Going Home to the Hinterlands

Interesting how things unfold when you have an entire weekend at your disposal and a loose, never-ending laundry list of things that may or may not get done.  My Saturday started out productively enough, but after a few hours in front of the computer I grew restless.  I took Poe for a walk in the sunshine, then to his last puppy training class, and it turns out I still needed more activity.  The notion floated into my psyche to perhaps go for a paddle.  Yep. Done Deal.  I’d been neglecting my aqueous urges for a few months and decided that getting back into it means making good on any opportunity that arose. 

Just a quick jaunt, perhaps to the lower Plover River again, so Poe could get in a walk on the Green Circle Trail.  But there were waters beyond that called. 

On our last jaunt we stood on a ridge overlooking a short stretch of the Wisconsin River, held captive between two dams, but with islands and exposed rock that got my attention in that evening’s golden hour.  That would be the afternoon’s destination. 

I loaded Ripple onto my dad's truck, grabbed a life jacket & paddle-going ultra light (I would never take anyone else out in water this cold without a full change of clothes in a drybag).  Beyond that, a leash, treats, water jug, and dog bags are all I took with me.  I put on extra layers of clothes, though.  Temps were in the upper 20’s, even if bright skies did allow for radiant heat from the Vernal sun. 

We put in just downstream of the last dam on the Plover River, smack in the midst of the Hinterlands--areas exploited for industry and commercial uses that are generally otherwise neglected by us.  There are several indicators to recognize the Hinterlands when you happen upon them, almost like indicator species for different habitat types in an undisturbed setting.  In this case, the signs are:

·         Old fishing line entangled on the shoreline

·         Cigarette butts

·         Land under ambiguous ownership, with uncertainty if you should even be there, but you go anyway, since it’s usually an old public right-of-way

·         Steep, awkward volunteer trails to decent shore fishing

·         Industry

·         Graffiti

·         Modified waterways-usually a failed attempt at containing a river

·         Litter

·         Rotting, abandoned infrastructure

·         Creosote

I know these signs well.  I grew up in the hinterlands of Green Bay, fishing across from the Fort Howard Paper Mill, under a railroad trestle spanning the Fox River.  These places, dingy and potentially hazardous, were once home to me.  Home to other misfits too who don’t quite fit into the suburbanized molds of society.  We have vices; we’re crude at times; and we seek out the hinterlands as a refuge. We often don't have access to more refined natural areas, or prefer these areas since they poetically fit our personalities. Afterall, these interfaces of industrial, urban, and wild lands don’t quite fit together either. 

Many people who’ve figured it out live a modern lifestyle with daily lives neatly compartmentalized from the designated wild places and wilderness they visit for outdoor recreation, often by means designed by the producers of outdoor gadgets and machines.  They often skip the forsaken lands in between where the misfits dwell. 

That’s where I went today. Back to my roots.

The mix of concrete and rock rubble at the put in is another indicator that I was in the right place, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.  I was at the last spillway on the Plover River, with a 3’ bank of vacated soil leaving tree roots dangling bare, grasping for a foothold that has washed away.  Erosion like this could be a civil engineer’s oversight—this spillway was a modified waterway indeed.  After thousands of years of living with it you’d think we’d better understand the persistence of water. 

We put in and ventured under the bridge of Whiting Rd and on to the mighty Wisconsin River.  I wasn’t sure what to expect of the current.  Water is low, even below base level on account of the lack of snowpack, but I was wary not to get swept into a situation where I couldn’t get back upstream. With another dam within a half mile downstream, I made sure to always have an out, if not several options for escape.  It was an overly cautious disposition, on account of my unfamiliarity with this spot.  I’d been away from the hinterlands for too long.  It was taking a minute for me to regain my industrial sea legs, crusty as they are in these parts. 

The current was easy, even reversed somehow from its normal direction on this east channel.  The weir dam of the next mill downstream must be too high on this channel for the water to flow over.  The waters of the Plover took whatever path they needed in order to make it to the main channel on the other side of a string of islands.  I know it’s confusing to read about.  Figuring it out in person can be equally perplexing. Oh, the wonders created by the folly of Man.

I crossed the channel in order for the white pines of the nearest island to shield me from the sun and its even brighter glare off the water.  We cut through a slot at the top of that island and were subject to a channel with strong current.  Yep, I could still make progress against it.  There was another large island to my left, with some actual topography to it, not just an overgrown sandbar. It was the one with the rock face I had previously discovered from the distant ridgetop.  To my right was a gravel bar and shoal between me and the eastern shore, concentrating the current at the head of the landmass.  I slowed in this bottleneck, the current more substantial still.  Rounding the big island to the left, its barren rock face was obscured by the blinding afternoon sun.  I skirted the easterly shore and approached the dam of the old abandoned Whiting Mill.  A shoreline eddy shielded me from the greatest current, and I wondered if I should ferry across to get closer to the naked rock of the big island.  Yep, I should.  If the current is too much for me I could always just drift back downstream. 

Ferrying across was no problem.  I kept my bow pointed upstream and eased into the strong current, being cautious not to have my nose swept down river.  As the current grabbed the hull, I gave a couple powerful strokes to jettison me into the thalweg.  And there I was, surfing wave crests on the Wisconsin River, almost its full volume rushing under my hull as I sat relatively motionless upon its surface.  Poe did not like this so much, as he tried climbing into my lap.  With the waves, water, weird surroundings, the pup needed a bit of reassurance.

Easing into quieter waters, I moseyed a bit farther upstream.  The dam loomed ahead of us, its powerhouse discharging the full flow of the river, as its overflow gates to the left sat dormant. 

These low water levels revealed a sprawling debris field downstream from the spillway.  Jagged rocks, boulders, sometimes concrete are all dumped there to slow the raging waters that surge from the overflow gates at high water, mitigating downstream erosion. 

I had only ever approached this stretch of river from the opposite, westerly shore.  Last time I was here, water was moderate enough to paddle through the debris.  It was impossible today, at low water.  The time before that was high water, and all the rubble was engulfed by raging whitewater spewing from the gates.  Upstream are expanses of calm, in some places stagnant water above the dam, that create a pressure head for generating electricity. Downstream, water is released like discarded refuse.  The cycle of the river is cut off, with separate habitats and aquatic animal migrations above and below the dam. Add to that additional erosion, siltation, and decreased oxygen levels in the warm, slowed water, and we create a bit of a mess with these things. And so a river is civilized, robbed of its rejuvenation of the land through the natural flooding cycle.

I turned downstream and looked to the island. A mass of barren granite stood at its head, swept clean of soil, growth, and debris by the torrents of high water. 

This bastion stood quietly now, hulking 8’ above the waterscape, broadly wrapping around, creating a shoulder behind which the fertile soil that composed the rest of its body took refuge.  It was like the last stand of wilderness against the progress of Man.

There was a channel between the debris field and this granite fortress, so I chose that for my path.  Passing by ancient crevasses and dark ridges hidden just below the surface, this scene had a hell of a story to tell, the sweep of glaciers being a more recent chapter.  The dramatic impact we have on the landscape being a mere flash in the pan.

The rock shelf tapered down to the water level about mid island. I pulled Ripple upon an exposed finger so Poe and I could explore.  The savage currents deposited a ring of jagged rocks between the sheer face of granite and the forest it protected.  Poe picked his way over the snow-obscured crevasses between these stones and we made our way to the grassy understory of the island’s interior. 

This stretch of river is not accessible by motorboats.  Some fishermen wade out to take advantage of the eddies behind rocks at low water, but apparently few people venture out to this island. 

There were no beaten trails, no evidence of campfires, carved trees, or litter that normally betray the presence of visitors.  Instead, as we emerged at the north end of the island, there was an abundance of moss and lichen that is rare for sites so close to society.  Footprints are normally the death of these microbiomes, so they’re typically reserved for the deepest, most well-hidden haunts.  Yet here they thrive, so close to our exploits but isolated from anyone without a canoe or kayak.  Experiencing treasures like this is just one reward of recreating in unorthodox ways and places.

We tread lightly as we navigated the rocky substrate, feeling the essence of the land in this last bit of natural habitat, relatively undisturbed amid all the human society that goes on around it.  This bare knuckle of granite, scraped to the bone by our industry, still stands proud, protecting a solitary remnant to remind me of what once was the rule rather than the exception. 

I marveled at the wild nature of this fleck of wilderness.  It soothed me to visit this patch of earth, connect with it, revere it.  And to think, the land upon which our shopping malls and banks and conference centers sit was once this unique and pristine. 

We returned to Ripple and passed between more islands on our return route.  I strapped her to my dad’s truck and picked up some fishing line and a few cigarette butts before taking leave of the place-a gesture of thanks to the perspective this environment afforded me.

 That feeling lingers, as do many of my sojourns in wild places.  I had gotten back to my roots. I touched the Earth.  I reconnected with my misfit self. 

I intend to grow this sentiment.  To celebrate these forgotten transitional parts of our world and the reminder they provide of the impacts of our lives and our connection to wild places.  I hope as well to trim the fat off my life so I don’t depend so heavily on the industrial devastation we impart to these wonderful, stalwart, Hinterlands.