Better listen when the river calls ~ April 29, 1999

David Heiller

The Kettle River water flowed along like a big muscle of water last Saturday morning, April 24, and it seemed to welcome our canoes almost as much as we welcomed it.

My friend, Dave, noticed it first. “This doesn’t look like the Kettle River,” he said after we set our canoes down below the bridge on County Road 46. The current was strong, the water deep.

Usually I don’t get on the river until later in the year, when the water is low and the rocks are high.

David and Dave in a quiet canoe,
during a different paddle.

Not Saturday. The power of the current sent us downstream in a hurry. Dave and I each had our own canoe, which was a new twist, and a good one, because even in high water, the Kettle River will shave aluminum off a heavily loaded canoe, and any canoe with me in it is heavy enough.

Saturday was a great day to be alive. Clear sky, temperatures in the sixties. No mosquitoes! The first really nice day of spring. And there couldn’t be a better place to enjoy it than in a canoe on a river.

The river was alive with life, even though the trees were bare and the ground drab with last year’s grass. Every bend sent ducks scurrying off. I wanted to shout, “Don’t go, we won’t hurt you,” but it wouldn’t have accomplished anything except to convince Dave that I was crazy.

We saw several deer. There are deer everywhere, and the river was no exception. I marveled at one that bounded along the shoreline, hurtling windfalls with grace and ease.

A bald eagle calmly watched us approach. No doubt he saw us long before we saw him, even though his big white head was hard to miss. We stopped paddling and drifted until he flew down the river. He waited for us two more times over the next hour, each time letting us get a little closer. It’s so good to see eagles. Thirty years ago they were a rare sight, thanks to DDT. Not anymore.

Trees hung over the river at places. Clumps of weeds hung on the branches that were about two feet above the water. That was the high water mark for 1999. The river at that level would have been even more fun to travel. We were a couple of weeks too late. I’m not complaining. Anyone who would complain about a day like this would have to be a cynical person indeed.

We went through several sets of rapids. The water was warming up for its roller coaster ride through Banning State Park. I would not care to tackle them there. But here they tilted and whirled us along at just the right pace.

At one sharp curve a tree had tipped over and stuck out across part of the river. I recognized that darn tree, and I made sure I turned sharply to avoid it. I didn’t quite do that in 1991, with my wife and two kids aboard, and the current swept us into the tree and flipped us over so fast we barely knew what happened. We lost a radio and a shoe, and I lost a lot of credibility. No one got hurt. My pride was bruised a bit, though.

I thought about watching the ice go out on the river two springs ago. It had backed up for at the bridge on 46, and we were lucky enough to see it let go one evening. I’ve never seen such an awesome display of power as that river of ice as it moved down stream, breaking off trees, scouring the banks.

We passed by two campgrounds, which I believe are maintained by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. They looked inviting. I’ve never camped at them. Usually it is so buggy. But there were no bugs on Saturday.

When our canoes were side by side, Dave and I would talk a bit about little things in our lives. Nothing of major importance. We didn’t about Kosovo, even though our country is waist deep in that muddy river and the water is rising.

We didn’t talk about the school shooting in Littleton, Colorado, even though it cast a haze over my thoughts that even a gorgeous day on the river couldn’t completely clear.     

Those sobering subjects wouldn’t fit the mood of a canoe trip, even a short jaunt like this.

The trip ended after only about an hour and a half. We pulled up at the bridge on County Road 52, and put the canoes in Dave’s van, then headed back to my truck. It was too short. But we each had chores to do at home.

As we drove back, I noticed that at practically every house, there were people outside. Raking, playing, carrying fishing poles. It was not right to be inside. I was glad Dave and I had answered the call of the river.