Between a rock and a hard place ~ June 27, 1990

David Heiller

The Kettle River showed off for us two Sundays ago, mixing beauty and power like a rose in full bloom and a Juggernaut on a winning streak.

Between County Roads 46 and 52 in northern Pine County, the river sprinkles a set of rapids every quarter mile or so. Not dangerous rapids, not Blueberry Slide or Dragon’s Tooth or those other killers at Banning State Park. Up north 20 miles, the rapids laugh WITH you, not AT you, gurgling and foaming, flexing their muscles a wee bit, letting you bump over hidden rocks just fast enough to make butterflies rise up in stomachs, just fast enough to make the kids duck their heads and close their eyes as the water bubbles by.

Our Aussie Shep., Kenzie, was David's canoe 
partner for several years. After this trip, it was quite
 a while before the kids got into a canoe 
on the Kettle River with their father.

“I’ve got to admit you made a good choice,” Cindy said as we hit a quiet stretch of water. She had asked me what I wanted to do for Father’s Day. This was my answer: borrow a canoe and paddle a few miles down the Kettle. Someday we are going to make a Boundary Waters trip. I keep telling that to my family, and to myself. Maybe that will help it come true. Maybe this was our trial run.

We scraped a few rocks here and there. One time I had to step out and push us along after we hung up on a boulder just under the surface. No one else crowded us. We had a cooler full of snacks, a beach basket full of swimming suits and towels, and of course my old transistor radio to keep tabs on the Twins, who were winning their 15th straight. It was perfect canoeing, mid-70s, sunny, a lush green-blue June day.

We came around a sharp bend, and Cindy pointed out a boulder in the channel on our left. Then she pointed out a jackpine which had tipped over on the right. It lay half-submerged, taking up a third of the 100-foot-wide channel.

The good news is we missed the boulder. But as I swung us sharply around it, the current swept us broadside into the jackpine. Then everything happened so quickly. With the water pushing us into the tree and branches scratching grabbing at us, the canoe tipped on its edge, and water rushed over the left side, sinking us down, pushing us through the limbs, kids screaming, Cindy and I hollering.

The next thing we knew, we were standing waist deep in cold, fast water, Cindy holding onto Mollie with one arm and a tree branch with the other, me holding onto Noah with one arm and my canoe paddle in the other.

(It’s a Vince Musukanis handmade paddle, with four years of memories on its blade. I had instinctively grabbed it, right after Noah.)

We stood for a brief time in mid-stream, not knowing what to say or do. We were safe. That’s all that mattered. I hauled Noah to a rocky beach on the far shore to our left, made a second trip for Malika, then finally helped Cindy, who was barefoot and wearing a denim skirt that acted like a giant anchor.

We all hugged each other. Mollie quit crying. The kids had life jackets on, but they could have been swept downstream too fast for us to catch them in time. We had been lucky.

We took stock of what we’d lost: Cindy’s and Noah’s shoes, Cindy’s paddle, our red cooler, which we had seen bobbing downstream when we tipped, and the beach basket. I guess we didn’t need the swimming suits after all. “This trip is going to cost us a couple hundred dollars,” Cindy said grimly.

“I lost my radio!” I added with a moan. My radio. It’s funny how I’d gotten attached to that old leather-cased transistor. It had been a “gift” from Deane Hillbrand, who was taking it to the dump when I rescued it. That radio had gone with me through the 1987 World Series and a last place in 1990, and hundreds of games in between. And it had gone with me till the bottom of the tenth inning on June 16, 1991 in Cleveland, with a two-run lead and one man on, and the Twins with 14 straight wins. Now it was gone. At least it died in the line of duty.

“I wonder if the Twins won?” Noah asked. We all laughed. Our priorities were straight. It was time to proceed.

I un-snagged the canoe, which was lodged under the jackpine, then managed to tip the water out and tow it back to our point. The picnic basket of swimming stuff had wedged under a seat, so that was saved. It was a good omen too. As we continued on, we found one of Cindy’s shoes, her paddle, and finally the red cooler. The river had claimed three shoes, and a radio forever suspended in extra innings.

The rest of the trip went fine. Not even a close call, just a few more sets of rapids and the same perfect day. By the time we made it to the bridge at County Road 52, we were almost dry.

It’s funny how a mini-disaster can define an adventure, or MAKE an adventure where none had been. It would have been a great trip without capsizing, but that blunder somehow made it more memorable. We laugh about it now. We wonder whether Noah’s shoes are listening to the Twins game. The kids say we saved their lives, which we don’t deny. That may come in handy sometime, never mind that it was us who almost killed them.

Rivers have a way of teaching these gentle lessons, like how to have fun, and how to steer between a rock and a hard place.