Rivers 1 - 6

Rivers 7 -12

Rivers 13 - 18

Rivers 19-25

Rivers 26-30

August 7, 2004

We arranged the shuttle and the drop off and set off on the water under ideal conditions—summer, sun, no wind. The river was wide with gently sloping sandy beaches edging the curves. After a couple hours of paddling we stopped to rest. Daydreaming under a tree I suddenly noticed that one of the branches swaying above was not original to the tree! Here, again, was evidence of water once so high that a huge trunk was caught in the middle branches of the tree overhead. Amazed at what spring snow melt can do to a river, I snapped this picture to show you.

The river twisted and turned but stayed luxuriously wide. Around a huge sandy bank we found a section where dozens of trees had been stranded just above water level. Each was long ago striped of bark or leaves, and the silver trunks all pointed down river, reaching out like giant hands, or looking like jumping dolphins, poised midair. I took so many pictures that Ian poked fun at me. The giant tree trunks lasted only a few hundred yards, then disappeared. (The thing about a river is that it is always flowing—you can’t stop, and you can’t go back, so now I try to pay close attention and snap pictures as soon as we come upon it.) Next, a high limestone cliff loomed, and a father and daughter were fishing from a red canoe. “We’re having a blast,” they called, and reported catching and releasing three big ones.

The river opened even wider and puffy clouds sailed over. We startled two deer who had come to drink. Suddenly the sky started darkening. Thunder rumbled off to our right. We ducked into the curve of a beach as rain drops drew quick circles in the flat water. The rain passed and the river grew so still that our canoe made the only ripples. The water mirrored the late afternoon sky and it felt like we were paddling through the clouds.

Dusk edged the river and we both stretched out in the canoe to rest. The day was darkening quickly and we did not want to take time to beach the canoe. Back to our paddling, night falling, we rounded a wide turn and there was the car—and a barking beagle who paddled out to greet us and bark us all the way to shore.

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July 29, 2004

I recently had the great pleasure of speaking to some of Michigan’s finest teachers at the Michigan Summer Reading Conference in Gaylord, MI. After finishing my duties one afternoon I jumped into my car and drove 25 miles south to Grayling, MI, where I had arranged to rent a single kayak for a paddle on the Au Sable River. I arrived at Penrod’s Canoe Trips just minutes after the last available boat departure. Jim, the proprietor (and pictured here) agreed to stay open a bit later so that I could set off at once on an eight mile paddle. I remain grateful for this extension to their long day—thank you! (Penrod’s: 989-348-2910)

I set off in late afternoon light. There was a stiff, clothesline snapping wind bending the tree tops lining the river but down on the river’s bed the water’s surface was barely ruffled. The sky arched clear and all that moving air and slanting warm sun made the day’s end feel electric. It was Thursday and the river was empty of fellow travelers. I could not have felt more lucky, more alive, or any more happy!

Later I read that the Au Sable River is considered one of Michigan’s most beloved streams. Like several of the rivers I have been privileged to paddle, this one is protected by the Wild and Scenic River Act. It is also the river that served as the birthplace of Trout Unlimited, one of the great fishing and conservation organizations of our country.

This river is exquisite. I knew I was in a holy place as I paddled through the narrow banks, and I also knew how lucky I was to be so silently alone in such beauty. Tiny cabins dotted the early bends in the river, and a long rope swing hung from one tree branch overhanging a sharp turn. The stream was remarkably clear, the sandy bottom rarely covered with more than three or four feet of moving water, and a steady current helped pull me east.

Along the way I passed a huge collection of downed trees, the silver pile banking a camp site on a wide turn. A blue heron leap-frogged me down the river, and in the quiet I found myself whispering to the bird about the beauties I was seeing while it fished beside me. The river momentarily straightened and I found myself in awe of a giant pine leaning out over the river ahead. This tree was one of the progeny of the Old Trees, a lone standing remnant of the great pines that had covered the fields and banks of this river. In the 1800’s the vast virgin pine forests were clear cut. Their huge cut trunks once clogged this river, scrapping away its sandy bottom as the giant logs were floated down to ships waiting on Lake Huron. Like the trees, the river suffered. Great efforts have been made to restore this river’s splendor.

This huge tree before me held the bank with muscular roots that snaked above the earth before plunging underground. Despite its size it leaned out over the river with a sense of graceful majesty and patience that I found contagious. I could see the river from the tree’s view as it watched all the season’s pass on this bit of water, year after year, ice, snow, spring melt, summer flow. This tree reminded me all over again of the quiet breathing all the trees are doing for us. Every leafy moment they are exchanging our carbon dioxide for their oxygen. Steadfast, the tree quieted me even more deeply. Quietly I paddled again. The heron followed and left this message right beside my boat before sailing off down the river.

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July 12, 2004

For this river I was joined by the brave and good spirited teens, Grace, Christopher, Calla, and Zoe. The Natahala Outdoor Center (www.noc.com) hosts a river outfitting site near the French Broad River, a river that weaves through western North Carolina, including the city of Asheville, NC. A night of heavy rainfall had raised this Class II-III river a full 8 inches so they were not running individual “duckies,” (small individual inflatable kayaks). Instead, we reserved a five person raft for the five mile trip on this old and well known river.

The NOC is famous for its energetic and talented guides. Our guide, Ian, was certainly both but when he gave us the option of guiding our own raft down the raised river and we accepted. (When you sign up for a trip through the NOC you are taken through a short course on river safety and fitted for helmets and PFD’s, personal flotation devices.) We then boarded a big blue bus and were driven down a steep, winding road to the put-in beside the French Broad. Giant silver inflatable rafts were blown up and set up at river’s edge. A light rain fell. All of us grabbed a paddle, climbed in, and pushed off into the current. I sat up in the back, ready to steer the first raft of my life!

We followed Ian and his raft full of fellow river riders closely. At each rapid Ian paused in the eddy and called out the line we were to trace. As bow paddler I tried my best to keep us there. I was greatly helped by Zoe who is a fine canoeist from Minnesota, and together we managed to stay off rocks. (The difference between a canoe and a raft? I found the raft to require more “reach” in order to steer the craft. And no cross draw stokes!) At a slow curve we pulled over to a high cliff and the younger members of the expedition jumped from the rocks into the river. At this point Zoe and I switched and she steered, guiding us through the rest of the rapids, including the final Class III drop pictured here!

Meet our guides on the trip: Karen, Justin, John, and Ian.

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July 4, 2004

Ian and I set off for the Loxahatchee River, located in Martin County, just south of Vero Beach, the small Florida beach town where I grew up. This beautiful little 8 mile-long river runs through the Jonathan Dickinson State Park, and is the only Florida river to earn the 1985 distinction as an original Wild and Scenic River. (Similar to the St. Croix’s protection, see River #6.) We had arranged to rent a canoe from CANOE OUTFITTERS (561-746-7053) who explained that the river was so low that only a brief two mile section was still navigatable. We were instructed to paddle up to the spillway, then turn around and paddle back against the current—a current so mild due to low water that we would hardly notice, he assured us.

The white sandy path to the put-in was palm lined and cicadas rose and played their wild songs in the tangled woods as we passed. A gigantic black cloud bank towered over us, Florida style, and a light rain fell just as we arrived at the dark bank of the river. The rain cooled the hot, steamy air and we set out amid giant drops that made the huge overhanging elephant leaves bob as we paddled by. After a short paddle to a bridge the tree canopy closed over the river and the tropics sealed us off from the busy world.

The river narrowed, twisted and turned. Palms arched and one had fallen perpendicular across the river. Giant ferns grew out from the bank, wild lily plants spiked and bloomed, and every black, wet log looked like an alligator. Up ahead a vine silently strangled a towering cypress tree, making us talk in a whisper when we passed. That was not the only thing that kept us quiet. The outfitter had said that the water level was three feet below normal but it had not registered until we found ourselves paddling beside giant cypress trees with all their “knee” roots exposed and evidence of the usual water mark on the huge trunk of the trees visible just over our heads. (Note the dark lines in all the pictures.) Three feet below normal! It would take several hurricanes and many years of steady afternoon rains to bring the water level back. The alligators that draped the banks on my last paddle here, four years ago, had disappeared, probably looking for more plentiful food elsewhere. In addition, it was the great American July 4th holiday and we threaded our way around a couple of canoes beached on the bank, the paddlers drinking themselves silly, loud, happy, and leaving trash. It made me deeply sad to find the water evaporating and the people careless. I felt like we were in a church that was disappearing, stone by stone, drop by drop.

Florida is in a long drought and combined with a population explosion, the whispered water scarcity was suddenly very visible. We paddled back to the outfitter, stopping several times to pull the canoe over sand barely covered with flowing water. The outfitter had been right. There was no current to fight on the return trip. We pulled our canoe over the spillway and paddled back with a bevy of older kayakers who told us about paddling the Everglades rivers. Would we find water there? I wondered.

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May 15, 2004

Most of the rivers that I have paddled would be called “flat water” rivers. Once I had mentioned that I would like to learn how to be more comfortable in the face of rocky turns, unexpected sweepers, and quick water—that I would like to learn to enjoy a lush rock garden instead of dreading it!

Well, be careful what you ask for! My family gave me a two day Whitewater Training session with the Wild Institute (www.thewildinstitute.com) for Christmas! My heart sank when I opened the envelope—the certificate promised two days on a northern Wisconsin River in the middle of May. The ice would barely be off the river! My fourth generation Florida blood was already shaking at the thought.

May did finally arrive and even though the weather promised to be below freezing for the first night of camping, I drove north to find the DNR campground beside the beautiful Bois Brule (see river #14). I found the group and we set up our tents as a small village, all  circled around the cook’s table. The Wild Institute is an organization led by Chris Heeter, a tall, clear-eyed woman who teaches women to manage rivers in the summers and to run dog sleds in the winter. I joined several other students and the weekend began with a fish dinner followed by a warm fire. That night the temperature dropped to 25 degrees and by morning I had layered every single piece of clothing I had brought along, including my deep winter down coat. Were we really going to go out on the water in this?

Bundled up in our winter gear we sat in a circle as Chris and Marti gave us ground school lessons. Draw strokes, cross draw strokes, ferrying, and eddying out were all outlined and demonstrated. After the lecture we headed to the water where carrying the six canoes and gear helped warm us all up. The sky cleared a little and a weak sun was gratefully praised. I even peeled off my wet suit and by the time we set off I thought that we could manage this as long as we were on top of the water, not in it.

We spent the entire day navigating the river, learning the bow stokes that help steer a canoe in quick water. We all successfully accomplished the rapids at Little Joe (the same rapids I had held my breath on during our first navigation of the river.) It was thrilling to feel a growing confidence. That night we ate a tremendous meal by the fire and turned in early. The next day a steady rain  welcomed us but by now I knew that the Wild Institute does not consider inclement weather to be a deterrent to paddling. This time we headed north to a more active, rocky part of the river and ground school instruction had to be delivered loudly over the churning water and the falling rain.

We students were to take on the stern paddling position (steering from the back) today. Chris demonstrated the right and left paddle responses, and eddying directions from the back. Everything was suddenly switched. We entered the water and somehow the stress of the rapid new information, the fast water peppered with rocks, and my own dyslexia confused me so much that a mild panic overtook me. Suddenly left was right and right was left and I could not remember ANYTHING I had just learned. With great patience the instructors helped me get a grip on things and we practiced over and over until I could understand what stroke would move the canoe in each direction. This was a revelatory moment for me—I live in a world where I am competent at most things I do, and suddenly I was incapable of the simplest direction, but the river’s relentless rushing said: you must act NOW! Patience, slowing down, repetition, kindness around me—all these steps helped me prepare for the coming “Ledges,” a series of Class II drops that were going to test our newly acquired skills later in the afternoon.

As a group we all walked the banks of the Ledges, scouting the drops, listening intently to our instructors describe the through lines we hoped to paddle for each churning ledge. It was scary to look at—I did not think I could manage it, but I did not see how I could get out of it. I was resigned: I’ll just do the best I can.

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October 25, 2003

(Note: We have decided to count the Mississippi River, one of the world’s greatest rivers, as many times as we can find a way to journey on part of it!)

On Saturday, October 25^th, we gathered for lunch at the old Trempealeau Hotel in Trempealeau, Wisconsin. The hotel was opened in 1871 and sits a stone’s throw from the Mississippi River, the railroad, and Lock and Dam #6. People, trains, and barges are constantly moving past the windows of the hotel and it is not hard to imagine the French trappers who settled the area striding up to the original bar and ordering a stout drink. The town is nestled at the foot of surprising mountains—surprising for the Midwest!—and on this particular Saturday the hills were covered in golden leaves, all about to leave their branches in the first high wind. We could not believe our luck! One more gorgeous paddle before winter closed the waters…

Ian and I were joined by Jerry and Ben, (see Minnehaha Creek and Bridal Veil Falls), and Ben’s friend, Jake. We launched our twin Old Town Penobscot canoes and paddled off under a sky so blue it seemed a cartoon artist had painted it above us. This time we planned to follow a “canoe trail” that Jerry had researched. Not far into the narrow channel we found the first of the blue diamond signs and turned off to the slough. (A slough, pronounced “slew” or “slouw,” depending where you grow up, is a swamp-like land bordering a river.) The slough was narrow and twisting, and draped with trees. Every small breeze released a rain of golden leaves. The small blue trail signs were not always easy to find and the water twisted and turned, so each spotting of a blue diamond was a great comfort.

We heard animals, but saw only a hawk and a glimpse of a bald eagle, until a golden retriever came bounding out of the woods. Hunting season. Time to be careful. Suddenly the water grew thin and abruptly ran out all together. We were stuck in thick black mud. We had to drag ourselves across the muck to what was once river bottom but was now a dry sandbar filling the river bed. Ian set off to scout the situation while we lugged our snacks to the driftwood log in the middle of the sandy stretch. Ian returned with a turtle shell and news that the river started again in the big Mississippi, and then turned inland up ahead. Should we continue in such low water conditions, or turn around while we could still float our way back to start? We ate. We drank. We discussed. We voted, and decided to head on and hope the water grew.

After twists and turns with plenty of water the path suddenly opened up and we found ourselves on the edge of a huge shallow lake. Tall reeds grew everywhere and we set off across, not exactly certain where the trail actually directed us. No sooner had we entered the lake when a fierce wind swept up. We paddled with all our strength and went nowhere. Finally we headed toward the shoreline where the wind was cut by the straggly reeds but the water was too shallow. Back out in the wind we struggled. Ian’s hat blew across the water but Ben fished it out right before it sunk. Ian and I pulled ahead and found the very comforting blue diamond sign at the entrance to another narrow cut of water. The wind died as soon as we entered the protected channel and we pulled ashore to catch our breath and wait for our fellow travelers. We waited. And waited. Finally we heard them, SINGING at the top of their lungs. “He’s got big fat trees in his hands…” They were making up crazy verses to He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands and Ben swears they would not have made it through the wicked wind without the song. (Most of the verses I cannot repeat!)

On the last stretch we paddled past more of the odd houses bordering the edge of the slough. Every cabin was perched on top of six to eight foot pilings, safe from the wrath of a rising Mississippi. The wind was chilly when we pulled into the boat slip. We were covered with mud and getting cold as we tied the boats to the car racks. Homer writes of “the rosy fingered dawn” but as we turned out on the road we found the northern sky filled with “black-clawed winter.” Like the arching reach of Mordor, we could actually see winter coming for us with its dark, cold sky. The day that began in gold edged blue ended in shivering black. But somehow we had slipped our canoes through the very last hours of fall and we were nothing but gloriously happy and tired.

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