An Old Canoe Trip

Some 48 to 50 years ago when I was a lad of 12 to 14 I had the opportunity to accompany my brother-in-law on an overnight canoe adventure. I was raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in an area filled with trout streams, small inland lakes and large expanses of forest. The forests, though extensive were all second growth forests due to the passage of the lumber barons around the turn of the century. But, streams ran clear, and because of the passage of glaciers many of the lakes were deep and clear. It was a fine place to grow up.

My father was not an outdoors man. We did not own a boat like the bulk of the population in our area. Much of the fishing I did I did with a boyhood friend. So when my sister and brother-in-law came to visit for their annual summer vacation it was an event I always looked forward to. Pete, my brother-in-law, had worked summers in fishing camps in the Lower Peninsula of Michigan and had been an counselor at boys camps on Torch Lake. Pete had extensive canoe experience.

Pete suggested we rent a canoe and take an overnight trip down one of the many rivers in the area to experience nature first hand. We rented a canoe from Bill Ryan at Forest Glen Resort. Pete and my sister were staying in a log cabin my grandfather on my mother's side had built by hand back in the 1930's. The cabin was situated along the shore of a small inland lake so we spent one day paddling around the lake so I could learn the technique. The next day was the start of our grand adventure.

We chose the Big Indian River as our challenge. Actually, the Big Indian is a fairly small river that flows through forested lands and meanders about 25 miles to a little village called Steuben. The river has no white water or rapids to speak of which makes it an excellent river for a beginner like myself.

The day began clear, a few clouds just enough to offer some shade from time to time. The temperature was comfortable, I was fine in blue jeans and a sweat shirt. As we left our departure point where the Big Indian crosses Federal Forest Highway 13 it did not take long for us to lose touch with man made road noise.

Perhaps an hour down the river we came upon an inlet where another stream entered the Big Indian. The smaller stream seemed passable so we paddled up the stream and a few hundred yards up the stream we entered what is known as Straits Lake which is one of a chain of five lakes, uniquely called the "Chain of Lakes." Each of these five lakes are connect by a small outlet that eventually empties through Straits Lake in the Big Indian River. We enjoyed an hour or two of lake paddling and we toured Straits Lake, then exited the way we entered, via the small outlet. It was peaceful, and gave one a good idea of the interconnection of some of the waterways.

Back on the river; now you have to remember, this is a small river, perhaps fifty to eighty feet wide, some what shallow, but almost all sandy bottom. At one point the heat of the day and the quiet passage of time made us warm. So we beached the canoe in one very sandy stretch and skinny dipped for a period of time floating and wading and in general enjoying the coldness of the water versus the heat of the day. It was refreshing.

A shore lunch of bologna sandwiches and some sodas renewed our strength and we pushed on. At one point we came to an area where what I know as Tag Alders grew along the river's edge. The river ran a little deep and we tied up to some of the Tag Alders as an anchor point. Out came my fishing rod, Pete didn't fish. Soon I landed a nice twelve inch Brown Trout. Ah, fresh fish to accompany our dinner. What a life!

I don't know what time we put ashore for the night. We weren't really interested in make distance, you could really make Steuben in one day of hard paddling. So we pulled out along some sand bluffs that were maybe twenty feet above the river and found a large spreading pine tree to make camp under. The canoe served as a head board and we had bedrolls instead of sleeping bags. Dinner was canned beans, some meat dish I do not remember, fresh trout, and for desert we had the makings of "S'Mores. We also had bacon and eggs in a cooler for breakfast the next morning, and a little thin steel frying pan.

We ate dinner, had desert and just laid back in the wilderness watching night come down. If you've spent time in the woods you realize that the sun doesn't set so much as disappear. As a result I describe it as night comes down. The woods grow silent in stages. Birds do not go to roost all at the same time. The small birds seem to disappear first, the Chick-a-dees, Juncos, sparrows all seem to twitter and announce the fact that they are calling it a day. Then the Jays seem to have to call and stir up a little noise as they settle in. Finally you hear crows and ravens announce their departure from the daytime activities. Finally a"hush" settles in. Light from the sun climbs the trees getting ready to depart, shadows start to deepen and a quiet overtakes the forest. There are a lot of nocturnal creatures that will come out, but they rely on stealth to search for food, as a result you don't hear much. Frogs, however, create a racket. This night, the frogs were off in the distance around some small ponds celebrating the emergence of their favorite insects.

Pete and I sat listening to day's end. Enjoying what desert we had, some coffee brewed over the fire and trying to figure out how to clean a badly burned frying pan. Off to the west we heard a distance rumble. At first we thought about someone's truck trudging down an wilderness road returning to camp or going to some inland lake for some night fishing. Then again, a soft rumble. This time we knew it was thunder. Thunder in a forest has a special sound. The rumbling seems to echo and spread as it moves through the forest until it is like someone playing out the last notes on an instrument before he has to take a breath. The thunder starts soft, gentle and almost comforting. This thunder was West of us. Storms go from West to East in the Upper Peninsula, just as most places. We were east. So we sat and listened as the thunder grew in intensity, soon you could see the flashes of reflected lightening off invisible clouds overhead. Well, eventually the storm came. It was after dark, probably around 8:30 - 9:00 PM.

You can hear the rain coming through the trees. It makes quite a roaring sound, like a waterfall about to engulf you. When the rain hit it was heavy. We hunkered down under the canoe prepared to wait out the summer storm. Now, we had chosen as out campsite an elevated area, but it was a large flat area elevated from the river, not a high spot that would shed water. A Pine tree isn't bad cover either, as it takes a while for the rain to work its way through the branches. Within a half and hour it was raining as heavily under the tree as it was in the open. The water had started to run through our campsite and there was no way we could keep dry.

Finally about 9:30 - 10:00 PM we decided to abandon camp, and walk to a road that was a little ways from our campsite and start heading back to the Forest Glen Resort, probably by now some ten miles distant. We hoped to come across a camp, or home that would offer shelter, but there are none in this area. After walking in the drenching rain, soaked to the skin a car came along pulling a camper. It was a family from Ohio likewise flooded out. They were kind enough to take two soaked rats to Forest Glen, which was still open. Once there we could call my home and my father came out and picked Pete and I up.

When we got back to my folk's apartment we interrupted a bridge game my mother had put together in honor of my sister's visit. After saying our hellos we disappeared, stripped off our clothes and dried off. My legs had turned blue from the die in my new jeans. Anyway, to bed we went and nursed our damaged pride.

The next morning the summer sky was clear and blue. My father took us back to our abandoned campsite, we enjoyed a good bacon, eggs and fresh coffee breakfast and continued on our way. Needless to say it had turned out to be a fantastic adventure. One I have not forgotten for some fifty years. There is one final episode that deserves some description.

During the first day Pete had occupied the stern of the canoe and guided our passage downriver. In the turns we always were on the inside track, we smoothly negotiated small rapids and for the most part he kept the canoe in the middle of the river. On the second day Pete relented and allowed me to take the stern so I could learn the skill of maneuvering a canoe in a river current. I didn't to badly as long as the river stayed straight, but who has ever seen a straight river. I almost ran us ashore on some sharp bends, but with sandy bottom and small bluffs surrounding us there was little danger. Some ways down the river we came to one of those areas where Tag Alders grow in the river along the edge. The river also became somewhat deep, maybe eight to ten feet in average. There was no problem as long as the river stayed straight. Then we came to our first bend, sure enough not having the understanding of how to steer from the stern I put Pete smack into the middle of some Tag Alders. That was OK, a few words of advice on how to begin the turn before you get into the bend and how to pick a line and on we went. Then came another bend, and Pete visited the Tag Alders again.

Over the years we have developed a family joke about Pete and his short prayers. For example, one of my nephews hit Pete right in the shins while playing golf. Not a nick, but a full follow through that caught him flush on the shins with a driver. Pete quite loudly uttered, Jesus Christ! So, the family jokes of these sudden short prayers was born. Well, I was treated to a few of these small short prayers as time after time I drove Pete into the Tag Alders. I did notice that as time went on the prayers got longer, such as, "For Christ's sake will you keep me out of the Goddamn brush!" Try as I might I still kept him in the brush until he started to look like an early Christian practicing self-flagellation.

Finally, we found a place to stop, Pete took over the stern and we finished the trip in peace. So that's it, no roaring rapids, no spills, no attacks by wild bear. Just an outing with some side events that added challenge to an otherwise peaceful trip. After all of these years it still brings back good memories, is fun to discuss at family gatherings, and I am sure gets embellished with each retelling.

Thank you for letting me share this memory.