The Origin

Nelsonville, WI – Amherst, WI

6/18/21

Does a beginning necessarily need to occur at the start? What if you can’t find the initial origin? Maybe there are lots of origins, scattered all over the place, happening all the time. That’s an aspect of a mindset that would be healthy for me right now. A few weeks ago, I began the next phase of a substantial Endeavor. But I hadn’t yet finished the kayak in which to embark. One lesson for me these days is to take advantage of opportunities and get things in when I can, even if the conditions are not perfect. Doing something now with less than ideal circumstances is often better than waiting for perfection and never getting to it. So I started with a bath in the river behind the barn. Then I dipped a canoe, and paddled into evening. It was the first leg of a journey, to be taken in many sections, over the course of several years. Where will it take me? I guess we'll find out. I'm trying not to get too tied to expectations.

I’d dropped the truck in Amherst, WI, about 5 miles downstream. The evenings are golden. Deer, muskrats, cranes, all sorts of birds I’m ashamed I don’t know-they come out of hiding from the sun. I came upon a guy and his elderly father, in waders, approaching the grassy bank. I apologized for spoiling their fishing, and the younger said, “Nope, not at all. We’re just sitting here enjoying a cigar!”

The damsel flies were out, flitting among the shoreline grasses. Their iridescent bodies and flashing black wings making them appear as fairies. I witnessed the end of one, as it became dinner for a cedar waxwing that darted out from its perch for a quick snack. I followed the river (not much choice in the matter) through the classic farmlands of Central Wisconsin. Tall grasses, fringes of civilization at the shoulder of the river valley, and the course was shrouded at intervals by cedars and white pines. A fisherman was farther downstream pointing his camera skyward along his flyrod, capturing the moon and the glow of dusk. I apologized once more for spooking the fish. “No problem", he said. "It doesn’t get good till 9:00 anyway".

I anticipated a beer at the Central Waters Brewery, and maybe the opportunity to tell about my evening jaunt. I paddled into darkness and stashed my canoe at the takeout rather than put it on

the truck. When I got to the brewery they’d just closed-guess I missed the party. I stopped at a local pub and had an interesting conversation about the state of radio stations and the evolution of music and stardom with a station owner. I sure hope I didn’t insult Chuck too badly, owner of one of the best independent stations I’ve known, WPAK out of Waupaca. But I digress, as did this evening stop, from the point of the weekend.

Amherst, WI – Waupaca, WI

6/19/21

I rose the next morning at my leisure and left the Launch Pad to drop more gear at my previously stashed canoe, and then drove down to Waupaca to park the truck. I grabbed my bike and was making good time till I realized they were holding their Strawberry Festival that day, and I stopped in as people were setting up their booths to talk about chef’s knives and hand-made fishing lures. Later than was comfortable, I wandered through the backroads: Isaacson, Indian Trail, Foley, etc back up toward Amherst where my canoe awaited.

Then the trip took a turn I hadn't anticipated. JBB called as I was leaving the outskirts and said he and his girlfriend would pick up a couple kayaks from my shed and meet me on the river. Where and when? Good question. Time. The clock. My current nemesis. I'm always chasing it, and always running behind. And the faster I go, the worse it gets. Now, even on the river, I allowed it to creep into my day.

I returned to my canoe in Amherst and had a chance to video chat with my kids as I put in. We all lamented that they weren’t along. Another time, for sure. As I picked up the paddle in earnest, I already worried about the rendezvous with John and Yaz. Where would it happen? What time? Would they be waiting? What about their other plans? Would they get bored if the trip went too long? I was thrilled to share the experience with them, but I was once again tethered to the clock.

My progress along the route, pared against distance to travel and potential meet-up points with my friends, and an estimated time for the rendezvous had me spending more time than was comfortable inside my head. My preoccupation didn’t spoil the trip, though. I’d paddled maybe a third of this stretch before, different sections with different company. It was nice to tie the experiences together and watch the river grow as other waters joined it. I passed the place where three years previous I shredded the bow of my cedar strip canoe breaking through ice. I passed under the numerous Highway 10 bridges and enjoyed first-hand the scenery I’d gazed upon from the road probably 100 times doing about 70. I paused for a dip at the nexus of Spring Creek and the Tomorrow River, a splendid little cranny, crucial in Native American history-mostly lost at this point.

Glacial erratics accented one stretch, followed by a few riffles as the river lost elevation a little more suddenly. From there the river calmed and wound through some flatlands to a place called Cobbtown.

It was about 4:00 when I met up with John and Yaz, who weren’t nearly so worried about time as I was. We did the Wisconsin thing as we put in. I first gave Yaz a few pointers, since she’d never been in a kayak before, and then we cracked a few beers and enjoyed the run—through the haze of artificially induced bliss. Sure is fun, but something is certainly missed under that influence.

Yaz took to paddling like a natural, and we made our way into evening, navigating more downed trees, riffles, and bends as we went. I adopted the mantra “Time is of no consequence; Party is right here” for my own benefit. Then the bottle with the mysterious brown liquid came out. A

couple nips, innocently enough, but then that spirit took over and accelerated the emptying of more cans. We still had over an hour to go on the river, including a portage, and we were almost out of alcohol. So, we followed the trajectory that’d been adopted so far and stopped at an honest to goodness covered bridge in Waupaca. It was within walking distance of a Taco Bell and gas station/liquor store. How appropriately low-brow.

I’ve played both sides of this coin before. Stubborn buzz-killing abstention for the sake of my own sacred experience, and leading the charge into the depths of mind numbing debauchery. I ran the numbers and with the distance we had to go, it was best to get some shitty food in our bellies and keep the ball rolling to avoid hangry crabby pants by all.

We enjoyed more conversation and light-hearted folly as we entered the Waupaca mill pond. After finding the portage we gathered our gear and negotiated loose rocks and a steep grade to the river below this defiling scar upon the landscape. Cold, oxygenated waters, travel routes of fish, and natural splendor be dammed to siltation, stagnation, concrete, and the Progress of Man.

We played in the riffles below the dam, and I joked that we needed to hit the drop straight on and lean back as we went over. Wait a minute, what really is that aquatic horizon up ahead? I couldn’t see the other side of it—Oh, wait a minute... That’s right, there IS A WATERFALL IN WAUPACA!!

I was leading, and too fearful for what was to become of John and Yaz to worry about my own fate. I stayed in the thalweg and found a notch in the top of the approaching rock shelf. I hit it at an angle, with the current, and went over the five-foot drop with a bit of speed but still balanced. My entire bow disappeared below the surface for a moment and popped up half filling the canoe with water. Somehow the open side of the boat stayed up, though. But what of John and Yaz? Now my mantra quickly changed over to: Please don’t die. Please don’t die. Yaz came first, maintaining balance as she went over the drop, but without a spray skirt her flooded cockpit was too unstable and she tipped. John followed suit, doing the exact same thing. Both made it to shore and we emptied their boats, although that was all a blur since I was in such shock and horror of what I’d just put them through. The takeout was literally 15 rods downstream, however, and smiles outdid my shame.

Boats were stashed in/on my truck, we drove to John’s truck, and went to an establishment for dinner, a brandy old fashioned, and to watch the last five minutes of the Milwaukee Bucks victory to advance to the NBA quarter finals.

I’m not sure if a smile or scowl prevails at my recollection of this wreckless bit of intoxicated folly, but no one got hurt, everyone had a good time, and we made an interesting memory. But is this really the tone I want to set for this Endeavor?

I’ve written before on how the character of an undertaking is established early on. By the end of it, my experience is that precedent takes the lead and I am more or less along for the ride. The over-arching factor that affected my experience was time, and my worry of it. Granted I’d been feeling a bit unsettled recently, but I didn’t expect my experience to be so affected by this preoccupation. I’ll see if I can slip into River Time a little more effectively on the next stretch.