Grand Rapids to Brainerd, MN
188 Miles (350 Miles Total)
The river after Grand Rapids gets wider and the banks steeper. The water is browner and the current is faster too, and there is even a rusty pipe sticking down into the river producing thick white bubbles and foam.
A week ago we could see straight down to the bottom of the river and look at all the fish swimming underneath our canoes. But now, about 10 days in, we can hardly see a few inches down through the water to look at our paddles. The water is thicker looking and dark, like rich chocolate milk, or shadows that creep along the edges of houses during a full moon. Sometimes foam and bubbles travel on the surface of the river, and you can see how fast the current is flowing by the way they float gently along.
The water is flowing much better now, maybe a mile per hour on average. It doesn’t seem like much but it makes a big difference. This is hopefully a sign for things to come. I’m not wishing for quickly flowing Rapids by any means, but a nice smooth, gentle current, something between 2-3 miles per hour, would be nice.
An intense storm passed through the area on our second night from Grand Rapids. Lightning flickered for a good hour in rapid succession without any breaks. The thunder did the same thing too. It was a long string of gargling for a long time. The wind picked up in the middle of the storm, and a branch from a dead tree fell down with a crash in the vicinity of our camp. Luckily we were all away from where it landed.
On one of the days we passed a guy named James. James is in a kayak, and he also has a second kayak that he has tied up to the first one. He has a bunch of stuff on the back kayak, and it’s all strapped down by a big black tarp. James has a crazy look about him and wears a tight wife beater over the top of a sunburned chest the color of cherries. Jeff had the pleasure of spending an evening with Mr. Crazy.
“James is a little crazy,” Jeff told us after the fact. “He’s just a really negative guy. He swears a lot and hates the government and pretty much everything else.”
As we canoed to camp one night, we saw the dual kayaks on the bank of the DNR site we were thinking of stopping at.
“Those are James’ kayaks,” Qball said.
The bank to get up to the site was steep. It had been puzzling us the past few days why the DNR built camp sites on banks of the river that you could barely climb up, let alone get your canoe or kayak over.
“Also, there’s no way we are climbing up that,” Qball said, pointing at the embankment.
Across the river was a nice grassy area with thinly spaced trees and easy canoe access.
“Why don’t we just camp on the other side?” I asked.
Everyone was in agreement.
As we turned to head to the other side, James had come down to the bank of the river.
“You guys stopping here for the night?” he asked.
“I think we are going to go to the other side,” Qball replied.
“Oh, okay,” he said. “Plenty of room up here though.” He took a look back at the campsite.
“Thanks, but its kind of hard to get to,” said Qball.
James shrugged.
As we set up camp we heard shouting from across the river.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuck! Stupid fucking….fuck this stupid…shit!”
The screaming was followed by a loud thwack that echoed across the water.
“Good call on staying over here,” said Beardoh.
“If he ever asks us how we know each other,” I began, “we are all brothers and sisters who own a pizza shop back home. We are canoeing for our stepbrother Seid who unfortunately died in a freak paragliding accident.”
James was quiet most of the rest of the night. We heard him moving around every now and again, doing something to the kayaks.
At one point he shouted something across the river.
“You guys catch your dinner?”
We didn’t know who he was talking to so none of us responded.
He was a slower paddler so we figured we wouldn’t be seeing too much more of him.
We passed through the small town of Palisades and then the marginally larger town of Atkins. We stopped at both and grabbed a second breakfast at the diners there. Minnesota natives are a hard people and everyone looks a little tired. You wouldn’t notice it if you didn’t look hard into their eyes. Everyone has big smiles and their demeanors and attitudes are humble and warm. They’re probably built like this so they can withstand the long and harsh winters up here. Their souls are fire and they warm themselves from the inside out.
We had the pleasure to meet Beardoh’s second cousin Bob in Atkins and he drove us to the diner there for breakfast.
“Your going to like the Diner,” Bob said when he met us at the county park by the bank of the River. “Big portions.” He pulled his hands apart to demonstrate the enormity of the food.
He drove us through the little downtown and then to the Roadside Restaurant. He asked about the River and we told him stories of the past few weeks paddling on the water.
“The current should pick up once you get beyond Minneapolis,” Bob said before taking a big bite out of a gigantic cinnamon role. “A bunch of other rivers merge into it. It will be real fast then.”
That afternoon we meandered along a river that was wider than anything we’ve seen so far. Eagles flew overhead and played a game of tag with our canoes. Once we got close to where they were perched on top of a tree, they pushed off and took flight, first flying low to the river and then lifting higher and soaring towards their next perch spot. We’d canoe forward and near them again, and then they’d take off once more, flying a quarter mile down river to land on a lone branch of a dead tree sticking up high above all the others.
We saw Ospreys and Falcons too. They would fly in similar patterns and stay low to the river at first, scanning the surface of the water for fish. I waited for one to dip sharply down, its talons outstretched and viscous, and come back up with a fresh catch dangling in the air, but I wasn’t that lucky. Perhaps I will see this before we get too far south, before industry takes over the river and the water is even grittier and more shit-stained than it is now.
On our last day before town Daisy began taking water.
“I think there’s a leak back here,” said Qball as he stopped paddling. “There’s water in the canoe.”
“Is there a lot of it?” I asked.
“Maybe like half a cup,” he replied.
He picked up the yellow sponge we keep in the canoe to get water out and sponged the back of the boat. He rung the sponge out and the water dripped into the river. It seemed like more than a half cup.
After 30 more minutes of paddling the water started coming back.
“Yup,” he said. “Definitely got a leak somewhere in the back end.”
“Do we need to stop now and look at it, or can we make it to camp?” I asked.
“It’s not bad ,” he replied. “We can fix it later.”
When we got to camp we took everything out of the canoe and flipped it over. I was lucky to look at the back end of it as it was being flipped and saw water squirt out of a small hole. There was a tiny crack there where the seal had chipped off.
“Here,” I said, pointing a finger at the crack. “That’s probably where it’s coming from.”
Qball took out a stick of WaterWeld. He broke a chunk off the end and mixed the putty like substance with his fingers and then filled in the hole. He then touched up a few other spots that also looked cracked.
“You think that’s enough?” He asked.
“We’ll see if that works,” I said. “And patch it more if it still needs it.”
The next morning the patch seemed to work, but there was still a little bit of water coming in. We would need to patch it a little more at some point, but it was a lot better than it was the previous day.
The remaining miles into the town of Brainerd were cold. We had arranged to stay with a man named Mike in town who lives right on the river through a website called Warm Showers. It’s for bicycle tourists to connect with people who host, but I figured canoeing the Mississippi River was close enough and gave it a try.
Mike is a great guy and he hiked the Pacific Crest Trail last year. We had a lot in common when we met him after tying our canoes to a few trees down by the river. He has a little black dog named Nemo who is the most adorable thing imaginable, and likes playing and getting petted and wouldn’t leave any of us alone.
We finally ventured into town for dinner after we took showers and washed the river funk off us, and settled on a diner that had all you can eat ribs. It was mostly good even though it was a pretty bad idea.
The air was cold again as we headed back to Mike’s. The sun had set and had painted the clouds steel blue and raspberry sorbet. We had come almost 350 miles to get here. It seems like not a lot at all when you figure there’s still almost 2000 miles left.
It’s hard to wrap your head around distance sometimes. A long way is a long way. It doesn’t matter if you are on a bike or on foot or paddling in a canoe or driving a car.
It just happens that this time we’re in a boat.
Most everything has looked the same on the river. Trees are green and line the banks. You follow along on the shore and one bend looks much like the last one. The towns all run together like smeared paint, and if you didn’t know where you were by the name of them you’d likely believe you were traveling in circles.
The only thing that differs much is the wind and the weather. It skates along just like us. No two clouds are the same when you look at the sky real close.
A long journey is a monotony filled bucket with splashes of zest. It’s boring until it’s suddenly not.
I suppose that’s just the way life is most times too.
Love the sunrise picture, wish I could have shared it with you! <3
Thanks! It would have been a better sunrise with you!