Guide Yooper Brother Mark after navigating a set of rapids on the Mighty Brule River

August 18, 2013 – Sunday

63 degrees/sunny/calm

Pentoga Road

And just like that, summer is back. It seems kind of strange; we flirted with fall for three weeks, had temperatures hover around the freezing mark and even attempted to cover the garden one night. Now the high for Wednesday is forecast in the upper eighties, even ninety. I think we ought to have Al Gore look into this one. Darn straight!

Saturday was busy. Brutus and I began our morning with a 5.36 mile stroll. Honestly, I had thoughts about 2/3^rd’s the way through that we had bitten off more than we should have. The knee was swollen and quickly becoming uncomfortable. I set my mind in the long distance hiking mode, pretended we were in some far off remote area, and toughed it through. I’m taking today off to let the body rest.

Mark called and said he was ready to go paddling. I pulled the two biggest kayaks from the rack and scrubbed each. They haven’t been used for a year.

Mark putting in his kayak at the beginning of our 16 mile trip

It was the perfect day to head down the mighty Brule River. The water was quite low, yet there was a good current and other than one time, I managed to keep off the gravel bars.

A beaver lodge

A giant bobber hanging from an old railroad bridge

All was going well until my native guide, Yooper Brother Mark, ran up onto a submerged tree trunk that was lying across the entire width of the river. It was at the base of a small rapids and though the water was only a couple of feet deep, it was quite swift.

At the top of the rapids

Mark swung around and almost capsized. I hurriedly began back paddling against the current and managed to stay off of his boat until he could move towards shore.

Losing the battle and having nowhere to go, I decided to try to cross the log… and almost made it. The key word here is ALMOST. The current grabbed my kayak, swinging it sideways.

 I'd like to say that my life flashed before my eyes, that I prayed a prayer of contrition to Baby Jesus, and was prepared to go to the Great Hereafter, but in the end, I merely got wet.

It was the first time in twenty-five years that I’d flipped a kayak while navigating any river. Nothing was hurt other than my tender ego and honestly, the water felt wonderful on the hot August day.

Mark helped me retrieve the kayak from under the log. It took some doing, but it was soon emptied, and the rest of the adventure was uneventful, until…

We were at the end of our journey, the take-out point. After sixteen miles, the kayak was paddled into six inches of slack water out of the current. I flopped my left leg over the side and began to step out when the knee completely gave way and I fell face first into the water.

Again, nothing was hurt, but that put the finishing touches on the destruction of my already damaged self esteem. Thankfully, none of my sons or Alaska friends were present to witness the final act of grace, beauty, and poise. I’d never live it down and no doubt would be forced to wear duckie floaties on my arms for the rest of my life.  

I learned an important lesson on Saturday. Sometimes life isn’t always pretty when paddling the wild and mighty Brule River!

As an added postscript: a large black bear ran across the river in front of us at one point. He was too far away for me to see, but Mark said he was a big one.

Sargie was home early and we enjoyed chicken salad and pretzels for supper; a real summertime-type meal. I spent the evening watching the Packers beat up the St. Louis Rams and was happy to see the progress the rookies have made during this past week of training camp. I think this is the year the Pack will be back.

I’m not sure what is on the agenda for today. We’ll head to the VA Hospital this afternoon to enjoy dinner with Mr. Milligan and are planning to stop at Home Depot to purchase enough bricks with which to rebuild the living room hearth. The tile that is presently being used has to go. Who ever heard of putting white tile under a wood stove?

No doubt, Sargie will have some honey-do jobs for me. I’m not surprised. A man’s work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road…

Our take-out point in the suburbs of Pentoga