Flash Flooding In The Midwest

Myself running "Plumber's Crack"

Over the course of an evening, darkness in clouds had been brewing. I excitedly peered at a myriad of bright colors of moving radar image. Rains looked to be inevitable for Duluth and the North shore. But would it be enough? I went to bed with a message on the local forum asking if the anything had risen.In the morning I got confirmation amongst text messages flying spouting glorious river levels. I had the car packed with gear in no time and was on the road. The sun was high in the sky and humidity was rising as steam off the drying pavement as I drove to the North Shore. The temperatures hovered around 85. I stood sweating outside the car overlooking the put-in to the Stewart River. The levels looked more than do-able and I made some quick phone calls.
I met Cliff in the parking lot of the Knife river and waited for the others to arrive. Anxious and impatient, I put on my gear and jumped onto the final drop of the Knife and did two quick laps. By the time I carried back to the car the crew was assembled and ready.

Jay boofs "Plumbers Crack"

Arrived at the Stewards put in, we suited up and Tony patched up his boat, as had become routine after the Split Rock river had maimed his trusty craft. As we paddle away from the banks of the put in, it became apparent that the level was by no means juicy (judging by the scraping sounds of our boats down the first set of slides). But as we arrived at "Plumber's Crack" the fun had only begun. Each of us paddled into an state of airborne joy while boofing the 12-15 ft falls. After 3-4 laps we each headed on our way.

T2 exhibiting the brown claw!

We braved through the newly descended drop I entitled tentatively entitled "Piton Falls" as Joel Decker has yet to name it after pioneering his line down it. Each of us slid through drop without an issue.

Myself atop "Piton Falls" w/ Cliff on safety

As the rays of the sun rose high into the sky, we reached the horizon line of the "Pillow Drop". A ribbon of light cast itself gloriously on the drop as we each melted into it's massive boilings.

Cliff bathed in light while dropping into the "Pillow Drop"

Lastly we took long glances at the line on the final fish ladder drop. Although seeing a definite possibility line, none of us had the gumption to fire it up. Paddling toward lake Superior a we collided with a wall of fog as the lake's cold air mixed with the humid sun warmed air from the higher elevations.

Happy Creeking!

Getting into my car and seeing a flurry of text messages on my phone regarding conditions on the Lester river, quickly loaded my gear and speedily drove back towards Duluth. The fog hung thick on the banks of the Lester river making the daylight fade quicker than a normal day. Excited prancing from my car to the river edge I was great by significantly high levels. I had not paddled nor seen the Lester this high in two years. A crew of paddlers emerged from the banks and I found some campanions to do a lap with me.

Inside myself I was nervous. The last time I had run the Lester this high the consequences were almost dire. Yet putting onto the river it was clear the river was lower than I originally thought and was not as high as the historic day two years previous. Every rapid felt cushioned from the rocks below and less abrasive. The river seemed to flow more gracefully and I felt in control. Reaching the 25 ft falls that is Almost Always I took out to scout while my companions charged over its lip. I had already decided that I would run it, but wanted to take a good look and run through the drop in my mind.

Japs styles "Almost Always" at high water

I pushed off from the banks into the current keenly aware of my line. When the moment came I charged to the river right aiming for a the clean and voluminous lip of the falls and fighting the majority of the river that charged left down a unfavorable chute. However, the river right hand water move more slowly. In hitting the slower current with significant speed, my boat began to peel out and I headed towards the lip of the falls sideways. Adrenaline took hold and I battled to straighten my boat. I turned the bow in the nick of time and grabbed a right boof stroke in the process. I sailed into verticality and landed atop the main flow of the falls and prepared for the hit. I collided with the 5 foot high exploding hole awaiting me at the base of the falls and was thrown into a left brace. Expecting to be immediatly over-turned, I was shocked to find myself rocketing forward upright among the wave train. The last wave turned my edges fliiping me and forcing me to roll up. I came to the surface triumphantly and felt the surge of adrenaline coursing through me as I smiled.

We paddled onward elated with the days events. I pulled my boat ashore and revelled in my success. The beginnings of summer had come and their ran brought the renewing waters to the rivers, and I myself left feeling again renewed.

Spring Rains

Myself on the second falls of the East Frok fo the Beaver River

Days on the St. Louis River were becoming numbered as the power company was to stem the flows releasing from the dam as of June. And though the St. Louis never seems to bore me, however if another option presented itself I would seek it out.After what was one of the driest Spring's in recent remembrance the inevitable occurred. The skies darkened and rain came to the North Country. It was only early May and yet it felt like the infancy of summer despite the inherent lack of leaves about the trees. The rains had fallen steadily over the course of a day. The rains came just in time to aid my internal state of affairs. Medicine and the stress of the educational process had me in a choke hold. I went to the rivers to find release.I wasn't the only one with a longing for the river. The text messages rang out as I was already on my way. Pulled over at the Northern most river on my path and checked the level and it looked reasonable. It was agreed that we'd converge on the East Fork of the Beaver river as it appeared that it's flows would be worthwhile. As I emerged from the bush after checking the levels up close, I found my compatriots awaiting me.
We lazily geared up in warmth of the midday sun and slid our boats into the river. The river was far from spring level and I winced as my 3 season old boat scraped along towards the three falls section. When we arrived we each exited our boats to check the line as it changes with the low water levels. Sure enough the line on the first falls looked to be significantly tricky and the possibility of pitoning came into question. As with any issue of pitons this season, Decker decided he would go first since his breakaway Jackson bulkhead gave him confidence that his ankles would go unscathed in the event of a piton. Sure enough he managed to hit rock but barely.

Joel Runs the first falls of the East Fork of Beaver River

Adjust the line of attack Cliff went next with little incident and T2's results were identical. I decided I had little to worry about and saddled up. I made the tight move working towards the river left and sailed into the aerated water. I emerged smiling without consequence with an eddy full of elated kayakers. From the hanging pool we each became airborne off the next 20 footer landing with the beautiful sound of a "boof".
We couldn't get enough and decided to lap the upper falls. This time when I cam to the first falls I threw a hard strong amongst my descent and boofed out and swung into the second falls without pause and stomped out another boof. We soon found that at the low water levels that the left hand edge of the second 20 foot had an easy cove in which to scale back up to it's lip. And so we preceded with joyous laps off it's beautiful cascade. I couldn't stop and pent up frustration with my internal state affairs melted with each lap. By the end I had lapped the second falls ten times over much less the two laps of the entire sequence already.

Cliff amongst one of many of the laps on the second falls

But alas the time came to let it go. Each with sore backs slid over the last 15 footer and made our way back to the shuttle vehicles. It was a day of pure elation and release. We stood around and talked like excited school boys as the sun slowly fell. Bliss had never come so easily and a rejoiced with my psyche recharged in simple contentment.

Old Reliable: The Lower St. Louis

The spring had been disappointing. The temperatures remained a historic highs and the snow melt dwindled to non-existence. It was still March and yet the humidity in the air easily made me think it was already May. Though sunshine was plentiful the rivers flows receded with an unprecedented rapidity. The season had come to a close only 3 weeks after it had begun and treasured rivers where left unrun. The paddling community held hope for flooding rains, but none came. To make matter's worse the Dam controlling the Lower St. Louis River was releasing suboptimal flows. We could only wait.

The winds March brought our community of paddlers a consolation. The Thompson Dam began releasing flows that filled the Lower St. Louis river to levels that would satisfy a hunger amongst us. We all converged on the river who was a familiar and reliable friend. The St. Louis River has a special place in my remembrances, as I have grown from my youth along it's banks. At age 5, after half day kindergarten, my mother would bring me across the "swinging" bridge in Jay Cooke State Park. There I would find entertainment scrambling on the polished basalt. As a adolescent I remember scaling the barb wired topped fences onto one of the numerous dams on the St. Louis to attain the hallowed fishing grounds. In retrospect the fishing was rather terrible, but the adventure of being someplace few had been to was satisfying.

An now in my young adulthood (or however my age-class should be appropriately labeled), I had become familiar with the St. Louis from the vantage of a kayak. My development as a paddler had been shaped by St. Louis. My first swims and triumphs had been within its currents.

And so it came to pass that multiple weekends with the usual suspects were spent running the Lower St. Louis with high and lows. At one point I had the skill to piton and sprain my ankle on Finn Falls and swim shortly there after on an less than consequential pour over. On other occasions I felt one with the river and raced down from Thompson dam to Oldenburg Point hitting all my lines without hesitation. Typically between laps we would all gather round beers in hand bantering and erupting in laughter. The camaraderie between laps was as much a part of the paddling experience as the whitewater.

The fellowship of the paddling community that inhabits the Midwest creeking scene is second to none. I owe much of development as a paddle to this unique gathering of paddlers. Despite the dismal creeking season, I found the St Louis River a blessing and a uniting force amongst the paddling community. I look forward to weekends of whitewater to come.

The Only Weekend: East and Main Beaver

The morning came too soon after a long night and sleep was coveted. I was in the company of folks with the same philosophy. By noon we had all gathered and an hour later kayak laden vehicles left Duluth behind, bound northward. Our destination was much a repeat of the day previous. The East Beaver river was a old stand-by and assured enjoyment.The levels and paddlers were much the same. We quickly sped for the three falls, and when the horizon line was reached we each went in succession without hesitation. I recall putting conscious attention to the first drop and it's technical nature. I went over the lip in a forward position and dug my paddle half way down. I heard the boof and was more than satisfied. I took no time to wait and went over the second falls. Another boof... my confidence was growing.

Japs on the Three Falls of the East Fork of the Beaver (Photo credit: Chad Thurow)

Four of us gathered for a second lap and hiked up the steep banks for another run. On the first falls I felt myself self plug mightily and was thrown onto my back deck. Underwater I regrouped and resurfaced upright. The second falls was much the same, and felt myself being sucked into the base of the falls. I ender myself to the right and found myself clear of its grasp. Whatever confidence I had built was diminished.

A congregation of us paddler below the Three Falls

I had agreed to go with Justin down the remainder of the Beaver River as it ran towards Lake Superior. The rest of the group had brought their boats ashore, meanwhile we paddled onward. In the distance lay a jagged cliff blocking the horizon. As it neared, the river opened widely before us as the east and west forks of the Beaver River came to a confluence. The river transitioned into class III and a ominous roar was heard over the river's oncoming horizon line. We got out of boats and marveled at the heinous drop. Giant and hungry holes confirmed it was a rapid I would likely never run, and if it was run it would be once in a lifetime experience. After portaging, our boats again met the water. Navigating through a short section of moderate whitewater, we again came to a horizon line. I sat in quiet reverence to the river's menacing beauty. I had never seen a drop of such magnitude in all of the Midwest. The river entire river poured narrowly through a cliff lined constriction over boulders the size of cars, sieved out under them, created powerful hydraulics, and cascaded in a final slide. I was unnerved at the possibility of running any portion of the drop. However Justin was ready to put in and run the final slide of the drop.

This portion of the drop bears the need of description. The entire river threads through the aforementioned boulders until it it transitions to a 35 yard wide voluminous slide that culminates in a 15 foot drop that violently collides with a van sized pyramid shaped boulder.

Staring down the aforementioned drop's horizon line

I stood on my perch overlooking the drop with a throw bag and camera in hand, meanwhile Justin put in and readied himself. Ferrying through a narrow slot he sped down the slide. Watching him nail his boof, I smiled as he shot airborne into the melee of exploding water. Avoiding the giant boulder he emerged smiling.

Justin on the Main Beaver River

I looked at the drop and knew it was within my range of abilities. Unlike many paddlers, time spent reviewing a drop increasing my chances of running it exponentially. Every paddler battles in their head with two forces. The internal protectionist focuses on every realistic point of danger and feeds doubt. In opposition, ambition sees optimistically points the direction of success. However for any paddle there comes a turning point having balanced your angels and demons and decisively turn to the chosen path. I eyed the possibilities and fought with the intimidation of the outward appearance of the drop. Justin clamored to shore to gave me needed encouragement walking me through the moves. I turned from the river and knew my path.

I set my boat into a micro eddy and nervously saddled up in my boat. Rounding the backside of a sheltering boulder I ferried up stream, caught the current, and and peeled through a narrow slot letting impulse take hold. Rocketing down the slide, I positioned myself to launch away from the disastrous boulder. Amidst a drop one achieves a zen-like meditative state. The world drops off and uninterrupted focus on the poetry of motion ensues. For a moment existence becomes liberatingly simple... survive! The world went white with aerated water as I felt my kayak take flight. I felt a soft impact as if landing on a cloud and the sky slowly came back into view. I emerged with a heart pumping adrenaline to fuel the welling enthusiasm. I was unable to contain the emotion and erupt in a primal and victorious vocalism.

Myself emerging from the chaos

The Beaver hadn't concluded it's raging yet, as we navigated the Class IV boulder field and over the last remaining drops. We exited our boats before the Beaver River turned angry as it guards the passage into Lake Superior with drops of a unwieldy magnitude.

Myself amongst the boulder gardens on the Main Beaver

I walked from the river content and thankful. It must be said that a paddling companion can make the difference in any day on the river. It not only in light of safety that we seldom paddle alone. The mental battle of paddling is not to be a solitary endeavor. Those that you paddle with are vital in one's growth as a paddler. A fellow paddler's encouragement and belief can make ever bit of difference when struggling to believe in oneself in the face of animosity. Justin had tipped the balance for me and allowed me to run a drop I otherwise would have turned from. I was grateful.

Myself on the Main Beaver

The Only Weekend: Split Rock and East Beaver Rivers

I awoke earlier than expected or need be. The sun was shining warmly and the sky shone blue as I packed my gear. Paddlers (if I may generalize) seem to revel in slow mornings. I drove to the Lester River parking lot and took a nap in my car waiting for the community to gather.

A fleet of 5-6 vehicles headed northward from Duluth, our sights set upon the Split Rock river. We arrived to find the river levels favorable. Gearing up our group of 8 paddlers set out hiking 3 miles up river, our boats heavily borne upon our shoulders. The sun was high in sky as the sweat dripped from my brow and my breath pulsed with exertion. Gradually the sound of the river came to our ears and then around a bend came into sight.

A short while later we set our kayaks upon the rock shores of the river and readied for battle. For those who have never witnessed the Split Rock river it is unlike any other. It cascades repeatedly and unremittingly over long shallow slides of rock winding it's way to the cold waters of Lake Superior. To the unseasoned eye the river is intimidating, but to any paddler it holds sheer joy. Each of us found our way rocketing down the shallow river in boundless exhilaration.

The river climaxed in a steep slide that billows into a walled in constricted hanging pool that exits narrowly through a slotted passage holding a hole that buries rock of threatening quality. So named "Under The Log" ( for the log it once contained), the drop earn a reputation over the last years for injuring paddlers.

A fellow paddler's helmet cam of "Under The Log" from that day

Courtesy of Nora Whitmore!!

I put most my thoughts of the drop aside and focused on the fact that I had run the drop the year previous without incident. This year there was no difference as my kayak and I navigated the chaos, punched the hole, and smiled broadly. The river calmly gave way to Lake Superior and strode up the cold gravel beach to our vehicles.

The sun still held its light to the land as we traveled northward for our next adrenaline meal. It was clear with little analysis that the East Fork of the Beaver was at a fun level. We all saddled up in our kayaks and paddled amongst alder and ice crusted banks of the Beaver River. When the river gave way to it's gnashing the paced picked up. Finding the horizon line we were looking for no one stopped. The East Beaver pours over 3 falls in succession and separated by hanging pools. All eight of us bombed the into the first falls blindly and confident.

I remember coming over lip and felt fate take hold of my kayak as it plugged deep. From the darkness I came to the surface in a left brace and quickly oriented myself in the boiling pool. Paddling to my left, I wasted no time in propelling myself to the second falls. I threw some hard strokes and waited paddle ready for the perfect moment. I grabbed the lip with my paddle blade and found myself flying airborne into the mist and landing with a stylish "boof". Like candy to my senses, I couldn't suppress a joyous woop and fist pump. The last falls iced an already frosted cake and I couldn't get enough as we paddled away.

A congregation of us giddy in a hanging pool on the East Beaver

We left the river and the brotherhood of 8 paddlers walked the train tracks to the awaiting shuttle. We all quickly drove over to Glenn Avon Falls on the West Fork of the Beaver before the soggy cold set in. Three brave paddlers took on the violent thrashing of Glenn Avon. It's a drop of such violence and distance I won't go into length to further described it for fear of using multiple pages. Watching Joerg passing through the exploding walls of water with his helmet clearly unstrapped and useless nearly gave me an ulcer.

Avoiding disaster, the day light waned in the western horizon. I drove home in the darkness replaying the day in my mind. I the remembrance would remain preserved and the satisfaction having fed my soul its sustenance.

A First Descent On The Stewart River

The falling of the river levels on the Lester river pointed us in the northward direction for paddling possibilities. The changing of the river conditions were signalling dire prospects for the season ahead. Joel, Andy, Cliff and myself decided that the Stewart river would be a good run. I could see from the put in that the river was not going to be as juicy as I preferred but was still at an acceptable level.

We geared up in the falling afternoon sun and put onto thee river. The Stewart river is familiar friend of mine and a yearly run I make. The river began with a longer slide that was disappointingly scrappy. After many bends of the river as it gently ran amongst it sloping canyon wall we heard the rumblings of "Plumber's Crack". There before us lay the horizon line of a clean ~12 ft falls. We each joyfully ran multiple laps off it enjoying some quality boof time and I took the time to learn the "stomp" technique. The joyful and stress free fun felt good.

We continued onward and arrived what was otherwise known to me to be an unrun falls. I had only portaged it in the past, but my companions having never seen it were intrigued by the possibility of running it. The river dropped of a ~10 semicircular precipice and fell shallowly onto a flat base of rock, then terminating in a descent hole in the center. None of us felt confident that it could be boofed effective (landing flat) so we explored the possibility of it having enough angle to slide through. Joel was feeling decisive and empowered not only by his full face helmet, shock absorbing bulk head, and warranty on his kayak. I set up safety finding a spot right at the base of the falls and waited. Without a hitch Joel skidded down shooting past the side of the hole and scoring himself a first descent. Having the falls already probed for us, we each took our turns being some of the first to run the line. Stay tuned for Joel's naming of the drop.

Only a single bend later, I went ahead and ran the "Pillow Drop" and smiled as I plunged down a 15 ft sliding falls and shot off of a giant billowing pile of water deflecting from a giant boulder. We all took to the drop without hesitation and added to days exhilaration. After portaging a nasty looking blasted fish ladder and sped through the last slide the river had to offer. We paddled into the dusk as the river opened to the flaming horizon reflected Lake Superior. It was a evening of joyous paddling not technically difficult but of sheer fun. I only wished the the river levels would hold and that another run could happen the following day. But there was no such luck for the snow had all but melted from the forest and the waters seemed to be receding. I headed homeward looking forward to the weekend of paddling before us.

The After Hours: Lester River

The season had commenced and the waters flowed generously. Every evening paddlers converged at the Lester River's edge after a day of toil, paddles waiting in anticipation. We ended our days in the dusk amongst the currents of the river. Over the course of the seasons we had all come to know the river as if it were a brother. Every drop as if a familiar face, it's roar with a recognized inflection. Our runs of the river like a friendly wrestling match; like a respectful joust.

Every day near the end of a run on the Lester River, I would find myself on a precipice looking down at a vertically twisting ~20 ft column of water exploding in a fantastic hole in the pool below. The falls aptly entitled "Almost Always", as it is almost always portaged, lay before me. Each day I looked at Almost Always attempting to summon the the confidence I had had the year previous when I had first run it. The gumption slowly grew in me through day one and two of the paddling season. On the third day I was set in my mind to run it, but was impeded by late hours at the hospital. I rushed to the river frantically hoping someone would be willing to consider another lap with me. I was in luck.

My run of "Almost Always" last year... picture it with twice as much water.

We put on and began a steady pace... no hesitation, no pause to rest. My confidence bolstered with each passing rapid. And then carelessly, as a single rapid remained between me and "Almost Always", I was over turned in my haste. My first roll attempt failed. My second was interrupted by a rock striking my helmet. My flustered third attempt barely got my head above water. My fourth attempt floundered uselessly as I pulled my skirt swimming in the river's icy grip. I retreated to shore and began running to catch my boat as it swept down stream. When it had finally been herded to shore, I discovered that "Almost Always" had left it's mark by indenting my boat's bow . The river chastened me for my over confidence and I left feeling like a fool for missing my rolls.

My pride bruised, I went the next day and took to the river and used the run to rebuild my resolve. A day later I was again mentally ready as I stood on the threshold of falls analyzing the line. My self and another companion spent 30 min contemplating the possibility of a run, both teetering on the edge of resolution. my fellow paddler climbed into his boat while I watched him style the line.

I still had my doubts as I slipped into my boat. Yet despite them I found myself pushing my kayak from shore in utter focus on the task at hand. I paddled through a small wave as my eye caught hold of my line. The water was high and the current opposed my efforts to stay on line and I paddled furiously as it was proving unexpectedly difficult to attain the right hand lip of the falls. By a small margin I snuck past threatening disaster, and was relieved to find myself riding into the vertical and falling with the water. Yet widening eyes quickly replaced my relief as I braced for collision with the hole below. It rose up and enveloped in a wall of exploding whiteness as I soon found myself less than upright and readied my roll for when calm would inevitably ensue. I emerged to the surface and raised a fist in exultant glory, grinning over my shoulder at what had been accomplished.

The summoning of strength and the majesty of overcoming fear and doubt brings a burning satisfaction to one. And we can all lay claim to parallels of this experience in our lives. I drove home warmly jubilant and endowed with an overreaching appreciation for the gift of this day whose sun was now setting.