from the Wisconsin River: paddling toward the Mississippi, day 4

You and I know that there are only two types out there: those who love to camp and those who will have none of it (okay, with some reluctant go-alongs thrown into the camping bunch). Which type am I?

I don't know. In Poland, I camped a lot – mostly on long kayak trips, with heavy cotton tents that allowed bugs in, never with family, always with friends. We didn’t have motels or even much of a hotel culture. If you wanted to get away from home with people your own age, you camped.

Like so many women I know (and a not a small number of men), I’ve always had issues with living in the wild. The bugs, yes that, the animals that like your food, the absence of easy cleaning options, the weather vicissitudes – at the end of the day they can crush your spirit.

But here I am, the fourth night under a tent on yet another island on the Wisconsin River.

Am I a go-along? Well, I do like to see the joy in Ed’s face as we set camp. But I’d by lying if I didn’t admit that there are hugely wonderful moments for me as well. When do they come about?

When you can pitch tents randomly, on sandy banks of a river island, any island. Any shore, for that matter.

When the weather is perfect – not too hot, not too cold. With no chance of storms.

When you don’t have to hang up your food to keep it away from bears.

When you have a fantastic (and cheap, Ed would add!) REI tent that has four huge mesh screens to keep the bugs out and the views there, at the turn of your head.

Perhaps those are the obvious. Let me add some special ones: when you wake up in the morning and you look outside to see a misty dawn…





…And you know you don’t have to get up yet. You doze on and off to the music of birds. Sometimes the loud squawk of the crane, the chirp of a swallow or something completely unknown. It’s quiet out there. The morning is cool, but your bag is warm. The breeze travels from one corner of the tent to the next. The rain flap is up – no rain in sight. You look out and watch the morning progress.

















So, now you know about our last morning on the Wisconsin River. And all mornings were like that. Camping-wise, this trip scored on the upper end of the continuum of pleasurable outdoor living experiences.

But the day leading up to this: day four of our river life -- was it a good one? Yes, I’d say so. Sure, my river bath that starts the morning was cold and the water was, well, colorful. But it was at this most splendid island (see previous post). Who could complain.





And the paddle downstream continues to be bucolic and beautiful. The clouds help keep us cool (it would be so sweaty hot without them!).
















Our paddling stretch on this day is in two parts – fifteen miles down to Boscobel, navigating sandbanks and fallen timbers, passing the occasional fishing boat… having a good morning? Yep. How many? Twenty five so far. What kind? (The list is so long that I lose track. I do hear river bass and blue gill and walleye and a half dozen others.)





But mostly, the river is empty. Okay, not really empty. We see numerous cranes and when we get closer to the fallen timber that lines the shore, we hear the constant plop of turtles retreating into the water.










On a railway track I watch three raccoons mess with each other and toward the late afternoon, I watch a deer trot away from the river as we approach. But these are the only disturbances. The shore is a place of tranquility. Rarely do I see evidence that we, humans, have trotted through this landscape as well.






Boscobel is our stop for the day. We leave our boats at the landing and hike into town for food, water and WiFi.

Boscobel is closer in my mind to a town than a village. The demographics are town-like – a little over 3,000. But more importantly, Boscobel has a spirit to it. It’s opening up rather than putting up shutters on empty storefronts. (And it can’t be for the success of its logo: The Wild Turkey Hunting Capital of Wisconsin.)

I shouldn’t be surprised that we find an espresso café on the main street. No, it doesn’t define a boom mentality, I know that, but it does tell me that the town aspires to reach a broader client base. And there appears to be a thriving canoe rental business. And (I'm told this many times) a Chinese Restaurant. And a well tended museum at the old depot.





After 4 days of instant coffee (yes, there you have another downside to camping), I cannot resist an espresso. We settle in with our computers and chat to the owner’s husband. Open just two weeks. So far so good, he tells us.





There are a number of bars that offer food (if you noted the offerings at Bob’s in an earlier post, you will have recognized the menu of every single bar we’ve come across, plus minus an item or two), but we pick a coffee shop/diner type place for a meal – the Vale Inn.





Homemade pies and homemade soups, says the menu. But I want substance and so I have a quarter roasted chicken dinner (lookin’ awfully fried to me, but hey, it’s what’s underneath the skin that counts and the meat is quite moist and tasty), with the largest portion of fries this side of the Mississippi and choice of salad (iceberg, cole slaw or jell-o), $6 for the lot. Good deal. (But good greif, who forgot to tell our small town bars and diners that vegetables are super cool?)





It’s early evening and we have to hustle along. We have more than a third of the river before us and we want to end the paddling on the next day (Friday).

The sky is clearing. That’s good, in theory. I’ve noted here times of being wet and cold. But sun on the water is a tricky story. Especially if you’re heading west and the sun is heading in the same direction. We squint and try to pick out spots with a strong current. And we try to do it quickly, with a strong push to add another 8 or 9 miles to our day.















The light is fading now. It’s after 8 and we haven’t found a good spot to land. Spoiled, yes, after last night on the most perfect island. But, too, the sand islands are less frequent. Some of the islands here are densely wooded and marshy at the edges (though cranes appear to love this stuff).










But, our luck holds: as we round the corner, we see a diamond shaped sand bar, right in the middle of the river. It’s high enough, and its position at the bend offers wonderful views in all directions.

We pull in. The air is still and the bugs are coming out of wherever they went to rest for the past few windy days, but it hardly matters. Our tent keeps them out. Even as the occasional puff of wind refreshingly enters in, to make this yet again a beautiful camping moment.

from the Wisconsin River: paddling toward the Mississippi, day 3

I’ve seen the Wisconsin River referred to as the river of a thousand isles. I’ll add my own tourism promo phrase – the river that never sleeps.

We wake up and the sand bank where we landed the previous night is gone. The damn must have let some water out because this morning, we have a different river before us. Deeper, stronger looking.

I watch a man with his young boy stand and fish on a very thin strip of remaining sand.





But the weather hasn’t changed. Cloudy, very cool for the first day of July. It takes me more than a minute, more than many minutes to get going.

The river washing routine is enough to stall me for a good while. The water isn’t exactly murky, but it’s no mountain stream either. Ed pours as I pretend to get one set of grime out, to be replaced, most likely, with whatever the waters offer up this morning.

Still, I feel clean, or clean enough. Refreshed. We set out.

The wind remains a challenge. We hug the shore to minimize its force.

It’s entirely different here, just west of Lone Rock. Bluffs along a riverbank add a sense of mystery to the place. They create a certain echo, a cavernous aura that makes you want to not splash too loudly.










Not that it’s quiet here. This is swallow central – their market, their café, their territory! We look at the mud nests in the bluffs and we watch the birds fly in zigzags, with some internal anticrash radar that would make airplanes envious.





They’re not the only birds that we see on the river. Cranes (Donna's comment is correct, of course), but herons too – blue, always flying just ahead of us, as if they need to show us where to go before abandoning us. And an eagle. Stunning -- is it the bald headed? -- crossing the river just ahead and then watching our progress as we continue.

We’re better at navigating the sandbars. Most often, we find the stronger current and we avoid the sand traps. But at one point, I get stuck. And it’s my fault – I lead us exactly to where we should not go. I tell Ed to stay put – I’ll drag you out! I hurry toward him and of course, I stumble. With a big splash.



(log commemorating place of tumble)


That’s unfortunate. Getting wet on a summer day isn’t a big deal, but this is no ordinary summer day. It’s barely 60 outside. A drizzle comes and goes. Ed insists I wring at least my pants out – they’ll have a better chance of drying. For a while, I contemplate unpacking the boat and getting my spare clothes, but I don’t want to waste time.

I stand there in the middle of the river, patting myself down with a dry cloth while Ed wrings out my lower garments (how the winds are laughing...).

The man has a mighty wring in his wrist and I feel okay about continuing. By 4, we reach our next village destination – Muscoda. The good thing about this village is that it grew fairly close to the river. (The hub is up about half a mile up the road, but that’s fine by us – our legs need a stretch.)

I’m cold now that we’re out of the boat. I have no choice but to dig out dry duds. Nothing feels better than a dry outfit (following a wet one, well wrung, but still very very damp) on a cool evening.


Muscoda is one hell of a mix. Along the banks leading up to it, we see some pretty significant houses. We speculate that they may be homes of the Chicago wealthy. Stunningly gorgeous, with windows out onto the water – they’re the first riverside wealth that we’ve come across so far.

But the village itself seems to have had the fate of so many others – a sad main street, with as many shops closed as open.










Muscoda calls itself the Morel Mushroom Capital of Wisconsin which in itself is curious – it’s a delicacy that somehow doesn’t fit into the heart of this Midwestern village.

What Muscoda offers us though is a wonderful respite – the library on this day is open late and the WiFi is functional and fast. Across the street, at Ernie’s, no, excuse me, not Ernie’s, you’ve not kept pace Ms Librarian, they changed hands and now it’s Amo’s – okay, at Amo’s, we settle in for a wonderful homemakde pizza with the works. And the works include every vegetable ever thrown on a pizza. With cold beer on tap. Heaven.





Amo’s fills up over the course of the evening. And that, too is fun to watch. If you give ‘em (us) a place to hang out with good, cheap food, they’ll (we’ll) come. We need to congregate, to watch each other eat and drink. It’s better that way.

Satiated, we head back to the river. It’s 7 and I don’t mind paddling a bit longer, though I get nervous about pushing our kayaking into the evening. Sometimes, the landing spots just do not materialize when you need them. I suggest one – too weird. No growth on it. Then another island – too close to shore… you can practically hear the noises from the back yard of the house there…

Sometimes such fussiness ends in a miserable resolution. Not this time. We turn the corner and come across the most perfect island, sure to be the premier camping site of this trip, no, probably any of camping trip I’ve been on.

The island is small, but it has a nice stretch of sand, up on a slight bank, out of harm’s way (not to be covered by a sudden rise in the river). It curves at the tip, creating a nice arch, just to give you a visually stunning piece to gaze at as you settle in for the night.









We take a walk in the now dry sand and watch the water brush against the edge. I tell Ed that I am reminded here of the river I grew up by in Poland, at my grandparents’ village home. I spent the first years of my life there and all the summers of my childhood too. In those times, the water was clean and we’d find shallow parts where we’d lie down and let the ripples cool us down as made their way over our small bodies.






I’d never seen a river like that until now, here in Wisconsin. The riverbanks are nearly identical here as well – green, bushy trees, sandy inclines, an occasional meadow. With swallows and herons. In Poland, we had the occasional stork. But really, cranes look awfully similar from a distance.

from the Wisconsin River: paddling toward the Mississippi, day 2

Beautiful day outside! – This from Ed, just a few minutes ago, as I force myself to poke out of the tent. The man who at home would never say a kind word about a day until it was over and done with tells me now it’s heaven on earth out there.

I look around. At least it’s not raining.

But then, yesterday started out dry as well. Let me think back now: cloudy. Yes, it had been a cloudy morning. We aren’t hurrying. I work, Ed takes out his burner to fix breakfast: instant coffee and cereal bars. And squashed nectarines and wine-infused bread (we had taken along a small carton of wine for supper and it leaked). Then, a quick splash of soap on exposed parts of the body (too cold for the works), then more reading time inside the warm tent.

We have no daily goal – only to make progress, loosely defined: we need to get back home at roughly the time Ed’s cat sitter thinks we’re coming back.

A little after 11, we set out.

The river is wide and beautiful.





But the sandbars are a challenge. You think you’re in a deep spot and suddenly you realize you paddled right into a hidden island of sand. Several times, we’re out in the middle of the river, tugging our kayaks to the sudden drop off where the boats can float again.


We are alone on the river this entire day. Along the banks, too, all is quiet. Green. Very very green.





The clouds are messing with us. They let out a sprinkle, just ever so slight and then they move on. Eh, we’ve been lucky. Luck will hold.


Some three hours later we approach the first bridge leading into Spring Green.





This is no river town (for one thing, it’s set a couple of miles away from it). Back in Madison, we think of it as being on the artsy side – Wisconsin’s headquarters for Frank Lloyd Wright architecture and home to the American Players Theater. We’re not especially anxious to stop there, but we need water and WiFi would be handy too. (Ed had called ahead and the library was indeed open on this day, and free WiFi was readily available, though the librarian warned us that they did not permit people to use the electrical outlets. Bizarre.)

As we come closet to the bridge (and the construction of the parallel bridge), we begin to have second thoughts about pulling up. It’s so busy up there on the road!

But, if I am out to look for America, it’s here, on highway 14.





We paddle on. By the next bridge (still into Spring Green), we see a mom and two kids and a dog, trying to have a summer day, out here on the sandbank, but the weather, cloudy and cool, just isn’t helping.





I ask a guy with a fishing rod if he knows of a boat landing further down (it’s on our river map, but the river map is very very old). Don’t know. Not from around here.

We can’t decide. Pull over and hike along the road to town, or hope that landing further down. We take a bet on the landing and paddle on. These main roads are so repulsive after the quiet of the river. The idea of walking two miles each way just doesn’t sit well.

We scoot around the sandbars and keep to the shore, looking out for a place to dock. And it’s there, just as the map had indicated – Bob’s private boat landing.

We pull up on the sandy beach. A woman is standing on the deck, smoking a cigarette. Bob’s appears to be a cottage/campground kind of place. A family run business. She’s part of the family.

Windy out there?
Yes, gusty as anything. How far is it to town from here?
Bout a mile and a half.
May we leave our boats here for a couple of hours? There’s a grocery store up the road, right? We need some supplies.
What are you looking for?
Water. Snacks. WiFi.

I say it almost comically. As if I’m wistfully recalling civilization.
Got it all here.
Really? Can we get some food? And water? And use your Internet?
Sure.

Bob’s is also a bar, with, well, Wisconsin bar food: burgers, hot dogs, chicken sandwiches, pizza.
We stay for supper.

I see you have pepperoni or sausage on your pizza and then there’s a third – deluxe. What’s deluxe?
Pepperoni and sausage together. It’s frozen. Tombstone.
And for an appetizer – there’s broccoli flowerettes?
Yep. In cheese, deep fried.

We settle for chicken sandwiches, french fries and fried cheese curds. With local beer. The room is first empty, then a few men come in for a drink, then it’s empty again. We work away on our computers and eat an early supper.

And by 6, we are on the water again. And by 6:15 it’s raining. And by 6:20, it’s really raining. By 7 we’re on the lookout for a camping spot. It’s unpredictable, here on the river: for miles, we’ll pass one great spot after another and then there will be stretches of no good landing place at all.





By 8, Ed is saying – a good half hour left of daylight.

I’m wet, the boat’s wet and still no good sandbar. How about this one? Too low. That? No place to pitch a tent.

And then, just as we spot the bridge to the village of Lone Rock in the distance, we find it: a nicely elevated sandbar. You have to count on luck, no? It’s too miserable if luck runs out.

Or is it? Some people just bypass the luck/no luck label altogether.
Great day outside! Simply great – Ed says again as he looks up toward the cool, cloudy sky.

from the Wisconsin River: paddling toward the Mississippi

We’re a country that believes in the automobile. I understand that. Me, I worship technology in the form of the washing machine (I’ve lived in too many places without one).

I’m less in awe of the car. America's big love affair with the automobile means (among many other things) that if you want to paddle down a river from point A to point B, you better leave a car at point B, so that you can retrieve your stuff where you put in, at Point A. There’s no speedy little train or local bus to take you there.

And so we drive down toward where the Wisconsin meets the Mississippi (our endpoint).

It’s not a heavy use road. And it is quite pretty in a cornfields and barns sort of way. And forward looking.





And there it is – the Mississippi, the river of all rivers, not at all like what you see in that quick dart of an eye as you cross the bridge to the Twin Cities or Dubuque, but here, near Prairie du Chien, it's a wide body of water flowing past vast areas of countryside, with county parks offering boat landings and strips of beach to bring families to on a warm sunny day.





It’s not a warm, sunny day, but it’s not too bad. So far, the rain has been only a threat. We leave a car at the shore and drive back east toward Prairie du Sac.

The road tracks the river, more or less. I’m surprised that there isn’t much of a river life here though. The villages are sleepy things. True, we’re coming through on a work day, but even so, each place looks like we’ve hit the siesta hour big time.

But as we approach our put in point, we join a major road that offers more of Wisconsin commerce. Including our infamous custard place – Culver’s. There’s ice cream and there’s frozen custard. If you have never tried custard, imagine it in this way: ice cream with more of everything – milk, eggs, more milk, more eggs – the glory of a dairy state, with a near butter consistency.

We stop for a cone. Smallest, please. The special of the day!





Chocolate covered strawberry. Heavenly. We share it, wondering how anyone could manage the whole thing, let alone anything larger.


By the time we reach the boat landing, it is late afternoon. We unload. We have an inflatable to assemble. (Ed: I wonder where I put the instructions… must have left them behind) We lay it out. It’s been a while... (Ed: there was a pump for this, wasn’t there?) We make do. We blow and tinker and seal it up and by 4:30, we’re ready to launch.



(the hat belongs to Ed)


A man comes over with his dog. The pooch has been playing in the river and he is full of exuberance. His mud is now my mud as he shakes and romps in and out of the boat.

He just loves boating! How far’re you goin'?
To the Mississippi.
I envy you. My wife, she wont camp more than a night.
I understand her. What is it with men?!
We don’t mind goin’ dirty.
I sure know that…
Just watch out for the sand banks. My friends, they didn’t know about the damn and they woke up to their kayak being on the next island.


We know what he’s telling us – the power plant releases water through the damn irregularly and when it does this, the water level in the river goes up by several feet. If you’re camping on a sandy bank, you may well wind up underwater in the middle of the night. We imagine the power company dudes having a good laugh. Okay – let her flow! Wonder how many innocents we’ll sweep off their beach this time! He he!

The river is deep, the river is wide, heron – lead the way!





Well, not always deep. It’s easy to hit an underwater sandbank and get stuck. Pull me out! – I shout to Ed. Get out yourself, I have my own issues.

At the shore, the herons are laughing. Or dancing. Or mating. Or all the above.






But mostly, the river is easy. True, we have a strong head wind and if we stop paddling, oftentimes we appear to be going against current, but mostly, it is a gentle ride. And a beautiful one.





By 7:30, we’re on the lookout for a camp spot. The requirements? Low to pull in, but with higher ground (in case the river level rises). We pick an island – one of the many on the river.





We haul the boats out and settle in. I’m grateful that the rain held off. And the wind has dispersed the bugs. We sit on the beach and eat our baguette with cheese and tomato. Okay, the bread is made by a Frenchman (from la Baguette!), but the cheese is Hook’s Bloomin' Idiot and the tomatoes are homegrown.

from Prairie to golden Prairie

We’re setting out, Ed and I. We’re putting in kayaks just at the hydroelectric damn by Prairie du Sac. Ninety miles later, we’ll be at the other Prairie – Prairie du Chien. The Wisconsin River ends there, spilling all its waters into the great Mississippi.

How many days? Don’t know. We’ll camp at sandbars and go into villages along the way to fill up on Wisconsin foods and Wisconsin beer. We’ll use public libraries to plug in and I’m hoping we’ll stay above water this time. There are no rapids along this wide and lazy stretch of the river.

The weather is okay. Cool. Showers maybe. Bugs? Yes, I hear there are bugs. But, if you’re in the mood to lose yourself in life along the riverbanks, you can’t have it in any other way.

A final check of my gear, a nudge for Ed to put down the magazine… It’s all rather like a lyric out of a Simon & Garfunkel.

So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field

In our case, he has the magazine, I have my casebook of landmark decisions on property rights. Off on this week leading up to July 4th. We should be on the Mississippi on July 4th. It seems fitting to be doing this now.

All gone to look for America...

oh, Madison

Every parent knows that a child can make you look at the world in a better way. I’ll add this – the child’s age is irrelevant. Adult kids are equally omnipotent: they’ll push you to recognize how gorgeous it all is.

It helps when you have a beautiful day out there to add vim and sparkle to an already lovely early summer landscape.


We take Ed up on his offer to go sailing. He’s got a tiny boat here – one that really isn’t fit for passengers, but we think it may work for a quick spin around Lake Waubesa.

The winds are gusty, the sky is clear.

Ed riggs the boat.






We help. We're the cheering squad.










Even at the dock, the boat is tossed around as if it were an insignificant pea on the waters of an ocean. Up goes the mast, down goes the boat; Ed rights it and down it goes again. And so on.

Go ahead, try it out on the open water – I tell him.





The wind kicks in, Ed hikes out to keep it from going down. The wind shifts, the boat goes down.

Meanwhile, daughters can’t get over how good life is out here, in Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Waubesa.





Ed’s back. Too much of a gust. Not fit for sailing with a crew. That’s okay. One daughter takes the kayak out, the other one helps take down the sail.

And now it’s time to haul the boats out and call it a day. I want to fix a Sunday supper before the last bus takes them to Chicago.

We pluck the first raspberries and sour cherries at Ed’s farmette and head home. And did I mention how gorgeous it all is out here? Absolutely beautiful.

markets

They’re a big deal to me. Not only because they put me in touch with the people who generate great foods, but because they come closest to providing community in a country that has too much of rather soulless commerce. At the market I can exaggerate the significance of my connection to a local grocer, baker or cheese maker. I feel they're my neighbors. (Almost.)

Of course, I switched markets when I moved. From downtown, to the Westside Community Market ("WCM"). And so my loyalties shifted. It was like meeting a new city of bakers, growers and cheesemakers. It was a tough transition.

When I occasionally go back downtown (like when daughters are in town...),






... I recognize some of the longtime vendors and we talk about growing children and the sighting of the first swarms of mosquitoes. Like old friends. (Sort of.)



Yes, all that’s interesting, you say. But are the foods any better there, downtown? Or at the WCM?

The answer is, of course, that the foods are fantastic at both.

Though I have to say this – the downtown market has cut flowers that don’t run out by the time we get there. And they are magnificent. And long lasting.











Markets need flower stalls. It just cannot be that a dining table has to rely on supermarket flowers to carry you through the week.

So I’ll grant the downtown market the flowers. And cheese curds: not only can you sample many, many different curds (so Wisconsin!), but you can feast on grilled curds every single time you pass this stall.






People watching? Oh, the same at both markets. Less crowded, the WCM lets you stretch out a little more. On the other hand, there are fewer people to watch. No kids on a bench, for example, eating market cookies.






Okay, but really, when you have a local market, you don’t compare it to the one in the old neighborhood. And you don’t cheat and run out for bread at your old bakers. You stay loyal. And I did. I bought no peas, no berries, no garlic scapes. I passed on the tomatoes, the sprigs of mint, the first potatoes.

But I did bring home flowers. Heavenly bunches of sweet peas and bouquets of white peonies and daisies.