6:05 a.m.  Mile 270.5
 It's still dark, but I think it is time to get going.  I had a good night.  I slept well, warm and comfortable.
 I hear the duck hunters going to their blinds already.  There goes one by now.  He spotlighted my sailboat.  I wonder what he thought.  It's time for me to move too.
 I can't believe it.  I looked out to check on my boat, and the water has risen at least two feet during the night.  My boat would have floated away if I hadn't tied it to that tree.  It's floating now, and it was high and dry last night.  I'm glad I put my tent on high ground.

7:14 a.m.
 I am packed up and have cleared off my little sandbar.  I am surprised at how little sand I got in my tent.  This spot worked out better than I expected.  The wind is blowing pleasantly, light and steady.  I think I can work with both sails and make good time.  I need to tidy up my boat a little bit and take off.

7:45 a.m. Mile 270
 This is rather frustrating.  I have taken all this time to get up that little chute and back into the main body of the river.  And sure enough, when I get into the river the wind seems to have turned and is coming straight at me again.  The wind runs between these mountains and blows right up the river.  I suppose I can expect to face the wind all the way to Little Rock.
 Going so slow is very hard on me.  I'm barely moving; no faster than yesterday.  I'm having to zigzag back and forth, and the wind is blowing "squirrelly" around these mountains.  The wind blows from one way causing the sails to flap, so I turn through, but by the time I get turned the wind blows from the opposite direction making the sails flap again.  How frustrating!  I need to settle myself down, relax and sail as far as I can.  But a driven person like me finds it hard to relax.

9:38 a.m. Citadel Bluff Park, Mile 266
 The wind is gusty, sometimes blowing too hard.  I have developed a new system of controlling my sails.  I keep one hand on the tiller and both the sail sheets in the other hand so I can let them go if a strong gust comes up.  That allows me to still take advantage of the smaller gusts and keep moving.  The system seems to be working well right now.

10:15 a.m.  Poping Light, Mile 265
 Now the wind is blowing entirely too hard. I can't go against it.  I took down my jib sail, but something is wrong with the main sail.  The boat seems to be balanced all wrong now.  I think my mast is raked too far back.  I will have to get the oars out.

11:12 a.m. Cecil Light, Mile 263.1
 I have just rowed two miles in an hour against that terrible wind.  I am exhausted, but rowing along the shore by the woods has been interesting.  The woods are quiet and empty.  I feel like an intruder floating silently along the river but peering into another world along the bank.  I am sure the morning brings a bustle of activity along these shores, but now there is only the wind in the tree tops.
 If the wind blows the way it should, I will be able to make this next run with the wind at my back.  These mountains do awful things to the wind.  I'm going to try sailing a little while.  I'm tired.

12:06 p.m. Manitou Light, Mile 260.3
 This last stretch has to be one of the fastest runs I have made, and with the jib only.  The wind is incredible.  It's the strongest wind I've ever sailed in.  With only the jib up, I am still flying along, barely under control!
 The towering bluffs along here remind me of those along the Buffalo River.  They echo the sounds of the coal trains rumbling along the opposite shore.
 I ought to comment about it being noon on Thanksgiving Day when everybody in the world, it seems, is sitting down to turkey and dressing.  I don't mind being alone or eating out of a can.  I would rather be here than at anybody's turkey.
 I do wish that it wasn't quite so dangerous.  Today sailing has been 10% pleasure and 90% terror.  The thought of turning over in this wind and cold water is sobering.  I've just got to make sure I don't.  Constant vigilance!

12:19 p.m. Carvens Light, Mile 259.5
 The bridges of Ozark are coming into view.  The sun peeked out a minute ago, and the wind has died down a bit.  I'm just poking along.  I don't know what the deal is.  This is a fickle wind.
 Yes, I should be taking photographs of the beautiful scenery, but I'm too busy fighting for my life to get my camera out.  I don't have the extra hands.   The wind is too much for casual photography.

12:48 p.m. Highway 23 Bridge, Mile 258
 I am going under the Highway 23 bridge at Ozark.  I don't see any businesses along the shoreline.  If I did, I'd stop and try to use the phone or maybe get something to eat that wasn't in a can.  I see the dam coming in sight now.

1:08 p.m. Ozark City Light, Mile 257.3
 I am beating into that same strong wind again, but this time I am using the jib only.  I am able to keep the boat under control this way, although I can't point into the wind as well.  The wind is blowing even harder now!

1:39 p.m. Ozark-Jeta Taylor Lock and Dam, Mile 257
 I am in the lock.  This last stretch has been terrible.  The wind is blowing something awful.  I was having trouble making way with the jib, so I took it down.  I started rowing, but I could hardly row against this wind.  I fought for every inch.  I even had trouble making way in the lock.  The wind is howling up here.  The flags on the dam are standing straight out.  This has got to be a 25 or 30 mph wind, blowing contrary.

Lockmaster: That wind is blowing the wrong way isn't it.
Mickey:  I should say!  What's the weather forecast?
Lockmaster: Just a chance of rain, about 30 percent. But it's going to warm up and clear off tomorrow.  And I think there's a chance of rain Saturday, but it's a small chance.  It's supposed to be warm.  I've got some coffee made if you want some.
Mickey:  Well, I might stop a minute.  Do you have a phone I can use?
Lockmaster: Sure, just pull over to the other side and tie up to that ladder right there.
Mickey:  Well, let me get out of the lock and walk around.  Can I do that?
Lockmaster: Okay, sure.  I've got the ballgame on.
Mickey:  Is that right?  Who's playing?
Lockmaster: The bears and eagles, I think.
 

 This lock has dropped a long way!  The wet mark on the wall is over my mast.  I've dropped 25 feet already.  This is almost twice as far as the Murray Lock dropped me.

4:15 p.m. Moores Creek Light, Mile 253.8
 I am only two miles from West Creek Park where I can stop for the night without having to sleep on a sandbar.  As I tack back and forth across the river, I come upon a gaggle of fifty geese.  Some are floating in the water; some are standing on the rocks baring their proud breasts.  They watch me curiously but nervously until I am about 30 yards away.  When I turn to tack the other way, the flutter of my sails finally spooks them into flight.  With much honking and flapping, they scatter.  My heart pounds from the tumult surrounding me.
 On another tack I find myself headed straight toward deer hunters standing by a pickup truck parked on a trail by the river.  My boat is so silent that we can easily carry on a conversation in the quickly falling darkness.
 "Having any luck?"
 "Naw, not today.  Where you headed?"
 "Little Rock."
 "Where from?"
 "Fort Smith."
 I would love to know what they really think as I sail out of sight into the darkness.  I'm sure I gave them something to talk about back at camp.
 

5:19 p.m. Lost
 The wind is still blowing about 10 mph, and I am still zigzagging across the river.  I don't see West Creek Park yet!  It's getting dark.  Surely I am going to come to it.  The chart hasn't lied to me yet.  But there is nothing that looks like it.  I'll just sail until it is dark, then I'll pull out my flashlight and keep looking; that's all I know to do.

5:45 p.m. Mile 250
 I just stopped.  I am sitting here in the dark at the edge of the water below a 15 foot bank, tired and angry.  I don't know what happened to that dad-gummed park, but it never did show up.  The best I could do was pull up to this steep bank.  I had no choice but to ram the boat ashore among these fallen trees.

6:22 p.m.
 Well, I tied my boat up to a tree on the shore,  then climbed the 15 foot bank, explored around the thicket and finally found an area barely big enough for my tent.  After seven trips up the fifteen foot bank, I have all my gear stowed and ready for the night.  Now my lantern has lit up my little corner of the woods.  I think I am ready to put my tent up.  At least the temperature is comfortable, the wind is not blowing, and there's no sign of rain.  So in spite of being alone in the woods, I feel all right.  I am not nearly as nervous as last night.  Perhaps that was first-night-alone-on-the-river jitters.

6:41 p.m.
 I think I will sit down and figure out where in the world I am.  A green flashing light had just come into view when I stopped.  That must have been the O'Kane Island light at 248.5.  So I must be at mile 249.5.  Yep, I went at least two miles farther than I thought.  West Creek never showed up.  I don't see how I missed it.

7:07 p.m.
 I am resting in my tent with a glass of Tang.  The weather is still too cold for mosquitoes so I can keep the tent flaps open.  Various spiders, bugs, and "granddaddy longlegs" are attracted to my lantern.

7:29 p.m.
 I just heated a can of beef ravioli which was more palatable than I expected.  The granddaddy longlegs keep coming.  I pick them up and throw them about six feet away, and make them walk back.

9:15 p.m.
 I have turned out the lantern and made my bed.  I can hear the trucks on a freeway just a few miles away.  I think I'll check in for the end of a Thanksgiving Day.
 I am thankful to be alive.  I am thankful that I made 21 miles in spite of bad wind.  I am thankful that it is warm, that it did not rain.  I have a lot to be thankful for.  I still have two good days ahead.  It's supposed to be warm and sunny tomorrow.  Maybe my best days are ahead of me.