The Voyage of Plattepus I
Last May, Ron Snell of North
Platte set out to Story and Photography by Ron and Tammy Snell |
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Day 1
Friday, May 18, 2007, 2:30 p.m.
North Platte River, just southwest of Henry, Neb.
I stood on my homemade boat, Plattepus I, a 10-foot pole in my hand, a canvas
hat on my head and a huge knot in my stomach. This was not exactly what I had
imagined.
When I first began telling friends about my idea to make a float boat and pole it over 500 miles down the North Platte and Platte Rivers across Nebraska, skeptics definitely outnumbered supporters.
“You’ll never make it,” they said. “There’s no water.”
“That’s okay. It’ll only take an inch to float my boat,” I answered with a laugh. Now I was searching for that inch.
Because I work at a homeless shelter in North Platte, the black clouds of skepticism had turned the whole trip into a fundraiser for a new building. Seizing upon the chance to make some money from possible misfortune, I’d invited people to guess which of 58 bridges along the way would be my last by 9 p.m. on my 10th day, May 28. If they wanted, they could send in a donation with their guess and maybe win a prize.
Now, as I set my pole and pushed off, I wasn’t laughing. The enormity of my incomplete planning swept over me, but I smiled and waved for my family and friends and, most importantly, for the newspaper reporter. I was off to see Nebraska, come what may, in the footsteps of all great explorers. I kept a sharp eye out for landowners who might shoot at me for being anywhere near their property; my wife, Tammy, agreed that that was an adventure we could do without. She and our daughter Sheila would be my support crew.
An hour later I was hemorrhaging sweat. My hands were blistering and my shoulders ached as if they were 55 years old . . . which they were. I had not poled a boat since the days when I was growing up in Peru’s Amazon jungle as the son of missionaries, and the 40-year absence hadn’t exactly kept me in top condition.
On the bright side, startled deer bounded across the river in graceful splashes, ducks and geese cried out for my attention, and in the clear water I could see shock on fish faces. In addition, extra water had come in from somewhere. I actually had a small river.
South of Mitchell at 8:10 p.m., I stopped under a bridge to set up camp. Tammy and Sheila did a lot of the work, since my arms were nearly useless. We put up my custom tent and then they left, preferring the comfortable pleasures of real beds in town. I didn’t mind – I was about to relish the peaceful solitude of rural Nebraska.
That’s when I noticed that every 20 minutes a coal train blasted its horn just north of me. Cars rattled the bridge above me, and wind shook my tent. On the bright side, if you could call it that, I didn’t have any trouble waking up for an early start.
