The Robinsons

Kelly Road Drop

“No, you need to do this.” Dan insisted glancing my direction. ”I know I should have decided this a long time ago.” He added. “I'll feel worse if I don't run this than if I wreck my boat.” I shook my helmeted head. “I don't need to make up my mind. “ I answered. “You can make this!” He urged again. “I know, but I'm just not ready.” I shrugged. With a back bladed stroke, I let the current swing me around and then paddled toward shore. The roar of the 4 foot drop was just downstream at the Kelly Road bridge and drowned out any other remaining discussion (as far as I was concerned). I know Dan well and he would have to run this pitch, a noisy full cross channel drop adjacent to remnants of an old grist mill. Scouting it before we started the days paddle, I knew it wasn't for me at this point.

The conversation started as we rounded the final bend in Robinson Creek before the take out just south of Paquette and Dodge road in Jackson County. Since I'm fairly new to kayaking whitewater and still getting a feel for the new boat, doing just the upper section of Robinsons with numerous riffles and class I rapids, was fine for me. Dan, an experienced whitewater paddler, would have loved to continue to the lower part, with class II and III rapids, some 4-5' ledges (including “Polly Falls”) and plenty of pushy water. I'll get there, but for now, a less challenging route was good enough.

Jackson County, in south central Wisconsin, is home to some of the most underrated rivers and creeks for boaters in the state. Most are unknown. Except for a few in paddlers (and trout fishermen), they go unnoticed, as folks make bigger bodies of water, like Lake Wazee, Arbutus and the Black River, their destinations. The Morrison and Robinson, along with Halls and Wedges in Clark County to the north, were familiar with me, but I'd not slipped a boat into them before this cold spring. I'd missed a lot by not doing so sooner.

It would be hard to pick any one of these as the best-they all have some unique facet to them as far as the water and surrounding terrain. Robinson Creek, which feeds into the Black River 8 miles below Black River Falls, piqued my interest earlier this winter while crossing it several times during wolf tracking surveys. From the limited vantage point of the remote township roads, it appeared to be a gem-to say this is a beautiful body of water, would be an understatement.

Dan had paddled it a couple times already this “spring” in his ongoing quest to wet his kayak and homemade cedar strip canoe as many dozen times as possible before his work season kicks in. “I'm never concerned about weather,” he'd say. Rain, snow, ice (which has been more than common) didn't phase him, nor me as I'l learning. The only reason to look at the forecast was to see if water would be up or down on rivers and creeks. I even remarked to him while paddling last week-”I'm in a dilemma now.” “Oh no, why?” he asked. “Because I don't know if I want it to rain now or not-it kinda stinks for mountain biking, but makes it so much better for kayaking!” I answered. “That's why I'm just prepared for all of it.” he snarkily replied. And he is right, his Dodge pickup racks are loaded for bear with every outdoor toy you could imagine...at all times. People literally take photos of the black truck with bikes, canoes, kayaks and skis all somehow finding a place attached to his rig.

We generally change into paddling gear at the take out spot before shuttling to the put in. With temps in the low 30's and snow and rain spitting, dry suits were the dress of the day. I purchased one days after bringing my new crossover boat home, knowing if I wanted to paddle now (which I did) it would be required. Neoprene boots and gloves (and insulating layers under everything) along with a helmet, would make this a comfortable outing.

Robinson starts near Millston Wisconsin and the very upper part, is within the Robinson Creek Pines state natural area. The creek is narrow here (but scenic) but most paddlers opt to begin at Old Cty. I. There is a steep embankment down to the water and a good starting point for our 6+ mile trip. We'd been told the creek is runnable most of the year, but was down some from Dan's previous jaunts. We bumped a couple rocks directly under the bridge, but soon had smooth sailing with what seemed like endless riffles and good water flow. In exactly zero seconds, we were transported into an almost magical place. The remnants of fog hanging between the towering white pine canopy and high carved sandstone banks, reminded me of some kind fairytale illustration. It's hard to believe the scenery down in the creek bed we paddled for it's so different from the dry sandy jack pine and oak terrain of the surrounding county forest. Dan just chuckled-he knew I'd love this place.

With only a few cabins along the way, Robinsons feels remote and other worldly. No thought was put into paddling-it seemed to happen by itself, I was too busy taking it all in. Dans well used cedar whitewater canoe lapped riffles noisily at times behind-a good sign to know his whereabouts when waves and current increased. Sections of the creek are constant class I, one after another and you can't help but smile the whole time. Deep outside corner pools counter small sand bars inside, which the creek builds and erodes away constantly. One is always maneuvering the boat to set up for the next bend (and there are a lot!).

A few miles in, the flow slowed and we made our way through log jams which the local “Friends of the Black River” judiciously cut through each year. A roar from angry water was ahead and I asked Dan if there was a beaver dam- “No, man made dam.” he replied. Hmmm, unexpected as there is so little development here. A large concrete structure loomed ahead and we made for the right shore. Apparently, Robinsons is dammed here to divert water for the adjacent cranberry marsh. We portaged around and slid back into the water below the frothing spillway. Overflow water snuck past the dam through the woods to rejoin a short distance downstream. From this point on the water slowed, was bendier and we met jams more frequently, a change from upstream. Another mile or so and the flavor of Robinsons returned-speedier flow and taller forest on both sides.

Keeping a small creek free flowing is a constant job. Dan had lashed a small stihl beneath a cane seat in his boat to address a couple white pines that had dropped into the water making passage impossible. In shallower places, he could wade out in his drysuit and cut his way through, while others, the work had to be done while balancing inside the canoe and being showered with water and wood chips. It was good work and paddlers who follow, will appreciate it.

 

 

This section finishes with a couple moderate (okay, easy) drops and rapids and the banks increasing in height. It's as if the creek is preparing the paddler for the bigger water (class II and III) below Kelly to Fall Hall Road.

Dan decided (as I knew he would) to run the drop beneath the bridge. It was his way of properly putting the river section to bed. I'd watch from downstream. The pitch is the base for an old dam which powered the Dodge gris mill built by Daniel Mills in the 1800s. All that remains is crumbling concrete and field stone foundations high along the south bank. Taking a position with camera in hand below the drop, I watched Dan set up and bring the canoe around for the line he wanted to take. The shutter snapped a few photos off as the boat nosed over the ledge in a nonchalant manner, barely splashing water inside. I was impressed. “You made it look easy” I shouted. “Well, I don't have to fix my boat at least” he casually replied. I doubted the canoe would come to harm-Dan remarked how well the design handles and he's skilled at paddling it.

After loading boats and stowing gear, we visited the drops near Fall Hall Glen. The cascading ledges here looked intimidating to me, but I was assured by Dan they were not that bad and are straightforward to get through-the weekend before he and others had made multiple runs here. I'll work up to that test at some point I guess. As it was, Robinsons couldn't have been a better trip for a cold spring day and I can't wait to slip a boat in here again. The seasons will surely flavor the trip differently, but I know it'll be a great experience. I can't wait to return paddle in hand.

Away to the Waters

Paddling the Potters

“I have need of the sky, I have business with the grass; I will up and get me away where the hawk is wheeling lone and high, And the slow clouds go by. I will get me away to the waters that glass the clouds as they pass. I will get me away to the woods.” -- Richard Hovey

There is a mystery inside me that perhaps I never am aware of, but one I realize with time spent outdoors. It's what Hovey speaks to here-a need, an obligation to myself to be outside, to see something that gives me pause, to discover a presence of what can only be experienced outdoors. I like that I never know what it'll be until it's recognized, and it's never a conscious effort.

A lot of my interests “get me away to the woods,” hunting, fishing, biking and skiing and even my job as a wildlife technician. Stepping out the door begins the best part of my day.

As if I needed another distraction, paddling entered my life full swing this summer. I've dabbled in it from time to time, and in a way, kind of feared it, because I knew I'd be pulled toward the water away from trails and other pursuits. I finally gave in...and love it.

Being inches above the water, slipping silently forward as the shores pass by, it's much different that most anything else. Quietness, save for an occasional misplaced paddle dip that splashes clumsily alongside the boat. I'm still not smooth at this. In a kayak or canoe it's easy to be taken back in time, when Native Americans used their small boats to move from place to place or inuits skillfully surviving harsh waters in the north to survive. I have a whole new appreciation of their skill.

As important as that connection to the past a kayak offers, maybe more-so, it slows me down. Mountain bikes and skinny skis tend to propel us through the woods at breakneck speed and we miss much. These boats slide calmly in the water inviting more pause, more observation, maybe even reverence of the surroundings. Speed has little place here.

These thoughts were at the surface the other day as the kayak and I pushed off from shore in central Jackson County into Potters Flowage, a 250 acre lake 20 miles east of Black River Falls. I'd known about “Potters” from fishing friends who try their luck from time to time summer and winter, but I'd never visited it. Looking at a map, it appeared perfect for a paddle-it's a drainage lake with lots of little fingers off the main body of water, and one, several miles long to the South begging to be explored.

The put-in is located at Merlin Lambert County Park off McKenna road, once the site of the bustling lumbertown of Goodyear. Nothing but elusive foundations exist east of the campground now, where in 1898 the timber supply was exhausted in less than six years. The same dwindling fate met the towns of McKenna and Zeda further to the South, now sparsely populated and covered with cranberry marshes.

Potters Flowage is best known for it's bass and panfish abundance and rumor has it muskie fishermen hit it hard in the fall. A few boats trying their luck were my only company on the water-no complaints, this is not a lake for the power boat crown. The lake has a max depth of 24 feet, but just a mean of 7, so it's shallow and weedy on the edges. Water quality is moderately clear.

I stayed along the shorelines wanting to partially circumnavigate the main part of the lake and then head down into the inviting narrows. Even with a brisk headwind, my 18' boat made it across surprisingly easy and eventually sliced through a broad expanse of lily pads to the original flooded streambed of Hawkins Creek. A ribbon of clear water here guided my adventure south deep into the county forest.

If one didn't know better, you'd swear the boat was slipping into the wilds of the boundary waters or Canada-the shore mostly lined with towering white pine-remnants perhaps of saplings loggers missed 100+ years ago. This part of the state is better known for squatty Jack Pine, Aspen clear cuts and gnarled red oak than majestic straight pine. The further I paddled, the better my surroundings became.

Morrison Creek (different from the Morrison flowing into the Black River) feeds Potters from the far east near the boat launch, while the Hawkins section of the flowage forms the wide channel I venture into, gradually narrowing and winding its way to the McKenna Creek spilling in from the far south. There are several small fingers stabbing into the forest on either side with one across from a primitive landing off Larb Lane on the west bank where folks were camping. Going around each bend was like turning a page in a book to discover something new-I never tire of that.

Potters Flowage finally squeezes down to a fork in the road so to say-one short arm leads west and vanishes, the east bound one heads further and finally succumbs to the skinny alder lined McKenna. Trails end for me. I brace the paddle far to the side and swing the long boat around to start my journey back. Skies had start to darken and I seem to remember a forecast of possible rain, so what was a leisurely cruise took on a more purposeful stroke of the blades through water. Even with some urgency, I did stick to the opposite shore than when I entered-still time to explore I thought.

Arms and back started to ache, but no complaints from the boat-she steadily cut through the water and around reeds and occasional water lilies on the return trip. I'd make it back fine-the threatening sky stayed at bay for the moment.

Campers at the county park busied themselves with Labrador retrievers, swimming and prepping small boats for perhaps a bout of fishing. I slid into the shallows near the landing and managed to extract myself from the cockpit (still tricky) and hoist the kayak on shore.

A few sore muscles were fulfilling indicators that I'd done something worthwhile, that I'd “gotten away to the waters that glass the clouds as they pass.” That “need” and obligation to myself to be outdoors had been met...for this day, and I'd be back.

Paddling Oxbo Pond

“Oxbow: A U-shaped body of water formed when a wide meander from the main stem of a river is cut off to create a lake.”

I’ve always been a wanna-be paddler- specifically in a kayak .  I’ve had chances to dip a paddle from time to time, years separating those excursions it seems, but enough to whet my appetite.  I don’t own a boat, but a few friends do, and when asked, I’ll gladly join them to explore some outdoors 6 inches above the waterline.

“Oxbo Pond” is located in the 68,000 acre Black River Falls State Forest, 11 miles east and north of Black River Falls off State hwy. 54 on South Cemetery Road.  Good friend Tom Krotzman suggested  this quiet, off the beaten path waterway to survey-a good choice for a reserved paddle as I discovered.  Oxbo Pond is a day use area, hidden below the mostly flat surrounding jack pine forest.  Facilities include parking and a few scattered picnic tables.  The “lake” was once part of Robinson Creek, which noisily flows nearby, separated by a thin strip of land.  The shoreline is low and easy to slip the boats into to begin our trip.  Although it’s a small body of water, the meandering ribbon seems to open up a new door around every corner.  I was reminded of Thoreau’s quote: “Wherever there is a channel for water, there is a road for the canoe.” Some of the shoreline is beautiful floating bogs, sprinkled with blue water Iris and other wetland plants.  The next bend in the shore reveals towering sand banks and evidence of beaver working hard to slide trees down into the water for a winter cache.  Towering, hundred year old white pine, once carpeting this part of the state, line another shore.  Tom and I marvel at the size of these trees and remark how majestic the forest must have looked at one time prior to the lumbering years.  The remnants of an eagle nest lay strewn beneath one, no doubt blown down during a strong windstorm-we see the platform of sturdy limbs 90 feet above us as we slide by in the water.

The pond constantly changes directions and we make no effort to reach the next bend quickly, but rather just pull on a paddle from time to time and drift slowly by the shore, water silently lapping against the hull.  The cool surface gradually gives up a thin veil of steam as the sun begins to warm, on track to produce another humid day after we leave.  I busy myself with the camera, trying to “see” pictures as I float by things I don’t see everyday.  Tom seems more intent on just letting the nature come to him, very Zen-like as we drift along.

 Although this was once part of a river, the stream long ago changed it’s mind and it’s course and we too soon approach a dead end. I’m a bit wistful at reaching the turn around point, but expect to see things I’d missed as we reverse course.  We do. The sun has climbed higher and throws light a bit differently on the shore.  Signs of animals, who make their home above us on the bank and opposite in the wetland are everywhere, although on this day stay hidden save for many species of birds flitting around.  The water trail takes us back to our starting point, the widest part of the waterway, and we split up, encircling the bay in opposite directions, each exploring things we may have missed on the outbound paddle.

“If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water. -- Loren Eiseley “

Oxbo Pond is a little gem, hidden away, and mostly unheard of, but worthy of exploring if in the area.  Jackson County, not only home to the state forest, but also an expansive county forest, has many other waterways to venture out on.  From what can be a big brandishing river like the Black to small still waters like Teal and Potters Flowages to lesser rivers and streams like Halls Creek and the East Fork of the Black River.  All seem to have a bit of that “magic” Eiseley speaks of.  For me, it was another chance to hear one of my favorite sounds, the serenity of quiet beads of water dripping off the paddle tips into cool water.

The 30th Twangfest

 2012 marked the 30^th anniversary of Twang Fest.  Or thirty-first.  We never know exactly when year one was or we’re just bad at math.  Either way it’s fine, we began this journey while young and are still gathering here in the woods each year to hunt, laugh, sing and just be together.  In the past three decades, so much has changed for all of us, but maybe more importantly, so much has stayed the same-that’s why we’re here.

It’s always hard to explain to outsiders what Twang Fest is, what it means and why we continue each fall.  It’s far more than a bow hunting trip, yet that’s where it all started and that remains at its core.  But if it were only that, I know in my heart we wouldn’t have continued every year for thirty additions.  Life would have moved in and we’d move on  as well.  It’s the hunt and everything else that keeps the calendar marked each November to gather again.

 This journey started while in college-young nimrods in the woods taking a break from classes each Sunday morning for dark drives north from La Crosse to Jackson County.  An entire weekend of camping and hunting would be better it seemed, and Twang Fest was born.  Quickly after the first addition, we moved into the real world-graduation and new careers, families, changes of jobs and in later years sadly, losses to our family.  That was the start and those were the changes and yet we still made time to make it all happen again and again. 

Huddled in a blind the first night I made a note in my journal about all the things that have remained the same.  Twenty years ago the fest began very similarly-my friend Mike and I started a day early and like then, it was raining-didn’t matter, we were so happy to leave the work world behind and start this.  On that date, the rain turned to snow overnight and by the next morning the “Great Halloween Snowstorm” was born.  Even through 20 plus inches of snow, all the Twangfesters arrived at some point and we carried on.  This year, raining oak leaves replaced snow, loosened by the gentle breeze and landing with a thud on the forest floor (amazing how quiet a woods can be). Like twenty years ago, the murmur of the interstate miles away and a distant train horn were background sound only pierced by warning squawks of squirrels.  Yep, being a participant in the hunt, being in the woods and soaking it all in will always remain.

Over the years, “everything else” has included impromptu mid day football games, a mock ridge wedding (coinciding with the first Twangster getting hitched), skits of all sorts (including political debates), documentary footage, scrap paneling bowling, late night hay rides, golf, Friday night steak feeds, campfires and of course music.  I sometimes shake my head in amazement at the talent that dresses in camo each year and provides entertainment at Twangfest.  We are fortunate to have such gifted musicians in our group and it never fails that as soon as the bows are unslung, guitars are out and the music jam begins.  There are almost an equal amount of bow and guitar cases lined up in the camper and each have its place during the weekend.

As in all things that one looks so forward to, it goes by too quickly.  Other obligations pulled one brother away at a time in this 30^th year, and by the final hunt Sunday morning, only three made the trip to stands in the dark.  Maybe appropriately, for the last day is a bit melancholy anyway and all too soon everyone has left and all that clings to Twangfest is the dust cloud on the ridgetop dirt road- we’re off heading in all directions back home.

The statement by close friend Norbert maybe summed up some of my feelings as well and kick started how I wanted to write about Twangfest this anniversary year:

“It is a sacred part of my life I don't like to share. …I just want to keep it away from people who don't understand and never will.” 

For those of us who do understand and always have, we will continue until we no longer can lace the boot strings or pull back the bow or strum the guitar…. for everything Twangfest is, most importantly-it remains a sacred part of our lives.