Debra Frasier

(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.

 

Trouble finding the put-in and take-out had us making sandwiches late in the day while pondering the shining small stream. We ate and watched it curve under a canopy of golden leaves on the most gorgeous of Indian summer days. We shoved off with our map in hand and immediately found our strokes scraping sand. We hoped it would deepen soon.

The meandering Vermillion is a river with a split personality. Behind us this same thin water had just plunged 100 gushing feet through Old Mill Park and the falls of Hastings, Minnesota, crashing over rocks as it rushed through a high and narrow gorge. It was hard to believe that this was the same water now lazily skimming the sandy bottom.

But this river had many surprises in store for us-For the first time we found ourselves on water with twists and turns and branching choices. Oddly, our usually reliable river map showed no branches, and no answers. Should we go right? Left? Again and again we would study the leaves floating on the river’s surface and try to sense which way the current flowed the strongest.

Our first branching choice took us to a large lake. The lake water thinned yet again and when I swung my leg out of the boat to walk the canoe I was sucked into a quicksand of black mud, trapped up to my thigh. Pulling with all my might, I tumbled back in the canoe.

 Covered with mud I looked up just in time to see the largest bird I’ve ever seen, circling. It dwarfed the other huge predators that shared the sky. Just ahead downed tree stumps made a bony fence across our path and we picked our way through them in eerie silence. A huge fish splashed, breaking the quiet, and rattling us. Soon the fish grew so thick that when Ian and I dipped our paddles we were often startled to feel not water but the quick muscular throb of one of these river giants. No wonder the biggest bird in the world was circling overhead. We made it to the end of the lake only to find a mass of still leaves covering the stagnant surface of the water. There was no outlet. We had no choice but to go back to the faraway branch in the river where we had guessed “turn right.”

On the trip back the water shrank again and we had to walk, pulling the canoe by a strap, paddling against the current when the water was deep enough. Finally we returned to our mistake. But not twenty yards down the left hand branch, the stream was blocked by a huge tangle of fallen tree trunks.

 We hauled the canoe over the knobby marsh beside the blocked stream and set off again. A hunter’s gun shots rang out nearby. When quiet returned we talked about how odd the lake had been-the sucking mud and startling fish, the huge circling birds and bony tree trunks. We could not help but call it a lake in Mirkwood, the frightening forest of Tolkein’s, The Fellowship of the Ring. (We had listened to part of this tale on the drive down.)

 

The Vermillion was beautiful but rigorous. Late fall and a summer of drought had made the water so shallow that we estimated that half of our paddle strokes touched sand. Beavers had been busy blockading the narrow turns. Signs of flooding told the story of the hundreds of riverbank trees now toppled into the river. We portaged one huge blockade, and hauled the canoe over another dam of logs. We walked when we had to, and often slipped under logs so tightly we had to lay down in the canoe to clear the passage. Once we threaded our way through a submerged log obstacle course so slowly that it was as if we were paddling on tip-toe.

 On an open piece of water a bald eagle swooped down for a fish, suddenly pulling out of its dive and rising right in front of us, giant golden talons still exposed.

By now we were losing the river light to the sinking sun. This was not a river to be on in darkness. Nervously we looked for the take out bridge at every bend. We had paddled so long that we figured we were on the wrong river, not the one on our map. Were we lost on some slough that edged the river further south? Finally, with only minutes of light left, we turned sharply onto a wide and open section of river. A boat landing shined just ahead and we decided to end the trip early, hide the canoe, and head to our car by road.

 

A kind man gave us a lift to the bridge where we had left our car. After he roared off we realized that we had left the keys to Ian’s car in my car, way back at the put-in. Phil, another kind stranger, gave us a ride the many miles back to our car – He was a knight-in-shining-armor to me, welcoming us calmly though we were lugging paddles and covered with mud. Finally we picked up my car, drove to our hidden canoe and loaded it under an orange harvest moon. We drove south to Ian’s Trooper, key in hand, this time.

As we followed each other home I listened to Frodo fight off the Black Riders. Their trials made me think – some days things go wrong. Some days lots of things can go wrong..

 Paddling with someone is a constant give-and-take and somehow we had (mostly) kept our good cheer through all the things that went awry. Later Ian and I made a pact: We want to stay open to everything that happens, ready for it all, not blaming ever, and never losing sight of the beauty. We need each other’s help to accomplish more than we ever could alone. Frodo and his company would agree, I think, don’t you?

I promised myself that when I finished the pictures for The Incredible Water Show I would head to the Bois Brule River. Immediately after driving the boxed pictures to Fed‑X (for the second time) I headed north, meeting Amy, Steve, and Ian in the tiny town of Brule, Wisconsin. Rain was predicted for the next day but we decided to prepare for any weather and stick to our plan. Early the next morning we ate breakfast under gray skies and crossed the street to the Brule River Outfitter who would shuttle us (with canoes) down to Stone’s Bridge for the start of our sixteen mile paddle.

The Bois Brule River basin was created as the last ice sheet retreated. The rushing southern flowing meltwater carved the river’s valley but eventually the meltwater tapered off. These shallower waters met the ridge between the St. Croix and the Bois Brule and were forced to slide back, finally reversing the water’s course. Today the Bois Brule drains out of the bog created from those early meltwaters, and still empties into Lake Superior.

On this Friday morning the rain hung heavy in clouds. It stormed to our right and our left, but not a drop fell on us. We set out between the pine and cedars hugging the narrow river and paddling around our first bend we were Fall-Struck by a tree turned brilliant gold. The water was so still that every leaf shined twice, once on the tree and once on the river. Steve turned out to be a very good paddler and one of his tricks was a mid-water exchange. It is best explained by pictures.

Jim and I set off for our first paddle together on Wisconsin’s Red Cedar River. We couldn’t find the put-in on our map and had to find a new starting place, adding an extra four miles to the trip. Our late departure worried me. Could we paddle the fifteen miles before dark? We then shuttled our own cars back and forth three times before eating a quick lunch and shoving off into the clear river.

I sat in the stern (back) and was able to practice my steering, which required immediate attention as we headed down a small Class I rapids within a minute of setting out. But quickly the water began working its magic. I was calmed by the pace of steady paddling and the slow way the world unfolds from a canoe. The Red Cedar River runs through farmland and often the arching rows of corn ran right down to the river, and the occasional cow chewed and watched us paddle by. The river was shallow. Long lengths of bright green grasses grew in thick clumps, brushing the surface like watery hair. A snapping turtle dived next to our canoe and swam like mad before peeling away to the shore.

A huge bald eagle surprised us by swooping down across the narrow river. He surprised us even more by accompanying us nearly the entire afternoon, flying off high branches as we approached, sailing down the middle of the river and disappearing again. Once Jim said, “Where’s my eagle?” and just then he appeared above us, quiet, watching from a branch.

Early in the trip we came to a “strainer,” which is a downed tree that lies across the water. This strainer had plenty of unobstructed river to the right, but nonetheless, a downed tree always make me a bit nervous since our Rice Creek paddle. (River #1) That day the creek’s rushing high spring water sent us crashing into a dozen dangerous strainers. I felt the grip of those claws once when my life jacket was caught by a stiff branch and the current was too stiff to resist. But today’s shallow river flowed with the gentle current of late summer and we slipped by without a scratch.

We paddled on through the clear water and the green grasses and then suddenly, everything changed.

 The bottom of the river turned black. The flowing grasses were only stubs of bare stems. Dark algae grew on everything. No fish. No turtles. It was like seeing Isengaard after it was burned in Tolkein’s Two Towers. The devastation was probably due to agricultural runoff of chemicals and the river had suffocated. We paddled another mile before the healthy bottom began to return. It was shocking to see the difference between a living stretch of river and a dead one. The day was hot and we stopped on a tiny island’s rocky point to rest. The water was too shallow for swimming so I sat in the rushing current and tried to find a rock to match the perfect egg shaped rock that Jim had found. (no luck).

Our eagle had one more surprise visit in store for us – We spotted him high above and slowly paddled toward his perch. He let us get closer and closer until we glided right under him, so close we could see his huge golden claws gripping the bark. The day was darkening and we still had a couple of miles to go so when a double strainer loomed out from both banks we decided to take the shallow route around the tiny island, avoiding the strainers altogether. We had paddled only about twenty yards when a huge beaver dam blocked our path.

We paddled back to the main river where we paused on the muddy shore to assess our situation. We had to cross the current to a tiny inlet on the other side and then shoot back through the narrow opening perfectly or fall into those claws.

We were careful and our aim was perfect. We sailed through the narrow break in the trees and found our takeout just as dusk settled on the river.

Ian and I set off to find Jack’s Canoe Rental hidden somewhere beside the Namekagon River in Wisconsin. Jack himself had promised to shuttle us from put-in to take-out and back again. We found this tiny cabin serving as his office. It was surrounded by dozens of canoes and a line of people waiting to be shuttled to various points on this well-known canoeing river.

It was a hot and humid Sunday and the river was quiet with animals but lively with people. Once again the humans were as interesting as any wild creatures. Our first surprise came at the put-in where I waited for Ian’s return.

I met a pair of men who had spent Saturday evening building their one-of-a-kind pontoon boat and had hauled it to the river for its first voyage. They had built a platform over two kayaks with a canoe in-between. The craft could be steered by the canoeing bowsman, as well as poled by the other passenger on deck. They had spray painted the platform a rough camouflage green. They spent well over an hour on shore imagining how it might perform, and naming it. They decided on: The Green Party Platform. They set off and disappeared around a curve in the river and all was quiet once again. Hours later we found them alive and well, shooting fish with a cross bow. At our passing the fish were still winning.

The Namekagon starts in northern Wisconsin and winds its way to the St. Croix River.

The St. Croix serves as a border to Minnesota and Wisconsin and both rivers are protected by the Wild and Scenic Rivers Act, (1968), a visionary piece of legislation that protected 8 rivers in the United States from development. The early part of our trip found us paddling between sandy banks and spiky pines. The heat hushed the shoreline and the lack of bird song was eerie. The water was startling clear, shallow in patches, and filled with schools of fish. Throughout the day we crossed paths with a three-canoe family who was traveling with Sierra, a perky beagle. At one crossing I saw him perched upon the thwart (wooden cross piece) and the gunnel (side), nose up, a fine river-worthy dog!

We made a rest stop at the end of a series of Class I rapids. An osprey dived for a fish in the riffles and suddenly stopped mid-air, soaring away.

 A tiny butterfly took a liking to my finger and returned again and again. Throughout the afternoon the river gradually changed from pine to hardwoods as the slow gradient took us toward the confluence of the St. Croix. House sightings were very rare but when we rounded the bend where the waters from the two rivers met, this tiny cabin sat watching those two rivers blend their waters.

We headed south, downstream, along the St. Croix and as the afternoon sun set we

passed a swamped canoe (they needed no help they said, though it was their fifth dump of the day!), a flock of ducks basking on the rocks, and a huge log held prisoner high and dry on a rock. It had been left behind months ago by spring’s high waters. I wonder when the river will rise enough to free it and send it floating off to the St. Croix, then to the Mississippi, or maybe all the way to the salty Gulf of Mexico?

At the last minute Ian and I moved from the waiting list to a spot on the Friends of the Mississippi’s group paddle down a twelve mile stretch just north of the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, Minnesota. Early Sunday morning we joined fifty-three other paddlers at a roadside park in Elk River where we dropped our canoes and supplies. We drove to Anoka where we left our cars and boarded a school bus that would shuttle us all back to our boats. As it was our first group trip we had to learn PATIENCE as we waited for all of our fellow travelers to gather their things and be ready to go. (The bus was hot. I had time to learn a lot of patience.)

We traveled in a flotilla and were led by our marvelous Park Service guide, Kate. She paddled a small solo Bell canoe. She told us the amazing story of having driven this very canoe to the Green River in Colorado where she paddled alongside a group of rafters on a five day river trip. She managed all of the rapids with only one early spill. Kate “loves rivers,” and she inspired me with her ease, her commitment to river preservation, and her careful solo paddling style. (Keeping a canoe on a straight course by yourself is not easy.)

This particular morning the air was still and clouds moved in and out, drawing their reflections all around us. The great river widened. One man told stories about the early explorers dragging boats for miles along the shore because they did not know how paddle a canoe in shallow waters. The modern paddlers moved in and around each other, fluid, and eventually we met the amazing Ann.

She paddled an inflatable kayak and proved to be a true Mississippi River woman​.In the summers she lives on a houseboat that floats on the Mississippi, in St. Paul. She’s read more books about the river than anyone I know and taught herself to steer her houseboat “by making mistakes,” she said.

 

We stopped for lunch and rest and then paddled into the big heat of the day. But the river brought one more boat for us — A canoe so beautiful that it cast a spell on me…We had passed it early on and I wondered at its age, and its beautiful wooden gunnels, and the stories of its hundreds of dings and scratches.

It turned out that owner received the canoe when he was a young man, in 1978, and he has paddled it a thousand miles in the decades since — The longest trip arched up to Hudson Bay. Now the owner, Whitney Clark, paddles this canoe in his job as executive director of the Friends of the Mississippi River. He talked about how he could get a newer canoe, a sleeker, lighter canoe, but the history is too deep and it’s the only one canoe where he feels at home…Someday I hope our canoe looks like Whitney’s. (Visit the Friends of the Mississippi River’s good work at www​.fmr​.org) I asked Whitney…What river would you recommend for our 50 rivers project and he paused only for a moment… “The Hayes,” he answered. “Canada.” “You’d have to fly in but that’s easy these days…”