October 2001
Down the Kawishiwi River
by Rich Furman
8/11/01
If you can look around the take-out and say of your vehicle "This is the last car anyone would think of breaking into", you know you have a good bush vehicle.
— Bill Mason
We had spent the night at the Super 8 in Ely after driving up in our neighbor’s Blazer. After spending an hour or two driving around Ely to fill a few last minute needs, and getting our permit we drove up to Kawishiwi Lodge, where we would be parking, launching, and shuttling back to after the trip. Parking there rather than the Lake One put-in was necessary because, unlike my battered ’88 Jeep Cherokee which was down with a bad starter, my neighbor’s 2000 Blazer with every bell and whistle imaginable and a few that were unimaginable, did not pass the Mason test of a good bush vehicle. So, in addition to our shuttle, Kawishiwi Lodge would be providing us with parking and a launch site as well. By the time we found our way to the end of the Fernberg Road, we were quite famished, and Frank Udovich Jr. cheerfully put on a pizza for us and gave us some nice cold water as we prepared for our launch. After dining well, we reconfirmed the pickup point, date and time; Frank would be meeting us at the Little Gabbro lake put-in at 2:00 pm on the 18th.
We put into Lake One and slipped down an inlet into the Kawishiwi River which also led us past the forest service put-in. Further downriver we found our first portage, a 20 rod hump over an isthmus between two backwaters. After traversing the portage we played a bit at the foot of the rapids where Confusion Lake joins the Kawishiwi. We then pulled up to the head of a 15 rod portage around a rapid we had run many times before. One of the more interesting features of this rapid was a pair of bridge footings that once belonged to a CCC era fire run. As we scouted the rapids this year though, we noticed a difference: the bridge footing that had been on river-right was no longer there. As we examined its former location, we saw some of it still beneath the surface with nails bent in the direction of the current. Looking downstream, I saw the footing resting on a bank; it had evidently been washed out by the spring’s flooding. And this is how nature, with a single swallow, can consume the works of men.
One consequence of this turn of events was that now our rapid had one less obstacle. After a good bit of discussion, we decided to run it loaded, because we wanted the extra stability and could afford the draft. Morgan was the first to make the run. She moved far from its head so she would have ample time to pick her lines. She ran it clean, hitting every "V" dead on and flushing out nicely through the haystacks at the end. My own run was a little less clean, with me eddying out behind the remaining bridge footing before completing my run, but it was a definite improvement over my July 4th 2000 run where I spent some time backwards. We met at the other end of the portage, and high-fived. We proceeded downriver seeking the first available campsite, one which we had often sought but never found.
After methodically picking through the shoreline, we found it and it was vacant, so we landed, and I raised the tent while Morgan flew the tarp. After a bit of rest, I extended the tarp pole with a paddle and heard a strange buzzing noise. As I turned toward it, I saw suspended before me in mid-air a sparrow-like body with a head that eyed me quizzically. As I returned its puzzled stare I saw a blur of motion where the wings should be. The bird darted, hovered, and darted again before it realized that our Cooke Custom Sewing tarp was not, in fact, a nectar-laden flower. It was the first time I had ever laid eyes on a hummingbird. That evening we had a one-pot supper of chicken with couscous and after a brief rain, a rainbow appeared.
8/12
This was a day spent lazing around the campsite. I spent a good bit of it collecting water with our new MSR Mini-Works filter. It started off okay, but soon I was laboring for every ounce. When Morgan filtered some water, she returned after 20 minutes with 7.5 oz and many wroth words. It wasn’t until later that evening that I realized that the cartridge needed cleaning. This was one of the grand things about this filter: BWCA water beats the snot out of most water filters. We had a PUR hiker clog up on us two years running. The Mini-Works has a field cleanable ceramic element that one just scrubs down when it becomes clogged. Once I did this, the filter pumped easily again and relinquished to me seven quarts of water before needing another cleaning. Being able to clean a clogged filter and have it work again was a truly wondrous thing. When you have rubbed enough ceramic away that the supplied caliper passes over it, it is time to replace the filter cartridge. I think we could have gone a full two weeks before that became necessary.
After getting water, we had a powdered egg omelet with ham and veggies for breakfast. Then we had a big Blueberry Scone, cleaned up and went exploring around our camp. We found a stream nearby that was actually marked as a trail on the map, and there were some really interesting mosses. Dinner was chicken sauced with tomatoes served with mashed potatoes.
8/13
Today was a traveling day. I awoke with a headache that plagued me all day. We broke camp, had a traveling breakfast of jerky, cheese, gorp, and dried fruit. We paddled (albeit it slowly, lazily) down to the head of a rapid and portaged around it. It was appropriately marked "Dangerous Waters" on the map. After we traversed the portage, we found ourselves in a small pool. I guess this would make the Kawishiwi a "pool and drop" river. We played a bit in the foot of the rapids, practicing eddy-turns and some ferries. Then we found the portage out of the pool, a five rod around a ten foot drop in the river with a shelf extending all the way across. We lunched there and then paddled off in search of our next camp.
When we found our new site, we were overjoyed; it was one of those perfect sites, with ergonomic granite complete with lumbar support for lounging on after a swim, and a great place for collecting water. After camp was established, we went for a swim and sunned ourselves on these marvelous rocks. Then we had a dinner of ham with watermelon.
I stayed out to watch the sun set and the stars come out. Morgan soon joined me. It was a beautiful sight, with the pines across the river backlit and their reflections in the water looking like fantastic baroque columns supporting a grand castle.
8/14
This morning, I awoke and went for a morning paddle in the bay our campsite looked out on. Morgan joined me and after exploring the next cove we returned to camp and I made coffee. As I was getting the coffee out I heard a little shriek from Morgan and looked over in time to see the south end of a Bald Eagle headed north. Morgan had actually seen the bird snatch a fish from the water.
As we sat on a rock with a backrest drinking our coffee I carefully considered what I should make for breakfast. I decided that breakfast pastries were the way to go and as I sat there sipping my coffee a complete vision formed in my head. I set up the Outback Oven and improvised the following recipe:
1 1/2 c Bisquick
Water sufficient to make a stiff dough
Equivalent of 1 large egg
1 log of string cheese, quartered
1 piece of dried beef crumbled
Salt, pepper, and garlic—to taste
First make a stiff dough with the Bisquick. Roll into two balls and arrange in outback oven. Shape into high walled cups. Place String cheese and meat in the cups you have formed.
Next blend the egg mix and spices. Pour into Bisquick cups. Some egg mix may escape. Reserve this along with any that didn’t fit. Bake for about 15 minutes. Then pour remaining egg over biscuits and bake an additional 5 minutes. The egg film that forms as a result of this last step is part of the dish.
(This yields 2 servings. On hungry wilderness mornings you may want more, so feel free to double.)
The result was fantastic: Morgan loved it and praised me liberally. I loved it, for it had everything I look for in a breakfast. But most importantly, it revealed to me the secret of working with powdered egg—fried powdered egg—almost always comes out icky, with water leaching out of it, but baked it sets up very nicely and develops a good texture. It is even effective as a glaze.
After the breakfast pastries were out and eaten, I put in some brownies to enjoy later with Scotch. As the brownies were cooking, a couple in a We-No-Nah Sundowner came up to our site. They had been looking for the portage around the next drop, and after two hours of fruitless searching, they turned back upriver looking for help. We looked over their maps, marked up for them by their outfitter. We suggested that they check both banks of the river, because the maps sometimes show the portage on the wrong bank. Since they were clearly new to canoe-camping BWCA style, we told them how to look for "canoe sign." Rocks that sparkle with aluminum and are colored with bits of green, red, and blue vinyl and gel-coat are a sure sign that you have found a landing of some sort. Armed with our advice, they headed back out. I surmise that they found the portage, for I did not see them paddling upriver again.
After they left I found the brownies had burned—the stove had run low on fuel and was running lean, burning too hot, even at a simmer, for baking. But chocolate is chocolate, and, short of complete carbonization, it cannot be completely ruined. And when the rain came, rolling in amid thunder and lightning, we hunkered under our tarp with the brownies and the Scotch and had a grand old time. I even managed to snag a photo of a lightning strike with my little point-n-shoot. After the storm passed Morgan painted from memory a butterfly she had seen a few times at that camp.
The visit we received earlier that day had me worried. Yes, our visitors were inexperienced, but we were not so experienced ourselves. I wanted to take an evening paddle to scout out the portage, since we would be needing it ourselves the next day. We paddled down the river and investigated the area. There was a rock garden, then the portage landing on river right, and then the head of the rapid. Our visitors had evidently mistaken the rock garden for the head of the rapids.
8/15
Today was a traveling day, and with my loginess on the thirteenth to make up for, we had a fair bit of ground to cover. We would traverse the 15 rod portage, travel down the next stretch of river, traverse a 20 rod, and then camp on a stretch that ends where Little Gabbro lake empties into the Kawishiwi.
We broke camp and had a hasty breakfast of jerky, cheese, dried cukes and nectarines. Then we set out for the portage we had reconnoitered the day before. Morgan landed first, and I set my sights on landing just beyond her. As I pulled in toward shore, my stern was taken by the current and words of panic escaped my mouth as I fervently plied the current, determined that I was not going to go down this Class II–III rapid at all, much less backwards. Morgan asked "is there anything I can do" but I couldn’t imagine a thing so I just paddled and brought myself into the landing.
We met a couple of fishermen traversing the portage in the opposite direction and there were some college-age folks coming the same way. We paddled down this stretch of the river past 2 or 3 campsites to our 20 rod. There was a headwind pushing gentle swells upstream, and this made for some interesting paddling, but the broad face of my Grey Owl paddle kept me moving steadily forward. There were seagulls on many of the rocks, perched with that indomitable look that seems to say "Bugger off! This is MY rock!" A "Whoop!" from behind us told us the college-agers had found the campsite we passed by.
When we reached the 20 rod, we found ourselves sharing it with an Outward Bound group that had been in for three weeks. I felt both awe and envy. It was quite a bit of time to be out. Morgan and I were struggling with our mostly technical gear, back packs that all but curled up and purred in the small of your back, boats made of space-age materials, paddles carefully laminated of ash and mahogany; and they were dancing over the portage with loads carried in trash bags and ancient Duluth packs, a small fleet of aluminum Grummans, and some nasty looking aluminum/plastic paddles I would only own to lend. But they had the enthusiasm of youth, and their leader had clearly given them a good experience.
When we completed this portage and went to seek out the first available campsite, they saw us on our search and called to us; they were not camping at the site we passed by because they were there, they were merely lunching and we gratefully pulled up our boats. There was a red squirrel in the fire pit, complaining most assiduously that it was not being given free access to the open vat of peanut butter nearby. "Persistent squirrel," one of the kids commented. Later the squirrel would return to its regular routine, which seemed to consist of planning a major and vociferous ground war against another squirrel in a nearby tree. Or maybe it was love—who knew?
As we established camp, the rains came. They poured on the tent before I could even raise it. Hurriedly, I got it pitched and threw the rain fly on top of it. Then I got the rain fly rigged, as Morgan flew the tarp. Soon we had a place from which we could sit and watch the rain. Morgan whipped us up a one pot couscous chicken meal. I donned rain gear and drew water, filling our containers for the next day. I told myself it would clear by morning, but I knew I was lying. It was one of those slow deliberate rains, a rain that knows that slow and steady wins the race, a rain that knew that with a little persistence it could get everything wet.
We retired early, me dressing a cut I had got on a rock at the last camp, during a late-night barefooted latrine-stumble. Morgan dressed her hand where it had broken her fall on the way down from the latrine at this camp. We listened to the rain and the croaking of ravens and I slept soundly through the night.
8/16
We awoke to rain. We went back to sleep as if that would invoke some sympathetic magic that could drive it off. We awoke again. This time, we left the tent and took refuge under the tarp. It was a persistent rain, a "you ain’t goin’ nowhere" rain so I hunkered down under the tarp, and made a nice long leisurely breakfast with bigger breakfast pastries than before. We polished off the brownies and had coffee. We watched the skies. We watched the waters. We watched a loon fishing in front of our campsite. I drew more water. We watched the skies and the skies cleared a bit. Morgan and I pored over our maps, wondering if we could avoid the 125 rod portage that was part of tomorrow’s itinerary. We saw a connection between the Kawishiwi river and Little Gabbro lake.
"I wonder if we could get through there?" said Morgan. I looked at it. The connection was represented by one of those thin blue lines that McKenzie seems to reserve for tiny, fast rapids and weed choked creek-beds. I was skeptical. But we needed an evening paddle, so I said we should go check it out.
We paddled toward the bay indicated on the map and noted the head of the portage that we would be taking if this didn’t work out. Then we proceeded into the bay in question and it was beautiful, but we were paddling upstream, against a feisty current. I had not imagined this. I had been thinking that Little Gabbro was fed by the Kawishiwi, not the other way around. What a FUN little watershed this was. We passed some other paddlers, obviously under weigh, coming out. Stern paddler, Canoe One said there was no way through, not even a portage. Canoe Two bore two men ticked at being led astray, and Canoe Three bore two women who clearly operated on the principal that traveling with men, like reading fiction, requires a suspension of disbelief. They seemed content.
As for me, I was glad I had suggested reconnaissance. This being a purely recreational paddle with no pressures of traveling, I was happy to play in the outlet of the inlet and practiced my axles in a nearby backwater. With the things I had learned from Dan Cooke, I actually managed to snap my boat 120 degrees. Not the full 180, but hey—getting better all the time. We then headed back to camp and wound down for the night with some soups. I filled the water bottles under the now clear skies, and we watched the water. We were treated to a family of five beavers heading out on their evening errands. We were examined as they passed close by our campsite.
8/17
Today was a traveling day and the first tough portage. We broke camp quickly and efficiently, got our canoes loaded, and headed out. We traversed our 30 rod portage quickly and easily. The stretch of river we were paddling through was beautiful and we located our 125 rod portage in the heel of a boot-shaped backwater. We tied up our canoes and assessed the trail. It seemed to be a rocky streambed with water coming down. It was beautiful, and we donned our packs and traversed it. One would never have guessed it was Grand Central Station.
The first person I met was a dour granola grumping about another party on the far end who were, in her opinion, taking up too much space. I could only think how thrilled she’d be by our two canoes still lurking at the other end. The next people I encountered were carrying some beautiful wood and canvas Old Towns from 1954. Then at the end of the portage were a couple of die-hard members of the Order of the Aluminati. One asked the other for a lift with the canoe. We returned, and I donned my second pack while Morgan was lifting her canoe, something she regards as a solo activity. The Aluminatus, having just needed help himself offered his to Morgan, but she wanted none. The difference between an 80 pound boat and a 42 pound boat isn’t just a difference in weight; it is a difference in culture.
After traversing the portage, local winds were high, we were famished and we set up camp at the first available site, after debating for a bit. It was an unlovely site; exposed on a rocky outcropping and in a wetland. In the latrine was a standing pool of water. The mosquitoes were running high, Morgan alleged that the tent had grown too moldy to sleep in and she became despairing. I sat down with her and noticed her bug-net. I sniffed her bug-net. My suspicions were correct. It stunk of an "all natural" insect repellent that Morgan had reacted to before. I took it away, got some Benadryl into her, and before long her despair lifted and she was able to enjoy herself again. She got the tarp up, I got the tent up and the rains came again. We ate, I took a few pictures and we retired. It was hard to tell whether the sounds we heard were aluminum canoes at the portage, or distant thunder. It seemed to me that thunder could be construed as the sounds of the Grummans of the gods striking rocks, and lightning as sparks made when they did so.
8/18
The next morning, I brewed coffee, not something I normally do on a traveling day, but caffeine can be useful in combating a histamine response, so I dosed Morgan. We were under siege by mosquitoes and we broke camp a bit hastily. Still, gathering everything up from the chaos of the night before took time. We were on the water at 10:30.
We crossed Little Gabbro easily and had nearly reached the portage landing when Morgan took a bearing and became persuaded that we were looking at the portage to Bruin Lake. My own landmark navigation suggested that we were in fact looking at the portage to the put-in. We paddled off into a convoluted channel which I was fairly confident led into Gabbro.
After a while, it didn’t seem right to Morgan either and we paddled back to where we thought the portage was in the first place. I approached an entering party and asked if they had come in from the put-in or Bruin Lake. They had entered from the put-in. As we landed, Morgan tried the bearing again, and discovered that she had taken it backwards.
We carried our first load up the portage, a 200 rod that seemed like a little taste of infinity right here on earth. Morgan was still struggling with cascading histamine responses, triggered by levels of mold she would have been able to tolerate had it not been for yesterday's antics. She waited at the put-in while I retrieved the pack with the epi-pen, the Benadryl, and the water. Next I retrieved her personal pack. Breakfast seemed so long ago and 84 lbs of Royalex remained at the landing, taunting me with the collective weight of two canoes. When I got back to the landing I asked Morgan to fix some Gatorade for me, and headed down to retrieve my canoe as she did so.
I got down to the landing and struggled to carry my boat back up. With electrolytes depleted and breakfast a distant memory, the canoe seemed heavy, awkward, and uncontrollable. And to make my burden heavier was the knowledge that once this one was up there I had to go back for the other. I slogged about a third of the way up the portage, wishing it were the tandem canoe I were carrying because then there wouldn’t be another to go back for. I stopped to rest, setting the nose of the canoe on the ground in front of me. Soon someone was saying my name. This puzzled me, because no-one on the portage but Morgan knew it, and the voice was male. Moreover the voice was coming from in front of me, where all that could be seen of me was the blue hull of a Dagger Sojourn. I tipped the canoe up so I could see my addressor.
There, standing before me like an angel sent from heaven, clean-shaven and fresh as a daisy, stood Frank Udovich Jr, who was running our shuttle. Morgan had briefed him on the situation and he had come to retrieve her canoe. With the psychic burden of the extra boat lifted from my shoulders, there was a new spring to my step. Frank passed me easily, of course, because I had been toiling on the trail for a while, but when I reached the top the gear was loaded, and we had only to cartop the boats. We did so and Frank gave us both refrigerated, bottled water from the lodge—he had remembered that it was our beverage of choice.
We drove back to the lodge in the Lodge’s Chevy Suburban, and then I transferred the gear to the Blazer and Morgan cartopped the boats.
Debriefing
I spotted the caretaker, Harry Homer, who had been so helpful to us two years before, when we had questions about a logging camp near Horseshoe Lake. I had to ask if the Harry Homer mentioned in J.C. "Buzz" Ryan’s article "Timber for the Mines" was a relative of his. Harry was surprised to hear that his grandfather’s name had made it into print. He met us down by the lodge and, after we had settled up with Frank, we and Harry swapped stories.
We shared things our research had taught us, he shared his memories and the results of some of his own explorations. We discovered that one of our evening paddles had brought us near another old logging camp where an actual stove lurked in the woods. We thrilled at this, because a stove would bear a maker’s mark and possibly a date mark as well—nothing could be more useful in dating a site. He was surprised to learn that one of the CCC Bridge footings had washed away. We chewed the fat for a couple of hours before returning to Ely and having our traditional dinner at the Chocolate Moose. The waitress even saved for us the last piece of their namesake pie, which gave the trip a perfect end.
