Aluminum Hatch, Pt. 2

By the time we reached the first bridge below our put in, the river was opening up and widening, and we floated most of the rest of the way without incident, although sometimes my steering strokes roiled the water just slightly less than a depth charge. One one point, a group of paddlers resting on the bank shouted a warning that a newly fallen tree lay just ahead to the right. There couldn't have been three feet between the crown of the tree and the bank, and it took some hard paddling to align ourselves with the passage, but we glided through easily. The people on the bank cheered---people had been running into the tree all afternoon, it seemed. I felt somewhat redeemed.

That first bridge (at co. Road 612, for those familiar with the area), by the way, was tagged with the word TROUT in fat letters filled with red dots, like the side of a large brown. Unfortunately, I lacked presence of mind at the point to get out the camera.

The next day we continued downstream for Thursday's take-out, and shortly found ourselves imperiled once again. The river was larger, but so were the brushpiles, some leaving only the narrowest gap between themselves and the bank, or requiring quick turns to avoid the next one down. We sideswiped more than a few, and occasionally ducked as low as we could to avoid low hanging branches. We encountered some fishermen on this leg of the trip, most of whom we passed (on the left, per river etiquette) quietly, but we traversed what may be my favorite fishing hole on the Manistee, occupied at that moment by a lone fly fisher, steering frantically and turning the water to froth to negotiate the sharp, snag filled bend. I looked sheepishly at the guy once we'd cleared the debris field and apologized. "No problem," the man said. "Nothing is hitting anyway." There have been times when my own irritation at inept canoeists has been tempered by disinterested trout.

A handful of other contretemps befell us before take out, but we couldn't be blamed for the worst. Raindrops began to fall about twenty minutes before the end of the float. They grew slightly heavier, then it seemed buckets and vats of water were being emptied from somewhere in the clouds. Thunder boomed and lightning slashed the sky nearby. We paddled as hard as we could--thank God we were in open, log-free water--and pulled ashore as soon as we reached the campground which marked our take out. We hauled out, and took shelter under a large tree Not the smartest move, I know, but the best option we had. Until a couple sitting under the awning of their travel trailer invited us to take shelter with them. Bless them, bless them, bless them! They even gave Kristine a blanket to warm up while we waited. The woman turned out to be the cook from Gates' Lodge--I've probably eaten her pancakes a couple of times. We had a pleasant conversation with them while we waited for the livery van, which showed up precisely at the time we'd requested it.

So we survived, although my budding confidence in my canoeing skills (not to mention my sense of being at home on rivers) suffered a little. And I gained more sympathy for the aluminum hatchers who cause a bit of commotion while they try to get their bearings. One of my standing orders to myself is "Be prepared to learn anywhere, at anytime, from anyone." This time the lesson was a bit harsh, but you can count on my enrolling for the advanced course.



Tags: Outdoors; Rivers; Canoeing