In what could be another chapter in a book about outdoor adventures entitled "My Original Plan was to," my annual May BWCA canoe trip scheduled to coincide with the opening of the game fishing season in Minnesota was doomed from its very inception. I obtaineda permit in late March, called Piragis in Ely MN to reserve an appropriate canoe in mid April, and set about planning and packing in early May. Unfortunately, on the Saturday before the entry date of Thursday May 10th, my lovely wife while digging through our oldest son's school folder discovered that he had not only an important field trip to Duluth on Friday, but also his spring band concert on Thursday night. Bah! For the third year in a row, my first “big” canoe trip of the year was foiled by circumstances beyond my control less than a week before it was to begin. Ever the optimist and quite accustomed to those sorts of last minute disappointments, I quickly formulated an exciting “Plan B,” and after a leisurely 9 a.m. alarm on Saturday morning and some coffee, cocoa, and doughnuts, mom shuttled “the men” and I to a lonely bridge crossing what the MN D.N.R. has designated as “Reach 18” of the mighty St. Louis River.
We found the water level right around the middle of its possible range and slightly lower than would be expected for a May canoe trip, and as we hauled our packs and borrowed Old Town canoe to the “landing,” I smirked with amusement at the amount of “stuff” a person is able to take along on a portage-free float down a river. With the considerable back-breaking restrictions of a “double portage” BWCA trip out of the picture, we had folding metal camp chairs, a big (heavy) bag of taconite pellets for the wrist rocket, several gallon jugs of Buhl Water, and a large cooler full of ice cold beer and sodas…and lots of ice. Dressed in standard issue “Team Krenz” cotton-free canoe gear including zip-off pants, fleece jackets, and Crocs (one of the few times it’s OK to wear those awful molded “gardening shoes”), we doused ourselves with sun screen, bid a fond farewell to mom (complete with the usual stern warning about “not killing her children”), and slipped our Royalex river canoe into the current. We offered up a brief pre-adventure “thanks for EVERYthing / please let us make it home safely” prayer – because I really don’t believe a lot of kids in America realize just how GOOD they have it - and we dug in with our paddles. “5 miles ‘til camp!”
Heading downstream towards the 40 acre plot of County Tax Forfeit public land near the confluence of small creek, the first three quarters of a mile of the journey is slightly anticlimactic as the river winds back to the main road just half a mile from the landing, but we made good use of that time by talking about canoe safety, efficient paddle strokes, and emergency procedures. At the first deep water corner that runs along a large berry field where the river finally heads south, we jumped two of the largest Canada Geese I’d ever seen. I don’t feel qualified to positively identify them as members of the Giant Canada Goose subspecies (Branta canadensis maxima), but there were both easily 15 pounds with wing spans approaching 5 feet. They were the first of literally hundreds of waterfowl we observed on the trip including four separate pairs of Canada Geese with young, Mallards, Blue Winged Teal, Hooded Mergansers, Red-breasted Mergansers, and Wood Ducks. For the first time in my life, I actually saw wood ducks roosting in trees…and on 4 or 5 separate occasions, no less. The bird count on that stretch of river was remarkable and alone would have justified the effort required in planning and executing the trip.
Slightly more than 2 miles into the trip, we encountered one of two areas of "fast water" on that particular stretch of river. Though fairly short and barely worthy of a "Class 1 rating," the speed of the current, abundance of rocks, and potential for tipping warranted some degree of caution, and at the top of the "rapids," I quickly rattled off some last minute advice...and then forgot ALL the lessons from the three other times we faced this challenge and chose the WORST possible route.
"DAD, I don't think this is the right..." Tyler started.
"NO, it's NOT. DAMMIT!" I interrupted.
"DaaaaAAD!" Riley yelled with annoyance as the canoe slid up and stuck fast on a rocky shoal.
We looked over to the opposite bank and observed the relatively smooth-flowing channel that we SHOULD have attempted, and I hopped out into the swift current to find safe and sturdy footing on rocks that ranged anywhere in size from tennis balls to basket balls. After a quick lift and a gentle shove, we were back underway, and the trip through that short stretch of river was unanimously deemed an "epic fail." We continued on our way with a few spirited rounds of the chant, "Which way next time? Keep LEFT! Yup!" Don't ask...certain breeds of canoeist are more prone to spontaneous singing than others.
As we passed the Embarrass River's point of confluence, 5 Mallard drakes all in brilliant spring plumage erupted from from under some willow trees, and we happily observed that the sand bar at the mouth of the river was for the most part above water. We made the decision to paddle on past to our destination, set up camp and do chores, and then head back upstream to fish that spot around 4 p.m. We arrived at our usual campsite (a primitive user-developed site known to us as "The Poison Ivy Campsite") without incident, and made quick work of hauling our gear up the sandy banks to the clearing. We found the area exactly as we left it after our last visit in August of 2009. The extreme need for solitude on any outdoor adventure is one of my primary trip planning considerations, and knowing both that few if any people ever camp at our favorite spot AND that we wouldn't be seeing another person for the duration of the trip filled me with a peaceful joy. I grew up spending my summers on Lake Vermilion, and I've watched sadly over the years as the lake turned into an over-crowded, over-developed mess forever diminished by excess boat traffic, poor fishery management, and the lasting scourge of several introduced species, and knowing that the lake would be over-run with tourists that weekend while my sons and I would remain completely isolated from the outside world brought a broad smile to my face. We set up camp, gathered a respectable supply of firewood, and had some snacks. I stood knee deep in the sandy river enjoying an ice cold beer with the sun in my face while the rest of my crew had a lively chat while taking practice with their pellet pistol (Thanks, Santa!), and after about an hour of "milling about," we re-outfitted the canoe for fishing and turned the bow back upstream.
When we fished from the Embarrass River sand bar in the summer of 2009, the top of the bar was a good 12 inches out of the water - high and dry - but on this trip it was barely exposed. What had passed for sand on the previous trip was more like muskeg and muck, and it was clear that a number of the river valley's inhabitants had been spending a lot of time there - yuck. In the interest of "packing light," we regrettably made the decision to leave our rubber boots behind, and I watched on with a bit of twisted pride as my sons - wearing only Crocs on their bare feet - tromped around obliviously in the stinky muck as they managed their fishing gear. This particular stretch of river is not known for its fish population, and yet in the couple hours we spent there, we managed to catch 2 small walleyes, and - surprisingly and to our collective great delight - a number of LARGE Suckers. I pointed out to the boys that I'd never caught a Sucker in my life on a hook and line and yet in one period of just a couple hours we managed to haul in about ten of them. Horsing a 4 or 5 pound rough fish out of significant river current from water that's nearly 20 feet deep on light tackle proved to be not only tremendous fun, but it also served as the perfect opportunity to demonstrate the proper use of the adjustable drag on a spinning reel. "Team Krenz" strongly advocates the practice of catch and release fishing, so ALL the fish went back into the water unharmed, and as the sun made its way towards the horizon, I prepared our "traditional" evening camp meal that the boys have come to call "chicken-y goodness." It's chicken flavored rice and sauce with a foil container of vacuume packed chicken mixed in. We ate like Kings...low rent, poorly nourished Kings. ;-)
With a sliver of sun still peeking over the horizon and sparkling through the trees, we packed up our gear, cleaned the vile black river bottom stank from our feet, and shoved off for camp. Riley and I had a long conversation about the possibily of making Sucker Balls on a subsequent trip, and we stopped to angle unsuccessfully at two different deep river bends before finally sliding our boat up on shore just below our tent. The boys tended to the fire while I unpacked the canoe, stowed paddles and fishing rods, and organized our gear around camp. The obsessive compulsive aspect of my psyche is generally well controled, but when it comes to producing a well ordered encampement, that crazy guy is given free reigin - on the evening of May 12th 2012, The Poison Ivy Campsite would have passed ANY inspection. We stayed up until nearly midnight sipping cold beverages and chatting, and in an as of yet unexplained move that resulted in somewhat serious yet still partially amusing consequences, Riley chose to lay down in the grass by the fire thereby exposing a small but apparently very sensitive area of his face to that particular campsites namesake. Hehehe. Thankfully, that minor inconvenience didn't manifest itself until a couple days later and upon turning in to our sleeping bags in the tent, we slept undisturbed until, well, until 6 a.m. at which point "nature called." In what has become a common and surprisngly still effective "sleep management technique," I "misquoted" the correct time as "barely 4 a.m!" and managed to trick the men into sleeping until nearly 9 a.m. 
For most of my life I've been all about the "big breakfast," and filling our stomachs with a big lump of warm food before a long day of paddling has become a regular canoeing morning ritual . I made a pot of strong coffee in the percolator and served it to the boys in their tin cups along with cocoa mix before setting about the business of making pancakes as a pot of water for oatmeal boiled over the fire. I can see how the packaging would be inconvenient on a long trip, but on a quick overnighter, you simply can't beat the shakeable instant pancakes in the plastic jug for breakfast. We ate another simple yet tremendously satisfying meal, and after doing the morning's dishes, I returned to the clearing, approached the fire pit, and informed the men that I was NOT ready to go home. "Remember the times when you guys were toddlers and you were playing and having fun while we were visiting somewhere or another and when it was time to leave you had a big embarrassing fit? Well THAT is ME right NOW. Idontwannago!" Riley smirked an found the humor in that while Tyler became slightly annoyed. "C'MON, Dad...it's Mothers Day. We need to get home.""NO!"
After what always seems like the monumental task of breaking camp and loading the canoe was completed, we sent a text to mom and put out into the current. The remaining length of river is incredibly scenic and generally interesting, and we stopped at several places to fish for about 10 minutes at a time. Our final stop was a 30 minute rest at a large sandbar that sits in the middle of the second area of "rapids" on that part of the river, and we snacked on summer sausage and interesting cheese while fishing, plinking with the pellet gun, and exchanging fairly sharp though generally good natured barbs. Apparently my age and...weight...strike a couple of young hooligans as funny - I snacked on in spite of that. We actually remembered the correct path through that run of fast water, and as the road appeared around a nearby bend, we felt both a little sad that our trip was over by also quite happy that it had been such a good one. In a satisfying example of the seamless logistics of a familiar adventure, our lovely and smiling shuttle driver pulled up at the end of the guardrail along the bridge just as we hauled the last pack up to the side of the road. Mission accomplished.Though no where near as adventurous as an extended expedition through the BWCA, our 32 hour trip down a particularly remote section of the St. Louis River was as solid a "Plan B" as any, and the fact that we paddled over 10 miles, camped out, and even caught a few fish in total privacy on one of the busiest weekends of the year for the State's waterways made our quick trip an unqualified success. Though rendered unusable by extreme water levels and especially by horrifying numbers of ravenous biting insects for long stretches of time over the course of the summer, a well-timed and carefully thought-out trip down any part of the 192 miles of the St. Louis River never fails to provide an abundance of great experiences and lasting memories. As for my loyal minions and I, we've reserved two more BWCA permits for the coming summer months - we're not easily discouraged. Peace, and thanks for reading. ;-)
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