From Troubles To Triumph: Part One - The East Beaver

I awoke to the wind howling at my windows and the dull light of the cloud shrouded sky. I stepped out the door with my kayak over my shoulder as the air still decided whether it would freeze the landscape. The road was still wet from the night's rain as my car splashed through puddles to the Lester River parking lot. Arrived to an empty lot, I tilted my seat back, made a few phone calls, and waited with my eyes closed. With the cold eroding my motivation, I was about the start the car and leave when a kayak topped car arrived.

The ride up the North Shore became quiet as the falling snow and lack of light sapped my energy and motivation. We arrived at Beaver Bay and looked at the river. I had never taken a close look at it in high water, and seeing it raging as it did now was stirringly impressive.

The angry Beaver River in its fury near Hwy 61

We headed upstream to scout the level of the East Beaver. Having never run this river, I took the word of a paddling companion when he casually said, "it's good". Our caravan of vehicles pulled into the parking lot at the put it and geared up. Emerging from their fogged vehicles dressed for battle our crew of 9 paddlers slid into the East Branch of the Beaver River.

Getting geared at the put in (photo courtesy of John McConville)

Amongst the placid and boggy waters we floated through the bends ahead as snow fell heavy enough to coat the ground white. I listened intently to the description of what lay ahead: Some simple class III boogy water with an important river right hand eddy. It sounded uncomplicated to my sluggish mind. We turned a sharp left bend and I began to hear the roar of the waters ahead. Watching a few of the crew drop out of site, I got ready.

However when the scene ahead came into view my eye widened in surprise. Realizing the river's level was very high, the river held no simple boogy water. In shock I paddled hard crashing through big features and clashing cold water. After punching a descent hole I see 3 of our paddlers chilling out in an eddy one of which was clearly in pain. He ferry out and continued down river and I followed him. Eddying out again I saw him pull his skirt and saw his boat flush away as he pulled himself ashore. I was concerned, I had no idea how far ahead the eddy was before the river dropped over three sequential sets of well known falls. Finally a fellow paddler who knew the river went by. I ferried out and went down looking for eddies amongst the flooded chaos. After seeing a companion with the vacated boat on shore I eddied out as he drug it to me. On the other shore line walked up our injured paddler. I clipped it onto my PFD's tow line. I paddled furiously as I ferried across to the other shore dragging the boat behind me. A fellow paddler on the other side grabbed my boat. I jumped out feeling the drag of the boat I was towing threatening to pull me down stream. Two paddler on shore grabbed me and pulled me and the boat ashore.

The last of three falls on the East Branch of the Beaver River
(my orange boat can be seen on shore) photo courtesy of Mellisa Grover

Relieved we all regathered ourselves and put on again. Only a hundred yards later I eddied out just before the first of the falls. Before me the river dropped 20 ft down a sliding falls into a boiling hanging pool. It the dropped another 20 ft into another and larger hanging pool, before dropping a= final 18 ft falls before making it's way again. I looked at the drops below and sensed my jinxed confidence and decided I would only run the last one. After watching a few paddling friends fire them off each fall, I and another paddler lower our boats to run the final 18 footer.

Mimicking the route of the paddler dopping the falls before me, I blindly paddled to the left hand shore towards the lip and launched myself off. After a moment under water I porpoised to the surface. (see video of the action below)

Video of me running the last falls on the East Beaver
(video courtesy of Melissa Grover)

We paddled onward down the meandering river to the take out and walked back to the road. The run was a hectic mess and yet I was happy to have run the last falls. I was relieved that everyone made it out okay. We drove back to Duluth, I was anxious to be again warm inside my home. How was I too know that the day's adventures were not to end there... (continued in the next post)

Paddling Rekindled- The Stewart River

The the winds blew cold as a new front of wintry air set down upon northern shore of Lake Superior. Still wet and geared up from a run on the Silver Creek, I shivered getting my boat from the truck top. Our same crew of seven paddlers slid from the banks of the Stewart River and began our journey among its currents. This being my third run on the Stewart river, and having walked it's entirety to recover a throw bag last year, I was acutely familiar with the river. With that awareness, I took the lead as we paddled the first stretches of its flowings.

The river was flowing at level higher than I had ever run it, and was nearly 6-12 inches higher than my experience. After multiple bends in the river we came to the first drop and exited our boats to scout. Ahead lay was a two tiered slide buried under a flood of water. Seeing the left line, I resumed my position and ferried out. I paddle into my line pushing through the minor clashings of water leading into the first tier. Cold water leaped up with it's watery grip attempting to push my about as I collide with the first wave hole and laid a hard stroke propelling me beyond it's grasp. Seconds later I was on to the second tier blasting into the slide ahead bouncing off a few rocks. I avoided a final and solitary hole and eddied out content with my lines.

The crew paddled on and as the river took a left bend we eddied out above Plumber's Crack. Exiting our boats, "Plumber's Crack" lay ahead as the water plunged over the 12 ft vertical falls. Everyone grabbed there boats and eagerly went to view it's beauty. Last year I had run the falls at a decently meaty level and plugged it and made it out okay (click here to see picture of plumber's crack from last year). However this at the river current level Plumber's Crack was impressive and intimidating.The falls was creating a big hydraulic and on the typical left line had a current pulling back behind the curtain of the falls. Secretly I was hoping someone else would run it, so that I could follow in wake of their gumption... know that someone else had ran the drop okay. But there were no takers, and fought with myself to run it in my mind and verbally. After getting a bit of encouragement from some of the crew and assurances that safety could be properly set up I went about sizing up my line.

Adrenaline was already kicking in as I carried my boat up to upstream eddy. As I pushed off from shore I breathed deeply hoping to exhale some nerves. I eddied out in a small eddy right above the lip. The crew of seven let out whoops and hollers of encouragement as I planted deep powerful strokes towards the lip. My focus narrowed and only the water and I existed as horizon line opened to the scene ahead. I hugged the left shore and rode stream of water throwing my last strokes before bursting into the air. I leaned forward looking at the boiling landing below me. I landed just as I had planned boofing (landing flat) into the pool below. The crew on shore cheered in congratulations and relief... I pumped my fist let out a whoop and went to work keeping myself from being pulled into the curtain. I paddle away with a smile.

Riding the waves of adrenaline still in my blood, we paddled on and forded the next portage and arrived shortly there after at the head of another horizon line. Ahead lay a rapid I had not yet run, but had my eye on it for the last year. Looking down from the cliff above I could see the "Pillow drop". The river raged 19-20 ft down a sliding falls and collided into a boulder. A 5 ft deluge of water exploded off the rock and buried it in a deep surging heaving of water. I had seen it run before, but at this high level the drop looked heinous. We all grabbed our boats and I shoulder mine to portage it, but meanwhile wrestled with myself to run it. A paddling companion likely sick of hearing me verbally wrestle with myself gave me the bit of encouragement I needed. I knew that the run was only safer at higher water levels. I again slid into the water and blew some good breaths as I heard the paddler on shore shouting in encouragement. I hugged the left shoreline tight and planted deep vertical strokes. I avoided a hole and saw the chaos ahead. I felt my boat falling into the vertical gap that would send me head-long into the boulder's exploded pillow. I leaned forward and braced for impact. The water blindingly hit my body as being tackled by a lineman, but I held strong. I had all along expected the giant boiling pillow to over turn my boat and I fully expected to have to roll up. Yet I emerged from the hit in a burst of water and speed upright. I peeled into a swirling eddy and made a tricky ferry across the river. The guys on shore congratulated me with a few whoops as I sat in an eddy waiting speechlessly content. There weren't words for the elation inside of me.

The rest of the river poured beautifully through earthen and rock walls. I felt good as I smoothly nailed my line on the last fun drop. We paddled on into the great expanse of Lake Superior. As always the joyful sense of awe poured over me. Only a paddler can describe the feeling of paddling a river from it's beginnings, passing through it's obstacles and challenges only to arrive at the vastness of it's ending and becoming into Lake Superior. Much a metaphor for the lives we live. I went went to bed that night, with my spirit whole and my body joyfully tired.

Paddling Rekindled- The Silver Creek

The aroma of coffee cut the grogginess of the morning as I drove to the Lester River parking lot to begin my weekend of paddling. It was my first day back paddling after being badly bruised the week previous and I was out to make up for lost time. I planned to warm up for creek season with a run on the Knife and French Rivers. I arrived at the parking lot to find a plethora of boats atop vehicles and a half dozen paddlers enjoying the morning banter. My plans quickly changed as a group of veteran paddlers graciously let me join them on a run of the Silver Creek. It was a creek I had yet to run and had heard that it was a run of class IV magnitude.

From the roadside banks of the Silver's put in, I anxiously geared up. This being my third time in my creek boat this season, I internally fought to keep my confidence up yet realistic. I Pushed my boat into the water and pealed into the current along side 5 paddling companions. Behind us 7 more paddlers geared up for a run.

In only a short while I met the Silver's first drop. I eddied out and watched my fellow paddlers drop out of sight. I went last and was surprised to find 3-4 foot drop as opposed to the slide I was expecting. I penciled awkwardly into the pool below and braced upright. From the pool we now sat, ahead lay a slide with logs forcing us to portage. Meanwhile chaos broke loose. The party behind us began dropping into the pool and had two paddlers swimming. In all 12 people played bumper boats in a pool with a log jammed slide only slightly ahead. Slowly the crowd dispersed as our party portaged ahead, and put on the river leaving the drop behind.

Only a short while ahead, the river reached another horizon line. We all dismounted our kayaks and scouted the drop ahead. It was a slide I would estimate being 1.5-2 football fields in length complete with small drops, S-turns, and slides. Yet the first portion was congested with downed wood. One by one we put in 1/3 of the way down the drop. I pushed off and paddled hard punching a hole and maneuver through a boiling S-turn. I eddying out and then pursuing the rest of the slide ahead blasting through obstacles ahead weaving a path amongst the water buried rock. Our crew having all successfully passing through the class IV action pushed on.

Before long we again met another horizon line. The river opened up to 15-20 ft river-wide falls. In a group effort we heaved a log from it's only line, hugging the river right shoulder through a boney channel then dropping 12-15 ft into the pool below. Watching several of us scrape out their lines I took my turn. I scraped my way down and as I gravity accelerated me off the lip of the falls, I consciously threw a hard stroke driving my body forward in an attempt to boof (landing flat). Landing in somewhat of a boof, I don't recall my face penetrating the water's surface and paddled away content.

The river's gradient wound down as the fishermen throwing lines foreshadowed our approach to Lake Superior. Ripping through a culvert under Hwy 61, I peeled out at the mouth of the silver with my paddling confidence renewed and a smile on my face.

The Gnashings of St. Louis River

The street lines passed agonizingly slow as I devoured a sandwich took some necessary fuel for the adventure that lay in the destination of the road ahead. I pulled into the parking lot in Carlton to the site of a kayak topped truck. The river was a welcoming site and this was time to reconnect with the waters that put me in touch with beauty and power like none other.

I walked an viewed the scene of the river and from sight new that it was significant level (2000-1800 cfs to be exact!). After greeting with fellow kayak companions, we geared for battle, and set off. Already it was becoming clear to me that the season was still early and that I was still feeling a bit green and unseasoned. As we hiked up to view the new and daring put in to Lower St. Louis, I could tell that my ambition was modest. I thus decided to skip the first drop of the day, the "Tongue" drop... I was having some insecurities concerning amplitude of hole it created. After a quick hike, I slid into the river and propelled my boat on its way amongst turbulent flowings of the St. Louis.

The Hwy 210 drop at 4200 cfs

I slowly thawed my confidence with a few minor drops before reaching the "Octopus". In two glances at the condition of the river ahead, I knew that I had a portage ahead of me. The river was running voluminously making for features of rousing magnitude. After listening to the analysis of my companions and trying pick up a any parcels of insight on the drop before us, I abruptly walked back to get a head start on the portage ahead. From an eddy below, I watched them skillfully weave a sneak route around the meat of drops looking to have a tendency towards significant nastiness.

Knowing that the river was a touch more than I had bargained for, I prepared for the drops I knew were ahead. As we approached the Jay Cooke swinging bridge, whether I was ready or not the drops lay in the near foreground. As a paddler, when a you stare into the thralls of a noteworthy drop you achieve a state of primal existence and extreme focus. Only you and the river exist and the rest falls from your awareness. Intuition kicks in and you hope you have trained your instinctual memory well. I dropped down a 14 ft sliding falls and plowed into a hanging pool upright. Then threw some hard strokes over the lip of 10 footer entitle "Air Time" landing in the water below. The swinging bridge passed over my head as we paddled onwards. After assessing the river ahead and predicting the hair raising consequences of running Finn Falls, we got off the river and headed back for a second lap.

Having found a portion of my confidence again, I decided to run the previously portaged "Tongue Drop". Each of us pushed away from shore in succession and lined up for the descent ahead. I watched two companions fall from sight. Before me opened into view the tongue drop in a condition I had never paddled it. The tongue drop is aptly named for a long flat conveyer belt of water that flowed over a flat table (or 'tongue') of rock. From three sides the water then fell 2-3 feet off of the table creating a sweeping hole ahead The hole was churning pile of water that rose above the head of an oncoming paddler. It became rapidly clear to me that my line for the tongue drop was off. I was too far to river right and saw the line ahead was not ideal. I dually noted the presence of "fins" of rock that ran parallel to the flow of water throwing small rooster tails of water.

The "Tongue" Drop at 4200 cfs.
My line was river right (picture left) of center on the tongue of rock extending into the hole.

In this instant, I first contemplated paddling to my left, but there was no time. To attempt to paddle too far left would put me at risk of hitting the hole at an angle, putting me at further risk of being thrown sideways and caught in a side surf in the hole. Resigned to my fate, I laid some hard strokes for punching momentum. It became clear my boat was going to be thrown on edge by the sloping water. I threw out a brace to the right to keep my boat from over-turning and balancing the edge I was riding, I aimed for a point and collided with the wall of water. At that instant I felt a fin of rock graze my side and slam into my bracing right arm from my arm pit upward. It was as if my flexed bicep muscle had been put between an anvil and a hammer as I felt the rock collide with the bone of my arm and heard the crack of it then riocheteing off my elbow pad. I emerged for the blinding waters upright and in pain. I paddled through the 210 drop and eddied out. I told my fellow kayakers to go without me as I removed myself from my boat. I walked back to my car whispering obscenities under my breath as if it would somehow relieve the pain of my circumstance.

And so it was that the river would not let me miss my line without having its own justice. No paddler feels pride in an injury, it is no symbol of misconstrued machismo to be revelled at. In fact, any sense of pride I may have had was bruised, and in stripping my shirt and looking at the condition of my arm, that became literally true. I write about it now in no attempt to water down the reality of whitewater and its inherent dangers. It is a reminder that the elegance of paddling is coming from the choas and challenge effortlessly unscathed. My only solace was in the fact that I emerged from my predictament upright, having not been caught and sparring with The "Tongue" in an over turned kayak.

The damage... nothing to be happy about.

So I sit now with an arm showing the colors of the rainbow; finding myself humbled and yet anxious to learn from my folly.... ready to paddle the river again when my injuries have healed.

Northshore Conditions

The Lester:
Looks pretty low!!!

Pick your favorite marker rock... it won't matter, it's low.

(taken from the walking bridge near Superior St.)

The French:
No Surprise... it's low too! Some ice to boot.

Looking upstream from the take out on Old Hwy 61

The Sucker River:
Ok it's low too but I have more historical data on the sucker... below it is picture from today, two weeks ago, and last year on the same day! We're a lot further along than last year...

Looking upstream from Old Hwy 61
(shown from most recent to oldest)

April 6th 2009 (above)

March 26, 2009 (above)

April 7th, 2008

Looking Downstream from Old Hwy 61

April 6th, 2009 (above)

March 26, 2009

April 7th, 2008


The "Tea Cups"

April 6th, 2009 (above)

March 26, 2009 (above)

April 7th, 2008

The Knife River:
Low as well.... more historical pics to look through though... just below Hwy 61

April 6th, 2009 (above)

March 26, 2009

April 7, 2008

Paddling the Mississippi at Flood: Dream Hole

As we drove through through the farm studded fields on the road leading to St. Cloud, the waters of spring thaw were clearly abundant. Every stream and river we cross was swollen and testing it banks. I sat internally contemplating the day ahead.

It was to be my first day of the Spring season back in my kayak. The icy grip of winter forced my four month seasonal hiatus from whitewater and had eroded my confidence in my paddling abilities. We arrived at the banks of the ever flowing Mississippi river to the sight of its reach extending far beyond its normal banks. An avalanche of water flowed over once exposed rocky slides, creating holes and waves of stirring magnitude.

Myself, Scotty, and Lara put on for a first run. The plan was to make a clean run up the middle avoiding the gargantuan features, scouting the hazards, and looking for the play spots. I ferried out in the lead. The Mississippi being enormous river and I knew the ferry out would be long. I paddled frantically looking over my shoulder at the ominous waves down stream as the water carried me downstream steadily. Finally, I could relax as I turned my boat down stream to face what lie ahead, knowing that I was well out of the path of the giant holes on river right . I nervously surveyed ahead the oncoming wave train, unsure what lay behind it's 5-6 foot crests. I managed to skirt the edges of the biggest waves and saw only calm water ahead. Paddling back to shore, I took another duplicate run to shed my rust and nerves. Meanwhile other paddlers had found the location of Dream Hole.... the holy grail of the Mississippi.

Here are still's of the taken courtesy of Tom...
you'll see me about half way through in the blue drysuit and green boat

Dream Hole is fabled feature that comes into existence only at insanely flooded levels on the Mississippi (last seen 10 years ago). I had never even heard of it until seasoned paddlers mentioned the possibility of its return on the local forum. At normal levels, what exists where dream hole resides is merely a bed of dry granite untouched by waters. Yet now with the Mississippi 9.8 feet above it's normal water level, Dream Hole had risen again. The Dream Hole is a wave/hole situated uncomfortably between a giant hydraulic in front of it (with a bit of wave on it's river left side for the daring) and 60-70 yard wide ledge hole of sizable magnitude behind it. Upon viewing, Dream hole itself looked miniature in comparison to the features surrounding it. Yet in reality it was akin to waves I had ridden in Sturgeon Falls. The process for reaching Dream hole was some what tedious. It included busting through some over reaching tree branches into eddy and ferrying out. Once you had successful (or unsuccessfully) ridden the wave/hole and thus flushed off, you found yourself paddling rigorously back through tree branches into the eddy. If you had the misfortune of not rolling up in time, in the event of Dream Hole getting the best of you, one faced the consequences of sparring with the ever wide hole behind it.

I slowly took baby steps into Dream Hole, easing my way onto it's left shoulder and getting off a the first sign of lack of control. However by my third ride it, being on dream hole renewed some familiarity with whitewater in me and had awakened my paddling confidence. I began to throw some spins. By the end of the day I was feeling pretty comfortable getting thrashed about at bit and managed to get flipped and surfed upside down... and eventually flushed. I rolled up from the icy waters with an ice cream headache despite the neoprene covering my head. Dream Hole/Wave was a gorgeous experience... a wave that is of the highest quality.

After a last run through the rapids in my creek boat I headed back northward and homeward. The ride home I fought to keep my eyes open in the beautiful exhaustion of a eventful day. I left the river with confidence for the paddling season ahead.

Here is a video shot that day... seen is Scotty, Doug, and Gus (I'm duffing in the eddy). Gives a good perspective on the action.

The Itch

Upon arriving home from my westward journey, it was clear that the season was turning and the rivers had broken open. Yet being bound by the thralls of medical school, I sat all week restlessly stirring with the feeling I was missing out on whitewater. To scratch the itch I was feeling, I decided to take a walk up a few local creeks to see how conditions were fairing. (Click any of the pics for zoomed view)

The Sucker River:Looking upstream from Old Hwy 61

Looking Downstream from Old Hwy 61

The upper stretch of the "Teacups"The lower stretch of the " Teacups"


The Knife River:

"Fish-trap Falls" seen below

After a peaceful walk up the Sucker and viewing the French and Knife rivers, I confirmed that I was in fact was inflicted with the irrational lust for whitewater. The plethora of ice, indicated I had not yet missed out and confirmed that there was still much adventure in the season ahead.