THE JOURNEY BEGINS

UPPER MISSISSIPPI

La Crescent, Minnesota

The phone rang, it was 8 a.m. Tony had already arrived at the agreed spot with his trailer carrying our steamboat. The voice on the other side sounded tired and fed up. He had been driving all night from Three Rivers and he wanted to get back home. Front windows of our steamboat looked like a bloody battleground of mosquitoes and all kinds of flies. Tony must have been in a hurry and really stepped on it on the highway. He backed the trailer towards the river and our steamboat slowly slid into the water. Max and I watched with careful anticipation; the last time it was in water was six months ago in a lake near Three Rivers. Everything seemed OK, it wasn't leaking anywhere. We tied the boat to the floating dock and started arranging everything for our departure planned or the following morning.

We got firewood, mostly oak, from the locals. We filled the entire cockpit with it, and tied some more onto the roof. According to our calculations, that amount was to suffice for two days of sailing. We weren't worried about the wood. It was a month after a flood that had lasted for six months – the locals said it was the biggest flood since 93 – and we knew the banks would be full of dry driftwood. As for other equipment, we didn't really bring much: two canisters of potable water, food for a few days, a pan, a small gas burner, tools, sleeping bags, some clothes and technical gear. We had two electric outboard motors and solar cells on the roof to charge the batteries for backup, in case of problems with the steam engine. The motors weren't really powerful and we realized they would be no match for the current, but we were too afraid to use a motor with a petrol engine because everything was so close to the steam engine boiler and the fire that had to burn the entire time we were sailing.

Two days ago, we had still been in Europe. I flew from Vienna to Paris where I joined Max and our tiny filming crew of two members, and we flew together to Atlanta and from there to Minneapolis. I love long flights. When all passengers take their seats and switch on their small screens, I am overcome by a sense of complete peace and calm that I just sustain with alcohol and airplane food. Despite the anticipation and excitement, I once again drifted into a moment of blissful timelessness. In fact, that is how I pictured our adventure: a month and a half of sailing on this mini vessel that would be our private universe and our ticket to all the parallel worlds running along the river. We had built a backdrop for a story and I couldn't wait for us to enter it.

We still had Airbnb rooms rented for the night, and we decided to spend the last night in soft comfortable beds. On the steamboat, we each had a wooden bunk bed, one over each side of the boiler, that came together at the bow. I installed a small partition wall at the point where our beds met, so we at least would not snore directly into each other's face. At three o'clock at night, we were awakened by a strong storm that had not been forecast. The wind was howling around the corners of the house, and splashes of rain were slamming against the windows. Afraid that the storm damaged the steamboat, we ran to the river. We had covered the cabin with tarp sheets, but we had not tested it and had no idea how it would weather such a storm. Quiet and worried, we slouched to the steamboat while the rainstorm continued its raging dance above us. Luckily, the boat was still there, unharmed and completely dry inside. Overjoyed and soaking wet, we crawled into the cabin and brewed our first coffee on the boat. We folded back the boat cover. Through the fragrant steam rising from our cups, we watched the subsiding storm slowly giving way to the new dawn. Mornings near Minneapolis are already cold in September. A thin haze descended on the river and lazily shuffled across the surface. Mississippi' stream is still slow here. It was the first morning with the river. We heard the chirping of small birds, they could be something similar to European swallows, black with a white cap, gliding down to the river surface, hunting for small flies. They were followed by gulls flying higher up. A pouch of white pelicans was gurgling from across the river, sticking their long beaks into sand, foraging for breakfast. They were soon joined by fish, most likely predators, also hunting for their morning meal. There were no alligators here, we were still too high upstream and too close to a big city.

At about six in the morning, we started the fire in the boiler. It got warm in the cabin, and the thick smoke coming out of our chimney was dissolving in the morning fog.

Steam power may sound romantic, but this is a long and laborious process. First, the boiler has to be filled with water. It is manually pumped directly from the river, into a spiral laid out around the boiler. The pumping lasts until the first drop of water drips out of the safety valve. Then, the fire is started in the boiler. Oak wood is the best, as it yields a lot of heat that lasts long. The fire in the boiler heats the water in the tubes surrounding it and thus generates pressure. It takes about two hours for the pressure gauge to reach the maximum point, which is number 160. If the gauge pointer goes beyond this mark, the boiler could explode. There is a safety valve on top of the boiler, which should release the pressure from the boiler if this happens. But it can also be done manually. To release pressure from the boiler, you open a valve on a tube fitted with a whistle that sounds a loud whooo – whooo – whoooooooo. When the pressure gauge reads between 110 and 130, you open the accelerator valve connected to the pistons. The gear lever should be in neutral. You then kick the starter that in turn sets the pistons in motion. The pistons turn the sprocket to which a chain is fitted. The gear mechanism was taken from a Hot Rod, you only had to gently push the lever forward from the neutral position, and it already shifted into first gear. The paddle wheel at the back started to slowly turn. Southwind was on its way.

The camera operator and his assistant recorded our departure from the pier. There was only enough room on the steamboat for Max and me, and we agreed for the film duo to drive along the river, following and recording us.

We sailed out slowly, in first gear. Tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk – the sound of the steam engine reminded me of the old two-stroke engines.

Jack Kerouac never sailed on the Mississippi, but he crossed it many times during his cruises over the vast American expanses. "And here for the first time in my life I saw my beloved Mississippi River, dry in the summer haze, low water, with its big rank smell that smells like the raw body of America itself because it washes it up." he wrote about his first encounter with the Mississippi River in On the Road.

We were sailing; not fast, but we were sailing. Red paddles behind us were turning and splashing, loud whistles came from everywhere, the chain was squeaking, the pistons were pacing up and down, and steal was hissing out of the tubes. It was so loud we had to scream at each other. We screamed and laughed, a roaring laughter. We were sailing.