from the Wisconsin River: paddling toward the Mississippi

We’re a country that believes in the automobile. I understand that. Me, I worship technology in the form of the washing machine (I’ve lived in too many places without one).

I’m less in awe of the car. America's big love affair with the automobile means (among many other things) that if you want to paddle down a river from point A to point B, you better leave a car at point B, so that you can retrieve your stuff where you put in, at Point A. There’s no speedy little train or local bus to take you there.

And so we drive down toward where the Wisconsin meets the Mississippi (our endpoint).

It’s not a heavy use road. And it is quite pretty in a cornfields and barns sort of way. And forward looking.





And there it is – the Mississippi, the river of all rivers, not at all like what you see in that quick dart of an eye as you cross the bridge to the Twin Cities or Dubuque, but here, near Prairie du Chien, it's a wide body of water flowing past vast areas of countryside, with county parks offering boat landings and strips of beach to bring families to on a warm sunny day.





It’s not a warm, sunny day, but it’s not too bad. So far, the rain has been only a threat. We leave a car at the shore and drive back east toward Prairie du Sac.

The road tracks the river, more or less. I’m surprised that there isn’t much of a river life here though. The villages are sleepy things. True, we’re coming through on a work day, but even so, each place looks like we’ve hit the siesta hour big time.

But as we approach our put in point, we join a major road that offers more of Wisconsin commerce. Including our infamous custard place – Culver’s. There’s ice cream and there’s frozen custard. If you have never tried custard, imagine it in this way: ice cream with more of everything – milk, eggs, more milk, more eggs – the glory of a dairy state, with a near butter consistency.

We stop for a cone. Smallest, please. The special of the day!





Chocolate covered strawberry. Heavenly. We share it, wondering how anyone could manage the whole thing, let alone anything larger.


By the time we reach the boat landing, it is late afternoon. We unload. We have an inflatable to assemble. (Ed: I wonder where I put the instructions… must have left them behind) We lay it out. It’s been a while... (Ed: there was a pump for this, wasn’t there?) We make do. We blow and tinker and seal it up and by 4:30, we’re ready to launch.



(the hat belongs to Ed)


A man comes over with his dog. The pooch has been playing in the river and he is full of exuberance. His mud is now my mud as he shakes and romps in and out of the boat.

He just loves boating! How far’re you goin'?
To the Mississippi.
I envy you. My wife, she wont camp more than a night.
I understand her. What is it with men?!
We don’t mind goin’ dirty.
I sure know that…
Just watch out for the sand banks. My friends, they didn’t know about the damn and they woke up to their kayak being on the next island.


We know what he’s telling us – the power plant releases water through the damn irregularly and when it does this, the water level in the river goes up by several feet. If you’re camping on a sandy bank, you may well wind up underwater in the middle of the night. We imagine the power company dudes having a good laugh. Okay – let her flow! Wonder how many innocents we’ll sweep off their beach this time! He he!

The river is deep, the river is wide, heron – lead the way!





Well, not always deep. It’s easy to hit an underwater sandbank and get stuck. Pull me out! – I shout to Ed. Get out yourself, I have my own issues.

At the shore, the herons are laughing. Or dancing. Or mating. Or all the above.






But mostly, the river is easy. True, we have a strong head wind and if we stop paddling, oftentimes we appear to be going against current, but mostly, it is a gentle ride. And a beautiful one.





By 7:30, we’re on the lookout for a camp spot. The requirements? Low to pull in, but with higher ground (in case the river level rises). We pick an island – one of the many on the river.





We haul the boats out and settle in. I’m grateful that the rain held off. And the wind has dispersed the bugs. We sit on the beach and eat our baguette with cheese and tomato. Okay, the bread is made by a Frenchman (from la Baguette!), but the cheese is Hook’s Bloomin' Idiot and the tomatoes are homegrown.

from the Wisconsin River: paddling toward the Mississippi

We’re a country that believes in the automobile. I understand that. Me, I worship technology in the form of the washing machine (I’ve lived in too many places without one).

I’m less in awe of the car. America's big love affair with the automobile means (among many other things) that if you want to paddle down a river from point A to point B, you better leave a car at point B, so that you can retrieve your stuff where you put in, at Point A. There’s no speedy little train or local bus to take you there.

And so we drive down toward where the Wisconsin meets the Mississippi (our endpoint).

It’s not a heavy use road. And it is quite pretty in a cornfields and barns sort of way. And forward looking.





And there it is – the Mississippi, the river of all rivers, not at all like what you see in that quick dart of an eye as you cross the bridge to the Twin Cities or Dubuque, but here, near Prairie du Chien, it's a wide body of water flowing past vast areas of countryside, with county parks offering boat landings and strips of beach to bring families to on a warm sunny day.





It’s not a warm, sunny day, but it’s not too bad. So far, the rain has been only a threat. We leave a car at the shore and drive back east toward Prairie du Sac.

The road tracks the river, more or less. I’m surprised that there isn’t much of a river life here though. The villages are sleepy things. True, we’re coming through on a work day, but even so, each place looks like we’ve hit the siesta hour big time.

But as we approach our put in point, we join a major road that offers more of Wisconsin commerce. Including our infamous custard place – Culver’s. There’s ice cream and there’s frozen custard. If you have never tried custard, imagine it in this way: ice cream with more of everything – milk, eggs, more milk, more eggs – the glory of a dairy state, with a near butter consistency.

We stop for a cone. Smallest, please. The special of the day!





Chocolate covered strawberry. Heavenly. We share it, wondering how anyone could manage the whole thing, let alone anything larger.


By the time we reach the boat landing, it is late afternoon. We unload. We have an inflatable to assemble. (Ed: I wonder where I put the instructions… must have left them behind) We lay it out. It’s been a while... (Ed: there was a pump for this, wasn’t there?) We make do. We blow and tinker and seal it up and by 4:30, we’re ready to launch.



(the hat belongs to Ed)


A man comes over with his dog. The pooch has been playing in the river and he is full of exuberance. His mud is now my mud as he shakes and romps in and out of the boat.

He just loves boating! How far’re you goin'?
To the Mississippi.
I envy you. My wife, she wont camp more than a night.
I understand her. What is it with men?!
We don’t mind goin’ dirty.
I sure know that…
Just watch out for the sand banks. My friends, they didn’t know about the damn and they woke up to their kayak being on the next island.


We know what he’s telling us – the power plant releases water through the damn irregularly and when it does this, the water level in the river goes up by several feet. If you’re camping on a sandy bank, you may well wind up underwater in the middle of the night. We imagine the power company dudes having a good laugh. Okay – let her flow! Wonder how many innocents we’ll sweep off their beach this time! He he!

The river is deep, the river is wide, heron – lead the way!





Well, not always deep. It’s easy to hit an underwater sandbank and get stuck. Pull me out! – I shout to Ed. Get out yourself, I have my own issues.

At the shore, the herons are laughing. Or dancing. Or mating. Or all the above.






But mostly, the river is easy. True, we have a strong head wind and if we stop paddling, oftentimes we appear to be going against current, but mostly, it is a gentle ride. And a beautiful one.





By 7:30, we’re on the lookout for a camp spot. The requirements? Low to pull in, but with higher ground (in case the river level rises). We pick an island – one of the many on the river.





We haul the boats out and settle in. I’m grateful that the rain held off. And the wind has dispersed the bugs. We sit on the beach and eat our baguette with cheese and tomato. Okay, the bread is made by a Frenchman (from la Baguette!), but the cheese is Hook’s Bloomin' Idiot and the tomatoes are homegrown.

from Prairie to golden Prairie

We’re setting out, Ed and I. We’re putting in kayaks just at the hydroelectric damn by Prairie du Sac. Ninety miles later, we’ll be at the other Prairie – Prairie du Chien. The Wisconsin River ends there, spilling all its waters into the great Mississippi.

How many days? Don’t know. We’ll camp at sandbars and go into villages along the way to fill up on Wisconsin foods and Wisconsin beer. We’ll use public libraries to plug in and I’m hoping we’ll stay above water this time. There are no rapids along this wide and lazy stretch of the river.

The weather is okay. Cool. Showers maybe. Bugs? Yes, I hear there are bugs. But, if you’re in the mood to lose yourself in life along the riverbanks, you can’t have it in any other way.

A final check of my gear, a nudge for Ed to put down the magazine… It’s all rather like a lyric out of a Simon & Garfunkel.

So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field

In our case, he has the magazine, I have my casebook of landmark decisions on property rights. Off on this week leading up to July 4th. We should be on the Mississippi on July 4th. It seems fitting to be doing this now.

All gone to look for America...

from Prairie to golden Prairie

We’re setting out, Ed and I. We’re putting in kayaks just at the hydroelectric damn by Prairie du Sac. Ninety miles later, we’ll be at the other Prairie – Prairie du Chien. The Wisconsin River ends there, spilling all its waters into the great Mississippi.

How many days? Don’t know. We’ll camp at sandbars and go into villages along the way to fill up on Wisconsin foods and Wisconsin beer. We’ll use public libraries to plug in and I’m hoping we’ll stay above water this time. There are no rapids along this wide and lazy stretch of the river.

The weather is okay. Cool. Showers maybe. Bugs? Yes, I hear there are bugs. But, if you’re in the mood to lose yourself in life along the riverbanks, you can’t have it in any other way.

A final check of my gear, a nudge for Ed to put down the magazine… It’s all rather like a lyric out of a Simon & Garfunkel.

So I looked at the scenery, she read her magazine
And the moon rose over an open field

In our case, he has the magazine, I have my casebook of landmark decisions on property rights. Off on this week leading up to July 4th. We should be on the Mississippi on July 4th. It seems fitting to be doing this now.

All gone to look for America...

oh, Madison

Every parent knows that a child can make you look at the world in a better way. I’ll add this – the child’s age is irrelevant. Adult kids are equally omnipotent: they’ll push you to recognize how gorgeous it all is.

It helps when you have a beautiful day out there to add vim and sparkle to an already lovely early summer landscape.


We take Ed up on his offer to go sailing. He’s got a tiny boat here – one that really isn’t fit for passengers, but we think it may work for a quick spin around Lake Waubesa.

The winds are gusty, the sky is clear.

Ed riggs the boat.






We help. We're the cheering squad.










Even at the dock, the boat is tossed around as if it were an insignificant pea on the waters of an ocean. Up goes the mast, down goes the boat; Ed rights it and down it goes again. And so on.

Go ahead, try it out on the open water – I tell him.





The wind kicks in, Ed hikes out to keep it from going down. The wind shifts, the boat goes down.

Meanwhile, daughters can’t get over how good life is out here, in Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Waubesa.





Ed’s back. Too much of a gust. Not fit for sailing with a crew. That’s okay. One daughter takes the kayak out, the other one helps take down the sail.

And now it’s time to haul the boats out and call it a day. I want to fix a Sunday supper before the last bus takes them to Chicago.

We pluck the first raspberries and sour cherries at Ed’s farmette and head home. And did I mention how gorgeous it all is out here? Absolutely beautiful.

oh, Madison

Every parent knows that a child can make you look at the world in a better way. I’ll add this – the child’s age is irrelevant. Adult kids are equally omnipotent: they’ll push you to recognize how gorgeous it all is.

It helps when you have a beautiful day out there to add vim and sparkle to an already lovely early summer landscape.


We take Ed up on his offer to go sailing. He’s got a tiny boat here – one that really isn’t fit for passengers, but we think it may work for a quick spin around Lake Waubesa.

The winds are gusty, the sky is clear.

Ed riggs the boat.






We help. We're the cheering squad.










Even at the dock, the boat is tossed around as if it were an insignificant pea on the waters of an ocean. Up goes the mast, down goes the boat; Ed rights it and down it goes again. And so on.

Go ahead, try it out on the open water – I tell him.





The wind kicks in, Ed hikes out to keep it from going down. The wind shifts, the boat goes down.

Meanwhile, daughters can’t get over how good life is out here, in Wisconsin, on the shores of Lake Waubesa.





Ed’s back. Too much of a gust. Not fit for sailing with a crew. That’s okay. One daughter takes the kayak out, the other one helps take down the sail.

And now it’s time to haul the boats out and call it a day. I want to fix a Sunday supper before the last bus takes them to Chicago.

We pluck the first raspberries and sour cherries at Ed’s farmette and head home. And did I mention how gorgeous it all is out here? Absolutely beautiful.

markets

They’re a big deal to me. Not only because they put me in touch with the people who generate great foods, but because they come closest to providing community in a country that has too much of rather soulless commerce. At the market I can exaggerate the significance of my connection to a local grocer, baker or cheese maker. I feel they're my neighbors. (Almost.)

Of course, I switched markets when I moved. From downtown, to the Westside Community Market ("WCM"). And so my loyalties shifted. It was like meeting a new city of bakers, growers and cheesemakers. It was a tough transition.

When I occasionally go back downtown (like when daughters are in town...),






... I recognize some of the longtime vendors and we talk about growing children and the sighting of the first swarms of mosquitoes. Like old friends. (Sort of.)



Yes, all that’s interesting, you say. But are the foods any better there, downtown? Or at the WCM?

The answer is, of course, that the foods are fantastic at both.

Though I have to say this – the downtown market has cut flowers that don’t run out by the time we get there. And they are magnificent. And long lasting.











Markets need flower stalls. It just cannot be that a dining table has to rely on supermarket flowers to carry you through the week.

So I’ll grant the downtown market the flowers. And cheese curds: not only can you sample many, many different curds (so Wisconsin!), but you can feast on grilled curds every single time you pass this stall.






People watching? Oh, the same at both markets. Less crowded, the WCM lets you stretch out a little more. On the other hand, there are fewer people to watch. No kids on a bench, for example, eating market cookies.






Okay, but really, when you have a local market, you don’t compare it to the one in the old neighborhood. And you don’t cheat and run out for bread at your old bakers. You stay loyal. And I did. I bought no peas, no berries, no garlic scapes. I passed on the tomatoes, the sprigs of mint, the first potatoes.

But I did bring home flowers. Heavenly bunches of sweet peas and bouquets of white peonies and daisies.

markets

They’re a big deal to me. Not only because they put me in touch with the people who generate great foods, but because they come closest to providing community in a country that has too much of rather soulless commerce. At the market I can exaggerate the significance of my connection to a local grocer, baker or cheese maker. I feel they're my neighbors. (Almost.)

Of course, I switched markets when I moved. From downtown, to the Westside Community Market ("WCM"). And so my loyalties shifted. It was like meeting a new city of bakers, growers and cheesemakers. It was a tough transition.

When I occasionally go back downtown (like when daughters are in town...),






... I recognize some of the longtime vendors and we talk about growing children and the sighting of the first swarms of mosquitoes. Like old friends. (Sort of.)



Yes, all that’s interesting, you say. But are the foods any better there, downtown? Or at the WCM?

The answer is, of course, that the foods are fantastic at both.

Though I have to say this – the downtown market has cut flowers that don’t run out by the time we get there. And they are magnificent. And long lasting.











Markets need flower stalls. It just cannot be that a dining table has to rely on supermarket flowers to carry you through the week.

So I’ll grant the downtown market the flowers. And cheese curds: not only can you sample many, many different curds (so Wisconsin!), but you can feast on grilled curds every single time you pass this stall.






People watching? Oh, the same at both markets. Less crowded, the WCM lets you stretch out a little more. On the other hand, there are fewer people to watch. No kids on a bench, for example, eating market cookies.






Okay, but really, when you have a local market, you don’t compare it to the one in the old neighborhood. And you don’t cheat and run out for bread at your old bakers. You stay loyal. And I did. I bought no peas, no berries, no garlic scapes. I passed on the tomatoes, the sprigs of mint, the first potatoes.

But I did bring home flowers. Heavenly bunches of sweet peas and bouquets of white peonies and daisies.

green

It’s so uniformly green now. Days of green. Wisconsin green. Uninterrupted green.

If this day looks different from a previous or the next one, it’s only because I will have seen a friend (passing through Wisconsin, stopping for breakfast here, in Madison)…





…in green, of course, against the background of a green couch.

Or I will have read one too many cases or, more likely, one too few.



Today is also a day of summer waiting, of the best kind, on beds of flowers, with bare toes ruffling the clover…







Me, I'm waiting for daughters to pop in for the week-end, before their work forces them to go back to their lawyerly duties elsewhere.

They haven’t seen much of the spring and summer green that I almost take for granted here. They are thoroughly urban – a field of tall grasses and tiger lilies is a surprise, a delight, as if this kind of stuff doesn’t happen just anywhere, as if this indeed is Wisconsin – the greenest loveliest state of them all.



Given this summer of gentle greens and warm nights, I have coaxed Ed into a brief road trip into the very core of the state (and at the same time, into the heart of America or Americana or both) – but without the road. Oh, but that’s not until next week. For now, I’m sitting back, waiting, looking up at the clock, wanting the daughters to step off that bus now and show up with their grins, taking in the green stuff here, up north, in Madison Wisconsin.

green

It’s so uniformly green now. Days of green. Wisconsin green. Uninterrupted green.

If this day looks different from a previous or the next one, it’s only because I will have seen a friend (passing through Wisconsin, stopping for breakfast here, in Madison)…





…in green, of course, against the background of a green couch.

Or I will have read one too many cases or, more likely, one too few.



Today is also a day of summer waiting, of the best kind, on beds of flowers, with bare toes ruffling the clover…







Me, I'm waiting for daughters to pop in for the week-end, before their work forces them to go back to their lawyerly duties elsewhere.

They haven’t seen much of the spring and summer green that I almost take for granted here. They are thoroughly urban – a field of tall grasses and tiger lilies is a surprise, a delight, as if this kind of stuff doesn’t happen just anywhere, as if this indeed is Wisconsin – the greenest loveliest state of them all.



Given this summer of gentle greens and warm nights, I have coaxed Ed into a brief road trip into the very core of the state (and at the same time, into the heart of America or Americana or both) – but without the road. Oh, but that’s not until next week. For now, I’m sitting back, waiting, looking up at the clock, wanting the daughters to step off that bus now and show up with their grins, taking in the green stuff here, up north, in Madison Wisconsin.

car day

In the course of an ordinary day, I do not come even close to the inside of a car. Today, therefore, was most extraordinary, in an ordinary sort of way.

Ed’s 93 Geo finally required mechanical intervention. I think Ed believes this little clump of rusted metal is like an old person – crinkled and tattered on the outside but full of vim and spark once you poke around a little. So, the mechanic poked and aligned and pronounced it ready for the next spell.

I motorbiked with Ed to pick it up. (Looking around the garage, I could understand why the mechanic does well with Ed's aging cars.)





Ed then roared home (all motorcycles, in my mind are loud; even his tiny Honda -- which is so small, that his knees poke up when he’s on it, as if this was merely a toy, leftover from boyhood), while I drove the Geo back to the condo to pick up my bicycle. From there, I drove on to the farmette where Ed and I spent time spiffing up and making adjustments to my daughters’ 93 Corolla (daughters are coming for a brief week-end visit) and cleaning out the 93 Geo as well. Two wrecks to work with. Fun.

When it was time to bike, Ed remembered that he had left his bike at the condo. And so I drove the Corolla home.


I write this because I felt so depleted zipping from one place to another by car. And I wondered why this was the case.

Indeed, I asked myself -- if I had a car and loved it (say a Smart or a Mini C), would I feel differently about driving? I don’t know. The only car I ever loved was my first – an old Volvo that I purchased when I was a student. That car spelled freedom from the city (I lived in Chicago then). I drove it to Wisconsin, many times. And to New York. And to Canada. I drove it until it dropped oil at the speed of a salad dressing pouring out of a bottle. All subsequent cars were modestly priced and terribly functional. Nothing to love, nothing to pamper.

And now? I find city driving boring. I find highway driving even more boring. Even if I had cash spilling out of my pocket at the speed of that very same salad dressing, why would I spend it on moving along corridors of boredom?


Wait. Was this my day? A drive from one corner of Madison to the next and back again, twice over?

No no. In between, Ed and I put up more photos at my favorite café. (Ancora in Fitchburg, if you are curious. I love their space, their patio and their enthusiasm; the coffee’s wonderful as well.) And now we’re done with that. The photos will be there for three months. Don’t rush to see them – most have made an appearance on Ocean at one time or another. But I have to say, it is beyond cool to sit at one’s favorite café and look up at a photo of sheep from the Isle of Skye. Hi sheep! Here you are now. In Fitchburg, Wisconsin.

car day

In the course of an ordinary day, I do not come even close to the inside of a car. Today, therefore, was most extraordinary, in an ordinary sort of way.

Ed’s 93 Geo finally required mechanical intervention. I think Ed believes this little clump of rusted metal is like an old person – crinkled and tattered on the outside but full of vim and spark once you poke around a little. So, the mechanic poked and aligned and pronounced it ready for the next spell.

I motorbiked with Ed to pick it up. (Looking around the garage, I could understand why the mechanic does well with Ed's aging cars.)





Ed then roared home (all motorcycles, in my mind are loud; even his tiny Honda -- which is so small, that his knees poke up when he’s on it, as if this was merely a toy, leftover from boyhood), while I drove the Geo back to the condo to pick up my bicycle. From there, I drove on to the farmette where Ed and I spent time spiffing up and making adjustments to my daughters’ 93 Corolla (daughters are coming for a brief week-end visit) and cleaning out the 93 Geo as well. Two wrecks to work with. Fun.

When it was time to bike, Ed remembered that he had left his bike at the condo. And so I drove the Corolla home.


I write this because I felt so depleted zipping from one place to another by car. And I wondered why this was the case.

Indeed, I asked myself -- if I had a car and loved it (say a Smart or a Mini C), would I feel differently about driving? I don’t know. The only car I ever loved was my first – an old Volvo that I purchased when I was a student. That car spelled freedom from the city (I lived in Chicago then). I drove it to Wisconsin, many times. And to New York. And to Canada. I drove it until it dropped oil at the speed of a salad dressing pouring out of a bottle. All subsequent cars were modestly priced and terribly functional. Nothing to love, nothing to pamper.

And now? I find city driving boring. I find highway driving even more boring. Even if I had cash spilling out of my pocket at the speed of that very same salad dressing, why would I spend it on moving along corridors of boredom?


Wait. Was this my day? A drive from one corner of Madison to the next and back again, twice over?

No no. In between, Ed and I put up more photos at my favorite café. (Ancora in Fitchburg, if you are curious. I love their space, their patio and their enthusiasm; the coffee’s wonderful as well.) And now we’re done with that. The photos will be there for three months. Don’t rush to see them – most have made an appearance on Ocean at one time or another. But I have to say, it is beyond cool to sit at one’s favorite café and look up at a photo of sheep from the Isle of Skye. Hi sheep! Here you are now. In Fitchburg, Wisconsin.