Bemidji to Grand Rapids, MN
100 miles (162 Total)
The river passes through two more large lakes after Bemidji. The first, Cass Lake, is much larger than Bemidji, and the third lake, Winnibigoshish, is the third largest lake in the entire state of Minnesota.
Paddling across lakes is a tiring process. There’s absolutely zero current and the vastness of the traverse is incredibly intimidating. The Minnesota Department of Natural resources discourages crossing these large lakes right through the center. But, of course, we decide to head straight across both of them. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
We crossed Cass Lake on the day after the Bimidji crossing. It was an ideal day for it. There was virtually no wind and the lake was like glass. The lake wasn’t very deep and you could see large fish swimming underneath the canoe in the sea green water. A bald eagle soared low to the water searching for fish to eat, and other birds and ducks waded out in the lake enjoying the day. It was a pleasant paddle, and after several hours we safely crossed the 5 miles to the other side.
Lake Winnibigoshish was a different story. This is the grand daddy of the lakes. From the inlet to the outlet it is roughly 15 miles across. The lake is so big the trees on the other end are barely visible. They hang in the haze like wavy black shadows, mocking us. They appear impossibly far away, as if they were part of a different lake all together.
“That looks scary,” I say to the group.
Beardoh and Sweetpea, our river companions in the second canoe, stare out into the open water.
“Yup…that’s really far,” Beardoh says. “How do we best get across it?”
We look at the maps. The lake is slightly hour glass shaped. We can follow the shore for a few miles north to where it juts out slightly. From there we can cut across the open water east to the other point, and then follow the shoreline again to the dam.
“How long is the crossing?” I ask.
“About 8 miles,” Beardoh replies, looking to the other side.
Beardoh checks the weather forecast for the next three hours.
“The wind is at 6 mph right now,” he says. “It gets up to about 7 mph. Clear skies all day. No chance of rain or thunderstorms.”
We agree to make a go of it and start paddling the 8 long miles across the deep blue expanse.
15 minutes into paddling and the waves start getting big. The canoe rolls up and over them and the waves crash against the front and get me wet. The wind is right in our faces. We paddle hard but it feels like we aren’t going anywhere.
I get nervous about the big waves. If we flip here it would be hard to get back into the canoes. I picture myself just floating in the open water, waiting to get rescued by somebody in a motor boat. I cinch the straps on my life vest tighter.
“Isn’t this fun!” Qball shouts from behind. A large wave crashes into the hull and gets me wet again.
“No. This is stupid.” I say back.
“Don’t worry, Safety, we’ll get to the other side.”
Another large wave rolls the canoe up and then back down. It makes a thwack sound as it hits the surface of the lake, sending about a few liters of water into the canoe as it pours into its hull. My shirt is partially soaked through. There’s water droplets on my sunglasses and it’s hard to see where I’m going, not that it even matters. My bladder burns from having to pee, but there isn’t any place to go. My pee bottle was destroyed when some jerk ran over it in their truck at a campsite a few nights back. I could strangle that guy right now.
It’s been over two hours of canoeing now and the trees on the other side of the lake are getting closer. The black outlines have faded to a dark green and it’s pleasing that we are making progress.
“If the wind was a few more miles per hour faster this would be a bad situation,” I tell Qball.
We paddle for another half hour and then the wind picks up. My hat almost blows off my head and I cinch the chin strap tighter to keep it in place. Why did I have to go on saying that about the wind?
The waves start getting bigger as we battle a fierce headwind. There’s actual white caps now on the water, and swells up to about three feet. It’s scary. The waves hammer the canoe like it’s playing with it. It feels like we are in the ocean and not a lake. I start paddling faster to try and get to the other side quicker. Meanwhile, Qball seems to be enjoying himself. He’s having the time of his life back there in the back of the boat.
“Almost there,” he says.
“Are you getting wet at all?” I ask, over the roaring wind.
“Not really,” he says. “A little spray but it’s not too bad.”
After another hour we finally reach the other side of the lake and pull up to a dock by a lakefront resort. There’s a couple kayaks there and John, who we had met a few nights ago, is standing on the shore.
“Pretty crazy out there,” he says to us.
We all agree.
Getting out of the canoe is hard. We’ve been paddling non stop for nearly four hours. I’m finally able to relieve myself and my bladder stings. The uncomfortable sensation lingers after I’m done.
We all sit in the grass and take a break. I feel like I’m still out on the lake, my body wavering back and forth as I sit down, like how you feel after riding the elevator sometimes. There’s another Kayaker there besides John and we introduce ourselves to him. His name is Jeff and he’s from Toronto.
“Yeah, hard day out there,” he says in the most Canadian accent I’ve ever heard.
He’s thru-paddling the river too, and started at the headwaters the day before us. As we sit and chat with our river companions we see another canoeist paddling for the dock. He pulls up and slides his canoe out of the water.
“Those are some big waves out there,” he says. He’s a younger looking guy, early 20s maybe. His dark sunglasses rest over a partially burnt nose. He’s trying to grow a beard but can’t seem to figure out how. His name is Will and he’s from South Dakota.
The seven of us sit on the lakeshore and get to know one another. We are all surprised to run into so many people that are paddling the whole length of the river.
A small motor boat pulls up to the dock. Three people step out with buckets and fishing rods. One of the guys is a portly gentleman with a wide, friendly smile.
“Well, will you just have a look at this motley crew!” he hollers, laughing a jolly good laugh for far too long. He asks us about our trip and where we are going.
“Choppy out there,” he says. “Bad day to be out on the water.” He laughs for awhile again which gets all of us laughing. It’s contagious. He seems like someone who would be fun to know. Like an uncle who drinks too much beer and tells exaggerated stories of a life he never lived.
Eventually we climb back into the canoes and head back out into the lake. We stay near shore this time but the wind is still a problem. The waves are still there but it isn’t as scary, and I’m a little more comfortable with them as we paddle the few remaining miles to the dam. If we haven’t tipped over already we probably won’t.
We have to portage over the dam to get to the other side. This is mostly a simple aggravation. The heavy stuff comes out first (food and water), and then the canoes get placed on a small dolly. We roll the canoes one by one up a steep embankment and then across the street to where the Winnie Dam Recreation Area is. There’s a large pavilion there we running water and power outlets and a nice toilet. It’s more than enough to make us decide to spend the night there.
Jeff and Will arrive at camp too, but Will presses on a few more miles to the next campsite. He has a lot of gear in his canoe. Among his belongings are a full sized guitar and skateboard. He also has four large 5 gallon buckets and three large dry-bags. It takes him awhile to cart all his stuff across the portage but he gets it all in the water on the other side.
We play cards under the pavilion as the sun sets above the dam. The sky is like a large bruise tonight, all purple and indigo, streaking along the sky. The dam runs constantly to our north and the falling water is pleasant to listen to. It drowns out the crickets that hide in the reeds and talk through the dusk.
The next few days are pleasant. The river gets wider and we meander along rolling banks and small sandy beaches. We play games to pass the time. There’s one where you name a famous person and then the next person has to use the first letter of the persons last name as the first letter of the first name of their famous person.
“Tom Hanks,” I say.
“Halley Berry,” says Qball.
“Burt Reynolds,” says Sweetpea.
“Ryan Gosling,” says Beardoh.
This goes on for at least two hours. It breaks up the monotony of paddling. Sometimes you get into a trance and forget what your doing. We call it Zombie Stroking. This usually happens at the end of the day when your arms are the most tired, but it can sneak up on you at any time really.
“Do you want to switch positions in the canoe?” I ask Qball.
“Absolutely. Shake it up a bit.” He says.
The first few minutes are mostly a disaster as I try and learn how to steer the canoe. We run into a patch of reads on the left bank.
“Sorry,” I say.
Qball gives me a few pointers and I start doing better. He shows me how to do the J-stroke to keep the canoe straighter while paddling.
“How would you rate my steering?” I ask him at the end of the day.
“A solid 7 out of 10,” he says.
The next day we are excited to get going. It’s a town day and hotel rooms and restaurant food are in our future. The morning is cool, borderline cold. The sun rises over the reeds and presents itself as a bright pink circle. It’s something you are more likely to see on the beaches in Florida, not in Minnesota. It shines a thin sliver of light over grey water and we paddle into it. The light glistens on the ripples and glitters like crystals as we pass through it.
A large coal power plant looms over the reeds partway through the day. It’s the first big industry we’ve seen on the river. Three large concrete smoke stacks rise into the cloudy sky. Water vapor and smoke pour out of them and get swept away by the wind.
We see people in canoes in the tall reads by the river. They have large wooden poles and are using them to maneuver through the tall grass. The person in the front has a machete and cuts the grass as the canoe gets propelled forward. We learn that the large grasses are wild rice and the men out in the canoes are cutting the grass and harvesting it.
We hear a loud gunshot. Another canoe is to our left. The person in front has a shotgun. He aims at a patch of thick grass and fires again. We take a guess and figure they are hunting ducks. We hope they see us as we round a bend in the river.
We get to the dam right before Grand Rapids and have to portage again. Luckily the dam is owned by the Minnesota Energy company, and as part of the deal with them building a dam across the river, they are required by law to provide free shuttle service for people needing to portage the dam.
When we get to shore a couple that we saw the previous day is waiting for the shuttle. They are canoeing a few hundred miles of the river this year. They have a fancy canoe that is very light and carbon fiber paddles that weigh only 10 ounces. After talking with them the previous day, we learned that they race canoes. We ask them for some pointers while we wait for the shuttle about stroke technique, and they shed some much needed wisdom on us. Hopefully it helps.
The guy from the Energy company finally comes with the shuttle and we load the trailer with all our gear and canoes. We get lucky and he drops us off at the hotel.
It begins to rain as we walk into town to get Chinese Buffet. And as we leave, stomachs full of fried rice and sweet and sour chicken, it’s pouring out.
The rain hammers Grand Rapids and I hear it on the roof of the hotel. It’s dark outside and the rain passes trough the light of the street lamps. Cars pass out front and drive through puddles, spraying water and making swishing sounds. The cars go places all across town. People drive to the liquor store across the street and some stop and get gas. Some people drive to the nearby Taco Bell and some people are just trying to get home.
And then there’s that word: home. What is home when you don’t really have one? Is home where you spend most of your time? Is it the people you spend that time with? What happens if you don’t live anywhere? What do you say when people ask you where you live?
Well, I live outside, I’ll say. I live out there. And with a finger I’ll point into the rain. The wet and cold and miserable rain. It will come down in buckets and explode on the pavement. It will soak into the earth and plunk into the river.
They’ll ask, You really live out there?
And I’ll shrug and say, I suppose there’s worse things to live in. Getting wet once and while isn’t quite so bad.
