Along the Water's Edge
Three friends share a river trip to connect with nature and one another. But they can't escape the ubiquitous machinery traversing rails and roads
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Taking a break to look back as a train passes over the Wisconsin River, the travelers noticed a stark contrast in modes of transportation. The same contrast occurred during most of the journey. |
We set up camp almost 10 minutes after our excursion began. Weary after a long day of packing, driving, parking, hiking and haggling with the locals, we had already lost delusions of being old fur traders Marquette and Joliet, instead settling for Tom, Corbin and Dave. The long awaited trip down the Wisconsin River took a break on the first sand island we could find.
It was discussed for months but put together in a few days, a venture into nature for three recent college grads soon to be heading in different directions. Sure, there were highways crawling with eighteen-wheelers on both sides of the river for the better part of the trip. And there was certainly no shortage of one-horse towns to stop in for supplies, but we were still in the “wild,” where turtles fled at the sight of our mighty oar strokes, and whitetail deer changed direction midstream to avoid our presence.
Armed with little but the will to reach the place we parked my truck, and to have fun getting there, we set out from our impermanent sandbar home, chasing the sun higher into the sky as we cut through the early morning wind and waves. The Wisconsin River is a tributary of the Mississippi, flowing through the driftless area of Wisconsin, with steep sandstone cliffs often rising on both ?ides, and acres of farmland beyond. We figured to be 45 miles and three days from Wyalusing State Park, the entrance to the Mississippi, and the little red truck that was to carry our boats back to civilization at the end of our journey.
Travel was swift on the Wisconsin in May. The water was high, and paddling could have been easy, if not for the unofficial canoe vs. kayak competition we held in our heads. We had discussed possible stopping points along the way, and the little berg named Boscobel arrived 10 miles down river far faster than we expected.
As birthplace for the Gideon Bible, Boscobel has a certain protective streak, so when three 20-something guys climb up the banks of the river and walk into Subway, even the walls are curious. After we explained ourselves we got a series of comments from the shocked and bewildered, “the Wisconsin in spring?” to the solemn and ominous, “you boys be careful.” We left the town with a sense of uneasiness and visions of some sort of Wisconsin River serpent that devoured those who tried to brave its waters.
The remainder of the second day was uneventful, aside from a small fire building rampage that brought out the inner boy scout, i.e. pyromaniac, in the three of us. We made another sand island our home for the night, reveling in the distance made, and eating homemade granola like a pack of wolves on a fresh kill, howling with laughter and scaring whatever wildlife may have set sight on us. We retired that night, comatose with digestion, but cars and semis flew by on Highway 60 under the darkly clouded sky, making sleep unrestful. I woke the next morning to the collective sound of our stomachs rumbling, and a bright sun blaring through the tan walls of the tent.
 Sunlight pours over a bluff as the canoe enters the Mississippi. Old paddleboats still venture up this part of the river, though solely for tourism purposes. |
 The travelers ponder a sign charting the foirmer depths of the Mississippi. When flooded, the river rose more than 10 feet above its current depth. |
 The canoe drifts past an old railroad bridge spanning the Wisconsin River. Rails accompanied the entirety of the journey, sometimes crossing the river. |
 Both boats rest unattended under the giant structure of the U.S. Highway 18 Bridge that crossed the Wisconsin River. Bridges such as these provided landmarks and evidence of nearby towns for the weary boaters. |
 A freight train carrying cargo such as semi trailers barrels over a bridge toward Prairi du Chien, Wis. This was the busiest rail witnessed during the journey, with trains passing almost every 20 minutes. |
After burying the remnants of the night’s fire, we heaved our boats back into the river.
In a daze induced by sore muscles and wind burnt faces, we plodded along at the pace the river set for us. The third day made us more than physically weary. A lack of suitable landing sites, combined with long periods without seeing signs of a road or bridge, had us on the move for longer than we would have liked. While nature was the reason we came to the river, the sight of a large highway bridge provided some comfort and the hope of finding a service station to replenish our greedily devoured supplies.
Again we ascended into civilization that was only yards away, and we were grateful to be consuming prepackaged string cheese, chips in a tube and drinks in a bottle. We left the mini-store with the intention of spending a third night on the river, but we were rightly skeptical of our chances of finding a place to do so.
The last intentional stop we made that night was on an island that Huck would have scorned. It was covered in plants that looked suspiciously like poison ivy, wet with a thick muck, and less than a stone’s throw from a railroad with near constant traffic. Still, I sat in awe as the monstrous machines passed, and continued to glance back at the trains as we paddled on into the waters of the Mississippi. Ten minutes later we found what we were waiting for.
We couldn’t have scripted the moment better. The sun was setting over the bluffs to the west as we entered the Mississippi, painting orange and pink crests on the waves, and drowning out the angst of not finding a place to sleep for the night. We were going to reach the end our trip a day early, but there were a few things to come that the script might not have included.
As we entered the slough, a dizzying maze of waterways that was to be our final task in finding the landing spot, my kayak decided to give up. A poorly placed hole near the back of the kayak was meant to hold a rope that aided transport, but it had been forced below the water by an uneven weight distribution in the tail. The result went unnoticed until I had a wet seat, and by that time, the entire back end was under water. A muddy shoreline provided a place to dump, and what came out resembled a small waterfall.
From there we started to tackle the slough.
An alternate word for slough is quagmire, and our situation epitomized the definition of quagmire more than once. We were waging a war between our common sense, and the signs that were supposed to guide us through the web of interlacing waterways to our parked truck. More than once we found ourselves in the same place we had started, but three hours after we had entered, the familiar parking lot lay across a final stretch of water.
The little red truck was the only vehicle in the parking lot, and it was a welcome sight. Our trip was meant to be a common experience in the joy of nature, and while it served that purpose, we were forced to admit our reliance on the roads and rails that we knew.
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