The Final Chapter of a Season: The Homeland

The water's were slowly tapering from the creeks in the furthest reaches of the North Shore. Meanwhile, a singular urbanite had driven northward and Joerg had left his corporate job aside for the day. He met with myself and Kiffy. Joerg is one of those legendary characters of the Midwest Creeking community: well versed in peer pressure tactics, known to take the tough lines for giggles, and eternally at the front of the crew on the river.... an all around fine gentleman! On this day Joerg's personality was particularly shining as he quickly made the sale for me and Kiffy to run the DT for the second consecutive day. Despite both of our lacking motivations, Joerg made the sale. I found myself speeding for the put in of the DT. Kiffy and Joerg represent some of the most experienced boaters in the Midwest having paddled together from their teenage years.... and then there was me: a mere 4 seasons under my belt.

 Myself atop "Triple Drop" of the Devil Track River

Photo credit of Andy McMurray

We put on the river and immediately it became clear this run was going to be spicy. Joerg made it plain that this run was going to be speedy. There would be no scouting, little eddying, but not without looking out for one another safety-wise. We barreled ahead, and as triple drop came upon us, I found myself in the rear of the crew. There was no looking back as we each dropped over the horizon lines. I remember the nasty cotton mouth of nerves as we dropped in. But in the morning sun light we each found our smiles on the river that day. I admittedly had a less than clean run, but stayed composed throughout and kept pace. I managed to get stuck in the hydraulic below portage down the middle and rolled up wasting no time. I knew it fed out on the river left. I placed 4 hard forward strokes while side surfing, and easily escaped it's grasp.

Joerg, Kiffy, and Myself Portage the Admiral amongst the majesty of the Devil Track Canyon

Photo credit of Andy McMurray

In a little over an hour and a half from putting on we found ourselves floating amongst the blue skies as they reflected in the calm waters of Lake Superior, the Devil Track behind us. 

In the coming days, the community rested as the yearly migration to the Presque Isle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was at hand. There we would take part in the annual downriver race in honor and remembrance of Jim Rada... a legend of paddling who had lost his life on the river in the last decade. Although I had run the Presque before, I looked forward to participating in the race for the first time.

The skies shone blue and the air was warmed in the sun's golden presence. We amassed the day prior to the race to run the full Presque Isle. The crew included Kiffy, Andy, Joerg, Decker, Holton and myself. And so amongst the Spring sunshine we would make the long trek to the put in. After an hour of shouldering our boats and walking less traveled roads, the sweat dripped from my brow as the river came into view. Thankfully, I slid into the chilled waters and let the river cool me. In succession we made our way downstream, and after three or so drops, it became clear that it was going to be an off day for me. I found myself less than upright tangling with the river's bottom all too often. With this detriment to my confidence, I portaged Triple Drop and Nokomis with a majority of the crew, making the heinous portage, and rejoined the other paddlers.

We continued onward as the sun fell in the afternoon, and came upon the final mile of the Presque Isle. There the river would drop in rapid succession over 4 drops of class VI+ and V character. The river was running higher than I had previously experienced and so I awaited the horizon lines ahead with focused attention.

Nadawadaha Falls

We busted down Nawadaha Falls one by one with enthusiasm growing as the drops increased in their difficulty. Downstream we eddied out above Manido Falls. There the watered cascaded over a multitude of rock stairs, forming repetitive pour-overs of 2-3 feet in height. The last time a ran Manido I recalled getting caught in the pour-overs, tried to side surf out, and eventually ran the remainder of the drop out of my boat and on my ass. Today was my day to redeem myself, as I carefully picked my line and held the landmarks in my mind.  The horizon roared as I slid over the first pour over and attempted to time my strokes, hoping to boof the next pourover. I kept the bow up as I blew through the next pour-over and comfortably bounced down the remainder of the drop.

The Final Streches of Manido Falls

Everyone eddied out, as ahead loomed one of the most pristine falls of the Midwest. Manabezo falls outstretched nearly 100 yards wide, and dropped 25 ft to the waters below. It's line was not easy, as the lip of the falls was irregular and fractured, as we sought a narrow tongue of water. Furthermore, the landing had a history of breakings legs due to it shallowness. I had descended Manabezo twice before and last fall experienced my first spine compression as a result of boofing the falls. I hoped to learn from that experience...

The sun was falling low on the horizon, and I was feeling fired up and confident. I jumped my boat and decided I'd be the first of the crew to descend. Hugging the river left bank the scene accelerated and the familiar tunneling of vision occurred as my focus narrowed on my line.

 Manabezo Falls of the Presque Isle River in the UP of Michigan

It's moments as these that the mind slows time and the dualism of reactive/instinctual paddling comes to battle with that of intentioned/conscious paddling. Reactive paddling deals with the immediate reality of the whitewater before us and our reaction to it. Meanwhile conscious paddling focuses on the river ahead, and is planning intentional strokes before they are even placed. Each have their place, and so we struggle as kayakers to balance the two amidst utter chaos.

The horizon opened up before me and my stroke hit the lip of the falls. My bow rose to meet the horizon as I took to flight in a wicked boof. My conscious mind took over, I remembered all that I had been told about techniques to avoid spinal compression. I threw my torso forward against the deck of my boat and kept my back hunched. I landed with a audible and violent "BOOF". In the impact my paddle slammed hard against my boat and my thumb in between. I celebrated the control I had maintained; I had hit my line, place a nice boof, and protected my spine. But I was acutely aware of a warmth and throbbing in my right thumb. I had learned a new lesson...how to clear your paddle on impact. On inspection, the thumb had begun to swell already. I kept the pain to myself, in denial of the injury, as the rest of the crew took joyful flight.

 Joerg Steinbach boofs Manabezo

We each paddled away from Manabezo with the knowledge that ahead loomed "Zoom Flume".  Zoom Flume can be described as series of  entangled wave holes of formidable size created by the constriction of the river rocketing through a narrow walled-in channel. It provides for the "sporty" grand finale of the run before emptying into Lake Superior. By the time I had punched a moderate sized entry hole to Zoom Flume, I knew my thumb was in poor condition, as I felt tendons snapping and pain warmly course through it. It was too late to turn back. The roar was obvious and ahead the gnashing of the Flume lay apparent. All thought of my discomfort was lost to the required focus. Deep strokes were laid as I ploughed into the melee of a chaotic wave hole sized over my head. My bow went skyward and I fought to stay upright. But a secondary reactionary upturned my boat. I went for a quick roll attempt and missed it. I waited for my paddle to reach the surface but I had no such luck. I threw for my next roll and focused my hip snap. I narrowly came to the air upright and sighted before me another large curler nearly on top of  me. I pounded through and was relieved as the onslaught had ended.

"Zoom Flume" of the Presque Isle River 

Drifting into the expanse of the lake, the crew celebrated the run and the adrenaline happily danced in our veins. But my enthusiasm was killed by the pain coursing through my thumb. Cussing repetitively, I tore it my glove off and placed the thumb in the numbing waters of  Lake Superior. In pulling it back for inspection, there was visible bruising and it was floridly swollen... I knew I had broke something. Bruising that early was tell-tale. Coming to shore, the crew noted my state and carried my boat back to the camp for me, while I sulked back.

My pulverized thumb

The Jim Rada race took place that year without me amongst its ranks. I took to filming the event and attempting to keep a good attitude. And amongst the community, I lost myself amongst the rising flames of the campfire and soaked in the glowing twilight.

Soaking in the Sunset on the Shores of Lake Superior

I was uplifted by the laughter and the fellowship in spite of an underlying disappointment.

 

Laughter amongst the rain

In parting the Upper Peninsula,  I drove in the morning light numb and thoughtless...  I was aware that my season had come to a close.  I grieved for the loss of it for several weeks as a x-ray confirmed what I had already known... inside my thumb I had avulsed a ligament that took a piece of bone with it. I avoided hearing anything about the rivers as the rains rolled across the North Country. I packed my belongings as I would soon move to my new home of Billings, MT for the next three years.

Midwest paddling! Thank you to the Red Dangler Community!

Photo credit of Andy McMurray

As my depression soon faded, I looked back on the season with thanks, as I had been deeply gifted. It was a season of profound change in my paddling, of countless unforgettable memories, and friendships both formed and deepened. As I drove from the North Shore and Duluth, I nodded thankfully to Lake Superior in gratitude and farewell. I drove into the Westward horizon with the freshness of the new life ahead of me, meanwhile behind me lay the setting of countless golden memories, shaped by my lifelong tenure in the North Country. The Northland would remain pridefully........ my homeland!

Spring of Devil's Track

The hand of Winter refused to relinquish it's grasp, as the air grew cold again. The morning came slow to the land and the sun rose sluggishly under the cover of a smothering blanket of grey. In the meantime, the snow had floated gently from the skies and the land was garnished with its white hand.

And so the masses slowly trickled from the Northern Shores of Lake Superior. The urbanites retreated from the cold to their respective lives. The nomads of paddling heard other water's calling and continued their migration. I spent a day or two recovering from my bruised thigh as it's colors transitioned from purple to yellow's and blues (due to a boat taking me out on the DT portage). I deemed the leg usable and so I joined small and stalwart midweek crew to paddle. Andy Mcmurray, Kiffy, and myself met with Paul Hooper and had the North Shore at our disposal. Neither Andy or Paul had done the Devil Track this season and felt it pulling to them. So the shuttle vehicles tore down the dirt road barreling toward the beginnings of Devil's track.

The crew was largely familiar with the river, with the exception of Paul having his virgin run on the DT (Devil Track). And so we plodded our way way to Triple Drop light hearted. The river's level had improved from the prior runs providing a more cushioned feel and less contact with the river's bottom. We arrived at the triple drop and each probed our gumption in thoughts of running the drop. Andy's shoulder remained injured and painful and thus he reluctantly chose to portage and Paul elected to do the same. And so Kiffy and myself made a small pile of twigs and started a miniature fire atop triple drop, warming our hands while awaiting Andy and Paul to portage and set safety below. A short while later, we mounted are boats and dropped over the beautiful horizon lines of the DT. At the base of the second falls I emerged unscathed and was again feeling the pure elation of the vitality of life.

 Kiffy Runs Triple Drop Amongst the Snow

Photo credit: Andy McMurray

As we put on below the majesty of the 40 ft falls known as the "Admiral", the crew felt cohesive. The bond between paddlers on the river is unique. The group has an reliance on one another for not only safety, but for an energy that can ignite a motivation and can uplift your paddling to levels you were previously unaware. And conversely poor group dynamics can be disastrous. It's as if the river's spirit can sense and reward the unity among us, and yet will evoke wrath on groups bent on the individuality of its paddlers. A mile downstream, this phenomena would be enforced.

We had moved on from serpents slide and were navigating the shallow class II and III making our way towards Portage Down the Middle. A particular section I recall being frustratingly shallow as the river divided. Thus I took the lead and directed the crew down the river right channel, hoping for more volume. I slithered my way down the narrow channel, but looking ahead noticed an unusual smoothness to the water and saw a 5 inch diameter log across the river's entire width! Frantically, I worked to the river left where 2-3 inches of water made it's way over top the log while the river right the log was nearly 3 inches from the water line. I knew the gravity of the situation and threw a hard stroke and  pulled my knees upward to raise the bow of my boat as I impacted the log. I narrowly maintained momentum as I slid over. I caught the first feasible eddy and leapt from my boat screaming at the other's behind me to eddy out. It was too late. Andy successfully boofed over the log, but to our dismay Paul's boat slid halfway up, lost momentum, and fell back upstream of the log. His boat was instantly sucked under the log, and with the log about his waist he held on. Kiffy being in close succession behind Paul narrowly maneuvered around Paul and boofed the right side. We each tore up the shore on foot towards the log, myself of the left shore and Andy & Kiffy on the right. When I had made it log and seeing its diameter, I attempted to lift it up. I gained only a few inches and Paul remained pinned, there were few nearby trees for an anchor, and I hung poised to throw my throw bag . Meanwhile, Kiffy and Andy rapidly set up a Z-drag on a nearby tree, and Paul slowly began to get sucked under as we worked furiously to help. Fortunately, Paul arrived downstream of the log intact, still in his boat, and wide eyed. We all relieved and went about removing the log. Z-dragging the log across the river we freed the river and future paddlers from it's grasp. I was satisfied with the rapidity that the group responded to the situation and the action we quickly took. But it was an effective reminder.

Myself going after "Portage Down The Middle"

Photo Credits of Andy McMurray

We moved onward, making our way through Portage Down the Middle and had good lines all around. We quickly took out of the river and watched the beads of sweat build as we huffed ourselves and boats up to the canyon rim and back down again. The runs climax remained ahead and we prepped Paul for the virgin run of his life, ahead lay "Ski Jump" and"Up Against the Wall".

I distinctly remembered the first run of these drops. Andy McMurray was in the lead and when I asked what lie ahead (most likely the 20th time I asked). He quickly exclaimed..."nothing for a mile", with a shit-eating grin on his face. A 100 yards down river, I watched Joel Decker drop from view over a large horizon line. When the scene came into view, my eye widened, and I have never grasped a paddle so tight! But on this day, we crested the horizon line with a large "woop" rising into the cold air and the acceleration began. Gleefully and cautiously I hurdled down the 30 ft steep slide before nailing a reactionary at the base and lining up for the final onslaught of the DT. The velocity was again regained as "Up Against the Wall" had begun. I took taking a left line and knowing I would be pushed right down the burly slide. Ahead it loomed... the water collided with the oncoming canyon wall and leapt up banking 90 degrees to the right. The paddle strokes became more poised and I punched up over a seam and found myself nearly in a violent eddy in the corner adjacent to the banking water. My stern caught and I banked through the wall backwards and thankfully upright.

Kiffy readying for the meat of "Up Against The Wall"

Photo Credit: Andy McMurray

The river then gradually calmed until it meandered quietly to the expanse of the Lake. Coming to the river's mouth we found a new onslaught as the surf immediately rose up and pounded into me. We paddled out beyond the break, did our ceremonial roll in Lake Superior, and took the final joy of surfing back to the land.

We had a festive night by the fire, carrying the torch of the fore fathers of paddling before us. These Northern shores are steeped in personal memories and historical lore, yet united in the commonality life giving waters that feed the past and present. I stood enveloped by the depths of contentment.

The Familiarity of the Devil Track River

The twilight was falling upon the waters, and one by one the stars put holes the growing darkness.  Upon the gravel shores of Lake Superior a fellowship was amassing. The waters continued to leap heartily in the creeks of the North Shore, and spoke to the hearts of all those wielding a paddle. Escaping from the urban persuasion came the Twin cities paddlers to join their Northern Minnesota neighbors. Further yet, the paddling Nomads from Colorado and the Pacific Northwest had to come to the shores.  As whitewater brethren, we each came to answer the call, drawn inexplicably to the waters and united in our celebration of them. The the fire burned late into the night, the beer stayed plentiful, and the laughter was hearty.

Awaking to the sun's demanding light, I rolled from the bed of my truck into the morning air. A quick poll amongst the camp's different factions confirmed that today's paddling menu would contain the coveted Devil Track River. After a lengthy breakfast, I arrived at the put-in late, but in the nick of time. 15 paddlers suited up along the river's banks. I frantically threw my gear on and as the crew was divided into smaller individual groups.  I found myself thrust into the lead, guiding the Pacific Northwest paddlers on their virgin run of the Devils Track River. Putting on was Chris Baer, Scotty Baker, Dan Mentin, Jason, and myself as the final crew down. Only 4 seasons prior I stood trembling with nervous anticipation for my own first run down the Devil Track. Much had changed since those early days, sliding from the snow filled banks into the rivers path I felt confident....the Devil Track had become a familiar journey.

I gave some quick directions in the early beginnings of the run, as the Pacific Northwest crew's enthusiasm was uncontainable as they paddled onward ahead of me. Myself and Baer hung round the back of the group, and as we rounded a tight right corner to be greeted by an ominous scene. A large bridge of ice had formed between mid river boulders and river had begun to flow underneath with 3 inches of clearance from the water line. There sat Dan Mentin with the bow of his boat stuffed under the ice sieve, hands pushing on the ice, and fighting flushing completely under the ice. Meanwhile, Jason was out of his boat atop one of the boulders fishing Dan out. I quickly made way around the ice sieve and by the time I had eddied out, thankfully, Dan had been safely extracted without incident.The Devil Track declared its unforgiving nature. We took heed and paddled cautiously onward.

Arriving at the formidable triple drop, the two crews ahead of us had amassed on the banks eying a moderate sized tree clogging the entry to the first drop. Like ants we swarmed into action, the 15 of us in various roles lasso-ed the log and began hauling it out. With the log cleared, one by one each dropped into the first two tiers of triple drop.

Tony Nigon killing it on Triple Drop. Note the tiny figurine atop the first falls (gives perspective)

Photo Credit: Chris Baer!

Being the last group to arrive Iwas one of the last paddler's to drop in. Charging for the first drop, I  fought rightward, going over the lip poised for an attempt to pull the bow up, however knowing that in all likelihood my attempts at any sort of a boof would fail on the sliding falls. I entered the vertical world and plunged into the oncoming water 18 ft below me and darkness shrouded my vision. M the pool below upright, smiling, and covered in foam.

y boat and I emerged in the hanging pool pushed against the pool's wall. I fought my way back into the flow and worked my way toward the second sliding falls... below the crew awaited. I plunged over the 25 ft sliding falls whilst the world accelerated with vigor and I welcomed oncoming hit. I emerged in
And so we picked are way down the classic drop's of the Devil's Track banking through Serpents slide, Hammering into "Portage Down the Middle". We all took to the fromidable portage up to the canyon rim and around the unrunnable pitch fork falls. Instead of strenuously walking the boats back down the narrow gully to the river 200 ft (?) below, we each elected to chuck our boats down the ravine confident in their ability to stand up to impacts with the trees. However Baer decided he would walk his boat down away's before letting her loose. I was downhill when he let the boat go and I quickly stepped aside at his exclamation. The boat barrelled 10 yards downhill before glancing off a tree and coming for me. I took a direct hit to my my thigh and took me out by the legs. I lay on the ground cursing in pain and stood up findings myself battered but still intact. I knew the next days I would likely be sore ones.

We made our way down the river found the joy of puckering our sphincter's on "Ski Jump" and "Up Against the Wall". I came to know the satisfaction of introducing paddlers a new river, and found myself reliving the experience of a virgin run on the Devil Track through their broad smiles. And so the run ended with a living metaphor as the river opened up to the expanse of Lake Superior. You could sense the great opening as the flowing waters merged with seemingly unending horizon of water. Every time I make this transition,  I feel a sense of what the river to heaven might be like.

And so with bustling enthusiasm we came again to the shores, with the usual adrenaline hyped conversation reminiscent of boyhood sugar-highs. As the sun completed it's day's journey, we retreated back to the our paradise on the beach and resumed the celebration. Bloated with satisfaction we toasted beers to the day's success, meanwhile darkness fell about the lapping waves.

Northwoods Whitewater's Last Gasp - Part Two

 Anthony runs "Portage Up The Middle"

My eyes opened from sleep and relief came to me... it was over and freedom was mine. My licensure exam was now in the past and the bag of my paddling gear sat outside my bedroom door ready and awaiting me. I leapt out of bed and scurried about the house excitedly preparing to embark upon the Northern Shore of Lake Superior.

We congregated in Two Harbors catching a hearty breakfast to fuel the day ahead. A lineup of four cars laden with creek boats sped northward. We stopped along the way checking levels and debated the best course of action as the Cascade was a perfect level. However stopping at the Devils Track river there was more confusion as to ascertain the river levels. The once known gauges had been blow out by floods two years previous and correlations were unknown. We huddled up... "Cascade or Devils Track?"... The majority held wit the Devils Track as there was apprehension from the majority about the Devil's Track especially of those who had not run either of the Northwoods most technical and classic runs. Among myself, Japs, and John H. being the only paddler's with experience with the D-Track, we had some concerns amongst ourselves about the committed nature of the D-Track. There was portages that MUST be made or suffer dire consequences and blind slides that could hold a perilous log. But we agreed and we quickly made shuttle.

We split into two groups: Japs leading Anthony and Andy S. Meanwhile Myself and John H. led Scott W. and Brian behind. Setting off amongst the mellow beginnings of the DT it became more than clear this was going to be a low water run. We bumped our way down and in the leading the way I was surprised at how quickly we arrived at triple drop. Triple drop cascades first over a 20 ft sliding falls into a narrow pool before dropping over a larger 35 ft sliding falls into a small margin-ed pool. From the the river passes through the gates of hell and explodes over a 40 ft double tiered burly falls known as "The Admiral" and has only been descended twice. Complicating the picture was a log wedged between the base of the first falls and the opposing wall lining the narrow pool just barely left of the landing zone (this one is new and not the one that has been there for years). Four of the seven decided to run the top two drops of triple drop. Japs went first styling the first drops and set safety in the last pool. John went next and styled the first drop and emerging unscathed set up safety in the first pool. Andy S. went next and plunging into the first drop emerged from the depths and was pushed against the left-hand log. He fought as the boiling currents made an uphill battle away from the pressing log and paddled out of it's grasp. While Andy S. styled the second drop, I  took once last glance at the line then slid into my boat and peeled into the oncoming current. I fought hard for the right-hand shore through a moguls of water and  saw the horizon line before me. Entering the purity of the vertical world, I fought for a late boof stroke to keep me from the depths of plugging. I was only mildly successful and was dismayed to find myself greeted by the left hand log. I grasped the log with my left hand keeping my boats edges vigilant. After two attempts I found myself still being push back against the log. I finally paddled frantically back towards the base of  falls and was relieved to have the boiling currents release me and let me enter into the calm eddy before the second falls. I was breathing hard from the exertion and took a moment to catch my breadth and collect my focus. With John onlooking, I turned and sped for the lip of the second falls and fought again for the right most line. I plunged over its sliding explosion of water and bounced violently mid way down the water's roaring descent and slammed into the pool below. I emerging triumphantly from my first baptism by triple drop as Japs and Andy quickly grabbed a hold and steadied my boat in the tight lower eddy I exited my boat to the shore with an unrelenting smile. John styled the drop behind me and the four of us portaged with enthusiastic chatter meanwhile admiring "The Admiral" and the mist hanging about it's majesty. Sliding down the scree slopes the river below greeted by our fellow companions who finished their rugged portage. We lined the misty and ice encrusted shoreline and mounted our boats for the adventure ahead.
Continuing downstream I took the lead of the second crew for a short while. The tight cliff walls alerted us to the nearness of our next challenge, Serpent's Slide and Boulder Falls in direct sequence. Japs and the group ahead scouted serpent slide for the deadly possible of logs. Being that I ended up in sweep, by the time I arrived those on shore gave me the thumbs up. I turned collected my focus and will as the water accelerated at break-neck speed toward the oncoming wall. On a rocket ship ride the water and I collided and banked off oncoming wall like a hellish water slide then commenced  into another entry slide. I paddled for the left line and plunged down the sliding Boulder Falls busting through the hole lining its base into a broad eddy. I turned and watched each of the crew as the came rocketing down each emerging with wide eyes and priceless grins.

The river ahead mellowed and we bumped along the scenic boogy water admiring the majesty of Devil's Track Canyon. We each sped through two more drops of significance before reaching the horizon line of "Portage Up The Middle". Portage Up the Middle is a double tiered ledge hole having a tight and specific line and given it's sticky hole is deserving of a safety on shore. It is aptly named, because portaging the drop is made nearly impossible by the bordering sloped walls . Having been in sweep I was the last to reach the shore and as I exited my boat I was informed of this situation ahead. I was told of a large log that was wedged in a diagonal to the current perfectly embedded in the necessary right hand line.

The scene at "Portage Up the Middle"... notice the log

As a group we converged to discuss our plan... we originally thought to seal launch from a tight left hand perch. I was elected to go first and only after almost sliding down the steep bank into the river I handed my boat off to John. But the small perch was found to be too unsteady to even mount me boat. So myself and Japs lowered ourselves into the tight pool between tiers and found a slight underwater ledge for a footing. Japs and Holton steadied my boat as I quickly ratcheted in and slid over the final ledge to the waters beyond the drop. Looking upstream I watched as each of the party forded past Portage Up the Middle.
 

 

Brian puts on and runs "Portage Up The Middle"

Alas John was all that was left and had no one to aid him into the tight pool. I quickly  scaled the mossy left cliff wall above the drop. I waded out into the river feet from the lip of the drop and as John paddle up the right hand shore I grabbed a hold of his boat kept him in the eddy as he exited his boat. We lowered his boat over the right hand cliff wall to the arms of Japs and each clamored down the slick and mossy left hand slopes.

The sun was broaching the edge of the horizon as we finally pushed from shores below Portage Up The Middle. We had already had a quick meeting about the peril ahead. The river below was known to enter a canyon that terminated in Pitchfork falls, which of 40 ft in height terminated on a pile of rocks... certain to mame or take the life of any who plunged over it. More importantly there is only a single eddy and place to climb out of the canyon, afterward you are certain to be hopelessly propelled over the falls. At issue was tha fact that none of us that had run the river before remember the exact location of the eddy and path out of the canyon. We would take it slow and eddy as often as possible.

We entered the canyon and nerves ran high. John and Japs took the lead. After a few anxious and blind bends in the river I was relieved to see them on shore beckoning the group to an small eddy ready to pluck our boats. When we each had reached the shore, looking up the slope to the canyon rim that battle was not over yet. The lactic acid coursed through my burning legs and breath heaved as I shoulder my boat while scaling the slippery slope. Reaching the top I chucked my boat the ground breathlessly unable to vocalize my relief to have sumitted the canyon rim. But as the crew reassembled at the rim panting, we were aware of the ominous creeping of darkness to the land as the sun had now fallen below the horizon. We urgenly hiked along the canyon top and threw our boats down a wooded gully towards the river below. Emerging from the harrowingly slick gully we came again to the river's bank.

Being the last to the river edge half the crew had already pushed in the river and paddled frantically downstream fighting the dwindling light and the oncoming darkness. Being familiar with the river ahead, I took the lead of the second group. It was only a few river bends before we came to a large and familiar horizon line. Ahead lay some of the best Class V the North shore has to offer. Below the horizon line was a ~25-30 ft sliding falls entitled "Ski Jump" which then subsequently plummeted into a hefty slide of 30-40 yards in length that violent banked around a 90 degree corner pummeling the rising canyon wall and terminate in another long slide, hence it is named "Up Against The Wall".

I turned to my companions and yelled "this is it!!!" and turned my focus back to the horizon line. The scene opened before me. The world  white of the leaping waters stood out  as the shores melted down a large slide of perhaps 20 feet in height. Rocketing downward the waters danced of the rocks leaping into the air. The slide directly took a bend to the right and plummeted over another slide. I knew it was coming... the slide smashed directly into the oncoming wall  and made a direct 90 degree turn in what results in a monsterous wall of water (entitled "Up Against the Wall"). I confirmed my line sped for the wall came high on it and braced. I no sooner found myself gleefully bouncing down the last and more mellow slides. Thus ended one of the most intense sections of whitewater the North Shore has to offer. In what turned to complete darkness the crew of paddlers drifted to in to the cold water of Lake Superior as the inland ocean congratulated us for the run with host of large waves. We surfed our boats back to shore, with quiet contentment and grins.

Reclaiming Spring: Devils Track River

I started my Saturday with anticipation of the adventures ahead. In the late morning, I caught a ride up to the infamous Devils Track River. Ten paddlers drove up for the chance to run the gorgeous and challenging Devil's Track.

I had heard only fabled stories of the Devils Track river: must make eddies, unscoutable class IV, tight class V drops inside the river's ominous red canyon walls. Others urgently warned me it was amongst the most difficult rivers on the Northern shore of Lake Superior. As we drove north I was encouraged by the experience of the paddlers I was accompanied by and delved deep for my own self-confidence. We drove up to the put in and I put my gear on in silent nervousness squeezed into my boat and slid into the river with my five companions for the day.

The river started with deceptive class II building into solid class III as the river slowly fell into its canyon and S-turning around sharp bends. We quickly eddied out above a nearing horizon line. Ahead lay "triple drop". Here the river plunged deep into the canyon first with a 20 ft steep slide drop into a boiling hanging pool then dropping another 20 ft into a small pool then sliding through a narrow slot and plunging 30 ft over "the Admiral"... the poster-child of gnar! Being my first time on the river and not feeling warmed up nor as confident as was needed, I decided to take the heinous portage around the drops. After running safety for the others, three of us made the must-make ferry to the other shore and hiking up the steep banks then descending a rugged and steep gully. Dripping with sweat I finished the portage and promptly jumped into the river's cold water to relieve some heat. We continued downriver down continuous class III and through unscoutable class IV with the direction of my experienced companions.

We eddied out just above "Portage Up The Middle" which consisted of a double-holed drop the second of which had some significant holding power. I set up safety from a narrow perch on the left and watch as everyone attempted the drop with varying degrees of success and a growing nervousness. I jumped in my boat with my line through the drop in mind and a plan to paddle the shit out of it....making sure to have a crap ton of momentum to blast through the holes. My strategy proved successful as I left drop behind me with little incident (stay tuned for video). We paddled a short ways before portaging over Pitchfork falls and returning to the river.

Back in our boats it was indicated the next drop was "1.5 miles ahead" which we later learned was a ploy to keep us from fretting over the unscoutable drops ahead. Being third in line I watched as Joel ahead of me disappeared over a significant horizon line. My eyes were likely open wide as a barreled down the 15 ft steep slide/drop which immediately steeply rushed down fast slide through two bends of the river before the entire river slammed against it's canyon wall and deflect off into a shallow slide into a pool. Ahead of me I could see the bottom of Joel's boat and knew this was a significant drop to be contended with. Unfortunately in my fixation on the water piling into the wall, I succumbed to the same fate and was flipped. As I tucked hard while submerged and promptly felt two hits to my helmet and thought to myself... "Oh, shit...this is going hurt!". There was a break in the shallowness and I instinctively made my roll attempt. I flipped upright with surprising ease (and relief) to find myself right on the giant pile of water next to the canyon wall and continued down the slide wide-eye and with a tight grip on my paddle.

The river wound down with some last breaths of class II and III before flowing into Lake Superior. A huge smile broke on my face as we paddled through the ripples of Lake Superior carrying a satisfying sense of accomplishment. As tradition would entail, we got off river and told the story of our run to the other group of paddlers that had waited for us and preceded us in their run down down the Devils Track.

The run down the Devils Track was a definite milestone in my paddling that will be remembered. We drove home, myself talkatively exhausted still running through the whole river in my head, still living in the exhilaration I had just experienced!