It's All Down Hill From Here

After a whole night spent driving north, we arrived at Lake Itasca exactly at noon. Itasca getting its name from a combination of the Latin words for “truth” and “head”.  The sun was high and its rays were making the lake shimmer like thousands of diamonds floating on the surface.  Without knowing the significance, the source and beginning of the Mississippi looks like nothing more than a spill away creek.  It’s fascinating to think that water flowing over the little rock bridge marking the source will meander its way all the way to New Orleans.

We got a few funny looks as we rolled our canoe from the parking lot, some people jokingly asking if we are going to New Orleans, only to give perplexed and serious looks when we reply with a yes!.  After saying goodbye to Bennett, we pushed off and were finally floating down the Mississippi.  The start was a bet awkward at best.  Toby and I have not canoed together fully loaded before so before we could even start paddling the current had turned us around until we were facing up river, not down.  Much to our relief, the only audience to this was Bennett.  When we finally were righted, we began our slow paddle down river.  We passed a few people fishing, glided under a bridge or two and soon found ourselves in wilderness.

The river flowed shallow and clear. Schools of fish darted around the boat and flocks of little brown birds raced through brush beside the banks. Since we have been living in the city, Toby and I found it remarkable just how quiet and serene the wilderness is. At times we stopped paddling just so we could experience this.  It was not before too long that we encounter some interesting wildlife. A little down river I noticed something in a tree. I grabbed my binoculars and saw my first wild bald eagle; within 5 minutes we saw two more.  We spent a while trying to imitate the birds we were hearing behind us, our song sounded more like a elementary band recital than that of a song bird. We were abruptly distracted when we saw a lone porcupine about 30 feet up in a tree. I personally never knew they liked heights.  The first 3 hours of the adventure were a cake walk, the river was calm and the weather was perfect. We predicted that we would miss these smaller channels getting down river to where the banks were farther apart rather than a stone’s throw. However, the Mississippi does not lend itself to predictability…

Soon, the river began to flow quite rapidly. What were previously calm, almost transparent waters turned choppy. We found ourselves using our paddles more as shields from branches and as rudders to keep our canoe from crashing into protruding rocks.  Within a short time, our hands and arms were bloody and bruised, not much unlike if we were wrestling with a bobcat.  As we rounded a corner we saw a thick tree that had fell completely across the river, its sharp branches creating bars blocking passage even below it. However, there was one small hole in this  blockade, and we had a choice to either go through or risk smashing against the tree. 

The clearance was close to two feet from the top of the canoe. I intuitively knew I sat at three feet. Obviously, the math hints there will be a possibly painful problem.  I saw that toby had cleared the tree, but as he did so his hat flew off and began its own trip down river. As I collapsed in the hull of the canoe to avoid a collision between the tree and my skull, I looked down and realized my paddle was stuck in brush about 50 feet behind us.  I immediately reached up and grabbed  a sap covered branch.  Lying on my back I pushed our canoe back with my legs so Toby could anchor it while as I exited and waded up the creek without my paddle.  With lost paddle found, we headed down river hoping that the worst was behind us. But apparently optimism is for the naïve.

As soon as we caught our breath we heard what sounded like a waterfall.  The maps showed no water falls; in fact all the water falls had all been removed with the construction of locks and dams.  “Surely we have the right river?” we joked.  Toby identified the source of the noise. Beaver dams are quite amazing structure, beavers even more amazing engineers. With only mud, sticks and a pair a teeth they managed to tame the very river that was causing us much grief.  We only contemplated making the 5 foot drop for a second and finally admitted we were going to need to portage.  With nothing but sheer muscle power, we lugged our loaded canoe over the side and into the river below. This was the first of three beaver damns encountered that hour.

Exhausted from the miles we had done, we slipped into a sprawling marsh. The river was calm and dark, tall dead grasses grew over our line of sight, essentially becoming our horizon. What was once sunny day turned cloudy.  We knew rain was coming and were planning to make camp at a site we saw on our map, “any minute now” became our mantra as we searched.  Switch back after switch back, we slithered along the marsh hoping for dry place to camp. The river was not getting any shorter as the hour hand on my watch made its slow march from 5 to 6, then from 6 to 7.  We arrived at a fork in the river, Left or right?  The tall grass made any direction a guess, we chose left.  The river turned into a creek and soon disappeared. Looking through a hole in the brush, we saw that the true flow of the river lay 100 yards ahead of us through swamp grass and mud. It was a mutual decision to portage the boat instead of trying to paddle back.  With every count of 3, we muscled the boat foot by hard fought foot; at times falling waist deep in black coal swamp mud and saying more words grandma wouldn’t approve of.  We got back in the boat somewhat anxious about the growing dark clouds above, this provided motivation to paddle hard.

We were quite relieved when we saw the campsite, a small log cabin, cut in half with decaying shingled roof.  Regardless, it looked like the Ritz Carleton to us.  We unloaded our canoe and quickly began to make camp, trying to race against the rain.  Toby put his hatchet to good use and built quite an impressive fire. We filled ourselves with baked beans and peanuts; odd combination yes, but it was enjoyable.  We barely got into our tents before the rain began to fall.  I laid in my tent hoping that the night wouldn’t be too cold. This tent had carried me across the country on my bicycle, so I had trust in it would keep me dry. However,  this trust ended as I felt water spritzing against my face… “Uh Toby?, I yelled… “ yea?”, “ I think I’m leaking”, “Uhh what …kind of leaking..?”, toby said with hesitation.  “My tent, you idiot! I’m coming in!, I yelled, as I darted through the wet grass trying to protect my sleeping bag.

It was still raining when we filled ourselves with bacon and eggs this morning, the persisting down pour dampening the joy of such a great meal. We were shivering as we pushed on down river, knowing what a miserable day it will be.   We were again in marshes, the river deciding to take the most complicated route through this valley. At times the only indication that we were not going the wrong way was the fact that river was flowing forward.  Bend after frustrating bend; we paddled until we came to another camp.  The town of Bemidji was still within paddling distance, but it would be a few hours, rain was still in the forecast so we decided it would be best to make camp now.  Toby is now our official fire maker, having amazingly started fire in the rain. As I was typing this, toby yelled something and I saw him throwing burning object into the woods with his hatchet. I guess I let my shoes dry a little too long.  Socks and saddles it is!  Tomorrow is calling for a low of 32, so we are contemplating splurging on a hotel.  The Mississippi has not broken us yet, only gave us more adventure than we wanted for the first two days.  Time for supper.  Stay tuned.