Willow Sieve Chronicles-Eavesdropping from the Wilderness

By Blaine Greer

Universally generations have been captivated by Mississippi River Legends and mystique, however no one can truly know the great river unless they clutch a paddle for 2,300 miles or read "Willow Sieve Chronicles". One can read Twain and everything written since or perhaps take an expensive excursion on Delta Queen, however, one will never come to know the sight, sound, smell, taste and touch of the "Mighty Muddy" unless they climb aboard the battered, borrowed, open aluminum canoe christened Will

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781633380639

Book preview

Cape Girardeau, Missouri

Sunday, September 15, 1991

Why? Lord only knows why I come up with such whacky ideas. It wasn’t due to anything I read or anyone said. There was no inspiration. This was not a lifelong dream or anything I ever thought about before that very day.

It must have been a delayed response to a Busch beer or Coors Light commercial, one of those fresh air and open country ads featuring active, beautiful people, designed to make one feel younger and burden free, or at least want to be.

I evidently succumbed to the stimulus and swallowed the bait hook, line, and sinker because after receiving the subliminal message, I was standing in front of the refrigerator popping the tab on a can of beer too early in the day, as I was habitually doing after my life turned south. The impulse struck me like a bolt out of the blue before I had a chance to resume mindless pencil tapping at my desk.

St. Croix River Headwaters

Wednesday, September 18, 1991

I was standing belly deep in a wild rice bog with my shivering pet, Shocker, balanced on my shoulders. I was desperately holding on to the tether line that was attached to my canoe while we were being blasted by an early Arctic nor’wester that hurled the borrowed canoe off the river and was pounding us with sleet. I was embroiled in a life-or-death struggle for survival within seventy hours of my initial impulse.

I had been passionately warned of the perils we would encounter, yet only then could I grasp the reality of my misconceived escape to the river. Unfortunately, it was too late to turn back. I was fighting for my life and losing the battle. I was only left with a choice of executioners while awaiting my demise. Should I fight back and face probable drowning or await a slow agonizing death due to exposure in the frigid water?

Although I have never pinpointed exactly why I attempted such a foolhardy adventure, looking back the only certainty was the harebrained getaway scheme sent me on to the river while propelling me headlong into destiny. The most significant emotional event to that point in my life occurred while awaiting a lonely death in a wild rice paddy off of the St. Croix River, and that was only the beginning.

Prologue/Background

By the end of summer in 1991, I had become an unemployed, prematurely aging forty-six year-old obsessive workaholic whose life had gone south on the heels of a business failure that ended with a Chapter 7 bankruptcy filing in May of the same year. I had earned two master’s degrees, a doctorate, then going on to complete an exemplary career as a professional educator/administrator, but I reached a dead end. I was accustomed to schools recruiting me in the past only to face a very different reality that a middle-aged has-been was no longer in demand. I was forced to accept the fact that my life was going nowhere after three months of half-heartedly mailing resumes, expecting my future to find me. Then while waiting for the next opportunity to come knocking on my door, I finally got it. I had never taken charge of my life in order to make things happen for myself because I always played with the cards that someone else dealt to me. I was trapped, terribly claustrophobic, and suffocating. I had to break out.

My downward spiral began when I made a conscious decision to leave the security of a tenured administrative position in a community where I was respected in order to accept a tenuous position as a department chairman at my undergraduate alma mater. I was well aware that the job had been nothing more than a hot potato, yet I eagerly jumped at the challenge in spite of the 40 percent salary reduction. I was fearless then. I had youth, ability, and a real purpose. And, I was further blessed with St. Deborah the Long Suffering, more commonly known as Mrs. Greer for the previous twenty-two years.

As any other fool would have predicted, the university experience proved to be my worst nightmare within a few short months. I had traded my messiah complex for a missionary position and living with the results of that poor choice. Fortunately, I had begun purchasing and developing rental real estate strictly as an avocation at the onset, then a fallback for my family’s security until my hobby eventually became a full-time job. My little business on the side expanded so rapidly that I was unable to devote adequate time to my graduate teaching so I took an early retirement, without a pension in order to devote all of my time and energy to my profitable rental housing enterprise.

My little empire grew like Topsy for five great years until recession and bank failures led to rapidly rising interest rates. In the beginning, I was making more money than I had time to spend or give away, then all too quickly I found myself working 24-7 to keep banks afloat. As the general economy steadily slipped, I began to read the writing on the wall. I was running on a treadmill for naught. I was also falling back into a cyclical state of boredom with routine when I turned all of my keys over to the banks as well as forfeiting nearly two and a half million in equities. I then folded my business and zeroed out by way of an involuntary Chapter 7.

Although greatly relieved to have the burden lifted from my shoulders initially, my newfound freedom soon resulted in my having too much time on my hands, which eventually led to severe depression. I found myself without an occupation or interests. My self-confidence and self-esteem were being replaced by fear of failure and a complete absence of direction or meaning. I had become inconsolable as my emotions ebbed. My existence was dominated by dark thoughts although I never succumbed to suicidal considerations.

Well-intended friends suggested writing a book since I had so much free time, and I sincerely considered taking the advice until I realized that I did not know anything beyond schooling and business; however, those were subjects that I was trying to forget rather than devote my time to writing about them or wallowing in my checkered past. Conversely, fiction was not my cup of tea because I had always been a concrete learner and a hands-on experiential type of person. As a direct result, the thought of writing merely compounded my sense of despair. I was terribly lost within myself.

I had always enjoyed writing and traveling, yet as low as I had fallen, I did not have the money or the gall to leave my wife and teenage daughter with the results of my personal failures while going off searching for writing material in hopes of rediscovering myself along the way. And so it was during one of my worst depression sieges as I was struggling to recover the meaning of life that I concocted a scheme to get away for a while in order to get it together and possibly coming up with something to write about.

Then, midmorning September 15, 1991, I impetuously came up with the idea that I was going to canoe the length of the Mississippi River, take my English springer spaniel, Shocker, along for companionship, and we were leaving right away. That was my initial impulse and the silly idea became my obsession; the result was Willow Sieve Saga.

Day 3

(Sunday, September 15, 1991)

St. Deborah the Long Suffering Learns

about My Whacky Idea

The die was cast the instant I was struck by the ridiculous notion. As a result, I was able to immediately visualize my triumphant landing somewhere in the delta beyond New Orleans. I was so full of myself that I excitedly rushed to the kitchen to lay my hare-brained scheme on Deb.

Deb, I have just come up with my best idea, ever.

What is it this time? she replied.

Her eyes were rolling back in her head before focusing on me with an all-too familiar pained, knowing expression because she had previously endured the results of my impetuosity numerous times even before the career move that carried us from a secure administrator’s family to business owners and eventual bankruptcy.

Tell me now. I can hardly wait to hear this one.

I’m going to canoe the length of the Mississippi!

I must have caught her off guard because she sputtered. What? Surely you’re kidding, aren’t you?

No. I’m dead serious.

"Blaine. That’s crazy. If you feel like you need some time alone take Shocker for a ride or go fishing.?

I took part of her suggestion by seizing the moment then running with it.

C’mon, Deb. You always worry too much. Shock and I are going to canoe the river together, then I’m going to write a book about our experiences.

No. You are not taking our baby. Please, Blaine. This is crazy. Think about it.

Aw, Deb, relax. He’ll be fine. Besides, he will not only be great company, think of the storyline: man and man’s best friend canoeing the Mighty Mississippi.

Why won’t you please stop and think about this for a minute. Why can’t you come up with something more sensible and realistic to write about?

Like what? Schools, apartments, how to fail in business by really tying? Deb, I have never undertaken anything in life that was my own idea. I can’t…no, I won’t go back there again.

You’ll have a heart attack or drown. It’s too dangerous.

Believe me. I won’t kill myself. Besides, you and Annie would be better off if I did. Nothing could be any worse than more of me sitting around feeling sorry for myself, drinking too much, sitting around waiting for someone to decide what I should do and where I should go next. I am tired of waiting for life to come to me. Can’t you understand that I have never made anything happen in my life, never created a situation? I have always waited for someone to tell me where to go and what path to follow.

Stop talking like that. She was trying to switch from passion to reason. You no longer have a canoe and you haven’t been in one for more than twenty years.

Gosh. Has it really been that long? Her comment sent my mind wandering. She carried me back to days of youth long before Annie was born, back to the early years and happier times when we made day trips paddling on the Brule or St. Croix. The northwoods were beckoning once again. I loved outdoor escapes when we were living and teaching in extreme Northern Wisconsin, before career ladder climbing began taking all of my time, driving and controlling our lives.

You have given me another idea. I will stop in Webster on the way up. That will give me a chance to visit Jack, and I will call Irv Pardun or one of the other canoe outfitters in the area. Canoe season has already passed. I’ll bet that I will be able to buy a used canoe for small change.

Although I had not learned the difference between J stroke and heat stroke, I had all of the answers.

Canoeing is just like riding a bicycle. Once in the water, I will pick up where I left off.

One thing led to another as I listened to myself thinking.

I’ll put in on the St. Croix near Solon Springs, that way I will not only be able to start on familiar waters, the drive to the starting point will be reduced considerably, and the river distance is about the same. That way I won’t have to figure out a way to get around the Falls of St. Anthony or Minnehaha Falls in the middle of the Twin Cities.

Deb, on the other hand, kept throwing-out a litany of obstacles that I was failing to consider.

"Blaine, you have never camped in your life. What are you going to use for equipment? We surely can’t afford to buy a canoe and camping equipment just so you can run away from your responsibilities."

She definitely struck a nerve, but only managed to fuel the fire.

I won’t need camping equipment. I’ll take Annie’s old sleeping bag that she will never use. I still have long underwear and work clothes, won’t need much more. I’ll carry cheap food to start out then stop to buy more in towns along the way.

My reasonable spouse, however, adamantly interrupted once more. You just don’t know what you are getting yourself into.

"Why do you always look at the downside? I am getting tired of hearing why I shouldn’t do this or couldn’t do that. C’mon, Deb, you are a history teacher. If pioneers and explorers looked at things the same way you do, we all would still be crammed along the Atlantic

coasts."

I was laying it on thick by that time.

Pioneers never understood what they were getting into either. For one reason or another, they were looking for freedom and space to live. They forged into the great unknown unprepared for what they encountered. They set out with dreams and what few worldly possessions they had. The ones that were reasonably skilled and intelligent survived. Those who survived found new and better lives. If pioneers and explorers survived centuries ago, a PhD should be able to think his way past any adversity that arises. After all, humans have invented radios and helicopters since then, in the unlikely event that one of us is injured or we become stranded.

My spouse was becoming teary-eyed as she persisted in futile attempts to dissuade me. Pioneers never had to deal with barges. What about the dams? How are you going to get through the locks? She was catching me off guard with those questions, but I kept responding quickly while silently mulling over a growing list of potential dilemmas that I previously failed to consider.

I will just portage or beg someone to haul our canoe and supplies around the dams. I will do exactly what the voyageurs did when they encountered waterfalls and impassable rapids. Need I remind you that trucks are used to transport heavy loads these days. It’s a big river. Barges shouldn’t pose a threat either. I’ll just hang along the shoreline and stay out of their way. Now, can you think of anymore silly questions or reasons why you don’t want me to go?

I was winning the battle, or at least refusing to settle for a loss or a tie. My mind was already set when she fired another volley across my bow.

So how are you planning to get to your starting point? If you think that I am going to drive you up there, you really have another think coming.

No problem at all. Jack Neurer or anyone of our Webster/Danbury friends will drop us off by the river then park the truck at their house. After Shock and I finish, we can all drive up during Thanksgiving or Christmas break to shuttle the truck back home.

I had intentionally delayed telling her that I was planning to depart ASAP.

What! Have you completely lost your mind? Then a rare emotional outburst for Deb. Blaine, why do you have to be like this? Why are you so impulsive? Why can’t you sit down and relax, read a book, please? I beg you, please, take some time to really think about this, then if you are still determined to go, I will take you up there myself next spring. Please don’t do this, not now!

She was sobbing by that time.

It will be too cold, you will freeze, you will capsize and drown. I know that something awful is going to happen if you go through with this ridiculous idea. My wife knew full well that there was no way of rationally dealing with irrational behavior. She was also quite aware that no person or thing would stop me once I set my head to do something. One might alter my course, but nothing could hold me back. She finally threw up her arms in disgust. All right, go. Just don’t expect me to be here waiting for you if and when you return.

With that she stormed out of the house and drove away. I fretted over the argument for a while because I hated myself for hurting her. I knew that she was right and I was usually in the wrong. However, the very thought of spending one more miserable day moping around the house swept over me once again. I could not turn back the pages of time any more than I could countenance a future of reliving my past.

There was no legitimate excuse for my despicable behavior that day. I later confessed to acting selfishly and being pathologically weak. Nonetheless, I had never been void of a conscience. In my defense I could only offer the feeble explanation that in my fragile, immature state of mind, I was firmly convinced that I was doing the right thing for my family. At that moment, I truly believed that I would successfully complete the journey and subsequently profitably publish a book about the expedition.

One thing was for certain. I knew that I would be unable to deal with rejection if I attempted to make a comeback as a professional educator because I was unable to fathom how to explain away my six-year hiatus into failure. By the same token, the very thought of going back into business was more than I could bear. Suicide did not come to mind, probably due to my fear of death as much as any other reason, and yet I would rather curl up and die than face another day of wallowing in self-pity. I was already dying, or soon would be dead anyway. I was killing myself slowly as it was.

Then, with Debby’s words still ringing in my ears, I drifted off as if someone was calling my name from a distance, and that person’s voice sounded like my own. The voice was beckoning me from afar in a quiet, peaceful place. I visualized myself paddling down a flowing stream with Shocker poised on the bow of an open canoe. The man astern, with a paddle in his hands, looked younger, happier, and the image was exciting to behold. After recovering from the swoon, I was actually looking forward to the next day for the first time in memory. Shocker and I were going to canoe the Mississippi River, and we were leaving as soon as I could throw a few things together.

It was Sunday and all the stores were closed by that time so I began to review the litany of perils Deb cited during our heated dialogue earlier in the day. However, within the time taken to physically write each one of them, I had rationalized a solution or dismissed the concerns out of hand. In other words, my mind was already made up. I was committed.

Cold weather was nothing more than a minor concern because autumn was normally the mildest season. I was looking forward to bright fall colors, balmy days, and comfortably cool nights. There would be fewer campers and boaters to contend with because school’s back in session. Snakes never frightened me, and there would be no mosquitos or other insect pests after the first frost. I was also firmly convinced that if I waited until March or April as Deb suggested, during spring thaw the river would be swollen as well as being covered with logs and floating debris. In other words, the time was right. I had to seize the moment by making a speedy departure in order to take advantage of the favorable conditions.

I privately held some doubts whether an inexperienced, forty-six-year-old chain-smoker with high blood pressure who only stood five nine and weighed 165 would be able to endure the extreme exertion. However, I managed to suppress that concern with the notion that I would float with the current and enjoy the scenery when fatigued. Complicated portages with a canoe, dog, a couple hundred pounds of supplies worried me as well. Nevertheless, I truly believed that I would be able to find someone willing to help, if needed.

In truth, I shared most of Deb’s concerns, in addition to many more that were not mentioned, such as my dread of unknown rapids and inhospitable conditions that we were sure to encounter. There were many reasons for anxiety, but I never disclosed any of them after I had painted myself into a corner.

Day 2

(Monday, September 16, 1991)

Scrambling to Prepare for My Great Adventure

First thing in the morning, I dialed my cousin and dearest friend ever, Travis, to ask if he would ride along during the nine-hundred-mile drive to the point of embarkation, then return with my truck for safekeeping until our return. Travis, in addition to being my soulmate, was quite probably the only person on earth more given to impulse than me. As expected, he jumped at the opportunity to be a part of my most exciting idea yet. However, he could only go on his day off from work, Wednesday (the eighteenth), then he would have to make an immediate turnaround in order to make it back to work by 8:00 a.m. Thursday. Thus, Travis’s work schedule became the sole determinant of our departure date, which only left thirty hours to prepare for my great adventure.

St. Deborah the Long Suffering cooled off considerably since our argument the previous afternoon and when I revealed the departure plan, she pragmatically responded without emotion:

Annie and I have to run out to Wal-Mart. Make a list of what you need, might as well save you the trip since we planned to go shopping anyway.

She earned her nickname long before that occasion, although I had never come up with anything quite as absurd previously. I had become accustomed to Deb cautioning and worrying, yet she never forbade anything that I thought needed to be done. At the end of the day, she always came around then selflessly supported whatever I attempted. She was my enabler, and true to her saintly manner, she fretfully joined my eleventh-hour preparations for my most impetuous brainchild of all.

However, my voice of conscience and reason spoke once more before departing. I will help you, but only if you promise to call your mother before you leave. You have to explain this one to her. I can’t.

Shamefully, I failed to keep that promise because I did not want my mother or anyone else to know where I was going or what I was doing, including our daughter. All because I was beginning to seriously doubt that I would successfully complete the trip, and I feared another embarrassing failure more than any danger.

Weakness allowed me to justify the trip because in truth all I was seeking was an excuse to escape reality, and fear of failure became my driving force. I committed myself to tackling the challenge alone and without attention. It had to be a private experience. That was my mindset as I was about to set out on the adventure of a lifetime without money or equipment, without publicity or sponsors, and entirely void of sufficient knowledge or experience related to what I was about to encounter. I did not have the slightest clue.

All of my preparations, such as they were, were conducted within thirty hours of departure, although I did not have a plan per se, only dimly conceived notions. I rummaged through the house for clothing and then around town to beg or borrow what I thought I might need for a long distance canoe trek within a mere matter of hours after making the momentous decision.

While trying to develop some sort of timetable by extrapolating distances off of road maps, I thought of calling the Corps of Engineers (USACE), which led to discovering that there were navigation charts for the entire river that were available for viewing or copying. I paid a visit to the Corps of Engineers office downtown where I met the Corps’ office superintendent, William Bush, who was polite, if understandably skeptical.

What can I do about locks was my first question.

I have never been stationed north of here, and there are no dams on the Lower Mississippi. Honestly, I am not up to date on the regulations for pleasure boat lockage. He followed that discouraging statement, however, by calling the St. Louis headquarters for the Upper Mississippi. Positive results that time. They said pleasure boaters simply have to pull the signal chains at the end of the wing walls [whatever those were] in order to request lockage.

My portage dilemma was eliminated and my next question was related to current speed, which I assumed to be the pivotal factor for the calculations needed to develop a timetable. Bush responded, Six to eight miles per hour on the upper river except in the pools above dams. Downstream from here, the current can be as high as thirteen miles per hour, depending on river stages.

At those rates, I thought I should easily be able to cover as many as sixty miles per day, just one of numerous miscalculations, and there would be many more yet to come.

Bush, then brought out the navigation manuals that were sold for a nominal fee at St. Louis headquarters, which was no help at all because we were leaving the next day. And, to further muddy the water, the charts were much larger and more complicated than expected. The manual of the Upper Mississippi alone was 340 pages, which was far more than I had time to digest or copy. I was crestfallen as I thanked Mr. Bush then exited the Corps office.

I just happened to drive by the public library on the way back home and on a whim decided to inquire if they by any chance had navigation charts. Took a while for me explain what I was looking for, but one of the clerks emerged from the reference storeroom with a 1958 manual of charts for the Upper Mississippi. Though the 1958 manual consisted of far fewer pages, it would still be of little use, if I had to make expensive copies. As a last resort, I asked if I could check out the manual for an indefinite period of time. Fortunately, after some discussion, the head librarian agreed to allow an exception, which I assumed was primarily due to the fact no one had requested the manuals during all the years since publication rather than consideration that Deb was a library board member.

Everything seemed to be falling in place when I bounded out of the library twenty-four hours before departure with a manual of charts printed on water resistant oil cloth. I made a second call to Superintendent Bush as soon as I reached the house, and he stated that there had been few changes to the navigation system over the previous thirty-five years, which meant that the ’58 charts were still good.

As soon as I placed the telephone receiver back on its hook, someone was knocking on our back door. Terry Meyer, who had been my HVAC contractor for the apartment buildings, stopped by to say hello while he was in the neighborhood. As soon as I let the cat out of the bag regarding my escape/adventure plan, Terry was insisting that I use his eighteen-foot Grumman canoe rather than buying one in Wisconsin. I gratefully declined at first, primarily due to concern that I might be unable to return it.

Ain’t worth frettn’ over. Never use it. ’Sides, I ken brag that my ole canoe’s been down the whole Mississippi, even if I kent!

He then telephoned his wife, Bev, to let her know that I would be coming out to their farm to pick up the canoe. Later that afternoon, the day before departure, I returned with a canoe, two life preservers, a floating cushion, and a paddle. I was quite proud of myself for becoming what I thought was well enough equipped for the expedition, without spending a dime. The only expenses yet to be incurred were food and a few other items that would have been purchased whether I was sitting in my office brooding or setting off on the adventure of a lifetime in order to make things happen for myself.

That afternoon and evening, I engaged myself by making out a grocery list and running to the market, then I spent the rest of the evening organizing and packing. I delayed loading my truck until the morning of departure (the next day). I devised what I regarded as creative compartmentalization of food and gear by sealing clothing, dry dog food, rice, and pastas in Ziploc bags. Flashlight, radio, camera, and extra batteries were similarly packaged, and I doubly sealed the sleeping bag and bedding in heavy duty leaf bags. Canned goods and other nonperishables were placed in two plastic milk crates that I found in the basement.

Once all the packing had been more or less completed, I carried everything out to the garage where I laid the canoe, cavity up, beside my truck. I then loaded and unloaded repeatedly, each time redistributing the contents in order to achieve optimal weight distribution and ease of access. I worked past midnight before unsuccessfully attempting sleep.

Day 1

(Tuesday, September 17, 1991)

Day of Departure and Overnight Drive to Northern Wisconsin

Though I might have dozed, I never slept. I was up before dawn guzzling coffee, which brought a reminder that I had not packed instant coffee; off to the nearest convenience store. I scurried around the house and garage looking for anything that I might have overlooked until sunrise, at which time I transferred all the gear to the bed of my Toyota pickup. Once all the gear and supplies were loaded, I lifted the canoe on to the cab of the truck before discovering that I failed to consider that I needed top carriers. It was too late to go shopping, so I placed strips of cardboard between the gunnels of the canoe and the metal surface of the cab roof in hopes of preventing damage.

All preparations were complete and I could not think of anymore busy work to occupy myself, so I stretched out on the couch to rest because I had not managed anything faintly similar to sleep over the previous two nights (Sunday and Monday), and I was facing a sixteen-hour overnight drive to our point of embarkation on the St. Croix River. Resting, however, proved to be an exercise in futility because I was on a caffeine-induced adrenaline buzz, although there would be no chance of closing my eyes until the end of our first day on the river—tomorrow!

I anxiously wiled away the remaining time by compulsively scanning lists, reviewing maps and the calendar, or simply drumming my fingers on the desktop. I checked and double-checked knots that secured the canoe on the cab top, then mindlessly began adding odds and ends during the last thirty minutes before it was time to hit the road.

Then after Shocker was already in the cab, excitedly telling me to get moving, Terry rolled up beside my truck. He stopped by to give us a sendoff. In my typical rush to get about doing what I intended, I was anxious to leave and in no mood for small talk. However, Terry was my primary benefactor, so I tried not to behave ungraciously. During our brief chat, Terry, patted the side of his dented canoe.

’Iss ole tub leaks a bit, but she’ll still float.

In other words, the canoe was lashed down, and I was ready to leave before learning that I would be forced to bail, in addition to all other worries facing me. That was extremely disconcerting, but it was too late to unload. I was committed and there would be no turning back, I would simply have to deal with it. I reboarded Shocker, waved good-bye, and we were off at 2:30 p.m. I headed off toward the great unknown with a two-year-old black and white springer spaniel in a red ’86 Toyota pickup, truck bed piled with gear and supplies, and a leaking, borrowed canoe tied on top.

My state of preparedness was best described by the inventory of contents piled in the truck bed:

#1 – CLOTHING – four sets of underwear briefs, three sets of long johns, three pairs of jeans, three sweat shirts, heavy denim jacket, ten pairs of white socks, three pairs of Bermuda shorts, and a bathing suit

#2 – TOILET KIT – Ziploc bag full of medication; soap, razor and blades, mirror, toothpaste and brush, two towels and two wash clothes

#3 – BEDDING – three Hefty bags; one filled with a three-inch thick foam rubber sleeping pad, sleeping bag in the second; wool blanket, comforter, and two single sheets stuffed into the third

#4 – FOOD – six individual Ziplocs each packed with a two-day portion of Gravy Train; can of moist dog food and two dog biscuits; a six-day supply of canned meals for myself (chili, chicken & dumplings, tuna, Spam and two cans of soup), jar of peanut butter; boxes of soda crackers and grahams, pickles, mustard and one bag each of granola, potato chips and popcorn; instant coffee

#5 – CAMPING EQUIPMENT – iron skillet, three aluminum pans, thermos, two insulated plastic cups, fillet knife, spoon, fork, meat fork, spatula, grate for a grill, bag of charcoal and lighter, knife sharpener, can opener, bag of napkins, cutting board, and flashlight

#6 – WRITING SUPPLIES and COMFORTS – notebooks, paper, pencils, postage stamps, postcards, envelopes, navigation manual, briefcase, digital clock, camera, headset radio and a list of addresses and phone numbers

#7 – IGLOO COOLER- six pack of Silver Bullets and six cans of Diet 7 Up on ice

#8 – ASSORTED LOOSE ITEMS – all items added at the last minute that were not packed in bags, the cooler or milk crates included: two life preservers, chest waders, pair of knee-high rubber boots, paddle, two fishing rods with reels, plastic tackle box, long piece of rope, small nylon bag of tools (hatchet, scissors, pliers, and two screwdrivers), Shocker’s choker & leash, folding chair/lounger thrown on seconds prior to departure

Packed and prepared as well as I could be, I drove onto the rickety old Mississippi River Bridge. While crossing, I briefly glanced down at my rolling brown adversary. My attention, however, was divided between the pavement ahead and the river town that was receding from view behind the flood wall in the rearview mirror. I was thinking that it would be at least twenty days before we returned, though I had no clue what The Father of Waters held in store for us during the meantime.

I made one mandatory stop at Deb’s office in Anna to say good-bye, which was a difficult encounter for both of us. We left her standing teary-eyed once again as I drove off at 3:30 p.m. The second stop was in West Frankfort, Illinois, were Travis lived. My cousin only learned of the trip forty-eight hours prior to that moment, but in characteristic Travis fashion, he rolled into his drive, hopped out of his truck, and jumped into mine, still wearing his work uniform and badge.

We’re off, Travis said, with a huge, silly grin.

We made two more quick stops before leaving West Frankfort: one for Travis to buy peanuts and then to say good-bye to his wife, my cousin Glenda. That would be the last stop for several hours because we were both in a great rush. Travis had to make an immediate turnaround in order to make it back to work in less than forty hours. On the other hand, I was behaving characteristically.

The climactic conditions that afternoon had been highly unusual for the season, and the weather became a significant factor as the evening unfolded. It was sunny and very hot when we left Cape. The temperature reached the mid-nineties with stifling humidity. By the time I finished loading, my clothing was wringing wet and Shocker’s tongue must have been a foot long, he was panting so hard. Rain was forecast, however, there was no cloud in the sky until Shock and I were approaching West Frankfort. Then, within the time spent meeting Travis and making the two stops, dark clouds rolled in. It became extremely overcast within a matter of minutes and the sky opened up as soon as I turned on to I-57 North. I drove on through blinding, torrential rain.

Initially, Travis and I joked about members of our family and life in general as well as discussing my trip and what I planned once we reached Webster, Wisconsin. Two impulsive men heading toward the north woods and great unknown; crowded in the cab of a red Toyota pickup with a nervous springer spaniel; Hefty bags piled in the bed and a battered canoe tied on top.

Shocker slept off and on though he stirred occasionally to look me directly in the eyes as if asking, What is going on? Where are we going?

My pet was bewildered. Travis eventually nodded off and began snoring as the rain continued and the wind kept blowing harder. I also began noticing that the temperature was dropping. I was sweating due to the heat and humidity when we left, but the temperature was significantly lower at each stop. When we made a mandatory pit stop on the shoulder below Rockford, the rain seemed to be subsiding, but the wind was howling and it was uncomfortably chilly. The rain resumed before our last voluntary stop, and by then the wind was really blasting. It was c-c-c-cold.

I also began experiencing more difficulty steering the truck as the wind gusts steadily grew in strength. The bow of the canoe within my front view started waving side to side with the stern fishtailing in the glare of headlights from vehicles behind. Then south of Rice Lake, Wisconsin, the canoe was snapping back and forth wildly when a huge blast lifted the aluminum shell and threw it over the passenger side of the cab with the horrible screeching sound of metal scraping over the sheet metal roof. The wet tether lines slackened due to the rain, allowing the canoe to slide freely enough to slide over the side, though, fortunately, the rope did not snap completely. The body of my truck was badly scratched, but the canoe had not been carried away.

Righting the hollow aluminum wind-catcher, however, was an entirely different matter. Working together, Travis and I had an extremely difficult time returning the canoe to the top of the cab then resecuring the lines in the face of biting northerly blasts. It was a wonder that we were able manage without gloves or a flashlight. As it was, we made three trips into the heated cab to warm our numbed fingers before my vessel of destiny was lashed down sufficiently to drive ahead at a lower rate of speed. For a while it looked as if we might be unable to resecure the canoe. We discussed the possibility of waiting for daylight or for help to come along. However, there was no traffic on US 53 at that hour and we had little time to spare. We came very close to becoming stranded on the roadside, which would have forced me to scrap the trip before we even reached the river.

I was preoccupied during the crisis, then as soon as Travis dozed off again I was left alone with my thoughts. A sense of dread enveloped me as I conjured darker things. That situation would have been much worse without Travis, but in a few hours I would be on the river with Shocker in the same brutal conditions without help or a heated cab for shelter and no chance anyone would happen along. I suddenly became perplexed, frightened, and very lonely. Then, I wondered what was I getting myself into. I had placed myself in a perilous situation and yet male ego would not allow me to back down, which would have been the sensible thing to do under the circumstances.

We wheeled into Webster, Wisconsin, at the first gray light of dawn of a cold, damp, and gloomy wintery morning. Deb and I taught in the high school there during the early seventies and lived on our own eighty-acre plot in the woods north of town. I dropped Travis off at a café filled with coffee drinking locals, then headed out to drop in on my old friend, Jack Neurer, who was recovering from a recent heart attack. I was genuinely concerned about my friend, but I also needed time to regain composure and gather my thoughts. The canoe incident and harsh conditions seriously impacted me. I was most concerned that I had no gloves, coat, or any of the gear needed to survive the elements that I was about to encounter within the next hour or so. Jack left me with a prophetic warning.

BG, you need to be careful out there, yuno. Wind will be whipping your canoe around. Hey.

When I returned to the café, normally laidback Travis was unusually restive. He was cold and wanting to head home immediately. On the other hand, I wanted and desperately needed to stall for time or a miraculous break in the weather. Travis, however, would not settle for delay, so rather than going home with him as I probably should have, we headed farther north on Wis 35. Then while passing through Danbury, Wisconsin, I persuaded Travis to allow one last stop at Dudley’s Log Cabin, which was the last outpost we would pass. I hurriedly grabbed a cheap rainsuit, gloves, sock hat, and an eight-by-ten-foot tarpaulin. I changed into dry clothing and presumably waterproof outerwear in the restroom at the store, then we were off on the last stretch of highway toward Superior.

When we reached a landing beyond Big Island on the St. Croix, Travis jumped out and immediately started throwing gear to the edge of the river. Then as soon as everything was loaded in the canoe, he ducked into my truck, started up, and blew on his swollen red hands. He then rolled down the driver’s side window, looked at his watch, and shouted, It is 8:45.

He waved good-bye, rolled up the window, then sped away.

Day 1

(Wednesday, September 18, 1991)

On to the St. Croix River from

Big Island Landing

At a point when I still might have yielded to cold feet (literally and figuratively), Travis in his rush to get out of the cold and get back for work on time eliminated any chance I might have admitted to being in over my head and backing out at the very last minute. Instead, he left me standing beside the raging black water with Shocker and a dinged-up canoe heaped with trash bags full of supplies. Shock bounded on to the bow then I pushed the canoe into swift current before jumping on myself. The great adventure was begun. When? Where? How would the story end? I had no idea what I was in for.

The rain let up intermittently, although a swirling northwesterly wind was howling. Fuzzy, crystalline precipitation was soon blowing in our faces and yet there could be no turning back once we were on the water. I had no time for anxiety, fear, or thought of cold because I was locked in a struggle for survival the moment I boarded the canoe. In spite of the inclement conditions, my body and brain were fully engaged while I paddled. I gave myself a canoeist’s refresher course and reviewed the lessons. I was encouraged by discovering that canoeing was like bicycling after all, and the old Grumman was clipping along rapidly without difficulty. I gained inspiration from memories of youth and I was soon back in the groove, feeling twenty years younger.

We passed under Wis 35, our last vehicular crossing, earlier that morning, then flew along below the Minnesota border where wooded hills quaked with wildlife. I warmed myself through exhilaration and began feeling like a small boy playing pretend as we slipped by the Ojibwa settlement north of Danbury, which I had been told was the site of the village where the fictional Hiawatha lived. Longfellow’s Hiawatha was born to the Ojibwa tribe of the Chippewa Nation and the St. Croix valley had was once been their hunting ground. However, the river had become a national scenic waterway by 1991, and aboriginal people were reduced to ricers, poachers, alcoholics, and wards of the state.

The St. Croix River formed the face of the Indian in the Indian Head Region, as well as being the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin from the bridge of the Indian’s nose to its tip at the Mississippi confluence between Hastings, Minnesota, and Prescott, Wisconsin. Most of the scenic waterway was protected wilderness where the river wound through dense forests and rolled through numerous rapids.

Onward through cold black water, we slipped through wilderness and rocked over Interstate State Rapids as I imagined no white man had since the era of exploration. The river turned south below the rapids before we shot under the Wis 77/MN 44 Bridge. That simple sounding change in direction, however, proved to be a major game changer because after we emerged from the shelter of the bridge, we were suddenly exposed to a ferocious crosswind striking on the right (starboard) side of the canoe.

I had been making unbelievable progress until then, but immediately lost control of the canoe. I paddled for all I was worth to no avail as the canoe repeatedly careened left. My cooking grate was ripped off of the canoe by first contact with low hanging branches, and shortly thereafter we were blown completely off channel, through trees, and into a wild rice bog. I could not dislodge the canoe or bring the bow around no matter how I tried.

Eventually, I was forced to jump off with tether line in hand to prevent the canoe from being blown farther off stream by screaming wind. Shocker too immediately left the canoe and frantically dog-paddled to reach me for protection, then he clawed his way up to my shoulders. I was left standing belly-deep in icy water, surrounded by wild rice, with a terrified springer spaniel half on my shoulders and half on my head while desperately attempting to hold on to the canoe. The harsh reality seized me quickly, but there was nothing I could do beyond holding on for dear life.

Finally, with one Herculean effort, I somehow managed to drag the canoe onto a nearby raft of submerged black willows, which prevented the canoe from blowing away, then I waded with Shocker wrapped around my neck to higher ground. However, I soon discovered that the cold was more tolerable when I was partially submerged in water rather than fully exposed to lethal wind chill. Once again, I picked up the dog then carried him back to the canoe where I deposited him while holding on to the tether and trying to think.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! I shouted aloud to Shocker and myself because there were no humans within miles to hear the sound. I could only hear the screaming wind and my own echo, as Deb’s warnings all came back to me. Then my life full of bad decisions passed before my mind’s eye. I wanted a chance to quit and start over, but my sentence had been delivered and there was no way out.

STUPID! STUPID! STUPID!

Soon my extremities were numbing and I could no longer withstand the tingling pain. I was engulfed by fear and desperation as well as cold, when I wildly yanked the tether, pulled the bow around, and slogged back to the river. I was racing toward death in a suicidal frenzy, like a wounded deer running from its adversaries. Life versus death meant nothing to me if living was to be a prolonged, painful way of dying.

As soon as I reboarded the canoe, the wind hurled the bow around once again; however, that time I started paddling in reverse. That way I was able to paddle downstream, sitting backward similar to an oarsman, which meant the stern (rear of the canoe) was pointing downstream and the bow was wagging like a tail in the opposite direction of alternating paddle strokes. I was unaware if there was a correct term for the maneuver, so I dubbed it wind-vaning. Whatever the terminology should have been, the simple technique proved to be an effective way to keep the canoe moving downstream.

Later in the day, as the wind began to slacken, I was able to bring the bow around, enabling me to pay closer attention to the surroundings while the canoe glided through an unpopulated wilderness of flooded white birch, tamarack, yellow poplar, linden, and black willow. Folks back in Webster told me there had been record-setting rain recently. It supposedly rained every day since the first week of August. As a result, the banks and many islands were flooded by mid-September.

The river was so high that I began to worry about finding a dry place to camp for the night. I definitely did not want to end up sleeping on the canoe after an overnight drive without sleep and an exhausting day on the river. I imagined floating with the current a greater part of the time when I first came up with my big idea. However, real canoe trekking required considerably greater effort. I spent the entire day either paddling constantly or frequently pulling the loaded canoe through submerged brush without pause. Nothing seemed to be going according to my plan, leaving room for me to doubt that it ever would.

There was very little geologic relief along that part of the Upper St. Croix to be seen from river level. The landscape was not spectacular by any stretch of the imagination, primarily vast marshlands such as Crex Meadows National Wildlife Sanctuary on the Wisconsin side or low-lying dense forests of white birch sprinkled within a sea of evergreens. However, what the St. Croix might have lacked in splendor compared to the Tetons, Yellowstone, or Glacier-Waterton was more than made up by pristine serenity. The multisensory input that I was receiving was more intense than visual stimulation of purely scenic panorama.

I was having a rough first day out, however, the wildlife wonderland we encountered during the waning hours of the afternoon surpassed any game park or safari tour. The wind that caused so much difficulty previously had also been denying enjoyment of the sights, sounds, and scents of the wilderness. In addition to natural sounds, I was also taken by the comforting, staccato cadence of continuous paddle strokes: sploosh…sploosh…sploosh.

My list of species spotted the very first day was mind-boggling: deer watering along river’s edge; an adult black bear waded in near the mouth of the Clam; three varieties of teals, rare canvass backs, mergansers, geese, and numerous species of ducks; also herons, loons, and cormorants. Pileated woodpeckers were supposedly bordering extinction, yet it seemed there was a pair greeting us around every bend with piercing calls and drumming on tree trunks that reverberated above all sounds.

There were eagles, majestic eagles everywhere, and then I passed under a pair that I thought were extremely large immature bald eagles before noticing their brown feet and legs. The size distinction was explained by the fact the pair were actually golden eagles. To an immature romanticist, it seemed as if the spirit of John Jacob Audubon was turning the pages of my travel guide out of sympathy for a nature lover slash misguided adventurer, who escaped to the north woods and was having a really bad day. All of the sights, sounds, and smells of true northern wilderness were soothing me like an elixir rather than banging on sensory receptors.

The sun finally broke through during late afternoon, the wind let up intermittently, and during those moments of calm I was able to look around and enjoy the nature tour, although frequently forced to allow the canoe to wind-vane in order to combat crosswind. Nonetheless, we were making phenomenal progress on the swift current.

Several miles beyond the mouth of the Clam River, I decided to call an end to a very long day. My eyes were peeled for a landing/campsite, when I detected a faint roaring sound emanating from the distance ahead. The sound intensified by the time I was able to discern its source. The noise was the sound of rapids, and based on the volume they were fairly large. Around the next bend, the river split into chutes woven among conifer-covered islands. The whitewater was not threatening or dangerous, but millions paid to stand in long lines for chances to slide down concrete waterslides winding among terracotta statues of wild animals in amusement parks. Those rapids were just enough to get my juices flowing. I decided to have a little fun in order to end the day on a high note.

I picked what appeared to be the clearest boulder-free chute then paddled into it without paying admission or waiting in cue. There was no sight or sound of civilization; that was the real thing. Shocker did not enjoy the ride as much as his master. In fact, he was terrified before we entered the rapids. However, my previous life was forgotten as we went bobbing on roaring water, weaving around exposed rocks, or scraping over submerged boulders. I was taken back twenty years to the ledges of the Brule, my favorite whitewater challenge many years before. Then as we approached the bottom of the rapids, I spotted an irresistible campsite on the downstream tip of an island.

Head of Rapids was larger than most of the islands interwoven among the chutes, and it was surrounded by rapids that emptied into a relatively calm eddy pool. Upstream from the calm water within the eddy was a small sandy beach that gently sloped upward to a flat clearing that was tightly bordered by hemlock, tamarack, and white pines. The pool below our campsite emptied into a broader cascade just below. I pulled out at Head of Rapids at the end of our first day, eagerly looking forward to a rousing start to the next.

Shocker bounded off the canoe the instant it scraped over sand. Neither one of us had been out since reboarding in the wild rice bog that morning. I played with my pet for a while, fed him, and then bedded him down on a comforter spread over Hefty trash bags. The temperature was plunging rapidly after darkness closed in, but the crackling campfire provided warmth as well as illumination. The moon was shining brightly through a thin veil of haze reflecting off water crashing over rocks below and around us like myriad sequins.

I settled in by the fire for a supper of roasted (blackened) hot dogs, when it struck me that I was camping for my first time. I had been hiking through woods at dusk or dawn while hunting or fishing, yet until that moment, camping in my lifetime meant sleeping under a quilt stretched over a clothesline in the backyard or an excuse used for sleeping it off after sharing a six pack with the guys in a cemetery. That night I was really camping. I had so much to learn, but it was a stimulating lesson.

I used the cheap plastic folding recliner that I threw on at the last minute as a dinner table at first and later as a bedframe. I spread the sleeping bag over the recliner to elevate my makeshift bed above the cold, wet ground. In fact, it was so cold after sundown that I did not bother to change into dry clothing. I instead pulled the chest waders back on before sliding into the sack. After that I might have heard one hoot from an owl over the monotonous, comforting rumbling of rapids before I passed out.

GR-R-R-R-R…GR-R-R-R-R…GR-R-R-R-R-R-R-R.

I awakened to growling sounds and nervous licks on my face. Shocker normally slept like a rock, but this time no amount of petting, snuggling, or soothing words quelled his agitation. I knew that he was a terrible woos but I could not believe that he expected me to escort him into the woods for a BM. However, nothing I tried settled him and it was readily apparent that I would not be able to sleep unless he did. He was steadily becoming more ill at ease as minutes passed.

Then after begrudgingly stumbling out of my warm envelope, the source of his consternation became readily apparent. The moonlight showering our camp was also illuminating a dark lumbering silhouette highlighted against the sparkling surface of the rapids. Evidently, the smell of warm Alpo and roasting hot dogs were more enticing than cold brown trout, although the black bear seemed reluctant to confront a growling dog whose bark was definitely worse than his bite.

The large omnivore rose on its haunches and rocked to and fro sniffing the air, bringing quite a rush but not alarm. I was confident the roaring fire and growling dog were sufficient deterrents. We were no threat to the bear and I sensed it was nonthreatening as well. Eventually, our visitor turned after a brief nonverbal exchange, then ambled to the opposite bank before disappearing into dark shadows of the tree line bordering the river.

We crawled back into our beds and were quickly overtaken by slumber. Shocker and his naïve twentieth-century adventurer master slept in frozen wilderness while bears and deer foraged through underbrush, hoot owls called, and water played on rocks at the end of our first day on the river.

Day 2

(Thursday, September 19, 1991)

Black Bear Encounter at Head of Rapids on Toward St. Croix Falls

Our second day began with a cold, gray morning. The ground was frozen solid and yet I was well rested in spite of the bear encounter. I struck camp and loaded right away. Shocker awakened with his usual obnoxious enthusiasm and he too was ready to go after a short romp in the woods. I decided to forgo morning coffee rather than delay departure, thinking that we would soon reach the WI 70 Bridge a few miles downriver. I seemed to remember that there was a small store/bait shop just beyond bridge so I waited for coffee until we stopped for a morning stretch.

I pushed off into roaring rapids a few yards below our campsite, which brought an immediate adrenalin surge. I started the day with the maximum plausible optimism knowing that it was bound to be a better day than the last. We endured a grueling overnight drive, sleet and snow, freezing temperatures, fierce wind, and a bear encounter in one day. The worst had passed and I was already feeling like a seasoned explorer. Surely nothing could go wrong today, I thought.

The next stretch of rapids extended quite a distance, then after a sharp bend, rounded hills began to rise into view up ahead. The scenery changed quite a bit after the stream turned to a more westerly direction beyond Crex Meadows. There were