Snow Filled Creeking: The Beav & Brule

Two days had past and the cold returned to Northern reaches of Minnesota. My breath rose in a ethereal cloud in the morning grey, as I lashed my boat into the bed of my trusty pickup. Stepping from my truck the frozen ground crunched loudly in the morning stillness as I walked towards the St. Louis River. Zimny, having taken a day off of work, was looking to utilize all the living daylight with boating... my enthusiasm coincided. Thus while the other paddlers still lay slumbering in their beds, myself and Zimny slipped quietly into the dark waters of the St. Louis river at flows previously unknown to me. Before us the St. Louis came alive, raging at 10,000 cfs its became character unpredictable and schizophrenic in its gnashing of teeth and yet playful nature. None the less  formidabile in its strength.

 High water on the St. Louis

Before us we climbed the the rising plumes of water, smashed through breaking waves, and rode reactionaries. The water was bigger than the whites of my eye's could encompass and yet I felt calm and controlled as we neared the Octopus. At such levels, the Octopus becomes a monstrous multiplex of hydraulics not to played with unless you felt the desire to gamble with mortality. And so we fought for the river right sneak. Yet when we arrived I took the wrong line and sat in an eddy too far removed. Before me a constricted channel had only one terminus...in the mayhem of the Octopus. Zimny directed me to the only hope, a shitty upstream ferry. Having few choices, I fought tooth and nail and breathed a sigh of relief as I attained the refuge of a proper eddy. We charged ahead marveling at the transformation of the St. Louis. Rounding the island near the Jay Cooke swinging bridge we slipped over the small falls and picked our way across the river wide ferry to final eddy of the run. I swung into it breathing hard, the St. Louis was rewarding more than technique and demanded strength and exertion.

After the morning warm up we retreated to Zimny's abode, met up with Joerg, and flew the coop Northward. Driving up the Northshore a long procession of kayak topped vehicles sped up Hwy 61 bound for glory. The disappointment was harsh as the crew sadly observed that the Split Rock was too low for enjoyment. It would come to pass that myself, Tango, Chris, and Hooper would be the only one's to have run the river at reasonable flows for the remainder of the season. So the concensus became that we would run the East Beaver. And so it was a crew of 8 amassed on the East Beaver including the veteran kayak guru John Alt and sailed two laps off the triple falls. To my eyes the river paled in comparison to the levels in which I had run it days earlier, and yet the joy still remained.

In the waning daylight, the levels of the Split Rock and Beaver signalled that levels were dropping steadily and thus we all knew the more Northward creeks would be hold better snow pack and water levels. Thus we continued the Northward migration to Grand Marais and lazily sought shelter from the forecasted sub freezing temps in a hotel for the eve. After observing burly levels on the Cascade we all agreed that a run on the Brule river was in the cards.

The next morning, stepping into the crisp morning are we were greeted by a inch and a half of snow and temperatures hovering near freezing. Determined to paddle we all headed northward armed ourselves with our warmest gear. The crew had grown adding the Colorado contingent of Chris and Tango as well as Holton and
Scott White. Through the backwoods, we all trudged our boats through shin deep snow to the river. Mounting my boat, I put onto the Brule for the first time since my first season of creeking. Following the direction of Alt the large crew plucked it's way slowly down the Brule in an organized fashion. I smiled as we made our way through S-turn, The Canyon section, and marveled at the Devil's Kettle and Upper Falls while snow fell gently about the unfolding river.

 Lower Falls of the Brule (photo credit of Andy McMurray)

Thus launching in below we arrived at the final eddy before lower falls. I had only previously portaged the drop and knew of the large looming hole it hid behind a large wave preceding it. But the crowded eddy amassed with boaters hastened me to peel out and head for it. I charged for the whole focused on building momentum. The waters dipped an rose into a giant reactionary wave. Yet in it's trough a pine tree came into view, it's peak jutting out like a lance interested in skewering me. I quickly ducked and narrowly missed it, threw some strong strokes and crested the wave to see the 2 foot high wall of water ahead of me. I impacted the hole and emerged upright, unscathed, and relieved. The crew had good results and we forded onward to the last formidable drop of the run. My last run on sewer pipe, as a beginning creeker

My hands were numb as I climbed up a grassy bank from the river to the warmth of an awaiting vehicle. The run was good, but the weather was less than motivating. I made a day of it and headed back to the warm of the hotel and took hold of a beer while enjoying the hot tub. I felt blessed, but I let my motivation to paddle lay dominant to be thawed by warmer weather.

Reclaiming Spring: The Brule River

Devil's Kettle on the Brule courtsey of T-Bone

After my day on the Devils Track I was ready for more action despite any exhaustion. Receiving an invitation the night before I woke up early and drove up to the Brule River (MN). Meeting my paddling friends, we threw on our gear and headed far into the boondocks to the put in. Due to vague details of the guide book we ended up losing the put in trail and walking 2 miles further up river than was necessary or intended. We got to the river sweating having hiked long and hard with our boats shouldered.

Getting on the river we sped through easy boogey water before reaching the thralls of the Sauna Bath drop. Upon scouting it was clear the drop was a challenge to be contented with. The river narrowed and large volume of water poured over constricted boulder garden. Most troublesome was weaving between two giant boulders in which the river piled up against then short thereafter pouring into a significant hole. They required much contemplation and a couple of logs thrown in to assess the hole's stickiness. After many musings and watching a log get flushed out the hole, I proclaimed that I would run it. I intently analyzed the line one last time while walking back to my boat while my other 3 paddling companions set up safety.

Sitting nervously, on shore with my stomach in knots, I caught the signal and set off. I started down the river left of center avoiding a set of holes. Coming quickly through the chas to the boulders that required weaving, I attempted to move from left to river right. However, the river's speed was pulling me straight at the geo-metro sized downstream boulder. In a split second I determined that I would have to deflect off it's pile. I put a hard stroke in for momentum as I rode up over it's side. I was launched completely airborne forward and to river right off the rock and landed nicely set up for the hole ahead. I paddled hard knowing I needed to punch into the hole. When I hit the hole, I reached for a hard stroke on the face of it's backwashing wall only to no avail. I was being endered and as such had a small hope that I could maintain the vertical and push through...but alas I got flipped. In the commotion I wasn't sure if I was in still in the hole, but I set up and rolled upright instantly and found myself free of the hole. I caught an on-the-fly eddy on the right and regathered myself....the worst was over. I then peeled out and bust through the large pushy wave train with some flushy holes. I raised a fist to the air and triumphantly bellowed at my success as I peeled into the calm pool below.

The four of us continued down the river passing more class III and IV river before portaging the majestic and gnarly canyon of the Brule. Managing to almost take a nasty digger throughout course of the portage, I made it down to the base of the canyon, and put in ferrying out through fast boily water around the river bend. The river then relaxed, however with the knowledge of Devil's Kettle being ahead of us, we could not. Every bend we slowly and carefully came round ready to eddy out at a moments notice. After 6-7 bends of anticipation we saw Devil Kettle looming ahead and portaged it admiring it's beauty.

The ever-stomping Upper Falls

Putting in below whirlwind of mist from the un-run Upper Falls we headed down river shortly reaching Lower Falls. Myself and Scott Ewen contemplated the line for a significant amount of time noting it's large irregular roller leading into a intimidating frowning. We deciding to leave the drop for another day. Not long after, the river narrowed as it spilled through "Sewer Pipe". Ignoring the beta of my creeking buddies from the day previous, we ploughed through several big holes to arrive at the river left eddy. Scouting the drop it was clear that it was very safe: big pool behind it, obvious line, and a sure-to-flush drop. Yet to get to the correct line from the current eddy one had to attempt a heinous ferry through two big holes. Due to the friendliness of the drop I was determined to run it...ferry aside. I walked up as far I could before setting off. Hitting the first major hole I mistakenly placed a stoke past it on the right sending my boat back towards the left. In an attempt to correct I was overturned. I made two unsuccessful roll attempts before knowing that I was going over the drop upside down and tucked hard. I was violently sent through, the paddle being ripped from one hand. Having been underwater for two roll attempts then the drop itself, I didn't feel I had enough air to get my hand back on the paddle and get into my set up...so I took a little swim. Being that I was in a huge calm pool... my swim was of little concern as I found a shallow spot and dumped the water from my boat.

From that point we were home free and dropped through one last class III drop before reaching the beautiful shores of Lake Superior. We beached are boats happily and exhausted. After a much needed refueling stop a Sven and Ole's, I determined that an attempt at Illgen falls on this day was not possible as tired as I was. I drove home in the dusk content with the day and my paddling.