Spring Trip Report from Drew Brockett

Spring Trip Report from Drew Brockett:

  

2015 Spring Solo Canoe Trip - One Night/Two Days

Day One - April 30, 2015

Today's journey: Mudro - Fourtown - Boot - Fairy - Gun - Wagosh - Niki - Chippewa - Papoose - Friday Bay of Crooked Lake

Paddling miles: 12.5

Portage miles: 7 (eleven portages, 750 rods x 3 because of double portaging)

Weather: mostly sunny and warm, slight breeze from the south, almost perfect

It was a beautiful morning as I left my home at about 5:30am.  I got to the #23 Mudro Lake entry point a little after 6am and started paddling by 7am.  My vehicle was the only one in the parking lot.  It was a wonderful site early in the season since this is one of the most popular BWCA starting points throughout the paddling season. 

  

The day was long as I had a goal to get to Friday Bay.  I just kept paddling and portaging.  It was good to see this area again as it had been a few years since I traveled these lakes.  The highlights for the day included a pine marten that was walking along the bank of a lake, seeing nobody, the many birds either seen or heard (bald eagles, kingfisher, winter wren, loons, and more), and the fact that I was back in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area.

Once I found my campsite on an island in the northeast part of Friday Bay, it was late afternoon.  I had earned an evening of relaxing, that's for sure.  It was a big day for my first trip of the year. 

  

The quiet evening was spent eating dinner and enjoying the view from the rocks.  Tent-time came early.  I needed to get some sleep as I made the decision to try to paddle out and complete the entire loop in one night.  Usually, we tell our clients to do the loop in about 5 days.  My buddy at work, Adam, is notorious for doing big trips and piling on the miles when he solo trips all summer.  It was my turn to try to do that.

Sleep came easy.  The forest went to bed.

Day Two - May 1, 2015

Today's journey: Crooked Lake (Friday Bay area) - Basswood River - Lower Basswood Falls - Horse River - Horse - Tin Can Mike - Sand Pit - Mudro

Paddling miles: 19.3

Portage miles: 4.8 (10 portages, 513 rods x 3)

Weather: Mostly cloudy, wind picked up a bit in the afternoon from the SW, warm

I knew it was going to be a big day so I got up before 5am, took care of taking down camp and getting some food into me, and was paddling by 6am.  It was a perfect morning to be on the water. 

  

 
Crooked Lake is a large lake with many bays and fingers.  I had many miles to go before my first portage around Lower Basswood Falls.  As I paddled, it was amazing knowing I was the only one anywhere near this area.  One man's wilderness, so to speak.  As the canoe glided over the water, I paid attention to the beautiful, rugged shoreline.  When I passed by campsites, I made a mental note about it for future reference.

Sometimes one must get out of the canoe to stretch the legs and reset your body.  I took advantage of the flat rocks at historic Table Rock.  It's an easy place to get in/out of a canoe, plus to know that it's a place of history with the voyageurs and natives, makes it a neat area. 

  

  
After a quick break and walk around Table Rock, my next stop would be the first portage of the day.  But, before I got there, I caught a glimpse of the elusive fisher.

Continuing south, there is a set of pictographs and then Lower Basswood Falls.  

      

  

     

  

Now the day was about more portages and a nice river paddle.  It was such a great day so far and I knew I could just keep going and eventually get to my vehicle.  It's not that I wanted to leave the BWCA, but there are a lot of things I needed to do at my home, plus I thought it would be a good challenge to do this loop in two days.

There are portages marked on the map and then there are little areas that are listed as rapids.  These rapid areas became interesting.  They are small rapids, but rocky.  I was able to paddle up the first one.  Another one, I had to portage around.  The last one I had to get into the water and pull (line) my canoe through the rapids.  I was in the water up to my thighs, but had the Chota Hippie Waders on so didn't get wet at all.  Actually, that was a lot of fun doing that.

Once I got to Horse Lake, I needed to refuel with some lunch.  I found a campsite and enjoyed the food, the view, and the break. 

  

Now the final push, knowing that there was a brutal portage coming up later in the day.  I got to the bottom of Horse Lake, passing a rock on the side that has a metal ring in it.  That's from the logging days of this area.

Eventually I was on the portage from Tin Can Mike to Sandpit.  The first part of it has a fine wooden walkway so canoeists don't have to walk in a wet area.  As I was walking along the portage, I heard something bigger in the woods and move away from the portage.  I stood still...listening and watching.  I heard it again and it moved a little deeper in the woods.  Then I saw something in a slightly different location from the most recent noise.  All of the sudden, I saw two cute little bear cubs climbing a tree.  Then I knew it was the mama bear that had run away.

Uh oh.  Now what?  I need to do this portage and come back and get my canoe and food pack.  I decided to just get going.  As I passed the tree with the cubs, I couldn't believe how cute they were as they climbed and wondered who I was.  Quickly a decision was made to snap a few shots and get to the end of the portage.  Coming back past that area, I had a stick, just in case, and I had my whistle.  When I passed the bears, I saw the mother at the base of the tree sort of in and out of a hole (could be the den?).  Now the mama was with them.  I kept walking.  They were all more afraid of me. 

  

My final time walking past them wasn't a big deal as I had a canoe on my shoulders and figured that was "scary" to them.  As I passed, the same thing happened, the cubs were on the tree and the mama was at the base of the tree.  No biggie at all.  What an incredible site!!  Two little cubs with their mother.  Luck was on my side.  Notice one of the pictures has both of the cubs in it. 

The last part of the trip was tough.  The portage with the bears is the easiest one I know.....flat....as it was an old road during the logging days.  Now, it was time for "Heart Attack Hill".  This is a steep uphill climb and it wears you out.  I just took my time, paced myself, and took small steps.  Once I brought my pack to the end, I knew I had to go and get the rest of the gear.  There is nothing like doing a portage like that twice...up that hill.

That portage ends at Mudro Lake where I hear my first voices since the radio in my vehicle.  It's a family coming in late in the day and staying at the one Mudro site.  I didn't want to see anyone, but what are you going to do.

Once back at the parking lot, there are four other vehicles now.  Wait until summertime, this lot will be packed.  For me, off season is the time to experience the busy areas.  I'm lucky I can do that.

The journey was fantastic.  Spring in the wilderness, before the bugs, the heat, and the crowds, is a special time.  Happiness comes from everywhere you look.  Peace is all around you.  Life is great.

Hope you enjoy this little write-up.  Find something good in each day.

Drew  

BLOG 58. Best Little Boating Stream in Wisconsin

BLOG 58.  Best little boating stream in Wisconsin  

by Cliff Jacobson

www.cliff-jacobson.com

Kinnikinnic River 

Between the fury of big rapids and the hushed quiet of backwaters, there’s a gentle mix of bubbling waters that challenge but do not intimidate—where pristine beauty, violet-sweet aromas and absolute solitude ravish the soul.

The Kinnikinnic River, in River Falls, Wisconsin is such a place.

The Kinni is hardly an undiscovered river.  A 20 minute drive from St. Paul brings you to the dam and old grist mill that marks its beginning—a reminder of when this was a “working” river.  The eroded spillway remains, creating a small impoundment where those who don’t understand the ways of running water may enjoy a flat-water float.

 

"Put in" on the Kinni--just below the dam in River Falls

Three miles below the dam there is another sign of flourishing times—a once proud brick kiln.  A tattered trail runs from the dam to the kiln—an easy hour’s walk.

A nationally revered trout stream, the Kinni is generally canoeable from March through November. Even during a summer drought there’s usually enough water to float a canoe.  But a week of rain really brings the river to life. The first rapid—a gentle Class I drop, begins just below the put-in by the dam. From here, the water grades from riffles to Class II when the water is high.  Nearly all of the approximate eight mile run contains riffles or small rapids, all of which are easily canoeable by those who have basic river paddling skills.  Rocks, brush piles and sweepers dot the stream at every turn, requiring constant maneuvering. Every inch of the route is entertaining. Expect to drag some shallows when the water is low; when it is high, the route can be challenging.

The river moves fast, but not dangerously so. Occasional pools encourage a full paddle stroke but the channel is seldom more than two feet deep.  Scratches and gouges are routine—the most polished paddlers won’t get downriver without scraping.

 

Typical scenery along the Kinni

So what is the attraction of this shallow, narrow boat-eating stream? It’s not the lure of big rapids, for there are none. Nor is it the joy of family togetherness; the Kinni is too shallow to encourage the weight of coolers, kids and dogs. Slick, fast canoes that don’t turn quickly are a handful on this stream. And the wicked little drops, sharp rocks and usually cold water discourage swimmers and tubers.  This leaves the river to trout fishermen and paddlers in small, short canoes and river kayaks. The Kinni is selective!

Except for the dam at its headwaters and the weed-choked brickyard there is no development of any sort along the way.  Limestone bluffs with natural springs bolt skyward along the route and create the impression of mystical canyons.  Often, it’s mid-day before the penetrating mist burns away and reveals the full light of the sun. Paddling the Kinni at first light is a magical experience.

 

The "put-in" on the Kinni--just below the dam

The put-in is Glen Park in River Falls, Wisconsin.  A 200 yard walk down a well-used trail brings you to the base of the dam and start of the trip. Take-out is at Kinnikinnic State Park (you’ll need a Wisconsin state park sticker) at the junction of hwy F and FF.  Or, continue on to the St. Croix River and take out at Prescott, Wisconsin. Bring your own boats or rent them from Kinni Creek Lodge in River Falls (www.kinnicreek.com). The lodge offers shuttle service to Kinnikinnic State Park and Prescott beach.

You don’t need a dry suit or float bag to float the Kinni. You do need a light responsive canoe or kayak and at least three hours time. There’s so much to see along the Kinni that it’s best to plan a full day.

Cliff Jacobson

www.cliffcanoe.com

XXX

BLOG 36. Bobby

BLOG 36: Bobby

by

Cliff Jacobson

I first heard about Bobby in 1983, while canoeing the Hood River in the (then) Northwest Territories of Canada. In those days, there was a lot of exploratory mining north of 60 (the sixtieth parallel).  Bush camps and drill rigs sprung up in every suspecting spot and there was a constant drone of float planes to service them. For years following the mining rush, there were jobs galore for anyone who could tolerate uncivilized living.

Headwaters of the Hood River.  Start of our trip

Just prior to boarding our Twin Otter for the flight to Point Lake and the start of our Hood River canoe trip, Yellowknife Base manager Bill Gawletz pointed out a small knoll on our map, just east of Takijaq Lake, which was along our route.

            "This here's "Kid Creek" Camp," he said.  "We fly in there twice a month. They've got a radio and a chopper and can get you out if you have trouble.  The guys have been holed up there for two months now, so they're probably pretty bushed. Tell 'em I said they should feed you good."

Two weeks of strenuous travel brought us to Kid Creek Camp.  Located on a high hill, the stark white canvas tents were visible two miles away. Four men waited patiently on shore, eager for the diversion of new conversation.  A  mining engineer in his fifties appeared to be in command.  Nearby, was a muscular college kid from Saskatchewan who did the heavy work, a clean-shaven helicopter pilot named Brian, and a bushy, white-haired cook.  They said that Bobby, their young Inuit maintenance man and jack-of-all-trades, was gone for the day.

Hood River. Cliff Jacobson, Sue Harings and muskox

We meandered up to the cook tent where we were treated to blueberry and pumpkin pies, fresh-baked biscuits with jam and honey, coffee, tea, hot chocolate and candy bars galore. We offered to pay but they wouldn't hear of it. What they wanted was news from the south, and for the next two hours we deluged them with it.

Ultimately, the conversation got around to Bobby who was off in the bush fixing a drill rig.  They said he was  the best mechanic in the Territories--a quiet, likeable kid who could fix anything.  "We have a lot of fun with Bobby," chimed one man. Then he told me this funny story which I've roughly quoted:

            "Bobby's never been south, not even to Yellowknife. He's never even seen a paved road or tree, except on TV.  So we got to kiddin' around with him one night--told him that in California the trees are so big you can drive a car right through 'em, and so high that we'd have to string aircraft warning lights on the branches if we flew down there. Then, with a dead straight face, Dave here says there are frogs in those trees the size of husky dogs. 'Giant tree frogs, Bobby!' We've all seen 'em. Honest!"

Bobby bought the part about the giant frogs but not the huge trees.  And here's a guy who flies around on bush planes and can take a Cat apart with a screwdriver and crescent wrench!"

            "Tell 'em about the busted Skidoo," prodded one man. The story went something like this:

Bobby had  two vacation days coming, so he decided to combine these with the weekend and drive his Skidoo 120 miles to Bathurst Inlet to see his girl friend. "Be back in time for work, Monday," he grinned, matter-of-factly.

I hail from Minnesota, snowmobile capitol of the world, and when I told this story to the Polaris crowd, they just gawked with wonder.  Seems that no one in their right mind would snowmobile 120 miles across a frozen waste land without a support party. But the idea didn't bother Bobby at all. He missed his girl friend.  And hey, If the machine broke down, he could fix it.

The men at Kid Creek camp knew Bobby carried a very complete repair kit and was highly skilled.  So they gave him their blessings and said they'd see him in four days.

 Zero eight hundred hours Monday came and went.  So did 1000, 1200 and 1500. The men were worried. It was 32 below and blowing snow.  Quizzically, they looked at one another.  Bobby  knew the route to Bathurst by heart and he could handle any mechanical problem that might come up. Besides he was born and raised on the barrens and had a wealth of Inuit skills to fall back on. "He probably stopped and built a snow hut," assuaged one man. It was already too dark to fly, so there was nothing they could do.  If Bobby didn't make it by noon the next day, they'd radio for an airplane.

Mid-morning, Bobby nonchalantly tooled in on his snowmobile, as if nothing had happened.  He had broken an axle about 40 miles from camp.  The snow was blowing pretty hard so he built a windbreak, then set up his canvas tent over the machine, intent on repairing the damage.  When he saw he couldn't fix the axle, he hack-sawed off a piece of his rifle barrel and threaded and fitted it in place.  Bobby said it only took about four hours to get the Skidoo up and running again, but the wind was blowing so hard he decided to stay till it let up.

"Hope you guys weren't too worried about me," he said, with a toothy grin.  Then he shuffled his feet and softly told them it was okay if they docked his pay.

Cliff Jacobson

www.cliff-jacobson.com

BLOG 26. Wilderness Wisdom, by Cliff Jacobson

BLOG 26. WILDERNESS WISDOM

by Cliff Jacobson

www.cliff-jacobson.com

Fond du Lac River, Saskatchewan

Most mechanics rely on systematical trial and error to solve problems. They figure that if they replace enough parts, they'll eventually find the difficulty.  At the other extreme, are a small number of experts who, like my friend, Chic Sheridan, have the uncanny ability to correctly diagnose  problems on complex machines they've never seen before. For example, I once purchased an old Ford Pinto at an auction for next to nothing.  The car had a horrible clanging sound which was diagnosed as stuck valves. Repairs would cost hundreds of dollars!

I drove the beast over to Chic's house, hopeful he could provide a less costly solution.  "Add a quart of tranny fluid to the crankcase every time you change oil," he pronounced.  "Old mechanics trick--should free those valves in minutes: works much better than anything you can buy."

Chic's advice was sound:  I  drove the old Ford for two more years then traded it for another beater. On another occasion, a friend asked me to ask Chic about a clutch problem my wife Susie was having with her 1980 Saab.  The clutch wouldn't engage properly and the car wouldn't shift right.  A local foreign car repair shop told us the throw-out bearing and clutch plate were bad. "About 600 bucks," grinned the youthful mechanic.

Chic never owned or drove a foreign car.  A strong union man all his life, he supported "buy American", and a belief that domestic cars were, as he put it, "better than the trash that comes across the sea".  So it came as quite a surprise when he agreed to look at the old Saab.

The engine compartment of the Saab was a nightmare of wires, boxes and hoses. I was certain it would take a trained Saab mechanic to find the clutch, let alone fix it.  Chic peered wistfully under the hood, then asked if the clutch was mechanical or hydraulic.

 "Hydraulic," I said.

"I see someone just put a new master cylinder in here," he drawled. "Yeah, two weeks ago," I affirmed. Then there was a long silence, followed by..."Well I'll be damned, the idiot never hooked up the hydraulic line!" Chic shook his head in disgust, grabbed some tools, and a few minutes later the car shifted fine.  Cost of repair?  Two beers and a "thanks, good buddy!".

Chic was also an inventor and master welder.  He made me a stainless steel grill which I use on canoe trips, and a quarter inch thick aluminum griddle that fits on my trail stove. He also designed the best canoe trailer I ever owned. For Christmas one year, he gave all his canoeing friends collapsible, wood frame bucksaws which he built in his own shop.

Chic earned his living as a maintenance chief at the St. Paul, Ammonia plant in Minnesota.  He hated the work, often saying that he wished he could have gone to college and become a forester or wildlife professional.  Chic's heart and soul were in the forests of northern Minnesota and Ontario.  He fished, camped and canoed with his friends every chance he got.

Socially, Chic lived in two worlds--the strong blue collar environment of his work place and the stressful white collar atmosphere of his college educated canoeing friends. Chic valued education and was envious of our advanced degrees, even though we never mentioned them. On every trip he would remind us that he had been a poor student in high school, then question why we included him in our lofty group.  At this, we'd go into our routine, and like little kids, reinforce the obvious:

"Because we love you and respect you and think you're wonderful," we chorused.  Then we'd pass around our guarded store of Peppermint Schnapps and toast the most important person on any backwoods trip --the one who could keep the truck running, fix the trail stove, mend broken equipment, and keep us entertained with bad jokes for hours!  "To Chic," I would call!  At this, everyone would shout, "Here, here," and the bottle would go around again.

Chic didn't cuss very much.  Except for an occasional "dammit," or "sonufabitch", he was clean lipped. This was in stark contrast to two members of our fraternity who swore constantly. Chic never said anything about the foul language--that is, until the day he gave us "the shower bag".

Fond du Lac River, Inukshuk

We were about to canoe the Fond du Lac River in northern Saskatchewan when a family emergency developed which caused Chic to drop out. There was time enough to find a replacement, but it wouldn't be the same.  Besides, we knew how much Chic looked forward to these annual canoe trips. So we took up a collection and  bought him a new Stearn's life jacket--a brilliant gold "Deliverance" model which, in 1979 was state-of-the-art for paddling whitewater.

Chic was touched by the gift, and a week later, he presented us with one of his own.  "It's a solar camping shower," he grinned. "Now you guys can finally 'clean up your act!' "

The apparatus consisted of a black plastic bag, a long delivery tube and shower head.  You could fill the bag directly with hot water or set it in the sun for a few hours.  The shower seemed like a good idea, so we agreed to take it  along.

Fond du Lac campsite

The unit worked as advertised, that is, when we could find a solid support for it. Five liters of water weighs over ten pounds--an uneasy, slippery load that had to be raised above our heads each night.  First, we'd look for a high rock ledge that was wide enough to hold the bag. Failing that, we'd search for a strong tree limb. Tall pines and birches were abundant on the eskers, but otherwise were nonexistent.

What to do?  In desperation, we lashed together a tripod of canoe paddles, then carefully balanced the bloated water bag on top. Since the bag was barely three feet off the ground we had to stoop low, or lie down to get enough water pressure to produce a steady flow.  The procedure worked okay when the bag was full of water, but not when the the supply was half exhausted.  Once the shower bag lost its shape, it came splashing down.

After several frustrating trials we decided that the only way to ensure adequate water pressure--and our own safety--was to have one person hold the water bag on top of the tripod while another took a shower.  This method  proved reliable so we adopted it as policy.  After a week of this silliness, we gave up on the shower, agreeing never to let Chic know how much we hated it.

Manitou Falls, Fond du Lac River

A few weeks after the trip, we gathered at Chic's house for a party and  slide show.  As we flipped through the pictures, we paused extra long on those which showed the shower.  Finally, we came to our tripod, and proudly asked Chic what he thought of it.

Chic knocked the ashes out of his corncob pipe and took a long deep draw on his Michelob. Then, with dead pan expression he asked: "Why didn't you guys just put the bag on the ground and step on it?  Then, you wouldn't have to build that silly thing every night!"

Addendum:  Shortly after we returned from our Fond du Lac River trip, we learned that Chic had contracted ALS.  He died six weeks later. 

Cliff Jacobson
www.cliff-jacobson.com

XXX

BLOG 23.Backwoods Cops and Common Sense, by Cliff Jacobson

BLOG 23. BACKWOODS COPS AND COMMON SENSE

by Cliff Jacobson

It began at one of Rutabaga’s famed “Canoecopia” events.  I stopped to chat with Larry Laba, CEO of SOAR inflatables.  Larry had a bone to pick with my book, “Expedition Canoeing”, in which he said I had included every type of canoe, except his. 

I told Laba I didn’t think SOAR’s were “real” canoes.”  At this, Laba launched into a dissertation, politely suggesting that I was largely out-to-lunch.  I listened quietly and promised to eat crow and try a SOAR.  Someday.

SOAR (Somewhere on a River) boat

Someday came in 2003 when Laba received a hard-to-get permit to canoe the Gates-of-Ladore section on the Green River, which runs through Dinosaur National Monument.   Ten select paddlers, including Susie and I, were invited to go. We’d paddle SOAR boats, of course. 

Susie and I had never paddled a canyon river, or one with such large rapids.  We figured it would be quite a rush.  Larry warned us at the start that there were lots of regulations we would have to follow.  And, that the slightest violation would be prosecuted.

Campsite along the Green River

I vowed to keep an open mind and a willing smile.  I’d heard the Gates-of-Ladore was spectacular, and well worth the high (regulatory) price of admission.

TROUBLE AT THE OUTSET

Trouble surfaced immediately.  It was nearly noon on June 10 on the appointed
put-in day when part of the crew arrived with the unhappy news that Laba’s truck had broken down (with all the boats) near Salt Lake City.  It would be 5 PM, at the earliest before he and the rest of the crew would arrive. 

Campsite along the Green River

RANGERS TO THE RESCUE

We shared our concern with a park ranger, who we’ll call Ranger #1 (keep track; there are four more).  Could we try plan B?  Say, leave around 7 PM that night and take a “closer” campsite than the one (16 miles downstream) for which we were scheduled?  Ranger #1 radioed for advice.  No luck; the closer site (six miles ahead) was taken.  Our choice was to wait  for Laba then plow on through that night, or start the next morning.

Five PM passed.  No Laba.  And now, there was a 30 mile per hour wind blowing upstream.  The run to our first scheduled campsite contained some tough rapids (Class III-IV).  We agreed it would be best to begin tomorrow and make up lost time.  Ranger #1 had gone for the day.  In his place was Ranger #2, a pleasant young woman with a willing smile.

“Would it be okay if we start tomorrow and make up lost time?

“Yes,” she said.  “But you will have to camp at your assigned site for June 11.”

That seemed fair enough to us.

Laba showed up the following morning, and by noon we had done the shuttle and were off.  We pulled into our scheduled campsite around six.  There was a ranger (#3) standing on the shore to greet us.  He asked to see our permit, then he fired off a barrage of questions:

Being questioned by a ranger!

“Do you have a groover?  A food-strainer? First-aid kit? Extra PFD?  Throwing rope? Fire-pan?  Everyone have helmets?  Admittedly, I’m used to the freedom of Canadian rivers—where I can camp when and where I please, and where safety and land ethics are an individual responsibility I take seriously--so I wasn’t quite prepared for this grilling.  Still, given the heavy use (sans abuse) of this river, I welcomed his questions and I appreciated his professional demeanor.  

           

Day three ended just like day two.  Ranger #4 stepped out of the bush just as our boats touched land. He told us he had radioed Ranger #3 about us, so he downplayed the questions about our preparedness and focused on other matters.

            

Now, I should make it perfectly clear that I understand—and value--the need for regulating high-density rivers like the Green—and for checking boaters who are sometimes irresponsible and unprepared.   Yes, serious rules are in order for heavily used rivers like the Green, and I am pleased to follow those rules and be quizzed about them. Still, we had encountered two rangers on two successive days-- and they were waiting at the campsites for us!  Was big brother watching, or what?

           

The next day’s “rapid experience” was wonderful—that is, until we arrived at the take-out, right on schedule.  A serious-looking, middle-aged ranger (#5) was there,  checking permits.  He had a gun!

           

Ranger #5 looked briefly at our permit then pulled out a pad and proceeded to write Laba a fine for 25 dollars.  For what?

“You started on June 11.  This permit is for June 10.”  

What the hey?

We pointed out our conversation with Rangers #1 and #2, who had advised us to leave on the 11^th and make up lost time.  The gunman didn’t look up—just kept writing.

            I was ticked.  Real ticked!

             “So what are you trying to prove here, officer?” I asked, my face right in his.

            “Careful, Cliff, this guy’s got a gun,” whispered Laba.

“Yeah, yeah.  So tell me, officer, should we have left in total darkness on the 10^th? Paddled those big rapids and drowned?   R..e..a..l..l..y, officer, what would you have us do? 

           

The gun-guy said he had checked with rangers #3 and #4 and he “knew all about us.”  Yeah, ten bank robbers in paddling duds, rushing down the river.  Hop your horse and bust ‘em at the take-out!  

The Ranger kept writing.  “Just doing my job, following the law.  My name is Ranger Dah dah; my supervisor’s name is Mr. Dah dah.  Tell it to the judge!”  Yeah!

I raved on that I had guided canoe trips in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area and northern Canada for more than three decades and had never seen such an abuse of power by a figure in authority.  Then, I turned about face and walked out of the picture, leaving my friends to smooth my ruffled path.

           

When Susie and I returned to the Gates-of-Ladore campsite to pick up our car we ran into the lady ranger (#2), who had been so helpful.  She was very sympathetic and questioned why we were ticketed when we had shared our options with her (and ranger #1) and had inconvenienced no one during our trip.  It was a bum wrap; she would tell her supervisor.

THE AFTERMATH

           

Bureaucracies fuel bureaucracies, so naturally, the fine remained.  As for me, there is a bitter knife that stabs deep into the core of my soul.  Yes,  we do need rules that protect the environment from us, and us from one another.  But we also need public servants who enforce those rules with compassion and rational thought.  Rangers #1 through #4 live their lessons; ranger #5 needs some common sense and a tome on tact.

           

What bothered me most about canoeing the Green was not the rules, which were justifiable.  It was the “in your face attitude” of the rangers and, in my view, an underlying assumption that we were out to do wrong.  By comparison, Minnesota’s Boundary Waters Canoe Area sees the paddles of a quarter million canoeists each year, thousands more than The Gates-of-Ladore.  Yes, there are rules—tough ones: “Camp only at existing sites; no bottles or cans allowed; maximum party size of nine; make fires (when permitted) in approved fire-grates; use established box latrines; don’t cut living trees, and clean up as to leave no trace of your presence. You are  given a “numbered” trash bag that you are expected to fill (with your trash and that of others) and to pack out.

By and large, the rules are willingly honored.  Pull into any one of the hundreds of BWCA campsites and you will find no evidence of passing paddlers—no trash, no garbage, nothing. The premise is that paddlers want to do right, and will do what’s right if they know what’s right!  Education (with a smile) is top priority.  Check into any Boundary Waters permit station and you’ll see a film and take a quiz on wilderness ethics and, you’ll be pleasantly lectured by a Forest Service ranger. 

Yes, there are tickets issued, but only for gross violations—unattended fires, axe-hacked trees, ditched tents, obnoxious noise, etc.  More often than not, ignorance is   rewarded with a friendly lecture or a lesson by example.  Beginners learn the ropes and develop a positive attitude.

           

Example: Many years ago I watched a man at a Boundary Waters campsite wash dishes in the lake. A small, but determined, raft of suds blew my way.  I was about to jump into my canoe, cuss words flying, when I remembered the old cliché that you can catch more bears with honey than guns.  So I forced a smile and pleasantly paddled his way.

           

When the man saw me, he waved and invited me in for coffee.  He was a really nice guy!  For an hour I shared his fire and hospitality.  I tactfully told him how organic wastes increase bacterial levels in water; how improperly disposed-of feces leach into lakes; how fires can creep underground and spring to life hundreds of yards away. 

           

We had quite a talk, he and I.

           

Afterwards, the man thanked me for the lecture.  He said he would never make the same mistakes again.  And, he would spread the word.  We parted friends, he and I.

           

Now, suppose I had been a Forest Service ranger and had simply given the man a big fat fine?  Attitude check for future trips?  Go figure.

I wish ranger #5 and I could have had a nice long talk, away from the crowd and the badge.  Perhaps then, he would have questioned his judgment and we too, could have parted friends.

           

On a more positive note: The river was beautiful; the rapids were great—and yes, Mr. Laba, your SOAR boats are indeed very real canoes—and the right medicine for big pushy rivers. Sorry I missed your boat in my book.

 ADDENDUM

One of the guys in our crew was a lawyer who knew whom to call and what strings to pull.  So a month later the ticket was  pleaded down to "Cutting timber on government land" and the 50 dollar fine was dismissed.  It's interesting to note that here are no trees along the Green River, at least not ones that are big enough to cut.

Cliff Jacobson

www.cliff-jacobson.com

BLOG 21. Falcon Guides, Cliff Interview

FalconGuides author Cliff Jacobson is one of North America's most respected outdoor writers and wilderness canoe guides. He is the author of more than a dozen books on camping and canoeing and has been inducted into the American Canoe Association Hall of Fame. Here, FalconGuides discusses Cliff's memorable "firsts" in a career highlighted by bestsellers and awards:

Cliff: Tha-anne River, Manitoba, Canada

How did you first get into canoeing? What was it that drew you in and kept you coming back to it time and again?

It began in 1952 at the age of 11 at a rustic Boy Scout camp set deep in the Michigan woods. The canoes were wood and canvas—and magical! Those who’ve paddled wooden canoes will understand. The canoe was a ticket to the wild in wilderness. Yes, one could hike to remote places, but it was faster and easier by canoe. You can carry more gear than a backpacker and thus live more comfortably. On a long backpacking trip you’ll travel super light and “rough it," but a canoe will “smooth” the way.

I read every book on canoeing and camping I could find. I doted on the adventures of the northern explorers. Names like Hudson Bay, Coppermine, Churchill, and and the Northwest Territories called my name. If there’s a “wilderness gene” I have it.

The canoe has a beauty and grace that is unmatched by other watercraft. The same canoe that can carry you on a picnic down a placid river can float you to the Arctic Ocean. Some highlights of trips that keep me coming back for more? Paddling among thousands of caribou, stroking their backs with my paddle; talking quietly to bears, telling them we are no threat; watching seals, which are nearly as long as my canoe, skitter by; paddling among beluga whales; being chased downriver by a polar bear; catching huge lake trout, the size of which anglers dream.

Cliff: Latiseino River, Norway. 14-foot Pakboat®

Tell me a little bit about your first multi-day expedition? What did you learn and take away from that first trip?

It was a 21-day trip from Folyet, Ontario, to James Bay (300 miles), via the Groundhog, Mattagami, and Moose Rivers in Ontario. It rained every day for 17 days; the river was flooded; the bugs were horrendous; the rapids were frightening and the topography wasn’t all that pretty. We didn’t see a soul the entire trip. Of all the northern routes I’ve done, this is my least favorite, and one I would never do again. But it was very adventurous; it tested my skills and it encouraged me to keep learning. I learned that there are few second chances on these tough northern rivers. Doing things sloppy or merely “good enough” is not GOOD ENOUGH! Some of my readers have accused me of being opinionated in my methods. In reality, successful explorers follow much the same pattern of planning and executing a canoe trip. Yes, they may use different style packs or paddles or foods, but they follow strict procedures on waterproofing their gear, scouting and running rapids, portaging, storm-proofing their camp, etc.  It takes years to develop the proper respect for a wilderness river; you can’t rush it. Those that try usually don’t survive very long.

When planning out a new canoeing trip, what is it that first draws you to that trip?

I love remote rivers, especially those in northern Canada and Alaska. On some rivers it’s the challenge of the rapids; on others it’s the wildlife—caribou, musk ox, wolves, dall sheep, and grizzlies. Still others are noted for their intense beauty or magnificent campsites. Recently, I’ve turned my attention to American desert rivers like the Green, Missouri, and Rio Grande (it’s awesome!).  Last year, I canoed two remote whitewater rivers along the border of Norway and Finland. What a rush! Every place has its unique challenges and beauty.

Is there a particularly memorable trip that always pops up first when reaching back into the memory bank? What was so memorable about that trip?

The wedding day: Wilberforce Falls, Hood River, August 12, 1992

Wilberforce Falls

 

Yes, the Hood River (Province of Nunavut, Canada), north of the Arctic Circle. I’ve done it twice: On the first trip (1984), we encountered nearly 100,000 caribou, some so close you could touch them with your canoe paddle. We also saw over 300 muskoxen and two grizzlies. On the second trip (1992). Sue Harings and I were married at Wilberforce Falls on the Hood River. It is the only recorded wedding at this spot. Wilberforce, by the way, drops 160 feet through a 3-mile canyon; the U.S. Niagara Falls, by comparison, drops 167 feet. The Hood has one of the most spectacular waterfalls on the continent. There are just two ways to get there—by canoe or by pricey chartered bush plane that’s outfitted with tubby tundra tires.

How did it feel to be inducted in the American Canoe Association hall of fame?

It was quite an honor, naturally. I remain surprised though because, frankly, I don’t consider myself an expert canoeist. I’m decent but not in the league with today’s top paddlers. Good judgment, more than paddle skill, keeps me out of trouble.

Cliff: Boundary Waters Canoe Area

I know you’re an avid outdoorsman with many pursuits. If you could impart one piece of advice to the next generation of avid outdoorsmen (and women) looking to make this their lifestyle and work, what would that advice be?

My best advice is to always remember that “skills are more important than things.” You can get by with mediocre gear if you know what you’re doing. If you don’t, you’re in serious trouble, even if you have the best gear. Learn first, buy second!

Knowledge makes the difference. Read every canoeing and camping book you can find, even those that are long out-of-print and belong to the last century. There are things you can learn from the old-timers; don’t dismiss old knowledge as bad knowledge. New isn’t always better; it just sells well. Case in point: In the early part of this century, Horace Kephart, in his book “Woodcraft and Camping,” wrote that insect headnets should be colored black so you can see through them. Today, most tent screens and bug nets are in colors other than black. These colors reflect light into your eyes and reduce visibility. For the same reason, automobile steering wheels and dashboards should also be black. Manufacturers would be wise to reflect on proven ways.

Cliff: North Knife River, Manitoba

To learn more about Cliff Jacobson and his many books, check him out here or on his website, cliff-jacobson.com.

BLOG 13. Canoes and Williwaws, by Cliff Jacobson

BLOG 13

CANOES AND WILLIWAWS

By Cliff Jacobson

www.cliff-jacobson.com

The canoeing literature universally recommends that landed canoes be turned belly up when stored for a few hours or days on land.  The idea is that if it rains while the canoe is unattended, the water will drain off rather than flood the hull.  Wind is also a factor, especially in lake country like the BWCA, where an off-shore blow can get under the canoe, lift it and blow it out to sea. Turning a landlocked canoe over is good advice wherever you are.  But most novice Boundary Waters paddlers usually just leave their canoes right side up—and dangerously close to the water’s edge--when they camp.

The “belly up” procedure is almost always the best plan. “Almost always” means 99.9 percent of the time.  The 0.1 is a unique exception as emphasized by the following story: 

Just before the storm: settling in around the campfire

Noatak River, Alaska, July, 2010.  For several days, my friends and I had enjoyed good weather—sunny days, no rain and little wind.  We were camped on a gravel bar about 75 yards from the river’s edge.  Our three seventeen foot Pakboats® (folding canoes) were well up on shore, abutting a tangle of willows.  We planned to tie them to the willows and to one another before we retired for the night. Two of the canoes were turned over, one (mine) was right side up. 

It was a nice, bug-free evening and just cool enough to enjoy a campfire.  We built a giant blaze, pulled our stools up close and settled in for a relaxing evening.

In the distance, the sky suddenly began to blacken. We watched it for maybe half a minute, mesmerized by the rapidly crawling darkness. About 15 seconds passed before the blackness was directly overhead, accompanied by a howling wind that sounded like a freight train.  “My God, it’s a Williwaw!” I yelled.

 Indeed it was.  In less time than I write these words, our big CCS tundra tarp—which was well staked down—flattened to the ground.  My friend, Tom Schwinghamer and I leaped upon it, hoping to keep it from blowing into the river.  Sand clouded the sky and flew at us like bb pellets.  I glanced at the tents—new model Eureka! Tundralines—they were still standing.  Then I heard someone yell, “the canoes!” I looked up in time to see two red kites—er’ canoes—flying high, maybe 100 feet off the ground.  Tom and I could do nothing.  We just covered our face, huddled under the tarp and held on tight. 

The Williwaw (mini-tornado) lasted barely a minute but the devastation was severe.  There was no evidence of our blazing bonfire.  None!  Surprisingly, the tents held, though one—which was at least 80 yards from the fire--incurred some spark holes when embers blew under the tent.  The canoes? The two that had been overturned floated in an eddy on the far side of the river—about 200 yards from us.  The river speed by our camp was about five miles an hour, so it was a  good thing that the boats were stuck in an eddy or they would have been long gone.  One landed right side up; the other upside down.  There was no damage whatsoever.  Most amazing, was that the one canoe that had not been turned over didn’t move a millimeter.  It just sat there motionless through the commotion.  The question is why didn’t it also become airborne?

Seconds before the storm--the sky darkens!

Simple answer, really.  A williwaw creates very low pressure.  An inverted canoe will have higher pressure inside the hull than outside (above it).  The pressure differential will cause the canoe to rise.  Since there was no pressure under the hull of the upright canoe (the belly was on the ground), it just sat there.  We wondered what the scenario might have been if the canoes had all been upside down and tied up as was our usual practice. We guessed that the force of the wind would have just torn off the bows as the boats sailed skyward.

After the storm.  Remember the fire? There was no sign of it!

So then….should you turn your canoe over and tie it to a tree or boulder when you camp?  Yes, 99.9 percent of the time.  No, if you will experience a one tenth of one percent event—a williwaw!

Cliff