After visiting the Browns on Madeline Island, (off the northern tip of Wisconsin, accessible only by ferry), Ian and I steered the canoe-topped car toward Gunflint Trail on the “Arrowhead,” seven hours away on the northern tip of Minnesota (and shaped like an arrowhead). We skirted Lake Superior, with lunch in Duluth, and arrived just in time to see a skyscraper-sized tanker sail right through the narrow channel under the old lift bridge. Our plan was to meet our canoeing neighbors whom you met on Minnehaha Creek, Margy and Jerry, and their youngest son, Ben. They were lodged at the lovely Heston’s Resort in a cabin bordering Gunflint Lake. This clear, shimmering lake edges the canoeing paradise of the “Boundary Waters,” the long chain of lakes separating the United States and Canada.

We arrived at sunset, just in time to see A BEAR lumbering across the road! It was my first in-the-wild bear sighting and I saw the same bear a few moments later, strolling through camp.

The next morning two canoes were loaded with picnic supplies and we headed up the northern edge of Gunflint Lake. We paddled past remote cabins, outcroppings of high rock, and miles and miles of hardy trees. The trees leaned and clung tightly to rock, relentlessly reminding us that winter was long, hard, and bitter. But not so today—today was sun-filled and the water was clear and cool and joy was everywhere! Ben came along in our canoe and he and Ian discussed the feasibility of the Loch Ness monster for the entire paddle.

Jerry, who has taken many trips to the Boundary Waters (including the “Grand Portage,” a several days trip that follows an early fur trappers route, and includes a nine mile portage at the end), knew just which island to stop on for our lunch. Our final destination was the tiny creek that spills from Bridal Veil Falls where we planned to swim and hike to the falls. The creek turned out to offer only yards of navigatable rushing water but we managed to paddle it, nonetheless! The hike to the falls followed the creek’s edge and the soft mist from the hidden falls hung everywhere. Suddenly there they were—walls of giant black glistening rock streaming with lacy white falling water! We took a ridiculous amount of pictures while scrambling around breathing in the cascading air. Inhaling the bubbling air made me gloriously happy! I spied a tiny waterfall cavern under the roots of a tree, the entrance draped with ferns. It had to be the home of some dripping water spirit but I did not catch sight of it.

Back at the creek’s entrance on Gunflint Lake we took a long swim and guess what! Ben actually found the Loch Ness Monster. I was able to snap this picture just before it got away...

Again we headed back to the “driftless area,” the southeastern corner of Minnesota that the glacier missed. The map showed an outfitter outside of the Mississippi river town of Wabasha but that outfitter proved to be long gone, so the river trip began with a very early morning study of the canoe map to find another outfitter who could run our shuttle. With the help of map, telephone and local advice, we drove thirty miles to Zumbro Falls where we were ferried up to the Zumbro dam for our put in. (Our shuttle driver turned out to farm the 300 acres he grew up as well as drive a dynamite truck, delivering explosives all over the Midwest. This is the first certified dynamite delivery person I ever met.)

The canoe landing was behind a nook, facing a thirty foot dam, and the water was sludgy and green. The dismal looking start made the turn into the river even more startling—The water was clear and sparkling with a swift current. We called it “Fishy River” as clouds of fish darted under our canoe.

The day proved to be gorgeous and we sailed under bridges and around bends with a cool edged breeze behind us and a clear, sun-filled sky around us. Small islands dotted the river and we stopped by several to eat, swim, and wander. On one sandy beach waves of mating dragon flies lighted on us, the male brilliant turquoise, the female camouflaged brown. I could not feel their light-as-air touch on my arm. How does such a light creature manage in the tumult of wind and rain?

Ahead of us we saw a bald eagle fly down to a log alongside the river. It stood there, imperious, king of all he surveyed. Suddenly a wide-winged blue heron flew up the river. Evidently that log belonged to the heron because the massive eagle lifted and gave the heron his perch. Later we saw a strange silhouette on top of a tall, dead tree trunk—We think it was a turkey vulture.

Ian insisted that it was time I learned to steer- and so we swapped places in the canoe. The river was sprinkled with very easy Class One “riffles,” (small rapids), so it proved to be the perfect place to learn to steer with the paddle from the back. I learned to dodge rocks and head for the clear “V” of open water at each rapid. I’m hoping canoe school is in my future so I can better learn to manage the canoe in rivers sprinkled with boulders.

Two events startled us—First, evidence of Very High Water was all around us. Grass and twigs were caught in tree branches and huge mounds of logs were wrapped around bridge pilings.- It was impossible to imagine this perfect river swollen above our heads, dangerous with rushing tree trunks. The second startling event was, after having the river to ourselves all day, suddenly rounding a bend and finding a hundred people in intertubes dotting the river! This proved to be the most challenging steering of the day as I threaded us through the human obstacles. A few bends later we were back in the peace of this most gorgeous of rivers with the fabulous name: Zumbro!

The weekend had brought dozens of canoes to the river but after the first big bend never saw another boat. -Limestone cliffs line sections of this river and we paddled close to the undercut arch of one. We were astonished to find dozens of swallow nests clinging to the cliffside. They were equally astonished to find a pair of humans suddenly below them and in quick succession the small birds fired out of their nests, one after another, right over our heads. The nests are constructed of clay, tiny drip by tiny drip, like a mud castle. They start with a wide, basket-like shape that hugs the cliff, and leave the last bit open for coming and going. Throughout the day we passed many of these swallow villages with the birds’ bobbing beaks and shinning eyes just barely apparent inside the nests, followed by sudden swoops of wings.

I am beginning to sense that every river has a character of its own and this one could only be described as the Musical River. Small birds filled the trees, skies, and water way. While they flitted every-which-way their songs rose and fell with the passing bluffs. They seemed to make the air into a visible place, drawing long lines from tree to river, river to tree, darting and gliding, always busy singing.- We had an early lunch, stopping at a canoe camping spot (which are marked by this wonderfully clear sign) and imagined the last campers who left the wooden spoon on the table. We passed a private campsite that had a tent, hammock, and its own ladder leaning against the steep bluff. These high bluffs so tightly hugged the river banks that we paddled another nine miles before finding a place that would allow us to pull up the canoe for a much needed rest. We scrambled up a steep muddy ledge to find a grassy clearing next to a huge corn field where we could listen to the birds and the wind in the deep quiet.

When Moen’s Bridge came into sight, the afternoon was easing into evening and the map showed we had traveled thirteen and a half miles. We hauled everything out, strapped the canoe on the car and headed back to Minneapolis. The world of noise and traffic and roadside restaurants made our human villages look especially careless and harsh after the musical beauty of the river-world.

Our expedition left our house with three canoes atop three cars, enough for neighbors, kids of neighbors, friend of neighbors, and my daughter. We headed to Minnehaha Creek, the meandering, tree canopied, narrow stream that runs through south Minneapolis. We had a picnic packed and were delighted to be joined by Nat and Dan, two expert paddlers who have made many trips to the wilderness Boundary Waters bordering Canada, including a forty-five day canoe and portage trip from the Back River (Northwest Territory, Canada) to within 150 miles of the Arctic Circle.

This time our ribbon of water offered human sights—we paddled passed a gorgeous white-gowned bride having her picture made beside the creek. We passed houses and tennis courts tucked among the trees. We scooted under numerous stone bridges and came to a sudden and unexpected “Portage Here” sign. (When a canoe is carried on land it is called “portaging.”) We debated ignoring the sign and paddling past it before deciding to obey the directions. Nat lifted our 68 pound canoe on his shoulders like it was no more than a sack of potatoes. (He says there is a method to getting a heavy canoe onto your own shoulders: First, make a ledge with your knees and slide the boat up, then flip the canoe over, ducking under it as it comes over. Push up with your knees. Be sure your shoulders are padded.) This portage took us out of the quiet steam and into the busy traffic of Penn Avenue. As it turned out, the portage was due to construction work on the bridge and a bulwark of steel would have met us had we tried to ignore the sign! (Lesson: Portage when told to do so!)

A couple of hours into the trip starvation struck and we had an emergency exchange of the potato chip bag, mid-stream. Our lunch stop finally arrived and we scrambled out for a picnic. At the last minute Jerry had remembered to bring a book (found in a furious search of his car trunk). Over lunch he read from JEWISH HUMOR and made us all laugh.

Back in the canoes we followed the twisting creek through a small spillway, then past the esteemed Hiawatha golf course where the sign actually tells canoeists to watch out for whizzing golf balls. The water was high throughout the paddle and we had to lay low to slip under all the bridges. The boys took a quick dip in Lake Nokomis, easing in and out of the canoe without even as much as a wobble. (This is NOT easy to do!) At Highway 55 we hauled our canoes up the reedy bank to where our car was stashed for the shuttle back to the put-in. (One lucky person gets to stay back with the canoes, reading and daydreaming, while the others drive for the cars.) This creek is lovely and a wonderful afternoon paddle right in the heart of a big city.

For River #2 Ian and I headed south to the Cannon River, a mutation of the words “River of Canoes.” Long ago this river was used by Indians and the French to reach the buffalo fields of the plains. They would travel upstream from the Mississippi and often along our trip we imagined the light, empty canoes headed inland and the heavy buffalo-filled canoes riding the return current downstream...But. Before we could imagine the Indians silently passing us I had to get us lost coming out of the Twin Cities, AND THEN, having finally found the tiny, winding dirt farm road where we would stash our second car for the take-out-THEN—I realized I had forgotten to bring our second and third paddle!

Ian calmed me down and we drove to the put-in at Cannon Falls in the hopes of salvaging- the trip by finding a paddle to rent or buy. There, in a dusty old hardware store we found, high on a shelf, a long thin wooden paddle for $15.99 and the trip was saved.

We put in at a small park and found ourselves catching a few rapids, passing under a railway bridge, and then sailing down a swift current between wild river banks. Early in the paddle a giant bald eagle few right over us. It was being chased by a tiny black bird who seemed to be teasing it from behind. The eagle swept down the river and landed on a high branch where it joined another eagle. It was astonishing to see the two giant birds peer down at us as we paddled under them. I have never seen such a sight.

The water was higher than usual in the Cannon River and the full-water current made our paddling this gentle stretch of river nearly effortless. This river runs through what is called “the driftless area” of Minnesota. The glaciers missed this slightly higher area of ground 10,000 years ago so rather than the flat, glacier-ground plains to the west, this region retained its limestone cliffs. The river now cuts deeply through the bluffs. We stopped on a rocky island for a late lunch. (Menu: tabouli, humus, pita bread, apples, and a Snickers Bar.) Ian found a dragonfly, papery and dry. The bottom side of the river’s rocks were covered with the tiny, gooey eggs of flies, the same flies we supposed were swerving all over the river’s surface as the sun moved deeply west. Fish were beginning to rise for their evening meal and the river felt alive when we shoved off.

My favorite moment on this river was coming up to a bend where a giant heron rose off -the bank and passed us on the left. The river turned right, then left, and the wind picked up and, in the shimmering of late sun, the air was suddenly filled with the airy white puffs of milkweed and cottonwood. We sailed around the blue water bend with the fluff of summer snow spinning around us.

The trip ended too soon as Ian’s old Trooper appeared beside the river. We hauled the canoe up to the road and stopped to watch the trout rising just off the junction of Trout Creek and the Cannon River. We promised that next time we would bring our fly rods.

The ride back to my car in Cannon Falls seemed short, the summer sun still lighting the farms. When I’m off the river, the blue ribbon of water, I miss it immediately. The land seemed so still. But every canoe ride deserves celebrating. Which we did, at the Dairy Inn.

Ian and I joined our neighbors, Margy and Jerry, for a paddle down Rice Creek. We looked up the route in the book, Paddling Minnesota, and the map looked like this.

Note all the twists and turns! Margy and Jerry decided to bring along Harriet, their Black Labrador dog, for her first canoe trip. The creek was gorgeous and the afternoon sun filtered through the trees making the whole world seem to shimmer in an arch over our canoes. And that’s when Harriet spied something interesting and quickly turned for it! In an instant the canoe went over, spilling our neighbors and their dog into the chilly creek. We paddled up, helped get the canoe back to shore and turned to watch Harriet swim with glee around a downed tree. Next thing we knew, she had climbed out of the creek and up the downed tree. It was so astonishing to see a big black dog up a tree that I quickly snapped this picture. After that, Margy and Jerry headed for home with the wet Harriet and we continued down the creek.

Unknown to us, the spring rains had made the creek much higher than usual and our paddle turned out to be very adventurous as we had to skirt downed trees by the dozens amid a rushing current. We both lost and found things...Ian found a soccer ball trapped in the limbs of a fallen tree. (It is signed by Cassman, Tyler, and TC. If it’s yours, please write me.) We lost our ice chest once on a spill, but we paddled up to it later and found that the chocolate bar was still inside, dry and delicious! We had some scary moments when the swift current drove us into branches and when we had to shoot through the culverts under the many bridges. Ian is a good paddler and I am learning and together we managed to arrive home safely.

Along the twisting creek we saw a pair of deer, too many mallards to count, several giant blue herons, white herons, blue jays, and one tiny new bird making its very first flight. It frantically fluttered out over the creek ahead of us and then took a swift dive, landing head first in the water. We paddled over to it as quickly as we could but the wet wings were too much for the young bird to lift. By the time we scooped it up on the tip of our paddle it was no longer struggling. We paddled to shore and Ian carefully put it on the ground next to a tree.

I have thought about this tiny struggling bird often. I know that something probably ate the bird before nightfall and that is just a part of the circle of life—but still—I wish the bird had flown over land, or caught the wind and just made it back to safety. It’s hard to be a tiny bird in the big world. It has made me congratulate every single bird I see flying about the busy city. How did they all make it through that first dangerous flight?