Indian Creek: Part 2

The wind tugged upon my bivy and a dim light had come to my eye's awareness. In rising from my shelter, I was greeted by grey skies and a cold wind. Each of us slowly awoke and quietly began our individual preparations for the day ahead. Embarking upon the  second day amongst the sandstone of Indian Creek, we had decided we would climb at the Fin Wall.

I welcomed the morning approach as it not only warmed me against the harsh wind of the day but slowly loosened my sore muscles. Arriving at the Fin wall, it became clear after a glance at the guidebook that this was going to be a tougher climbing day for me. One of the learning experiences that comes with climbing at Indian Creek is that you become painfully aware of your hand size. In Indian Creek the cracks tend to minimally vary in width... meaning that your hand size and how well they fit into the crack will largely determine the level of difficulty of a given climb. The cracks vary from widths of fingers, hands, fists, or bigger. While in Indian Creek I quickly became aware that I have rather large sized hand... the largest in the group in fact... therefore my preference of routes differed.

Perched surveying the landscape at the Fin Wall

Upon looking at the guide book much of the routes were calling for 2.0-2.5 sized protection (to be placed in the crack), which lies in that frustrating range where my hands were too big to fit into the crack, and yet the crack was wide enough that I couldn't get fingers to stick well. Upon mounting my first route of the day I was already spouting explicatives as only half of my hands sunk into the blackness of the crack before me. Often I learned that in Indian Creek if a crack width does not fit you, you will find yourself in the strenuous position of lie backing sections and thinly gripping the edge of the crack. The day was challenging but endowed me with a new skills and realizations about techniques to deal with the adverse crack widths and made it clear to me that strength and efficiency in lie-back technique is important.

As the sun began to hang low on the horizon we stripped ourselves of our down jackets and prepared for the trek back homeward. Every night communally we would create our meals often being a random conglomeration of veggies, cheese, and summer sausage in a thick soup in which we lovingly labeled "goulash".

Fire side stories became exchanges of the cultural use of words which differed between the Californian and Minnesotan factions at camp. We Minnesotans learned the proper usage of "heinous", "psyched", "raw dawg", "bro", and "sick". Meanwhile, we versed them in the proper MN pronunciations of the long "O" sound, usage of phrase such as "Jeeze", "You bet", and how to be overly conscientious.

The morning after looked much like the morning before in weather, but the sun fought in line with sky for brief appearances. Waking I spooned up some left over the "goulash"and admired the soreness that graced my limbs. Mornings were generally quiet as we gradually eased into the exchange of words.

The climbing gear heaped in the back of the SUV under guidance of our friends started the engines and made for the Cat Wall. The approach began with a classic desert off-road driving. Piling six into the SUV, I jumped onto the back bumper looking for the wilder of rides and some fresh air. We made way through a 3 foot high wall of tumble weed and balanced the vehicle from rolling on the pitched double track leading up to the cat wall.

 

"Fat Cat"... 5.11a

When I reached the Cat wall and took to my belated surveying of the guidebook I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw. Having more gumption I took to leading a 5.11a entitled Fat Cat. Gear hanging from my sides I took a deep breath and began my ascent. It started hard in a flared crack I place a piece high and hung for a bit. The crack soon opened up beautifully to my favorite width as I began to sink multiple #3 cams. Near the top I came to the realization that I had brought too little gear and lead me to nervously run out the distance between my pieces as my breathing became heavy with exertion and adrenaline. Each movement was calculated for efficiency and every hand placement measured for sureness, and still I felt my energy waning. I reached the top and clipped into the anchors relieved and smiling down to my belayer Ben. We took to a couple more routes and my ascents felt more and more solid. We climbed late into the afternoon sun, clinging to every the last bits of daylight. It was a strenuous day and I had felt all the better for it.

We retreated to camp with bellies longing for sustenance. It was short night for me as fatigue had began to weigh upon my eye-lids. I lay in my bivy with the desert sand beneath me and let darkness fall across my eyes welcoming a coma-like slumber. That night I dreamed my first dreams of climbing in years and must have smiled unconsciously in my repose.

Indian Creek: Part 1

My eyes surveyed the landscape surrounding around me. Amongst the cloudless blue skies the red rim of the Colorado National Monument loomed in the Southwest horizon as walked the ever warming pavement of Fruita Colorado.  On a park bench I sat lazily strumming my ukulele soaking up rays of the sun. Only hour before I had been dropped off at the local camp ground awaiting the next stage of my journey. I had a day and night to kill as my climbing friends who had only just left the cold of Minnesota where in route to pick me up. With my Ukulele strapped to my back, I had a quiet evening wandering the quaint streets of Fruita and mingling amongst the multitude of mountain bikers and locals that inhabit the Hot Tomato Pizzeria. I slept with a clear mind admiring the stars from my bivy.

In the morning my phone rang out with the voice of a friend on the line, warning of there impending arrival. I jumped the barbwire fence surrounding the campground, stashed my packs in a wooded ditch, and walked to the nearby diner to appease my complaining stomach. The phone rang again as I walked toward a group of smiling fellows... my companions had arrive. After stocking with food at the local grocery store we mounted the open road in the direction of Moab. There we ate our final civilized meal at the local pub before continuing toward the fabled majesty that is know as Indian Creek.

Just over an hour from all civilization, Indian Creek was developed in the climbing scene in the early 70's and whose popularity had ballooned in the last decade with the growth of sport of climbing. Indian Creek is hailed for it's smooth, varied, and difficult sandstone cracks that attract trad climbers from all over the country. We arrived in Indian Creek as the emblazoned sun was ready to depart the sky and its glow clung to Wingate Sandstone. With noses pressed to the windows of the vehicle our eyes greedily searching for cracks to climb. The vast amount of climbing opportunities quickly became apparent as miles of cliff lines filled with countless cracks graced our star stuck eyes.

  The desert beauty that is Indian Creek

 

After a long search for camping, we rallied down into a small sandstone laden gulch, set camp, and plotted our climbing plans over the pale light of headlamps. Putting ourselves to bed, ahead of us lay a week of adventures amongst the desert beauty

The we awoke to a cold and grey morning. We hastened to cook a quick breakfast and drove to what would become the morning routine: a  stop at the out houses... a simple luxury. Arrived at the desired trail head, we briskly made for the "Scarface" wall. My day would begin with the first trad lead I had done in almost 2 years as medical school had kept me from the rock. Despite my month of hard training in climbing gym, I found myself nervously racking up for a short 5.9 crack. While I consider myself fairly well versed in trad climbing, my hardest leads have been 5.9 in rating... the easiest routes in Indian creek just began at 5.9 and a majority of which were more challenging. This was going to be a trip to test my skills and build them. My companion Ben had come down after making halfway up the 5.9 and I led what remained of the route. It was by no means easy, as we all took to removing the rust the long stationary drive had bestowed upon our climbing.

 

Day one... Sevve tackles a 5.11

Yet by the end of the day smiles were abound and the sun warmed our skin. We walked down in fatigued and content and took to driving to our abode in the Gulch. Turning of the main road we were greeted by a crew of four smiling faces on the roadside. Sevve had invited several of his friends from Yosemite to join us at our camp.

The night was spent engulfing our sustenance beside the fireside warmth and sharing of stories of adventure with our now expanded crew of climbers. I awaited the morning ahead and fell asleep quickly and soundlessly in shelter of my bivy...

The Adventures In Utah

The lights flashed rhythmically across my face as my eye reached out the window for a few glimpses of the sky. I lay in the back of a Subaru letting the dull roar of the passing road lull me to sleep. Myself and friends where speeding westward in search of powder.

The search for powder as a Midwesterner is much akin to a patient fisherman. We scour the depths of meteorology information hoping to grasp the passing of the next storm and race for a mountainous location praying that a giant winter storm will swallow the mountains in a snow filled sky. And then there are the attempts in which we simply get skunked.

The asphalt of I-80 pass under us as we sped for the Wasatch mountains outside of Salt Lake City hedging our bets and awaiting the snow to fall. We arrived by the cover of night and woke by morning and  hurriedly rushed to Alta. But mount the lift the mere sound of passing skiers edges alerted us to the unsavory conditions. We found that hardened slush upon the steeper slopes and took to the groomers. Finally in desperation myself and Andre took the furthest and highest traverses and began to find some semblance of soft and steep snow. We made the best of what conditions provided and left feeling content and well exhausted.

Given the conditions on the slopes, it seemed more fitting to nordic ski. In the morning light, we made our way across the upland plateau to the rising mountains and into the quite vale of Sundance. The sun greeted us with it warmth as we took to the trails. Before long we had lost our shirts and soaked in the rays while cruising amongst soaring views of Sundance Mountain. The day came to a close with a trip to the local pub to satisfy our growing hunger.

 

 Warmth at Sundance!

When we awoke the next morning the uninspiring sight of rain was upon us and the weather reports indicated that the it was raining on the slopes. Disheartened we took the liberty of a slow morning and final embarked southward. On the way we stopped at the Homestead Crater.

 

Swimming in Homestead Crater

The second hand information we had gained indicated that there was a steamy hot spring within a small crater in the earth. As we drove up I saw before me a 70 foot high mound of earth with a small door tunneled into it's side. We paid are nominal fee and enter into a well lit and long rocky tunnel. Before us opened a unique seen. An ethereal light swirled amongst the rising steam cast from a round cavernous hole revealing the dim sky.

 Homestead Crater

Yet bright blue water of the spring where in stark contrast to the dark walls of the crater.  We slowly enter the pool and inflated the life vests we were require to wear. In the steamy water below us diving platforms resided as people often honed diving skills here. After a long soaking we, made for the open road again. Seeking better weather we drove south for Moab.

We arrived in the twilight and made for camping. Awaking in the morning the sun shone upon the red sandstone outcropping that accentuate the landscape of the Moab area. We pack and drove our way into Arches National Park for the day.

Arches NP!

As the day came to a close the weather reports were looking more and more favorable and we again headed northward to Salt Lake City. On the way we hiked a up a small wooded path for 2 miles up a small creek in search of a secluded hot spring we had caught wind of. Hiking up the stream it became apparent that the snow was lessening along it's banks. Before long the smell of sulfur hung in the air. We beheld a small water fall running into several pots of pooled hot springs. We basked in the heated pool amongst the sloping hillsides and felt like royalty. We sorrily walked away from the springs an continue northward settling into a hotel room.

 Hotsprings!!!!

The snows came and we woke earlier to hit the sloops of Snowbird this time. We an  came to find 6 inches of fresh powder and went to quick work searching for the steepest slopes and the best lines. Although it was not the massive amount of powder we had hoped for, the snow was none the less heavenly to a naive Midwesterner. I left the slopes too tired to think, grateful for snow, and skis to carve it.

We awoke the next morning and drove into the eastern sunrise. My other companion were beginning their homeward journey. Meanwhile my adventures were just beginning. In the town of Fruita, CO I waved goodbye to my friends as they drove away. There I sat waiting for my ride.... as I was soon to be climbing in Indian Creek.

Autumn: The Traveler

As autumn was slowly losing its grasp, the cold winds made their presence known in the north country. I packed up my automotive for the journey ahead. My intentions were pointed west as I mounted the open road. It was time for me to explore my future education as doctor and I was out to tour residency programs. My first destination was that of Billings, MT where I was to spend four weeks getting to know the residency.

 

Snowfields looking up to Red Lodge

I arrived at the house owned by the local medical school (for med students to stay in while on rotation) and stepping out of my car to see my new roommates carrying a climbing rope and I smiled knowing I was amongst good company. I was not mistaken. Over the four weeks, I came to make numerous and deep friendships. The town of Billings opened her arms to me and I found myself going to open mics weekly, climbing in town sandstone bluffs, and (when the snow fell) skiing amongst some early season powder. In a short month, I had found a community to call my own. I felt at home and I felt fortunate to have come to know the place. I left Billings in the cover of darkness saying my goodbyes and drove away. The time in Billings had felt too short and could not shake the feeling there was more waiting for me there. 


I drove 13 hours home to Duluth through night and arrived with a slight tremor of caffeine and lack of sleep. I slept for 10 hours after arriving home and left at four the next morning to catch a flight to my next destination. By morning, I found myself in the airport waiting for my flight to Burlington, VT. I was soon to become a regular of the airport traveling culture, which demands an almost zen-like patience to flow with the ever changing and frustrating environment. I arrived in Burlington, picked up my rental car, and went to the hotel to crash. After some needed rest, I went about familiarizing myself with the environment. My first stop in any town is the climbing gym and the local gear shop… always a good place to get a feel for the outdoor adventure community. Burlington was a charming town that felt full of life and with a wholesome culture about it. As the traveler, I slowly became accustomed to coffee shops and dinners alone, and the short-lived conversations with strangers were medicine for the moments of loneliness. People watching became a normal pastime. After a daylong interview with the VT residency, I quickly bought a couple New England maps and took to road again. 

 Look onto the Atlantic in Acadia

I was expected to be in Bangor, ME to interview the next morning. The road sped through quaint New England towns nestled in the crooks of the Appalachian Mountains. The snow fell thick in the night as I sped through New Hampshire speeding for the shores of the Atlantic. I arrived in the cover of night and again settled into my sterile hotel room. I spent the next day in interviews and cruising about Bangor exploring the tidal flows of the Penobscot River and filling my belly with fresh clam chowder. The next day I had to myself to explore for the day and drive back to Burlington for my next flight. I drove 45 minute over to Acadia National Park to see what beauty it might hold. 

 Looking out at the immensity of the Atlantic in Acadia NP

 

I arrive in Bar Harbor anxious to see the ocean. I was surprise to find that much of the oceans immensity was blocked by beautiful rocky islands that litter the coastline. I took the time to hike onto a rocky overlook to finally see the horizon of the ocean before me. I drove back to Burlington only to find warnings of a massive snowstorm to clobber the Midwest…. I knew I would not be going home for the weekend. Having friends of friends offer me the generosity and kindness of their abode, I elected to stay in Burlington for the weekend rather being forced to spent it stuck in the airport in Detroit. Having the entire weekend in Burlington, I boots found a local tele-demo and skied the over-price slopes known as Stowe. I enjoyed my day on teleskis and dodging the east coast harem of skiers as the runs were choked with the multitudes. The following day I slept late and went to the local climbing gym for a quick workout and had meals at Burlington’s finest.

Enjoying tele-demos

 

The culture of the East coast was new to me; much of Burlington spent its time being the anti-metropolitan. On many occasions it felt as if wore a veil of granola attempting to hide the culture and attitude from its nearby neighbors of New York and Massachusetts. And yet there was an acceptance and tolerance to all was Burlington's true charm... the inviting sense of home that was extended to all. However, amongst my travels I grew an aversion to New Yorkers. They are the antithesis of all that known as “Minnesota Nice”, and have an air of demanding entitlement that rubs a simplistic and conscientious northern Minnesotan in the wrong way. 

The next morning I was back in the air for a brutal flying day with three transfers. By the time I had arrived in Grand Junction, CO for my next interview I was spent, tired, and ornery... flying had finally gotten the best of me. My bag was lost, my cell phone had busted, and I was in debt for sleep. After finishing interviews and getting to see the sights in Grand Junction, I got a phone call from a friend back in Billings inviting me to go to Big Sky for some skiing. I was more than excited about the opportunity and changed flights.

Arriving back in Billings I reconnected with friends and felt at home. We drove out to Big Sky and skied three wonderful days with good conditions to be had. I managed to take a few spectacular falls at high speed and bushed up on my tele technique. And by the end of the three days my legs were so sore I could scarcely walk straight... but I was smiling. I flew home finally after all my adventures and spent the week in Duluth, only to again find myself with a car packed to the brim as I move down to the cities for a month long medical rotation.

 The majesty that is Big Sky

It was a long couple of months on the road and in the air. I had my eyes opened to the possibilities in places afar from my home of Duluth. For the first time in a long time, I felt unsure of where I was supposed to be. It marks a transition in my future to come and I look to it as both exciting and consuming.

Northwoods Whitewater's Last Gasp: Part Three

 

The clouds had parted from the sky and the sun let it's presence known. I had taken a day away from the running waters and was keenly aware my loss. My paddling buddies were all putting on the Cascade River meanwhile was far from any flowing water. When I arrived back to my northern home, the creeking up the North Shore had all but waned. However my old friend the St. Louis River was running above 2000 cfs and provided for some boating. I arranged to meet Decker and Cliff at the put in. Upon arriving I noted a creek boat on an unfamiliar vehicle and searched for the owner.

While writing a invitation to paddle to place on the windshield a fellow emerged from a nearby trail and approached. He introduced himself as Kyle and I was familiar from the local forum that he was new to the area and looking for boaters to paddle with. Extending some Midwestern generosity, I invited him to join us.

So the four of us put on for a fun ride amongst the big water character of the St. Louis. Showing another personality of the St. Louis we rode blasting along, bypassing the "Second Sister" and the "Octopus" given that amongst the high water they had become brutally harsh. Kyle meanwhile seemed to be having a good time, having a high quality level for his first run. But I was looking forward to running a small falls near the swinging bridge that is runnable at high water.This falls is precious to me because of my childhood memories of it. I can recall the days when my mother would bring me to Jay Cooke in the morning light before afternoon kindergarden. There I scurried about climbing the rocks near this falls and viewing it's cascade while my mother warned me of the river's hazards.

More than two decades later, I had managed to ignore her warnings as we eagerly approached the horizon line. While foreign tourist on shore nearby gawked, Cliff gleefully took flight first, followed closely by Decker. Kyle went next with little hesitation while I played photographer from a nearby perch. I came awkwardly into my short passage into the vertical world. I emerged from plugging the falls slightly disappointed. I paddle ahead of the crew and quickly eddied out. I shouldered my boat and hiked up for another run... I new I could do better and was striving for a clean run. Companions ashore as I again took flight and had a better run.

Untitled from kyle crocodile on Vimeo.


The day was blissful in the simplicity of the satisfaction. We drove upstream grinning and talkative with remnants of adrenaline still fueling our enthusiasm!

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.

Northwoods Whitewater's Last Gasp - Part One

I hadn't left my basement lair for more than a few hours in a day and from the sparse light that peaked through the windows told me the presence of day or night. I was consumed by the thralls of studying for medical licensure exam, an endeavor I disdained more than any.Though I tried become oblivious to the sunshine or otherwise, yet I couldn't help but notice that the clouds where darkening. The local news and local paddling blog pointed alert me to the coming of storm to the Northland.  The weather service told of system unlike any seen in recent history and the paddlers where buzzing like  swarm of wasps in anxiousness.

The skies wrath came like a thief in the night and while I slumbered I heard the rain knocking on the windows of my dreams. I woke to an angry wind pressing and newspapers headlining reports of 5 inches of snow in the heights of Duluth. Steadfast I declared to myself I would and could not go paddling as my exam was but two days into the future. But with each text message of another paddler asking if I could paddle my will was being eroded. By the afternoon word came that Lester River was running high and I could no longer say no. I rushed to the river and met with a sizable crew including Anthony, Andy S, Scott, Brian, and T2.

Gearing up it was clear the levels where high but not of an uncanny nature and I had paddled it higher. We put on as temps dipped into the low 30s. Out of the gates I felt confident and boofed into the right hand line of Limbo Falls tangling with the multi-tiered hole laden goodness emerging unscathed with a smile. The entire run went equally smooth as my old friend the Lester river didn't fail to please. We inevitably arrived at Almost Always and getting out the boat for a quick peak I knew I would run it. T2 with his abundance of gusto fired it up first with success. Myself and Andy S. saddled up and fired it off. I watch Andy S. blue boat be lost to the horizon.

 Looking back at Almost Always after running it

I lined up focusing on the narrow line conscious my speed and position. I made the right hand slow moving tangled water pouring the lip of  drop. Eyes wide I armed my left boof stroke and viewing the vertical let the stroke loose as my boat left the water for the air. In the world of vertical I landed atop the opposing tongue of water mid way down the drop. Conscious instinct took hold as the world went in a split second from vertical and horizontal in gnashing of explosion of white washing water. Amidst it I stayed strong and emerged to the scene shocked that I had no need for a roll! I was elated and my confidence bolstered for the day ahead. I left the river begrudgingly and only because the darkness had begun to descend. I went home with a fulfillment enough to continue my studies. I thanked the river for the gift of the humanity it had returned to me and strength to carry on with the studies ahead of me.