Boats & Bluegrass 2015

Driving home from Boats and Bluegrass, a music festival held along the banks of the Mississippi in Winona, Minnesota, the hills of the Driftless Area sucked me in. Twisting and turning along the roller coaster back roads, rows of corn alternating with beans or alfalfa hung onto the uneven terrain with quiet farms breaking up the landscape. The steepest areas and most of the ridge tops were covered in trees, seemingly capping the hillsides and valleys. The trees holding firm in land unfit for the plow. The farm fields turned to harvest brown, waiting for the combine to take what they have worked so hard to grow since May. The forests were showing the first signs of autumn with muted greens and a spectrum of yellow dotting their leaves.

My car hugged the corners of the country roads as a smile crept across my face. My mind wandered back to the music, the people, the good times. The festival. It was the 11^th Boats and Bluegrass and my 6^th year of attending. The first year I went I was doing a bluegrass radio show in Eau Claire and the folks running the festival were trying to get the word out. The crowd was small, but music great. Since then, Boats has grown to a sold out experience. The campground fills early on Thursday, as everyone clamors to get back to a weekend they look forward to all year.

Over the years, I’ve reconnected with old friends and met new ones, slowly growing into a community of folks to party with. This year, though, I was a little ambivalent heading into the weekend, time on the road and my lack of enthusiasm for the bands on the festival poster dampened my excitement. Once I arrived at the campground, all my worries drifted away and I basked in the good vibe and great music.

But no matter how fantastic the music is, it is the people that make the festival.

The friends I camped with this year were all people I met through my friend Greg whom I met at a wedding in Mexico (obviously). I see most of those folks only once a year at Boats, but I feel so wholesome, so perfect when we embrace at first sight. Stephie and Alison and Eric and Ben and Amy and Brittany and Moonbeam. All fantastic people I am honored to know. I aspire to be as health and earth conscious as they are. (Judging by Boats, I have a long way to go…)

Greg showing off on the slack line at the 2014 festival

A major component of Boats and Bluegrass is the boats part. Five years of attending the festival and five years of only partaking in the bluegrass portion. With a simple question this year, I ended that streak. My buddy Greg asked if anyone wanted to go paddle so I yelped out an affirmation. I brushed my teeth, grabbed beers and headed to the beach. I stood around his canoe, watching his dog Agate play on land and in the water. Soon enough two young women showed up (one with a ukulele) and we struck up awkward conversation (my forte). I then realized they were joining the canoe with Greg, Agate and I.

Greg showed up and we shoved off, with the ladies (and Agate) rolling low-rider in the middle. We began to paddle into the backwater sloughs, a shortcut to “the sandbar”. The pluck of the uke strings soon filled the air, followed by the flowing voices of the ladies (Agate sat this one out). The silver maples growing on the floodplain islands captured the sonorous float, reflecting the music back towards the river for us to further enjoy. (Seriously, how can you not relish lazily paddling along a river with a siren song floating up around you, encapsulating and filling the experience?) I liked what was forming - a musical barge.

We reached the back edge of the sandbar and piled out onto the warm sand, making sure to grab the cooler before heading to river side, where the party takes place. We were among the first festivalgoers to arrive, but soon more appeared in kayaks, canoes and in fishing boats (the band). Agate was excited at the opportunity to fetch branches, not little sticks, but 5-foot long branches the size of your forearm. If he had a limit, we did not reach it that day on the sandbar. Music floated by thanks to Sans Souci as I chatted with friends. With the beer supply running dangerously low, we loaded into the canoe and headed back.

Once on the mainland, I walked to the festival grounds, wanting to check out Joseph Huber, a former member of the .357 String Band and one of my favorites. He did not disappoint as I gulped down another beer.

The hard part of being at a festival is balancing drinking, music, and sustenance, especially in the evening. Which band(s) are you willing to miss to head back to camp and grab a bite to eat? The default is finding a band you’ve never heard of (the unknown is, well, unknown) and eating. After scouring the lineup, I waltzed back to camp, fired up the grill, had multiple beers and conversed with whomever was present.

Some people plan extravagant meals; others plan to just make it through the weekend. There is food available at Boats – good food at that – but it’s way more fun figuring out how to cook bacon in a cast iron skillet above a fire ring.

The odd thing about spending the afternoon drinking on the water and then folding it into an uninterrupted run of listening to music and manning the grill was that it resulted in me becoming wasted (didn’t see that coming). Rumors of my late night self floated through camp the next morning. Perhaps I should take it easier on Saturday.

Sans Souci playing at the sandbar

Saturday morning arrived. I wandered around the campground, slowly gaining sustenance from various friends. Bacon here, eggs there, jambalaya here. An eating vessel was scarce for the jambalaya until a red solo cup was spotted. Yeah, that would work. It did work perfect, especially when I happened into another camp and they offered to fill it with a Bloody Mary (so much for taking it easy). The bloody was just the beginning. On the way to my tent (for a well-intentioned nap), I ran into the uke-playing girl from the canoe ride the day before (apparently her name was, and still is, Abbie). She was heading out in a kayak and asked if I wanted to join. Ahhh, shit. Yep. Let’s do it. I packed up beers and headed out on the water.

The uke stayed at camp, but the lazy paddling did not. We paddled a bit and then let the river take us until we were in danger of colliding with a tree and even then barely managing to rescue the kayaks. It was an afternoon of laughs, never reaching the sandbar (although we came within sight of it).

With the frivolity of life on the water finished for the day, I reset my mind for a great evening. I was jacked for the music Saturday night – Hot Rize, Tin Can Gin, Horseshoes and Hand Grenades, the Last Revel and Los Lobos.

With the Mississippi River in the background, silently flowing south towards the Gulf of Mexico, Horseshoes and Hand Grenades played song after song with a heart anchored in the waters of Wisconsin. The songs evoked a feeling of John Hartford, whose songs plied the riverways for the past 40 plus years, croaking about steamboats, rivers and, well, a lot of steamboats. The best music is from the heart, with lyrics and music from the soul - what you know most deeply. The boys from Horseshoes head out to a lake or river any chance they get, casting their wares hoping to snag a big one, enjoying and believing in life on the water. The band is still stretching their songwriting chops, but it felt like the passing of a torch.

With the music of Horseshoes and Hand Grenades drifting downriver to greet the folks of La Crosse and Dubuque, the bellows of the Last Revel blew from the side tent. They were a band I “discovered” last year. Their hard-hitting, old-time stringband style kept my rapt attention. The band looks like they would be at home during the Civil War, but their music feels active and fresh.

With the weight of a weekend filled with booze and scant sleep; Los Lobos took the main stage to close out the festival. They were a band past their heyday and out of their element, but still brought moments of fire. I managed an hour of the set before I wafted off, searching for a campfire and familiar plucks of a banjo or strong pulls of a fiddle. The moon was high and sun close to the horizon before sleep settled in.

As the sun rose on Sunday morning, I took stock of a weekend filled with the best parts of life. Nary a moment passed without a smile, laugh or hug (or even a little love). We all have our happy places, the spots where we feel centered, whole, accepted. Boats and Bluegrass may only happen once a year, but its effect carries out for the rest of the year.

Water fits well with the lyrical nature of bluegrass and folk. The music passes smoothly from note to note, never lingering for long. Like the Mississippi, the river is always moving, even in the big pools formed by the locks and dams. Bluegrass is the same way, seemingly pausing on a note, yet the undercurrent is always flowing, pushing the song forward – to the next note, to next year.

The difficulty in planning a trip

How do you balance discovering new vistas and going back to further explore favorite haunts? I love the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness of Minnesota, having visited 9 times, finding wonder each trip. Yet when I visit somewhere other than the Boundary Waters, I am awed by new experiences, new beauty, providing me with a greater understanding of the world. Is it better to intimately know and understand a place than have a broad view of many things? A walleye only knows its lake. I guess the same could be said of humans, as we only know our little corner of the earth.

Deeply knowing an area creates a feeling of home, of belonging. Some of our “homes” range from an entire state, a forest, a mountain range or even the park next door. Understanding an area like the back of your hand gives you an opportunity to spread that love to others. How can you persuade others to tackle the same wilderness as yourself if you only possess a cursory knowledge?

Do we have an obligation to better understand our world? What’s the harm in, say, visiting all the lakes, rivers, and streams in the Boundary Waters but never straying far from its border? Intimacy creates passion.

Winter camping in the Boundary Waters is a joy - even at -35

Knowing the backwaters and coves provides a deeper understanding that only occurs from years and years of careful observation and study. How would you know where the moose shelter in the winter or where the walleye congregate in the summer if you only visit once or twice in your life? The subtle changes that affect a landscape are oblivious to the random tourist, but enlightening to the resident.

My appreciation for the Boundary Waters began from repeated visits, but strengthened from my trips afar. Traveling revealed the need to treasure nature’s gift close to home. Development is ever encroaching, but Wilderness is forever. I want visitors to the Boundary Water to experience the same feelings I did while hiking in the Cloud Peak or Indian Peak Wilderness for the first time - wonderment, awe, joyfulness that places like this exist.

The Indian Peak Wilderness is pretty nice too.

Truth be told, we need both kinds of people – the visitor and the devotee. The visitor pieces together the big picture, seeing the interlocking whole and able to advocate from a broader view. The devotee can campaign for their backyard, protecting and enhancing the stays for the visitors. The most rewarding conversations on a road trip happen with locals, those who have seen the best and worst a place has to offer, yet know those secret spots, hidden to the casual tourist. But in the end, broad support is needed to fully preserve an area.

Take those trips to revisit a favorite spot, but try and view it from new eyes, searching for an unfamiliar lake or vista. I’m heading up to the Boundary Waters this winter along with finding time to take a trip to an area I’ve never visited - that’s the best of both worlds.

The disheartening side of road trips

Road trips are disheartening. I came to this realization during a trip around Lake Superior last December and was reaffirmed on a trip out West this summer. I found beautiful places along the way I had never visited or heard of - the unbroken, snow-covered expanse of Canada’s boreal forest, a quiet mountain lake fed by a glacier melting from the summer sun, the Milky Way arching above my tent along the shore of Lake Superior, many miles from the nearest town.

Slowly I understood that I would never gaze upon all the wondrous sights strewn across our vast world. There simply is too much beauty and not enough time. Knowing there is so much to see and being able to only witness a small fraction presents a bleak reality.

Knowing our limitations though, grants us an opportunity to seek out more knowledge to fill out our worldview. We only have two eyes, but our friends each have a set and they explore also (hopefully). Instead of seeing the world with two eyes, explore it with dozens of pairs. Explore the world through your friends. Don’t be jealous of friends posting photos of their unbelievable trip; use it as a chance to view parts of the world you may never visit. Living vicariously through friends is a great thing. But don’t forget to live a life so others have the opportunity to reciprocate.

(Almost) Paddling the Lower Wisconsin in 24 Hours

The 430-mile journey of the Wisconsin River, from its headwaters on the border of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to the confluence with the Mississippi River near Prairie du Chien, includes 26 dams. The last of the 26 dams rests at Prairie du Sac, 92.3 miles from the mouth. Those final 92.3 miles encompass the Lower Wisconsin State Riverway (LWSR), a project authorized by the Wisconsin DNR in 1989 to protect the river and land along the river from further development.

The Wisconsin River is in some regards, the lifeblood of the state, its watershed encompassing a third of Wisconsin. The river valley is a major flyway for migrating birds and the LWSR is home to 62 species of endangered, threatened or special concern status – a harbor of genetic diversity. Poor water quality is a problem, caused by the dams, runoff from agricultural fields and an abundance of rough fish, like carp. Even so, hundreds of thousands of boaters, swimmers, fishermen, hunters and birders enjoy the river each year.

A few years back, I took my first foray on the Lower Wisconsin River. It was 4^th of July weekend – the river was high and weather gorgeous. A friend and I leisurely paddled 48 miles over 2 and a half days. The miles covered with such meager effort got me thinking. -Was it possible to canoe the entire Lower Wisconsin in a day? 92 miles over 24 hours is less than 4 miles an hour. That sounded doable.

A hard day's paddle

In 2014, six of us organized to give the challenge a shot. We staged vehicles at various boat landings along the river (for safety reasons) before setting out from Prairie du Sac at 1:30am. The luminous moon lit our way before dawn brought daylight to the river bottom. The lack of sleep caught up with us as we began to tire. Added to the mix, my elbow was giving me fits. After much deliberation, we bailed at Boscobel, having paddled 62 miles in 16 hours.

Learning from the first attempt, we planned a rebuttal this year. Only 3 folks took another shot at the Lower Wisconsin. Instead of trying to fit the 92 miles in on a single calendar day, we decided to have all the cars staged the night before and camp in Prairie du Sac to enable an early start. A decent night’s rest would help, right?

Taking a break on the 2014 trip

Matt, Jamie, and I, hit the water at 6am. Dawn had arrived a few hours earlier. Fishermen were strung along the shore, casting their wares, hoping to snag a big one. Our two canoes glided out into the river, still churning from the nearby dam.

Landmarks were slowly checked off as the morning went on; the Hwy 60 bridge, then Hwy 12, Ferry Bluff, and Spring Green. The water level was quite a bit lower than the previous attempt, forcing us to work harder for each mile. Our spirits were up though, thanks in part to a tailwind. We started to set goals to reach landings with the baseline set at 5 miles an hour. When we hit a goal, we’d let the current take the canoes while we snacked and took a break.

Muscles began to ache, but onward we pushed. The pulls of the paddles through the water became a metronome - a regular telling of time. My mind fell into a trance, not focusing on paddling, not focusing on the surroundings, it began to drift. It’s like an inner peace. No worries, just Being. Songbirds flitted about, eagles stood sentinel and cranes groused whenever the canoes came too close.

Setting out from Prairie du Sac

Over those 92.3 miles, there are only 13 bridges crossing the river (only 9 are roads, 4 are for trains). The wide flood plain helped dampen development along the banks. Even the rim of the river valley, cut down over millennia to its present state, is sparsely populated with houses. Sandbars, trees, birds and poison ivy reign supreme. It’s quite the resource in southern Wisconsin. A serpentine river, devoid of barriers, protected for perpetuity.

Was the meandering pace of the river a creation of the vast damming upriver? Jacques Marquette commented on the danger of the shoals in 1673, but have the dams made navigation worse? The Lower Wisconsin has ambled along for thousands of years, but has the hand of Man made it worse? Sand has choked the river, pushing the channel this way and that, always presenting sandbars for canoeists to navigate around. Humans cared little about protecting rivers and the ecosystems they harbored when erecting dams at a furious pace in the 20^th Century. Hydro dams fed our appetite for electricity and “helped” protect against destructive floods. Of the 4,700 dams on Wisconsin rivers and streams, only 13% were built for power generation, half were built for recreational purposes - creating lakes and reservoirs.

The counter to that argument is that those floods helped flush sediment from the river, allowing a freer flowing river. The mighty Wisconsin, now harnessed by those 26 dams, can become stagnant in the aridity of August as it chugs towards the Mississippi.

One of the few bridges across the LWSR

We were feeling good when we reached Boscobel – the ending point on our previous attempt. A supposed quick pit stop to grab dinner, turned into an hour, dusk settling in by the minute. It was 9 o’clock by the time the armada set off again. Not more than 10 minutes later, questions arose on whether this was a smart idea. Headlamps were futile in the engulfing darkness. We could continue blindly downstream, hoping we didn’t hit an island or get tangled in a strainer, or we could find a sandbar and take shelter for the night. The latter (and more prudent) option won.

We set up camp and lit a fire (I feel like fire-building and map reading are two of my stronger attributes). Before too long, heads hit makeshift pillows and sleep arrived. A short time later, I awoke to the flapping of the tent rainfly. Annoyed, I staked out the guy lines and settled back in my sleeping bag. Sleep would not come. The wind picked up even more, pulling all the stakes from their tenuous hold in the sand. The only thing holding the tent in place was my listless body. Not good. After 3 hours of sleep and 2 hours of lying there, I gave up. I packed up my tent and started a fire. Dawn was breaking.

Before long an honest fire was flickering, helped by the natural bellows of the east wind. The cloudy sky contrasted with the pastel greens of spring along the river. I wanted to take a photo but my phone decided it had to update at that moment and wouldn’t let me open anything unless it had a Wi-Fi connection (First world problem).

Be sure to bring cans with you, glass is not allowed on the LWSR

Shortly after 6, we dipped our paddles back into the Wisconsin. My muscles ached in the same places they had the day before, the restless night had failed to recharge. The east wind pushed us downriver, boosting our speed and attitudes. Miles ticked off as we continued avoiding sandbars and the stray log snagged on the bottom, remnants of higher water.

The final 10 miles of the Wisconsin River cozies up along the valley walls - a brunette ribbon amongst the verdant, tree-covered hills. We drifted under the Hwy 18 bridge at Bridgeport – the narrowest point of the river for the final 30 miles - as snacks made their way around the canoes. Our journey was nearing the end. The bluffs of Wyalusing State Park rose to the south, bringing memories of summers spent living and working at the park, building and maintaining the hiking trails.

Without fanfare, our canoes slipped into the pull of the Mississippi River. After 19 hours on the river and 30 hours total, we had reached our goal, just not in the hoped for time.  Canoeing the Lower Wisconsin in 24 hours is definitely achievable, but not by us on that trip. Perhaps another attempt will bear the fruit.

We paddled the last few miles down to Matt’s van at the Wyalusing Beach landing. Canoes were given a quick cleaning and strapped on the van, awaiting their next adventure. We headed back upstream to find our parked cars and inspiration to give the 24-hour challenge another shot.

Fighting for the Ice Age Trail and Stewardship

The Ice Age National Scenic Trail is a thousand-mile ribbon of inspiration - and has provided a home for me. It took me in when I was floating through life to nowhere in particular. College hadn’t worked out and I needed an outlet to keep busy. I was living in Eau Claire at the time and found the local volunteer chapter of the Ice Age Trail in Chippewa County. I began to attend meetings and workdays. The skills I learned while volunteering on the Trail enabled me to get a job with the Wisconsin DNR, building and maintaining trails in State Parks across the state.

While working for the DNR, I continued to volunteer extensively on the Ice Age Trail, discovering new and wondrous places every month. In 2010, I was fortunate enough to get the time off from work to hike the whole Ice Age National Scenic Trail. The hike was not easy. Blisters, knee problems, sweltering heat and mosquitoes conspired to stop me. But quit I did not. After 59 days, I reached Interstate State Park in St. Croix Falls. Over 1000 miles lay behind me, 1000 miles of wonder, 1000 miles of discovery, 1000 miles of pride, 1000 miles of Wisconsin’s best.

Along the way I blogged about my adventures, entertaining readers with stories and whatever else floated into my head. I snapped 1500 photos, the quality of the shots improving each day. Two months of hiking through the glacial terrain of Wisconsin helped me discover my voice for writing and eye for photography. Both skills have continually been put to use since the hike, personally and professionally.

I now have the great fortune of working for the Ice Age Trail Alliance – I make a living doing what I had done for years as a volunteer. Every day I get to see the joy and inspiration the Trail brings to backpackers, birders, runners, skiers and volunteers. Over 1.2 million folks use the Trail every year – and that number is growing. In 2014, over 2,000 volunteers gave nearly 80,000 hours, mowing, clearing downed trees, keeping signage up to date, building new trail and promoting this great asset.

IATA volunteers working on the Milwaukee River Segment in Washington County on land purchased through the Stewardship Fund.

The Governor’s proposed budget will severely hamstring those efforts. The elimination of funding for the Knowles-Nelson Stewardship program will put on hold any new land purchases for the Ice Age Trail by the State until 2028. This will effectively block the continued growth of the Trail. The loss of Stewardship funds, along with the elimination of direct funding through capacity grants, also eliminates about $100,000 of direct support to the Ice Age Trail Alliance – the non-profit partner charged with supporting, protecting and building the Trail. This money directly supports those 2000 volunteers.

The Joint Finance Committee is debating the stewardship portion of the proposed budget this week. Now is the time to write the legislators on the committee and let them know continuing funding for stewardship and capacity grants for the IATA is vital to keep this great resource open to anyone who wants to stretch their legs and discover more of what makes Wisconsin special. (Here's the link to the Joint Committee on Finance)

The Ice Age National Scenic Trail is a treasure for the people of Wisconsin and the Nation. Not everyone will lace up their hiking shoes and complete all thousand miles (to date just over 100 people have), but having the resource in their backyard, available and ready for when that itch comes to get out and explore the inner beauty of Wisconsin. Please continue funding for the Stewardship Program and direct support for the Ice Age Trail Alliance – The future of the Ice Age Trail depends on it.