Matthew Crofton Writes

Standing at the source of the Mississippi River on the north end of Lake Itasca, Minnesota, it was hard to believe this meandering trickle, approximately six feet wide, would turn into the Mighty Miss dumping forcefully into the Gulf of Mexico.

I was excited, and my father and I were quickly turning into a spectacle; him taking videos and pictures while I packed down my 12’ stand up paddle board and geared up.

“Is that a surfboard?”

“It’s like a BIG surfboard.” I smiled at the cute little boy with the Minnesotan accent.

Within minutes of me arriving at the headwaters I was being photographed and encouraged thanks to my dad telling everyone around, “This is my son, he almost died, and this is what he’s doing.”

One little boy asked if he could stand on my board and take a picture with me. I reach out my hand and helped him from the shore then flashed a peace sign towards his mother snapping the photo.

Kevin, a representative for National Geographic was nearby taking pictures for a story about the Mississippi river. He caught wind of what was going on, came over with his video camera, and started interviewing me as I finished my preparations in shin deep waters.

The sun was out… It was chilly but nice. And I was full of strength and hope. Nothing could bring me down. I’m a great adventurer! I covered the country for a year on a motorcycle. I lived on a sailboat in the Pacific Ocean. I survived death.

Ya, I was feeling pretty sure of myself. Arrogant is a better word.

I pushed off on my knees, pirate flag waving, and people cheering as I began my next great adventure.

I quickly realized the Mississippi was not going to give herself to me without a fight. I spent the first two hours standing up, sitting down, standing up, sitting down just to get around fallen trees and debris blocking the river. At one point I had to lie flat to clear a culvert passing under a road. It was about thirty yards long. I shot through it like a water slide, giggling as I splashed through to the other side. The river wound like a snake through the tall grass and some places were no wider than my paddle. I saw beaver swimming about before diving under water, flat iron tails waving goodbye and disappearing under the surface. My board was so quiet that sometimes I would sneak up on white-tailed deer before they would spot me and bounce away into the emerald canvas.

Those first couple hours were a beautiful start to what I knew would be one of the most spectacular and grueling journeys of my life. I was ready and I was going to see it through to the end no matter what.

And then it happened…

Around 2:00pm I finished with the tall grass and moved into the forest. The water started flowing a bit faster and I could hear gushing and gurgling up ahead. Rapids were approaching, not big ones, but rapids mean rocks and rocks do not mix well with paddle boards.

I began to calculate my exit strategy. I took my eyes of the river for a split second and in that amount of time my board went from forward motion to a freezing halt catapulting me into cold water. I can still feel the paralyzing thud as my back struck rock. I was stuck in the rapids on my back, head pointed down river. My leash was caught, and the water rushed over my body filling my mouth and nose. I spit and chocked and struggled to pull up and free myself from the strap around my ankle but my core was not strong enough. The water continued rushing over me filling my trunks and spreading its cold liquid all over my body. I mustered everything I had and lunged forward grabbing my knee with both hands and managed to get a hold of my leash and free myself from its hold. Just then the strap holding my backpack to the paddle board snapped and I reached out to grab it while still clinging to the rock. Once I got my whits about me I was able to throw my water logged gear to the shore and climb through the rocks to free my paddle board that was still pinballing off the rocks on the snagged leash.

I stumbled to shore and collapsed trying to figure out what just happened. I looked down and my legs were swarming with mosquitos but the worst was when I glanced over to find that the bottom of my paddle board was now Swiss cheese. I duct taped it the best I could, gulped down a Cliff bar and was back in the water still determined to conquer. Due to the cold and adrenalin I didn’t feel pain at first but as the fourth hour crept in the sciatic nerve down my left leg starting to throb and I thought, “Oh God, I’ve slipped my disc again.”

For six hours I struggled. My campsite still miles away and I started to wonder if I could reach it before dark. The river was so narrow and sharp in some spots my board couldn’t fit and I had to drop into the cold water and turn it by hand. The tall grass returned. Endless fields of tall grass with nowhere to port. The rails of my board drug thanks to my waterlogged gear and because of the shallowness of the river I couldn’t put the fin on so it was a constant struggle just to keep it straight.

My back and leg seared… I was cold and wet. Every so often I would lose balance from the pain and exhaustion and plunge back into the water. There was no sun. I saw nobody the whole day on the river… I was completely alone.

And then it began to rain.

So there I was: My gear soaked due to my lack of proper preparation, my board busted and my body crying for mercy. Thanks to my disease the joints in my ankles, elbows and wrists were on fire and the medicine I have to take every day to keep the Histoplasmosis from raiding my body causes stomach craping and diarrhea.

Inches felt like miles as I crept down the winding river. I prayed to God… I begged God to help me find Coffee Pot Landing before dark. Dusk approached and my hope faltered… then I saw it… power lines. I knew from my map that Coffee Pot was a river mile from the power lines. That last hour will be stamped into my memory forever. When I finally reached the campground ten hours later I was done. It was over… and I was coming home.

I struggled to pull my board ashore and collapsed. I felt like a cocky boxer who had been knocked out for the first time in his career. I lay there on my back staring into the sky as grape sized mosquitos buzzed in my ears and tried to figure out how something so wonderful and exciting could turn into such a nightmare. I struggled to keep the tears of failure away. I was unsure how badly my back was injured but even worse than the pain was the feeling that I let myself down and the people I cared about.

I managed to crawl up the muddy bank taking several trips to get my gear out of the water. I even set up my tent because some crazy part of me deep inside was still refusing to quit. But the pain overtook me… physical and mentally. My cold trembling hands fumbled for my phone only to find there was no service. I heard a single car in the distance, left my gear behind, and limped in the general direction hoping a road was not far away. It wasn’t but there still was no service so I began to walk. Two minutes later a car pulled out of the woods ahead.

I was not the first injured river man Sheryl Riggs had seen limping past her farm so she did not hesitate to pull over and help. I’ve met several gracious and kind people in Minnesota thus far but I have to say Sheryl, and her daughter Cori, will always be two of my favorite. They brought me into their home, gave me aspirin and drink, and helped me reach my dad. Cori’s four-year old son, Max, put a Dora Band-Aid on my hand then stood up on the chair next to me shoved a homemade cookie into my mouth.

My dad, ignoring my protest, refused to leave Minnesota until I was safely down river a couple days. An hour later he picked me up at the Riggs’ residence. I limped to the car, buried my face in my hands, and broke down. There was no sleep that night. I was in terrible pain and had one nightmare after another. How was I going to face coming home after just one day on the river? How would I face myself? My very spirit was crushed. It was over that night. There was nothing anyone could say to get me back in that river but then morning came, and the sun shone bright and warm. I’m not sure how to explain it but something washed over me. Much can be credited to the love and support of my parents as well as the encouragement of many who are watching me closely and include me in their daily prayers. But there was something more. Maybe it’s the human spirit I hear others talk about. Maybe it was knowing that what I would mentally endure if I quit was far worse than any physical discomfort I was feeling. Whatever it was, when I woke up that morning I knew nothing could keep me from returning to the river. I had been measured, weighed and found wanting… but I didn’t have to like it.

I learned many things that first ten hours on the Mississippi river but two lessons stand above the rest.

First: No great thing is achieved on our own. My dad always taught me that to be a part of something spectacular takes a team… and it’s more fun that way. I always think I have to be alone. I always EXPECT to be alone but I’m not. I was on my motorcycle for almost a year crossing this country and I never would have made it without my family and friends. If I didn’t have my mother’s stubborn unwillingness to quit – If my dad had not come to stand with me and see me off – I would not be writing this story and attempting to get back into the river. He’s helped me analyze my failures and together, over the last couple days, have turned me into a lean-mean paddle boarding machine.

The second lesson… you can try and fight nature and get hurt or you can listen to her and survive. I thought I knew something of adventure and then I was given a ten hour crash course at to how little I really know about self-reliance and how quickly things can go wrong. That may be the worst of the river or it may have been the best. The question is not, and never should be, how can I conquer this river. This question is how can I learn to flow with it, take whatever it sends my way, and turn it into a successful cohabitation for the next few months. And if unity is unattainable at times… how do I successfully adapt and survive.

I woke up this morning and limped into the bathroom. Every muscle ached and my leg throbbed like it had its own heartbeat but when I looked into the mirror my grin was back. I call it my Indiana Jones grin. It’s the smirk he wore while getting his butt kicked or finding himself in a situation that was sure to end him. Then he would grin as if to say…

Go ahead and do your worst… cause you can bet I’m going to do mine.

Yes, I want to raise money for charity and pay forward the blessings I received a year ago while knocking at death’s door. Yes, I want to make my family and friends proud, and sure, I’d like to set a world record. But it’s no longer about any of those things at the moment. My head is in the game. It’s about me, the river, and the ever enduring question…What am I really made of?