Paddle-wheeler cruise steps into history – Leader

PEORIA, Ill. – Our adventure began at 7:37 a.m. on a Saturday.

“Good morning, everyone!” said Capt. Alex, a fit, blue-eyed father of four who has made his career on the river.

“Good morning!” came the surprisingly chipper early morning reply from my fellow passengers on The Spirit of Peoria, a four-story paddle-wheeler that would carry us downriver for the next three days.

I glanced across the first-floor dining room, where we had gathered at long tables with plates of eggs and steaming cups of coffee. Our average age was about 70.

OK, so maybe it wasn’t so early after all.

“We have a beautiful three days ahead,” Capt. Alex said, explaining that after leaving this dock in Peoria we would wind 163 miles down the Illinois River, hang a left on the Mississippi, then chug another 39 miles to St. Louis’ gleaming arch. We would pass through four locks.

“This is a true paddle-wheel,” Capt. Alex said. “It handles just like it did 150 years ago.”

We all ooohed and aaahed, and then Capt. Alex – Alex Grieves, 44, when on land – excused himself to get our adventure underway.

The Spirit of Peoria, which Capt. Alex has operated for 21 years (and owned for 18 years), is rented for birthday parties, wedding receptions, corporate outings and fraternity and sorority parties, and frequently putters around the Peoria area for afternoon sightseeing trips. But this weekend, the 160-foot boat, capped with a bright red paddle wheel at its back, was ours.

A rumble stirred below, and slowly we were off, gliding down the rippling Illinois River at a little less than 10 mph. On a bright, humid summer morning, it left the 85 passengers with the simple task of getting to know the boat and each other, which isn’t always so easy.

“It’s interesting how difficult it is for people to just watch the river go by,” said Brian “Fox” Ellis, a professional storyteller who has worked on the boat as long as Capt. Alex. “You’ll see for the first half-day, people pace the decks, and then they settle into it.”

Evenings would be spent at hotels along the way – one night in Springfield and one at Pere Marquette State Park – but days would be passed on the boat. Nearly all our meals would be eaten there, the food emerging from a tiny kitchen on steaming silver trays.

True to its old-timey paddle-wheel feel, the boat is decked to evoke thoughts of yesteryear: It’s long on curlicues, maroon curtains and ornate carpet with the curling shapes that would be at home in a wrought-iron fence. Combined with the storytelling and rollicking ragtime songs, it added up to a weekend that at times could just as well have been in, say, 1922.

That is exactly the point for many people who take a vacation on a paddle-wheeler. I had assumed most of the passengers were looking for an easy weekend escape close to home, but except for five women in their 50s from Ottawa, Ill., celebrating a bachelorette party, most everyone had crossed some miles to be on that boat.

There were couples from north of Detroit; Paducah, Ky.; Rolla, Mo.; and a large group of mostly seniors from eastern Pennsylvania who had also stopped at President Benjamin Harrison’s home in Indiana and the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

This trip steps into history, and history is what lured most of the passengers onto one of the nation’s few operating paddle-wheelers. We were gliding through the heart of America, where millions of pounds of cargo is pushed by tugboats and where Louis Joliet, Jacques Marquette and Mark Twain had come before us. You could almost imagine Huck and Jim riding in the distance.

“It’s like doing something you’ve heard about since elementary school,” said Mara Anderson, 67, of Lancaster, Pa., as we stood on the edge of the boat’s top deck watching the Illinois River’s grassy shores.

“In fourth grade, at a little one-room schoolhouse in Lancaster, we exchanged names for the Christmas gifts, and one of my classmates gave me my first copy of ‘Huck Finn,'” said her companion, Gerry Groff, 67. “I couldn’t get into it then, but I’ve kept it for 40 or 50 years.”

“Sixty years,” Anderson said.

Just then there was an announcement of a bald eagle perched on a dead tree on the starboard side, then spotted it. As if on cue, it took off and flew south before reversing course in our direction.

“A little show for us – thank you!” Groff called out to the white-crowned bird.

He paused and said, “There aren’t many modes of transportation that allow you to see things at this speed.”

We traveled 92 miles the first day, passing almost 12 hours as the temperature crept just north of 90 degrees. That’s a mighty long day on the river.

After a night in Springfield, courtesy of a 45-minute bus ride from the dock, the next day on the boat began by singing to Larry and Joyce, who were celebrating their 50th anniversary.

The second day quickly presented itself as prettier than the patches of river back by Peoria. There was less industry marring the shores, and the land transformed from simply tree-lined and flat to thicker, greener and lovelier as bluffs unfolded ahead and the river grew wide and placid.

Some passengers tanned, read or passed the time in the air-conditioned parlor, watching Ellis perform his rolling, lyrical stories such as “The Two Faces of Illinois History,” in which he portrayed both territorial Gov. Ninian Edwards and Potawatomi Chief Gomo, or music, be it Ted Lemen banging out some ragtime piano or Barry Cloyd picking a guitar or banjo.

We finished off by heading down the Mississippi to St. Louis.

We were warned on the first day of “river time,” which meant schedules are partially worthless and delays are common. Locks can be backed up. Barges can stall traffic.

We had been lucky until that last day, when the Mississippi was shut down so that a helicopter could string wires across the river. For an hour or more, we spun in slow, lazy circles, waiting for the river to reopen. No problem; Lemen started banging away.

“Do you know ‘Stringing Wires Above the Mississippi?'” a woman called out to laughs.

We were learning to embrace river time.

“Hum a few bars and I’ll see,” Lemen hollered back.

Instead, he launched into “Goodnight, Irene,” which morphed into a massive singalong that went over quite well for a full-voiced audience recalling its youth atop the glassy Mississippi.

McClatchy-Tribune

McClatchy-Tribune photos