Huge Changes to Upper Hokitika River

I haven't written on this blog for 3 years now.  I thought I'd help my fellow paddlers out in seeing the change in the rivers of the West Coast of New Zealand. Last year was the first time I went into the Upper Hokitika and loved the run and it's committing nature. This year I returned and was amazed at the changes in each of the gorges. Some of them being formidable! See below as I'll offer some comparison photo's:

Gorge #1 (just after Viagra Falls):

      Looking Upstream

Then (via Redbull Flowhunters)

Now as of Jan, 2016

           Looking Downstream you see the cause, large new slip

What it used to look like

Now there's a new rapid and boulder's damming the river

Gorge #2

          The crew last year

This year... note the giant monolith now in the river (dams it a bit)

Gorge #3

I don't have an old shot I could find of this one for comparison, but I will say this. You used to be able to walk down the left side because it was dry. Now you're stuck with something with much more risky

In Summary:

While I could go into great detail as to how we made it into and through each of these gorges, it really would defeat the purpose of this post. By the time someone else drops into the Upper Hokitika river again... these gorges will likely have already changed. Some for better, other's for worse. The beauty and challenge of kayaking the West Coast of New Zealand is that you must treat every one as if it is a first descent... and in some ways you do get to have your own personal first descent. The river will continue to change from year to year. And we'll again get to admire the living river and the changing earth.

Uncommon Luck: Selway River

This year I had come upon some uncommon luck. I had found myself in possession of Selway River Permit. For those unfamiliar, the Selway river has restricted access during the Spring runoff. Thus in the winter before the season starts the whitewater world begins applying for permits. They are then pooled and a lottery is used to select the lucky winners. Not uncommonly folks often go 10 years without getting a permit for the Selway... but in my good fortune I have gotten one two years in a row!!!!

So myself and my fast friend Nate Winning had amassed a a crew of paddlers and rafters. They included several of his rafting friends from his recent Grand Canyon Trip. Meanwhile, our friend Doug Marbarger from Missoula brought along "Team Carne" to include Frank McCann and Thorin Geist. Lastly I invited my friend Scotty Ewen from the Northwoods of MN.

However in day before the trip I was out for my daily rounds on Brennan's wave in Missoula when I ran into a two paddlers from Asheville North Carolina.... Ryan Richardson and Eric Weigel. They had just finished college and were touring the country in search of whitewater adventure. They seemed like a happy couple of paddlers and I had a beer with them later that evening. I told them of the Lochsa... but at that time wasn't sure of the size of my group or if I had extra spots but as we parted ways, I found out they'd be headed to the Lochsa.

Days later, I met up with Scotty Ewen and we hurried over to the Lochsa to meet the rest of our Selway crew. As we all furiously packed our gear away, I notice Ryan and Eric's SUV nearby. By this time I was aware I had 4 spots left on my permit (16 people max).

Here is the footage from my recent adventures on the Selway River. We had a lovely crew including three rafts and 9 kayakers. Enjoy the footage:

  Selway River from B Norrgard on Vimeo.

Welcome to the Bitterroots

I sat in the dusk beside my truck while overhead the clouds rained down the amongst giants cedars, and on the horizon only a small pink ribbon of clouds remained of the setting sun. The rain danced while the tumultous waters of the Lochsa River spoke in a roar. I sat mellowly absorbing the scene surrounding me. Pierceing the rivers song, boulders rolled in the hidden depths of the waters and sounded like the percussion of fireworks in a 4th of July sky. I was happy to arrive in this place...

In the days prior I had made the journey to the edge of the Bitterroot Mountains as my work had me traveling to the small town of Stevensville. Chasing the setting sun I arrived in Missoula in the nick of time to surf the manufactured play wave known in memoriam as Brennan's Wave. It was start of what would be three weeks amongst the Bitterroot's. A day later I had secured housing and spent 4 hours in the noon sun playing on Brennan's wave and warming up from my month long hiatus from whitewater. I drove happily exhausted in the direction of the Lochsa with the knowledge that the river was rising rapidly and would peak to levels possibily the highest of the season. I had no paddling partners but put faith that I could find some compatriots on the banks of Lochsa.

I arrived in the cover of night and surveyed the campgrounds for paddlers. Pulling into the poacher's free camping, I encountered a camp fire. Hopping out of my truck I came to find 3 paddlers who had the misfortune of high water on the Selway River blocking their trip. I quickly made friends with Cliff, Josh, Mike, and Chad. The night was already late and so after some brief conversation the group turned in. I walked down to the river to gauge it's level. The beam of my headlamp revealed swelling waters of magnitudes I had yet seen and had flooded into the trees along the river. I went to bed contemplating the morning ahead and the changing character of the Lochsa.

I awoke with the morning light and the sun radiantly warmed the air. The crew emerged and slowly busied getting for the days run. Looking at the river it was clear it had risen during our slumber and when I had left civilization I knew the flow was topping 17,000 cfs! We set our sights on the upper Lochsa.

Driving up river we stopped and scouted. My companions noted the river had risen nearly a foot over night. I had run the upper Lochsa numerous times and felt comfortable with all the lines, however now there was a distinct change in the Lochsa's character. At any other level the river was a stress-less flwoing of beautiful class IV. But now Lochsa was displaying it's more violent side. Eddy's became littered by whirlpools, holes became monstrous, and flat water became long sets of wave trains all the while raging downstream at 15-20 mph.

The truck filled with my companions became quiet and pensive. Reaching the put-in I grabbed my gear and dragged it to the rivers edge and waste no time gearing up. However only two of the four of my new companions came down the trail. It would only be a crew of three. And so myself and Josh helped Chad launch his Cat Boat, and we slid in our kayaks into the masses of water while the sun shone brightly among the blue skies and 80 degree heat.

We nervously paddled ahead defensively paddling an cautiously looking ahead. The river that I had once recognized was replaced by massive waves and holes galore. Rapids once of consequence became wave trains and rapids that never exhisted sprouted keeping us on our toes. We rolled into the first drop, Eagle Creek, an watched the magnitude of whitewater explode. I hugged close to the right bank and sized up the initial breaking wave as the world began to accelerate. I climbed up it's 4 foot face and crashed through it's peak and instinct to over. The waves crashed as if amongst a moving ocean of water echoing of the banks surging unpredictably. I maintain my momentum and maintained focus. We eddied out after the first drop and the smiles slowly grew on our faces and we relaxed as the more and more of the river passed us by.

However looming in our heads was triple drop, a series of 4 staggered monstrous holes with only a narrow line. As triple drop loomed ahead apathy came to me. There was some attempt to eddy out. But as we cam neared I felt... "what's the point?" any more scouting and I'd probably end up walking the rapid. So I signaled to my partners I was going and took the lead, while Chad in the Cat boat lined up behind me. I sighted the first wave of 6-7 ft in height and new I needed to crest the left edge of it's massive-ness. I pounded through and immediately began working back left in the slack water behind it skirting away from two left hand holes. Then set my sights on the final crashing wave. I lined up and lowered my head for the hit and came blasting through to a boiling eddy. Grins abound we regrouped in the eddy chattering with the release of nervous energy.

The rest of the run went flawlessly as we plodded on. We stopped at our camp and enjoyed a celebratory beer. Myself and Josh hadn't had enough and regrouped to run Lower section of the Lochsa. But skies gew dark and the rain came down torrentially. It was a warm rain that was surprisingly pleasant. However from th warm rain and the heat of the day clashing with the frigid waters of the Lochsa rose an ominous mist about the river. Neither Josh nor I was familiar with the lines in any way. I could barely see Josh only 20 ft in front of me and we took each corner completely unware whether we were on the correct line and we about to be throttled by a bus sized hole. It was eerie in feeling and we grew wary of our safety given the enormous river levels. On shore we could see our shuttle vehicle awaiting us to runthe next rapid. We took out and cut our losses, avoiding unnecessary danger.

The weather continued to worsen while we set up came, with rain turning to hail. We set up a tarp kingdom and sat out of the weather. The night led to the usual banter and I sat content. We listed as the river rolled boulders down stream and it sounded like 4th of July fireworks in the night. Amongst the majesty of the river and enjoying the accolades of my new found crew, I felt the familiar happiness that the river and those whose chase it's water bring.

The Hunger

Contemplating the seasonal desire for the river’s water

When the sun rises you can sense it.  In a breath you can taste the rising humidity. The birds know it too, they sing their praise for the anticipated warmth.  As the fire rises in the sky, droplets of water emerge from icicle tips, liberated from their snowy grasp.  And so the current begins; the hunger grows.

It always seems to occur in the mid of winter. A singular day of thaw is enough to light the spark of desire, despite knowing Ullr still has many months of reign.  Memories begin to flood the day dreams. Suddenly I'm smelling like chlorine left over from pool imprisoned paddling sessions. I'm zombie faced and unconsciously paging through pictures, videos, websites, blogs to fill that intolerable void. When it gets real bad, I come fulfill the capitalistic ideal and begin pouring over the latest gear.  The obsession only worsens with further change in the tilt of the earth. Like the desire of your first love; that lovely and yet painful craving.

But often I have thought, at these times… why must I wait every year for the water. Why don’t I pack up and find a place where Tethys (the mother of waters) and her children are never captive by winter.  

But what then would fuel this hunger? From what source would the desire alight? Or would I prefer to pull-start my motivation every morning without it?

Contemplation breeds peace with the ongoing impatience. And this seems to describe universal seasonal emotion of paddlers far and wide; it is the beautiful hunger that brings us together. Communal bar-side tales of prior years ensue, smiles erupting, as nostalgia perpetuates. And we silently and contently wait for the many cycles of the moon to carry the sun to its rightful place and unlock the frozen waters.

Of Comrades and The Boof Kanal

I took to the familiar road from Billings, following highway 212 into the Southwest and driving in thoughtful silence. Ahead the Beartooth Mountains filled the horizon amongst the cloudless blue sky. In the high country, only faint remnants of snow were to be found; inhabiting only the shadowed gullies. The summer heat hung oppressively about the land, and dissolved any remaining snow pack. Thus the creeks lost their roaring song and gradually quieted.

As the water began to wane, we had taken to the dam released West Rosebud and basked in its supplemented flows. Every weekend crews from hours away congregated for what remained of the high quality runs in South-Central Montana. The West Rosebud became another friend in whose waters I routinely found an inextinguishable smile. On the river's shore I shared beers and laughter with new faces; united by the shared lust for whitewater.

Myself amongst the West Rosebud with Nate Winning, Aaron Mulkey, and Dave Benkley in close succession

But even then, the changing season could not be suppressed, and the heat persisted in dwindling even West Rosebud.  And so myself and Nate Winning scrambled to find some parcel of water to satisfy our insatiable hunger for the river. While flying about the country-side by way of air plane, Nate had spotted some whitewater amongst one of the numerous irrigation canals that wandered about the rolling countryside. Upon investigation a worthy endeavor was born.

I drove onward through the rolling hills of parched and golden grass rolling in the wind. I was aware of an aching stiffness in my knee, which sought to remind me of my swim two weeks earlier. But today would be clean and gleeful joy, as I sped for the "Boof Kanal". The newly christened irrigation ditch was so named in light of its (approximate) 13 artificially created pour-overs of 2-7 feet in height. It was a 7 minute run of silly fun, and with a 10 minute walk for lapping.

Boof Kanal from B Norrgard on Vimeo.

As pavement transitioned to the rumble of gravel amongst rolling rubber, ahead on the hillside crept the canal. Stepping from a truck parked along the banks came Nate with a welcoming expression. I was grateful for good company and waters to paddle.

I had discovered that the community of paddlers inhabiting this section of the Beartooths was rather scarce if not fractured. To my good fortune Nate Winning had same intentions as myself: to paddle every given moment so long as any water remained. And thus we had a steadfast paddling partnership.

In my experience, men have a way of becoming entangled in masculine posturing much to our own fault. Often this "machismo" distracts and degrades the experience of whitewater to an unsightly superficiality. I had the good fortune of learning to paddle in the Midwest where humility is an upheld virtue, and I was concerned if I could replicate this and find like minded paddlers in my new home.

The bond between paddlers is unlike that of any sport I have experienced. The dynamics of a group can make or break a run. Your safety is placed on the shoulders of those paddlers you go to the river with. But over the course of a season, with countless laps with the same paddling friends there develops a mutual understanding. Communication on the river is reduced to mere facial expression or glance as the details can be read from them. There is nothing to prove and the male competitive tendencies fade... your paddling comrades know you and your abilities. If you get beat down, there is no judgement for it. When one is successful there is no brooding jealousy, only a celebration.

And so from countless river laps, spread across 3 states.... I found the same the same shared understanding, philosophy, and trust in Montana as I had known in my Midwestern homeland.

Nate and I scurried to the banks of the Boof Kanal and found refuge from the mid-day sun's oppressive heat amongst the fertile waters. In the midst of a backdrop of the flowing golden grasslands, we could be seen taking flight over artificial water falls; laughing amongst our personal paradise of waters amongst a dry and thirsty landscape.......

The Stillwater River

As the sun breathed it's fiery breath upon the Beartooth Mountain's high country, the waters began their migration and the Spring paddling season was born. It was a stark transition from paddling in my homeland of Duluth where Class V creeks and drops lie within the city limits. But from my new Billings the Beartooths loomed distant in the horizon and thus whitewater flowed an hour South and West. But working an inhumane 75 hours a week in the hospital was eating at my soul. I felt one dimensional and disconnected. Thus was born a ravenous hunger for the river as an desperate cure for a life of growing apathy.

The Stillwater River from B Norrgard on Vimeo.

Within near reach was the Stillwater river and became a staple in my after work paddling. Nearly an hour and half away the Stillwater powerfully roared through the Beartooth Mountains before meandering through the grassy foot hills of Yellowstone River Valley before converging with the Yellowstone River itself. The Stillwater Drainage is one of the larger of the Beartooth's and thus run as moderate flows of 1500-3000 cfs through much of the spring. In high Spring flows it provides Class IV-V big water delight, while at low flows the upper stretches contain Class V tight creeking. Thus the river is a versatile run through the changing seasons.

Over the course of the season the Stillwater became a familiar friend and a savior. The rushing waters song muted the noisy demands of the turning world. Whitewater became a meditative dance between me and the river, and my toil away from the river became only a mere distraction. Each day I left the river in the looming dusk, nourished and lit with a renewed flame of vitality. I thankfully drove home smiling into the glowing horizon.

From Past to Present Tense

The thralls of life have put me quite behind in the tales of this spring. And while there are stories the will forever remain in my memory, a shortage of time has stripped my ability to convey them in written words.

In the interest of capturing the present while it remains in foreground of my thoughts rather than a distant recapturing of moments gone by.... I will be skipping ahead to the present. Thus my spring including trips to the Selway, Lochsa, Lower Clarks Fork, The Pot's, Woodbine, and the many forks of rock creek will remain to be documented in video only sans the infamous GoPro(coming soon).

In the mean time stay tuned for posts on more current adventures...

Why The Blog?

After reading a few other's blogs and seeing the darker faces of their authorship... I felt the need to explain origins and intent of this blog.

I will first admit, the title of this blog in itself is seemingly egotistical and frankly somewhat lame, but at this point is difficult to change to something perhaps more metaphorical.

Despite the egotism of the title the reasons I began writing is far from attention seeking. The reason I began writing in the space was because of an overflowing. How do you communicate the daily awe that nourishes you? How do you describe to a stranger the joys of your life? We all have a story to be told. But in starting this blog, my intent was never that I needed to be heard, but rather to fill the need for stories told in a catharses of joy. And so it is that I write not necessarily for the benefit of other's, but for the benefit of myself and the documentation of treasured memories.

In the meantime, friends, family, acquaintances, fellow paddlers may perhaps find entertainment, identification, inspiration in reading my stories. I am happy that my words could possibly gift others in this way, but is secondary to my intentions for writing.

The Thaw: Hood River

The truck drove through the depths of the night and outside the range of the headlights the silohette of the cascade range loomed and the Columbia river shimmered in the moonlight. It had been 8 months since I had been graced by a river and now sought just that. Slowly the morning twilight was broken by the twinkling street lights of Hood River. We traveled in our chariot manifested in the form of 1 ton truck laden with four creek boats, four playboats, and four hungry paddlers. Amidst the quaint downtown we found a lush lawn beside a local windsurf shop to unabashedly lay out and sleep for the remainder of the morning. In the dew filled morning, we sleepily found breakfast and mounted our chariot headed for the city of White Salmon and met with Brian, who had newly migrated from Minnesota to White Salmon.

After gathering our senses and putting together our gear we made way for our first endeavor... the Wind River. Putting on I was unaware what to expect from the river nor myself. My left pinky finger was fitted with a plastic brace as it was only marginally healed from it's recent fracture. Two rapids in and already rolled, I pealed into an eddy and tore of the brace... it was impeding my paddling. The sun shone down on us, as rapid by rapid, we pounded out the winter's rust.

We left the river satisfied and arriving at our lodgings we celebrated our adventures. Guitar and song rang out in a warm garage amongst ample beer, good cheer, and new friends. When morning arrived we mustered a run on the middle stretch of the White Salmon for a tame warm up and were disappointed to find Husum Falls choked with a unfriendly log in the land zone. We chilled by the riverside and awaited another long time Midwestern friend, Andy McMurray, to arrive. Our intent was to tackle the farmlands section of the White Salmon. Admittedly I knew little about the run other than it was mostly class IV in nature. As Andy arrived and shuttle was rapidly set we sped for the put in. With Mt Adams looming in the distant background I was surprised to find that the White Salmon River slowly dropping into once lava tube. I quick seal launch into the river found me walled in amongst dark igneous rock. The daylight was waining and what was left was dim amongst the low ceiling of clouds. We picked out way through drops carefully aware of dangerous logs wedged in river.

The gorge walls continued to rise up and soon we were locked in. The river maintained it's class IV character but the was becoming less friendly to any mistakes. With Andy in the lead and myself close behind we pounded through a bit of a hole and eddied out awaiting the rest of the group. Unfortunately the next of our group paddled into the hole and stern ended and flipped. After attempting to roll, he was out of his boat. I laid chase to his gear as Andy ferried our companion to what little of a rocky perch could be obtained in the gorge. I desperately grabbed his paddle and threw it ashore. We off for the boat with Andy right behind me. As I rounded a corner my eyes grew wide. There ahead the river dived under a large log and had a deathly character. Andy belted out unintelligible words as I battled for a must make eddy. For a small instant I though I might miss the eddy, but threw every I had into my strokes and sighed as found solace in the small eddy. The boat washed downstream meanwhile our paddler stood helplessly on a small parcel of rock. He picked his way up the moss drenched rock face and we found relief when his face poked out from the gorge's rim. But alas his paddle remained stranded as the rest of us paddle downstream pressed for time.We each rolled under a log barely passable and when the gorge finally ended we promptly hiked ourselves out in paddlers walk of shame. It was oddly metaphorical as we walked across a charred and blacked field still smoking to the roadside. We chuckled at our own ridiculousness and the boondoggle that had just ensued.

Unfortunately on way our back to our lodgings, we mourned the loss of our companions boat and paddle... his trip was seemily over. The next morning we gather up some climbing gear and prepare to rappel into the gorge to recover the paddle. As I was harnessed and ready tying off my anchor with rope readied to rappel, when a white truck pulled up. I disgruntled farmer sternly exclaimed, no one is going into that gorge on my property! I didn't argue as anger raged inside me. We sulked back to our lodgings and salvaged the day with a joyful playboat run on the Hood River finished off by burgers, beer, and a splash of whiskey.

The next morning Brian and I went back up to the Farmlands section and with Nate Herbeck to lead the way as we paddled into the dark gorge again, intent upon our companions forsaken gear. When we reached it, awaiting at the gorge rim he tossed a rope down. We tied off the paddle and he happily retrieved it.

We made our way through the gorge without incident and as the gorge waned we rounded a corner to see an orange kayak stranded on a gravel shoal. Elated we towed our companions boat and were excited to recover what had been lost. The river had mercy on us.

The morning after retrieving the boat we cut our losses and said goodbye to Hood River and pointed our beast of a truck eastward. We stopped along the way home to bathe our kayaks in the waters of both the South Fork of the Clear Water and the Lochsa before returning homeward.

It was the beginning of a season of water and the initial baptism of the spring season proved harsh and yet refreshing. And driving home with the horizon the beartooth mountains beside me, I felt the anticipation. So much yet to be explored and a new home for my kayaking.

Many Thanks to Brian O'Neil, Andy McMurray, Nate & Heather Herbeck, and Jo Kemper for making us welcome in Hood!

The Winter's Gift

The winds turned cold and the leaves fell from branches as the masks of the season changed to fall. As the first snows came to the nearby peaks of the Beartooth mountains, our nearby ski community was blessed with ample snow. Early storms blanketed Red Lodge in beautiful veil of white. Meanwhile, in Billings snow was more or less a fleeting beauty. As winter's cold grasp came to the land, it came to pass that my ski's lived perpetually in my truck. On every opportunity I could muster I found myself on the slopes and often meddling in the side country of Red Lodge.

Watch my winter of Red Lodge side-country!!!! 

The winter depths of snow came to be a welcomed friend and the mountains loomed with adventures. I became addicted to tight powder filled trees; dodging their trunks at high speeds. I came to understand the addiction that is powder. Amongst my most memorable days of skiing came from my day of back country skiing and skinning in Cooke City. There we climbed and nearly 5000 vertical feet of untouched powder. The winter was a transition, as nordic skiing was largely unobtainable in any reasonable quality. If I were to exert myself on skis then it may has well have been in the interest of powder turns. And so skinning up the mountain and working for my turns slowly took the place of nordic racing this year. But the winter only seemed moderately cold to a harden Minnesotan and back in Billings I found myself commuting by way of bicycle nearly year round.

With each season comes a renewed thankfulness for its gifts and yet a longing for the next. The warmth slowly crept back to the land. As the winter's grasp loosened, I came to be grateful  for the meditative silence of winter and the lightness of powder under foot .

BANKS!- Part Two

There lies a spirit and a character to every river. The North Fork of the Payette moves in soul of all who have paddled it and it's rumbling presence echos in the memory of all who have been touched by it's waters. Surrounding this river is a community of paddlers united by admiration, respect, and exhilaration found amongst it's violent gnashings.

Myself and Drew drove Northward up Hwy 55 which follows the entire length of the North Fork. We stopped to scout "Crunch" and "Juicer". I tried to imprint the lines in my memory, but knew that once at river level it would be difficult to put together what I was viewing now. I quieted my mind deciding to let go and take each drop as they came. I put aside all preoccupations on lines and focused on maintaining good paddling technique, while following Drew's instruction.

We geared up while the sun was just beginning to create the midday heat. I slowly gearing up and plodded down to the riverside. Drew sat ready with a smile. I took a quick glance at "Hounds Tooth" and jumped into my boat and snugged myself in. The run would begin immediately as we pealed out and I was about to experience my first baptism by the North Fork of the Payette. Within 50 ft we snuck between boulders and I laid the first boof of the day. I landed satisfactorily in a small calm pool. We ferried out into the meat and began the journey.

It began as busy Class IV with waves crashing abound and minor holes with their grip fleeting. Even then, I kept my guard and my paddling focused. Gradually, it appeared that the river increased it's intensity. On a large breaking wave I misplaced a stroke and was reminded that little error was tolerated. I was overturned, but instantaneously found myself rolled and upright. The water's then calmed for minute before we reached Otter Slide.

I had been camping along side this stretch of river and was well familiar with it and felt comfortable as Drew and I rounded the left bend with a few instructions on the line relayed to me. Hugging tight to the river right shore we punched through the a couple awkwardly angled holes before regaining speed. Drew caught a tight right eddy, but I found myself in no way able to enter it and continued onward. A head of me, I felt calm and picked my way through a run-out of fun class IV whitewater.

We paddled onward and the river migrated closer the the roadway signaling the oncoming onslaught. Ahead lay "Juicer" and I knew the North Fork was about to give me the first real test. We eddied on the river left and went over the line again. I took some deep breaths and Drew asked, "You ready?" I mustered an inexpressive, "Yep", and we ferried out. Ahead on the horizon line I could see water erupting into the sky and dancing in the air....... and then it began.

The world began to warp as the acceleration took hold and the river constricted. The waters reflected off the walls unpredictably and yet ahead the line Drew had explained began to unfold before me. Following a raging ramp of water, bordered by two looming laterals, I worked from river left to right. As the ramp closed in on me quickly and punched river right temporarily blinded as I was blasted by the force of the lateral. The world continued to accelerate and strokes became instinctual and the battle became primal in nature. Another lateral came on my left and forced me further right and I fought it off. Ahead on the right  I caught a glimpse of large wall of holes ahead of me on the river right. I began working furiously to the left. But the river offered no mercy. Desperately fighting left, I found the the meat of the crashing holes still loomed in my path. I resigned to the river and stopped fighting. I turned my boat into a less vulnerable position... and faced my licking head on. A large blast of water beat against my chest brutally and a white blindness enveloped me as I braced. When I could see again I found that I had been typewriter-ed back on line and was nearer to the river left. Ahead a final large hole lay ahead and I turned and lined up. Another blast of blindness and then I emerged into busy class IV. I was relieved and felt the tremor of adrenaline about me. I found Drew smiling in a nearby eddy and I let out a "whoop" of both catharsis and excitement.

We paddled on, and only one last challenge remained. A short ways downriver we again sat in a small eddy above "Crunch". We peeled out with after a simple conversation of the line. We ferried to the river left and immediately found myself instinctively boofing a large irregular hole near the river right bank, meanwhile Drew sat in a eddy grinning as I blew by it. I was on my own to find the lines. I followed the water ahead and fought back to the river left charging through a few large and blinding holes. Atop the peaking waves, I surveyed my line an continued along the left bank. Multiple sets of holes blasted my vision and slowed my momentum as I fought on. The river eased and I began to feel the elation pulse through me. The worst was behind me. The waters of the North and South fork converged as we took to the shore and dismounted are boats. A tremor lay in my hands and knees as the adrenaline persisted in my blood and fueled a wide smile.

For the remainder of the afternoon I took it easy cooling myself from the summer heat with dual playboat runs on the main with companions. I slept that night soundly dreaming of days ahead. Banks quieted over the next days. Yet I found another paddler to run the Canyon of the South Fork of the Payette. The next morning I met up with Drew and again ran the Lower Five for the second time. My nerves calmed and I began to relax on the lower five and began to feel the rhythm of the river.

The day after, I rested  myself waking late in the morning and attending to my usual cholesterol laden breakfast. My new friend Brian Ward sat down at my table and I looked up to see Eric Boomer sit down beside him. Inhaling my breakfast, I chatted with Boomer for a bit outside the cafe as I had nothing but time and he awaited a ride Northward to McCall. It was refreshing to chat with a professional paddler whom I had only seen in magazines, and yet found him to be humble, down to earth, and devoid of egotism.

By the time the Friday prior to labor day rolled in, Banks was getting busy. Paddlers from all over the nation flocked to the Payettes for their vacation. In the Cafe I ran into Emily and we hit the Staircase section and Main Payette before retiring to spectating the local crew running the entire North Fork.

I ran the Lower Five one last time before the crowds of paddlers clogged the Banks parking lots. With the few days remaining I decided my time amongst the Payettes had come to a close. I reluctantly said goodbye to new friends and on my last eve we sat by the light of headlamps, and I sung a few playful songs accompanied by my ukelele amongst the night's star filled sky.

The next morning I drove slowly home and within a few hours from Banks found myself lonesome for the rivers and friends I had turned from. But the days of my vacation wained and the woe of work hung heavy upon me. I made a last stop in Sun Valley to visit a friend and made the long drive home to Montana.

My journey to the Payette drainage still hangs still vivid in my memory. The spirit of the Payettes still tugs at strings of my soul. Meanwhile, to the community of people who feast in the bounty of the Payettes: I am ever thankful for welcoming kindness.

BANKS! - Chapter One

 The headlights dimly shown on the winding road, while outside, the mountains’ silhouettes rose as blackened shadows in the night. The moon’s fractured reflection lit the river, who had etched its path through the mountains, and the road obediently followed beside it. There stood no sign to mark my arrival in Banks Idaho, only the confluence of rivers now shining in the darkness. Weary from my long drive, I parked the truck, crawled into the topper, and descended into slumber.

Having recently moved into my new home of Billings Montana, I found myself in the thralls of my medical residency. Which meant I was thrust into 70 hr work weeks amidst overwhelming challenges of learning the art of medicine. My life became singularly absorbed, meanwhile the other facets of my soul thirsted for time on the water. When my vacation was forced to be taken in the final days of August, my eyes unquestioningly turned towards the Payette drainage of Idaho.  And so in my slumber, I washed away my responsibility and for 10 days to come I would be unreachable by the outside world.

The morning light tugged at my eye lids and they slowly opened to the greet the beginning of my 10 day freedom. Beside me ran the Main Payette River gently rolling by. Following it upstream, I came upon the Banks cafe. In search of fellow paddlers, I stepped into its welcoming doors, sat down at the counter, and ordered a hearty breakfast. Across from me a small group of friendly folk made preparations to paddle. Within one sentence of asking where they were to paddle, I found an invitation for a day’s worth of paddling and new found friends.

I found myself in the good company of Brian and Emily as we slipped into the waters of the South Fork of the Payette river and began paddling what is known as the canyon section. Reaching from from the rivers edge abruptly rose the mountains and their slopes were thickly laden with conifers. As we made or way through the class III and IV whitewater, I sat mesmerized with the clarity of the water and paddled backwards transfixed by the racing river bottom. The cold river waters where met by the steaming of several hot springs along the way. My comfort on the water grew steadily throughout the day. By late afternoon we put on the Main Payette river for yet more moderate whitewater, and from my play boat I enjoyed the rapids offered smiling in the cool waters amongst blue skies and great company.

South Fork of the Payette

As the sun was falling into the western horizon,  Emily, Brian, and I skidded down the raft ramp and playfully launched for a late run on the "staircase section" of the South Fork of the payette. In the shadows of the mountains and the waning daylight we made our way through more beautiful whitewater and soon only the white of the water and whites of our smiles seemed visible amongst the newly risen moon's light. We quietly glided into the confluence of the of the Payettes. Trailing the tail lights of my companions vehicle, I followed them to camp a wooded camp. With hunger quenched and my clothes smelling of campfire, I lay my head to sleep. In my dwindling consciousness, I could hear the roarings of the North Fork of the Payette. Yet even now, I had not witnessed it's gnashings and had only heard the lore of it's infamy. In my dreams the river whispered to me.

I awoke to a quiet morning, the camp empty, as my friends had departed in the first rays of the morn. I stretched the sleep from my body and slowly drove down to Banks Cafe.

 

 Banks Cafe

After eating what become my usual cholesterol endowed breakfast, I came to find Banks rather devoid of paddlers as the weekend had passed. By noon I had scraped up a group to paddle down the Main for my singular run of the day. By the time I had left the river,  Drew Beezly from Durango invited me to run the Lower Five of the North Fork of the Payette in the coming morning. I was reluctant at first, as I was planning a more gradual progression for myself. But I finally concluding I could wait no longer and accepted the invitation. I spent the remaining hours of sunlight along along the banks of the The North Fork, scouting and planting the lines in my head. My analysis was only halted by looming darkness. My headlights lit my dusty place of rest for night as the "Otter Slide" of the North Fork lay below me. After dinner warmed my stomach, I wandered down the twinkling firelight on small island amongst the waters of the North Fork, I exchanged introductions and laughter amongst good company. There we sat awaiting the arrival of a mutual friend. Andy McMurray was the first paddler I had ever met amidst surfing the waves of Minnesota's Lake Superior, and in the Northwoods we both grew from our paddling infancy. A honk of the horn in the night signaled his arrival, and the night was spent in good cheer amongst old and new friends.

I didn't sleep well that night, along the shores North Fork. The river's song kept me awake both in excitement and in apprehension. I awoke to my usually routine of two pancakes, bacon, an a side of has browns, but on this morning, couldn't finish my breakfast as my stomach had other things on it's mind. At the Bank Cafe found a well wishes on my first run of the North Fork as Emily whisked in and out the cafe in route to the other Forks of the Payette. Later I sat down with Andy and Liz Powers for a bit of catching up, before I stepped into the blinding light as the sun baked the dusty parking lot. I found Drew eagerly awaiting. I readied for battle with  for my first introduction to the North Fork... (to be continued)

The Final Chapter of a Season: The Homeland

The water's were slowly tapering from the creeks in the furthest reaches of the North Shore. Meanwhile, a singular urbanite had driven northward and Joerg had left his corporate job aside for the day. He met with myself and Kiffy. Joerg is one of those legendary characters of the Midwest Creeking community: well versed in peer pressure tactics, known to take the tough lines for giggles, and eternally at the front of the crew on the river.... an all around fine gentleman! On this day Joerg's personality was particularly shining as he quickly made the sale for me and Kiffy to run the DT for the second consecutive day. Despite both of our lacking motivations, Joerg made the sale. I found myself speeding for the put in of the DT. Kiffy and Joerg represent some of the most experienced boaters in the Midwest having paddled together from their teenage years.... and then there was me: a mere 4 seasons under my belt.

 Myself atop "Triple Drop" of the Devil Track River

Photo credit of Andy McMurray

We put on the river and immediately it became clear this run was going to be spicy. Joerg made it plain that this run was going to be speedy. There would be no scouting, little eddying, but not without looking out for one another safety-wise. We barreled ahead, and as triple drop came upon us, I found myself in the rear of the crew. There was no looking back as we each dropped over the horizon lines. I remember the nasty cotton mouth of nerves as we dropped in. But in the morning sun light we each found our smiles on the river that day. I admittedly had a less than clean run, but stayed composed throughout and kept pace. I managed to get stuck in the hydraulic below portage down the middle and rolled up wasting no time. I knew it fed out on the river left. I placed 4 hard forward strokes while side surfing, and easily escaped it's grasp.

Joerg, Kiffy, and Myself Portage the Admiral amongst the majesty of the Devil Track Canyon

Photo credit of Andy McMurray

In a little over an hour and a half from putting on we found ourselves floating amongst the blue skies as they reflected in the calm waters of Lake Superior, the Devil Track behind us. 

In the coming days, the community rested as the yearly migration to the Presque Isle River in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was at hand. There we would take part in the annual downriver race in honor and remembrance of Jim Rada... a legend of paddling who had lost his life on the river in the last decade. Although I had run the Presque before, I looked forward to participating in the race for the first time.

The skies shone blue and the air was warmed in the sun's golden presence. We amassed the day prior to the race to run the full Presque Isle. The crew included Kiffy, Andy, Joerg, Decker, Holton and myself. And so amongst the Spring sunshine we would make the long trek to the put in. After an hour of shouldering our boats and walking less traveled roads, the sweat dripped from my brow as the river came into view. Thankfully, I slid into the chilled waters and let the river cool me. In succession we made our way downstream, and after three or so drops, it became clear that it was going to be an off day for me. I found myself less than upright tangling with the river's bottom all too often. With this detriment to my confidence, I portaged Triple Drop and Nokomis with a majority of the crew, making the heinous portage, and rejoined the other paddlers.

We continued onward as the sun fell in the afternoon, and came upon the final mile of the Presque Isle. There the river would drop in rapid succession over 4 drops of class VI+ and V character. The river was running higher than I had previously experienced and so I awaited the horizon lines ahead with focused attention.

Nadawadaha Falls

We busted down Nawadaha Falls one by one with enthusiasm growing as the drops increased in their difficulty. Downstream we eddied out above Manido Falls. There the watered cascaded over a multitude of rock stairs, forming repetitive pour-overs of 2-3 feet in height. The last time a ran Manido I recalled getting caught in the pour-overs, tried to side surf out, and eventually ran the remainder of the drop out of my boat and on my ass. Today was my day to redeem myself, as I carefully picked my line and held the landmarks in my mind.  The horizon roared as I slid over the first pour over and attempted to time my strokes, hoping to boof the next pourover. I kept the bow up as I blew through the next pour-over and comfortably bounced down the remainder of the drop.

The Final Streches of Manido Falls

Everyone eddied out, as ahead loomed one of the most pristine falls of the Midwest. Manabezo falls outstretched nearly 100 yards wide, and dropped 25 ft to the waters below. It's line was not easy, as the lip of the falls was irregular and fractured, as we sought a narrow tongue of water. Furthermore, the landing had a history of breakings legs due to it shallowness. I had descended Manabezo twice before and last fall experienced my first spine compression as a result of boofing the falls. I hoped to learn from that experience...

The sun was falling low on the horizon, and I was feeling fired up and confident. I jumped my boat and decided I'd be the first of the crew to descend. Hugging the river left bank the scene accelerated and the familiar tunneling of vision occurred as my focus narrowed on my line.

 Manabezo Falls of the Presque Isle River in the UP of Michigan

It's moments as these that the mind slows time and the dualism of reactive/instinctual paddling comes to battle with that of intentioned/conscious paddling. Reactive paddling deals with the immediate reality of the whitewater before us and our reaction to it. Meanwhile conscious paddling focuses on the river ahead, and is planning intentional strokes before they are even placed. Each have their place, and so we struggle as kayakers to balance the two amidst utter chaos.

The horizon opened up before me and my stroke hit the lip of the falls. My bow rose to meet the horizon as I took to flight in a wicked boof. My conscious mind took over, I remembered all that I had been told about techniques to avoid spinal compression. I threw my torso forward against the deck of my boat and kept my back hunched. I landed with a audible and violent "BOOF". In the impact my paddle slammed hard against my boat and my thumb in between. I celebrated the control I had maintained; I had hit my line, place a nice boof, and protected my spine. But I was acutely aware of a warmth and throbbing in my right thumb. I had learned a new lesson...how to clear your paddle on impact. On inspection, the thumb had begun to swell already. I kept the pain to myself, in denial of the injury, as the rest of the crew took joyful flight.

 Joerg Steinbach boofs Manabezo

We each paddled away from Manabezo with the knowledge that ahead loomed "Zoom Flume".  Zoom Flume can be described as series of  entangled wave holes of formidable size created by the constriction of the river rocketing through a narrow walled-in channel. It provides for the "sporty" grand finale of the run before emptying into Lake Superior. By the time I had punched a moderate sized entry hole to Zoom Flume, I knew my thumb was in poor condition, as I felt tendons snapping and pain warmly course through it. It was too late to turn back. The roar was obvious and ahead the gnashing of the Flume lay apparent. All thought of my discomfort was lost to the required focus. Deep strokes were laid as I ploughed into the melee of a chaotic wave hole sized over my head. My bow went skyward and I fought to stay upright. But a secondary reactionary upturned my boat. I went for a quick roll attempt and missed it. I waited for my paddle to reach the surface but I had no such luck. I threw for my next roll and focused my hip snap. I narrowly came to the air upright and sighted before me another large curler nearly on top of  me. I pounded through and was relieved as the onslaught had ended.

"Zoom Flume" of the Presque Isle River 

Drifting into the expanse of the lake, the crew celebrated the run and the adrenaline happily danced in our veins. But my enthusiasm was killed by the pain coursing through my thumb. Cussing repetitively, I tore it my glove off and placed the thumb in the numbing waters of  Lake Superior. In pulling it back for inspection, there was visible bruising and it was floridly swollen... I knew I had broke something. Bruising that early was tell-tale. Coming to shore, the crew noted my state and carried my boat back to the camp for me, while I sulked back.

My pulverized thumb

The Jim Rada race took place that year without me amongst its ranks. I took to filming the event and attempting to keep a good attitude. And amongst the community, I lost myself amongst the rising flames of the campfire and soaked in the glowing twilight.

Soaking in the Sunset on the Shores of Lake Superior

I was uplifted by the laughter and the fellowship in spite of an underlying disappointment.

 

Laughter amongst the rain

In parting the Upper Peninsula,  I drove in the morning light numb and thoughtless...  I was aware that my season had come to a close.  I grieved for the loss of it for several weeks as a x-ray confirmed what I had already known... inside my thumb I had avulsed a ligament that took a piece of bone with it. I avoided hearing anything about the rivers as the rains rolled across the North Country. I packed my belongings as I would soon move to my new home of Billings, MT for the next three years.

Midwest paddling! Thank you to the Red Dangler Community!

Photo credit of Andy McMurray

As my depression soon faded, I looked back on the season with thanks, as I had been deeply gifted. It was a season of profound change in my paddling, of countless unforgettable memories, and friendships both formed and deepened. As I drove from the North Shore and Duluth, I nodded thankfully to Lake Superior in gratitude and farewell. I drove into the Westward horizon with the freshness of the new life ahead of me, meanwhile behind me lay the setting of countless golden memories, shaped by my lifelong tenure in the North Country. The Northland would remain pridefully........ my homeland!

Spring of Devil's Track

The hand of Winter refused to relinquish it's grasp, as the air grew cold again. The morning came slow to the land and the sun rose sluggishly under the cover of a smothering blanket of grey. In the meantime, the snow had floated gently from the skies and the land was garnished with its white hand.

And so the masses slowly trickled from the Northern Shores of Lake Superior. The urbanites retreated from the cold to their respective lives. The nomads of paddling heard other water's calling and continued their migration. I spent a day or two recovering from my bruised thigh as it's colors transitioned from purple to yellow's and blues (due to a boat taking me out on the DT portage). I deemed the leg usable and so I joined small and stalwart midweek crew to paddle. Andy Mcmurray, Kiffy, and myself met with Paul Hooper and had the North Shore at our disposal. Neither Andy or Paul had done the Devil Track this season and felt it pulling to them. So the shuttle vehicles tore down the dirt road barreling toward the beginnings of Devil's track.

The crew was largely familiar with the river, with the exception of Paul having his virgin run on the DT (Devil Track). And so we plodded our way way to Triple Drop light hearted. The river's level had improved from the prior runs providing a more cushioned feel and less contact with the river's bottom. We arrived at the triple drop and each probed our gumption in thoughts of running the drop. Andy's shoulder remained injured and painful and thus he reluctantly chose to portage and Paul elected to do the same. And so Kiffy and myself made a small pile of twigs and started a miniature fire atop triple drop, warming our hands while awaiting Andy and Paul to portage and set safety below. A short while later, we mounted are boats and dropped over the beautiful horizon lines of the DT. At the base of the second falls I emerged unscathed and was again feeling the pure elation of the vitality of life.

 Kiffy Runs Triple Drop Amongst the Snow

Photo credit: Andy McMurray

As we put on below the majesty of the 40 ft falls known as the "Admiral", the crew felt cohesive. The bond between paddlers on the river is unique. The group has an reliance on one another for not only safety, but for an energy that can ignite a motivation and can uplift your paddling to levels you were previously unaware. And conversely poor group dynamics can be disastrous. It's as if the river's spirit can sense and reward the unity among us, and yet will evoke wrath on groups bent on the individuality of its paddlers. A mile downstream, this phenomena would be enforced.

We had moved on from serpents slide and were navigating the shallow class II and III making our way towards Portage Down the Middle. A particular section I recall being frustratingly shallow as the river divided. Thus I took the lead and directed the crew down the river right channel, hoping for more volume. I slithered my way down the narrow channel, but looking ahead noticed an unusual smoothness to the water and saw a 5 inch diameter log across the river's entire width! Frantically, I worked to the river left where 2-3 inches of water made it's way over top the log while the river right the log was nearly 3 inches from the water line. I knew the gravity of the situation and threw a hard stroke and  pulled my knees upward to raise the bow of my boat as I impacted the log. I narrowly maintained momentum as I slid over. I caught the first feasible eddy and leapt from my boat screaming at the other's behind me to eddy out. It was too late. Andy successfully boofed over the log, but to our dismay Paul's boat slid halfway up, lost momentum, and fell back upstream of the log. His boat was instantly sucked under the log, and with the log about his waist he held on. Kiffy being in close succession behind Paul narrowly maneuvered around Paul and boofed the right side. We each tore up the shore on foot towards the log, myself of the left shore and Andy & Kiffy on the right. When I had made it log and seeing its diameter, I attempted to lift it up. I gained only a few inches and Paul remained pinned, there were few nearby trees for an anchor, and I hung poised to throw my throw bag . Meanwhile, Kiffy and Andy rapidly set up a Z-drag on a nearby tree, and Paul slowly began to get sucked under as we worked furiously to help. Fortunately, Paul arrived downstream of the log intact, still in his boat, and wide eyed. We all relieved and went about removing the log. Z-dragging the log across the river we freed the river and future paddlers from it's grasp. I was satisfied with the rapidity that the group responded to the situation and the action we quickly took. But it was an effective reminder.

Myself going after "Portage Down The Middle"

Photo Credits of Andy McMurray

We moved onward, making our way through Portage Down the Middle and had good lines all around. We quickly took out of the river and watched the beads of sweat build as we huffed ourselves and boats up to the canyon rim and back down again. The runs climax remained ahead and we prepped Paul for the virgin run of his life, ahead lay "Ski Jump" and"Up Against the Wall".

I distinctly remembered the first run of these drops. Andy McMurray was in the lead and when I asked what lie ahead (most likely the 20th time I asked). He quickly exclaimed..."nothing for a mile", with a shit-eating grin on his face. A 100 yards down river, I watched Joel Decker drop from view over a large horizon line. When the scene came into view, my eye widened, and I have never grasped a paddle so tight! But on this day, we crested the horizon line with a large "woop" rising into the cold air and the acceleration began. Gleefully and cautiously I hurdled down the 30 ft steep slide before nailing a reactionary at the base and lining up for the final onslaught of the DT. The velocity was again regained as "Up Against the Wall" had begun. I took taking a left line and knowing I would be pushed right down the burly slide. Ahead it loomed... the water collided with the oncoming canyon wall and leapt up banking 90 degrees to the right. The paddle strokes became more poised and I punched up over a seam and found myself nearly in a violent eddy in the corner adjacent to the banking water. My stern caught and I banked through the wall backwards and thankfully upright.

Kiffy readying for the meat of "Up Against The Wall"

Photo Credit: Andy McMurray

The river then gradually calmed until it meandered quietly to the expanse of the Lake. Coming to the river's mouth we found a new onslaught as the surf immediately rose up and pounded into me. We paddled out beyond the break, did our ceremonial roll in Lake Superior, and took the final joy of surfing back to the land.

We had a festive night by the fire, carrying the torch of the fore fathers of paddling before us. These Northern shores are steeped in personal memories and historical lore, yet united in the commonality life giving waters that feed the past and present. I stood enveloped by the depths of contentment.

The Familiarity of the Devil Track River

The twilight was falling upon the waters, and one by one the stars put holes the growing darkness.  Upon the gravel shores of Lake Superior a fellowship was amassing. The waters continued to leap heartily in the creeks of the North Shore, and spoke to the hearts of all those wielding a paddle. Escaping from the urban persuasion came the Twin cities paddlers to join their Northern Minnesota neighbors. Further yet, the paddling Nomads from Colorado and the Pacific Northwest had to come to the shores.  As whitewater brethren, we each came to answer the call, drawn inexplicably to the waters and united in our celebration of them. The the fire burned late into the night, the beer stayed plentiful, and the laughter was hearty.

Awaking to the sun's demanding light, I rolled from the bed of my truck into the morning air. A quick poll amongst the camp's different factions confirmed that today's paddling menu would contain the coveted Devil Track River. After a lengthy breakfast, I arrived at the put-in late, but in the nick of time. 15 paddlers suited up along the river's banks. I frantically threw my gear on and as the crew was divided into smaller individual groups.  I found myself thrust into the lead, guiding the Pacific Northwest paddlers on their virgin run of the Devils Track River. Putting on was Chris Baer, Scotty Baker, Dan Mentin, Jason, and myself as the final crew down. Only 4 seasons prior I stood trembling with nervous anticipation for my own first run down the Devil Track. Much had changed since those early days, sliding from the snow filled banks into the rivers path I felt confident....the Devil Track had become a familiar journey.

I gave some quick directions in the early beginnings of the run, as the Pacific Northwest crew's enthusiasm was uncontainable as they paddled onward ahead of me. Myself and Baer hung round the back of the group, and as we rounded a tight right corner to be greeted by an ominous scene. A large bridge of ice had formed between mid river boulders and river had begun to flow underneath with 3 inches of clearance from the water line. There sat Dan Mentin with the bow of his boat stuffed under the ice sieve, hands pushing on the ice, and fighting flushing completely under the ice. Meanwhile, Jason was out of his boat atop one of the boulders fishing Dan out. I quickly made way around the ice sieve and by the time I had eddied out, thankfully, Dan had been safely extracted without incident.The Devil Track declared its unforgiving nature. We took heed and paddled cautiously onward.

Arriving at the formidable triple drop, the two crews ahead of us had amassed on the banks eying a moderate sized tree clogging the entry to the first drop. Like ants we swarmed into action, the 15 of us in various roles lasso-ed the log and began hauling it out. With the log cleared, one by one each dropped into the first two tiers of triple drop.

Tony Nigon killing it on Triple Drop. Note the tiny figurine atop the first falls (gives perspective)

Photo Credit: Chris Baer!

Being the last group to arrive Iwas one of the last paddler's to drop in. Charging for the first drop, I  fought rightward, going over the lip poised for an attempt to pull the bow up, however knowing that in all likelihood my attempts at any sort of a boof would fail on the sliding falls. I entered the vertical world and plunged into the oncoming water 18 ft below me and darkness shrouded my vision. M the pool below upright, smiling, and covered in foam.

y boat and I emerged in the hanging pool pushed against the pool's wall. I fought my way back into the flow and worked my way toward the second sliding falls... below the crew awaited. I plunged over the 25 ft sliding falls whilst the world accelerated with vigor and I welcomed oncoming hit. I emerged in
And so we picked are way down the classic drop's of the Devil's Track banking through Serpents slide, Hammering into "Portage Down the Middle". We all took to the fromidable portage up to the canyon rim and around the unrunnable pitch fork falls. Instead of strenuously walking the boats back down the narrow gully to the river 200 ft (?) below, we each elected to chuck our boats down the ravine confident in their ability to stand up to impacts with the trees. However Baer decided he would walk his boat down away's before letting her loose. I was downhill when he let the boat go and I quickly stepped aside at his exclamation. The boat barrelled 10 yards downhill before glancing off a tree and coming for me. I took a direct hit to my my thigh and took me out by the legs. I lay on the ground cursing in pain and stood up findings myself battered but still intact. I knew the next days I would likely be sore ones.

We made our way down the river found the joy of puckering our sphincter's on "Ski Jump" and "Up Against the Wall". I came to know the satisfaction of introducing paddlers a new river, and found myself reliving the experience of a virgin run on the Devil Track through their broad smiles. And so the run ended with a living metaphor as the river opened up to the expanse of Lake Superior. You could sense the great opening as the flowing waters merged with seemingly unending horizon of water. Every time I make this transition,  I feel a sense of what the river to heaven might be like.

And so with bustling enthusiasm we came again to the shores, with the usual adrenaline hyped conversation reminiscent of boyhood sugar-highs. As the sun completed it's day's journey, we retreated back to the our paradise on the beach and resumed the celebration. Bloated with satisfaction we toasted beers to the day's success, meanwhile darkness fell about the lapping waves.

Redemption: The Cascade River

The waters of lake superior presided over the horizon's expanse; a the landscape whose view was framed by the bounds of my truck tailgate. I emerged into the scene before me, sat behind the wheel, and headed to the local greasy spoon to fuel up, caffeinate, and ascertain the paddling plans for the day. At a variety of paces the crew gradually awoke and when we had all amassed the consensus pointed to the Cascade River.

The Cascade looms in the minds of paddlers across the country as one of the most classic and highly respected class V runs on the Northern Shores of Lake Superior. The river's character is bipolar in that it is harshly unforgiving to those that don't heed its demands and yet so immensely rewarding to all who walk from its banks. Steeped in lore, the Cascade has dealt of some of the worst beat downs on the North Shore (some of which I had already witnessed).

Cascade from Chris Baer on Vimeo.

Chris Baer's helmet cam footage of the Cascade... check it out

At this point, I had never completed a full run down the Cascade. 2 years prior my season had been ended by it, and I hiked my boat from it's banks less than a mile into the run. Now as we checked the level (-2) I swallowed hard, keeping the nerves in my stomach and fighting them from getting into my head. It was a level higher than I had previously run. As a creeker, to claim that nervousness is not a part of your daily diet would be a lie. Nerves keep you honest and they keep you safe... and yet other times they keep your from your potential. It is a slippery game we play both listening and ignoring the heedings of our unconcious.  But as we drove to the put it, I hung my hat on the daily paddling I had amassed and the confidence I had built. I quieted my mind's thoughts and let go. It was my day for redemption....

Readied for battle at the put in included the solid crew of Chris Baer, Tango, Jason Stingl, Joel Decker, and McMurray.  Putting in below Hidden Falls, I went about setting safety in the pool below the heinous drop for the more daring of our crew. Hidden Falls is perhaps the most consequential and frequently run drop on the North Shore. It is a snaking 100 yard slide that dishes out insane boat speeds. Meanwhile  it erupts in a final roostering explosion of water that leaves paddlers rolling dice as to how how they will fare in the grand finale... finishing the drop in pissed-off, eat-your-face hole.  To add to the fun, it's only exit is flanked by a veil of dagger-like icicles hanging from a low tree branch. Those who had the gumption to run Hidden Falls had varying success. We all felt bad as McMurray carried his boat from the shores of the Cascade his shoulder feeling ominously painful.

With one less member we pushed on. "Discretion", a class V technical slide provided the initiatory introduction to the Cascade for the year. I slid over it's horizon line and braced left off a strong seam and laid a determined stroke to pound through the final and hungry hole.

Bracing through "Discretion"

 Moving a 75 yards down stream another horizon line loomed. The drop known as "Moose Rock" loomed. I knew the line, but had yet to have a good result out of it. The drop was a technical slide divided by a large rock in the center, forcing one to decide over the more technical banking left line in which the river feeds easily into, or fighting the river onto the right line and over a more straight forward slide.

I pushed on in the back of the crew and thought I would drive for the right line. But as the scene accelerated my decision became less than favorable. It was too late, I turned for plan B but I was sailing for an impact with moose rock. I let go of my paddle, put out a frantic arm, and stiff armed the dark rock. I immediately slid into the rushing slide, one hand on my paddle, and before I could regain my grip the waters banked violently. My boat threatened to flip, and I thrust my right arm out for stabilization. I felt it dragging down the jagged slide on my elbow. I pushed off the bottom, stabilized my boat, and regain my paddle grip in time to plug through a final hole. I could feel cold water on my throbbing elbow. My elbow pad was turned sideways on my arm and a gash in my drysuit was apparent. I quickly jumped out of my boat, made a quick duck tape repair and rejoined the crew, brushing off the soreness.

The time came for me to decide, was I mentally capable for the rest of the run; could I pull myself together. With the encouragement of the crew I pushed on into the unknown. Its times as these in which you rely on the paddlers you surround yourself with. They knew me well, they knew my capabilities.... their confidence and optimism quenched any self-doubt that Moose Rock may have planted. One by one we picked through the multitude of drops; my paddling growing more confident with each.

flowings. I banked up high onto the pile and braced right. I was spit from the chaos into a calm pool and in one fluid motion flipped and rolled up instantaneously. I smiled, giddy with adrenaline and could see it on the faces of my friends.

Amongst the Melee of "Long John Silver"

Paddling onward, my body and mind relaxed... the run was tapering off. We all busted through "Screaming Stingl" along side it's name sake. We cringed at the abuse I boats took scraping down  the manky slide known as "cheese grater". I stepped from the river smiling amongst the blue skies and rays of sunlight... I had redeemed the Cascade.


The firelight lit the night at paradise beach. Being that it was Friday the community was rallying in impressive attendance for the weekend. Twenty or more paddlers settled about the beach with the exchange of man-hugs from familiar faces and handshakes from the newer faces. A crew from Pacific Northwest arrived to add to buzzing camp. The energy was building in the heart of the community.  You could feel a warming excitement, blazing like the camp fire that stayed lit late into the night. I retired to my slumber in anticipation of the days ahead and fell deeply into dream.