River Time

7/16-7/19/21

Stevens Point, Waupaca – Fremont WI

Time is such a demon for me. And the alcohol—I’m not indulging in excess, but more than usual; and circumstances being what they are it’s not the best path to choose.

Stevens Point, WI

This leg started on a Friday, in a totally different watershed. I crossed the subcontinental divide to meet a friend at another point of origin for me, Redbridge. 21 years ago, I launched my first canoe here. Now we were meeting for an evening on the water. Clear skies, first quarter moon, and a light breeze made perfect conditions. We made Frog Island at about 6:30, after being graced by a snake, heron, and good conversation. Chairs were set to take in the sunset and simply chill, and then we took to the water once more. Conversation drove the paddles, and it was a number of hours later before we touched shore again in complete darkness. A splendid start to the weekend, with only a couple navigational glitches-just enough to keep things interesting after darkness fell.

Waupaca-Gill’s Landing

I tried something new the next morning. I took my time getting out of bed and assembling my gear. My head has been so inundated with a variety of big-deal items that I have a hard time compartmentalizing and taking each task with its own merit. Where I’d normally mentally walk through the various steps in my usual preparation, I find myself bouncing around from item to item, wondering what I’m forgetting. As a result, it’s hard for me to know what I really need at any given time. Luckily, paddling overnights come with their own engrained checklist.

Gear packed, time spent with kids, and food stowed, I headed back to Waupaca to drop my canoe and provisions. My put in was downtown, near the fateful waterfall that keynoted the previous leg. You’d be able to hear the falls from the put-in if not for the cacophony of the foundry and its associated Progress of Man. A small park is there, behind the businesses of the city’s center. I could lock my canoe to a tree, but what of my backpack, with my tent and other more valuable items? I’d be gone for 2 hours running the shuttle and realized that leaving my gear out would be a systematic risk throughout this Endeavor that would eventually bite me. Deciding to not tempt it, I headed to the local Book Cellar and told the store clerk what I was up to and that I needed a place to stash my pack for a bit. He gladly obliged, taking interest in this little trek.

My bag stowed and gear somewhat secure, I headed to an outpost called Gill’s Landing at the confluence of the Waupaca (Tomorrow River changes its name at the Waupaca County border) and Wolf Rivers. I’d seen it on maps and it looked like a version of my kind of place. Water front,

sloughs to explore, an outpost at the end of the road--well off the beaten path. After passing through the village of Weyauwega, the tone of the landscape changes just a bit as you drop into the Wolf River bottomlands. Swamp and marsh replace farm fields, houses and shacks are smaller as residences are juxtaposed with more recreational working class dwellings. All politics aside, people are real and connected with the water, some more than others, of course.

I approached the bar, not a soul inside, not even a bartender. Dimly lit and appropriately behind the times of today’s sports bars, I scanned the aging interior with satisfactory approval. I hit up the rest room-taking care not to unnecessarily touch anything. Yep, smell was right too. This was my kind of hole in the wall. But where is everyone? Walking through to the back deck, I found the party going in full swing. Kids playing under a sprinkler in an old volleyball court, people coming and going from their moored boats for drinks, music and laughter accenting the scene. I asked who appeared to be a manager about parking my truck overnight, no problem. Bar opens at noon the next day for me to intermingle with the scene. With that mischievous notion in my head, I grabbed my bike, locked the truck, and hit the road under a warm sun and significant tailwind. A beautiful ride back to Waupaca, the breeze encouraged my pace the entire way. My mom called during a pitstop, and I could hear concern in her voice as I told her my activity for the day—yes I have sunscreen and a lifejacket, and the water is hardly ever over my shoulders with no motor boats till the end. That call and a pitstop for fresh cheese curds at Star Dairy on my way back through ‘Wega’ made my cruise up to Waupaca a pleasant one.

I retrieved my pack from the Book Cellar, taking a moment to talk with John, the owner. Encounters like that one are one of the gems of a trip like this. A bit of forced interdependence, and stories are exchanged, common bonds found, and karma tickets earned. Turns out John grew up in a house in Nelsonville just on the other side of the park from where the kids’ house is now. I left him and the clerk some curds and was on my way. Next stop was T-Dubs restaurant to lock my bike on their patio (no matter since COVID has them closed), and I was ready to hit the river. I had burned the midnight oil just a bit to make it happen, but my cedar stripper now sported new skid plates, several coats of epoxy, and a single coat of varnish that were all wrapped up the previous week. It felt good to place her on the watery cushion for the first time in three years, reinforced for encounters with rocks and logs. I was finally Experiencing this Endeavor* as was intended, in a boat of my own Creation, named Ripple

. The bottom had once been painted black up to the 4” waterline, but that was sanded off as I installed the putrid looking Kevlar skid plates for added protection against shock and abrasion. It was like going out in public in underclothes without the bottom paint, but again, opportunities need to be capitalized upon, and imperfect and now is better than a perfect product that never hits the water. Bottom paint could wait.

The urban

portion of the Waupaca River is about as straight as a twisted spaghetti noodle. It winds past a wastewater treatment plant, some industrial buildings, and through a golf course before completing its gauntlet of riparian defilement. From there its bends relax a bit in the shade of towering pines as it grows wilder. Upon rounding one bend, it comes to a point as the Crystal River unassumingly converges, increasing the volume of the Waupaca by a third.

The bends mellow out and more pines, grassland, and farms mark the passage through the heart of rural Wisconsin under the softening evening sun. The day was made easy by the accelerated current, flushing several inches of rainfall that were dumped on the region a few days previous. I was pretty well at ease, except for two things that haunted me—time and the party going on at Gill’s Landing.

My plan had been to sleep on an island just above the Weyauwega (Wega) mill pond, but I was making really good time. I checked my progress against the map and the clock-I might make Gills Landing yet tonight-surely the beer would be tasty and conversation easy after a day on the road and water. I appreciated the surroundings but still could not allow myself to totally be where I was-I couldn’t help but hurry to get to someplace I currently wasn’t.

Speeding along, I paused for a moment as I entered the vegetation of Wega’s lake grass, somewhat akin to a scene from the African Queen. I took a moment while I still had current to indulge in the delectable nourishment of vibrant veggie spring rolls from Gypsy Moon Bakehaus in Amherst—a quintessential collaboration of Art & Rugby in their own right. Come to think of it, that was my turning point of the paddle. I was no longer in a hurry. I’d make Gill’s landing without issue and had time to enjoy the onset of evening.

I made the passage across the lake and took out at the downtown boat landing. I was impressed with the handicap put-in on the downstream side of the dam, which made launching a cinch.

Immediately upon returning to the water my world changed. The sun was lowering and the light easing back. I was still virtually downtown but trees towered on both banks and the wild was coming back to life after the day’s siesta. A bald eagle spooked a sandhill crane just downstream, and both came flying up the channel. Soon afterward I heard a screaming match between a mating pair of eagles. The male flew off, but the female sat high and proud on a branch directly over the river as I paddled under her. Deep holes and large rocks held the promise of smallmouth bass. A commotion on the grassy shore startled me as I paddled past a river otter diving for deeper, darker water. Farther down, a muskrat and then a beaver followed the same course. Deer continued to be regular encounters, but an owl flying away into a forest was especially noteworthy. All this action had me wrapped up in the moment, relishing the surprises that seemed to be around every bend.

The sun set with the first quarter moon nearly at its peak, and the world slowly closed in around me. With no lights to spoil the dim, my eyes adjusted as the evening wore on and night was welcomed like a friend. J

ust as it was finally almost too dark to see the river’s course, I entered more human development. The small cabins and man-made sloughs of Gill’s Landing slipped by and I found new water. The Wolf River. Boat traffic and cabin lights illuminated my path, and I rounded the bend into this new river with my destination just a few rods downstream. I’d made it to Gill’s landing Bar… just as the place was closing up. Perfect. I shot the breeze and bought a round for the waitstaff, the only ones there. We enjoyed good conversation before they went on to Wega to close out the night where there was more action going on. Saved from my own defilement since the party had gone. Whew, what a blessing.

I threw my sleeping bag out on the dock and was subject to the contest between mosquitoes, body aches, penetrating dew formation, and trains to see which one could most effectively keep me from sleep. But I at least got a few hours rest before I’d likely head back to the Launch Pad the next morning. Funny how when camping like that, even somewhat long term, sleep deprivation isn’t nearly the issue it is in the modern world. If I’m tired the next day, I simply move slower. No sweat.

Gill’s Landing-Fremont, WI

Next morning I rose slowly and drowsily to load my gear on the truck that had been awaiting me. My destination for the weekend had been made early, so this would be an easy Sunday. I got everything packed, the canoe tied down, and was on my way back to Waupaca, anticipating a day compiling trip notes, napping, and updating this story when the realization sank in: I was going to spend the day behind a computer when I could be on the River instead. Well that just would not stand! I grabbed my bike, and instead of continuing west, home to Nelsonville, I headed straight back to Gills Landing to drop some gear once more and run another shuttle. With Ripple at a mooring, stocked with a cooler and water aboard and my day pack stashed in a bush nearby, I checked the map and headed downstream to Fremont. I had to double check the map once I parked my truck there because I couldn’t believe it: about 7 miles by river, I had to put about 12 miles on the bike to find a back road route back to Gill’s Landing.

I took my time riding and enjoyed the morning. I had never ridden any of these roads before and the flavor of the land/land use had some subtly new notes to it. I got lost in my thoughts of the uprooted nature of my life and the path, or lack thereof, that I was on. I was indeed groundless, swimming. I decided it didn’t matter, that I’d live the most authentic version of myself possible and see what happens. That realization was a bit of a breakthrough, that I didn’t need to have a course or bearing, that I could just BE for awhile and it would be ok. I was sure digging it so far this morning-extra time on the river, pleasant ride, and no pressures of my greatest adversary: time.

I returned once again (the fourth time if you’re counting) to Gill’s Landing still before anyone was around. I locked my bike, grabbed my bag, and hit the water with clockwork efficiency, ready to get underway-that is, to drift.

It was time to take advantage of the calm wind, warm sun, and broad water to just go with the current and do some catching up. I wrote extensively in my journal but took a moment to swim/bathe at a sandbar. For only the second time since taking to the River in earnest these past few weeks, I was at last living on River Time. Just a glimpse that Sunday morning, but at least it was experienced.

Power boats were coming along, and more frequently as the morning drew to midday. They were after the morning’s fish at first, then to swim and just be on the water. I checked the map and saw I wasn’t far from Fremont. And as I got closer the boats got bigger, faster, and louder. House boats came and went from Partridge Lake just north of town, and from there the riverbank was lined with docks, seawall, and manicured lawns. Good bye to the intimate, wild headwaters. From here human development would be the norm for the next 200 miles or so, and with bigger water there was need for a different boat. Time to get that kayak completed.

I made it to the truck, loaded up, and made my 5th trip back to Gill’s Landing just in time to join the party. The bar was mostly full and empty tables becoming scarce as I pulled up a stool. The remnant effects of last night’s indulgence were an excuse to enjoy a bloody mary with a chaser as I updated my journal and reflected at the bar. It took a while, however, as the same staff I met the night before were all there again and conversation flowed freely. I’m afraid I’d made some good friends on this stretch.

Side Note

The anonymous camaraderie of strangers was a welcome opportunity to step into different shoes than the ones I’m wearing back in Nelsonville. Things have been in upheaval for the past few months as my marriage rapidly, systematically unraveled. We’re amicable and working through the process pro-se, each with our own reasons for divorce, but the worst of it all is facing my kids as a part time dad having failed them in providing the foundation of a solid family. They’re incredible and of course resilient, but I can feel their heaviness as I enter their world for just a few days a week. They are to stay in the house, their home, with their mother who cares for them most of the time. I stayed as close tom them as I could and built a studio in the barn, upstairs from my workshop-The Launch Pad. A product of transmuted anger and pain, it is authentically me and I love it, but goddamn I miss my kids when I’m not living in their home. A few evenings a week and every other weekend. Those are the terms that work best for me to be a father. Till I can build a place where I can host them on a half-time basis.

I’m trying to balance work, time with my kids, and making the most positive choices I can think of in this moment. It manifests in the pursuit of every healthy expression of myself I can conceive to live my best life and provide for my kids. We’ll see where this all leads, but I want to model an authentic life that sets them up for thriving in the face of challenges they’ll encounter in this life. With the host of socio-environmental-economic calamities afoot, perhaps the resilience they’ll hopefully gain through all this will serve them well.

*An Endeavor being a multifaceted pursuit of one’s passions. I’ve determined its components generally follow the template of Learn, Create, Experience, and Share. The ultimate purpose being to Inspire others to follow the essence of their passions toward personal and societal growth. Ultimately, I hope it leads to people living more closely with the Earth and enhancing rather than destroying it. This model comprises the foundational structure of Art & Rugby Endeavors. The name will be explained later.