The Lake is the Boss

The lake is the boss. It's pretty simple really. She doesn't care what your plans are, doesn't matter if your bucket list isn't filled, concerned little with how much you've prepared. The lake, mother nature, is the custodian of all that happens here. The cold waters, and her islands worry little of forecasts and plans.

The boss is Lake Superior within the Apostle Islands. This statute would apply anywhere on Gitchigumi, but in particular within this National Lakeshore in the northern most realm of Wisconsin. Under the protection of the US National Park Service, the lakeshore is comprised of 21 islands and shoreline, totaling 70,000 acres. Located in the coldest of the great lakes, it's know for sandstone sea caves, historic lighthouses, natural wildlife habitat and traces of old growth forest.

The Apostles are one of the places most kayakers would have scrawled on a napkin, perhaps with a crude map outlining island hopping and a list of the best campsites next to a penciled in calendar. Those scraps of paper devising the trip may sit idol for years, but they are always there, waiting.

In reality, I didn't have any notes or maps tucked amonst my outdoor gear in the basement, but that drop in my pail was there and the adventure would happen at some point.

Sea kayaking was introduced to me a little over a year ago when I joined some friends in a borrowed boat for a paddle on Lake Arbutus in central Wisconsin. I have a canoe background, but had never really spent any time wetting a double blade from a kayak. The sport appealed to me-there is an quiet escape as the prow slices silently through the water. I tried a couple different boats that day and realized I may as well start checking Craig's List-I'd have my own soon. A week later, a 17 foot Current Designs Caribou had found a home in my garage.

I'd listened to stories of paddling, particularly Apostle Island paddling, from friends Mark and Tom for years. Adventure tales, yarns and sometimes, scary stories. They are both experienced big water paddlers, and in taking me under their wing, learned to be very patient. Slipping a tippy long boat into the water and making it go where you want it safely, does have a learning curve. The design of these particular “Greenland” boats are characterized by feeling tippy but having good secondary stability-great for skilled paddlers, less so for a novice. In any regard, they are fast and efficient, and well suited for tripping-I'd need practice.

With a year of paddling under my belt and another 'yak in the garage (a whitewater model for frigid spring runs), the urge to finally make the Apostles happen was set in motion. With campsite reservations made, the “training” proceeded. Mark and I ventured out a few times on local flowages and the Mississippi and I made a habit of a early morning launches into Arbutus a few times a week to improve my technique and strength. Confidence and anticipation were growing.

Our best laid plan was to head to Little Sand Bay (park headquarters) via Ashland and Bayfield and do a half day paddle to York Island, or first stop. So much for an agenda-the lake didn't care.

The late Monday night storm to hit northern Wisconsin changed all that. Our Tuesday morning drive halted in Mellen - hwy 13 was gone just north of there. A canyon replaced where the road had once been. No fix there soon. We tried some town roads instead and none were passible. Amazing. Checking with a local, it appeared the only way to Ashland was to backtrack and head west to state hi-way 53, a 3 or 4 hour detour!

Eventually, after a few more deversions and a flat tire, we made it to Chequamegon Bay outside of Ashland and Washburn, only to be greeted by a red plume of silt pumping out from Fish Creek and other small tributaries. Hope of saving our day one plans faded as we pulled into Little Sand Bay being pounded by strong winds, high waves and floating brick stained debris. The ranger reported numerous kayakers had to be rescued the previous evening there. On to plan B.

Late night rain pelted the small tent rainfly-”Well, this doesn't sound good,” I thought. Worse, winds buffeted the trees surrounding our campsite just outside of Bayfield, foreshadowing another day of delays.

Thinking maybe we could make a run at the sea caves outside of Meyers Beach, we took a spin to Cornucopia to check conditions, hoping for a favorable wind direction, as predicted. Nope, Rangers had the kayak launch and beach closed- “Small Craft Warning” said the sign on the barricade. Mother Nature is Boss. Descending to the beach, it was obvious why the lake was shut down-whitecaps crested 3 foot crimsom colored waves-water that had an unrestricted run all the way from Two Harbors Minnesota. No paddling here today.

Trying to salvage a day, we decided to get back to Bayfield and paddle the Friendly Valley beach area off the Sioux River which was protected. Any time on the cold (usually clear) water is a good thing, so a few hours in the swells was perfect to test out gear-wet suits and assorted paddling necessities. Glad I did-my PFD was constricting me and I felt terrible. The extra layers for cold water paddling required some adjustments and eventually everything was dialed in. Wet suits? Oh yeah, the lake demands respect and anyone in the water without one won't last long.

Reservations had us on Oak Island on Day 3, so with calmer conditions in the morning we decide to make an attempt to reach it from park headquarters again. Unfortunately, Little Sand Bay still had waves running high and from the west. No go. So much for the weather predictions again. Mark came up with an viable option however- maybe we could make it from the Bayfield side on the south-hopefully we'd be be protected from the wind in that direction.

A block off downtown Bayfield, we finally unloaded camping and paddling gear for our first island pursuit. As if to welcome us to this continuing adventure, the islands and the lake dropped a thick drippy fog bank on us as we made our first paddle strokes into the water. No matter, we're doing this.

Staying close to the lee shore, the paddle up to Red Cliff was pretty good-within a half hour I had my “sea legs” -that auto pilot feeling where balance and paddling are unconscious. Crossing some quartering wind at Buffalo Bay we were rewarded with beautiful brownstone rock faces which the lake continually carves and gnaws away. At 9 miles, we'd made good time, but it also couldn't be denied that the swell, waves and chop were growing. Mark mentioned that sometimes the Islands will force the wind to wrap around and change direction and that seemed to be ahead of us in the one mile crossing to Oak Island.

Being a good tutor, he kept checking- “How are you doing?” as the boats cut into some of the bigger water I'd ever been in. “Okay” which I mostly meant. With just a ½ mile to go and near the mid channel shipping buoy, the waves were breaking more and more-the lake resolved we needed to turn around-it wasn't worth the risk. She is the boss.

There was no thought to turning tail, it just is what it is. We beat it back to the Red Cliff Bay side and resigning ourselves to the long return trip. Along the way, paused to check out the shipwrecks of the Ottawa, Rambler and Coffinberry, all laid to rest in the late 1800s in a small shallow bay.

Maybe it was a wind shift, or just the lake and islands granting a repreve, but continuing down shore, the gentler swells and calming chop allowed us to make a few brief explorations of the small Red Cliff sea caves. They are remarkable and rugged and provided some photo ops and a break from churning out mile after mile in the boats.

Continuing south, and finally settling into a a good rhythm, I was suddenly about jolted from the cockpit as my boat seemingly barely missed colliding with a enormous structure directly below! As my heart returned to my chest, I realized it was a large shipwreck (the Fedora, lost in 1901) just below the surface. Spinning about, Mark and I followed the wood and iron skeleton along it's length (over 280 feet!) in what was a surreal sight this far off shore. Totally unexpected, but a highlight none the less. The lake does claim it's victims it seems.

Mark joked all week about options-we needed a lot each day of this trip. It seemed that as we paddled back toward Bayfield, Basswood Island, just across the north channel from us, was, well, right there. The gears were turning in my mentors head, and day three's “option B” would be to cross to Basswood-surely no one would be out at those campsites he suggested (we'd only seen one kayaker all week). Well, okay...lets try.

Just as in cycling the wind always seems to be in your face, in paddling, it's a quartering breeze that becomes your nemesis, always turning the boat making things difficult. We worked hard to cross and it was a relief to round the southern tip into calm sheltered water. Marks prediction was correct-no one on any of the 3 campsites here, a gorgeous spot above a small rock face.

As challenging as the rocky take out was, we managed to land and quickly set up camp. Black flies were tolerable and mosquitos kept at bay by the campfire. So camping here wasn't according to plan, but as it worked out, we had a beautiful view of Madeline Island and the city lights of Bayfield 3 miles distant. From our vantage, we'd watch a tour boat cruise by, a few sailboats and the ferries shuttling back and forth to La Pointe.

Our final day in the islands started with a discussion over camp coffee as to what “options” we'd have. No rush, rain the previous night soaked tents and tarps, so we'd need some drying time anyway. We'd toss in a quick hike to one of the 1800's brown stone quarries as well on Basswood-a little insight as to the difficult life people had here a hundred plus years ago (there also is an old farmstead located on the island). Although we looked at circumnavigating Basswood and then heading for port, the milage seemed a bit tall after the long paddles the previous day. Option C or D (I can't recall which) was to head across the east channel to Madeline, then down to La Pointe and finally cross to Bayfield. Seemed doable. But then again, the lake calls the shots.

Stowing gear in the boats and successfully launching off the bouldery landing, we settled into a cruise up the east side, passing by the old quarry dock, barely visible below the icy waters off shore. Sailboats began leaving the harbor, a sign that maybe we'd hit more wind than predicted again. What's good for sailing, isn't necessarily good for paddling. Mark coached to take a east heading, which would put us about halfway up Madeline's west shore. Easier said than done.

If I learned anything from this crossing, it's to trust your boat. The waves rolled in at about two feet, not huge, but about as large as I wanted. Greenland kayaks are designed for this-the Inuits have thousands of years of R & D of both the boats and paddles-they used what worked. As long as I steadfastly watched the next wave quartering in, and had good paddle placement, the boat would roll up and over like it's designed to. As Mark once observed, these are the most sea worthy water craft out here. I hoped so.

The crossing was taxing because we had to paddle on one side 90% of the time-neither of us had skegged boats. Even after reaching shore, the winds ran down along the lakeside and in places, the waves and swells were larger hitting the shallow water. One or two small bays offered rest, but at some point, we both realized we were not paddling to Bayfield-trying to cross the channel again, even further, was not going to happen this day-the lake had determined as much.

Not thinking Superiors water could get more raw, I was wrong-rounding the tip of Madeline, suddenly both of us realized our hands starting to freeze. It seems the boat and ferry traffic here churns and mixes even colder water from below if that's possible. Wallowing in the swells near the break wall, the boats turned and headed into the welcome sand of the beach-my arms and back appreciative of the rest.

Perhaps a bit out of place among the floppy hat, white short, Hawaiian shirt tourists here, we marched up a side street in wet suits to change into “civilian clothes-” a better option for downing a burger and beer at the lakeside bar and grill. A ticket on the Island Queen to reach Bayfield was just $14 with our kayaks. Deal. Seemed a simple resolution at this point, right? Well, the lake is the boss and it was as if she wanted to tease our plans one more time. Instead of big waves hindering our paddling, a consistent edict all week, she calmed the waters, forcing us to second guess our decision. With gear already stowed, we both looked out over the 4 mile crossing most likely thinking the same thing. Dismissing the thought (not easily), we both reached down instead and grabbed a handle on a kayak and started the haul to the ferry dock.

It's known by some the islands in the Apostles shape and mold the weather here to their liking. The 21 dots of land and the deep cold waters of Superior are in their own world and they govern the weather as they wish. Although not unfolding like we'd planned, spending time with boats, water and friends in the Apostles is always rewarding. No matter the long range forecast, or your reservations, the lake is the boss.

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.

Rails of the Wisconsin

“Amber waves of grain.” That line echoed in my head as the kayak slid through narrow, surprisingly current laden channels of the upper Wisconsin River just north of Rhinelander. Grain, not as in wheat , barley or oats, but rather what belongs here-wild rice.

My friend Mitch Mode, an avid bird photographer (when his sporting good store releases him) and I took a rare chance to venture into the “northwoods” and slip the boats into water. Although Mitch loves photographing pretty much any winged creature-I've grown to see he has a soft spot for shore birds-birds most of us, including myself, never give much thought. They generally migrate north in the spring and return early fall to embark on the long flights to wintering grounds in the southern US and South America.

Sora Rail

Every year when I purchase my migratory license and fill out the HIP information, I'm asked the standard questions: Do you plan to hunt rails, snipe or gallinules? Although I'm an avid bird hunter, I couldn't ID many of them, for they're not game I'd seek out.

The 1300 acre Rhinelander Flowage extends upstream from Boom Lake, another back water of the Wisconsin River, formed by a major dam in downtown Rhinelander. Above the flowage, the Wisconsin twists and turns a hundred times as it snakes it's way south of the Rainbow Flowage near Lake Tomahawk. The river here has a much different character than what it transforms to in the southern part of the state. Until it empties into the rice filled flowage where we paddled, it's narrow and meanders through dense forest-quite unlike the wide flats and sand bars of the lower Wisconsin.

It's said one should use the right tool for the job, and I was totally out-gunned by Mitch's set-up. He's done this before. His kayak was a smallish plastic drab-painted and ghillie suited affair, perfect for slipping into close quarters with wildlife. The camo-theme continued with paddle, hat, shirt and long lens on his camera. No problem-I'd be sure to scare everything away with my 18' bright white kevlar sea kayak, orange vest and hat! Being a long hard chine boat was not ideal here where I'd have to twist and squeeze through narrow passages filled with tall rice stands, weeds and lily pads. No matter-I was on new water (to me) and could sit back and watch how Mitch maneuvered to get some beautiful shots. I'd keep myself and my boat out of the way.

Rhinelander Flowage

I'd probably seen Sora Rails while duck hunting out west or even instate, but to me they were just another tiny shore bird flitting around not earning my attention. As soon as we set the boats down at the launch, Mitch's ear was tuned to their call. A loud clap of his hands invoked a hail of “weep” calls from this small secretive bird. As we paddled, any loud sound would shock the unseen rails into various calls. The long high descending “whinny” was my favorite and it seemed the entire marsh was a chorus of them when Canadian geese set them off.

Although we could hear them, it took some time before one of the little marsh walkers exposed himself at the “shore” of the channel. The slate blue/grey bird nervously sauntered across water lilies in its search for small invertebrates and vegetation. Mitch pointed the tiny bird out and started shooting, while I clumsily made a wide turn and made my way back to drift in for a closer look. The rail picked along the edge, happily chirping out a “quink-quink-quink” from time to time while feeding, unconcerned with us. 

Mitch-Fully outfitted

Sora Rails are fairly easy to identify-they have a small yellow bill with a black face and “mohawk.” A short tail flashes white underneath when it's walking or launches into the air. Legs and feet are oversize for such a modest sized bird.

I think Mitch would have been quite content to spend the entire day floating and photographing here and skipping out on “real” life in town. I could see why-the rice beds attract a host of waterfowl and other wildlife. A pair of eagles soared high above, Marsh Hawks (Northern Harrier) floated just above the vegetation hunting and a copious supply of wood ducks and teal were happy to make this part of the river home among the muskrat huts.

I love nature like this. Marshes and swamps may not be as glamorous as a majestic mountain or forest, but they team with life. That spicy snappy smell you can only find here and with the slow flowing water that binds it all together. These are good and important places.

The outside world all too soon pulled Mitch from the water, but he insisted I stay an explore-which I felt obliged to do. The long boat changed gears and set about to investigate more of the deceptive passages through the rice. As long as I kept an eye on channels with moving water I felt assured I wouldn't get lost. Hopefully. 

Among the Rice

With some satisfaction, I did manage to navigate a few narrow corridors and wind up back at the launch. From time to time, I'd try Mitch's hand clap and chuckle at the response from unseen rails tucked nearby in the weeds. Cheap entertainment I guess. This flowage will have to be visited again-spring would be best, with many more migrating stop-overs passing through. A better camera (than my iphone), proper attire (and different boat??) would be along next time. As Eiseley eludes to-these are magic places and must be returned to.

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

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.