1998
by Jan Olson
We were the great explorers - the John Wesley Powells, the Lewis and Clarks. We were going where no man or woman had gone. At least, where not one of us eleven had gone. When Kevin Peterson decided to paddle the upper UPPER reaches of the Cloquet River beginning above Two Harbors, Minnesota and taking out some nine miles downriver, the rest of us jumped at the chance to take another early spring float. While in the midst of the warmest spring that I can recall, many of us had already racked up more water miles than any spring previous. And this was still April.
The Cloquet River is one of the finest in the north land. With excellent scenery and some challenging rapids, it is one that Twin Ports paddlers make sure they get on several times a season. In fact, just the week before, a group had run a section below our destination. Dan Rosenthal and Jim Suttie had kindly provided the days entertainment by blasting through a set of rapids taking on more and more water until, the Penobscot slowly slipped beneath the blue. Fortunately, Dan and Jim were wearing wetsuits and the plunge was slow, giving them a little time to get used to the water temperatures while observing the hysterics of fellow paddlers. (It should be pointed out that several weeks earlier Jim took a bribe to take a dive into the Brule River outfitted only in long johns....) We were determined to stay dry on this section of the Cloquet. Lake Superior had strong noreasters stirring, and the effects were felt way up the hill on the river. The day was comfortable but cool. Fortunately the winds were generally at our tails. The main concern was the drop in water levels. As Kevin peered under the bridge on Highway 2, his usually rosy smile diminished somewhat as he announced that the water looked about 8 inches lower than last weekend. He indicated we could encounter some rocks. Rocks haven't been a serious problem for this paddler and her partner Karl. Oh sure. We've hit a few on the Brule, maybe there were one or two that appeared out of nowhere on the Tamarack,and that gravel bar on the Buffalo. Once we were spinning around a rock in the middle of... Oh, I can't even remember the name of that river. I figure once you've done a few rocks you can handle the rest.
We put in with Curt Bush, Margaret West and Dan Rosenthal, (both in wet suits), Dan Amerman and Janna Dreher, Rick Luck and Renae Switzer, Wayne Bogen and Kevin. Curt had the most to lose, considering he was paddling his very lovely and very light-weight kevlar solo.
Heading downriver we marveled at the fine scenery and the remote feeling though we were close to Two Harbors and Duluth. This section of the river is located in the Superior National Forest. It contains many fine stands of jack pine, red and white pine, and spruce. Along the river banks the leaves on the dogwood, poplar, birch and scrubby growth were just beginning to unfold. If you looked carefully there were moose, signs; no they did not say 'Caution: Moose Rutting Ahead'. Grouse were drumming, and other birds were making appearances.
Who really had time to look? We were too busy concentrating on detritus, gravel, pebble, stone, rock, and boulder! Every rapid that was worth its weight in adrenaline, if there'd been higher water, was now nothing but a dandy place to stop, take out a small garden shovel, and begin planting ajuga and sedum. A few blue flag iris would have been a nice addition, but I doubt there was enough water to sustain even them. No matter what the hardy paddler did, there was no way to get through the blocks of rock gardens without crashing, smashing and whirling on the rocks. Karl and I became adept at one excellent maneuver. Coming to the first rocks that were virtually impassable unless you could turn your boat 90 degrees instantaneously,.I would step out and shlep the canoe as far as I could. Karl remaining in the stern. Once I hit the point where it was wet feet ahead, I would step in and he would step out. Now he was walking the same rocks I had previously walked, pushing the boat forward until he could go no further. In he climbed and off we went for another foot and a half. Oh boy. This was real progress.
During rapids runs, if you can call them that, we attempted keeping distance between us and our fellow paddlers. There were the occasions, however, when we would think every one else had cleared the impediments and came to find out that someone was stuck midstream around a curve and out of sight. We would come careening downriver, attempting to use every technique imaginable to slow down. Then, in a final effort not to make fools of ourselves, we'd use the best technique we ever learned in the summer of '60 at that fine paddling academy, the School of Hard Knocks. Or was that the School of Hard Rocks? At any rate, the technique is as follows: Throw yourself on the bottom of the canoe, knees planted firmly on either side a flat rock in the middle of the river and come to a dead stop. Sit there until the canoe in front of you is extricated from the boulders or until the folks in back of you slam into the stern of your boat forcing you to shoot forward into the next set of boulders. Works every time. Come back later and scrape the green plastic stuff off the rocks and add it to your increasing collection which, upon arriving home, you will melt down and stick back on the bottom of your canoe.
Meanwhile, our friend Curt took his first dunking trying to save his boat from major reconstruction. Very wet but determined not to change his clothes right away (because it was only fifteen minutes in to the paddle and what would he wear if he got wet again), he emptied out, climbed in, and set out down the river. He finally convinced himself that a warm upper body was more important than saving face so he stopped, dug out his dry clothing, and warmed up.
The rest of the entourage was finding the way as challenging as we found it. Rick and Renae, having paid their money and gone through the Nantahala course last summer, were giving free lessons to all. There was that excellent maneuver, the foot draw, where you stick your leg over the gunwale as far as you can and attempt to pull your boat one way or the other to avoid crashing into the rocks or your friends. The cross bow foot draw was especially challenging. The scooter, a rather obvious technique by name, recalls the good old days when the folks got you one of those two-wheeled red contraptions that you pushed up and down the street with one foot while the other remained on the vehicle. This technique can be easily transferred to canoeing. Finally, there is the scoot. You leave no Bean boot rubber on the rocks with this operation. Both paddlers simply sit in the canoe and simultaneously jerk forward in an attempt to slide your way off. Rick and Renae paid big bucks for these lessons. I swear.
A few short luxurious stretches were always followed by serious rockage. We cheered our mates that made it through, some with only small scrapes. A few were polite and said they'd been able to do it based on watching the rest of us as we would paddle the obvious passageway which then turned into an impassable road block. Nice of them to give us credit for their successes.
While the rock garden rapids were rather unforgiving, there were the meandering twists and turns of short portions of the river that were restful and stressless. Large marshy islands provided alternative routes, and we would split up, meeting again when the divided river caught up with itself. At one point we came upon Kevin and Wayne relaxing in the grasses of the river bank. A huge set of antlers complete with skull was attached to the bow of the canoe. While wandering around waiting for the rest of us they'd come upon a wolf kill and reaped what the wolves had left. Wayne asked if we'd seen the bald eagle earlier. How could we see anything in the air? I don't know about the rest of my friends, but my eyes were usually glued to the water.
Nearly five hours later (can you believe we'd only paddled nine miles), we were loading up and ready to head home. Rick admitted later that he'd been wearing eight inch high hiking boots, being especially careful not to get his feet wet. By about the halfway point of the trip he finally said, 'Ah, to hell with it,' and just took to plodding through the water. He'd forgotten about the knee high rubber boots that were buried under the flotation bag in his canoe.
Admittedly when we reached the take-out, his feet were freezing. He crammed them into Renae's spare tennies, and by the time he got home, his feet were so cramped he couldn't walk.
That night I began to have twinges all over my body, followed by severe inability to move my legs or pick up my fork. My knees had begun to change from a healthy pink to shades of black and blue. I gulped Ibuprofen and marveled at the kinship I felt with my paddling friends and John Wesley Powell who had made it through Cataract Canyon on the Colorado in the 1800s. What adventurers were we all.
Dragging myself up to bed I was heard to murmur, What a great paddle. And can you believe no mosquitoes? Maybe we oughta try it again next weekend.
