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The first river trip I ever took was on the Wisconsin River as a girl scout. Today, Darren Bush of Rutabaga Sports posted what he calls a "snippet" about The River in his heart, which is the Wisconsin. I saw a part of this river, don't know which, more than 55 years ago. Has anyone paddled it recently? Any recommendations? Thank you.
Here's is Darren's "snippet"
Here's is Darren's "snippet"
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It is not necessary to go to the Maine lakes for canoeing purposes; or to skirt the gloomy wastes of Labrador, or descend the angry current of a mountain stream. Here, in the Mississippi basin, practically boundless opportunities present themselves, at our very doors, to glide through the heart of a fertile and picturesque land, to commune with Nature, to drink in her beauties, to view men and communities from a novel standpoint, to catch pictures of life and manners that will always live in one’s memory.
— Reuben Gold Thwaites, Down Historic Waterways: Six Hundred Miles Of Canoeing Upon Illinois And Wisconsin Rivers (1902)
[/td]— Reuben Gold Thwaites, Down Historic Waterways: Six Hundred Miles Of Canoeing Upon Illinois And Wisconsin Rivers (1902)
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I often capitalize the Wisconsin River when I write about it, as in The River. People have noticed it and remarked that it’s a curious thing, but no one has ever asked me why. Maybe it’s obvious. I am a Monofluvialist. Though there be streams many and rivers many, to me there is only one River.
This doesn’t mean that I won’t paddle other rivers. Unlike most deities, my River is not a jealous river. She is content to let me drift down other rivers, so long as I return home to her periodically. We have a good relationship. I understand her, she understands me.
[/td]This doesn’t mean that I won’t paddle other rivers. Unlike most deities, my River is not a jealous river. She is content to let me drift down other rivers, so long as I return home to her periodically. We have a good relationship. I understand her, she understands me.
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If this sounds like I’m being flippant or even mocking of religion, let me assure you that I am not. Martin Buber pointed out in the 1930s that you can have a relationship with a person and treat that person like a thing, keeping distance from it, making it an object. Sadly, this is all too common: the ability to connect with someone is becoming lost, and Buber knew this. “All real living is meeting,” he said. All real living is not cell phone scrolling.
I admit to having a Buberian I-Thou relationship with my River. I love her, and we do communicate. I’ve spend so much time with her over the years that I can sense things in her currents and shoals that I would perhaps miss on other rivers. Wind, current, shifting sands and islands…not sure, but I usually know what’s happening intuitively before I realize it cognitively. Others might drift up on a sneaky sand bar, but I usually avoid them by reading the water. The currents, riffles, and colors give a careful observer a good idea of what’s coming.
[/td]I admit to having a Buberian I-Thou relationship with my River. I love her, and we do communicate. I’ve spend so much time with her over the years that I can sense things in her currents and shoals that I would perhaps miss on other rivers. Wind, current, shifting sands and islands…not sure, but I usually know what’s happening intuitively before I realize it cognitively. Others might drift up on a sneaky sand bar, but I usually avoid them by reading the water. The currents, riffles, and colors give a careful observer a good idea of what’s coming.
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Sticking closer to the banks is usually a safe bet to float in deeper waters, but if you’re not paying attention, you can run unto fallen trees with branches in the water, which are called strainers. Notice the fallen tree on the left in the picture above. Easy to navigate around, but not at the last minute.
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Reuben understands the benefit of slow.
The traveler by rail has brief and imperfect glimpses of the landscape. The canoeist, from his lowly seat near the surface of the flood, sees the country practically as it was in pioneer days, in a state of unalloyed beauty.
Amen, Reuben. I’ve been on a Maglev bullet train in China, and couldn’t see a thing at 260 miles per hour. I generally paddle about 3 miles per hour when on The River, because the current moves you along as well. Too much paddling and your trip is over before you are ready for it to be over.
I’ve paddled all 83 miles from the last dam in Prairie du Sac to the confluence with the Mississippi, many of the sections more than a dozen times. Sometimes with a group, sometimes solo; it doesn’t matter. I just love being with the River. I hold no illusion that she somehow protects me…it’s not that sort of relationship. She has spanked me hard and humbled me, but she has also allowed me to snooze unmolested on a sunny January day, by creating a little windbreak where a guy could climb under his canoe, light a small fire and snooze on a wool blanket.
[/td]The traveler by rail has brief and imperfect glimpses of the landscape. The canoeist, from his lowly seat near the surface of the flood, sees the country practically as it was in pioneer days, in a state of unalloyed beauty.
Amen, Reuben. I’ve been on a Maglev bullet train in China, and couldn’t see a thing at 260 miles per hour. I generally paddle about 3 miles per hour when on The River, because the current moves you along as well. Too much paddling and your trip is over before you are ready for it to be over.
I’ve paddled all 83 miles from the last dam in Prairie du Sac to the confluence with the Mississippi, many of the sections more than a dozen times. Sometimes with a group, sometimes solo; it doesn’t matter. I just love being with the River. I hold no illusion that she somehow protects me…it’s not that sort of relationship. She has spanked me hard and humbled me, but she has also allowed me to snooze unmolested on a sunny January day, by creating a little windbreak where a guy could climb under his canoe, light a small fire and snooze on a wool blanket.
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Marquette and Joliet were not as taken with my River as I was. My guess is that they were a bit jaded after the difficulties they encountered (and would continue to encounter). After all, they were exploring the unknown and had no idea what was around the bend, unless they were fortunate enough to run into natives and gather intel.
The river on which we embarked is called Meskousing. It is very wide; it has a sandy bottom, which forms various shoals that render its navigation very difficult. It is full of islands covered with vines. On the banks one sees fertile land, diversified with woods, prairies, and hills. There are oak, walnut, and basswood trees; and another kind, whose branches are armed with long thorns.
Plus ça change…that description would be recognized today as spot on. I would have added a few more adjectives describing the beauty of the place, but they were documenting, not writing prose.
Reuben Gold Thwaites is long gone, but his words live on in dusty little tomes with gorgeous covers (gold embossing!). He wasn’t by any means a best-selling author, but he joins August Derleth, Ben Logan, George Vukelich, Michael Perry, and Aldo Leopold (among many others) in a small confraternity of Wisconsin authors who knew how to write about things, because they actually do the things they write about. Imagine someone with Thwaite’s responsibilities paddling 600 miles. Trust me, the number of people who still do things is shrinking daily.
Reuben was the editor of the Wisconsin State Journal during the late 1800s. That was before AP and the news wires that provide the same garbage to every newspaper in the country, and now written by AI a good deal of the time. Now the Wisconsin State Journal has fallen victim to the same cost-cutting, culture-ruining business tactics that prints easily digestible pablum where there used to be good, meaty articles, written by locals.
The WSJ still has a few local writers, but the ones I know from years ago had their wings clipped a little (or a lot). Some retired when they saw the writing on the wall (“offend no one, especially advertisers” is what I think it said). Whatever happened, it’s not germane here, and I again digress.
[/td]The river on which we embarked is called Meskousing. It is very wide; it has a sandy bottom, which forms various shoals that render its navigation very difficult. It is full of islands covered with vines. On the banks one sees fertile land, diversified with woods, prairies, and hills. There are oak, walnut, and basswood trees; and another kind, whose branches are armed with long thorns.
Plus ça change…that description would be recognized today as spot on. I would have added a few more adjectives describing the beauty of the place, but they were documenting, not writing prose.
Reuben Gold Thwaites is long gone, but his words live on in dusty little tomes with gorgeous covers (gold embossing!). He wasn’t by any means a best-selling author, but he joins August Derleth, Ben Logan, George Vukelich, Michael Perry, and Aldo Leopold (among many others) in a small confraternity of Wisconsin authors who knew how to write about things, because they actually do the things they write about. Imagine someone with Thwaite’s responsibilities paddling 600 miles. Trust me, the number of people who still do things is shrinking daily.
Reuben was the editor of the Wisconsin State Journal during the late 1800s. That was before AP and the news wires that provide the same garbage to every newspaper in the country, and now written by AI a good deal of the time. Now the Wisconsin State Journal has fallen victim to the same cost-cutting, culture-ruining business tactics that prints easily digestible pablum where there used to be good, meaty articles, written by locals.
The WSJ still has a few local writers, but the ones I know from years ago had their wings clipped a little (or a lot). Some retired when they saw the writing on the wall (“offend no one, especially advertisers” is what I think it said). Whatever happened, it’s not germane here, and I again digress.
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The point is that R.G. Thwaites was a journalist who took the time to paddle across the Great State of Wisconsin, from Green Bay to Prairie du Chien, and documented it beautifully. He got his feet wet, and these days, in my honest opinion, there are too many people with dry feet.
Reuben loved my River, and I hope to someday meet him, shake his hand in thanks, and go for a paddle together.
[/td]Reuben loved my River, and I hope to someday meet him, shake his hand in thanks, and go for a paddle together.
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Enjoy your Sunday,
Darren
[/td]Darren
