews,
Sharing beef jerky and stories beneath sunset fire.

They passed The Dalles, passed Portland’s shining crown,
And the salt began to scent the wind—
The great Pacific murmured just beyond the rise.

At Astoria, where river and sea kiss like old lovers,
They found the final checkpoint: a floating platform
Moored just beyond the breakers, a stage for ending.

One last trial: The Improv Leg.
Here, racers scoured shorelines for anything buoyant—
Barrels, busted canoes, air mattresses,
And yes, one daring soul lashed dolls into a flotilla of absurdity.
The crowd roared. The sea rolled.

Some swam. Some paddled planks with bleeding hands.
One—riding a bouncy castle—caught the wind like a fool and a god.
But all aimed for the beacon, the floating gate,
Where a horn would cry and names would be etched in water’s song.

So ended the Lewis & Clark Aquaquest—
Not in stillness, but in spray and exultation.
And those who reached the sea, whether first or last,
Were crowned not with gold but with memory,
And a river in the blood that would never again run still.