Partnership is a word that we don’t bandy around lightly…we really believe in long-term relationships that are mutually beneficial. Your task is relatively simple—have fun, be safe, and spread the word. Our work is to provide a fun, safe and informative environment for you to get into whatever sort of paddling you’d like to get into. We do this by offering classes and symposiums, and unmatched selection of boats, a safe and controlled test paddle location, and a very fun and knowledgeable sales staff.

If you’re a first time kayaker or canoeist looking to just get your feet wet, here are some questions you might consider.

Canoe or kayak?

A lot of folks answer this question somewhat impulsively. After reflection, we find that some folks who first wanted a canoe are better off with a kayak, and vice versa. It’s not a huge number but it does happen regularly.

Kayaking is initially more appealing to first time paddlers…the ease of going straight, the stability of having a lower center of gravity, etc. The truth is that some of you who are looking at a solo kayak may be better suited with a solo canoe. “Why is that?” you may ask. There are several reasons to consider a solo canoe.

Canoes are generally easier to get in and out of, especially on muddy stream banks or unimproved put-ins. Canoes are usually lighter length-for-length, so they’re easier to load onto your car. A canoe seat position is higher, giving you a better view into the water, and they can carry more gear (again, keeping length equal). You can also move around and adjust your seating position easier in a canoe, and for a lot of people, that variety is helpful if you have back issues.

On the other hand, kayaks are much easier and get to a skill level quickly if you’re staying in sheltered conditions. They are easier to control in wind, especially solo, and your center of gravity is lower making them more stable in rough water.

If you’re looking to get the entire family into paddling, a canoe can be much more affordable than four or five kayaks. When your family grows (in number or size) and you can add some kayaks down the road.

Where do you want to paddle?

You have a lot of choices here in the Midwest. From tiny pothole lakes to the Great Lakes, from tiny streams to wide, expansive rivers, you have a lot of choices to make. Moving water, quiet water, absolute glass or big waves off Escanaba are all easy to reach within a few hours drive. From the north woods to the sandy beaches of the Wisconsin River, we have to acknowledge we live in a paddling paradise.

Our experience is that most recreational paddlers are interested in inland lakes and rivers, maybe a little moving water like the Brule or the Namekagon. While you may have dreams about kayaking the Apostle Islands or Door County, or taking a week long trip to the Boundary Waters most folks paddle closer to home, and we believe it’s best to buy for what you’re going to do most of the time. Most likely it’s your local lake or river.

How do you plan on transporting your boat, and how often?

All too often this is an afterthought, when it should be one of your first considerations as it will determine what kind of budget you need to set, how often you are going to be getting out to paddle and how enjoyable the experience is going to be overall.

First, we need to differentiate between price and value. A canoe or kayak can be a great price, but if it too heavy for your to load yourself, or too long for you to store easily, you may find that your boat sits around a lot, dressing up a pair of sawhorses. Then what was a good price becomes a pretty poor value. We like to think of value as a function of price and usage, or more correctly, price per usage.

What does this have to do with transportation? Plenty. A boat you can’t move easily becomes less likely to be used, and therefore ends up being a poor value. In other words, a $300 used canoe that weighs 85 pounds may end up costing you $300 per use if you use it once, decide your back doesn’t like to lift that much weight, and park the canoe on the woodpile. We want you to use your boats! Looking at different rack options may also help you in moving your boat.

What’s in the budget?

Many of us may have to compromise on our choice of gear due to budgetary restrictions. That’s fine, we just need to remember that compromise isn’t always a bad thing. Personally, I don’t like seeing people overspend as much as I don’t like seeing people underspend. It’s all about the right tools for the job.

One tip we often give new paddlers is not to spend so much on the boat that you are forced to economize on the rest of the gear. Just like buying a Ferrari and putting $25.00 retreads on it will resort in poor performance, expecting a Kevlar ultra light canoe to perform with a pair of fifteen dollar paddles is not realistic.

Of course, if you can afford to make no compromises, that’s great. Sometimes price and value can come together in a used boat. If you must make some compromises, we recommend you consider buying a less expensive boat and putting your resources into paddling gear.  Paddles are the worst place to try to economize, as it is the primary tool for the paddler. Violinists often spend almost as much on a bow as they do on a violin, and there’s a reason for that. No one I know ever was sorry for buying a lighter, stronger paddle. PFDs or lifejackets are also not the place to economize. Get a comfortable one, which means you’ll wear it more, which means you’ll be safer.

How hard are you on your equipment?

How and where you use your boat will often determine the best material. In general we recommend choosing the lightest boat you choose to afford, as this means you’ll use it more (see above note on value vs. price). Flatwater paddlers who find themselves in sandy bottomed rivers will be fine with lighter equipment. Those who look for shallow rocky rivers or like to paddle moving water will want beefier gear to withstand those impacts. In general, the lighter the boat, the more careful you’ll want to be with it. This is not a hard and fast rule, but it’s a good place to start.

That said, I have taken Royalex boats to the Boundary Waters and I have run whitewater rivers in a Kevlar canoe. Anything is possible, it depends on your skill level and your comfort with seeing a few “love bites” on the bottom of your boat.

Your body speaks to you…please listen to it.

That’s not a question, obviously. But we believe it’s really important to be comfortable. In fact, the comfort of the seat is the single most important feature for most paddlers. This is obvious, but you’d be surprised at the seats that feel perfect to me that you’d think were designed by someone who had never seen a human posterior.

Canoe seating is a little less complex than kayak seating, but there are things that can be changed in a canoe. Padding, seat angle, even back rests can make a canoe a lot more comfortable if you find a boat that’s perfect but the seat needs a little work. We can help you with that.

One other advantage to a canoe is that by its very nature, you can change your seating position while under way. This is important to those of us with more paddling seasons under our belts. I stay comfortable by varying my seating position from sitting to kneeling periodically. I also can stretch my legs and move around just a little bit if my ankles or knees are sore. The disadvantage of a canoe is that you are not as connected with the boat, so power transfer may not be as efficient as it is in a kayak.

Kayak seating is more complex by nature, but kayak manufacturers now understand the importance of a comfortable seat above all else. You can tell a lot by just sitting in a boat…and let’s face the fact that eighty percent of us aren’t as concerned about the hydrodynamics of a kayak as we are with the comfort of the seat.

Kayaks come with radically different sized cockpits, depending on their use. Some people who are larger require a larger cockpit for more comfort, or so they can get to their binoculars, camera or fishing gear easily. Others may want a very snug, tight cockpit so that they can learn to Eskimo roll or simply have more control and optimal energy transfer from your body to the kayak.

What’s Your Style?

This is a totally random, non-quantifiable question, but it is a helpful one

Do you paddle for the sake of paddling, or is paddling a mechanism for getting to another place (camping, fishing, birding, whatever)? Is paddling the end or a means to another end? A boat is simply a tool. There is no right or wrong here, just a difference of how that tool is used.

For instance, when someone asks me about which is better, a solo canoe or a kayak, I often ask them if they’d rather run a 10K or ballroom dance for an hour for their exercise. Kayaks tend to be more meditative, and by nature of the symmetry of the stroke, you can find yourself in a sort of transcendental zone – sort of like doing yoga, where your muscles and breathing and mind all begin to work on their own. It’s a blissful feeling, and those who have experienced it know it well.

Canoes, especially solo canoes, are asymmetric by design. You paddle on one side for the most part, and use a different part of your brain to control the nuances necessary to make a canoe go straight. You may find yourself playing around with the control surfaces of the paddle, edging or heeling your boat to make it skid or dance on the water. Also a blissful experience, this canoe dance.

This doesn’t mean that you can’t get into the zone in a canoe or experience playfulness in a kayak. It’s just a general guideline, and it might be completely wrong.

So…

We just want to give you some things to think about. There are no hard and fast rules here, it is indeed more of an art than a science. We look forward to answering your questions and helping you find the perfect boat for your needs. If you have special circumstances, please ask, we love to help and we will commit to finding the solution to any of your paddling problems.

So… Here’s some of our favorite spots we are planning to visit this summer.

Lower Wisconsin River, Arena to Spring Green

This is my family’s favorite day trip. It’s a short drive from urban Madison, but it’s a world away in terms of its wild character and natural beauty. It’s only about 10 miles—which means you can paddle at a truly leisurely pace. There are numerous islands and sandbars, which have captivated and entertained our kids as soon as they were able to hold a sand shovel. River critters of all types also have captivated our kids; give them a little net and they will stay happily busy trying to capture minnows, tadpoles, frogs and turtles. One needs to be mindful of the river currents – but with PFDs on, wading and swimming in the river is always a ball. We usually see a bald eagle or two and quickly lose track of all the painted turtles out on logs sunning themselves. We also often hear the rattling of sandhill cranes. It’s always thrilling to hear this otherworldly sound echo across the wide river valley.  (Dan York, Rutabaga Outdoor Programs Instructor)

Grant River

The Grant River is in Grant County and runs into the Mississippi River near Potosi, famous for its lead mines in the 19th century and microbreweries in the 21st. The watershed is small and springs feed it as well, so the water is clear and cool despite running through numerous farm fields. The banks have been well-maintained by private land owners and it looks like Trout Unlimited has been busy in some areas. Just past Chaffee Hollow Road is a sweet outcropping with what can only be called a “waterfall.” My family likes to take turns paddling through the sprinkles. The Grant is a river made for solo canoes but we’ve had tandems and kayaks along too. And if you choose to float near Potosi, I’d highly recommend you reward yourself with a wonderful root beer, brew or even a meal at the newly restored Potosi Brewing Company, it’s a sweet spot!  (Darren Bush, Paddling Evangelist)

Mirror Lake State Park

Fans of the Dells who want to avoid its summer crowds should explore Mirror Lake, a calm contrast just to the south. While motorboats are allowed, the entire lake is a slow-no-wake zone, offering paddlers peace and quiet. The narrow eastern half of the lake features sandstone bluffs up to 50 feet high and forests cover almost all of the Park. I’d recommend bringing your hiking shoes too. With about 20 miles of trails, it’s perfect to stretch out your legs after the paddle!  (Jeff Noltner, Rutabaga Outdoor Programs Instructor)

Sylvania Wilderness Area

Those who may have missed out on their BWCA permit or are just looking for something a little different will love the Sylvania Tract in the Ottawa National Forest, on the east side of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. It’s just a short drive from the summer crowds typical of Eagle River and Land O’ Lakes but it’s a world away… 30 square miles of landlocked lakes and old growth northwoods forest. We used to enjoy going up on the 4th of July. We’d share a campground with a few other good souls, more than a few deer, howling wolves and lots of loons, and participate in the Watersmeet parade – about 6 vehicles, including the pumper from the volunteer fire department and a float from the one and only bait shop. Great natural beauty and good fishing too. It’s a gem!  (Nancy Moore, Rutabaga Outdoor Programs Instructor)

I was nervous about getting Rosie near water. Abby had a bad start and completely swore off any water that wasn’t in her bowl.

One day, young Rosie saw a dog swimming near a dock. Her toenails clicked back and forth along the dock, intently observing the swimming Lab.

And then she jumped!

I saw her disappear under the water for a second, and then her little brain kicked in and she started swimming happily around the other dog,

trying to steal his toy. Whew! I learned that getting her in the water was easy. Getting her out was harder.

Getting her in a canoe was harder still.

Rosie is a spooky creature. Anything new, especially if it might—maybe—move, is hard for her to take. (For months, she was terrified of ordinary doors.) We had to do a lot of conditioning to get her near, then in the canoe. Luckily, she is eternally hungry, and quite willing to work/learn for biscuits.

The key to a good dog experience while paddling is much the same as with a kid. A tired dog is a good dog. She’ll put up with 25 minutes of paddling and then expect a good 15 minutes of running along the shore. Then we can get 35 minutes of paddling and give her 10 minutes of racing at the water’s edge. Lather, rinse, repeat. Eventually she runs out of gas (about the same time as any children who might be along) and turns into cute, wet, furry ballast. Then, it’s a Kodak moment.

I love having a real Water Dog. We go out whenever we can for a whole day on the river  and return burnt, tired, smelling of wet dog, and smiling ear to ear. It’s a blessing for us all.

If your dog is a little less of a real Water Dog, Rutabaga has dog pfds.

At last year’s Outdoor Retailer Demo Day, an event at the industry’s annual trade show, we at Rutabaga had our eyes opened to the fastest growing development in the paddlesport industry, Stand Up Paddling (S.U.P.). Like other years, there were fun new canoes and kayaks to test out, but there were actually more stand up paddleboards to try than traditional watercraft. The number and variety of boards we paddled at Demo Days were incredible, and we came away with some favorites to share with our Rutabaga family.

So here’s the scoop:

What is Stand Up Paddling (S.U.P.)?

It’s just like it sounds.  You stand up on an oversized surfboard with an oversized canoe paddle and well…you paddle.  That’s all there is to it.  Deciding where and how you do it is part of the fun.  Like canoes and kayaks, the boards come in many shapes and sizes, so you’ll want to find a board that works for you and the type of paddling you want to do.

Generally speaking, bigger boards are easier to learn on and better for bigger paddlers, while narrower and smaller boards can be more challenging and playful.  As for paddles, we generally size them based on your height, but your paddling style is factored in, as well.

Where did S.U.P. start? How long have people been doing it?

The origins of S.U.P. are not known precisely, but legend has it that the first modern stand-up paddlers were photographers catching photos of tourists learning to surf in Hawaii.  From there, the idea spread and was cultivated by a number of trend-setting paddlers who have brought the sport to where it is today.

Now there are open water races between the Hawaiian Islands and all up and down the West Coast. S.U.P. has naturally made its biggest inroads where there was already surf-culture, but it is rapidly spreading inland.

Why Stand Up?

First of all, S.U.P is a new and fun way to enjoy your time on the water, and it can be whatever you want it to be — a lazy paddle around the pond, a way to catch a wave or two, or even a killer workout. And standing up instead of sitting down gives you a view you won’t get sitting in a boat.

You can also stand-up paddle in almost any size and type of wave, whether you ride it for a few feet or a few hundred yards. Surfers use stand-up paddleboards to get out farther or catch different swells than they could with a regular surfboard. Amateurs like myself can have a blast on the smaller waves of Lake Michigan or on the wakes of powerboats passing by.  You can even have a good time cruising the flat water of smaller inland lakes, or paddling downriver and surfing the rapids.

But as well as being a lot of fun, S.U.P. provides the added benefit of a great core workout. Many people use stand-up as core training, because you use all of your muscles and you aren’t stuck in a gym. You may be exercising, but you’re cruising around –standing up — and having a great time. In fact, many adventure athletes and people training for the Ironman Triathlon use S.U.P. as a no-impact core workout.

Who’s Who in S.U.P.?

We paddled dozens of boards to make sure we could bring a good selection home to our Rutabaga family.  And while we tried boards of all shapes and sizes, one manufacturer stood out above the rest: Surftech.

Surftech is the largest manufacturer of surf- and paddleboards on the planet, and they know everything there is to know about board making. They have an incredibly wide stable of passionate athletes who use their experience and skills to help keep the company on the top of the surf-heap, and we’re excited to bring their stand-up paddleboards to Rutabaga.

Rutabaga will also be carrying stand-up paddles from Werner, Kialoa, and Surftech, all companies with a passion for and tradition of making awesome paddles.

It’s clear that S.U.P. is here to stay, and we at Rutabaga want to be the ones to bring it to you.  It’s fun, versatile, and accessible; not to mention downright cool. And as your primary paddling enablers, we at Rutabaga want to help give you a chance to catch some of that cool.

It had only been a month since we’d been to the Southeast for some creek boating, but with spring break approaching and the promise of good water in North Carolina – well, it was just too much. Four Madisonians, Brian Day, Lenny Sheps, Mark Jankowski and I, would leave the Monday morning following Canoecopia for a week of creeking. Brian’s Honda Civic and Mark’s Toyota Tacoma were loaded and cruising down I-94 by 11:00a.m… two vehicles, four paddlers, and seven kayaks. Yep, seven. I was the only one without two kayaks since I would be picking one up at the Pyranha USA headquarters in Asheville, NC. The forecast predicted plenty of rain, but if water levels weren’t right, then we would need our playboats.

As usual, we drove through the night and encountered only rain (no snow!) in Indiana (hmmm, something is wrong here!). At 3:00A.M. Tuesday morning, we pulled into the put-in for section IV of the Chattooga. Movie buffs might remember that the Chattooga was one of the sites for the filming of the 1972 classic film Deliverance, featuring classic banjo music and the infamous Ned Beatty scene. It continued to rain while we grabbed some brief shut-eye. None of us had paddled the Chattooga before, and at a level of 1.9 feet it would prove to be a formidable challenge. The Chattooga is truly one of the gems in the United States and was named a Wild & Scenic River in July 1976.

Section IV is well known for several reasons. First, it harbors one of the more dangerous holes in the SE called Woodall Shoals. Find any guidebook describing the Chattooga and Woodall will definitely be described in a way to convince you to stay away. Without a doubt the most popular section is Five Falls. Five Falls includes the rapids of Entrance, Corkscrew, Crack-in-the-Rock, Jawbone, and Sock-em-Dog. At most levels, each of these drops rate class IV or above, with the “Dog” sometimes getting a class V designation due to the sticky hole on river right.

Entrance is a relatively straightforward eight-foot drop on river right, ending in a large pool above Corkscrew. Corkscrew, perhaps the best rapid on Section IV, incorporates fast water with big holes placed in such a way that strong boat control is required. Perhaps the most important thing to note about Corkscrew is that safety should always be set below the rapid to ensure any unfortunate swimmer does not continue into the next drop, Crack-in-the-Rock.

Crack-in-the-Rock deserves some discussion as it has been the focus of controversy due to the unfortunate deaths that have occurred over the years. The danger of this drop lies in the constricted nature of its design, with all water flowing through three channels: Right Crack, Middle Crack and Left Crack. A very good article and history of this rapid is provided in the current issue of American Whitewater (www.americanwhitewater.org). Left Crack is especially dangerous since it is a natural sieve; in other words, what goes in may not come out. Middle Crack is the path of choice at most river levels, providing a three foot slot between two huge, undercut boulders.

Jawbone features a fast moving tongue of water leading into Hydroelectric Rock. “Hydro” Rock is just another undercut room-sized boulder worth avoiding.

The final drop, Sock-em-Dog, provides a wild finale. River left, or the Puppy Chute, is a sneak route between a severely undercut overhang and a huge undercut boulder. River right features a boof line over the large hole at the bottom. Treat the Chattooga as you would any advanced-level river and you’ll have a great time on a beautiful river. Although the Chattooga has many commercial raft companies running trips on it, this day we only saw two rafts and no other kayakers; we had the river to ourselves.

With water levels on the rise, we were provided with a rare opportunity to paddle the Elk River in northeast North Carolina. We didn’t have much information other than it was a class IV-V river with huge boulders, continuous drops and breathtaking slides. Even though the Elk is a roadside run it feels very remote; “high intensity” is an understatement to describe this run! The Elk has two steep sections of gradient, separated by a “flat” section to allow you to catch your breath; it has an average gradient of 130 feet/mile with a maximum of 210 feet/mile. All of this is contained within a gorge that at times is no more than 20-25 feet wide. As we paddled, our confidence was growing with every drop. Unfortunately I dropped my paddle getting out to portage a log-jammed drop in the middle of the river (now named “Lost Lendal Falls”). It took some time but the paddle was retrieved and we continued with renewed vigor.

It seemed we encountered a new drop around every corner. Eight foot, ten foot, twelve foot…they just seemed to keep getting bigger. One of the best sections was a slide that started on far river left, took a sharp turn to the right, angled back to the left and then plunged into a crystal pool for a refreshing exit. Wow!

As we entered the second steep section, the site of an old mill came into view, as did a distinct horizon line. I paddled to the edge of the drop in the final eddy, looked over my shoulder but was unable to see a clean line to the bottom. Lenny jumped out of his Prijon Embudo and gave a quick scout. A smile came across his face and he told me, “Looks good. Just line up center with a little left angle and enjoy the ride.” As I paddled off the edge I remember seeing the river twelve feet below me, with nothing but a clear pool of water to break my fall. As I paddled away from the drop and into an eddy to watch Mark’s run, I remember thinking to myself, “This is it. This is why I became a whitewater paddler.”

This trip ended the way every trip does. A long drive back to Wisconsin, with each mile bringing anticipation of our next visit to the crystal rivers of the Southeast.

• Whitewater Weekend (Part 1)

The Honda Civic was loaded, to say the least. On top sat a Yakima Rocketbox containing paddles, PFDs, and cold weather paddling gear. Two creek boats, a Pyranha Micro 240 and an Eskimo Salto, also sat proudly on the roof rack, displaying their scratched hulls to passersby. The hatch and back seats were filled with assorted, required paddling accoutrements: tent, sleeping bags, food (can’t forget the Nutella!), camcorder, and Monte Smith’s Southeastern Whitewater paddling guide. The plan? Brian Day and Mark Mastalski, driving 15 hours to join five other paddlers for a long weekend paddling some of North Carolina’s and Tennessee’s finest creeks. With the rivers in Wisconsin and Michigan still frozen solid, this was a great opportunity to get our boats wet.

The weather? It was February—not much else needs to be said. A snowstorm was predicted for the entire Midwest, so we assumed that the drive would be slow going. This came to be true as we encountered snow from Gary, IN all the way to Indianapolis. Snow and ice covered I-65 and few plows were to be seen. This being our third trip to the Southeast in the past year, and the third time we’ve encountered a snowstorm in Indiana, the weather was par for the course.

With the stereo blaring, Brian and I sang along to favorites such as Son Volt, Uncle Tupelo, Rush, Josh Joplin and Tool. We were cranked and looking forward to three days of great paddling and great friends. Sixteen hours later, we pulled into Mortimer campground to meet our friends and paddle beautiful Wilson’s Creek. The group for “Ecstasy III” was now complete: Mike and Elise Giddings from Chapel Hill, NC; Steve Corsi and Helge Klockow from Madison; Rob Heineman from Salt Lake City.

Wilson’s is a relatively short creek run. Even though a road hugs the river for the entire two miles, allowing for views by non-paddlers, it is extremely scenic and was designated a “Wild and Scenic River” by the National Park Service in 2000. Although the Smoky Mountains were getting pelted with rain, Wilson’s was relatively low, -3 on the boater’s gauge; but it would make for a good warm-up. Wilson’s includes a number of fun boulder gardens, where huge rocks block your path and keep you on your toes. Elbow pads are often desired as many of the chutes are extremely narrow. A few of the more memorable drops include Ten Foot Falls (Bigg Drop), Boatbuster, Thunderhole, Triple Drop, and Razorback. With a lot of water, Wilson’s could easily generate some class V excitement, but on our day nothing was over class IV+. If you’re looking for a great introduction to creeking in the Southeast, Wilson’s Creek could be just the ticket.

The next day brought us ice; ice on our tent, boats, paddles, everything. It was chilly but the idea of running Big Creek inspired us. Big Creek is located on the North Carolina/Tennessee border and flows into the Pigeon River, also known as the Dirty Bird. Brian and I scouted it in March 2002 and couldn’t wait to give it a run. But the question remained… was it running? Helge plugged his cell phone into his laptop and the good news greeted us: yes, Big Creek had enough water. The drive was on!

Mike, Elise, and Rob led the caravan, and two hours of driving up and over the Smoky Mountains brought us to the takeout so we could check the paddler’s gauge… 2.5, a good level for an introductory run. Big Creek contains two distinct sections, the Upper and Lower. The Upper is an “expert-only” run including several class V drops and steep gradient. The Lower is still continuous with an average gradient of 139 feet/mile, four times that of the popular Roaring Rapids section of the Peshtigo in norttheastern Wisconsin, but in the Lower, one doesn’t encounter the dangerous hazards of the Upper section. That said, it should not be taken lightly; the water is pushy and boat scouting is mandatory. We shouldered our boats and hiked upstream from the Big Creek campground. After a ten-minute walk we found our put-in. The water was pumping – many eddies are only big enough for one boat and must be caught on the fly. I found myself thinking, “I’ll catch that eddy over on my right. Whoops, guess I’ll try for the next one!” Taking video of the run is difficult, as things move so fast that you just don’t have much time to get out and shoot. Downed trees, or sweepers, are always a hazard for which to keep an eye out, and Big Creek served up a few. As we sat in an eddy just following the bridge next to the power station Brian asked, “We’re taking out here, right, and not running the dam?” Dam? Uh, yeah, let’s take out here. Another good reason to make sure you always scout any river unknown to your group! The entire run took just an hour, an amazingly fast hour that kept all of our hearts pumping and adrenalin flowing. You’d be hard pressed to find a more continuous river; it literally doesn’t let up the entire two miles. Mike commented that Big Creek is very similar to creeking in Colorado – narrow riverbed, continuous gradient with cold, pushy water. Big Creek generally runs only in the spring or after big rains, so warm water paddling is generally not an option.

Dinner consisted of Mexican cuisine and a long discussion about where to paddle the next day. The rain was still arriving in the mountains, so many rivers and creeks were running. Options included the Tellico, Citico, Doe and Piney River. Consensus was finally reached… on to the Piney! But first it was time for bed, so we chose an inexpensive motel in the small town of Rockwood, TN. (Hint: be wary of refrigerators in these hotels…yeek.)

The next morning we woke early and drove to the take-out to check the gauge. The river was currently running just under ‘4’ on the paddlers gauge, and the wet shore showed the river had been several feet higher (and thus unrunnable for our group) not too much earlier. The level was high, but we were good to go. And so we donned our wet paddling gear again and put-in on Moccasin Creek. The first five miles on Moccasin were slow going, taking over three hours. It included busting over trees and portaging a few times. Once we reached the confluence with the Piney, we were more than ready to see some gradient and do some creekin’. The day was cold, in the 30s, and each wave to the face promised more of what was ahead for the next eleven miles. The confluence of Moccasin and Piney is the start of four miles of 100+ feet/mile gradient, beginning with Gateway Falls. The Piney is a classic southeastern river, featuring good gradient, large holes, numerous boulder gardens, and more than its share of good-sized drops. True to many southeastern rivers, it also harbors dangerous undercut rocks, ready to trap an unsuspecting boater. One drop, Hungry Jack, has a scary sieve/cavern on the river right rock overlooking the final plunge. Just adding to the excitement, a class V hole develops at high levels, deserving of a long look before running. Everyone decided to walk Hungry Jack, except for Brian. He had that look in his eyes, and I knew he was going to run it. After a discussion about the best line, Brian put-on and headed toward the gaping drop. At the current level, it was best to hug the river left edge, keep a slight right angle (a rock shelf is on the far left side) and paddle hard away from the hole. Brian was slightly right of ideal and took a deep plunge, disappearing into the froth for a solid three count. When he re-emerged upright and unscathed, we all breathed a sigh of relief.

The last several miles of the Piney include some of the best class III+ boogie water you’ll find anywhere – standing waves and surf spots, all located in one of the most beautiful gorges you’ll ever see. We spent seven hours on the water that day and didn’t see another boater. The Piney is a paddler’s dream and a hiker’s nightmare. This is rough Tennessee land, and hiking in (or out) is a difficult option at best.

The drive back to Madison went well until a faulty alternator in Brian’s car stopped us in Rockford, IL. No matter—we were determined to get home to Madison, dry our wet clothes, and begin planning our next visit to the Southeast.

Many of the small creeks in the Southeast are runnable only following heavy rains in the mountains. Correspondingly, the water is very cold and a drysuit is highly advised. Hot lemonade makes a refreshing drink to have on-hand during any cold-weather trip, and safety equipment should include breakdown paddles, throw ropes, and z-drag systems to recover pinned boats. Paddling in the Southeast will introduce you to amazingly beautiful rivers and terrific people, always ready to share stories and lend a hand. These rivers and creeks are close enough that a long weekend is feasible, given you don’t mind driving straight through and recovering lost sleep during the following week. Information about all these rivers can be found online at www.americanwhitewater.org. Be safe, take care of the rivers, and see you on the water.

• Whitewater Weekend (Part2)

(*to read Part I, scroll to the bottom of this page)

Last time, Elizabeth, Andrew, Dave, and Howard the Dog had just begun the fourth day of their trip, their second day on the French River…

So, just how lost were we? When our trusted navigator told us to turn our boats around, I wished that I had at least glanced at the map that morning. Dave and Andrew sorted everything out, though, discovering that our mistake was a small one — we had followed the wrong channel only a short distance back and were soon on course once again. (Side note: considering the warnings that veteran French River paddlers had issued to us about how easily we could get lost, I have to congratulate Andrew, who navigated almost the entire trip. Thirty thousand islands dotting Georgian Bay couldn’t phase him.)

Onward we paddled. We came around a bend in the river, and I noticed some kind of resort sprawling across the south bank. Seven or eight Canadian flags fluttered in the breeze along the front of what appeared to be the “main lodge.” I squinted at the curious, remotely-located establishment as we moved closer, picking out cabins squatting at the water’s edge, nestled farther back in the woods, and perched atop cliffs downriver. “Is that camp thing on an island, or does the river just twist around it and dead end?” I asked dully and turned to face Andrew, expecting him to look up from the map for a second or two and ignore my question.

But he was gazing thoughtfully over my shoulder at the resort. “Hey, all those Maple Leaves are at half-mast,” he murmured. I turned and looked again. Wow. I’d missed that.

“Yeah…” Dave broke in quietly, matter-of-factly, “…it’s September 11th.”

It was indeed — September 11, 2002 — the one-year anniversary of the attack upon and subsequent collapse of the World Trade Center, the Twin Towers. Now maybe, just maybe, I’m one of those hardened posers who tries stubbornly to detach emotions from things that I cannot wrap my head around or that I cannot control, and I surely won’t even go into my take on world politics. I must admit, though, that during the rest of that day, even I felt something weighty, something unsentimental but universally sad coiled in my stomach. I would occasionally glance up at the sky around us, ensuring that I glimpsed a plane in the air every few hours

And so it became my privilege to fear only the possible embarrassment of swamping our canoe or taking an involuntary swimming lesson as we braved the rapids that day.

Not that I wasn’t nervous as heck. Of what exactly I was so petrified, I’m uncertain. Andrew and Dave guaranteed that we would scout every rapid before shooting it, and if anything looked like a gamble, we would line or portage. Scouting, in fact, though generally considered a necessary pain in the rear, turned out to be one of my favorite aspects of the trip. Getting out of the boat, clambering up (sometimes nearly straight up — the “landings” around the rapids were usually just a less vertical spot along the boulder-lined bank) onto shore, exercising the muscles in my cramped legs, feeling the huge boulders of the Canadian Shield under my feet, exploring the faint foot trails along the rapids, looking more closely at the vegetation — etc., etc. — it all charmed me to happy little bits. Andrew and I would seek out a suitable lookout point along each rapids, snap photographs, and cheer Dave on as he soloed his Explorer through the white fluffs of agitated water. Then we’d take our turn.

The water level was fairly low, so the first “rapids” marked on the map was a mere ripple, hardly detectable as we came around a sharp bend where the river narrowed slightly. I admittedly felt relieved, but I imagined the next rapids to be a raging Class V with huge drops and maybe even octopi to grab my boat and pull me under.

Of course, my jitters and fears were entirely unfounded. I loved every minute of that day. I loved carefully lining up before the current grabbed our eighteen-and-a-half-foot boat, kneeling in the bow and choosing our line of attack. I loved leaning over the gunwhales, making careful adjustments with draws and pries as we plunged into the thick of things, secure in the belief that my trusty stern paddler would surely compensate for most errors I could make. I loved the waves splashing me in the face when our bow bit into them.

We spent the greater portion of that day running the series of rapids that dotted our course — on the map, it looked like a crooked row of unevenly spaced hurdles. The Blue Chute was the most famous rapids we encountered, but because of the water levels, we had other personal favorites. The river’s unusually low volume meant that some of the “bigger” rapids were not as exciting as we had anticipated. Some stretches, though, were more technical than what we had expected, because the shallower water exposed boulders and rocks in the riverbed.

I was disappointed when the river flattened out again. The French certainly has different sides to her personality. Her narrow sections are exciting, often carved into twisting canyons between tall cliffs. In its calmer stretches, the river is amazingly wide, with a current so faint that it often feels like the longest, most gorgeous lake you’ve ever paddled. Above all, it is strikingly beautiful.

That evening we explored spooky Cross Island, where a group of missionaries have been memorialized after meeting their deaths in the river well over a century ago. The white cross that marked the spot can’t be a grave, we decided; the entire site was solid rock like the rest of the area, ripped apart by glaciers into islands and sharply bending channels during the Ice Age. I managed to snap a very haunting photo of the cross, Andrew, Dave, and Howard’s shadow in the slanting sun.

We tried to find a place to camp on the shore opposite Cross Island, but in the knee-deep lichen, no suitable tent sites rewarded our tramping. After searching several spots along the bank with no success, we finally headed a few miles further down the river, eventually landing in the perfect little harbor where we would spend our evening.

Dinner cooked quickly, our tents went up as the sun went down, and the moon appeared in the clear night sky over the cooling river. We sat around the fire huddled in our sleeping bags, enjoying night-caps and chatting about our day and the adventure yet ahead of us. The night was bringing with it some very cold air — that I could feel in my bones. The breeze picked up. The stars came out. Our eyes began to droop. The fire spat a hot coal onto my self-inflating sleeping pad.

Doh!

• French River Adventure I

The crew: Andrew and Elizabeth in the Lamoille; Dave and Howard (the Chesapeake Bay Retriever) in the Explorer

The third day:

Our canoes hit the French River for the first time on a Tuesday afternoon. This was a highly anticipated moment.

The river would not disappoint us.

A headwind had crept up gradually, blowing a dense chunk of gray across the blue canopy that had hung cloudless over our shuttling process. As we put in and pushed off, the rain was coming down — insistently coming down — but was by no means a downpour. By the time we’d paddled forty yards, the wind speed had doubled and the rain was falling in sheets. It was an impressively abrupt change of pace, from a breeze and a drizzle to the strongest wind I’d ever encountered on the water. The bow of our boat turned sharply toward the left shore, and though I never doubted the skill of my stern paddler, I was uncertain whether this move was by choice or by force.

“What do you want me to do?” I had to shout over my shoulder so that Andrew could hear me over the wind.

“Just keep bracing on the downwind side of the boat. Looks like we’re going to shore.” He assured me not to worry, not to panic, and I smiled in spite of the chilling streams running down my arms. This wasn’t the gusting, blustery wind that flips unsuspecting paddlers into freezing cold lakes and rivers; this was a fierce, constant howl that just chased us clean off the water.

We landed, and after the other canoe maneuvered to shore, we pulled the boats up and donned our rain-gear. Standing under the trees, watching the storm whip through the river valley under the dark sky, I looked at my companions and smiled again. From under the hoods of their rain jackets, their shining eyes were taking in the same spectacle with the same patience and admiration.

That sudden cloudburst couldn’t have dampened our mood. We had neither a declared destination nor any specific mileage to log that evening, and the scene before us was too exciting and gorgeous to be dreary. Someone asked me if I was cold, and I shrugged. Soaked under my rain-gear, of course I was cold, but I felt such a sense of clarity and contentment that I wanted to laugh.

I wanted to laugh partly out of sheer enjoyment in that moment, but partly because of the beautiful experience our tangled mess of a trip was turning out to be. Two days prior, our journey had officially begun, on a less than perfect note, from Madison, Wisconsin.

The first day:

Sunday night, Andrew and I left Rutabaga and hit the road at six o’clock PM, barreling north. We had no food, our gear and belongings were strewn chaotically around Andrew’s Subaru, and we were dead tired — but we were on our way. After three hours of free-association games and whatever else helped us to remain conscious, we pulled in somewhere north of Green Bay, WI, at a restaurant whose name I will never remember. Though exhaustion was draining our motivation, we were amazed with our progress; we were nearly in Upper Michigan. We were road warriors.

After a greasy dinner accompanied by strong coffee, it was my turn to drive. Since twilight, a bizarre underwater feeling had dimmed my thoughts. This strange sensation (coupled with a warm meal congealing in my stomach) made it difficult to stay awake, but it did take the edge off of my “trip anxiety” – that splendid on-the-road cocktail of nervous excitement, high expectations, and minor trepidation that always accompanies an adventure. I later attributed my condition to general fatigue, but at the time it felt like a minor flake-out. Gradually, sometime between ten o’clock and midnight, the fog crept in. I knew that it was there, stretching across the highway; Andrew mentioned it aloud. Thus I was assured that my mental cloud had not drifted in front of my bleary eyes.

Esconaba suddenly surrounded us, and by a bank’s glowing digital clock we knew we were no longer in the Central time zone. Losing that last hour drained us both of any enthusiasm to drive further into that eerie night. We had to stop, soon. As we were about to leave the town behind us, a sign for a private campground emerged from the haze. We threw our tent together on the first suitable site we found and slept like two dead bodies.

The second day:

I woke up and drifted back to sleep at least a dozen times before I managed to croak “good morning” to Andrew. After a night of deep sleep, the morning had been peppered with short waking dreams of blurry road signs, headlights skittering over gas station driveways, dotted yellow lines — I had, or so I thought, gained my first insight from the trip. Next time, I declared to Andrew, the evening before our departure would involve more planning and less nightlife. Of course, I would later rethink this wise avowal.

By the time we crawled out of our sleeping bags, out of our tents, into and out of the showers (showers! ahh!), and back into the car, it was 11:00 AM. We had a clear shot into Sault Ste. Marie, MI, where our next mission was to get in touch with the other two members of our crew. Our friend Dave is one of the greatest paddlers and paddling companions I’ve known. Dave’s faithful pup Howard is one of the greatest paddling dogs ever to ballast a canoe. Andrew and I were as excited to see them as we were nervous about tracking them down.

Our charmed luck continued: we arrived in town within minutes of Dave, whom we eventually met at a cavernous, maze-like downtown antique shop. He and Howard had driven from Traverse, Michigan that day. Before enduring the painful process of grocery-getting, we three humans found a lakeside Mexican restaurant where our friendly waiter supplied us with engaging conversation and two precious empty milk cartons (to serve as water bailers, which all of us had forgotten).

After dining and buying food for the trip, we triumphantly crossed the bridge from Michigan to Canada with as much pomp and circumstance as we could muster, passed through customs, and drove east from Sault Ste. Marie to Sudbury, Ontario. It was another long evening of driving, driving, and driving. Darkness brought on night blindness; poorly marked highways provided ample opportunity to lose our way on obscure backroads; needless to say, Grundee Lake Provincial Park was a welcome sight to our road-weary eyes and sleep-deprived bodies. Mechanically pitching our tents by the glow of our LED headlamps was an appropriately surreal ending to another day on the road.

So, we’re back to day three…

The morning was a flurry.

“I think we should try to pack it all into three packs.”

“And a food pack?”

“No, just three packs.”

“Including the food pack.”

“No — no food pack, just three packs.”

“What about the food?”

“We’ll use one of the three packs for food.”

“So…”

We had to de-package and re-package the food we’d purchased the night before, pack and unpack all of our gear into and out of the Duluth packs several times, and of course, take advantage of our last opportunity to shower in civilization, all before we could even leave the park. By the time we’d stationed a car at the Key River Marina and found our put-in point at Dokis, the afternoon was far advanced. Still, we somehow found ourselves exactly where we wanted to be. After ignoring so many elementary steps in the preparatory stages of this trip, having made it so far with such charmed luck seemed a sure sign that nothing could go wrong for us.

The storm that sent us scurrying for shore blew through within twenty minutes. Like one gigantic cloud had sought us out and sneezed in our faces, it had come and gone and left us breathless and soggy. We were delighted.

After piling our gear back into our trusty vessels, we set off once again. Andrew helped me to straighten out the kinks in my somewhat rusty forward stroke, the wind dried our damp clothes, and eventually we landed at a beautiful island campsite. Smooth, rounded slabs of rock ringed the island and sloped gently down into the water. Lichen-encrusted pine trees dropped their needles onto shady, moss-covered footpaths. We had paddled hard all evening, but we set up camp and cooked our spaghetti dinner before sundown so we could savor the coming twilight in that amazing place. Everything once again seemed exactly right: two old rotting tables provided flat cooking surfaces; Howard licked the dishes and pans clean (so we had only to de-spittle them after his initial cleansing); Andrew and I found a tent site with a view of our next day’s paddle and had everything in order before nightfall.

When the sky opened up again at sunset, Dave wasn’t as lucky — he hadn’t set up for the night quite yet, and his gear was soaked in the downpour while he scrambled to take down his hammock and put up his tent. We sympathized with his predicament, but we were sleepy and happy in our dry little dome of warmth, staring up through the clear patch in the rainfly until the storm ended.

Day Four:

I was nervous in the morning. Dave was up early, hanging his wet clothes and bedding in the sun to dry. I heard him rustling about for at least an hour before I eased out of my comfy mummy bag. As I stretched and wandered across the camp towards the water, my aching trapezius muscles reminded my preoccupied brain of how much work the long day ahead of us would entail. I chuckled at Dave’s maze of clothes lines and took in the glare off the river from a sun-baked rock. Everything was wet, and the day hadn’t heated up yet, but the morning air was shimmering and yellow.

Howard pranced around like he owned the place, Dave noticed me and grinned his famous grin, and we made coffee to kick-start our systems. I dumped an entire hot cocoa packet in my cup, anticipating the sugar-high that would accompany my caffeine fix. I needed the energy, but my nerves certainly didn’t need jangling — the day’s course included most of the rapids that we would encounter on our little journey. I had gathered as much experience over the summer as anyone could, yet of the three paddlers on this trip, I was still the closest to “novice.” Even Howard had probably logged more lifetime hours on the water than I had, and whitewater was almost entirely alien to me.

After we hit the river for our second day of paddling, anxiety couldn’t prevent the surrounding cliffs and islands from lulling me back into jaw-dropped bliss. Andrew had his nose buried in the map all morning, so there was little conversation in our craft. I was jerked back into reality when he instructed me to help him turn the boat entirely around. Not that I was surprised — the French River is characterized by a mess of dead-end channels, circular detours, general “wrong ways,” and unmapped islands – enough confusing terrain that getting only a little lost means you’ve done some impressive navigating…

How lost is a “little lost?” Will they brave the rapids or hit the portage trail? In Part 2, Elizabeth and crew charge down the French River and face what challenges the waters of Georgian Bay have to offer.

• French River Adventure II

The river was running a bit lower that what would be ideal in the boat we were paddling. We picked our way through several quick moving rock gardens. In the flat sections the attributes of a faster paddling craft made themselves known. We were able to steer clear of all but the most wayward rafters, make our way down the river to the best section of rapids that we would run.

We got started right after the footbridge at the beginning of Boy Scout Rapids. The river speeds up and makes a beautiful S-curve through some dicey Class II wave trains. Then we started to the finale which was Hansons Rapids, where we got a glimpse at what makes the Wolf River known as one of the Midwest’s finest white water river.

The next day we got up and made our way up to the the Peshtigo River. This would be the first time on the river for both of us. We put in at the public landing and had a short section of flat water and then started in on a long rock garden, that would have been more fun with a little more water.

Next we came to the first of five drops. We got out to scout and made the decision to portage. The river pushed on to the next drop which we used the time honored method of scouting known as kneeling up straight and pronouncing that it looked good right down the middle. We quickly found out that when a canoe is full of water it does not want to deftly steer around large boulders as much as one might like. It does do a good job of raising one’s adrenaline to the same levels as a roller coaster without the peace of mind that if wasn’t safe, they wouldn’t let you ride the thing.

After the next drop is a rapid called Horse Race Rapids it does live up to it’s name, this rapids happens very fast there really is no place to scout so either hold on to your paddle and keep it the water, an air brace here and you might be taking a trip to the washing machine.

After this we were treated to a long stretch of Class II wave trains. With a few more inches of water in the river the Pesh would be awesome from start to finish. On the way home we reveled in the thought that after two days of whitewater, we had not taken an unplanned swim. Yeee Hawww!

The drive to northern Minnesota is worth every minute. The more you drive the more you forget about work and phone calls, kids, neighbors, and mowing the lawn. For me Duluth is the big mile marker that means I can relax. As soon as I pass Duluth I know that I’ve made it. I’m in the Northwoods and nothing can dampen my excitement for the trip to come. Duluth itself can be a great destination, but it’s really just the entry to the best part of my trip. From there you’re close, real close to slipping your canoe into the lake and setting out. You can feel, it smell it. It finally becomes real.

The drive up the coast of Lake Superior is one I never tire of. The lake astounds me in its ability to change. Its character is always different: glassy and smooth, rough and angry, calm and inviting. Bright sunshine, hazy fog, or rumbling storms. It changes from day to day and trip to trip. The road dips in and out. Trees whir by and then the lake appears again. Houses and cottages dot the shore as you slow down for the small towns that break up the trip. The towns click by, as do the miles, until you reach the Gunflint Trail—Two Harbors, Beaver Bay, Tofte and Lutsen. Then Grand Marais is just around the corner. Through the tunnel, down the hill, you’re almost there. I love Grand Marais. It holds good memories and the knowledge that many more memories will be created there. Sven and Ole’s, the Superior Trading Post, and the Ben Franklin store all make Grand Marais feel like home. The giant boulders of the brake-water shelter the bay and provide a great place to sit and watch the greatest of the lakes.

For me, Grand Marais is a required stop on the way into the BWCA. I wouldn’t begin to tell anyone else what their trip should include or how it should be done. But this article will be a lot shorter if I don’t take some time and tell the way I like to take my trips. I’m not saying that I’m right or wrong—this is just the way I do it. Like I said, Grand Marais is a stop that must be made. On the way in or the way out, or maybe both. For me a big part of the trip is the drive and the stops along the way—not just the destination. I know plenty of people who push hard and drive straight through in order to get into the park that much earlier or stay that much longer. That’s fine, but stopping for lunch along the shore of Lake Superior is worth the few minutes it takes. A comfortable bed to sleep in and a hearty breakfast before heading into the backcountry is a nice treat. The hot shower or sauna at the outfitter softens the physical reminders of a week sleeping on a rock. The cold beer and thick juicy hamburger are a welcome sight before the drive back to the “real world.” To me, this is all part of the trip. It just wouldn’t be the same without these moments and experiences.

I have accumulated all the gear I need to outfit myself and my friends, on almost any trip we would want to take (It helps to work in a paddlesport shop!), yet I always go through an outfitter for my trips. Why? A few reasons. I like my shower and shave when I come out of the wilderness. I also like knowing that someone is watching my car and knows if I don’t come back. An outfitter will do all these things. Using an outfitter doesn’t have to mean getting the full package through them, it can be whatever level of support you need. Speaking of gear, I have strong opinions and a wealth of knowledge on canoe gear. But here again, I’ll qualify my statements by saying that they are just my opinion and you can take ‘em or leave ‘em.

Well, you’ve parked your car and laid out all of your gear, hopefully already in portage packs. (I really like Granite Gear portage packs for their build, design and durability. A lot of people favor the old fashion packs, like those from Frost River. It really comes down to personal preference.) Your trip is almost at hand. The lake is stretching out before you and small waves lap at the shore. The canoes are creaking against the granite sand as they shift back and forth, ready to leave with or without you. You slip the packs into the canoes, carefully arranged and balanced for the best performance or the easiest access to snacks. Your paddles come out of their bags (yes, I would definitely recommend using a paddle bag). You slip your life jacket on, as do the others in your party. You’re almost ready.

A last final check, you pull the car keys out of your pocket and hand them to the kid who works for the outfitter—maybe your watch should stay behind as well. You climb back to the stern position in the boat. Your partner shoves off and jumps in at the last moment. There is that brief moment of queasiness until you remember that you’ve done this hundred times before and you’re not going to tip over. Slowly you paddle backwards to clear the landing. You keep an eye on the other canoe to be sure they make it away from shore. 20 feet, 100 feet, 100 yards, slowly the landing shrinks away and you’ve turned your canoe toward the imaginary line that is the entrance to the Boundary Waters. You watch for the tree that marks its crossing. The swift motion of the canoe cuts through the water effortlessly. Your paddle dips in and out of the water, again and again. (Again and again and again. A lightweight, comfortable paddle is the most important piece of gear you can own. The canoes you’ll borrow will be fine, the tents will keep you dry, and the packs will carry just fine. But if you spend a week with a bad paddle, you’ll regret it.) You get more comfortable and more at peace. The heat of the sun is burning off the last of the morning fog.

Six hours later, you’ve crossed three lakes and two portages. Your last portage of the day lies before you. Just over a hundred rods and you’ll be onto the lake you’ll call home for the evening. Two trips later and you’re across, ready to go again. You look out across the lake and see the tents of one group. Thankfully, not on the campsite you were hoping for. A quick paddle across the lake and you pull up to what you think is the best campsite on earth (at least for a night or two).

Reaching the first campsite is always a great moment. There are no phone messages to come home to, no TV to watch. All that surrounds you is the great outdoors. The hard granite rock that juts out into the lake will serve as your kitchen, boat landing, sunning rock and inspirational point. The tent goes up slowly and someone sets up a clothesline. Wet boots come off, to be replaced by sandals that have been begging to be put on all day. Slowly the camp comes together. Two little tents occupy the spots that have been deemed worthy. The fire is going and the bear rope is even being discussed. Camp life takes on its own pace. Un-hurried and comfortable, yet everything gets done. The more experienced campers let the “newbies” know what to do. It all happens and no one is tense. The call of a loon breaks through the sounds of camp. This just doesn’t happen in the city.

Six days later, you’ve set-up and broken down camp at three different sites. You’ve covered twelve lakes and done enough portaging. Some days were for travel others were for simply relaxing. These were spent visiting the neighboring waterfalls, searching for moose, and reading a book, sprawled out on the rocks, just like the turtle you spent an hour watching. The paddle back to the outfitter is solemn. You look forward to getting home, but you are also hesitant to leave. There’s always next year.

I love the Boundary Waters. I love the lakes and trees. I love the loons and the occasional moose sightings. I love hanging the bear bag and taking it down the next morning. I love setting up camp and moving it a day later. I love the planning that happens in January and the set-up of gear that happens in the backyard before the trip. There isn’t anything about a trip to the Boundary Waters that I would change. Well, maybe the bugs…but that’s why I go in September.