David Heiller
The best
part of the trip came at the end, when “Dave” and I paddled down the Kettle
River last Saturday morning.
(In case
you don’t read Dear Abby, when a name is in quotations, it’s not their real
name, although I’ve often wondered if people don’t put the person’s real name
in the quotes, just to be funny.)
“Dave”
took care of the logistics, as usual. “We’ll put the two canoes in your truck, and
then drive my van to the bridge at 46,” he told me when I pulled into his
driveway at 9:30. The idea was to then drive my truck to a spot up-stream, park
the truck, paddle downstream about eight miles to County Road 46, then get in
his van with his canoe and go back for the truck. I would pick up my canoe on
the way home.
And that’s
what happened, mostly.
The
Kettle River had never looked finer to me than that morning. Cold, deep, and in
a hurry. A river in flood is like a magnet to me.
We
slipped the canoes over huge slabs of shore ice and into the water. It quickly
whisked us downstream.
 |
| David and "Dave" |
There
were rapids almost non-stop. These aren’t dangerous rapids like you’ll find 25
miles to the south at Banning State Park. You probably wouldn’t drown if you
capsized in these. But there is still a cheap thrill in bouncing over the waves
and dodging rocks.
I learned
the rock-dodging part the hard way. Not more than five minutes after we
started, my 17-foot Aluma-craft and I were perched on top of a huge boulder.
Normally that rock would be a foot above water, but on this day it was three
inches under the surface.
Dave gave
me a look of sympathy as he slid past. He is an excellent canoeist. I crawled
to the front of the canoe and rocked the canoe back into the current.
We didn’t
talk much. The roar of the rapids prevented that. Dave pointed out two otters
in the water ahead of us. I couldn’t see them. My eyes are temporarily bad as I
await a laser surgery. But I heard one come up and quickly go back under, about
a foot from the front of my canoe.
Dave saw
deer too, which he diligently pointed out to me and I diligently didn’t see.
But in a way that didn’t matter. What mattered was being on the river, in the
sun, moving, exploring, and feeling alive.
The trip
had another challenge besides the rocks. A strong south wind was blowing up the
valley, and if you didn’t slice it just right, it would grab the nose of the
canoe and shove you toward shore. I’m saying “you,” but it was really “me.” It
never happened to “Dave.” Did I mention what a good paddler he is? “We’re going
this way,” he said once with good-natured sarcasm as the wind forced me to shore.
Another
time the wind turned me completely around, so I drifted downstream backwards,
and looked where I had been. Hey, that’s a good thing to do sometimes.
After we
passed under the Highway 27 bridge, the shore looked familiar. Just six weeks
earlier Dave and I had skied down this stretch. It was a good feeling, seeing
some landmarks, and knowing that we were getting close to home.
That last
stretch was wider and deeper, with fewer rapids. It wasn’t as exciting. But it
held one remarkable scene of beauty, where a water-falls slid off a high,
quartz-filled ledge. It was the kind of beauty that you don’t see every day, or
every year. It made me sit up and gawk and smile.
We
reached the bridge on County Road 46, where Dave’s van was parked. Several
hours had passed. We were tired and ready to get on with our days.
That’s
when Dave swore and said, “I forgot my keys.”
He had
left them in the glove compartment of my truck!
We
laughed—what else can you do—then
Dave said “I guess I’ll have to walk and get a spare key.” His house was about
three miles away. “Do you want to come with?”
“No, I
think I’ll take a nap,” I replied. And that’s just what I did. It was a great
end to a great canoe trip. For me at least.
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