Spring Creeking: The Beginning

It was beginning.

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

Myself in flight on the Lower St. Louis

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

Nate punches some big water on the St. Louis

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

Joel soars on the Lower St. Louis

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

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

Northwoods Whitewater's Last Gasp: Part Three

 

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

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

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

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

Untitled from kyle crocodile on Vimeo.


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

Paddlemania and the Summer's Paddling!

Myself running the "Beak" of the "Octopus" on the St. Louis River

It was a season of transition and as the spring turned to summer, so I reluctantly left my quaint cabin in Ely and readied myself for 6 weeks of the urbanite life that awaited me in the twin cities. But as my last gasp of soul nourishment I spent my final weekend at Paddlemania at the St. Louis river.  Each year the paddling community takes the opportunity to celebrate whitewater of the St. Louis river, and revels in camaraderie amongst paddling friends. 
 
Have last paddled in Colorado I felt strong and confident in my paddling skills and was happy to come back to the St. Louis. After 2 laps through Finn Falls and enjoying summer Class V paddling, I dropped into the "Beak" of  "The octopus" and battled for my second successful run of the drop for the year.

  Myself on Finn Falls of the Lower St. Louis River (a rare picture)

As sun rose high into the sky and the day began to wain the whole of paddlers converged to spectate the "Slot Machine" Showcase. The Showcase was an informal friendly challenged in which all brave souls would run the drop "Slot Machine". The drop received it's name, because as the river flows through a tight canyon slot it drops over a 15 ft sliding cascade into a gnarly and hungry hole bounded by tight rock walls on both sides. The nature of the hole is such that anyone who runs the drop is as good as rolling dice or putting nickles into a "Slot Machine" as to whether they will emerge without a beat down.

Surprising, I had avoided the drop for a number of years, but decided today that I would test it. Along the rim and amongst the rock outcroppings spectators choked the vantages of the spectacle ahead. And so one by one each brave paddler test his/her will. With varying results they charged into Slot Machine as I looked on the last paddler in line to go.

 

Myself on "Slot Machine" of the Lower St. Louis

When my time came, I slide into the water and strongly paddled to the lip. Then I began to plunged deep powering strokes as I came to the lip. I fought for the tricky line and attempted a stroke as I plunged down the drop to bring my nose up. Colliding with the wall of white, I sought to keep myself from plugging into the depth and being held in the grasp of the hole. And with a last stroke I emerged triumphantly throwing a triumphant fist pump into the air.

Running "Slot Machine"!

The day turned to night and the evening festivities ensued. Worn by the day filled joyful exertion, I left the night fire surround by new and old friends and snuck into the back of my station wagon to sleep for the night. I fell asleep to the stars and happily let my mind fall to dream.

However my waking life would soon transition. Medical school demanded that I be educated in the Twin Cities. I packed my belongings and said my goodbyes to the people and places that had become my friends. A day later I found myself amongst suburban sprawl struggling to make peace and adapt to the foreign landscape before me. The river felt far away and so did my life in Ely (or Duluth for that matter) and the memory remained alive.

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.

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.

Mid-Summer Creeking: St. Louis Rendezvous

Creeking this Spring was my last hold on freedom. But as the season ended the dam broke open and responsibility had its way with me. As a result, I found myself in a window-less room for 3 weeks, captive to the stress and strain of studying for Boards for medical school. Those days were excruciatingly meaningless and it was a definite low point for me as sparred with pointless hoop jumping that is a physicians journey. After my test had passed, I eagerly began my medical rotations consisting of 60 hr weeks and sporadic night and weekend call. Despite this, I fought back and found time to make it to the St. Louis River for a late July release.

"Airtime" and the Left Slot just above Jay Cooke's swinging bridge

I hopped back on the river with the company of Joel and Ryan for a mid summer's creeking experience. It was therapeutic to get back on the water and catch some adrenaline. Feeling rusty I laughed at my apprehension after easily passing through the Octopus. I felt great as I dropped through the gnashings of the St. Louis through Jay Cooke while spectators on looked from the swinging bridge. We moved ahead towards Finn Falls and I prepared for my first run of the class IV/V section toward Oldenburg Pt. Scouting Finn Falls we all wondered whether the auto-boof was a possibility... Joel decided to be the probe! We watched with relief as he successfully launched airborne over top the threatening hydraulic that is Finn Falls. We each successively launched Finn and landed with huge grins. Below Finn, I played follow-the-leader as I blindly ran the thundering section of constricted drops of big water littered with shards of rock unique to the St Louis. After plowing through the final hole and rolling up from my tangle with the wall, I let my grip on my paddle ease as we paddled into an eddy, exited our boats, and carried up to the shuttle.

Finn Falls

Myself and Ryan went back upriver for a second lap on the river. On approaching the roar of the Octopus, I decided to take on my first run of the Class V beak of the Octopus. Having watched both Joel and Ryan earlier make the drop look easy, I figured it was time I give it a go. Plunging down it's first gnashing, I found myself too far to the left and was pushed into the seam of water. Half way down I was flipped. With little effort I rolled up while descending. However, when my internal gyroscope alerted me to to being upright, I was acutely aware that I was still submarined under water while in my boat. In the disorienting craziness, I felt myself being pulled into an underwater bow stall by the water's churnings. I let my paddle blades catch current hoping to be pulled out. I unexpected popped up, upright in the corner eddy with crazy water on two sides and rock walls on the other two sides. Rather than electing to paddle back into the craziness, I dismounted from my boat and carried over the rocks putting in the pool below. It was by no means a stylish run of the "Beak", but I came through without swimming or getting trashed. We paddled onwards through Jay Cooke and launched over Finn Falls. Having launched with excessive speed, I found that I had landed near the opposing wall in the pool below Finn. The current flipped me against the wall. I struggled with my roll and made 4 attempts before finally rolling upright with the knowledge of class IV/V whitewater ahead (not a place fore swimming). Clearing the water from my eye's briefly, I forged ahead feeling gripped and rushed. With shaken concentration, I found myself broached on a rock and cycled backwards above a significant class IV/V drop. After having an "Oh, shit" moment in my head, I quickly accepted unchangeable fate. I ended up running the drop successfully backward pounding through the last hole. Getting off the river, I wasn't happy with my run and it's rough goings, but I was satisfied with my ability to recover from nasty circumstances without a swim or significant trashing.

Two days later I joined Joel, Cliff, and Tony for one last run of the Lower St. Louis before the dam's release was stifled. I was feeling good. Every stroke felt controlled, every line and correction was according to my will and not the river's. We flew through Airtime and under the Swinging bridge at Jay Cooke. We each launched gleefully over Finn Falls each there own style. With the memory of my last run below Finn, I paddled onward with confident and powerful strokes. Missing my broaching rock, I powered into the drop with so much speed, I reportedly looked to have skipped right over the hole. We got off the river giddy with adrenaline and excitement. I drove home with a some soulful contentment, feeling that I some ownership of my life and freedom.

Day Before The Departure

Before departing on a week long road trip I knew I would not be able to paddle. So before leaving I decided to go out for an afternoon run of the Lower St. Louis. Myself and two others dropped a shuttle vehicle at Jay Cooke state park and ran on foot back up to Thompson Dam. It was a gloriously warm day with temps in the mid-sixties, and the sweat beaded on my brow as we put on our paddling gear and pushed onto the Lower Louie.

The level was in the mid 3000 cfs range and the river was a fun ride. I managed to get a little surf time on big glassy after riding the rollercoaster of wave trains through the canyon section. The after sliding through the "first sister" and dodging the "second sister" we portaged around the Octopus. Putting on again we cruised through the boogy water to Jay Cook. There we each sailed off the the 12 footer. My line was too far left and sent me into the meat of converging waters near the base. Fortunately it posed no problems as I rolled up and made my way onward. Disliking my line, we all walked back up and ran it again, each styling our respective lines!

It was a good day of paddling that had me grateful for the creeking that I have right in my back yard. There is no better way to end a day than watching the sun fall driving away from the river.

The Gnashings of St. Louis River

The street lines passed agonizingly slow as I devoured a sandwich took some necessary fuel for the adventure that lay in the destination of the road ahead. I pulled into the parking lot in Carlton to the site of a kayak topped truck. The river was a welcoming site and this was time to reconnect with the waters that put me in touch with beauty and power like none other.

I walked an viewed the scene of the river and from sight new that it was significant level (2000-1800 cfs to be exact!). After greeting with fellow kayak companions, we geared for battle, and set off. Already it was becoming clear to me that the season was still early and that I was still feeling a bit green and unseasoned. As we hiked up to view the new and daring put in to Lower St. Louis, I could tell that my ambition was modest. I thus decided to skip the first drop of the day, the "Tongue" drop... I was having some insecurities concerning amplitude of hole it created. After a quick hike, I slid into the river and propelled my boat on its way amongst turbulent flowings of the St. Louis.

The Hwy 210 drop at 4200 cfs

I slowly thawed my confidence with a few minor drops before reaching the "Octopus". In two glances at the condition of the river ahead, I knew that I had a portage ahead of me. The river was running voluminously making for features of rousing magnitude. After listening to the analysis of my companions and trying pick up a any parcels of insight on the drop before us, I abruptly walked back to get a head start on the portage ahead. From an eddy below, I watched them skillfully weave a sneak route around the meat of drops looking to have a tendency towards significant nastiness.

Knowing that the river was a touch more than I had bargained for, I prepared for the drops I knew were ahead. As we approached the Jay Cooke swinging bridge, whether I was ready or not the drops lay in the near foreground. As a paddler, when a you stare into the thralls of a noteworthy drop you achieve a state of primal existence and extreme focus. Only you and the river exist and the rest falls from your awareness. Intuition kicks in and you hope you have trained your instinctual memory well. I dropped down a 14 ft sliding falls and plowed into a hanging pool upright. Then threw some hard strokes over the lip of 10 footer entitle "Air Time" landing in the water below. The swinging bridge passed over my head as we paddled onwards. After assessing the river ahead and predicting the hair raising consequences of running Finn Falls, we got off the river and headed back for a second lap.

Having found a portion of my confidence again, I decided to run the previously portaged "Tongue Drop". Each of us pushed away from shore in succession and lined up for the descent ahead. I watched two companions fall from sight. Before me opened into view the tongue drop in a condition I had never paddled it. The tongue drop is aptly named for a long flat conveyer belt of water that flowed over a flat table (or 'tongue') of rock. From three sides the water then fell 2-3 feet off of the table creating a sweeping hole ahead The hole was churning pile of water that rose above the head of an oncoming paddler. It became rapidly clear to me that my line for the tongue drop was off. I was too far to river right and saw the line ahead was not ideal. I dually noted the presence of "fins" of rock that ran parallel to the flow of water throwing small rooster tails of water.

The "Tongue" Drop at 4200 cfs.
My line was river right (picture left) of center on the tongue of rock extending into the hole.

In this instant, I first contemplated paddling to my left, but there was no time. To attempt to paddle too far left would put me at risk of hitting the hole at an angle, putting me at further risk of being thrown sideways and caught in a side surf in the hole. Resigned to my fate, I laid some hard strokes for punching momentum. It became clear my boat was going to be thrown on edge by the sloping water. I threw out a brace to the right to keep my boat from over-turning and balancing the edge I was riding, I aimed for a point and collided with the wall of water. At that instant I felt a fin of rock graze my side and slam into my bracing right arm from my arm pit upward. It was as if my flexed bicep muscle had been put between an anvil and a hammer as I felt the rock collide with the bone of my arm and heard the crack of it then riocheteing off my elbow pad. I emerged for the blinding waters upright and in pain. I paddled through the 210 drop and eddied out. I told my fellow kayakers to go without me as I removed myself from my boat. I walked back to my car whispering obscenities under my breath as if it would somehow relieve the pain of my circumstance.

And so it was that the river would not let me miss my line without having its own justice. No paddler feels pride in an injury, it is no symbol of misconstrued machismo to be revelled at. In fact, any sense of pride I may have had was bruised, and in stripping my shirt and looking at the condition of my arm, that became literally true. I write about it now in no attempt to water down the reality of whitewater and its inherent dangers. It is a reminder that the elegance of paddling is coming from the choas and challenge effortlessly unscathed. My only solace was in the fact that I emerged from my predictament upright, having not been caught and sparring with The "Tongue" in an over turned kayak.

The damage... nothing to be happy about.

So I sit now with an arm showing the colors of the rainbow; finding myself humbled and yet anxious to learn from my folly.... ready to paddle the river again when my injuries have healed.

Fall and the Winter Thus Far

The Autumn season brought the inevitable.... school. Yet despite being beseeched by the daily rigors of holding completely still in a class room for extended hours of fact studded lecture, I managed to get out a bit. I began to run a little more, out of the mere fact that it was accessible. I made it out to several of the NMTC Wednesday night runs and was humbled by my aerobic condition and at the same time was happy I wasn't more out of shape than expected. I also managed to get out climbing before the whether turned too cold. I found myself enjoying a little sport climbing at Sandstone quarry and was happy to be out and leading again.

The last hurrah at Wausau

I also managed to get a little paddling in before the water froze up too much. I hit up the last release at Wausau in September and got a good fix of playboating.Myself and a friend made one last run on the boney lower St. Louis a day before the dams would completely constrict it's flow to unrunnable levels. It was great to jump in the creek boat again and scrape my way down to the swinging bridge. Although I will say, after a summer of play boating I felt awkward in my creek boat. I even managed to get a last minute paddle in early November and played at first wave on Upper St. Louis. It was good just to be on the water. On a whim I also managed to throw myself into a roller ski time trial with St. Scholastica Nordic team. There I managed to further humble myself and my lack of conditioning but enjoyed the strenuousness of it.

Finally the season turned and the cold set in. I found myself stuck between seasons... to cold to paddle or climb, yet no snow to ski. I instead went hunting and managed to provide a freezer full of food for the winter for myself and family members. But winter came soon enough and colored the barren brown landscape with a gorgeous coat of white.

After being liberated from school and embarking about winter break I had my plate stacked full for time well spent. I managed to afford myself a telemark ski setup and hit the slopes of Mt. Bohemia in Houghton, Michigan and ride 96 inches of untouched powder. I made some valiant attempt to find powder at Duluth's Spirit Mtn.

Hitting the powder at Mt. Bohemia

I made two trips up the North shore for what I have labeled "soul" skiing. On each sitting myself and a friend would ski for three and half hours cover over 45 km of the beautiful trails near Tofte. As tradition called for, we sat and ate at the Coho cafe. Food never tasted so good than after a long strenuous ski.

Perfection: XC Skiing Onion River Rd.

The winter has thus been eventful and has kept my diet full of meaningful and adventurous days that have put me to bed at night tired and content!

Reclaiming Spring: Climbing Palisade and the Lower St. Louis

Climbing "Phantom Crack"

I woke and went to class on Thursday hoping to paddle later in the afternoon. A few phone calls later it was clear I was going to be disappointed. To remedy the situation, myself and a friend decided to go climb at Palisade Head. An hour later, we pulled up to the vast expanse of Lake Superior as is so beautifully seen from Palisade Head. We first went to fire up the route "Danger High Voltage". I never do the first pitch of it because of beta I had received before. Against my advice, my friend was quite interested in leading the first pitch. Upon getting down to the ground it was clear we had no gear to protect the big off-width crack that lay overhead. He did the grunt work of prussik-ing up the rap line and I had the joy of climbing an alternate route of some decent 5.10 chossy face climbing... I had fun with it! I was going to lead the second pitch, however our rap line wouldn't budge when we tried to pull it. Again my selfless friend ascended and I climbed some nice 5.8. We then set up "Blue Bells" a nice little 5.9- that went well for the both of us. I finished out the day by cleanly climbing a beautiful and technically challenging hand crack entitled "Phantom Crack". We drove home as dusk was falling and I was feeling tired and satisfied with my day.

The Louie under the Hwy 210 bridge

When the sun rose on Friday I rolled out of bed tired and sore with no expectation of adventure in my day. After surviving a 7 hour day of med school classes my intention was to go home and go to bed. However the phone rang my creeking buddy Andy called to invite me to a run on the Lower St. Louis. Putting fatigue aside I drove quickly to Carlton to the river while pounding an sugar infested energy drink. The river was flowing high at 7000 cfs... easily the highest I have run the lower Louis at. Under the Hwy 210 bridge and through the mini-gorge was a hugely boiling chain of successive 3-4 ft wave trains followed by big glassy and more waves. We portaged our way around the "Second Sister" and "Octopus" because at this level they formed deadly terminal hydraulics that necessitated complete avoidance. After getting back on the water we weaved our way through the bone yard with much class II and some class III paddling. Coming up on the swinging bridge we swung around the island to river right. There we scouted the 8-10 ft drop that concluded a converging and heavily boiling pool. We scouted on the rocks that brought back the memories of the past when I used to climb them as a kindergartner and admire the waterfall while under close supervision of Mom (I grew up in the area). As took to lead in to the drop I managed to get turned around but successfully straighten out. I missed my boof and came off the lip more river left than is ideal. Landing in the soft pillow-like boil, I fortunately didn't go too deep. I braced out of the flushy water and had no need to roll. It was a great drop.. We got off the river and sat around as most paddlers often do... spent an hour telling paddling stories and shooting the breeze. As the day came to an end I was invited to do the Devils Track river the next day, in which I accepted with some encouragement. It was a killer afternoon of paddling with a great crew of paddlers!