A Baptism: Illgen Falls

The morning came slowly to me, it's grey stillness inspired no movement inside me. A small parcel of the crew remained for the day of creeking. Arriving in the veil of night came Midwestern native, Jason Stingl from his Colorado home. Over breakfast the consensus became clear that Jason, Joerg, Chris, Tango, and John Alt would paddle the Cascade river at meaty levels (zero on the guage). My first and last run on the Cascade 2 seasons prior had rattled me, leaving the river with a injured thumb, putting me out for the season two years ago. With my motivation and energy already at a low, I elected to set safety and take pictures of those with more testosterone than I.

Being content with my relaxed day,  I headed back to Duluth for some much needed time back in society for a social recharge. That evening the news came that an old friend would arrive back in the Midwest. Andy McMurray was the first paddler I ever met as a beginner on the North Shore, and it had been nearly year since I had we had paddled together. And so I agreed to meet Paul Hooper and Andy at the Baptism River... for  the yearly baptismal run on Illgen falls.

Driving northward in my usual introspection, I debated whether I would would run Illgen for the third time since the dawn of my days creeking. It was not that dropping the falls had ever gone poorly, it was just that every year I seemed to sustain whiplash from it (likely due to poor impact technique) that left me sore and headache ridden for weeks.

 

Myself running Illgen (Photo credit of Andy McMurray)

Arriving at the Baptism, I stepped from my truck and went to greet and pay my respects to Illgen Falls. Shortly there after a Chevy Pickup arrived with the broadly smiling Andy McMurray and Paul Hooper. We quickly geared up and slid ourselves gently into the Baptism river at Eckbeck campground. We scraped along and I took the time amongst the moderate waters  to warm up before the looming horizon line of Illgen falls beckoned.

Despite my reservations, my lust drew me towards Ilgen. I couldn't help but find myself paddling determined for the lip. In my minds eye, I pieced through my body's movements and  how I would clean up my technique. Thus  cresting the lip of oblivion. As I tilted over the edge the scene suddenly opens before me as the base of the falls became visible 35 ft below. I gave a light stroke and I entered the vertical world. My focus closed in as I fell to the water below. I tucked forward, stabbed my paddle out, and seeking to protect my neck, I trucked my head a split second before impact. The impact was tolerable and I quickly rolled up, checking status of my appendages. My body felt better than any other run on Illgen as I sat in an eddy in the mist below Illgen and watched McMurray boof the hell out of Illgen.

We drove away and laid on the gas pedal heading Northward. North of Grand Marais we quickly darted off the road and  slipped into the fauna before the expanse of Lake Superior unfolded on the horizon. Upon the gravel shores congregated a hardy crew of paddlers smiling at our arrival, beers raised in greeting. There upon the shores of Paradise Beach lay the spirit of North Shore boating, steeped in history, paddlers have breathed life into the beach since the beginnings of whitewater boating. As the night crept upon the land, by the firelight an excitement loomed in the atmosphere at the possibility days ahead. I fell asleep lulled by the rolling waves, and fed by a intangible satisfaction.

Snow Filled Creeking: The Beav & Brule

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

 High water on the St. Louis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Rise and Fall of the Split Rock and Beaver Rivers

 Myself on Under The Log (photo credit: Chris Baer)

The sunlight cast it's rays upon my eyelids. Prompting their opening, my first sight was the blue skies in the birth of a new day. I walked upstairs and was handed a gourd of Matte from Tango and together Chris, Tango, and I quickly came to the conclusion that today we would attempt to paddle one of the North Shore's most classic runs, The Split Rock River.

Rendezvousing with Paul, our crew of four strong drove Northward. We were the sole mid-week creekers freed from the bondage of responsibility and fueled by our hunger for whitewater. I sat in routine contemplation on the drive. This year paddling had changed, and the upcoming run on the Split Rock was exemplifying the fact that I was thrust into more of a leadership role... more than I ever expected. This season my confidence had grown to new heights; I was paddling almost daily since the spring flows began. Now I begun paddling with crews, in which I solely had the years of experience to be familiar with the rivers. However, the Split Rock was an exception, I was keenly aware that I knew few to none of the lines on the Split Rock. Every run I had done on it was completely blind and with little scouting.

Reaching the river's mouth the level was deemed adequate. We drove shuttle and stealthily found ourselves paddling the beginnings of the Split Rock as it wove through tangled alder swamps. The river gained steam with every tributary that joined it's flowings, and soon we picked our way down the opening slide of the river. The Split Rock was littered with horizon lines and in scouting the river for the first time I locked the lines into my memory. Upon reaching the unfolding of another horizon line, I entered a world of acceleration as the water danced off the shallow river and my craft rocketed downward blasting through rooster's of water and bashing through holes.

Myself running "Whimpfry's Wimper"

Towards the end of the run, I had the premonition that the river's most formidable rapid was at hand. I scanned the banks and river ahead for familiarity to signal the drop's presence. We rounded a corner and suddenly I was aware of a distinctive rumbling of water. It was almost too late, and only a few small eddies remained before a large roaring horizon line of "Under The Log". I frantically made the rest of the crew aware, but it was still too late. Tango found the last eddy before the drop and could see nothing of the line. I attempted and failed to verbally and visually inform Tango of the line, and instilled little confidence. Chris valiantly charged ahead of Tango having him follow closely on his tail leading him into the drop. I watched them both style their lines. I was now alone and found that I was in a poor eddy to hit my line for the drop. "Under The Log" plunged down a domed slide, terminating in a small and violent hanging pool before abruptly banking off the right hand wall and mashed into two burly holes (known to injure less than upright paddlers). Knee deep in flowing currents, I hiked my boat upstream and found an eddy in which I felt I could narrowly reach my line. I mounted my boat, hit my line, and plummeted over the vertical slide, keeping my eye's focused on the the banked hanging pool. I landed in the hanging pool braced left, banked, and powered through the oncoming melee. I grinned while emerging triumphantly to the company of Tango, and Chris. We finished out the run grounding our boats on the gravel shores of Lake Superior and it's deep expanse.

Split Rock from Chris Baer on Vimeo.




The elation present, the crew was ready for more. We turned our thoughts towards the East Fork of the Beaver River. It was a short run that I was extremely familiar with. The run was known to have a triple tiered falls with brief hanging pools between the three falls, each of 15-20 ft in height. Chris's memory was failing him for the line through the drops and Tango was about to experience the East Beaver for the first time: thus placing me squarely in the lead for the group and being responsible for hitting my line as we planned to blue angel into the falls unscouted. As we put on I was keenly aware the height of the river. But it wasn't until we reached the opening drop that I became aware that level was the burliest I had yet experienced on the river. I was upturned in the opening drop and rolled up quickly; conscious that I needed to paddle more guarded as the river threatened to toy with me. What was once class III boogey water had been upped to Class IV, heads up paddling. We picked our way down river and ahead I could hear the ominous roaring of the falls. I looked back at Chris behind me, indicating with my eyes that we had arrived at the falls and that the gravity of the run was about increase exponentially. I nervously passed the last remaining eddy and mentally prepared for the onslaught of the highest level I had yet paddled the Beaver. I knew the first falls to be challenging as it was a nearly vertical falls that was difficult to boof and had a small hanging pool with a margin of error for only one roll attempt before sailing over the second falls.

I lined up off the right bank paddling with gusto over the lip. Entering verticality, I battled to bring my bow from plugging the falls, throwing a desperate left boof stroke. Seconds later I found myself in muffled darkness submerged. Emerging into the misty air upright, I quickly oriented myself and to my right could see the next horizon line as the water thundered on the surrounding walls. I wasted no time, paddling strongly, I poised myself for the necessary boof stroke.  The falls loomed more massive than I had yet seen and slowly ramped before plunging 20 feet into the pool below. I nailed my stroke and took flight. It was perhaps the closest I had felt to flying in a kayak before as if my boat had sprung feathered wings!  My boat soared away from the lip and well beyond the base of the falls as my bow rose before of me to meet the horizon. Time and space beautifully slowed in that instant. Gravity melted.  I could see the boiling pillow below me but coming gently towards me and I landed softly with a loud "boof"!!!! I bellowed in an ecstatic release, trembling uncontrollably, and pumped my fists as Chris and Tango sailed behind me in close succession. Playful grins plastered on our faces, we each turned to the final falls and joyfully sailed over it's horizon.

Finishing the run, I had adrenaline coursing happily through me causing slight tremor to my hands. I could barely hold a full sentence of speech as my mind relived the run over and over. The ante had been upped and I felt the satisfaction of feeling that my paddling had been controlled! I hit my lines as my mind's eye had envisioned them, my strokes placed where wanted them, and the results as I had planned. But all of this was completely reactionary, without scouting, and was executed in the mere milliseconds of onslaught... the pure instinctual poetry of motion that every paddler seeks to achieve. It was some my first glimpse's of this sort of control amongst Class V whitewater.

When the adrenaline abided, I found myself happily exhausted. It been nine consecutive days of paddling Class V and my body was making it clear that I needed rest. I parted ways with Chris and Tango heading back to Duluth as they continued Northward. I melted into sleep the instant I hit the bed. By daylight I had lived a dream, enough so, that my sleep was fulfilling without them.

Redemption: The Stewart River

 Myself perfecting the side boof on "Plumber's Crack"

A mid-week crew set about a morning run determined to get on the Stewart River after our debacle in the days preceding attempting the Stewart. Myself, Chris Baer, Brian O'Neil, and the weekday warrior Paul Hooper geared up for the day. By the time we had arrived in Two Harbors the levels were looking favorable. Thus we put on moving quickly through the pine forests awaiting the descent of the Stewart amongst the blue skies. Thereafter we were smiling as the river shared it's hidden gems while we took laps running the 15 footer plumber's crack

Paul running the "Pillow Drop"

and plunging into the mayhem of the "pillow drop". The Stewart is an old friend who has never disappointed me and one of the river's I know best. But I enjoyed even more, that I was able to share it was paddlers from throughout the country who were smiling as big as me... affirming the river's quality.

 

Chris Baer boof's Piton Falls

After greeting the expanse of lake superior before us we came ashore and raced back to Duluth for a quick run on the Lester. When we arrived, we found an whether red Tacoma in the parking lot and out stepped Chris's pal from Colorado...Casey Tango. We decided the Lester would be a proper intro to the North Shore paddling scene. The Lester didn't disappoint, as myself, Chris, and Tango sailed off of the 25 footer, Almost Always, for my 5th time of the year. Finally it was becoming Almost Always... a run for me rather than a portage. When we finally took off the river with the good natured crew and chatted in the parking lot amongst beers and laughter. Interestingly the take out parking lot's are often as much a part of the paddling culture as running the river itself. The left over spirit and energy of the river often spills forth directly after a run, a group of friends feeling belonging and contentment sometimes only experienced for a short season of the year.

And so another day in our short creek season had come to pass... well spent and as glorious as any.

Thinking Northward: The Stewart and French Rivers

 The cross roads of the Great Stewart Boondoggle of 11'

Snow still clung about the forest floor shrinking from the fiery eye of the sun. In the northern reachs of the shore of Lake Superior many of the rivers still lay locked in ice. Meanwhile in Duluth, the season was building moment. While we all were content with waters that the Lester River had graced us with, a general hunger hung about the creeking crew, and fueled a lust to move Northward to other waters.

And so it came to pass, that large conglomerate crew ventured in the late morning to the Stewart river. Arriving to the put in we each wagered whether the river would be free of ice, some looking more doubtful than others. I remained optimistic. Knowing the Stewart like the back of my hand, I volunteered to take a the first crew down the river. Sliding into the river, within 200 yard downstream I encountered a large ice dam. Portaging around it the crew again paddled downstream only to run into another ice dam. I went a head of the crew and scouted the rest of the river, finding nearly a half mile of dammed ice. When I return with my report, I laughed at the sight 15 paddlers strewn about the woods and their anguish as we all hiked back.

Desperate to salvage what remained of the day of paddling we took to the French river in a mass exodus. Finding the river in a state of high water I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the drops in contrast to my recollections. However, 15 paddlers in direct succession made for a clustered mess, with multiple moments of choas. We all chuckled about it after finishing out the river... laughing at our own stupidity for not organizing separate groups.

The weekend had come to a close and most of the paddlers went back to their jobs. However, the small crew of us devoid of responsibility or with mid week days amassed. Taking a long morning and afternoon of rest myself, Chris Baer, and Nate Heydt were the only paddlers that could be mustered for late run on the Lester.  We arrived  finding the river swollen as it peaked at it's highest levels for the spring. We put on in excitement at burl that Lester high levels could throw at us. The waters displayed their fiest up turning our kayaks like toy boats on multiple occasions.

 Myself in the burl on "Almost Always"

 
When we arrived at Almost Always I was significantly appehensive given the levels... I had never run it this high. But I couldn't turn away from it. Chris fell over the lip ahead of me, as I put on.  An extreme focus on the line at hand was all that I knew and felt the whole world around melt away. Right on my line, I saw the lip of the 25 footer come quickly upon me as I place a slight left boof stroke and entered the land of verticality. Dropping into the falling waters and found myself buried in the white mixture of air and water, blinding my sight as my boat amorphously plunged downward half floating and half in flight. I readied for impact and felt my world move abruptly from vertical to horizontal.


From blindness I came to sight and found myself upright and smiling. The amount of nerves tight in my guts came to be released in primal bellow sure to be heard from miles away. I was elated in hitting my line just as my mind's eye had planned. As the sun set, I couldn't stop smiling all night and I was living on a cloud for the evening.

Spring Creeking: Lester Laps

The sun shone brightly as I awoke late in the morning basking in my freedom from responsibility. Every day I found found myself amongst the rivers waters. Chris Baer had drifted into town from Colorado for the sole purpose of boating and the two of us had of schedules and priorities straight. While spending the early afternoon scoping drops near Superior WI. As the afternoon sun began to fall in the sky we pointed the truck in the direction of the St. Louis. But when a text wrang out exclaiming that the Lester had broken free of ice and was running... we abruptly pulled a U-turn and headed for Duluth proper.

Footage via Chris Baer captures the essence of Lester River... look for me in the green boat, blue drysuit, and red paddle.

Lester River from Chris Baer on Vimeo.



Arriving at the Lester a crew quickly amassed and myself, Chris Baer, T2, Brian, Strassser, and Anthony shuttled for the first lap on Lester River for the year. We put on and dropping into Limbo Falls I immediately was knew the run was going to go well. When we arrived at Almost Always, the convoluted 25 ft falls, \given it was the the first run of the year, I new that the level was not to my liking... I would patiently wait to run the drop. By the next day the levels had risen to a comfortable medium high level and I grinned as we put on. When we arrived at Almost Always my mind was made up. I scouted as Chris styled his line over the falls. I followed up next peeling out of the eddy sighted my line and stayed focused. I dropped into the mini eddy above the falls lined-up and paddled for the lip. I placed a left boof stroke at the lip and sailed into the air landing on top of the piling waters. As my world entered the vertical I felt the boat begin to spin out leftward. I braced hard as the impact was impending. I was blown onto my back deck and soon tucked, waited for the calm, and rolled up triumphantly. After another lap and my confidence bolstered, I ran Almost Always again with improving lines (no roll needed). Techno Tommy arrived at the river late as the sun was about to set and needed a paddling partner. Being tired but still invigorated I agreed and we bombed through my third lap on the Lester!

 Tending wounds on the Lester!

By the next day, I had been paddling 9 days straight without a rest day and fatigue was beginning to greet my body. I told everyone I would take the day off and set about scoping the more northern rivers. But when I arrive back at the Lester their was a party still going up for a lap. I jumped in a truck and headed up stream. Putting on I could tell I was not on my game. By the time I had portaged "Naked Man". Our group became fractured and I found myself paddling virtually alone. When I arrived at Almost Always I had caught up to Chris. I made a quick decision and decided I would run it. As I came to the lip of the drop I saw a red boat pinned on the left lip of the falls. I found myself blasting into the micro-eddy with too much speed, and it spun my boat sideways as I approached the lip of the falls. With all my strength, I helplessly threw a monstrous sweep stroke and barely pulled the boat around as I plunged over the lip. Amongst the wash of exploding vertical waters I ready myself for the impact. I blewthrough the hole at the base emerging unscathed without a roll in need. I released the tension in my gut with a "whoop" of triumph and smiled at the waters ahead.

Flirting with distaster on Almost Always!

Over the course of three days I had lapped Lester river five times and ran Almost Always 3 times. Every night I went home my spirit felt fattened and obese with contentment... living the most fortunate of lives.

Spring Creeking: The Beginning

It was beginning.

I had been listening for a sound of rushing water to be no longer muted by an icy covering. Underneath, the water sought it's deliverance from Winter's icy imprisonment. And now as I viewed the St Louis River danced amongst it's new found freedom as the ice floated broken and defeated in the eddies. Only a day before had the Thomson Dam been opened to extinguish the rising reservoir.

Myself in flight on the Lower St. Louis

We were at the water's edge upon the first report of the St. Louis river breaking open. The levels were 3 times higher than the usual summer levels, but they were not unfamiliar to me. The river showed it's changing faces and ploughed through it's walls with a big water character boiling and leaping into the crisp spring air.

Nate punches some big water on the St. Louis

The sun was shining as we put on. I put on the veil of confidence inside me despite it being 5 months since I had been amongst whitewater. As we ferried out into the enthusiastic waters and I settled in quickly. The familiarity of paddling fell into line as we pounded through laterals and surging wave-holes. Every paddler finds the ability to withstand the frigid waters of spring run off (barely above freezing) not only by our gear but by the flame of our vigor that repels the cold. The run went flawlessly and brought back the soul felt vitality that comes to my soul amongst the waters... the great reconnection.

Joel soars on the Lower St. Louis

And so it became a daily endeavor that I would feed my love affair with the whitewater. Meanwhile the St. Louis continued to rise daily and gradually became more and more of a challenge. I was feeling at home amongst the waters as I had ever had, having the benefit of time to paddle on my hands. Along side me companions began arriving from far off locations with similarities in both their enthusiasm and their lack of time constraints. We used the opportunity to warm up for the demands of the smaller and more technical creeks still awaiting their liberation.

And so the season was born and ahead lay the priceless adventures waiting to come into being.