High Falls on the Namekagon
- a destroyed canoe and lessons learned

by Bryan Whitehead

That afternoon we returned to the falls at around dusk. The fishing - if this were possible - got even better. This time one of the older boys landed a monster Northern - 40" at least. The Northern had hit the jointed Rap so hard that we had to use a side cutter and cut the hooks off reaching through the gills. We moved this monster back and forth in the water until it recovered and took off with an angry swish of its tail.

We returned to camp in the gathering dusk and damp. I think all the boys and their fathers were asleep, lulled by the distant falls, in a matter of minutes.

June 8, 1997
I awoke to the sound of Steve starting breakfast over the kitchen stove. Bacon, walleye fillets prepared in bacon grease and scrambled eggs chased down by cocoa and coffee were the order of the day.

We headed en masse over to the falls again, but it was pretty obvious that the lure of even great fishing was fading for the boys. Horseplay was somewhat supervised as the boys flushed out a large black and yellow snake and carefully watched it return to its log home.

I took my rod and a large 6" floating Rap and worked my way along the boulders lining the roiling pool seeking even bigger prey closer to the base of the falls. Several hours of fishing produced only a 30" Northern, so I returned to try and supervise the boys. We had our practical limit, so we loaded up in the canoes and returned to base for lunch.

As I may have mentioned in a previous story, no expedition with Steve is complete without a brush or two with death.

Back at camp Steve announced that there was another branch of the river that flowed to the North of the main falls. This smaller branch had dozens of small rapids and falls and would make for a great afternoon adventure for the team. We cleaned up the dishes and headed back up stream to the roaring falls. This time we landed to the right of the falls and stashed the motors and fuel in the brush. We carried the old aluminum canoes up the steep portage trail and got them ready to be launched. Equipped now with only paddles, the fathers took this launch very seriously as we briskly paddled away from the dangerous brink of High Falls and into the quiet waters along the shore.

A mile or so of paddling brought us to the mouth of the smaller fast running tributary. Paddles dug in and with whoops and calls we moved down a series of small rapids, always gathering in the pools below the rapids to do a head count and for check for damage to our aluminum canoes before proceeding further.

After probably five small rapids - Class one or less - we were feeling pretty cocky. Steve looked downstream and scratched his head. "You know, I haven't been down this stretch for years. Why don't I go ahead and scout out the next rapids first?" With a push Steve and his Grumman, with his ten year old son and another boy as passengers, headed down stream. We watched his canoe grow smaller as he paddled down past increasingly steep rock walls. Suddenly he vanished from view. We continued our chatting... not too worried, but the concern grew as the minutes passed.

Forty five minutes later Steve appeared out of the dense woods by our canoes. He was soaked, and had a wet and bedraggled boy in each hand.

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Bryan Whitehead