Flint River Watershed Coalition

 

 

"I redeemed myself today. I'm not the quitter I thought I was the last time. I even went the extra mile. But then, this time the weather was on my side."

           

The curious kayaker got out of bed much earlier than the times before. He checked the weather for the Thumb, most importantly the wind direction. It was mostly from the south, but forecasted to be from the northwest later. He liked the sound of a south wind. It would be at his back when paddling, but a northwest wind would be pushing him toward the shore. There also was a 50% chance of a thunderstorm. 

           
With a new digital waterproof camera, and a fully charged Forerunner gps, he began driving to the Thumb in the dark. It was the first day of autumn, but the temperature was expected to reach the seventies. He made good time and was cabling Swiftee to a stairway leading to a beach around eight o'clock. The stairway was on the easement of Russell Drive homeowners. When he quit last time he got permission from property owners, Tim and Pam Quinn, to use the easement when he continued his journey.

           


He drove the van and planted it at McGraw County Park, where he meant to finish at the last time. Getting to McGraw by kayak would be less than a five-mile paddle. After what happen the last time, he thought kayaking five miles or less would be a wise plan. Then, after seeing the paddling conditions, he would decide whether to go farther. 

           
He finished running back to the easement from McGraw Park and was in the water by 9:30. He was eighty miles from home yet benefiting from one of his earliest starts ever. It was very humid, no use changing into a dry shirt. Just the thought of a dry shirt over his drenched sticky body made him shudder. He left his saturated running shirt on and pushed off.

           
The waves may have been a foot high but there were no white caps like the last time. And, they were in his favor, striking the rear of the kayak at 8 o'clock.



He set his navigational gps to Little Oak Point, 0.9-mile away, and was there in fifteen minutes. The paddling speed was sixteen minutes a mile; he was a happy river paddler once again, for that pace was comparable to paddling on a river with average current.

           
He reset his bearing to the next tip of land, Hat Point, which the gps readout said was three miles away. He wondered why it had an unusual name. From looking at the point a mile away, it looked as though he could see a large pleasure craft with a cover moored there. As he approached, the boat morphed into a sedimentary rock formation. The curious kayaker was struck with awe, for outcroppings of bedrock in Michigan's southern peninsula are far and in between because of all the glacial till.

           


"I got the impression Hat Point was named after the formation, it didn't look like a hat to me, but it had been crumbling, so at one time maybe it did. Good thing it wasn't left for me name. If so, people today would be calling it Chris Craft Point."

           
Past the point, the van was about a half mile away. Riley arrived there but was not done. With the easygoing waves he was ready for another four to five miles, especially since it was only 11:00 am.

           
He cabled Swiftee to a tree and prepared to move the van down to the next stop but he could not get out of the park. M-25 was being paved and the paving crew was blocking the park entrance.



He decided it was a good time for a snack.


He whipped a piece of carrot cake from the cooler and washed it down with Lost Sailor IPA. Soon after, a flagman permitted him to exit the park and head north.

           
The next public beach off M-25 would be at Port Crescent State Park campground. He went there and looked for decent landing spot. While at the campground, he looked at a map he saw another park up the road a mile. Before making the final decision he decided to check it out. The map named it Jenks County Park, but the entrance signage stated it was a Jenks State Roadside Park. That didn't matter to him, what made his decision to park the van there was the distance by kayak. From where he'd left Swiftee, McGraw Park, to the Port Crescent campground, it was less than three miles. With good wave conditions he was looking to go further, and Jenks Park was closer to four miles.

           
By foot it was four and a half miles getting back to the kayak; the same distance he had ran previously. Before launching he set gps coordinates to Jenks Park. He had the good sense before running to boot up the laptop in the van and write down the coordinates from the map program.

           
Once kayaking he noticed the gps stating the distance to Jenks was only 3.5 miles. He checked the distance for the next point, Flat Rock, using the gps. It was 4.8 miles, and from there to the town of Port Austin, it was only another two miles or less. He began doing some calculations in his head. He figured that paddling less than 20-minutes a mile he could be in Port Austin in a couple of hours. Of course it meant he'd be beyond his van and would have to run once more. He estimated the run back would be less than the two previous 4.5 mile runs. He decided to go for it and left the gps setting to Flat Rock.

           
Kayaking from McGraw Park to Flat Rock, would be his longest point-to-point paddle ever. It also meant he'd be venturing over a mile away from shore. Months ago when trying to decide whether kayaking the Great Lakes in such a small boat was plausible, he vowed to always hug the shoreline. Well…

           
"The mental images I get in my head when taking on challenges are always scarier than when I get out and actually do it. Take drubbling for instance, in my head, the balls are constantly getting away and people are tripping over them, plus I feel closed in by runners, claustrophobic. In reality it's never that way at all. I'm glad I don't always let mental images rule my actions. I believe many people don’t take on new challenges because they can't get past the initial mind games going on in there heads.

           
"Saying all that does not mean I throw caution to the wind. In this case the wind making the waves had much to do with taking a chance. The risk was minimal today, so I went for it. If I saw anything looking like a storm cloud - and thunderstorms were forecasted - I would have made a 90^o turn and headed for the shore. There is a Great Lakes freighter song by the late Stan Rogers that I sang while out there today, White Squall. Two lined from the lyrics are, 'Well, I told that kid a hundred times don't take the Lakes for granted. They go from calm to a hundred knots so fast they seem enchanted.'

           
"I did try to check the depth once while out there. Surprisingly, the Humminbird gadget did work momentarily, but only to say that I was in water over 20-feet deep. It was set only to read depths less than that, so who knows how deep it really was. Although capsizing and trying to get to the distant shore was never far from my mind. One rogue wave is all it would take."

           

When more than half-way to Flat Rock from McGraw Park, the kayaker looked into the depths of the water and saw reflections of clouds in the water. Upon looking at the sky there were no clouds above him. He thought he was in water twenty feet deep, but looking again, it was not cloud reflections he was viewing. Less than five feet below Swiftee he saw bottom, and not sand, but sandstone? Not knowing bedrock to be in the area, and seeing the bottom blanketed with large sheets of flat rock, again the curious kayaker again went into a state of awe.

           
The depth soon changed and the vision of sheet rock disappeared, but it wasn't a half-mile later, and near the next point, that again sheet rock was seen below the boat.

           

Closing in on Flat Rock Point, Riley could see why it was so named. A massive rock less than a hundred feet from shore stuck out of the water making an island of about 150 feet in diameter. Much of the surface was covered with yellow-orange lichen.

           

"Just last week I was in the U.P. hiking Pictured Rocks National Shoreline. This formation though not as grandiose, is comparable geologically. Living less than ninety miles away I never knew this sort of shoreline existed on the Thumb shoreline. I later found a brochure about Port Austin, and in it was a picture of another island rock formation located it the tip of the Thumb. The formation, Turnip Rock, looks to be smaller than Flat Rock, but more picturesque. I'm anxious to see it and will be passing it on my next leg."

           
From Flat Rock Point to Port Austin, a distance of a mile and a half, most of the shoreline was rocky and several rocks protruded out of the water.



Bedrock bottom was all the curious kayaker saw from Flat Rock Point to town. Swiftee glided over it, even scraping it a couple times.

           
When he landed at a beach adjacent to the pier he began looking for a place to secure the kayak. When doing so a sightseeing couple in there late sixties began asking him questions about the area. They were from St Joseph, on the Lake Michigan side of the state. They had arrived following the shoreline from Port Huron. They remarked how different their Michigan sunset shoreline was compared to the sunrise side, saying theirs side was less rocky, and more sandy.

           
"I told them that that would soon change, told them the west side of the Thumb was like the west side of the state; soon they would be seeing sand dunes at Port Crescent and beautiful beaches in the Caseville area."

           
"They asked where I was from, when I told them Clio they began naming people I knew. One was Jim Waner, who I've known for twenty-five years. Just about every Clioian knows him; he is one of the city commissioners. The couple, Chuck and Sally Salvano, were high school classmates of Waner many-moons-ago in St. Joseph. 

           
"I kept my distance from the nice couple thinking I had to smell. I was still wearing the shirt I'd run in twice, not to mention kayaked in. Now, I was getting ready to run for the third time in it!"

           
Riley said goodbye to Chuck and Sally, secured Swiftee to a tree near the marina, and headed off on foot to find Jenks Park and his red Pontiac van.

 
The last running leg was three mile, making the total running distance 12 miles for the day. The total of the two kayaking segments was 11 miles.

 

Horseshoe to Horseshoe Day 17: September 8, 2009

 

 

"Sometimes I can be a real quitter. But, like that Greek said, "He who fights and runs away, might live to fight another day. Still, that doesn't make me feel better. I feel I've failed. Today I’m a loser."

 

From that opening statement it's obvious the curious kayaker did not have a good outing today. He arose early; it was still dark out, 6:00 am when he rolled out of bed. He first checked the weather report for Caseville. It was in the 50s and a high of 70 was forecasted. The wind velocity was zero. He was expecting more glasslike surface for Swiftee to skim across.

 

Traveling to the Thumb he went through much dense fog. No rain was predicted but the humidity was hanging on. He'd made it to Sebewaing about 8:00 am and grabbed a fast breakfast McDonalds.

 

"I went in and bought a couple sausage biscuits. I stopped using takeout windows last year when the gas went over $4.00. Seriously, the windows aren't faster. Convenient, yeah, but mainly people are lazy, and think of all the gasoline being wasted at takeout windows. Those windows are another way McDonalds leads the way of making it easy for people to get fat." …Riley’s remark, as he ate two artery clogging sandwiches.

 

It was around 8:30 when he arrived at the beach in Caseville and looked for a place to lock up the kayak. The best place he could come up with was to a waste receptacle in the middle of the strand.

 

"Seriously, if anybody wanted to, they could have stolen Swiftee just by taking the trash can too, tossing the ensemble in a pickup. Still, I put all my belongings in the hull, put the skirt over the cockpit, and crossed my fingers. I figured the best thing in my favor… it was the day after Labor Day, the first day of school, a day 99% of delinquents probably attend."…remarked the one time delinquent, one who should know.

 

He drove the van ten miles north on M-25, to one of several county parks along the shoreline, this particular one was named McGraw. After waiting for the Forerunner gps to locate satellites he headed on foot back to Caseville. Five minutes into the run he looked at the gps to see his progress; the screen was blank.

 

“Yeah, the battery was dead. I’d turned it on the day before, and then didn’t turn it off. I was quite perturbed at myself. It wasn’t as important when running, but I do rely on it while kayaking. Checking the pace periodically gives a good estimation of arrival times, and back at home, I like uploading data to the PC and reviewing Swiftee’s breadcrumbs, or trail he left on a map.”

 

The kayaker arrived back at the beach in Caseville to find Swiftee and contents unscathed. He began paddling about 11:30 after the hand held navigational gps found satellites. The first landmark he aimed for was Oak Point. The gps said it was just under two miles on a NNE heading. The waves interfered with his progress. It took nearly an hour to get to Oak Point. It was pretty obvious the wind speed was not zero as the weather page stated at 6:00 am.

 

He stopped for a moment at Oak Point and emptied the water from the bowels of Swiftee, which had accumulated from all the wave action. The gps was then set to the next point, which was a 60^o easterly turn from the previous direction. The waves were now bigger and coming from a more perpendicular direction.

 

Also at Oak Point he discovered the printed Google Earth map inside Ziploc bag was blurred and unreadable. A small tear was seen at the bottom of the plastic bag. Today was not going well at all.        

           

“The wind speed at 6:00 am was 0 mph, but I couldn’t get a forecast for noon and beyond, hard to find a forecast for wind speed. The next point was 1.6 miles away. I knew I’d have to stop again and bale the water out of Swiftee. I figured once there I’d put the spray skirt on. Without the Forerunner gps I had no idea what rate of speed I was going, only that it was the slowest I’d ever paddled. Relative to Swiftee and me the houses along the shoreline seemed to be standing still.

 

"Despite the nowhere progress, I was having fun with the waves. It was like a rough water ride at Cedar Point, except I did have a paddle and some control. When a big wave would catch me, I tried meeting it head on. Swiftee would rise and fall with a loud slap. I was laughing and having a grand time. Occasionally a big one would catch me off guard. I’d get a pie in the face for daydreaming. Still, it made me smile. I tried checking the depth the only way I could, and it was deeper than the 7.5 feet paddle. I was in water over my head but the shoreline was close, so I felt relatively safe not veering from the point ahead.

 

"I tried taking pictures of the waves and surroundings but with no lens cover I had to wipe down the lens before each shot. After snapping I began slinging the lanyard and camera around my neck and over my shoulder. Upon slinging it the third time I heard a “Splush.” The camera had somehow come loose from the clasp. My immediate response was to jump in after it, but I knew the water was over my head. Maybe if the water was calm I might have tried a few dives, but it was just too scary under the conditions. My mood suddenly changed. It’s all fun and games until someone loses a $150, waterproof digital camera. At least the double AA batteries are in a sealed compartment, environmentalists shouldn't be too upset with me.”

 

When Riley reached the next point and tried landing, the kayak became swamped by waves. He worked hard pulling the water-filled kayak, 63 gallons, 526 pounds, to shore and dumping it. Out of the water, the soaking wet kayaker became chilled and wanted to get back to paddling just to heat up. Before doing that, he pulled out the rain parka and put it on for warmth, and then tried calling home. Shivering, he told Hope the about the camera, but with terrible cellular reception and blowing wind, the rest of the conversation was, “Can you here me now?” He gave up. Before installing the skirt over the cockpit, he retrieved a backup disposable camera out from a drybag then relaunched.
 

 

The next point the kayaker aimed for was also 1.6 miles away. The spray skirt helped much but when he arrived at the point, although not swamped, gallons of water still had to be drained.
 

 

“At this point I’d about had it. Without the map, dead Forerunner gps, lost camera, breaking waves, and wind in the face, I felt it would be nightfall before reaching the van. Without a map I was down to guessing, and figured the van to be possible six miles away, for it was beyond the next two points, of which the second was 4.7 miles away according to the hand held gps. My new plan was to drag Swiftee along the beach to the next point, Little Oak, hide or secure the kayak, and run from there to the van.”

 

“Pulling Swiftee through the sand was faster than paddling but very exhausting. My arms would tire after a hundred yards and I’d switch hands. I had to look as dumb as I felt. It seemed as if eyes inside cottages were upon me but being the day after Labor Day the beaches were deserted. After dragging Swiftee for a half mile, a short distance ahead I saw something very interesting. Could it be a mirage? I hadn't seen a person all day. But ahead I saw a woman in a skimpy two-piece bathing suit wading through the waves. I’m sure I looked very interesting to her also, but in a scary way. Trudging along, carrying a paddle, yanking a boat, and wearing a rain parka I had to look like a cross of characters from, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly and Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

 

When I got close to her I discovered a man, her husband, lying on a blanket nearby.”

 

The stranger on the shore spoke first, “Too rough out there?”          

 

Riley replied, “Yeah I bit off more than I could chew. I started back in Caseville and my van is still about five mile up the shoreline.”

 

“What were you thinking?” the man asked the stupid guy pulling Swiftee.

 

“Well, when I left home this morning, reports were that the wind speed was zero.”

 

“Would you like a ride?”

 

Riley paused a long moment, though one part of him did not want to quit just yet, something else came out of his mouth, “Yeah, could you?” he said.

 

Minutes later Riley was in the passenger seat of his new friend, Tim Quinn and heading to McGraw County Park to get his van.

 

Upon returning with the van Riley loaded Swiftee. He wanted to again thank Mr. Quinn and saw the street his cottage was on, Russell Drive, directly across M-25 from the easement. Driving to the end of Wallace he found the pickup truck he'd just ridden in. The couple came out to meet him. He thanked them and asked if he could use their easement when he continued his journey. Permission was granted. Tim accepted a Bells Two-Hearted IPA as a thank you. Riley would have gladly given the whole six-pack but Tim only would take one bitter beer as a sweet reward for helping the quitter.

 

Although Riley ran 10.25 mile getting from McGraw Park to Caseville he only needed to run 5.75, for that was the distance from the Quinn's easement back to Caseville. The distance Swiftee progressed was about the same, 5.8 miles.

Horseshoe to Horseshoe Day 16: September 2, 2009

           

The curious kayaker’s visions of cattails attacking him had diminished from what they were a week ago. His legs were terribly scratched from the marshy reeds, why he could not say, but they now were well scabbed over. A cool day with much sunshine was forecasted for Huron County, Michigan’s thumbnail, as the kayaker headed north. But what made him happiest was another weather item, wind velocity: 0 mph.

 

He headed directly to the Bay Port marina, not where he’d stopped kayaking last time, but where he had park the Pontiac van. When there, Swiftee was cabled and locked to a tree by the boat launch, the paddle, cooler, and two dry bags of belongings were hidden in various places. His next stop was Sand Point.

 

Sand Point is a long narrow four-mile long peninsula that juts out into Saginaw Bay. It blocks a direct route to Caseville, making what could be an 8-mile trip, over 11 miles for water vessels.

 

Riley believed he could save a couple miles of paddling by portaging Swiftee across the narrowest section of the peninsula. On the hand held gps he plotted the coordinates of where he should aim the kayak in order to do just that. From there, the south side of the peninsula, maps showed a street, A Avenue that led to the north side.

 

Riley arrived by van on the peninsula to look for that landing spot. The first thing he noticed was how calm the water was, and hoped it would stay that way until he launched; which was still a couple hours away.

 

He looked but did not find A Avenue. He did see Ann St. He figured A Ave. was a misprint of Ann, and familiarized the surroundings for orientation when he arrived by kayak. He had a detailed map of Sand Point, but left it with Swiftee, in Bay Port, so he could not reference it. Quite sure A was Ann he continued on to Caseville.

 

He decided to leave the van at the beach in Caseville operated by Huron County Parks. It was 9:20 in the morning and the beach was deserted. It was a beautiful day to be at the beach, but a little cool and too early for sunbathers or splashers. But, it was a perfect morning and time for a long run.

             

After a hundred minutes of running he was back at the boat launch in Bay Port. While Riley prepared to depart, three camouflaged waterfowl hunters landed in a camo- colored boat.

 

One spoke, “A beautiful day for what you’re doing.”

 

Riley told him, “Way better than last week, I had to paddle directly into oncoming waves.”

 

The kayaker wanted to ask if they had been hunting out of season. He didn’t, thinking maybe they had some sort of special permit. In the boat was a pile of decoy Canada geese.

 

Riley's analysis was, “Can’t believe people actually hunt, shoot and eat those pest. If I wanted to bag one of those things I know several places so populated with geese, I could just stone them to death with rocks.”

 

“I never saw a gun. There were a couple of bird dogs. My final thought was the hunters were just out letting the dogs do their thing.” He was surprised to find out later goose season had started the day before, the first of September.

 

Riley finally launched and headed north, up the long channel that leads to Wild Fowl Bay.



He turned west, away from Wildfowl Bay, when an opening appeared, for he was on a quest to find the point where he’d left off last week when darkness fell.

 

It was a distance of 0.70 miles from the launch site to that spot, Wild Fowl Point. Though the finish and starting points were less than a mile apart, the anal kayaker felt compelled to go back, dot his i’s and cross his t’s. He was smart ending where he did last week, for finding the cut where he’d just exited the channel would have been difficult in the dark.

 

When nearing the three cottages at the point, he heard a small engine, possibly someone was mowing.



He approached despite the sound for he wanted a photo; the last time it was too dark. As he neared, the engine stopped and he thought it was because of his approaching, so he landed. He exited the kayak and walked toward a heavyset man sitting on a lawn tractor.

 

“Hello.” Said Riley.

 

The man said nothing.

 

Riley continued, “Last week I landed here when it became too dark to kayak. Hope that was alright?”

 

The man said nothing, just nodded his head and began lighting a cigar.

 

Riley wondered if he was talking to a deaf person but asked one more question.

 

“Are all three of these cottages owned by the same family?”

 

“Yup.”

 

He was not deaf, just a man of few words, and not too friendly. Basically, Riley got what he was looking for, forgiveness for trespassing last week; he headed back to the kayak.

 

When paddling again he set his gps bearing to the spot at Sand Point where he would find Ann Street. But now, with a detailed map of Sand Point in hand he discovered A Avenue and Ann Street were not the same. He had to make a decision, follow the gps coordinates he’d set for A Ave. or go looking for the easement he’d visited at Ann Street.

 

He decided to go searching for the easement at Ann Street, mainly because when driving the point he never saw an A Avenue. He did see a drive named Gate A, but it dead-ended before reaching the shoreline. Ann Street, not as far out on the peninsula, would cut off even more paddling distance, but the portage would be longer, that’s if he could find Ann.

 

As Riley paddled four miles across Wild Fowl Bay looking for the easement, not a ripple was seen, the water surface looked like warped glass. It was the calmest waters he’d ever seen on the Great Lakes.

 

Many times while approaching Sand Point he changed his bearing trying to figure about where the Ann Street easement might be. He figured when reaching the shore he might have to paddle a mile along the shore looking for it. There was also a chance he’d go the wrong way looking for it.

 

When a hundred yards from the shore it was decided to begin heading east along the shoreline. He had no more than changed directions when he saw a familiar wooden bench, one he’d seen earlier at the Ann Street easement. He thought he’d gotten lucky.

 

Then when dragging the kayak past the bench someone was sitting on it. It wasn’t a real person, just and old familiar ghost.

 

“You like how I guide you right to this spot?” Chief Pontiac said.

 

With a scowl Riley said, “Oh, you what to take credit, huh? Forget you. Go away. I don’t need you. ”

 

“Don’t be silly Woodchuck, you need me to protect you on your long journey.”

 

“Protect me! Protect me? You can’t be serious, look at my legs, look at the cuts and scratches from last week. Where were you then?”

 

“Oh, you not hurt. Woodchuck act like big papoose. Grow up and be Odawa brave like me.”

 

“Ugh, like I’d want to emulate you.”

 

“I was there last week when you climb up on duck blind. I protected you. You could have fall and really hurt self. I held you steady. And week before, remember you slip on rock and fall?”

 

“Oh, I suppose if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have landed safely?”

 

“True, I move rock in water so you not hurt your soft head.”

 

“There were so many things last week you could have done to help but just ignored.”

 

“Pontiac work in mysterious way. Someday you will understand. Today you a woodchuck, stick with Pontiac, someday you could be wolverine”

 

Finishing that statement the Indian stood up from the bench walked into the water and dove under.

 

Riley did not wait for him to emerge, he knew the routine well enough to know the spirit was gone, departed until his next unscheduled visit.

 

With Swiftee in tow Riley headed for Ann Street. The portage was longer than the planned quarter-mile, but in less than a half-mile he was at another easement at the north end of the street.



On the north shore of the peninsula the kayaker viewed miles of beautiful beach. It was quite unlike where he landed on the south shore. There, where he exited, his sandals sunk in muck.

 

Before launching from the sandy beach he munched on cheese and pretzels while enjoying some Black Forest brew. The beer… Lost Sailor.

 

It was a four and a half mile paddle to the long pier that protrudes out from the town of Caseville. The water’s surface was not as smooth as on Wild Fowl but he did not feel it slowed his paddling any.

 

He said, “It was the longest point to point paddle I'd ever done. I could see the pier for miles but it just did not seem to get closer. It was like in dreams where you are running but not getting anywhere. After reaching and rounding the pier, the next point I aimed for was my van parked at the public beach and in my site."

 

"After landing and dragging Swiftee across the sandy beach to the van, I felt like washing off.



I had water for that purpose in the van but the beach looked more inviting. It was a beautiful day but only a few people were on the beach. None were in the water so I figured the water must be cold. I'm glad I did not make a decision based on sunbathers. It turned out to be the warmest Great Lakes water I’d ever been in. I did not linger, just rinsed myself off, put clean dry clothes on at the van and headed home."

 

Riley paddled 10.2 miles total on leg sixteen. He subtracted from that the first 0.7-mile, the distance from the Bay Port Marina back to where he left off last week. So, only 9.5 miles were knocked off the Horseshoe to Horseshoe journey. The run distance was 9.75 miles.                   

 

           

 

 

 

"What a nightmare."

           

That was the curious kayaker's final analysis of the fifteenth leg of his expedition. From the time he woke up, things pointed to a bad kayaking day.

           

It was raining outdoors but he checked the radar weather report; it was not presently raining in Michigan's Thumb, and the forecast also was good. One bit of information did register, and he wondered if it would be a problem, the wind's direction was from the north.

           

It was 9:30 before the red van was aimed toward Saginaw Bay, a little later than usual.

           

He arrived at Sebewaing's Senior Meal Site, the place where he’d left off nine days earlier, at about 10:30. He was hoping to find the site’s caretaker Don, whom he met the last time. He wanted to ask him where he might store Swiftee and contents until launch time. But, the building was unattended and locked, so Riley cabled the kayak to a tree near the channel to the bay.

           

In route to Bay Port, where he intended to deposit the van, he checked out other shoreline hamlets named on the maps, Rose Island and Weale. The curious, investigative kayaker had much concern about this leg, for all maps he'd looked at charted it differently. 



He tended to agree with Google Earth imagery for they were actual satellite photographs. But, the photos are over five years old, and the Great Lakes have risen in the last year.

           

There are several islands between Rose Island and Wild Fowl Point; they are best shown by the Michigan county map atlas. Going by Garmin MapSource all the islands looked as one, and connected to the mainland like a peninsula. The best chart, the Google Earth image, showed a stream-like body of water separating the Thumb from the islands.

           

Riley made phone calls to a bait shop, and a charter fishing company days before asking what route a kayaker should take. One proprietor advised taking "Dynamite Cut" through the islands, while the other said the shoreline channel, “Blind Pass,” is passable this year, even by fishing boats.    

           

So, on the way to Bay Port the investigative kayaker decided to get a third opinion. At a boat motor repair/bait shop at Weale, he asked a crusty old fisherman working on a motor, what was the best way through the area. He said to follow the shoreline's, Blind Pass, there would be at least two feet of water all the way. Riley felt more confident as he left Weale.

 

Arriving in Bay Port he parked the van at the marina. But before running back to Swiftee in Sebewaing, the cautious kayaker took one more precaution. He booted up his laptop, found the coordinates of Wild Fowl Point on the Garmin MapSource program and keyed them into his hand held gps.

           

The temperatures were in the low sixties, so after running ten miles back to Sebewaing, he was not drained physically as other times. Upon arriving at the site where Swiftee was, it was in the afternoon but still cool out.

 

It was after 1:00 pm, so before launching he ate the lunch he'd packed, BBQ chicken pizza and Lost Sailor IPA.

 

The 1:40 start was the latest launch time of the expedition, and there was still over a mile of paddling to get out to Saginaw Bay via the channel.



In the channel, attempts were made to find its depth. The Humminbird receiver's wrist display continued to read, "waiting for signal." For the next hour it said nothing different, Riley finally shut the uncooperative gadget off. It did not concern him, for after exiting the channel he knew he wouldn't be in waters over his head.

 

When out of the channel, the paddler met waves coming directly at him from the north. His forward progress was stuck in low gear. The forward rate of movement for the next eight miles was between 35 and 45 minutes a mile. Slower than bush kayaking pace, and he was just as wet or wetter.



In that time he noticed the Google imagery maps he'd printed out, and placed inside a Ziploc bag, were all wet. The bag was not sealed properly and water from waves entering the cockpit had blurred the photos, making them useless.

 

Without them it was difficult locating, Blind Pass to the east. As he advanced through the waves he kept looking for the shoreline channel but could not find it.

 

Riley figured out later, "I think I know now how it got named. Looking east you don't see it; wetland plants overlap from north and south blocking the view of the entrance."    

 

Time crawled at a snail’s pace because of the paddling rate. It was somewhere near 5:30 when ahead he saw a small structure anchored in the water. It was a duck blind, minus the camouflage netting. He aimed Swiftee for it just for a place to take a paddling break, and "check in" with his “harbormaster” back in Clio.

 

But first, at the blind, and resting in a cul-de-sac of cattails, he turned on his hand held gps to see how far away Wild Fowl Point was. The hi-tech equipment said, 3.25 mile, and the compass pointed northeast. But, before him in that direction marshes blocked the way, as well as to the west and east. The channel he'd been looking for, Blind Pass, was straight east somewhere, but dense cattails blocked any sight of it.

 

"It was at this point I got Hope on the phone, I gave her my coordinates thinking she could go to Garmin MapSource on the computer, see where I was, and advise me on the best way to get through the marshes. When she figured out where I was, she sort of freaked, saying I had to paddle nine miles around all the islands to get to Wild Fowl Bay."

 

"No way was I going to do that, with a paddling speed 0.6 mph I'd be paddling in the dark without even a flashlight for guidance. Listening to her I felt lost. I knew what she was saying made no sense. I told her forget it, that I would figure out a way through the marsh on my own."

 

"To me 'lost' means you don't know which way to go. I knew exactly which way to go, thanks to the gps bearing. But wetlands blocked the way; paddling through cattails I knew I was only 3.25 miles from Wildfowl Point and about 4.0 miles to the Pontiac van.”

 

From the duck blind, Riley headed east into the cattails hoping to find the Blind Pass and the shoreline. Once inside the thick reeds, miraculously he found a long, almost "too thin to paddle" channel, then went straight east. It led him right to Blind Pass. 

 

Now, un-lost, ironically he celebrated by pouring out a pint of Lost Sailor. The celebration was short lived though…

 

After paddling up the channel a mile at a pace twice as fast as before, he saw another duck blind in a marshy cul-de-sac. Had the blind been identical to the first, he'd have sworn he'd paddled in a circle. As he’d done before, he climbed the blind, stood at the top trying to get a view of open water beyond the marsh. 



To the east he saw no sign of Blind Pass. Déjà vu. Again, he had paddled right by it, because, again marsh plants overlapped and blocked the view to the entrance. Like before what he needed to do was take a hairpin turn south, then another hairpin to the north. 

 

Standing in wet clothes and chilled, and not seeing anything he climbed down from the blind, and again and went plowing through the cattails and reeds. This time, amongst the marsh plants he did not fair a well. They became too thick that the paddle was useless. Using his hands and arms he began grabbing stalks and thrusting Swiftee forward.

 

"While doing this, I become somewhat disheartened. But then, looking at the Forerunner gps, it said I was moving at a rate of 25 minutes a mile. I had to smile, for I was going much faster though the marsh than when the waves were working against me!" 

 

Eventually though, the reeds became too dense and the tenacious kayaker stalled. He had to exit the kayak into water that was above his knees, and muck nearly to his calves. He progressed further by pulling Swiftee. Once again he was a bush kayaker.

 

But even pulling the kayak came to a halt when the Riley became pinned between cattails and Swiftee.

 

"That's when I got behind Swifter and began pushing him. Using him as a wedge I plowed though the glades. I was wearing sandals and they became stuck in the muck. My feet came right out of them. I had to reach into the muck and search for them. It's a good thing I found, and retrieved them, for I would need them for what happened later…"

 

"Out of the boat and stirring the muck below, I stirred up another problem, I released swamp gas, and not just odorless methane. H₂S was filling my nostrils. How long can you stay in an area that smells like rotten egg fart? Yeah, Pontiac, Great Protector, where were you? I wanted to know." 

 

Riley continued plowing through nearly a half-mile of dense marsh then stood on the kayak to see if any relief was in sight. He did, and "Water Ho!" is what he felt like screaming when seeing an end of marsh plants a hundred yards ahead.
 

 

Once in the open water he saw a point ahead, beyond it was another point, one he could not see, but the one he'd been aiming for by gps, Wild Fowl. It was well over a mile away. He paddled madly for it was nearly 8:00 pm and he was running out of light.

 

Waves from the north were slowing his rate once again, but magically he found a burst of energy and paddled more ferociously than before.

 

When arriving at Wild Fowl Point darkness was upon him. But the van was still at Bay Port, 0.70 mile further. He would have continued but he knew the channel to the marina, was lined with reeds, and would be difficult to find. And, he had clashed enough with cattails for one day. When he saw three remote cottages on Wild Fowl Point he docked at the first slip he saw.  

 

Exiting Swiftee he immediately called home, and told Hope he was out of the water and safe. Looking around he saw no road. For a moment he thought the homes were accessible only from the bay. There were no lights on in the cottages, there was just enough light to find a trail leading from the point. Leaving Swiftee he walked down the trail a quarter mile to where he came to a locked gate. The kayaker was hoping to drive back to the Wild Fowl Point and retrieve Swiftee, but the gated properties meant he'd have to drag the ladened kayak a quarter mile when returning with the van. Continuing on down the trail and in wet clothes he began to shiver.

 

To stop shivering he decided to run, even though he was wearing sandals. The two-track trail led to a driveway, which in turn, went out to M-25, the highway into Bay Port. He continued jogging the rest of the way to the marina, which was dimly lit, and found his van.

 

"Never before has my van seemed like such a refuge. In it I was felt so relieved. I took off my wet garments and put on dry clothes. I was just beginning to feel some comfort but had one more task before me."

 

The kayaker headed back to the gated trail and parked the van. Now with a flashlight he jogged the quarter mile back to the cottages. Before dragging Swiftee back to the van, he drained all the water out of him to lighten the load. In route back to the gate, he wondered how he'd ever be able to start the next leg at Wild Fowl Point. If only he could get a key to that gate.

           

A total of 11.25 miles were run. 10 miles in running shoes the rest in sandals. The total distance kayaked was 11.6 miles, but 1.25 of that was down the channel, getting back to Saginaw Bay, so actually he is now 10.35 closer to where ever it is he is going. 

                         

           

           

It was an overcast day when the curious kayaker arrived back at Thomas Marina to deposit Swiftee. He looked for a way to avoid the marina for he felt he would be asked to pay a fee to launch. He drove around the adjacent RV campground and found a trail that followed the channel to the bay. He looked for the first object that he could cable and lock Swiftee. There were broken pieces of concrete slabs which protected the channel on the left side of the trail. The other side of the trail was entirely reeds. The only object he saw to tether the kayak to were a couple cement blocks.

           

But, when pulling Swiftee out of the van the first thing he noticed is that the cable was not attached. He had taken it off six days ago and used it to cable his bicycle when biking, and forgotten to put it back. The only option left was to hide the kayak. But, after someone swiping his beer cooler the week prior, leaving one of his most valuable possessions open to thievery weighed heavily on his mind.

           

"I hid Swiftee in the rushes and tried to conceal him the best I could, but sky blue Swiftee was still more visible than the green cooler was last week. If I ever lost him I don't think I would continue my odyssey. It’s just Swiftee and me to the sea and beyond. I also hid several other valuables, but spaced them out so no one would find them all, but still, only one valuable item worried me."

           

Riley left Thomas wondering if he'd ever see Swiftee again and drove to Sebewaing. The Sebewaing River is channeled from downtown out to the bay, and the waterway is quite lengthy. He looked for a place on the channel, but as close to the bay as possible. He found a Sebewaing County Park at the end of Union Street. At the very end of Union he found a lodge-like building next to the channel. There he spoke to a seventy-two year old gentleman named Don. Don was the caretaker of the building, Sebewaing's Senior Meal Center, and his wife was the cook.

           

Riley asked Don, "How far down the channel from is the bay from here?"

           

Don told him, "About a quarter mile."

           

"Would there be a problem if I left my van here until I returned by kayak to pick it up." Riley asked.

           

Don said, "We will have a dozen cars here around at lunchtime, but one more car won't be a problem."    

           

Don was very accommodating, showing Riley a good place to debark when he arrived back. It was quite unlike the last two places he finished. Don also offered him coffee and bathroom facilities. Riley took him up on the use of the restroom before starting his nine-mile run back to Swiftee.

When leaving Sebewaing on foot, he got the latest weather report for Sebewaing by calling home - temperature of 73, and possibility of a thunderstorm.

           

After ninety minutes of running he arrived back at Thomas and was glad to find Swiftee still hiding in the reeds. The second hidden object he looked for was a new cooler, which replaced the green stolen one. It too was where he'd left it, along with three chilled bottles of beer inside. 



The happy kayaker prepared for launch. But before departing he took a quick dip to rinse off the sticky residuals of sweat from running nine and a half miles. When doing this he stepped on a slimy algae covered rock and fell backward into the water. In free fall he feared the worse, but the landing place was free of other rocks. Going down he thought he heard Pontiac’s voice telling him, “I got your back.” 

 

After splashing for only twenty seconds he was ready to travel.

           

When paddling he felt the waves were to his advantage, rolling to the northeast; but still many degrees off from the direction he was heading. With a pace of just under 19 minutes a mile it was apparent the wave assistance was minimal.

           

To get to Sebewaing, and his van, he had to paddle around the small peninsula of Fish Point, the northernmost part of Tuscola County. He continually aimed Swiftee toward the point, but it was difficult. Many marshy islands made it hard to distinguish the best path.
 

 
The number of these islands depends on the level of the Great Lakes of a particular year. This year, with lakes being up, there were more, and the fortunate kayaker could cut through islands that in other years would not be there. All the while the kayak was in water less than two-feet deep and cruising over aquatic vegetation. When viewing maps, and the path marked by gps afterward, it looked as if he was paddling over land. (observe map)

           

Once around the point he commenced to looking for Sebewaing. Spotting a place on the horizon where the city was, he set his bearing. Soon enough, he realized the bearing was off, for a channel leading to the town protruded a mile out into the Saginaw Bay, making a long thin peninsula. He change his paddling direction a few degrees to the north. 

           

Between Fish Point and the channel, the water's depth did not drop more than five feet. Don, the caretaker at the senior facility, had told him earlier it was only three feet deep. Riley figured his statement reflected the depth a year before, when the bay was shallower.

           

When Riley arrived at the mouth of the channel, he realized what Don had said about the bay being a quarter mile down the channel, was way off by 400%. He paddled over a mile up the channel before seeing a place where he believed his van to be. A man happened to be a man standing at the exact spot, on a bank five foot high. The kayaker asked, "Do you see a red van behind you?" The sixtyish looking man said, "Yes." This prompted Riley to land and stop his gps.  
 

             
 

      

           

The man, named George, was camping in the county campground adjacent to the senior center. He was an ex-Michigander who'd moved to Florida decades earlier. He and his wife had come back to Michigan for vacation. He said they'd had a great time and only had a day left before heading home, and they had really enjoyed the weather of the last two weeks.

           

"Pretty hot back in Florida this time of year, huh?" Riley stated.

           

"Hot and humid, a little humid here today but not hot." George said.

           

"We were suppose to get a thunderstorm here today; looks like the weatherman lied again."

           

When the conversation had ended and Riley dragged the kayak across the parking lot to the van, packed up and left. It was almost 3:00 pm and he hadn't had lunch. On the north end of town, on M-25, he found a hole-in-the-wall bar named Sport-ez. When he ordered a cheeseburger the lady at the bar said, "I didn't think anybody would be ordering a cheeseburger after this weekend. So, I didn't take many patties from the freezer, got one here for you though."

           

He did not understand at first but remembered, it was Monday and the weekend before was the Cheeseburger in Caseville Festival. The town of Caseville is two towns to the north, and nearly twenty miles away.

           

Going by car, or kayak, the next Thumb shoreline town is Bayport. Riley hopes are to arrive in Bayport on the next leg, and Caseville the leg after. The running, and kayaking distances, of both legs are both under eleven miles.

 

Riley remarked, saying, "I'm looking forward to both legs, the distances are ideal, what I'd like to see more of in the future. The past two kayaking legs of five to six miles are making the expedition's progress slower than I'd like… especially when having to paddle up channels and away from the actual shoreline of the Great Lakes.

 

The distance ran in segment 14 was 9.5, and paddle distance was 5.8. But a mile of it was in channel, away from the bay and the off expedition course, hence only 4.8 miles was added in that respect.

           

           

           

           

             

It had been ten days since Riley and Swiftee had been in the waters of the Saginaw Bay. Somewhere in that time, the mini-mariner discovered he had left his paddle at the private estates of Oakhurst Park when debarking. He'd also wrecked his Pontiac van, sideswiping another vehicle in the time period. In the still drivable van, he first drove to Oakhurst Park today and discovered the paddle lying right where he'd left it, beside the boat launch. Paul, the Oakhurst Park man he had talked to last time, said possessions left in the area were pretty safe, but after ten days Riley was surprised when finding it still there. Which made what happen later, in a time lapse of two hours, harder to cope with and understand…

 

He left Oakhurst Park and drove to the desolate Oakhurst public boat launch; which is located a quarter-mile down a lonely trail from Oakhurst Park entrance. He then proceeded to unload for today's launch. He locked the kayaked to a post, hid the paddle in the bushes, and the green cooler behind a tree, then drove away to plant the vehicle. The vehicle was left at a location named Thomas on maps, 5 miles paddling distance and over seven by vehicle. At Thomas there is to much to speak of, a channel, Thomas Marina, an RVcampground, a couple homes.

 

The run back to the launch site was over seven miles with overcast conditions near 80 degrees. When back at the launch site, Riley was thirsting for some craft beer. The hidden cooler was the first he went to when arriving at the desolate launch. He looked behind the tree where it was stashed. It wasn't there! In disbelief the beer hunter looked elsewhere, all the while knowing exactly where he left it. The paddle, which had been two yards away, was still where he left it. In the kayak were more valuable items, camera, gps, binoculars, etc. The cautious kayaker had covered the kayak contents with the cockpit spray skirt, and the kayak had not been disturbed at all. Only the green cooler with blue ice packs and three bottles of beer had been stolen.

 

Riley, very aggravated said, "When I placed the cooler there earlier I asked myself, 'is it hidden well enough?' The place was remote, at a dead end trail, where only vehicles willing to drive through mud would go. I answered myself thinking, 'Yeah, no one's going to come back here in the next two hours, and it's not visible unless someone was snooping.' The thought crossed my mind that someone had been watching when I put it there, but if that were so, they'd also had seen the valuables I placed in the kayak.  To go so low as to steal a man's beer, the individual has to be a belly crawling varmint."

 

The "dying of thirst" beer loving kayaker stooped to drinking water at the launch and during the five mile kayak trip. 

           

Paddling out of the channel to the bay, Riley began hitting incoming waves.

 

Already he knew today the bay would not be as calm as the last time. Reaching the open water, he fumbled trying to get the depthfinder into position as waves pushed him toward shore. At the same time, he was wondering if he needed to put the spray skirt over the cockpit.
 

 

It was decided not to cover the cockpit until waves began entering the kayak. Only once or twice did water splash into the cockpit during the trip. And about a thousand feet from shore was the furthest out he was, and the depth was less than three feet deep.



If the kayak began taking in serious amounts of water, it would be no problem getting it out. He wore the life vest most of the time, though unneeded.

 

Like several weeks earlier, on the Flint, again he was back to paddling a short distance, five miles or so.  This time because he did not have the leg endurance for a long run; just the day before he'd run ten miles in jungle-like humidity and temperatures.    When out of the Oakhurst channel, he aimed Swiftee toward the next geographical point on the horizon, which turned out to be Thomas over four miles away.
 


In route, he was visited by the guiding spirit. He, Chief Pontiac, appeared from nowhere and sat on Swiftee's bow.

 

"Thirsty?" the half Ottawa, half Chippewa asked.    

"No, are you? I have extra water I could spare, if you are" Riley replied.

"I no need water, I have cooler with beer," said the chief.

"You bastard. Gimme my beer!"

"You no need beer, I take it to protect you today."

"Protect me from what? There is no danger out here today."

"This true, I say protect, I mean punish you."

"Punish me? What did I do wrong?"

"You wreck Pontiac van."

"True. But what's beer got to do with that. It was an accident and not alcohol related."

"When you hurt Pontiac van, it feel like you hurt me. Understand?"

"No, but then I find you hard to understand most all the time."

"Again, I say trust me. You would not like what would have happen today if you drinked three beers."

"Oh yeah, I forgot, you are my great protector."

"Stupid Woodchuck mind is slow, but he begin to catch on. What Woodchuck need right now is to cool off."

"Yeah, I'm a little pissed at you, don't see any way of alleviating that soon. I hope you can at least give back my cooler."

"I mean it is hot out, and you need to go for swim. Water is three feet deep. Swim. I will protect you."

"I don't need you to protect me in water three feet deep."

 

Riley did as suggested, took a break from paddling, pulled off his shirt, exited Swiftee, and dove underwater. When he emerged the spirit was no where to be seen.

 

With his arms raised to nothing in particular, Riley hollered, "I still want my cooler back!"

 

From his swimming spot, he was only a fraction of a mile to the boating channel leading to Thomas. The channel was not as long as the one he'd paddled up last time.



The marina at Thomas was not fancy. There were no impressive looking yachts harbored there, just fishing boats that had seen better days. If Swiftee could have talked, he certainly would have said he felt at home among the vessels. Though larger than he, all were of same lower class.

 

Riley pulled into a slip whose decking looked unsafe to walk on. He exited and pulled the kayak onto the dock wondering. Wondering because of where he landed the last time, wondering if he was welcome here. His van was within walking distance, he headed toward it nonchalantly, as if he belonged at Thomas Marina. Although several people saw him, none said a word. He drove the red van to the slip, opened the hatch, heaved Swiftee in, and drove away.

           

The running segment today was two legs of a right triangle, the sides totaling 7.25. He paddled the 5.6 mile hypotenuse. The running legs of the last two adventures have been longer than the kayaking leg. It's something he had not taken into account when considering the Horseshoe to Horseshoe Expedition. To do kayak segments of 16 miles or so means running segments of 20 miles or more. This might work once in a while, but it has to fit his running schedule of thirty to forty miles a week. Riley has always said, "Of all the hats I've worn in my life, I consider myself a runner first. That means I will listen to my legs, and run whatever is possible. Kayaking will have to take a backseat; shorter paddling legs seem to be in the future. The other alternative is to add biking to the mix, which I don't want to do, but haven't ruled out. As of the last leg, the journey thus far, has been composed of 169.25 miles of kayaking, and 143.75 miles of running. With open water kayaking, it looks as though running miles might soon catch up with those of kayaking."

A hazy Saginaw River morning greeted the curious kayaker when he arrived back at the M-13 fishing pull-off, downriver from the Zilwaukee Bridge. He put some extra zip in his step, for thunderstorms were forecasted for noon and beyond. As becoming a habit, he locked Swiftee to a tree, planted the van miles downstream and ran back to the kayak.

           

The fishing spot from where he launched was litter strewn with papers, plastic bags and bottles, cigarette butts and a disposable lighter. The sight irritated Riley.

 

Riley vented, "I know when I was here last week it did not look like this. I have photos so I know. People who trash are nothing but trash themselves. All it would take is to use one the bags they threw down for their garbage. There was no trash can around so I guess they figure that makes it all right… bastards." 

           

The humidity was in the high 90s. Riley launched without his shirt which is highly irregular, but after pulling off his saturated running shirt, he could not bear putting a dry one on over his sticky torso. He paddled some distance before feeling he should cover up and hide from the sun's hazy rays.  Before he did he soaked the shirt in the river. The thought of the pollutants in the river crossed his mind, but his body said it was refreshing.



It did not take long before noticing his movement downriver was slower than last week. The water was calm. There was no sign of current, which is typical for the Saginaw River. There is no elevation drop to speak of from the Shiawassee Flats to the Saginaw Bay. One could say the Saginaw Bay really starts in the Flats. The water depth in the Flats rises when winds come in from the bay and drops when blowing into the bay.

 

With a river this wide, 800 feet and more, paddling the tangents can trim a substantial distance. But that can be a problem, because from the city of Saginaw to the Bay, there are shipping lanes. Today it was not a problem; not one freighter was seen the entire way. When not cutting tangents through the shipping lanes, Riley was hugging the shoreline of both sides of the river. Along the banks, a tall grass was prominently seen. It sometimes stood higher than ten feet and looked like a corn relative.

 

           

Riley further explained, "I never had seen it on the Flint River. I tried to identify it on the internet. It appears to be 'common reed.' A USDA map of Michigan shows the counties where it grows. All the counties surrounding the Bay were in the distribution area."

           

Four miles from where Riley launched he came to a split in the river.
 


The river is divided for two miles by a sliver of an island which is never more than a quarter mile wide. It has the seemingly generic name of Middle Grounds. The south end is residential, and Bay City's Bigelow Park is at the north end. In the middle is a large hill which is now an inactive landfill and a sediment disposal area. The sediment is from dredging the river for shipping.

           

Riley reported, "I've paddled by Middle Grounds twice before, always on the shipping lane side. I decided to explore the narrower west branch this time, knowing it would add a distance of a tenth of a mile. On the Island's south end, I was surprised to see evidence that homeowners actually swam in the river. One house had a pool slide for splashing into the river.

           

"Down further, I found old abutments in the middle of the waterway, one nearer the south end, the other closer to the north end. Possibly railroad bridge remnants for on old maps I've seen tracks on the island. For over a hundred years vehicles have traveled to the island from the Lafayette Bridge near the north end of the island. The present bridge was built in the 1930s and it is actually two bridges connecting the island to Salzberg Avenue on the west, and Lafayette Avenue on the east. It is one of four Bay City vehicular drawbridges in three miles of river."

           

The Bay City riverfront has much to offer in sites and things to do. From the kayak, Riley passed under the boardwalk of the River Walk/Rail Trail as it crossed the river from Veteran's Memorial Park, on the west side, to Bigelow Park in the Middle Grounds.

           

Along the seawall of Veteran’s Park, he was surprised to see the Appledore IV, for it has always been harbored on the east side of the river.

 

Looking on the east side toward Wenonah Park, he did see people boarding another tour boat, the Princess Wenonah, from a tour bus.
,
   

           

He stayed on the river's west side since he planned on stopping at the marina owned by Hooter’s. He had hid the green cooler amid juniper bushes near the restaurant's parking lot.         

           

Pulling into the Hooter’s marina Riley saw signs stating the dock was for Hooter’s customers only. He left Swiftee anyway; his destination was Lumber Baron’s Brewery a block up Midland Street. Both establishments are owned by Bay City mogul Art Dore, so Riley rationalized it was okay to leave Swiftee at Hooters. Heading for the brewery he grabbed an empty growler out of the hidden cooler.

           

At the brewery he met and talked to brewer and acquaintance Marty Rapincki. His latest tap addition was a Helles. Not a favorite beer style of Riley’s, but he found it very refreshing. He ordered a pint, and also a half-gallon to go. After drinking the pint and ingesting a bland tuna melt, he was soon back to the green cooler. Then, filling a sport bottle with more Helles, he and Swiftee were soon back on the river.

           

Moments after launching it began to sprinkle. The rain never stopped. It was three miles more of paddling to his van at Smith Park in Essexville. On the way, he saw the Princess Wenonah heading back to Bay City. The tourist onboard must have been some years older than himself.

 

The kayaker/entertainer said, “I couldn’t see how old the seniors were, but got an idea from the Dixieland music blaring across the river. When “Hello Dolly” came out the speakers, I began using the kayak paddle as a baton and did the best stage dance I could from the confines of Swiftee without tipping over. I hope the old-timers enjoyed my vaudeville act."

           

Before reaching Smith Park in Essexville where the Pontiac van was, the rain began coming down harder; hard enough to put on a rain parka. During the four hours of being on the river, he thought he might get caught in a thunderstorm. No lightning or thunder was ever seen nor heard though. On the next leg he will enter the Saginaw Bay. How will he handle a storm if there?   

           

Last week on the Saginaw River, Riley never saw any freighters. Including the 10 miles of paddling today, he again didn't see any freighters. He found that unusual, thinking shipping on the big river was dead this summer. Then, driving home he did see the barge, Lewis J. Kuber, at the Wirt Stone Docks that he passed last week.

 

It had snuck upriver today without him ever seeing it. He knew it must have occurred when lunching at Lumber Barons, or when passing Middle Grounds on the non-shipping side.

 

The paddle and run today added up to 19.75 miles, with the run leg being 9.75

 

* The last photo credit goes to: http://saginawriverimages.blogspot.com/2009_07_01_archive.html

 

The curious kayaker started today's paddling segment less than seven miles upstream from the mouth of the Flint. Remembering from four years ago, all the struggles he went through to get this far in sixteen segments, he was quite content and proud he'd made it this time in only ten.

           
He commented, "I have improved many of my kayaking techniques since then, which have speeded my travels, but the bigger, more obvious factor is the depth of the Flint River as compared to 2005. One of the hardest segments last time was the few miles that now lay in front of me. I'm hoping the "Flint Creek" has benefited from the snows and rains of the last year."

           
One might think the last miles of any river would be the easiest, and on any river other besides the Flint, they would be right. But where Riley landed last time is where a channel diverts the lion's share of the Flint's flow straight north. On the Refuge map it is name Spaulding Drain. What remains of the Flint at times is just a trickle.

           
Today when the kayaker arrived, and before hiding the loaded kayak beneath the Curtis Road bridge, which crosses the drain, he gazed at the Flint outlet, and it looked better than he'd seen it on two previous occasions. When he left and arrived back over three hours later, it looked much the same, even though he didn't.

           
"17.5 miles of running will do that to you." he said, "The worst part was when preparing to launch I kept cramping up when standing on the slope beneath the bridge. To prevent cramping, I had to work with my back toward the river, stretching out the calves, while standing on wobbly legs."

           
He launched and paddled a very short distance up the channel to the fork, then into the Flint. Finally off his feet he felt stable, but his arms and shoulders ached much like they had last week’s transition. This time he said the aching never stopped, his dull pain lasted throughout the next seven hours while paddling.

           
Once in the Flint he said the section was nothing like he’d remembered. For one thing it was wider, more like a river, less like a creek, but he recalled being in woods before. This time for some distance there was nothing but fields on both sides.

"I later checked Google Earth imagery, which is a few years old, and trees did line the river. I also talked to a biologist from SNWR by phone, he confirmed I wasn't crazy, trees had been cut a few years back."

           
After paddling a mile and a half he came to a confluence. The other river branch was bigger than that of the Flint, except it wasn't a river… it was a creek.



For the next four mile, thanks to Mistequay Creek, the Flint looked quite healthy and very navigatable. In those miles two more eagles were spotted. That made a total of seven bald eagle sightings for the entire Flint this year.

           
Two miles into the refuge, again the river turns into a channel and heads straight north. It was the Spaulding Drain situation all over again. This time the Flint, after having life breathed back into it from Mistequay, was doomed. From the channel to the mouth of the Flint, it is nothing more than a half-mile long swamp. (photo 3) Today the bush kayaker was back to bushing it again.

           
"I was wishfully thinking I might be able to paddle to the mouth this year, but stagnant water was all I found. It's sad, to me anyway, that a river where I've found so much beauty, has to end like this."

             

He also added, "Mainstream kayakers wouldn't think twice when seeing the two channels that veer north, they'd take the channels, the easy way. I have no problem with that. If that is what it takes for more kayakers to explore the Flint, by all means take Spaulding Drain. I just don't want some manmade channel on a list of waterways it took me to get to… wherever it is I'm going."

           
The stubbornly anal Riley paid dearly for the non-navigatable choice. With exhausted legs from running, he dragged Swiftee for nearly a half mile, sometimes though grasses taller than his six-foot frame.

 
For a while he placed the kayak in the swamp and poled his way through the milfoil and other swampy vegetation with paddles.


That did not last long before exiting and dragging Swiftee once more.

           
Finally, the old confluence of the Flint and Shiawassee Rivers could be seen ahead. After dragging the kayak there, he hopped back in, and paddled to where the still waters of Shiawassee and Flint meet. The Flint River portion of the long journey was complete. He unpacked a sport bottle full of Moonracer Wheatwine that he had brought along to toast the completion.

Riley gives a lengthy explanation about the length of the Flint.

            "One thing for sure that came out of this years Flint River Exploration is the knowledge of the rivers true length. From gps totals of each segment, they say I've kayaked 121.0 miles from Horseshoe Lake to the mouth. I also used Google Earth ruler tool and traced my path. It measured 123.4 miles. From those two totals one can safely say the true length of the Flint is somewhere between 120 and 124 miles. That makes it the longest waterway of the Saginaw Valley."

            "In my way of looking at geography, the Flint is 150 miles long. You see, four rivers come together within five miles to become the Saginaw River, which is 22 miles long. Why does the name change to Saginaw? In geography, when two rivers meet, the name of the longer branch, or the one with most volume, should be applied to the continuation. The travesty is comparable to the Mississippi River’s name being changed to Louisiana River once it merges with Atchafalaya River and enters the state of Louisiana."

            "I've looked at maps of the merging rivers from 1877; the Saginaw Valley river that seemed to have the greatest volume then was the Shiawassee. To me, the Saginaw River should be either Shiawassee or the Flint. I'm biased, I say Flint."

            "Two sources say the length of the Flint, from Horseshoe Lake to mouth, is 142 miles long, Wikipedia and MDNR. I don't feel it is my place to tell Wikipedia or Michigan Department of Natural Resources they are wrong, but excuse me they are! I believe Wikipedia took their information from the DNR Flint River Assessment of 2001 by authored by Joseph M. Leonardi, and William J. Gruhn."

            "The main reason for the error is the assessment, which breaks the river into six geographical segments, states that the "upper main stream," the segment from the North/South Flint confluence to Swartz Creek confluence is 56.9 miles. It's more like 27 miles. I've have talked on phone and even have met Joe Leonardi. He realizes that to be that far off, there had to have be been an error. He and the co-author, Gruhn, obtained the information from some source and said it was not measured by them."

           

The paddling speed today had been considerably slower than Riley had experienced in the past few river ventures. The first five miles today he was averaging just less than 20 minutes per mile. All the while he wondered how he would ever make it to the van, some twenty mile downstream - knowing full well there would be no current from the Flats to where the van was parked.

The 17.5 mile run had dehydrated him. He drank plenty of water the first few miles and was slowly rehydrating as he paddled. He was happy to have water but he was craving food. After his celebratory toast he called his wife to let her know things were not going smoothly and he would be home late. She told him to call when he landed and she would have strawberry shortcake for supper - not for dessert, but for supper. The thought of homemade strawberry shortcake kept him going for the next eight miles until he arrived at his green cooler containing jerky and beer.

           

The section through the Flats, about five miles was a little faster, despite the occasional wave action from wind.




Riley was a little puzzled to why he felt better now than before reaching the Flint's mouth. Was it because it took that long to rehydrate? Or, was it the thought of the strawberry shortcake reward at the end? Possibly, it could be the beer he'd just drank.

           
As he made his way across the Flats, which nature-wise is very different from any section of the Flint, (only near the end and through the flats are egrets sighted) but paddling-wise a desert, he sighted bald eagles three times. Question was, were they different birds, each was a mile apart and seen from afar, but not so far that he couldn't  see prey in the talons of one.

           
When out of the Flats Riley said, "A sure sign you are out of the Flats is the sighting of the mouth of the Cass River."



"A mile past it, is the mouth of the Tittabawassee. The Shiawassee-Tittabawassee confluence, or start of the so called, Saginaw River is called Green Point."




Not far from Green Point you can see a bridge. Going under it, it dawned on me, it was the first bridge in sixteen miles.”

           
The next four paddling miles was through the downtown area of Saginaw. Although, today the green cooler was hidden near the marina on Saginaw's Ojibaway Island, and, although hungry enough that even beef jerky sounded delicious, before getting to the cooler, the hungry kayaker saw a Mickey D's billboard ad advertising the new Angus Burger. "Two Blocks" the ad also stated. Though not a fan of McDonalds, compared to jerky, the sight of the giant burger on the billboard made his mouth water. The kayak suddenly veered left and beached beneath the Rust St. bridge. After securing the kayak he began hiking.

           
After procuring an Angus Burger and large fries he hiked back to the kayak and paddled to Ojibway, and the green cooler. He easily could have dined at McDonalds with a Coke, but he still had some Moonracer Wheatwine in the green cooler. The choice was Coke, or paddle ½ mile for a Dave Shaw, Brewmaster Supreme, delicacy? Riley said the decision was a no-brainer.

           
He sat on the marina dock with feet dangling in the river and enjoyed his lunch. Although he stated, "My jaws ached chewing every single bite of the burger. Never had my jaws ached like that before while eating. The long run, and 14 miles of kayaking, had not only tired my legs and arms, but every muscle in my body. I still had another two hours of non-current paddling ahead of me. Nevertheless, I felt it was downhill from Ojibaway Island."

           
In Riley's eyes, the river view of downtown Saginaw was no better than that of downtown Flint.




But his mind looked ahead to next week, to when he'd be in downtown Bay City. The riverfront there is the best of the four big cities of the Saginaw Valley.

           
Just before going under the Johnson Street bridge the curious kayaker once again looked up at the crude oil pump he'd seen twice before from the river.



It is secreted away hidden inside a shed. He's still amazed by its presence and wonders how many people know that there is an oil well right smack in downtown Saginaw?

           
Out of Saginaw city limits and in Carrolton, Riley looked for the E. M. Ford, a freighter ship that was moored on the river at the Lafarge Cement plant. For several years it had been used as storage/transfer barge, and has not moved. Today it was nowhere to be found. Riley wrote last year in his Cass River journal that it was to be scrapped before 2010. Looks like it has already come to pass. So… it seems what was the oldest freighter working the Great Lakes, one built in 1898, after 110 years is now somewhere being ripped apart.

           
Paddling two and a half miles farther the kayaker once again went under the Zilwaukee Bridge. At this point, dead tired, he could care less about observing Michigan's most monstrous non-international bridge. He was concentrating on his goal to finish, and elated knowing his van is only a couple miles away.

           
When he arrived there forty minutes later he met a fisherman where he landed. He was not holding a pole but had two lines in the river. The poles looked very hi-tech and resting on elaborate horizontal stands.

           
The two outdoorsmen conversed for a few minutes.

            "Boy, that is some fancy equipment you have there. You from the area?" Riley asked.

            The man, who he later learned was named Tim, said, "No, I'm on vacation and I'm from Pittsburgh."

            "You came from Pittsburgh to fish in the Saginaw River?" Riley asked, in disbelief.

            "Yeah, I was here in April for a fishing tournament which had a $4,000 first prize. I came back again to fish the area."

            "What kind of fish you catching," Riley asked.

            "Carp."

   Riley wanted to laugh, but the guy was serious.

            Tim went on, "If you are going to catch and release anyway, you might as well fish for the big game. Some are 40 pounds."

            "Well, you put it that way, it makes sense." Riley said patronizingly.

           
Riley packed up Swiftee and drove away, occasionally looking back at the bottom feeder fisherman. Still thinking it sounded pretty disgusting and dumb.

           
Later at home, the curious kayaker was inquisitive enough to search the internet. He found out that Tim had participated in the Michigan Spring Carp Classic, which was organized by MLC, Major League Carp. He still thought it was funny and hard to believe.

           

The total distance kayaked today was 21.75 miles, it again surpassed Riley's personal record. It, and the 17.5 miles running totaled 39.25 miles of arm and legwork. Riley acted as though he would never attempt another day as grueling as this. "Next week, I'm weenie-ing out. Twenty miles total is all I will do.

Saturday, August 8th: Bring your canoe or kayak and join the Flint River Watershed Coalition in a scenic and relaxing paddle on the Flint River!

 

Drop your boat off at Riverview Park in downtown Flushing starting at 8:30AM.

- For those seeking a shorter 2.5 hour trip, take your vehicle to Flushing Township Nature Park.  A shuttle leaving at 9:30 will bring you back to the start of the Rally.

- Those looking to add another 2 hours to their paddle, drop your car at Barber Memorial Park in Montrose.  Shuttle pick up here is at 9:15.

 

Please be sure to allow adequate time to drop off your boat and get your car to your desired take out to meet the shuttles back to the Rally's start.

 

$10 event fee includes American Canoe Association insurance and shuttle fees.  Current ACA members receive a $5 discount with their membership number.

The first 10 registrants also will receive a $2 food voucher good for purchases at the Flushing Township Nature Parks' Fresh Water Forever event.

 

A special offer for this event: Join the Flint River Watershed Coalition for $15 (individual) or $25 (family) and participate in the event for free.  

 

To ensure shuttle availability, please register with the FRWC prior to August 6th.  Call or email Sue Lossing at 810 767-9491 or slossing@flintriver.org.

 

See you on the River!!

The curious kayaker arrived back at the excellent canoe landing of Montrose Township's Barber Memorial Park before 7:00 am. After cabling and locking Swiftee to a tree he headed for the Shiawassee Flats in Saginaw County by van. Once parking his Pontiac near a channel-river split, he ran 16 miles back to Montrose.
 

The river seemed to be moving faster than normal but the depth was down a few inches from seven days earlier.  There had been rain in the past week, and rain was again forecasted for this day of kayaking.



He began the paddling segment promptly at 11:00. Despite what looked like a fast current, his arms immediately were aching. With over twenty miles of paddling ahead of him he was concerned, and remarked, "It felt as if I had ran the sixteen miles with my arms and not legs." The anaerobic feeling only lasted a few minutes, still unaware of what caused the aching, he passed under the M-57 bridge and continued heading north.
 

Not four miles downstream, and before reaching Saginaw Country, high in a dead tree, the kayaker saw his third eagle of the expedition. Unlike most others he'd encountered, it did not take flight as he passed by. He was able to take several photos, all the while wishing he had a telephoto lens.


 

Once beyond the bird, he angled the kayak and continued to snap away. Finally the bird took flight swooped down and landed on Swiftee's bow. Like in a sci-fi movie the eagle morphed into, who else but, Chief Pontiac.  The Ottawa chief sat with arms and legs folded and spoke.

            "How is Kan-tuck-ee-un?

            "Kan-tuck-ee-un?" Riley asked, "What's that, Ottawa for dumb woodchuck, or lazy possum?"

            Chief said, "Neither. Was name of my last wife."

            "Why you calling me by her name?"

            "Means, 'Woman Canoe Paddler.'"

            "I'll take it as a complement, some of the best paddler's I've met have been women. You say 'last wife' how many did you have?"

            "Five, six, seven, depend on what white man call wife, No more talk about Pontiac, you keep paddling."

            "Well, can you move, I can't see where I'm going, you're in my view."

            "No worry, I keep you in middle of river. Question for you, you know where you at?"

            "Uh, I'm on the Flint River?"

            "True, my mother's people called it Pewonigowink, she was an Ojibwa. Pewonigowink mean 'river of fire stone.' But here, this place, land all around you once was Pewonigowink."

            A puzzled Riley replied, "Wouldn't it make more sense if the city of Flint was once called that, and not his place?"

            "Name here used for old reservation on the Flint. Many moons after I was killed, Treaty of Saginaw was signed, much of Michigan that belonged to Ojibwa taken away. One Ojibwa chief, name Neome, who tribe live here, he sign treaty, but ask that his family remain and be given some of land they take away."

            "I was always told this was Chippewa land before white took it."

            "Chippewa, Ojibwa, same thing, Me an Ottawa, or Odawa, same thing. You say tomato, I say tomatoe, same thing. Before I was born, long before white man come, this here was land of Sauk or Sac same thing."

            "Saginaw, is a Chippewa word for, land of Sauk, I do know that much exploring the Saginaw Valley. Weren't the Sauk annihilated by the Chippewa?"

            "No, not true, many Sauk or Sac, left from Michigan, go to Illinois and Wisconsin. One band of Sauk was massacred in this very area. Ojibwa who live here after, were haunted by spirits of those killed."

            Riley flatly stated, "Kind of like the way you are haunting me, huh?"

            The chief raised his voice, "Pontiac not harm you. Pontiac not drive away game, not destroy your gardens, steal your clothes and blankets like Sauk spirits. Pontiac help you, and protect you. You have no idea how many times Pontiac save life of stupid woodchuck."

            "You can be quite the angry spirit, can't you?"

            "Pontiac no get angry, he get even."

            With that said, the spirit dissolved into thin air. Riley again had full control of where he was paddling, but wondering what "he get even" might entail.

Sometime during all the discussion about the Pewonigowink Reservation, the curious kayaker had crossed the Genesee county line and was now in Saginaw County. The next road crossing would be Burt. The bridge there is still known as Morseville Bridge for a town that once stood there. When exploring the Pewonigowink four years earlier with Wally, their plan was to end the trip at the Morseville Bridge, but when scouting it, discovered the iron truss bridge was closed. Their vehicle would have to be parked far away, so they kayaked to the next crossing, Birch Run Road.

Today, well before getting to the iron truss bridge, and knowing so, Riley rounded a bend and stared at a new modern looking bridge. He glanced at his GPS and knew that no bridge should be there. It should be further downstream.

"For a few seconds I felt as if I was lost. It’s a dreadful feeling, wondering 'did I fall asleep, or blackout, where am I?' Then, I looked beyond the bridge and saw the old iron bridge about an eighth mile downriver."



Riley researched the conundrum later and learned the 124 year old Morseville Bridge had been closed since the downriver bridge at Birch Run Road was been built.    Months after his 2005 voyage the new bridge, which confused him, was constructed in line with east-west Burt Road. The older bridge ran southwest-northeast and was built further north for some reason, maybe to be closer to the town of Morseville? Checking Google Earth, the new bridge was not yet on the satellite imagery. The Google imagery had to be from 2005 or before. 


 

A mile north of the new bridge Riley approached the bridge at Birch Run Road. He planned to stop there for lunch; it was where he had hid his green cooler. Wedged into the bridge, high above the river, was a large dead tree branch. He found it hard to imagine the river was ever that high for to get lodge there, but could not come up with any other explanation.



It was about 1:00 when he banked the kayak on the large rocks beneath Birch Run Road. He pulled Swiftee up the large rocks several feet above the river and let go. Immediately Swiftee slid down the rocks and back into the river. The current began taking it away. Riley stumbled down the rocks fell into the river and started after the kayak. He found the river over his head and had to swim to get to the kayak. After its capture, and getting it to where he could touch bottom, he fought the current, got back under the bridge, and again dragged it up on the rocks. This time he did not let go until it was safely stationed.

 

The river at Birch Run Road usually is quite nasty and not a place you'd want to do any sort of swimming. Here, at the bridge last time, but on the opposite side of the river, when he and Wally landed, he wrote in his journal:  "The exit from the river was the toughest I’d ever experienced. I was extra careful getting out of the boat, for the smell of raw sewage in the still water about me was also the worst I’d yet experienced… the last place I wanted to fall in."   The memory of that never crossed Riley's mind when he jumped in today. But, there was a current and it wasn't stagnant like before.

Because the weather forecast, Riley pretty much planned on getting "somewhat" wet today, but not drenched. After his swim, he unpacked a dry shirt from the supplies for he was chilled to the bone. When putting it on he was certain he heard a familiar phantom's chuckle, "I'm even."

While eating lunch he looked on the brighter side, it was only his second drenching of the expedition. Early on he figured that with the higher river, and faster currents, getting drenched this year would occur more often. He says, "I don't think my kayaking skills have improved, it's just that I'm getting in and out of the kayak less this year because of Flint's depth."

When back to paddling again, another bridge did not come into view for nearly five miles. It too as an old iron trestle bridge, this one a railroad bridge that still is used occasionally by trains connecting Durand and Saginaw.



Before the bridge the kayaker saw another eagle, it flew from the east side of the river and downriver to the west side. Seconds later another did the same. The pair must be nesting. Between the two of them, in the next half-mile, six sightings were counted. This being July means there must be a nest nearby with eaglets. Bald eagles nest from May to June but the young take ten weeks or more to leave the nest. Riley says, "Where exactly the nest is, its best that nobody knows."
 

The final ten miles of today's paddle looked quite the same, farmland. The only crops seen were corn, but not that often, for corn is presently less than two feet high. Shorter crops of sugar beets, and soy bean, could not be seen because the steep banks were cliffed from erosion.



Also blocking the view in the farmlands was motherwort. It, is an invasive weed of the mint family that grows three to five feet high and blocks the view of everything beyond.



The kayaker finished the last few miles up the day getting wet. The rain came down hard enough that he used a rain parka; only its second use in five seasons.

The finish was just outside the realm of Shiawassee National Wildlife Refuge. There, on the south side near Curtis Road the channelized Spaulding Drain, diverts much of the volume of the Flint and sends it straight north into the Flats of SNWR. Downstream from here, for the Flint, it is either feast or famine, depending on amount of recent precipitations.

Riley tells us:  "The first time I came here the Flint looked like the trickling stream that comes out of Horseshoe Lake. The difference being the source stream looks to have some life; at Curtis Road it looks stagnant and dying. When I came back again, a week later that year, it was barely kayakable to my standards, but I made it through. Today when I saw it, I could hardly believe my eyes. Though shallower, it looked nearly as wide as the life-sucking channel that usually draws away most of the flow."

           
The curious kayaker, after 20.4 miles, ended his day journey at the Curtis Road bridge, where the Spaulding Drain and Flint River split. He had once again set a personnel daily record for kayaking. This, plus the 16 miles of running that morning, totaled of over 36 miles, and took quite a toll on legs and arms.

 

Just a short trip today, Mount Morris Road to Vienna Road. The two roads are only four miles a part, but by river over five. With the expansive Shiawassee Flats approaching twenty-six mile downstream, the curious kayaker logistically had to look at different scenarios for running and kayaking. “The Flats” is a nickname for state and federal lands actually named Shiawassee State Game Area and Shiawassee National Wildlife Refuge.

From Mt Morris Road, to the refuge’s main entrance, Curtis Road, there are not many places to land, because so few bridges crossings. Once in the Flats, motor vehicle bridges are nonexistent. It's eleven miles of paddling before reaching any decent landings spots. When running is put in the equation, the logistics get even more technical. The runner/kayaker has to run around SNWR. So, even though he really wanted to do longer segments, one small puzzle piece had to be added to the two larger pieces to get everything to fit.

           

Only five days had passed since the last kayaking leg. The river's depth, from looking at photos, had not changed much. The current looked to have slowed, but once Swiftee and Riley moved away from the bridge it swept them along very much like last week. The boat and he were in the river less than an hour. 0:52:54 to be exact, the average pace was 10:16 a mile.
 

For the amount of effort I put into propelling, it was a pretty fast and remarkable ride. The run back made up for that though. It was a hot muggy five miles. I felt as worn-out in the end as I did when running fifteen miles five days earlier before kayaking.
 

About a third of a mile before getting to M-57, which in Genesee County is called Vienna Road, there is a perfect landing spot for paddling craft.



 

It's the best landing and launching spot on the entire Flint. I really can't think of one better in the Saginaw Valley. There are many paved slopes and marina type docking, made for motorboats, but this one has a beachlike landing, perfect for kayaks and canoes.

A few years back, I kayaked this section with Wally McLaughlin. We parked the return vehicle next to the bridge at Vienna Road. Later, when we arrived there in kayaks, we were met by irate riparian telling us not to park on his property. He told us about the public landing which we had just passed; said 'use it the next time.' And today I did.


 

The leg kayaked today is just one more beautiful section of the Flint, and the timing could not have been better, one of Riley's favorites views, catalpa trees in full June bloom, were abundant.


 

The distance kayaked on day eight was a measly 5.12. The run back to the van afterward was 5 miles and at a slower than usual, 9:42 pace.

Horseshoe to Horseshoe Day 7: June 19, 2009

 

Thunderstorms were in the forecast and the humidity could be felt in the air as the curious kayaker prepared Swiftee for his next leg. The plan was to kayak two days earlier, but rain that day prevented Riley from even getting the kayak out of the van. He waited at the launch an hour, went to Starbucks for coffee, stayed an hour, came back waited another hour, then gave up and went home.

 

Today, he was expecting to get wet.  The forecast was identical to two days earlier, but with a "getter done" attitude, he never stopped moving. Leaving Swiftee at Cussan's Landing at the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial Park, he drove to the Mt. Morris Road crossing, then ran fifteen miles back to the kayak. Arriving at the launch, it still hadn't rained.

 

For the rain, extra gear was packed - a rain parka, a spray skirt... and a bicycle helmet? He'd heard stories that the river was raging in areas because of all the rain, and the weathermen had warned of possible flash floods. If so, the spray skirt might come in handy. And maybe a bicycle helmet? 

 

 

The river was considerably higher from when he landed seven days earlier, but not as high as two days ago.
 


 Lately, well before the recent rains, the level of the river in the city has been lowered. Authorities want less stress on Hamilton Dam, which is weakening. The nearly ninety-year old dam needs to be taken out but presently the money is not in the budget to do so.

 

Riley reports, "A group called the Flint River Paddlers would like to see a whitewater park take its place, but I'm sure that idea is on the shelf… at least until the economy comes back around."

 

Once today's paddling commenced, it wasn't a mile before he exited on the campus of University of Michigan-Flint for he had to portage Hamilton Dam. Beyond the dam, the river flows through Riverbank Park. There are no banks to launch from; only concrete walls that stretch three blocks. It would be the longest "off river" distance Swiftee has traveled in this year's expedition.

 

After only a block, Riley, feeling the toll of the fifteen-mile run, became tired from pulling the kayak and wanted to cut the portage short. He looked for a way back into the river.

 

Here in downtown Flint, four years ago he had a partner with him. Together they worked, climbing down a ladder in the concrete wall, lowering kayaks, and helping each other back in. Today, trying that solo would be difficult, because of the choppy waves created by Hamilton Dam's release, which was rougher than normal. Heavy recent rains again were the culprit.

 

He did find a place he could get back in. It was just past the Harrison Street Bridge, where waters are diverted from the river to create pools in the river bank park.



This allowed him to kayak beneath the Saginaw Street bridge, the Beach Street bridge, and a pedestrian bridge that connects Beach Street with historic Carriage Town.

 

Still, with no banks, he would have to exit up the wall's ladder rungs for there was another dam in the next block. He lucked out and found a ladder above a sandbar. The bar was a few inches under water; he felt it with his paddle when passing by. Getting his feet wet would be a small sacrifice, compared to the other option - exiting and hauling the laden kayak up the ladder from moving water. As it was, he put on quite a show for the spectating fishermen. They surely had to be wondering how he ever was going to get the kayak up the ladder and over the railings.

 

When portaging past the Fiber Dam, and seeing how low the drop was, he wished he had just went over, instead of all the extra work. The inflatable Fiber Dam controls the depth of the water that runs through Riverbank Park. Today, the drop was only a few inches. He clearly could have ran it.

 

That also would have eliminated the need to re-launch on the other side of Grand Traverse Street, which is very difficult. While portaging, Riley got a phone call from his friend Wally McLaughlin, the partner that four years ago had worked with him getting kayaks down the Riverbank Park ladder.

 

Wally, a riparian living downstream asked, "Where are you? I thought you'd be to my place by now?"

 

Riley told him "It will be another two hours before I get that far. I ran fifteen miles first. Guess where I am now? Remember how difficult it was getting back in the river after Grand Traverse Street?"

 

The two of them had worked hard that day, climbing down the steep embankment of rock and broken concrete slabs while bushes impaired their view. Now Riley had to do it alone.

 

"Well, be careful." Encouraging advice from Wally was the only help Riley would receive this time. 

 

Before he re-entered the river, the bike helmet was snapped on, for up ahead was another concrete corridor and the mouth of the Swartz Creek. At the confluence, the Flint River has a dam-like wall. When the river is low, all the water diverts to the left; that being the mouth of the Swartz. It can be tricky kayaking the conflowing area. With all the concrete, to be on the safe side, Riley put on the bike helmet. His plan was to follow the deflected water into the Swartz and go around the wall/dam.

 

Once he negotiated the section, again he realized he could have went straight over the wall, for the drop was less than a foot and the whitewater action was nominal.
 


The higher water levels left both dams with lower falling waters than usual. The helmet was not needed, but he left it on throughout the sloping concrete stretch, which is a mile and a half long.

 

The sloping concrete banks are decades older that the previous concrete area of Riverbank Park. The older channeling was part of a 1963 flood control project by the Army Corp of Engineers. It passes by the old Fisher Body-Chevrolet complex and the campus of Kettering University, then ends at the University Avenue/Sunset Boulevard bridge.

 

Once past the bridge, Mott Golf Course is on both sides of the river. While passing through the golfing area, a hawk with a bushy tail flew by the curious kayaker.

 

“I found it hard to believe at first but quickly figured it out. Some misfortunate squirrel was being carried away by a red-shouldered hawk. I fancied the rodent's lifelong dream was to be like his hero, Rocky the Flying Squirrel. It finally came true, then sadly his life ended a moment later.”

 

Three bridges later, Riley was ready for lunch. He passed under the bridge at Mill Road and looked for a place to land. There was not much in the offering because of high waters, but he managed to find a place to escape on the west side. He secured Swiftee and walked to a Mill Road restaurant he'd forgotten about but a friend recently reminded him of - Thompson Creek Turkey Farm.

 

It was a quarter mile hike getting there, but he felt it was worth it. A succulent turkey sandwich on rye seemed a perfect pairing to go with the wheat wine he poured from a grower to a smaller container before leaving the river. While walking, he counted his cash. $4.00 was all he had. He was puzzled.

 

He'd started his fifteen run with a ten-dollar bill. He purchased a $1.00 Powerade during the mile run and was given $9.00 change. After the run, when launching at Cussans' Landing, he still had a five and four ones. But now, the bill with the face of Lincoln on it was missing. Looking at the lunch board at Thompson Creek, all he could afford was a $3.39 turkey burger.

 

He took the to-go order outside to enjoy with his beer. He found a picnic table, sat down, and dug in. It tasted great and he forgot all about the turkey sandwich he was hoping for. He soon noticed a can of cigarette butts and pushed them away, the odor was bothering him. He then realized he was sitting where employees take cigarette breaks.

 

He said a hasty grace, "Oh, please GOD! Don’t let it be someone's cigarette break while I am enjoying my beer and turkey burger," but the prayer came too late.

 

He hadn't taken three bites before a door behind him opened. Two men came out and lit up. On his fourth bite one man said, "Them there turkey burgers taste great don't they?"

 

The curious kayaker just replied, "Yeah..." The remaining utterance, "…it was, until you guys started smoking," was inaudible.

 

After finishing lunch, he arrived back at the kayak again, ready to embark. Before launching, he opened his cooler and poured more King Moonracer wheat wine into his travel mug. Then, when trying to bungee the cooler to the kayak, it fell into the river. In a matter of seconds, the current had transported the cooler out of sight.

 

Riley hurried, put on his life vest, grabbed his paddle, pushed Swiftee into the current, and jumped in. He caught up with the cooler, which by now was empty. All the contents, beer growler and four ice packs, had to be chased down also. He was just glad it hadn't sunk and everything was recovered.  

 

The cooler had to be placed between his legs where it interfered with paddling. He figured he could cope until reaching McLaughlin’s riparian estate three mile ahead. He called ahead and let him know he was on the way.

 

Wally and his wife Marge were there to greet him when he arrived and to offer a sports drink. The drink was dangling over the river, tied to a rope and hanging from a tree branch. With the river higher than normal, there was no place to land, so Riley untied the drink and attached the green cooler to the line.

 

"How fast is the river?" Wally wanted to know.

 

The kayaker told him, "From Mott Golf Course, I’ve been making about 10:30 a mile." Riley told him.

 

"It probably will get faster in Flushing." Wally said.

 

"Probably will.  I'm lovin' it.  The average pace is usually 16 to 17 minutes, so it feels like I'm flying." Riley replied.

 

Riley spent less than ten minutes at the McLaughlin's and would like to have lingered, but he still had nine miles of paddling ahead of him.

 

In and around the city of Flushing, the river drops ten feet in a mile; the fastest section of the mainstream Flint.  Riley began to notice an increase in current speed when passing the Flushing Valley Golf Course.

 

Besides a boost in velocity at the golf course, Riley scored an eagle. His second eagle this year came as a surprise. He'd been seeing more great blue herons than on previous legs this year, and when one more bird swooped down fifty feet in front him, he assumed it was just one more heron. But this heron had a white tail and a white head. It flew downstream and disappeared. Keeping a sharp eye out, he again saw it perched in a tree overlooking the river. The eagle must be a resident of the area, for moments later the kayaker saw a riparian estate with a landing platform for the Flushing eagle.

           

The current continued to increase, and in downtown Flushing, Riley recorded his fastest mile ever, a blistering 8:57 minute mile.

 

He had been wearing the GPS on his wrist but said, "It’s a good thing I took it off and strapped it to the kayak where I could read it like a speedometer. I needed to focus attention on the river ahead during that section.

 

The river slowed down somewhat around the Flushing Park area, but picked up near where Carpenter Road would cross, if there was a bridge. There is an old abutment in the middle of the river where there might have been one fifty years ago or more.

 

Anyway, the river became very choppy, as waves were splashing into Swiftee.  I glanced at the GPS. For a moment, it read 7:30 a mile! I had long taken off the spray skirt, but could have used it there. Water was coming in from all directions. It was the roughest whitewater I had ever navigated."

 

The river soon began calming down, but even through the Stanley road area, he was clipping along at a 10:20 pace, faster than any previous day. When he arrived at Mt Morris Road, he had a difficult time finding a landing spot but, with some extra work, escaped from the current one last time.

 

The super current of the day saved some of the stored energy in his arms. It was a good thing for without it; he believes he never would have pulled Swiftee up the steep embankment and into the van.

 

At Mt Morris Road the GPS read 18.30 miles. Definitely a personal distance record for kayaking in one day. The 15-mile run to the kayak at the beginning was done at a 9:02 pace. Never before has the kayaking and running pace been so similar. 
 

The landing and launching site at Oak Road wasn't as great as the curious kayaker had thought. Days later he had poison ivy rashes on his thigh and forearm. When launching today he was still itching. But, it was such a beautiful morning for kayaking, he couldn't complain. He pulled Swiftee down the slope and locked it to a tree that had poison ivy growing around it, careful to avoid contact. But then, he thought he was careful last week. After stashing other gear he hopped back in the Pontiac van and drove off…

           

"I decided to do the running segment first today. The run distances have been getting longer and it is smarter to do the more strenuous workout first. Up river the more taxing part was the bush kayaking. Now, except for three dams, it is clear sailing to Saginaw, so the running workouts will be more tiring. And with summer near, running double digit miles in the afternoon is not a wise idea." He drove to a fishing lot at the corner of Carpenter and Bray Roads and ran back to Swiftee.

           

After launching and paddling a couple miles down from the launch site he passed through Richfield Park. Near the old pedestrian suspended bridge, voices could be heard. A photographer was there shooting what looked to be senior pictures of a high schooler. He mother standing near the bridge spoke to Riley saying what a great day it was to be kayaking. "One of the best I've ever had," he replied.

           

Happily, he was soon paddling into the unincorporated village of Russellville and passing a fishing area at Irish Road. A not-so-happy time came to mind. On his maiden Flint voyage he ended a leg there and locked Swiftee to a tree. When he returned to pick up the kayak, his $70 paddle was missing. Riley has replaced paddles many times since, but after that first loss, he has always bought the cheap $20-25 propellers.

           

When it comes to kayaking equipment, the bush kayaker is El Cheapo. Most kayakers after getting hooked on paddling will upgrade to larger more expensive kayaks, if they hadn’t bought one initially. Riley still is loyal to his first 9.5-foot boat that he paid $189 for. After four years and nearly a thousand miles of abusing and patching him, he still has no plans to trade up. We'll see how that goes when he takes on the Great Lakes, no place for a kayak of Swiftee's caliber.

           

After the loss of the paddle four years ago, Riley came back to launch the following week. On the river saw another kayaker, and wrote:

           

"The very first paddler I’d seen on my expedition. I was wondering when this would happen and sort of looked forward to the moment, but also thought it would be a great distinction to go the entire way being the lone kayaker. We waved to each other as I continued to prepare for my launch. He was a bearded, George Carlin-ish looking man about sixty years of age. When I caught up with him a half-mile downstream I saw he had a fishing pole and was puffing on a cigarette. I immediately formed a bad impression of him, fishing poles I can handle - no problem there, but I don’t hang long with anyone who smokes. It’s a ‘birds of a feather’ thing more than a prejudice… I’m a bad liar…I do have a very low tolerance towards smokers because… they stink. Sorry, but if a person smelled like, say… cabbage fart all day I wouldn’t say 'hey, you wanna be friends,' either."

           

He told the smoker about his stolen paddle, hoping he might be the thief and I could shame him into a confession.

           

“You know what? I think I may have your paddle. I found one there last week.”

           

Found? Yeah right… well possibly.
 

Riley said, “Really! Man I hope so, but what are the chances, is it black and expensive looking?”

           

“No, actually it looks like a kids paddle. I live in Grand Blanc, you can come over and have a look.”

           

Riley went to Dennis' Grand Blanc residence and found the paddle to be just that, a small child's paddle not at all the expensive one he'd lost.

           

Today a short distance past the Irish Road crossing, Riley again spotted the first kayaker of this year's expedition. He was fishing and talking on a cell phone. Not wanting to interrupt, the "not so" curious kayaker paddled on. Then it hit him, the kayaker looked familiar, could it be? He spun the kayak around and went back. Sure enough it was Dennis. Before stopping, Riley was moving along at a swift 13 minute pace but he took time out to chat a while with Dennis. They floated downstream talking about how their kayaking had gone since paddling together in the same section four years earlier.  After saying farewell Riley paddled on; Mott Lake was just a couple miles away. Even before arriving there he began feeling the current slowing down.
 

 
 

The reservoir lake is four and a half miles long, and nowhere are the banks more than a quarter mile apart. The dam and reservoir, part of the Genesee Recreation Area, opened in 1972, and unlike Holloway has a "no wake" rule. When in season there is waterfowl hunting in the upper lake before Genesee Road. The lower section, between the dam and Genesee Road, is more recreational. There, Bluegill Boat Launch, Bluebell Beach, Crossroads Village and Huckleberry Railroad, all can be found along the shores.

 

 

Before getting that far Riley stopped at a small boat launch for lunch on the upper Mott Lake. In the morning, before planting the kayak, and before running, he hid a green cooler in the grass near the launch located off Stanley Road. Upon landing he retrieved it. He then sat on a dock enjoying the lake view while washing down, pickles, cheese, pretzels, and Koegels pickled bologna, with twenty-two ounces of wheatwine from Black Forest Brewery.
 

 
 

"Man, it doesn't get any better than this," were his thoughts. "I like sharing special moments like this. With my wife mostly, but she has to work. Besides, she doesn't take pleasure in the finer things in life… like pickled boloney."

 

After passing Genesee Road, and on the main impoundment of Mott Dam, Riley saw a large boat heading toward him that resembled something on the antebellum Mississippi River. He recognized it as the Genesee Belle, a paddleboat that embarks from Crossroads Village. One of its captains is the curious kayaker's brother, Rex McLincha. The captain of Swiftee quickly got on his cell phone and called his brother's house to see if the pilot bearing down on him might be his brother. His brother answered the house phone - obviously he wasn't on the boat; so he did not attempt to approach the paddleboat and yell, "Ahoy!"

 

"Don't paddle toward the boat," was his brother's last bit of advice, "they have the right-of-way."

 

Right-of-way or not, Riley saw it as a no brainer, and big brother still being big brother. As the sternwheeler passed portside, he waved to the passengers and crew and paddled onward, to Mott Dam.
 

 
 

Four years ago, the Flint River trekker went over Mott Dam in Swiftee, but today the falls did not beckon him. He did approach the edge and looked over. He felt the falling waters drawing him and backed away. If he hadn't, he felt sure he would have gone over. This was quite different from the previous time; then he paddled parallel to the precipice and a lip prevented Swiftee from going over. When he did decide to go over he had to plow over the lip. Michigan's lake levels are on the rise this year, the more powerful falls are one more indication of the trend.

 

He portaged and carried Swiftee beyond Stepping Stone Falls, a manmade cascade, at the east end of the dam. He reentered the kayak, and the river, from a steep embankment.

 

After paddling only a quarter mile, he saw a pedestrian bridge ahead; one more improvement not seen in 2005 along the river. The new bridge connects the Flint River Trail from downtown Flint to the park at Stepping Stone Falls.



Just beyond the bridge is the Carpenter Road bridge, and the fishing lot where Riley had parked his van. Today's paddle was complete. He landed and pulled Swiftee ashore.

 

Well, he thought he was done. He tripped and fell in the process of debarking. When he stood up somebody was right in his face.

 

"You quitting?" the somebody asked. It was the spirit of Pontiac, and he was staring at the kayaker; their noses just inches apart.

 

"Twelve and a half miles. Yeah, as paddling goes, I consider that a good day's work." Riley told him.

 

"You not only a dumb woodchuck, you also a lazy possum."

 

"But, I ran ten and a half miles before that."

 

"Yes, yes and you drove around forty miles today in a red Pontiac, you lazy possum. When I was living I traveled on foot more miles than that before sun crossed sky. Look at sun, it still high in sky. No time to quit. Listen. Hear that? Falling waters of Niagara calling loudly? They want you there soon as possible."

 

From where Riley was standing the only falling waters he could hear were from Mott Dam, which were very faint.

 

"I suppose I could go a few miles farther and run back." Riley told the spirit.

 

"I know you can. Lazy Possum must listen to me. Have Pontiac give you bad advice before?"

 

"No, but there have been times I could have used your advise and you were nowhere around. Right now am itching from poison ivy. I don't remember touching it, but you could have pointed it out before I made contact."

 

"You never saw it because I rubbed the ivy on you when you sleep. Sometimes Pontiac has to punish you for dreams you have about Pontiac."

 

"I don't remember dreaming about you, besides, I can't control my dreams. Can't you be a little fair."

 

"I be little fair, listen to Pontiac's last advise, save skin from harm of sun before you and boat leave riverbank, or you be red man too." Once again the spirit vanished.

 

Riley lathered up with sun block and headed beneath the bridge at Carpenter Road entering the Flint city limits. He paddled and additional four miles before coming upon a small boat launch at the Vietnam Veterans Park in Boulevard Drive. He was glad it was over, and felt none the worse for doing the extra miles.
 

 
 

The Flint River explorer paddled a total of 16.5 miles on his 6^th leg. The total distances of the two runs were 14.25 miles.

Horseshoe to Horseshoe Day 5: June 3, 2008

Possibly the best place for mainstream kayaking on the entire Flint River can be found at the beginning of where the curious kayaker paddled today. He placed his kayak, Swiftee, in at the bridge at Columbiaville Road -- not as good a launch site as can be found at the public fishing and launch upstream at the Norway Lake Road crossing, but less debris blocks the way from this point. The first three and a half miles wind through beautiful scenery of lush green forest.

Riley describes it. "More paddlers travel and enjoy the Flushing and Montrose area of the river, but the river before Holloway Reservoir has more to offer. It is cleaner, narrower, has more windings, has less human development along the banks, and more wildlife. I saw my first bald eagle in that section today. It occurred when up ahead I viewed a sand cliff. As I was raising the camera to snap a photo of the high bank, a large bird flew across my field of vision.  By the time I saw the white tail field marking identifying it, it was too late to take a picture. I kept an eye out as I continued but never saw it again. I don't have a good eye for spotting eagles. More than half the time it is a person I'm paddling with that sees them first."

Although Riley did have much praise for the kayakability of the river section before Holloway Reservoir, he did have to negotiate one pile of debris. It happened just before the backwaters of the reservoir. It contained much human garbage, a good indicator it has been there blocking the river for a while.

Beyond the debris, he began seeing signs of Holloway backwaters. The backwaters occur where the North Branch of the Flint confluences with the South Branch. There are several arms that he labels pseudo-North Branch mouths. Without experience, it is hard to detect which is the real mouth.

"This is the fourth time I've been through this area and I still doubt myself. On the east side of the river, four times inlets are seen. I'm pretty sure the true mouth is the fourth and last one. When arriving here the third time, it was via the North Branch, and don't recall another mouth-like inlet after hitting the South Branch.

"Today at the first arm, I came upon two fishermen in a small boat. I asked them if they thought it was the mouth; they agreed it was down further. Seeing the fishermen was a momentous occasion, as it marked the first time on this expedition that I found fellow humans beings on the river."             

The pseudo-mouths could be described as a delta region of the two rivers converging, but more than likely, the area did not resemble a bayou before Holloway Dam was completed in 1954, causing backwaters. Some, or all, of the arms may connect to the North Branch in some way, but which is the original channel is hard to distinguish.

When Riley passed what he believed to be the confluence, he felt a small self-congratulatory celebration was in order, and pulled out a growler of Frankenmuth Black Forest Moon Racer wheatwine from the back of the kayak. He kept the libation to less than four ounces for it was over 10% alcohol and he knew what lay ahead. The possibility of getting lost was one reason.

Once beyond the confluence and before reaching the true reservoir, it is easy to get lost. Marshy islands can leave one guessing which way to go. The goal is to find Columbiaville, which is marked by the bridge at Marathon Road.

"As in times before, I was left guessing which way to go. It had been three years since the last time I was in the bayou. I could have used a little direction. To myself, I was saying 'where is that guiding spirit, now that I really could use him.' As I was thinking, I wondered if he could be reading my mind, if so, maybe he would appear. He never did, so I take it Pontiac isn't omnipresent.  Anyway, it didn't matter; all the choices I made were the correct ones. In fact, I unknowingly found a short cut, cutting off nearly four tenths of a mile from the pre-mapped distance. Before I knew it, I'd paddled around the final reedy island and was looking at Columbiaville less than a mile away. For anyone interested in trying to navigate the bayou area, the best suggestion I can give is, keep the woods on your right and reeds on your left"

When arriving in Columbiaville, our traveler made a stop at the home of Charles Frye, a riparian he'd met four years ago on his maiden journey. Charles Frye lives on the reservoir near the bridge at Marathon Road. The generous man once loaned the passer-by paddler ten dollars to go a nearby restaurant for some lunch, which the kayaker later repaid. A year later, again Riley arrived at Frye's place after crossing the reservoir drenched from a heavy rain. That time Charles Frye gave Riley and Swiftee a lift back to his van. This time the only thing Riley wanted from the big-hearted man was to have his photo taken with him. He wanted a picture to remind him of the earlier times when he felt like a wayfaring stranger and Charles was willing to help with no concerns of repayment.

One other thing Riley was interested in, and was quizzical about, was old stone masonry abutments on each side of the river that he'd passed a few miles down from where he launched today. He and Mr. Frye had talked about it years before. Frye retold that, if he remembered correctly, the land was once owned by a lawyer from Detroit, named Wyman. There was a pedestrian suspension bridge that spanned the abutments at one time. All that is left today on what is now state land are the stone abutments.

Riley was only off the river for forty minutes before re-launching. He soon went under a railroad trestle that had been altered since last passing. Recently it had been converted to a rail trail. Southern Links Trail has only been there a year or so. Presently the 4.5 mile paved trail connects Columbiaville to Otter Lake. By the fall of 2009 it is supposed to be over 10 miles, and will connect with Millington. 

The next six miles of paddling would be on Holloway Reservoir, with no current. Four years ago, on the same open water, Riley worked hard at a 20 minute per mile pace to cross the reservoir. Today, he moved at a 17 minute pace

"I'd like to think that four years of paddling has given my arms a stronger stroke. I say 'think that', but really want to say 'I'm certain' except I still remember what Pontiac did to me the last time I began singing my own praises. That being the case, I'll just say maybe there was a hidden current, or a mystical wind that helped to propel me today."

The reservoir can be divided into three sections -- the Columbiaville section and the Holloway Dam section, and then a connecting section, a narrower channel which itself is over a mile long. The channel's banks are quite reedy. The last time our traveler came through the channel, there was much noise coming from the reeds. The carp were going through some loud splashing mating rituals. Today, the only racket coming from the reeds were red-winged blackbirds. The very protective nesters will not let possible predators get too close to their nest. Riley saw one nest and took pictures. He expected aerial attacks by a half-dozen RWBs but all he heard was a pair sputtering, "conk-a-ree, conk-a-ree ." 

After crossing the second of the two open bodies of water, Riley arrived at Holloway Dam where he had to portage.


 
He considered quitting for the day for he had traveled nearly 12 miles. There were so many fishermen in the area that he did not feel comfortable about leaving his phone, camera and other valuables while running back to the van. 



The next bridge crossing, Oak Road, was less than a half mile. He decided to go for it.

He found the bridge at Oak Road an ideal place to land and launch the next time; although it was steep, and difficult pulling Swiftee up. Except for two fishermen on the far side of the bridge, there were no eyes watching him as he stashed his valuables in the weeds and locked the kayak to a tree. What also made it ideal debarking point was there was a place where fishermen parked cars. The next time he wouldn't fret about being hassled by the police. It seems that on the third leg of the river journey, he arrived back at the van and found a large notice pasted to the rear window. The sticker stated the vehicle would be towed in two days if not moved. So, the last two times he left the van, he placed a note on the dashboard, "Not an abandoned vehicle, gone kayaking, will be back any moment."

"Cops stickered me one time before, four years ago, near Birch Run. It's not easy getting the label off, I swear they must use Gorilla Glue," he stated with a pissy attitude.   

Today's kayaking escapade was 12.2 miles, less than the estimated pre-mapped distance because of the fortuitous shortcut he found in the bayou. The run back to the van was 11.75 miles.

           

 

Now that summer has finally arrived, I think it’s pretty safe to say that most people have visions of lazy days on the beaches and various other water sports dancing through their heads. And if it’s water sports you like, then Michigan is a great place to be, as we have over 11,000 lakes and many beautiful rivers and streams; and there is never a shortage of people taking advantage of all that fresh water!

 

This prompted me to thinking back to our clean up here in Flint. Once a year, usually in May or June, the FRWC holds an annual River and Community Clean Up. Last month, on Saturday, May 9^th, we grabbed our waders and our garbage bags and headed out to 15 different sites to pick up what we could. And boy did we really end up with quite a haul! 

 

Thanks to the many volunteers who turned out on a cold and rainy day, we were able to pull over 210 garbage bags full of trash from the river banks, along with 45 tires, a Pepsi machine, a traffic barricade, a pickup truck bed, a water heater, and several mattresses, batteries, car parts, electronics, and even carpeting. 

 

Organizing this event is no small task that takes a lot of planning and preparation. So, why do we put such a great effort into our river clean up and encourage others to be more conscious of their effect on the river throughout the course of the year?

 

Well, there are many reasons. The first is that the Flint River and all of its tributaries are a valuable natural resource for the area that needs preserving and protecting.  Of course, wildlife is still present and making their homes on the banks of the river, but they still have to be taken into consideration. Water pollution can cause mutations in existing species, such as frogs. This is incredibly damaging to the natural ecosystem for obvious reasons. No, not because there are glowing radioactive super-frogs lurking in the shallows and riffles, but because these species are a necessary part of the natural scheme of things.

 

Another reason for protecting the river is that many people use the river for recreation. Several canoeing and kayaking enthusiastic live in the Flint River watershed. Parents still take their children swimming at various points along the river, and fishing is a popular activity for many. It is our strong belief that the river should be protected and preserved for future generations to enjoy it as we do today. 

 

These are just a few of the many reasons why cleaning up our local waterways should be a priority, and admittedly, I’ve only vaguely touched on them. And they apply not just to the Flint River here in Michigan, but to rivers, lakes and streams everywhere.  Our waterways are a vital part of our community, and we need to care for them. 

Horseshoe to Horseshoe Day 4: May 27, 2008

 

Thunderstorms were in the forecast -- not a good day to go kayaking. Undaunted, the curious kayaker drove to Lapeer thinking he might dodge some of the rains if he started early enough. Today, besides rain parka, he brought a skirt to cover the cockpit of Swiftee. When he arrived at the river he noticed for the second time it had lost depth, about 5 inches or more, going by a photo of the previous outing.

When launching from beneath the bridge at Mayfield Road, he heard a voice echoing from the sloping rocks behind him. 

"Hello Woodchuck," the voice said.

He turned and saw Chief Pontiac sitting on the rocks.

"Ugh," Riley replied, showing him no respect.  

The Indian asked, "You come prepared for rain I see."

"Yeah, anytime now we could see a thunderstorm," Riley told him.

"You know this because…?"

"The weatherman said so."

"I will be your weatherman, trust me. I give you the weather you deserve."

"I’m sure you think I deserve to get drenched."

"Dumb Woodchuck will see much fallen trees in river today. But, if you careful, and drink no barleywine, I promise to keep you dry when on river."

"Deal, that will be easy, since all I have with me is a couple bottles of pale ale."

With the sarcastic remark, Pontiac stood up and glared at the curious kayaker with scorn. Riley retreated a step backwards and onto a slippery rock; lost his balance and fell into Swiftee's cockpit.

"Get, go now, or I make thunder and lightning!"

Riley grabbed his paddle and fled away from the bridge and the angry spirit. He hadn't paddled a half-mile when he began crashing into the debris Pontiac had promised. Riley doesn't mind the blockages when they are spaced out; it's only when they appear one after the other and he has to get out of the kayak and drag it along the banks that it frazzles him.

He tells us, "Fortunately, this year because of the spring rains and heavy winter snows, I haven't had to trudge the damp soggy grounds of the flood plain. Also, because of higher water the kayak hasn't grounded, so I've never had to get out and wade in the stream while pulling Swiftee. Given the choice of the two, I prefer wading in the stream, for it doesn't quite feels like I'm trespassing. Technically, I am though, for somewhere in the MDNR waterway rights publication, I have read that riparians do not own the river but do own the ground beneath it."

With the amount of blockages today, it seemed like a doable obstacle course. He makes a game out of it; if he can bust through, by any means available and without exiting the kayak, he wins. If he has to espia, the debris wins.

Riley detailed, "I did pretty well today, only espiaing a half dozen times . In the twelve plus miles of kayaking , I espiaed once in the first, fourth, ninth and eleventh miles, and twice in the second mile. I was pretty proud of myself because of the skills I displayed."

In reality, he had no reason to be proud; he's just hard-headed and impractical. Using less skill and more brains, he could have saved much time by exiting and pulling the kayak over then continuing. Instead, he zigzagged against current looking for any possibly way of getting through, whether it be by clearing brush and logs, plowing over logs and using the paddles as crutches when stuck, or hunkering down inside Swiftee to get under fallen trees.

 

In the first few miles of today's voyage, he wore his life vest. Later, after becoming overheated, he secured it to the bungees at the rear of the kayak. When wearing it, most of the time he was sweating.

"Because of the sweating," he said, "I did not notice when sprinkles were coming down. I didn't notice it until once looking downriver. The drops hitting the water looked more like stars twinkling in the sky. It lasted less than a mile and the rest of the way, no rain at all."

It was just as his guiding spirit had said; Riley was careful when espiaing and did not drink any beer, and when exiting Swiftee at the end of the trip, he was feeling quite dry. Because he was dry and the rains held off, he viewed and enjoyed nature in action.

"I saw a real variety of wildlife today. Still looking for that first eagle, though. On other voyages, I'd seen them multiple times. I did see an owl today though. When paddling today, I couldn't say how many times carp scared the begazus out of me. I'd get close to the bank, where they must be spawning, and startle them. They made a loud splashing when I disturbed them. Sometimes I felt them bouncing of Swiftee. You'd think I'd get used to it after a couple times, but no; I freak out as if crocodiles had just jumped in the river."

In nature, the preyed upon have many defenses against predators. Today, back-to-back, Riley saw two such behaviors that were totally opposite one another. In both cases, it was a parenting strategy in protecting offspring. First, he saw a pair of geese protecting their goslings. The goslings found a way out of the water and assembled on the bank. Meanwhile, the male and female placed themselves between Riley and the babies and made as much noise as possible, honking for the longest of time.



For nearly a half-mile, he was followed by the geese.  After the honking stopped, ahead on the river he saw a doe and fawn at the streams edge. The mother ran away, abandoning the fawn. The fawn hit the ground and tried to blend in. In the woods, the strategy might have worked well, but on the river's muddy edge, the fawn's spotty body was as un-camouflaged as a full moon at midnight.

 Riley's analysis was, "Both parent's behaviors work for that particular species. Both exhibited ‘survival of the fittest’ behavior. Other survival behaviors tried by geese and deer have long been vanquished. To humans, one parent can be considered as cowardly and the other, heroic. Seems funny – serious, not ha-ha - that humans are more like the bird in this case than the more closely related mammal species. But then again, some human parents do abandon their kids. Guess that behavior has not been totally eliminated yet"
 

Float hunting. Some hunters must hunt game from floating devices. "No Hunting" signs were posted by one riparian between Flint River Road and Norway Lake Road. The bottoms of the signs were marked with felt tip pen, "No Float Hunting."  Riley had never heard of such a thing. He thinks the water would be too cold in hunting season to attempt it; that combined with the debris makes it impassible under normal circumstances. He judged that the river has not been cleared in three or four years. When it was clear, it might have been occurring and made for a good hunting tactic.

 
One of the more recent fallen debris in the river looked quite spectacular. A landslide had occurred sometime in the last week or so, for the foliage still looked healthy. Our explorer wished he could have timed his voyage so that he could have seen the one hundred foot wall of soil and flora cleave away, leaving a high cliff in its wake. More than likely, future floods will make a small island out of what got fractured off.

Riley ended his 12.3 mile trip (which should have been 10.8 according to pre-measurement) at Columbiaville Road. While on the river, he barely saw any rain, let alone the thunderstorms that the weathermen forecasted. On the 8 mile run back to the van, he was not so lucky; he got drenched. Pontiac did promise Riley would stay dry, but only when on the river. Funny ha-ha.

           

           

           

             

           

           

           

             

           

Greetings, friends!

Are you ready for the next installment in Riley's kayaking trip?  We're sure you are, and so without any further ado, here it is, ready for your lunchtime perusal!

Enjoy! 

FRWC


Horseshoe to Horseshoe Day 3: May 13, 2009

The Flint River at Hunter’s Creek Road crossing though down a bit from seven days earlier still looked to have good depth. The curious kayaker was wise enough to take photos of the crossing both times to compare. Comparing them it seemed about seven inches lower today. He had gotten an earlier start today because rain was in the forecast for noon and beyond. He was in the river at 9:30 am with rain gear packed and ready to go.

The first road crossing would be Newark Road, a premeasured distance of 1.35 miles.  It was closer to two miles according to GPS when he arrived there. Again the river was meandering much more than maps show.

The next road crossing was a big one, I-69. Riley stopped briefly in the median as he did four years earlier. Years before he owned Swiftee, he had no idea the Flint River flowed through the area.

"I'd crossed the river in vehicles many times and never noticed the posted 'Flint River' signs; maybe they've only been the a few years. Anyway, seeing the sign four years ago sparked an interest to kayak it, and that grew into exploring other rivers of the Saginaw Valley."

Before arriving at I-69, he came upon a familiar extensive estate that expands both sides of the river. There is a private dam there and the river widens, but the impoundment is not that large.

“At the dam four years ago, I thought it would be fun watching Swiftee go over the barrier as I stood on a nearby bridge and watched. The kayak made the three-foot drop but got caught in a hydraulic.  I worked a long time trying to get Swiftee out. I learned never to try that again. Small dams such as these can be ever as dangerous as larger ones. The low dam in Corunna on the Shiawassee is a good example.”

“When I arrived there during my Shiawassee River exploration, the river was so low, I climbed down the rough concrete dam dragging Swiftee. A year later at the same dam during flood stage, a young kayaker got caught in a hydraulic and drowned. It made me rethink ever going over any dam again. If I did, it would be with life vest and helmet. The most important thing is, at all times stay perpendicular to the flow. If there is anything at the bottom or on the way down I could hit, forget it. If hit, it will turn the kayak sideways and into the revolving water. To anyone thinking of going over a dam, think twice, for there could be an obstacle hidden by the moving water. Better yet, just don’t do it.”

One more dam had to be portaged three miles further downstream. The twenty-five acre impoundment there is called Winns Pond. The dam initially served a gristmill that was once located on Peppermill Road. Today, the pond is used for private recreation, mostly fishing; also there are several houses along the shore. The dam is on a list of dams the DNR would like see removed to help restore the ecosystem. Standing water like Winn’s Pond creates a habitat for warmer species of plant, algae, and fish.

 

After Riley portaged the river, the current was strong, as might be expected below a dam. It remained fast for quite some distance.  He reported, “It would be fun zipping through the area if it weren’t for the obstacles. It seemed as if all the mini-elevation drops had branches above them. Together it was a little scary, trying to duck my head, push away limbs, while trying to maneuver the kayak through the riffle pools.”

Riley says that the two to three miles from Winn's Dam to downtown Lapeer, because of espia, is the worst section to kayak on the South Branch. Mainstream kayakers should avoid it at all cost and launch anywhere downstream from the confluence of the Flint and Farmer’s Creek, which is near downtown Lapeer.

“Lapeer’s Rotary Park is just down from the mouth of Farmer’s Creek, and it would be a good place to start but there isn't a good place to launch; the banks are too steep. Compton Park is up a ways from the mouth of Farmer’s Creek. There has to be a better place to launch there.”

Despite the difficult exit, Riley did stop at Rotary Park. It was afternoon and time for some lunch. On the two previous weeks, he did not eat until after running back to his van. Our paddler enjoys a good craft beer with lunch, but knows first hand that beer and espia do not mix. Today, once he made it past the Farmer’s Creek confluence, he believed the next few miles to be clear of debris. He took comfort in knowing this and decided to have some ale with his venison sticks and pretzels.

He knew the river was cleared of blockages in this area because of the efforts of the Lapeer Chapter of the Flint River Watershed Coalition. Their endeavor began four years ago, but not until after he had passed through the area on his original Flint Expedition. During that particular cleanup, he even worked with a crew one evening removing debris.

Riley says, “It’s hard work, but I think all avid paddling enthusiasts should give at least one day a year to such projects.”

After his lunch, he continued on and the next few miles were espia free. The Sierra Nevada Bigfoot Barleywine he drank never became an encumbrance.

Riley planned to end today’s leg at M-24, but the next crossing beyond the state road, Mayfield, was only a half mile further. It would make more sense to end and start the next segment on a non-state highway.

But as soon as M-24 was passed, he found debris blocking his way. In fact, three times he had to climb out and drag Swiftee over piles of tree remains before reaching Mayfield Road. He knew the cleanup workers had cleared the river in this section a few years back, so it had to be more recently that trees toppled.

On the Shiawassee River between Linden and Byron, river cleanup crews have cut dates in the end of logs to mark the year of the cleanup. Riley thinks it is a great idea and it should be adopted by other cleanup crews. He said, “If I ever get my hands on a chainsaw during a cleanup, I surely will do some labeling. Although putting a chainsaw in the hands of a klutz like me, while in midstream, would not be a smart thing to do.”

When exiting the river at Mayfield Road, rainclouds were moving in. He never had to use the stowed rain gear but would get wet running back to the van. Nearly six hours had passed since putting in at Hunter’s Creek; one of the longest days on any river.

“I didn’t see the ghostly Indian on the trip today. I’m so glad! He creeps me out. And, what he proposes is pure craziness… paddling all the way to Niagara? I estimated the distance. It’s like 650 miles; 500 of that is in open water, and I'm in a 9.5 foot kayak. Maybe if I really believed in the importance of it all… but c’mon I’m not the kind of fool that believes he can turn around GM’s misfortunes as Pontiac said. Actually, I could care less about their problems. Now, eliminating the hardships of those who are losing their jobs… for them maybe I could. And, for sure, if I knew it would really work, that being the silly idea of pouring water over Niagara Falls that came from Oakland County. Sorry, I’m not that crazy. Wait, I have seen and talked to a ghost, so maybe I am going crazy.” 

Today’s distance paddled was 13.6 miles; again well over the map measurement of 11.7 miles.  A 14% extra distance was paddled supposedly because of meandering. Last week, it was 16%, so the river seems to be straightening out a little. The distance that Riley ran back to the van was 9.5 miles.

Greetings, all!

We've another guest blog from our friend Riley!  It's the next episode in his kayaking adventures, so grab some coffee and settle in as he expounds upon his latest trip on the Flint River.  

FRWC Staff

 

Horseshoe to Horseshoe Day 2: May 6, 2009

Eight days had past and now the curious kayaker was back at Gardner Road, pulling Swiftee out of the van where he had pulled him out of the river previously. It was an overcast day with temperatures in the fifties. He was expecting a hard day with lots of espia, and getting wet and chilled.

Espia is a word Riley has borrowed for debris blocking the river and extra work must be done to get around it. It’s not in the dictionary; he says it comes from a book, The Incredible Journey, an account of Tristan Jones’ travels up the Amazon by motorboat. In the book Jones writes:

“Finally, just above the small miserable settlement of Codajas, we started to espia, or haul the boat from one (toppled) tree to the next… Day after day we slaved at the espia, struggling with our remaining strength…"

Riley has even taken the liberty to make up a gerund form, “espiaing.” He had done some major espiaing in this section of the Flint four years ago. As it turned out, the first few miles today were comparatively pure joy, even with the espia that greeted him. Again he found marshy areas mixed with woody sections. In both habitats, he caught much wildlife by surprise.

“There are several reasons I like to kayak alone, solitude being one. But the best is you see more wildlife because it’s quieter. Again today, I saw sandhill cranes. Four of them. I’m forever in awe of how such huge birds can take to flight from a single powerful leap.

In the grassy and woody areas, many deer were seen. A conservative estimate would be thirty. Many were still losing their winter coats; they looked sickly with bare spots on their backs and flanks. He says the Flint watershed has more deer near its banks than any of the other three he’d kayaked. The Cass is a close second, followed by the Shiawassee. Many might think the Tittabawassee, which starts further north in Roscommon, and Ogemaw County would have more.

 

Riley says, “The Tittabawassee isn’t even in the contest. There are some areas I saw them but never along the miles and miles of reservoirs. They may be there, but if so, they were hiding from me.”

 

Again he passed over several beaver dams. One was made without much work. Instead of building a beaver dam that spanned some distance, a few uneager beavers just blocked three culverts on an old abandoned road. Just a trickle of water was coming out of the culverts but it created an impoundment that was running over the trail.






“Well before the fake beaver dam, I actually saw a beaver. My fourth sighting ever, three times on the Flint, and once on the Cass. This one slipped into the steam from the bank in a woody area, and only a few feet in front of me. Not until in midstream did he notice me, and then, ‘Dive! Dive!’ he went into submarine mode. I grabbed and fumbled with the camera, then crashed into the debris that he was hiding beneath. I untangled myself and keep going. There wasn’t any use in waiting for him to come up for air; they can stay under water for fifteen minutes. It wasn’t long after that I thought I saw another, but it turned out to be just a lowly woodchuck.”

Along the river today the curious kayaker passed many horse farms. Metamora is horse country today due mostly to the historic Metamora Hunt Club.  The roots of the club are traced back to 1911. That’s when the Grosse Pointe Hunt Club was formed. Fox hunts anywhere in WayneCounty had to be pretty limited simply because of the lack of foxes. Most hunts were drag hunts - hounds chasing what they believe to be a live fox which was dragged behind a horse.

The Grosse Pointe Hunt Club bought a farm and stables in Metamora but soon membership waned. Many of the members began hunting with the Bloomfield Open Hunt Club in Bloomfield Hills; that club was founded in 1914. Members of both clubs formed the Metamora Hunt in 1928. The charter members bought land along the wooded hills of the South Branch Flint River - 15 square miles. 

The price is not mentioned, but even in 1928, a fifteen square miles parcel had to have a hefty price tag. Nothing says $$$ in Michigan better than Grosse Pointe and Bloomfield Hills. From looking at the names of the founders, they seem to be from fine English gentry: Hendrie, Nichols, Henry, Endicott, Newberry, Alger, Depeu… Depeu? How’d that French guy get in there?

When running back after kayaking today, Riley was stopped by a horse doctor, Denise Burbary-Mustin DVM. She pulled up in a large SUV and said, “Aren’t you the guy I saw putting a kayak in the river this morning south of here?” Riley confirmed her suspicions and explained to her why he now was on foot.

“That’s so cool! Wish I could do that, I’m so jealous,” the vet said. “I’m trying to get my husband interested in kayaking, he needs a passion more than me.”

Enthused as she was, Riley thought she could even sell the idea of kayaking the headwaters to her patients. He could see her patients doing the running leg but not necessarily paddling a kayak.

In the town of Metamora is the semi-famous White Horse Inn. As a musician, Riley has performed there. He says that the restaurant’s décor tells the horse country story almost as well as a drive though the Metamora area. “The food’s not bad either,” he piped.

In the eight days that passed since gliding through the marshy areas, new growths of green grass could be seen on top of previous years growths. The clumps that were described before as looking like hula skirts and Cousin Its had now all gone Don King.

 

“It seems on every voyage I find some anomaly that mystifies me, like last weeks stop sign on HorseshoeLake. Today it was a swimming pool. I investigated it on my maiden Flint expedition. After checking it out for the second time today, I’m just as bewildered. When coming down the river one can see a platform on the east side of the river which almost looks like a remaining foundation of some derelict building. There were no warning signs about trespassing so I secured the kayak and investigated once again.”

“Up close, what looks like a foundation is actually a swimming pool that is at least 20 X40 feet, completely full; but it hasn’t been used in years by the looks of it. I wrote before that it was looking quite aged and was starting to deteriorate and rot. Today, though it looked as if it hadn’t been swum in for years, the decking planks looked as if they had been replaced. Before, at the shallow end of the pool, I could see the bottom, it was covered with leaves and I even saw a fish. This time the water was too dirty to even see the bottom. Maybe, though hard to believe, come summertime it will be cleaned and the owners will swim there?”

 

It was somewhere in the seventh mile of today’s paddling that Riley portaged the Flint’s first human-made dam. After portaging the river, the current increased dramatically. It reminded him of kayaking the SturgeonRiver, one of Michigan’s fastest and most technically challenging rivers. On the Sturgeon, in the stretch from Wolverine, to Indian River, the river drops something like 35 feet per mile.



After kayaking today, using Garmin mapping software with topographic contour lines, Riley checked the gradient from the dam near Gardner Road to less than two miles downstream. It dropped an average of 37 feet in less than two miles!

After that, in the next four and a half miles it levels off, dropping only 7 feet per mile. This bit of information may be good news to kayakers who like a challenging river; but then, it was only for two to three miles. Four years ago, Riley did not remember rushing waters in the section, but did remember much climbing in and out of the kayak, so the elevation drop may only be noticeable during times of higher water.

He was enjoying the fast ride and thinking how well he was making all the right maneuvers. Even when espia blocked his way, he negotiated it with skill and, after eight miles of bush paddling, his feet were still dry. He began thinking in a cocky manner that with all his past experience, he could possibly make the entire journey without ever capsizing. Then, only moments after the idea entered his mind, they were vanquished.

In the rip roaring current, the river made a sharp turn. Without any time to react, the end of a branch came right at him and jousted him in the sternum. Riley grabbed the limb, deflecting it away from the boat but the kayak tipped. As water entered the boat, it lodged against another limb; half of which was below the water. In an instant he was flung out of Swiftee and fighting the current so as not to be towed downstream. Meanwhile Swiftee was  hung up and totally submerged. Three items, two dry bags and a water bottle that were once secured began floating downstream.

Riley went into anti-litter mode, left Swiftee, and began chasing down the objects. After collecting the flotsam and then fighting the current back to the kayak, work then began to get it to shore.

Something was holding Swiftee in the heavy current. Riley found it to be his life vest which was bungeed on the top side of the kayak’s stern. He had secured it there in case he needed it. Had he been wearing it, the joust he received would have been less severe.

Once the life vest was un-snagged, the boat began moving with the swift current. Riley still worked hard pulling the kayak to shore and emptying it. When the job was done he stood in drenched clothes, chilled, trying to think what to do next. Suddenly, he felt as if someone was watching him. On the other side of the stream stood the Indian spirit he’d met at HorseshoeLake, with his arms folded across his chest.

He spoke, “You think you a clever paddler. Me, Pontiac, show how wrong you are. You just a woodchuck, not a beaver.”

"Huh?”

"You like the young brave who think he has much skills, like that of beaver, when really he is just a silly woodchuck.”

 “I realize that now, and I don’t need to be told in such in a demeaning manner.” Riley told him.

 “Just want you to know was me who put limb in your way and cause your boat to sink,” the spirit told him.

 “Well, thanks a lot. You know, you could have really hurt me.”

 “You have bad attitude Woodchuck; you will never make it to Niagara unless you listen to Pontiac.”

 Riley reminded him, “I never did promise to go that far.”

“Do it, not for self, but for your people. One last thing, dumb Woodchuck, put on life vest.”

That bit of advice was Pontiac’s last words; he turned and walked behind a large cedar tree and disappeared. Riley, still chilled from the soaking, put on the vest as advised, zipped it up, hopped in the kayak, and once again pushed off into the speedy current.

Being all wet he thought about stopping at the next bridge crossing, Sutton Road, and calling it a day. When he did get there he had warmed up enough, partly from wearing the foam filled vest; he decided to keep going.

Past Sutton Road, the rippling waters, which showed the swift current, began to diminish and so did the kayak’s speed. By the time he arrived at his landing point, next to the bridge at Hunter’s Creek, 1.5 miles from the Sutton Road crossing, he felt the river was back to an average rate of flow.

He peeled off his wet paddling garments and dried off his damp feet with paper toweling. Then donning dry socks, running shoes, and shirt from a dry bag, he began jogging his way back to his PontiacMontana.

Riley kayaked a total of 11.8 miles today, according to his onboard Garmin GPS. The distance is well off from the calculated 9.9 miles his Garmin mapping program said it was. That is a 20% discrepancy. He believes the error lies mostly in the mapping program, for in the marshy areas, there was much more meandering than the map showed. The distance he ran back to the van which 6.25 miles. The amount of cockiness knocked out of him when he capsized? That is still to be determined.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello, all!

Here's part 2 of the guest blog written by one of our friends and members, Riley McLincha. As mentioned before, Riley is an experienced kayaker and has been paddling the rivers and waterways of the watershed for years. You may also know Riley from his "drubbling" three basketballs in many running races and marathons across the country, including Flint's very own annual CRIM race. Besides his passion for kayaking and running, Riley is also an accomplished musician, singer, and beer epicurean.

We're sure you'll enjoy the conclusion to this story of a trip on the Flint River!

FRWC Staff

The rains had come down heavily in the past week and the outlet was wider than Riley remembered in the past but not high enough. He soon had to exit Swiftee and wade much of the half-mile back to Oakwood Road, towing the kayak over debris and making sure he did not go out of the water onto Detroit Sportsmen Congress property.

Once he crossed the road and re-launched, the remaining four plus miles of paddling were amazing, especially compared to what he had just trudged through.

From Oakwood Road to the next crossing Davison Lake Road, much of the waterway was a meandering marshy area, his favorite river habitat for paddling.

“Here, at the same place four years ago, the stream disappeared because of lower levels and beaver damming, and I had to get out and search for flowing water. But today it was so enjoyable. I would recommend it to other paddlers, but only if the waters are high from recent rains as it was today.”

There was one type of marsh grass that seemed very typical in the area. It grows in clumps and looks as though each year’s new growth is built upon the preceding years.

“I have stood on the clumps and they are quite sturdy. It felt as though beneath the clump there might be a stump. They are quite amusing to look at; the first thing that comes to my mind is the cloning of Cousin It from the Addams Family, or maybe hundreds of hula dancers had stripped and abandoned their grass skirts?”



As can be expected in marshy habitat, Canada geese and mallard ducks were plentiful. In a week or two, goslings and ducklings will be seen in the stream and along the banks, but today most are water fowl are still nesting. Usually, the nests aren’t visible when Riley passes by. Today, he was surprised to pull right up beside one that was unattended.



“It looked as if no goose had been sitting there in quite a while, maybe it was an abandoned the nest? Was it possible that the nester heard me coming and hid nearby? It crossed my mind to feel the eggs for warmth, but I knew better. That would be considered fowl play by any naturalist, professional or an amateur like myself.”

The next road crossing from Oakwood Road is a mile north but by kayak another quarter mile can be added. When closer to the next road, Davison Lake, the marsh blended into a wooded area, and it winded through a golf course, Devil’s Ridge.

“That section should be avoided if the stream is not high. If not, don’t try it, I had to wade most of it the last time, all the while tripping over submerged downed trees. I banged up my shins quite nicely, and afterwards I remember pulling bloodsuckers out of my crevices.”

After Davison Lake Road was portaged, Riley was now in Lapeer County. There would not be another crossing for over 2.5 miles. The first mile was marshy at times. Riley remembered seeing sandhill cranes here on his previous passage. He looked for them again and had about given up when one flew out of the weeds. His camera was not ready but he remembered they nested in pairs. He looked to where the bird flew and saw the mate. It paused just long enough for him to get two shots before also taking flight.



Soon, as had happened in the previous section, the marsh gave way to woody plants. In the section a couple private bridges blocked the way. One he was able to avoid for the water was so high, the kayak could cross where the trail approached the bridge. Past the second bridge, he saw an overturned canoe resting in the flooded floodplain. He had only remembered seeing two distant houses since Davison Lake Road. It had to have come from one of them or back at Davison Lake Road Bridge. From where it presently rested, it could only be recovered by another boat, so he decided to try and do just that. He came close to paddling right on by the canoe but when he noticed it had fiberglass and resin patchwork, he stopped.

“Oh my gosh, could it possible our canoe?” He thought. “When a kid, we had a wooden Old Town canoe that was stolen. That was nearly 40 years ago, and it had similar fiberglass patchwork. Upon flipping it over, I saw it wasn’t a wooden canoe; the entire body was fiberglass. I emptied the remaining water out of it and found no leaks”

He heaved the much shorter Swiftee into the 15-foot canoe, then sat at the stern of the canoe and began paddling. It wasn’t that hard at first but soon the Flint began winding sharply. It was hard steering from the stern. Even the slightest wind sent the canoe careening into the banks.



In the later part of the Davison Lake to Brocker Road section, the next crossing, the floodplain was inundated and it looked like a Louisiana bayou. The true channel was hard to find since, at times, no current could be found. Despite the loss of current, he enjoyed paddling the kayak-ladened canoe though the swamp. When Brocker Road was reached, he unloaded Swiftee and tied the orphaned canoe to a tree so it would not be carried away again by floodwaters.

“I plan to put a lost and found notice on Craig’s List. I have no way of taking it home with me today, but tomorrow I will come back and get it. If nobody claims it, I will more than likely try selling it. It’s an ugly canoe, not many people would want it. I certainly don’t, only because I’m a kayak guy. Paddling that thing today only confirmed it.”

Riley decided to paddle Swiftee to the next river crossing, Garner Road. It was only a quarter mile further for the river makes a turn and goes east. He was glad he continued, as the current north of the bridge was very fast and without obstacles. He was at Garner Road in a matter of minutes.

“Of my four years kayaking the Saginaw Valley, today’s experience ranks as one of the very best of times. Before today, I’ve advised many paddlers to stay away from the Flint River headwaters. Now I would tell them that if they go after recent floods, it’s some of the best paddling they will ever experience. But hey, I’m not at all looking forward to the next section, Garner Road to Thornville. It was so bad the last time, I almost threw in the towel and gave up bush kayaking entirely.”

Today after kayaking 4.5 miles from Horshoe Lake, and cabling and locking Swiftee to a tree, Riley ran back to his van, a distance of 5.75 miles. He says sometimes he may plant a bike and pedal back. One of Riley’s self imposed rules is, “A true bush kayaker must find his way back to the start, preferably, on foot, but cycling is legal.”