Mississippi River Days 1-4

Headwaters to Bemidji, MN

62 Miles (62 Total)

The Mississippi River at the headwaters is nothing more than a trickling, shallow stream. Water from Lake Itasca floats gently over a few rocks at its northern outlet, and after breaching the damn, the water droplets begin a 90 day journey south to the Gulf of Mexico 2,320 miles away.

It’s hard to imagine winning a race against the water, but perhaps it is possible. At the very beginning the river is shallow and narrow, with rocks and fallen trees creating obstacles and hazards. At times you wonder if you’ll ever make it to the Gulf at all.

“Hard left!” I shout to my canoeing partner, Qball. He mans the back of the canoe and is responsible for all the steering. My job is to tell him which way to turn and if there’s any obstacles in the way.

He jabs his paddle hard into the water on the the left side, stalling the canoe and making it turn left, narrowly avoiding a large jagged rock sticking out of the water in the center of the channel like a shark fin. 

Up ahead the river narrows and there is tall green grass along the banks. The grass droops over the water and we tuck our heads down as we coast through the gap, blades of long wheat dragging along our bodies and making our skin itch.

As we maneuver around another bend, the river shallows and we scrape along the bottom and eventually come to a stop. We get out of the canoe and guide it along the shallow bed, hopping around large rocks. Small pebbles lodge themselves between our sandals and the bottom of our feet and we have to stop to pick them out. As I bend down, I see pale inch worms crawling on my skin and over my sandals. They are from passing through the tall grasses. I try picking them off and toss them into the moving current but there are too many of them. 

The water is so shallow we have to walk for several miles in the river.

“Are you enjoying your hiking trip?” I ask Qball facetiously.

“This is awful,” he says, chuckling over the water as it gurgles along the rocks. He passes a hand through his long cherry brown beard and stares ahead at the river, now just a shallow stream bed filled with charcoal and clay colored rocks.

Our ponchos swish back and forth as we walk. Rain is misting and you can see the drops of water as they hit the river. They form slow circles and drift away into the moving water. Up ahead a duck flaps his wings and takes off into the bleak sky. The clouds are wisps of grey and milk, bulbous and thick as they roll slowly over sky the color of shadows. The duck is a black object floating through the space, growing smaller and smaller as it flaps its small wings and flys somewhere down river to meet his friends.

The water suddenly deepens again and we hop into the canoe before involuntarily going for a swim. We enter a big bog and the grass is thick again. Wheat kernels are all over the inside of the boat. It looks like we dragged the thing through a corn field early in the morning when the dew is thick and wet and sticky.

The river here is not obvious. Qball stands up in the back of the canoe and looks ahead to try and see where it goes.

“Looks like it goes to the right there,” he says, pointing a finger into a thick patch of reeds.

He steers us into the thick vegetation and we battle forward. Grass the diameter of piping slaps us in the face. More worms fall all over our coats and legs. They wiggle on our skin and it feels like they might be biting us. I rub my legs quick and try to get them off.

We only manage 14 miles by the end of our second day and we are thoroughly exhausted. The first day we went 6 after getting a late start. My hands have blisters on the tips of my fingers, and my shoulder blades ache along with my abs and lower back. It’s going to take some getting used to. The muscles I’m using are ones that barely get any attention back home. 

The third day we wake up to wet tents and a light drizzle. The weather doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with us and it’s starting to get on my nerves. We pack the canoes and are paddling by 7:00 AM. Our goal for the days is 23 miles to Iron Bridge Campsite.

We enter an area with class one rapids and soon find ourselves on the edge of our seats, intensely gripping the canoe handles.

“Slow the canoe down,” I tell Qball. We back stroke and let the current gently take us. We pass between two large rocks.

“Hard right!” I shout. We jam the paddles hard into the right side and back stroke, narrowly avoiding a massive rock to our left.

“Stay to the left up here,” I say. A half submerged tree lays horizontal along the majority of the river. I can barely see its outline through the dark water.

The canoe jerks and a scraping sound bellows underneath the hull. 

We come to a stop and we jab our paddles into the shallow water and try and pry ourselves off the big rock we just ran into. The current is moving us sideways and we have to push with all our strength to break free and right ourselves before tipping over.

The rapids last for nearly an hour but it seems like only a few moments go by. We enter into a marsh again and the river gets a little wider. We meander back and forth for the afternoon along S curves that make you feel like your traveling in a circle. You get the sense you’ve seen this all before, like some sort of de javu, or some type of endless dream where you run in circles and never get anywhere. 

We eventually arrive at Iron Bridge early in the afternoon. There’s a lean to there and picnic tables and we stop there for the night. The town and lake of Bemidji is 14 miles away and will be our first resupply point.

“Pizza is in our future,” Qball says as we grab our things out of the canoe and bring them up to the campsite.

As we eat dinner, the clouds start to clear and the sun finally comes out. I had almost forgotten what it looked like. The campsite is up on a bluff and overlooks the marsh we just canoed through. Sunlight reflects on the tall grasses and paints them gold. They shimmer as a soft wind blows trough them. Geese fly overhead and honk into the quiet evening, wings outstretched and open, effortlessly coasting through the neon sky. The sun is bright pink and casts orange over the low clouds. We use the last remaining daylight to play a few hands of cards.

A kayaker shows up near dusk. 

“Ya’ll doing the River too?” He asks. His name is John and he’s from the twin cities area. He has long brown hair and is barefoot when he walks up to the campsite. He started at the headwaters the day after us and thought he was going to get to Bemidji in one day. 

“I goofed up a bit,” he laughed. “This is hard work up here. The river ain’t no joke.” 

The following day we arrive at a 4 mile section called the log jam. Logs lay in murky water and we have to be on high alert to try and maneuver around them. It requires our full attention. Qball and I communicate well and our collective canoeing experience from the past few days starts to show. We’re coasting around turns and narrowly avoiding collisions wth river debris. We get cocky and stop paying attention and then bang into a large stump that almost tips us over into the cold water.

“Back stroke!” Qball shouts. I dig my paddle into the log and push back. The current flips us around and now our backs face the wrong way and Qball is in front. We jerk the canoe back around and give each other a relieved look. 

We arrive at our first town stop Bemidji around noon and stumble upon a pizza buffet. After stuffing our faces with cheese and pepperoni we walk to the grocery store to buy more food for the next segment of river.

We set out again in the afternoon fully restocked. We have to cross a big lake that is several miles wide. The open water is a little intimidating but the wind is faint and to our backs and the lake couldn’t be much calmer. We get to the other side without much fuss.

The river on the other side of the lake is lined with houses and docks. Some of the houses are big and have pontoon boats. This is quite a bit different than what we are used to. People pass us on boats and wave. Some people are stalled and floating in the river, lines cast out into the shallow and clear water trying to catch some trout but not having much luck.

The day ends at a smaller lake called stump lake. It has a good view of the open river and the sun lays low on the horizon.

“I’m going swimming,” I tell Qball.

“Yes!” he says, taking off his shirt.

The water is cool and refreshing. We see a beaver swimming out on the other side of the river and an eagle flying overhead. Beneath us a small school of minnows swim past us. There’s a lot of wildlife on the river. We’ve seen Ospreys and Blue Herons and Loons, and countless other birds, both small and large, as well as turtles and water snakes and frogs. There’s a lot of of biodiversity out here. I haven’t spent much time on the water, and I’m seeing and noticing things I’ve never experienced before. It’s a totally different habitat out here, and it’s bursting with life.

Light descends on our last day and we all turn in to bed. It’s been a long 4 days but we are all having a good time so far. The river turns dark and the crickets come out to play their nighttime songs. The chirping bounces off the water and fills the banks of the river. A loon cries out suddenly. It’s lonely but beautiful, filling the air with soft warmth. It’s the type of sound that makes you stop and just look at the water. You stare at the slow current, see the ripples circling outward. You stare deep into the center and think about all the things that you haven’t thought about in a while. Your thoughts drift along and don’t mean much of anything. They’re just there and float along down the river with everything else.