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.

There’s a spring walk down the road ~ March 24, 1988

David Heiller

The sun rose above the clouds on Thursday morning, bringing warmth to the 20-degree March day. Ten inches of snow still lay on the fields from the March 12 storm. Mother Nature had temporarily delayed spring, but the sun rising above the eastern clouds had other notions.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I said to the kids.

“Yeah, let’s go for a walk, two-year-old Malika answered. She headed for the blue room to get her coat

“All right,” four-year-old Noah conceded: He snapped off Sesame Street, and followed Mollie to the blue room.

Noah and Malika, as different as they can be.

Mollie and Noah are brother and sister, they have been raised by the same set of parents in the same house, and the same way, but they are as different as the sun and the moon when it comes to a walk. Mollie runs to the door when we talk “walk. “ Noah usually gives in after a sales pitch.

Binti heard the clamor as we hit the porch, and sat twitching in front of the house. She can sense a walk from 20 yards, even when we are inside and she is outside. Now she could barely sit still, waiting for us, sitting and hopping all at the same time likes dogs will do.

Malika spotted Binti sitting, and headed for her.

Malika, at age two, felt as though
she should be able to supervise Binti. 
Binti didn't pay her much mind.

“Ι’ma ride Binti,” she claimed. “Hold still Binti.” She grabbed the 70-pound dog by the ear, and tried to lift a leg over.

Bind twitched off to one side.

Mollie lifted her leg again; grabbing Bind’s other ear as well.

Binti hopped to the rear. Mollie looked like Roy Rogers after some bad guy put a burr under Trigger’s saddle.

“Υοu can’t ride Binti,” I said. “She’s a dog, not a horse.”

“Oh all right,” Mollie answered, giving in like her big brother.

I grabbed the plastic sled, and Mollie climbed aboard, sitting on an old blanket. Noah walked ahead. He had been reluctant to come outside, but once outside, he caught the scent of spring, and headed down the driveway. Binti charged out of her blocks, sure now that the walk was for real, and disappeared into the ditch far ahead of us.

The gravel road was bare of snow in the middle, but the sled pulled easily-over gravel. At least it did until Noah climbed aboard behind Malika. Then I headed for the ditch. It was rough going, in snowplow droppings, so I slid the sled over the shoulder, and into the snowy ditch. The sled has a 10-foot long rope, so I pulled from the roadbed, while the kids slid along at an angle five feet below me.

Noah loved it. He laughed and leaned forward. Mollie, sitting ahead of him, did not agree. She started to whine, “Stop, Daddy.” I pulled them almost up onto the road, then let the sled go sliding backward, down onto an icy patch in the bottom of the ditch.

Malika complained again, but with Noah laughing from behind and me cheering from above, she was soon smiling too.

We reached two huge culverts which Pine County workers put on our road last summer. This was the halfway point of the walk. I sat down on the sled, while Noah scaled the bank onto the culvert. An icy patch, 20 feet long, stretched in front of the culvert. Soon he was sliding on it, laughing.

“Let me get down dare,” Mollie asked.

“You can go,” I said.

Noah walked over and reached up a hand from below, while I did the same from above. Soon she stood next to him on the ice. She immediately wanted to come back to me.

Noah hanging out at the tail end of winter.

Sitting on the blanket on the sled, soaking up a 30-degree March sun, I wasn’t about to move. I threw her the rope from the sled. She grabbed the end, and pulled herself up the culvert mountain. Then she used the rope to descend, and climbed up again. Then she let go of the rope and made the climb solo.

I pulled an orange from my coat pocket, and peeled it. The kids climbed up from the ditch. We sat on the sled, eating the orange. It tasted like spring, warm and juicy and sweet, with a promise for more.

The sun rose higher, moving the eastern clouds out all together. The hard-packed road showed signs of a few muddy spots. Time to get going. Noah led the way back north, toward home, while Malika rode again. Maybe that’s why Mollie likes walks, because she always rides on them.

The road stayed clear of cars as we made our way back home. Sometimes only a couple cars a day will pass our house, especially on a lazy Thursday morning. I glanced behind for a car, but knew none would come.

Cindy and I have taken walks on this road from the first day we moved here six years ago. It’s not breathtaking. Scrubby lowland to the west, an old hayfield to the right. A quarter mile on either side, the woods start. Binti chased a bear into the woods to the west on a walk our first summer here. Binti was smart enough not to follow it into the woods. We’ve walked the road with friends and relatives, with kids on our backs and kids inside Cindy’s belly. We’ve stuck walking sticks three feet down into frost boils in the spring. We’ve walked through a blizzard of snow in January, and a blizzard of fireflies in June. We’ve walked through fog in summer evenings. We’ve walked happily together, and we’ve walked angrily alone.

And we’ve walked through sunshine in the early days of spring, with kids on a Thursday morning. With a fresh orange, there’s nothing finer.