T&T: Skinwalker Log, September 1, 2007, 0443 hrs

[Wayne & Lynn Flatt]

Skinwalker Log, September 1, 2007, 0443 hrs

Location:  Here we are, tied to a free wall in Joliet, Illinois, in the
unsanitary waters near the Sanitary and Barge Canal on the lower Chicago River
waiting, patiently, waiting for the unchecked urges of Mother Natures purging
floods to subside further down stream. There is now room at the dock for those
harboring in Chicago.
41 31.37 N
088 05 21 W
The early morning dark feels soot black from the coal fired power plant that
feeds this small semi-industrial town.  The deep sounds of rolling stock
accumulates like a rain cloud across the river as a freight train lumbers and
sways rhythmically onto a tired steel river bridge, where the thunder morphs
into a hypnotic six note opera of the harsh clunking wheels as they hit the
girders spanning the river.  Beyond the bridge the train cars fold into the
quiet of the farmlands with a final distant whistle.

Soon enough out of the silence of the early morning velvet softness, comes a
full bass thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum. A tug is pushing twelve barges up the
riverslow, relentless, and massive.  Three barges across, four long, the tow
stretches a quarter mile from one bridge to the other, big enough to have its
own zip code in Chicago, it seems a huge moving chunk of landscape.

At first only the sound of its huge engines with visions of its six foot
wheels or props ripping, screwing at the water under the hull.  Now I can see
the two red forward corner lights and the amber dead center on the bow.
Thrum, thrum, slipping silently through the damaged waters of the river,
thrum, thrum, commanding the attention from bridge tenders and cruisers like
us even as they sleep.  These barges, heavy leviathans being skillfully herded
up and down the waterways, manage to barge between the bridge pilings often
with what seems like inches to spare.  Near bridges and narrows, massive
concrete and steel pilings and river walls missing chunks and crumbled scraps
stand in mute testimony to the occasional swipe of a leading barge corner gone
askew.  A swipe like that could wad the Skinwalker up like a gum wrapper if
caught between the Barge and the wall.   This is my thought as a thousand foot
of fifteen foot high steel mass slides by within 20 feet of the sudden
fragility of our Skinwalker.  The silence of the massive tow alone is
threatening.  The visual is hugely intimidating.

Suddenly, the tug made up to and riding herd on this floating island appears
like a small mechanical head at the end of the steel body: Belching black
smoke, powering up two engines, then throttling one back, using throttle,
transmissions and steering to finesse the tow into position for its next
maneuver.  There are lights a blazing: Running lights red green & white,
sidelights white and amber, The cold white penetrating focused stare of
spotlights like giant eyes, scanning, side to side, near and away, The
pilothouse with its hydraulic neck that can move up on a piston to see over
the load of its 12 barges or down to duck under a bridge. It is the brains,
the voice, eyes and ears of the creature.

It is easy to fantasize that the hydraulic neck becomes alive and moves back &
forth not unlike a cobra that sways to the music of a flute.  Suddenly, in my
minds eye this intelligent creature commands, intimidates, rules akin to the
powerful, wise and Terrifying Wizard of Oz.  Suddenly the pilothouse door
swings partially open and the pilot tosses us a quick smile and a gentle wave
as the Wizards omnipotence becomes no more than the hand of man resting
casually on the joysticks that control the primary and flanking rudders of
this magnificent machine pushing a floating gravel pit up the river at three
miles per hour under full throttle churning a frothy trail of rapids a hundred
yards astern.

God, I love cruising.

Lynn & Wayne Flatt