(ch. 5)Again: Wisconsin

The river below St. Cloud is delightful -- two last days of a river with little evidence of human tampering, and a perfect canoeing river. Then we reached the outskirts of the Twin Cities. Remembering our last encounter with the Twin Cities Isaac had this assault thoroughly planned out. We would arrive at the Coon Rapids dam in the evening, leave the canoe there for the night, and make it clear out the backside of St. Paul the following day. Three locks and thirty three miles in one day, and what we had to look forward to for a campsite was a lump of mud at the mouth of Pig's Eye lake just north of the interstate 494 bridge. From now on I would have to get used to camping on islands in the river. I didn't like it, at least the MNDNR campsites gave you a picnic table, a grassy mowed place to put your tent and an outhouse back in the woods. Some of the islands were clear enough to find a tent site, but often they were overgrown with nettles and poison ivy.

One more hard day to Wisconsin. We were counting down state lines. I remembered Prescott Wisconsin from earlier visits. It was a charming little river town at the confluence of the Mississippi and St. Croix rivers. When we canoed through before, the river confluence was occupied by fishermen in small boats and in waders along the banks. We paddled toward Prescott anticipating a pleasant arrival, but were sorely disappointed. In the last few miles before town we were beleagured by a flotilla of pig boats and their piggish owners. They were swarming around Prescott like flies swarming around a pig's behind. We call them pig boats -- Baja class speed boats and cruisers. They throw up huge wakes in the river that damage the river banks and threaten to swamp smaller boats -- especially canoes. Their rude operators are either too stupid to know any better or simply of the opinion that they own the river and we should stay out of their way. We also call them pig boats because their monstrous 400 and even 500 plus horsepower engines suck down gas at the rate of 1/4 mile per gallon. They are an obscene indulgence of the obscenely rich who, in addition to believing they own the river, also believe they are entitled to consume whatever gluttonous amount of the world's resources their money can buy. Prescott was overrun with them. The town had built a new marina and a giant luxury condo complex that successfully attracted this new clientele. I talked about the change with some of the towns long-term inhabitants who expressed mixed feelings about their faustian choice to recreate themselves as a playground for their affluent neighbors up the river.

We were headed for the Upper Mississippi National Wildlife and Fish Refuge -- paradise on earth, nothing less. One obstacle stood in our way: Lake Pepin. Pepin is a 22 mile long lake between Redwing and Wabasha. It was formed by a natural dam that built up in the Mississippi from the debris washed down by the Chippewa river. Lake Pepin is where we stopped four years earlier. We paddled down to the lake and were driven back by large waves and a stiff wind. Conditions on Lake Pepin can often make it unpassable for canoeists. It's not as dangerous as Lake Winnie because the water's not nearly as cold, but it can take days to cross and may result in a swamped canoe.

This trip had begun poorly, but our fortunes had been improving. As we paddled past Coville Park in Redwing and out into the lake we were anxious about what awaited us. Wow! we hit the lake with a gentle tail wind. Isaac was ready, he'd been waiting for this opportunity. We paddled to shore and Isaac found a suitable piece of drift wood. With a couple hose clamps, a bedsheet, one of our paddles and some duct tape he raised a sail over the bow of the canoe. I steered from the back and we sailed across the entire lake in one day. It was a triumph and we were on top of the world. In Wabasha we hiked into town and found the local grocery store. We bought fresh fruit and one of Isaac's favorites, cheese curds. That night we slept in Wabasha's riverfront park.

Wabasha is the northern border of the Upper Mississippi National Wildlife and Fish Refuge. Here in the refuge the river on both sides is bordered by high bluffs. The eleven dams along this 260 mile stretch of the Mississippi back the water up into large lake-sized dam pools that contain thousands of square miles of wetland and backwaters. It's breathtakingly beautiful, especially seen from a canoe that can navigate into the wetlands. The dam pools however present a problem for canoeists. They're not as big or as deep as Lake Pepin but they're big enough to whip up some formidable waves. Out in the middle of one of these pools you have no shelter from the wind which can blow strong enough to slow you to a crawl. The pool itself slows you down because the current slackens. And, as if to throw salt in a wound, the dam pools are the favorite playgrounds for pig boaters. The pools give them more space so they can go round and round real fast in bigger circles. Our trip now began to focus each day on crossing the next dam pool then locking through to find current and shelter on the other side only to paddle down into the next dam pool.

It was the end of June and we were approaching the end of Minnesota. On July 1st we paddled past LaCrosse -- the Iowa State line was forty miles away. I figured we'd make it in two days. I was wrong. Dam pool eight was rough, literally. The waves were cresting white and we worked hard to make it to the lock at Genoa. Below Genoa we headed for Black Hawk Park. It's a recreation site maintained by the Corps of Engineers. I was planning to spend the night there. We arrived in the late afternoon to find the park swarming with people. The local town firefighters were holding a fish fry fundraiser. We joined in and filled up on all-you-can-eat catfish, beans and potato salad. From the concession stand we got beer, ice and snacks. I was feeling pretty good and ready to start looking for a campsite. Isaac however wanted to camp away from the crowds. He likes his piece and quite. So I agreed to paddle a little farther down the river and look for an island campsite. Here the river channel is straightjacketed in by islands and revetment walls. The water level in the wetlands behind these islands is actually a about a foot lower than the water in the channel and the connecting chutes have a smart little current in them because of this pressure difference. Isaac wanted to look for a campsite down one of these chutes, but that meant a committment to paddle through the backwaters until we could again enter the channel. I went along, and sure enough there was no place to camp. We had entered a swampy wetland that extended all the way to Lansing Iowa, another eleven miles, another forty mile day. It was hard -- really hard and, I was pissed at Isaac but, we had entered a land of enchantment. I couldn't stay angry in the middle of such splendor but, I pretended for Isaac's sake.