Westward Waters: Day 2

After spending the evening at a paddling companions apartment, we awoke and sat awestruck at the levels abound in Colorado. A candid discussion of river's to run ensued, and based on the unbelievable levels it was concluded we would run the Black Rock and Lower sections of Clear Creek in Golden, CO. We drove into the foothills bordering Denver and sped into the gorge that contains Clear Creek. Meanwhile, I sat attempting to maintain apathy as to what the day held as a way to pacify my nerves... we were now embarking on our first class V run in CO.

Arriving at the river, we briefly pre-scouted all the major drops as the river flowed roadside through the gorge. We met up with fellow paddlers, geared for battle, and put on. The river level hovered around 1100 cfs... which is consider very high. The run began with non-stop continuous class IV boulder bed. It quickly came to my attention that, unlike Midwest whitewater, swimming is not much of an option. You may survive it, but you easily risk losing your boat and gear in such swift and continuous water. Moreover, any semblance of a gradual introduction to Colorado whitewater was deemed impossible with the state's flooding. It upped the ante.

Again, picture this with twice as much water... Clear Creek's "The Narrows"

Before long we had reach the gnashings of Black Rock which was our first class V drop.We bombed in amongst giant waves while fighting hard to avoid giant holes and an undercut that much of the river swept towards. I pounded through exploding waves and found myself pushed towards the undercut. I barely missed the undercut ledge and paddled onwards breathing hard.

I came to a second realization. The combination of high altitude and the continuous non-stop nature of the whitewater was getting breathlessly tired... I had never experience creeking as such a aerobic workout (with the exception of those unique moments of getting worked in hole). Paddling onward, the river mellowed as it came closer to the "Narrows" the next class V. Having just arrived in CO and feeling fairly youthful to this type of whitewater, I determined that that I would portage this drop.   Putting on below the river turn to miles of mellow class III and IV boulder bed. I began to build a rhythm and felt myself loosening up and becoming more comfortable. By the time we had reached the take-out and shuttle I had a grin unwaveringly plastered to my face. We basked in the 80 degree heat and parted ways with our paddling compatriots.

After a hearty meal and some analysis of the river levels, we determined the next reasonable stop would be in Buena Vista, CO along the banks of the Arkansas river. After much befuddled driving on my part, we reached the Clear Creek reservoir late in the night. We set up camp amongst the star filled dome of the sky and settled in for the night only vaguely aware of what the morning would bring.

Westward Waters: Day 1

The impending end to the Spring was weighing in my thoughts. Reliance on rains for temporary flooding on the local creeks was fading from possibility. Yet I had two weeks of vacation from medical school banked for an adventure. During weekend outings to the St. Louis River I probed my kayak compatriots for a paddling partner to head Westward for the spring runoff. It'd didn't take long before my friend John delved into the possibility.

The next question became where should we go. The possibilities were narrowed to the legendary waters of Idaho or the classic runs of Colorado. Given the logistics and distance we decided that Colorado would give us the most bang for our buck given the short amount of time we had available. So we researched the and made our tick list. John having paddled Colorado previously had a much better idea of what and where to paddle... alas I remained fair fluid in my expectations and was trusting of going where-ever.

We awoke in the darkness at 4 am and began driving south. The time passed with little effort and the miles seemed to pass quickly. As we approached the front range of the Rocky Mountains we check the trusty iPhone for the river levels. The levels had been steadily rising throughout the week, but now the level had risen to what seemed significantly high levels. Given our naivety we figured that we had nicely timed are trip with the peak of the spring runoff. Anxious to get on the river we headed towards Denver knowing that Clear Creek was the closest, best quality, and most reasonable run to start off with.

So after 15 hours of driving I found myself putting on my dry suit and looking at the river ahead. It was clear to me that the type of water I was about to encounter was beyond my realm of experience thus far. With a touch of Beta from the local we pushed off to run Upper Clear Creek. It was said to be a class IV/IV+ run and we were more than comfortable with that level of paddling, but had a degree of apprehension due to the river level being very high.

Picture this with twice as much water... Clear Creek

Pushing ahead we took turns who would boat scout and run the major rapids. The character of the water surprised me immediately. It was voluminous whitewater flowing through fairly narrow and constricted river beds laden with boulders weaving amongst the Mountains. Unlike the Midwest, it was rare if the hull of boat even brushed a rock. The speed of the water was new to me, given the amount of water, it continually charged along at a pace I was not used to. There was little need for forward propulsion and more need for maneuvering. The moves were more oriented towards punching through crashing waves and holes while generally avoiding nastiness.

My eyes had not been accustomed to reading this form of whitewater and my eyes widened in viewing the first Class IV drop. And yet sailing through each rapid it became apparent that the looks were deceiving and were more reasonable than my eye had viewed them. As we neared the end I became impressed with my fatigue, the whitewater proved to have few moments of rest due to it's continuous nature and small washed out eddies to recover. If you were forced to swim there was a high likelihood you may never see you kayak again as it washed downstream. We finished the run with little incident and I emerged smiling from my first baptism in the water's of Colorado. We retreated to a friend and paddler's place in Denver and set about deciding for the days ahead or future rivers.

While devouring dinner we were informed of the river conditions. We knew that the water levels were extremely high, but had come to find that they were some of the highest levels that portions of Colorado had seen in over a decade. Heat had come to Colorado incredibly early as the week had held multiple days of temperatures in the 90's. River's that were once relatively tame raged with a vengeance. As I went to sleep that night it became clear to me that the waters of Colorado were not going to be a gentle initiation, but an onslaught.... a trial by fire!

Boundary Waters Relaxation

Myself amongst the twilight on Burntside Lake

The with the unseasonable Spring the ice left the lakes of Northern Minnesota historically early. The sweet smell of spring was high in the air and the waters were warming. I found the lake outside my cabin was becoming comfortable for swimming. The leaves had all but sprung and I found myself exploring the the twilight by canoe every evening paddling waters with a surface of glass.

Burntside Lake Serenity

As all Minnesota all do my friends and I planned our yearly migration to the Boundary Waters. In the wilderness we set out to find camaraderie and relaxation while taking in a healthy dose of natural beauty and simplicity. After loading our four canoes we raced to put in on Moose lake. The canoes were brought to the water and loaded with gear. The three couples with a dog each in tandem canoes and myself (the odd man out) in a solo canoe set off into the afternoon sun.

As I paddled onto the water's Moose Lake it was a welcomed homecoming for me. 9 years previously I found myself paddling the same waters after my epic 36 mile trek for Gunflint to Ely. I was 18 then and basking in my youthful ambition. However this trip had a matured focus, no longer an endurance feat to cover ground, but a relaxed pace looking for a beautiful campsite to enjoy peaceful moments.

Two portages later and many miles of paddling the daylight was slowly fading into a sunset as we searched for the ideal campsite. On Basswood Lake we found a grand campsite nestled high on a hill amongst a grove of white pines. We made camp and found ourselves asleep early.

Having a higher experience in the BWCA

The morning dawn came to greet my eyes as the new day had arrived. We each packed supplies for the day ahead as we paddled the scenic route to Basswood Falls. After a few impromptu stops to reel in a few fish we found ourselves at the roaring falls. We basked in the scorching sun and blue bird skies. I took to old habit and found myself swimming into the whitewater and exploring the moving water with my snorkling gear.

Probing the whitewater of Basswood Falls

We made our way back to our home base and arrived with the setting sun. 20 miles of paddling called for a hearty meal which was welcomed by my belly. We watched the star on by one emerge in the coming darkness as the firelight lit our faces and warmed our souls.
The next morning came and fatigue still presided from the day previous. We packed and set off for a new location to spend our final night in the wilderness. Less than a mile away we settled upon a sandy beach.

The beach on Washington Island

A majority of the group felt content to lay upon the beach for the remainder of the daylight in lazy contentment. But the sun couldn't last forever and the rain filled clouds came to our secluded island cutting short our dinner and forced an early bedtime.

The morning came and we set about reaching the shores of society again. A couple portages later we found ourselves driving into my temporary home, the fair town of Ely. After a tasty meal we all went back to our lives: I to my quaint cabin life and my companions to the city of Duluth. It was a weekend of friendship and days of relaxation that simplified life.

The crew!

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