HONEYMOON BY CANOE

R--- and I were married on the 28th of June 1922, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. By foresight on our part, with the noble assistance of our best man and the timely intervention of a nice long, slow-moving freight train pulling across the road over which we had just passed, just delaying our pursuers, we successfully evaded some ten pounds of rice and other vigorous attentions of over-zealous friends. We still chuckle over the thrilling episode. Perhaps we can even pass the story, with embellishments thereto, down to our grandchildren. We won't mention, however, to said grandchildren that when we, R--- went with me to give me the necessary courage, went to get a marriage license at the Hennepin County Court House, we innocently wandered into the place where dog licenses were sold!

I might add to the details of our departure on the 28th that we escaped like frightened rabbits without our hats. The day was warm and we were in a hurry, R was in silk, beautifully fluttery stuff and I was in a sweat, carrying two suitcases and diverse other things. We ran a mile. People smiled idiotically as we passed by, but we cared not. Our thoughts were on our best man who should have been on the job with the automobile. He came just in time. The aforesaid freight train closed the road back of him like a gate and stopped the pursuing automobile with its boisterous occupants. At a friend's home we changed into our camping togs, R--- appearing in khaki skirt, waist, coat and even hat and a good stout pair of tan shoes. Old khaki trousers, khaki shirt, service shoes, an old grey coat and a light felt hat of 1916 vintage

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completed my visible apparel. We took one large traveling case in which R--- had, among other things, a pair of knickers and a pair of boy s khaki pants which she had purchased at the risk of giving her mother a life-long nervous shock. Two raincoats completed our pack.

Fearing that our pursuers might be able to overtake us at one of the depots in the Twin Cities, our valiant best man drove us through the Twin Cities to Hudson, Wisconsin. I purchased tickets for two and then did my best to appear at ease. Action would have been far more satisfactory than calmly sitting and saying "Goodbye, heaps of thanks, old man" to our chauffeur. R--- seemed calm and collected although I knew that she had had no more experience than I. No mere words seem to aptly describe being "Just Married". R--- and I felt that we were unnoticed but we discovered later that we must have given some indication of our newlywededness.

We arrived at Spooner, Wisconsin, just too late for supper at the Hotel and restaurant. We went directly to the Hotel; couldn't miss it for it was right next to the depot. With just a little hesitation I sauntered up to the desk and tried to write "Mr. and Mrs." as though it had been a life-long habit. I asked unconcernedly for a room with bath. The request languidly amused the clerk. It appeared that a room with bath was altogether unknown in the only hotel in Spooner. We followed a porter down a corridor that reverberated with our footsteps, to a corner room on the first floor, within just a few feet of the railroad tracks. From our experience that night I would raise my right hand and most solemnly swear and affirm that Spooner, Wisconsin was a railroad town, for I heard engines pushing forward and back, and back and forward almost every minute of the night.

In unpacking R--- had discovered that she had left a small bag containing her personal toilet articles at the place where we had changed our clothes. I told her that I would not object to her using my toothbrush - would even let her use it first, but strangely enough my generosity did not have the expected comforting result. I felt intuitively that I was face to face with a real crisis but I arose to the emergency just as though I had been domesticated many, many years. While I held my little bride of a few hours with one arm, the other arm reached into my hip pocket and brought forth that which smooths the way over so many rough spots in life, the pocketbook. Then she went on a little shopping expedition.

Then we purchased magazines and bread and took the train to Trego, six miles northward, which is famous only for the fact that it is near the Namekagon River. It has a depot, a couple of general stores, a small bank and a scattering of houses. At the depot we found, awaiting us our next conveyance, my 18-foot "Old Town" canoe. With it were a box of supplies and groceries, lantern, and two large bundles containing tent, bedding etc.

A boy consented to help me carry these things an eighth of a mile down the railroad tracks and down the steep bluff to the river. Then R--- and I went shopping at the general stores in the village, purchasing kerosene for our lantern, eggs, butter,

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matches, condensed milk and a water pail. Fortunately I had seen that our other supplies had been purchased elsewhere. We may remember Trego for the two good glasses of lemonade we purchased for a total of $0.05.

The very wiggly blue line is Namekagon River from Trego, Wisconsin up to the northwest until it flows into the St. Croix River at the top of the black line. Note the scale in the very lower right corner of the map. Map from Google Maps.

We packed our stuff, just as it was, into the canoe. The afternoon was waning and we had to find a camping site before sunset. From that place, if you will examine the map, you will find that the Namekagon swings in a north-westerly direction, curving finally toward the west and southwest into the St. Croix River, which in turn has a generally southerly direction. It was our intention to canoe down these two rivers to Stillwater, Minnesota, a distance by water of about 250 miles.

R--- took the front, the bow, and I took the stern. We waved goodbye to the boy on shore and to the world in general. I looked a little questioningly at R--- and felt a tug of conscience for I knew that the trip might have some dangerous, uncomfortable aspects for a girl, since it was though a wilderness. Telephones and medical assistance would not be near at hand. We would be alone and away from civilization of any kind for probably days at a time. But R--- seemingly felt absolutely no fear as she glanced at the winding river, flowing through a veritable fairyland of ferns and lacy flowers. The water rushed and rippled over and between boulders for a brief space and then there would be a bit of wide, windy channel, smooth as glass but swift enough to make paddling unnecessary.

Here and there along the banks we saw an occasional Jack-pine. Where timber was sparse, the grass and brush grew high and rampant so that the shore line was a veritable green barricade of an even height, sprinkled here and there with the colors of wild flowers. Description is inadequate to give the idea of the changing beauty of the swift moving river and its scenery. R--- and I just sat and gazed and gave thanks for having decided to spend our honeymoon in such a Paradise.

After paddling some four miles we reached a certain spot with which I became acquainted in 1914, when I canoed down this river with a boy pal. It was a clearing made by lumber-jacks years and years before. One could see what must have been an old tote road, now beautifully over-grown with grass, winding in and out along the river bank - truly a lover's lane. Further back the clearing widened into a field that bore evidence of having once been cultivated, years ago. A few fallen timbers were all that was left of a barn. A tiny chipmunk was the only visible inhabitant of a house, wind-blown, doorless, with holes in the roof and the floor torn up. One wondered who might have lived here and where they had. gone.

We landed at the clearing, unpacked our stuff, and spread it. all about, It was R---'s first opportunity to become acquainted with some of the outfit, although she had enjoyed with me the purchase of the tent and some of the cooking utensils. The tent became our pride and joy and proved its worth many, many

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times. I had worried before its purchase thinking it would be necessary to purchase something in line of a shelter which might be very heavy and bulky. Fortunately R--- and I did a bit of shopping so that we found exactly what we wanted, namely something light and yet extremely serviceable and at a reasonable cost. It is made of light, strong cloth, treated in such a manner as to make it absolutely water-proof. It has a floor of the same material, a bobbinet door and vent, and a rain door which in sunny weather can be stretched forward as an awning.

Our tent was pegged to the ground in eight or ten places and then kept erect by two supporting poles. The rear of the tent was held in place by either three short supports or by being tied as the case may be, to trees. We had little steel stakes made so as to cut down on the bulk and the weight. Although the whole outfit weighed only some nine plus pounds and went into a small bag, when erected the floor was 7 feet 4 inches square and high enough so we stood in it conveniently. Through actual experience we found it absolutely mosquito, bug and rain proof. It is not necessary to cut the supporting poles since they can easily be cut from trees. However for convenience we took two 11-foot bamboo which I used for the purpose.

Sleeping on a hard ground has its disadvantages so I had purchased two Ko-Pack double mattresses which could be rolled into a surprisingly small bundle. I found an old tick, the old fashioned kind which one could fill with straw and use as a mattress. This, together with our blankets and pillows completed our bedding outfit.

The next most important matter was our cooking utensils. We had the usual type of wire grate under which a fire could be made. In addition to that I had had made a collapsible tin shield which set around the grate on three sides. Neither the grate nor the shield took up much room but were exceedingly handy. Our dishes were so shaped that they fit into each other; for instance we had a spider or frying-pan, the handle of which could be turned underneath it. Into it were placed four pie-tins or plates. Into these fit a pail with a cover. Within this pail fit another and within this was a little coffee pot, the wire handles of which folded back against itself. In the coffee pot could be placed two bowls and also two cups with handles so that they could hang on the outside of the pail. Knives, forks and spoons could be placed in between these various items. The pails, coffee pot, cups and bowls were of Armour steel. All of these fit into a small bag.

Next in importance was a light weight ax with a foot and a half handle. My experience is that a lighter ax than this is not efficient. An ax is a very necessary tool in the wilderness and one should not try to make his way with a hatchet. Also we had a good butcher knife and a file with which to sharpen the ax.

We had purchased food stuffs in quantities for it would be days between the few towns along the way. In a stout wooden box we had bacon, corn meal, rice prunes, condensed milk, beef cubes, cheese, vegetable soups, canned beans, salt, sugar, eggs, coffee, pancake flour, bread, butter, fruit, graham crackers and olives. Since I had tried other fancy camp lights, I now

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knew that a small old-fashioned lantern was better on a trip of this sort, hence the lantern. In addition we carried fishing supplies and Mariner's Glue to repair the canoe.

After the tent was put up and these various articles were arranged in some sort of order, we started to prepare our meal- the first of our own cooking in our married life. R--- had given me advance notice that she could not cook and believing that, I prepared the first meal. However she took such a keen interest in the manner in which I did things and also was so helpful in her actions and suggestions that, thereafter, I was content to let her make the meals. It appears that she was only modest for the reason that she did not want to disappoint me. R--- had been a school teacher and I understand a very good one but that certainly is nothing as far as evidence goes toward proving her a poor cook. She does prepare good, economical and satisfying meals so I find it impossible to keep my weight down to a modest level. She says, however, that camp cooking is a great aid in preparing other meals.

That night we had pancakes, bacon, baked beans, bread, butter, coffee and oranges. Condensed milk was the cream for our coffee. R--- did not like the stuff except when were out on such a trip. I made the pancakes. After one or two attempts I found that I could turn them by tossing them in the air much to the amusement of R---. Hoards of mosquitoes heralded the setting of the sun. We washed the dishes. Soon things were put away or hung up in such a fashion that wild animals could not molest them. In the tent with us I put the ax, lantern and revolver, which I failed to mention in our list.

I will not soon forget that first evening in our tent. It faced up-stream toward the river. I had cut away the intervening brush so that we had an uninterrupted view of the silver rushing water. There was that peculiar feeling of being alone, miles and miles away from civilization - a sort of tenseness as it were, in new and strange surroundings. It would have been a bad time, surely, to have listened to ghost stories. One could easily have thought that there might still be lingering about this wilderness the spirit of the red men. One might imagine hearing the vandal axes of the woodmen as they cut down the choicest of the pine. I knew that at this point millions of feet of logs had been shoved _ into the river for their down-stream journey to the saw mills many miles below. T was not superstitious. I was apprehensive for I knew that wolves, bear and other wild animals still abounded in that region. R---, however, had no thought of that kind, just a wonderful faith in her husband and went to sleep immediately.

But I lay there hearing all the sounds of the night - the constant rippling of the water, the fluttering of the leaves as a wayward breeze would shake them, the startled squawk of some night bird, the splash of a fish, the gutteral croak of something out in the swamp grass, the sudden shriek of a wild fowl. What bothered me most was something resembling the sound of a Ford car starting up, spinning for a while and then stopping. It seemed to be perhaps a half a mile away. I knew we were miles from any habitation and I could not understand how a Ford could be so close to our camp. It was some few days later that I concluded that the

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peculiar sounds were caused by a cock pheasant drummin on a log. This was their mating season and in this peculiar manner they make love to their prospective spouse.

In the morning we found that it had rained slightly while we slept, but in the tent everything was as dry as tinder. R---, more ambitious than I, donned her bathing suit and rushed out into the wet grass and down to the river. Her loud shrieks proved to the world that the water was decidedly cold. Her swim was very short. Instead of donning my bathing suit I donned my camp clothing for I have the nature of a cat, when it considers going into cold water. I had not learned to keep a supply of dry wood under the over-turned canoe so I consequently skirmished around a bit for dry wood. Mosquitoes swarmed around me in veritable hoards and I was mighty glad to start a smudge to drive them away. Mosquitoes, by the way, may be a frequent topic in these pages. It seems that there is nothing perfect and these little "Violinists of Hell", as I long ago termed them, at times force one to conclude that living out-of-doors is far from perfect.

For our breakfast we again had pancakes, R--- trying her hand at their manufacture. For her they did not cling so tenaciously to the pan as they did for me, but she lacked the temerity to toss them in the air to turn them. Coffee, eggs, bread and butter were among the other dishes. Soon the sun peeked from behind a bank of clouds and dried off the grass. The idyllic spot invited us to linger and this we did, loafing, reading and eating. We even took a short walk to find what was in the woods behind our "house". These woods were the typical Jack-pine, rather scraggly in growth and uninviting. The soil was decidedly sandy. I noticed in the sand a short distance back the foot-prints of either a large dog or wolf. Having heard that the boughs of Jack-pine or fir make excellent beds, I spent some time filling the tick with them, but I would testify unfavorably as to the comfort they render. They seem to bunch up and lose their springiness.

The next morning I began to apply what I had learned in the military service regarding packing. I emptied the boughs out of the tick, which I then used as a container for the folded blankets, Ko-Pack mattresses and pillows, tying the whole together into a bundle which I put into the canoe directly behind where R--- sat. At the very bottom of the canoe I placed the two bamboo poles which I have heretofore mentioned. Directly back of the bundle of bedding I placed the bag containing the tent and also the bag of dishes. Next in order came the box of food stuffs, then the grate and its shield, Directly in front of me reposed the suitcase. We had an extra paddle for emergency. Over the whole of this we place our raincoats to make it water-proof. The bedding was arranged so that R--- could lie back, put her feet on the paddle in front of her and rest comfortably if she were tired. The pail which we bought in Trego, together with the lantern and ax I placed under my seat. Unknown to R--- I took a picture of her one time as she lay back on the bedding, to prove to her mother that she was not over-worked on the trip.

In the suitcase directly in front of me we had our personal effects so arranged that the Kodak, a little vest pocket affair, was on top with the other articles of frequent use. The packing had resolved itself into a system from which we did not vary, for it was packed with the weight close to the bottom of the canoe.

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The luggage showed only two or three inches above the gunwales of the canoe.

I should mention that, as a result of our first fire, the Armour Steel pails had developed a series of warts or protrusions on their sides due to melting from over-heating. We were careful thereafter, however, and they gave us no more trouble; we are still using them together with the coffee pot. They are a useful reminder of the trip.

I have spoken of R---'s knickers and her pair of boy's pants. She donned the knickers the first day, but the mosquitoes easily penetrated her socks from the knees downward and made her life miserable. Then it was that she began to wear the boy s trousers and continued to wear them through-out the trip. I know that she would recommend them above knickers at any time. even though this particular pair was strangely loose about her waistline but extremely tight a short distance below. With these she wore a khaki blouse which was supposed to meet the trousers but didn't. I have a picture of her such divorcement between blouse and trousers which I labeled the "great divide". She was as proud of these trousers as a small boy with his first long ones.

We were slow in getting started and the sun was high before we said goodbye to our first camping site. The river will be remembered for its constant snake-like curves and twists. The swift current would dash against a high bank on one side to rebound into low land on the other. Often the river would be shallow and we had to pick a channel so as not to ground the canoe. The vivid greens of the tamarack ,shown here and there with the silver of poplars and the pure white birch the predominating colors. Along the banks, especially where it was marshy, would be tall grass and brush of seemingly even length growing out of the water. The river, evidently high, was not marked by a shoreline. There seemed to be a perfect agony of curves. I do not believe there was a hundred yards of straight channel at any place.

Soon we heard the roar as of water and I knew that we were coming to our first rapids. These are places in the river bed where there is an abrupt drop over what seems to be rocky ledges. The river at all times swift, redoubles its speed as it churns its way over and around the boulders which help to mark these places, The canoeist has a rather exciting time dodging not only the visible rooks but the dangerous ones which are partially submerged. Should he be careless the chances are that his canoe would be punctured. There is a distinct thrill like ancient mariners must have had when making their way between Scylla and Charybdis, only in the rapids these famous rocks were duplicated many times, One had to dodge and veritably weave his way. One may think he has chosen a nice, easy channel, smooth as glass between visible rocks when suddenly in front of him he will see a boulder just barely submerged, over which the water shoots with deadly smoothness.

He then must use his paddle with all the speed and strength he has. Even then he is lucky if"he does not strike squarely. I had tried to direct my wife as I would a boy or man by such a command as "To the right", but in her excitement she would, as often as not, paddle in the other direction. Thereafter I merely retarded the canoe as much as I could and did my utmost to steer it safely.

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It takes some little experience before one becomes familiar with the "water signs" as I call them. Exceedingly rough water might indicate either rocks near the top or very deep water which is plunged together possibly from different directions. One must be continually on the lookout far the unexpected. Nor is smooth water to be trusted.

I wish it were possible to give one an appreciation of the wild beauty we encountered. Each turn of the river brought a new vista of delight. There was absolutely no sameness in the landscape. Here and there we would see an evergreen of patrician blue; then there would be groups of Jack-pines. Here would be a hill, a part of which was eaten off by the encroaching stream. Swallows dug holes for their nests in the exposed clay and perhaps at the bottom a little spring would emerge. Then there would be a patch of white birch. I could imagine the scene in the days of the white pine before the vandal ax of the woodmen. Neither R--nor I exerted ourselves in paddling. There was so much to see and we were having such a good time geeing it. At my suggestion she would often lie back on the bedding and gaze up at the blue, cloud-flecked sky until I would call her attention to some entrancing bit of scenery. I had seen all this before but I have never drunk my fill of it. It was gratifying to have someone with me who appreciated it even as fully as I did,

Unfortunately, in this part of the country camp sites are hard to find for one thinks of such a place as high, level and with grass cropped short, with a spring nearby. In this wilderness such a spot or combination was difficult to find. As the sun was nearing the horizon, however, we finally in a spot that had been cleared of trees years before, The bank was steep, sandy and treacherous but I carried up our luggage and started to make a fire. Soon our lantern had to be lit and we had to keep moving as the mosquitoes were attacking in force. Heavy dew wet our feet but our fire soon had baked beans steaming and soup boiling. I put up the tent, made the bed, brought in our magazines and both of us being inside we tied the bobbinet door. With our trusty lantern in one hand and a folded newspaper in my right, much to the amusement of my better half, I made life short for those mosquitoes that came in with us. T was our nightly custom to put the lantern on the suit-case and read a story or two. I can just see that little lantern-lit tent on the side of the hill. It must have looked like a giant lightning-bug, constantly glimmering and must have given a queer, creepy sensation to whomever or whatever might have seen it out there in the wilderness. As we read we could see, out in the surrounding darkness, our neighboring lightning bugs glimmering here and there, thousands of them competing with the stars overhead. We were now accustomed to the usual night sounds so nothing ever made us afraid of the dark.

You will perhaps note that we never mention stopping for lunch. I was our custom merely to have two meals a day; namely, breakfast and supper. Arising early was simply out of the question for there was always a very heavy dew in the grass and the mosquitoes made life burdensome until nearly 9 o'clock. Fortunately this was the wildest camping site we had. Morning light revealed to me that the place was not as bad as I had thought.

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We had camped in the midst of a blueberry field. As far as vegetation is concerned in this north country, blueberries seem most important. They are shrubs usually about a foot and a half high, with delicious berries of a blue color. Indians leave their reservations at this time of year to pick them for market. In our experience we found that there were different varieties. At this place, for instance, the berries were in clusters of not more than three, Later we found them in clusters like cherries on smaller plants. This morning we picked enough berries for breakfast and supper.

After we had been out on the river for some time we were surprised to see signs of civilization. A forlorn looking old bridge spanned the river and connected with a single track road. Later we came to a clearing and a Farm house. A little boy was playing with his dog along the brink of the stream. R--- thought it was a good time to land to discover what provisions we could buy. R---, however, became self-conscious about her boy's trousers for the first time, but after being urged she went with me to meet the farmer s wife. The farm was a little place retrieved from the surrounding wilderness of Jack-pine.

I noticed that the soil in the field on the hill was very sandy but rather fruitful. A little garden supplied the owners with fruits and vegetables of which we bought a few. R--- and I introduced ourselves to the man and woman we saw, and spent a pleasant half hour with them. We learned that the nearest town was fourteen miles away. A Ford was their conveyance. In the winter I presume their trips to town were few and far between, for who would want to drive that distance in a bobsled.

The boy, during the school year, walked some four or five miles to a little one-room school house. I certainly would not envy the little tow-headed chap his journey in the winter. I should think his freckles would whiten with Pear at the possibility of a wolf searching for such as he. The mother was a red-faced, shy, country sort of woman, with large rough hands that could do a mam s work. A baby clung to her skirts. Motherhood gave her a certain charm and dignity. Her home lacked such things as Victrola, piano, carpets, daily newspapers, magazines, electric lights etc., but probably in her simple Life she was much happier than many women in the city. There was, however, a telephone of the coffee-mill variety, with a one-wire connection strung loosely to a fence post. The husband spoke of learning what would best grow in his sandy soil from the State Experiment Stations. He was a good, upstanding man who may later see that his boy attends the University, and that he gets what his father was never able to have. He spoke most interestingly of the bygone lumber days when the river was doing its best in taking millions of feet of logs to the saw mills.

Several miles farther down the river there were a few more clearings and a crude wagon bridge. Evidently some more Frontiersmen were bringing civilization t o these parts. We found that the road led to Fields and cultivated lands, and finally to a farm house and barn. Though the buildings were not painted and it certainly did not look like our idea of an Iowa homestead, still people lived there. Perhaps it harbored happy children as that old Illinois shack harbored a Lincoln. Young porkers grunted contentedly in the yard , looking juicy

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enough to steal. There was nobody home for the day was Sunday and they had probably gone to a church some miles away. We pumped a drink from the well but otherwise left things as they were. It was here that we noticed, for the first time, that the Jack-pine green needles were being eaten by fuzzy, black and white worms. They looked like pussy cats and they were certainly playing havoc with the timber.

As we advanced on our journey by easy degrees, we noticed that the country became hillier and prettier. White pine became more numerous. Evergreens made a pleasing variety of green. Finally we came to a spot where my pal, on an earlier trip, and I had pitched our tent for the night. He had shot what we thought was a kind of duck. That evening when we attempted to boil it, there was a peculiar odor about the thing which we did not like and boiling only intensified it. We boiled it and boiled it and boiled it some more. As it boiled it became tougher and tougher. We could not even prod a fork into it and threw it away in disgust. When it landed it even bounded like a rubber ball.

That particular place will long be remembered for there it was that I had a very novel experience and fright. Back of our tent were old lumber buildings, fallen into wreck and decay, which seemed spooky in the fading light of the sunset. As my pal and I lay in slumber, I suddenly awoke with the sensation or idea that a hand from the outside was pushing itself under the tent flap to reach my pillow, where I kept my pocket-book. I was too startled for movement, but finally awakened my pal and told him of my suspicion. After a few moments I nerved myself sufficiently to go outside and look around. There was not a single thing in sight but I could have sworn as the cold shivers ran up and down my back that a hand was reaching for my money. I will never forget that feeling.

But the old place with its fond memories was no more. Some misguided farmer had cleared it of its beautiful trees and left it pitifully barren, but down the stream sways on the opposite shore R--- and I found a most beautiful grove of virgin, long-needled pines. How they escaped the ruthless woodmen we do not know nor care. We clambered up the steep bank. A paradise lay before us. A gentle breeze stirred the boughs; sunlight glinted down through them mysteriously. Under foot was a soft, thick carpet of pine needles. One could look for some distance down the beautiful archways formed by the trees. Blueberries were the only underbrush. But the strangest thing of all-- there were no mosquitoes It was truly a wonderful place to spend an afternoon. Leisurely we pitched the tent and aired the bed clothes. I took a flock of pictures. R--- made use of my little pocket mirror to dress her hair Indian fashion, binding it around her head with a red ribbon. We took a short walk but spent most of our time lying beneath the shade of the pines and listening to the ripple of the water.

It was here that we first found we had fellow travelers, three young men paddling down river as though they meant to get somewhere in a hung. Seeing our canoe they came close to our shore and inquired, "How far to the St. Croix?".

I didn't know definitely but surmised that it was only a few miles dawn. They tarried only long enough to inform us that they had embarked at Hayward, about 30 miles above Trego.

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They said that their canoe had been badly torn in what they called "rough water" but which I had always known as rapids. They made a pretty picture as they faded from sight into the west where the sun colored the clouds preparatory to its departure. If these young men paid no more attention to the rocks and rapids than they apparently paid to the beauty of nature about them, it is small wonder that their canoe was damaged. Vacation trips to so many are simply endurance tests, but even at that I imagine these young men remember their trip with pleasure. It might be that I am advancing slightly in years but I do not see how I would enjoy a trip with as little luggage as these men carried. As far as I could see they had nothing in their canoe. Their nights must have been terrible.

We picked a quantity of blue berries the next morning and regretfully prepared to leave our "Pine Camp" as R--- named it. In the midst of our preparations we were surprised by another group of three paddling down the river for dear life. I looked them over carefully and concluded that they were tender-feet and hailed them as such. They did not heed the appellation but like the other group they wanted to know how far it was to the St. Croix River. They should have made it an automobile trip so they could have read the signs along the way. They seemed to have no more luggage than the other three and had also suffered from rough water. Like us they had started from Minneapolis and had embarked at Trego.

The black line is the St. Croix river from its junction with the Namekagon down to Stillwater, Minnesota. The distance from Stillwater to Taylors Falls is 30 miles. Map from Google Maps

The St. Croix proved to be only some four miles to the westward. To us it looked like a shallow lake as we entered its waters. We noticed a little side channel to our left which might be termed a "bayou", across which the trees from each shore interlaced their boughs. It was one of the most beautiful sylvan effects that we had seen and we passed through it to the main river. The river there passed through a rockier region causing the river to spread out in a fan shape into many channels between which lay rocky little islands which were covered with hardy evergreens and others which were just rocky expanses. It was sometimes difficult to find a channel deep enough for the canoe.

We passed our three young friends as they were lunching but they later caught up and joined us. The two paddlers seemed all fagged out as was also the boy in the center who was mechanically bailing out the canoe with a tomato can. Their latest bit of grief was to the effect that they had beached the canoe to repair the damage done by the rocks and had put it bottom side up to apply the Mariner's glue which they had fortunately bought and brought along. They then turned their canoe over, bottom down, and found to their horror a sharp stump projecting up through the bottom. Our offer for aid was refused. They had for protection at night, a "pup" tent. I could just see the three of them trying to sleep within its narrow confines. If I were a mosquito I should have clung tenaciously to these full-blooded youngsters.

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The channel soon deepened and narrowed slightly although it was strangely wide compared to the Namekagon. The boys paddled with us until we came to what is known as the State Line Rapids, from which point southward the St. Croix becomes the boundary line between Wisconsin and Minnesota. The i~ap~dsrare rather dangerous. I was a bit afraid that the boys might Flounder, so after we passed safely through, we delayed until we had seen that they were safely through them. They did not overtake us until we had reached the rickety, rustic, crude wagon bridge leading from Wisconsin to a little inland Minnesota town called Markville.

Here we stopped to rest and to eat a lunch of bread and butter and pimento cheese. There were Indian cottages near the bridge, with the squaws and children in front of them. It appears that when Indians leave their reservations , they are in a fairly high state of civilization so that they live in cottages similar to white man. The men in this particular group were out blue-berrying. Several teams of horses and a Ford automobile bumped and thumped over the bridge while we were there, bearing to market crates and baskets of blueberries. I ordered a crate from one driver, to be sent to my address C.O.D., but the charm of my personality must have been negative since the berries never came. He must have suspected that from my appearance there would be no sash on delivery. The Indian squaws seemed curious about us. I noticed that they gazed interestedly at R---. When we left they came to the bridge to watch us as though they humbly envied us.

The St. Croix was to us a thing of dignity and size. Its current was much slower than that of the Namekagon. About b o'clock that evening we beached our canoe at the foot of the high Soo Line bridge spanning the river at Danbury and climbed the bluff to the railroad tracks which we Followed inland. We came to a village which is nothing but a shipping and distributing point for farmers. There were Indians, squaws and their children sitting along the curbing in front of the two general stores. They gazed at us stolidly, their dark visages nearly expressionless, but I knew that nothing escaped their keen, black eyes. The women wrapped shawls about themselves and otherwise, except for the brilliant colors, were dressed like white women. All of the men wore dark, felt, broad-rimmed hats. As they stood or squatted about they gave the impression of having no place to go and not caring how long it took to get there. We bought food, the usual supplies of condensed milk, canned goods, butter and eggs. Bread, however, could not be purchased since a neighboring summer resort at Yellow River Lake had depleted the market. We had, of course gone into the Post Office to see if any mail had been directed to us there. A bunch of my business mail was handed to me by the half-breed post mistress.

We succeeded in getting a drink of lemonade at a tiny restaurant, where we were much amused by a little fifteen or sixteen year old white girl dressed in what she thought was the height of fashion, powder-puff and everything, including a pair of black, silk wristlets. Her high opinion of herself was evidently shared by a group of small followers. She was the village vamp. I slightly shocked R--- by calling her the "Bell Cow". That surprise was equalled by the discovery of a proper mate for her, a young rustic dressed in all the latest fashion

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including a celluloid collar. R--- and I were chuckling all the way back to our canoe.

We paddled into a sunset of pearl. The evening s calm smoothed the water to

tinted glass. Blue smoke lazily curled over the trees from some supper fire on shore. Here and there black clouds of bugs and insects crazily zigzagging. We just sat silent, drifting, quaffing to the fullest, the cup of nature's beauty. It was a sacrilege to stir a paddle, to break her evening's benediction of quietude. Suddenly ahead of us that peculiar combination of grace and awkwardness - a river crane - squawking discordantly at being interrupted in his evening meal, broke the idyllic stillness, and winged his way into the distance.

All through the trip it was interesting to see how close we could some to one of these birds, before he would arise lazily, fold up his stilt legs, stretch his neck and with a slow, majestic sweep of wings, sail away. They would follow the stream. We knew that we would approach them again, until tired of our pursuit, they would fly, with now and then gutteral squawks, back upstream. Wild ducks and their young were also amusing. I say wild ducks equivocatingly for I am not an authority nor a huntsman. They at least swam as ducks should swim. We would sometimes come upon a mother with her flock which, at some sign from her, would by magic disappear. She herself would dive under the water to reappear yards away, or to skim along the top of the water as though wounded, trying in that manner to lead us away from her family. Not diverted by her trick, we would attempt to find the downy little ones where they had gone to hide as quiet as little statues wherever the foliage afforded protection. They were beautiful little brown things with beady eyes and could swim and dive away with surprising speed. The mother would flutter ahead of us for a long distance before actually taking wing back to her fold.

As the evening shadows lengthened and the beautiful tints merged into darkness, we made camp on the Minnesota shore near some deserted Indian cottages. Just above our camp a river of fairly good size came in from the west, with water so red that we would not drink of it. The grass was cropped close and fences separated one tract from another. We made an exploration trip to find out if the houses were occupied, but found they were not. Even the live stock had been taken away. We heard later that, Indians blueberrying, take their entire families with them, together with the live stock, which consists merely of ponies. We paddled to mid-stream to get clear water with which to make our coffee. Western clouds were shot with lightning so we prepared for rain by taking some of our stuff into the tent and the balance we put under the over-turned canoe.

The next day being the Fourth of July we slept until the sun drove us out of the tent. For the benefit of the uninitiated, there is not a hotter place than a tent in the sunshine. During the day we explored a short distance up the river from the West until the mosquitoes drove us back. It must have come from a logging country as its reddish color was possibly

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paused from pine sap. The opposite shore from us looked interesting.. There we found shocks of hay upon which we lay and read stories. Later I brought out a revolver, which I had borrowed from a friend who said it was alright. Hereafter I will take my friend's word with a great deal of mental reservation for should I have had to use it , I would have had to use the barrel as a handle in the way of a club. I pulled the trigger. There was no response. I pulled it again with like result. I then cleaned it as best I could with some of the lantern kerosene, after which it did actually shoot twice and again bucked. There were times when we would have liked to use it to make things interesting for turtles along the shore before they slipped into the water.

I really regretted not having a workable gun with us because of the sense of security its presence brings. Personally, I would not wish to kill any living thing except for food or self-protection. Our wild neighbors are being exterminated so fast that the future generations will never know the pleasure of their acquaintance. Nor can I look upon the ruthless killing of wild things just because they are wild, as a mark of strength. In a larger sense it means only thoughtlessness and a mistaken idea of enjoyment. I have seen a cub bear swim across a northern river, shake its shaggy little self and follow its waiting mother into a thicket. I had then the impulse to shoot, but i have always been glad that I did not spoil that pretty picture with death.

Once a pal and I came across a gray squirrel swimming across a wide expanse of water. When we saw its little head with its large beady eyes, we turned our canoe so as to meet it. Without a minutes hesitation it clamored up the canoe paddle that I held out toward it, splashed over me, over the length of the canoe, over my pal in the stern, and into the water. It all happened with such rapidity that we had no chance to delay it. We so admired the bravery of the little beast that we turned our canoe in pursuit. When we caught up, we put our paddle under it and thus assisted it to shore, where it lay exhausted for a while. There would be something lacking from the beauties of the wilderness if our little wild neighbors were unspared. We have plenty of laws in our Statute Books for their protection but there is something blood-thirsty or thoughtless about humanity in general. Those laws are not really effective. My wife and I reduced the art of fire making, cooking and packing to a most efficient system. She was enjoying herself to the limit and resting while so doing. Naturally a brunette, she now looked like an Indian maid, The only thing uncomfortable about her was her nose, which was sweetly peeling. I would much prefer to go on talking about my little "Squaw wife" but you may be sure that what T omit from these pages, I told her.

We loafed delightfully the entire day. In the evening I, as usual, provided the water and a good camp-fire and R--acted as capable "chef". We were just retiring when who should

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come along but our friends, the three boys, looking for a place to sleep. I suggested that they put up on the opposite shore where there was dried hay. They followed my advice. They were disgusted and disgruntled with their Fourth of July at Danbury. During the night we heard them cough and mutter and we thought that we would not see them again. Very likely because of the mosquitoes they were off at day-break.

As was our usual custom we did not start until nearly noon. A stiff upstream breeze caused us to hug the right shore quite closely while we admired the foliage and marveled at the way the lacy roots of the pine trees grew right down into the water and between the rocks above. The water had washed away the soil so that often back of the roots were little caverns, perhaps hiding places for the little wild people of the night. There were dense patches of ferns man-high. There seemed not a single inch that was unproductive. The exposed rocks along the shots were covered with thick, soft moss. Nature is a master of beautiful detail. Here and there along the shore a church-spire evergreen would lend variety to a background of lighter green, shot at times with the white of birches and the silver of poplars. Our conversations were mutual exclamations of: "Isn't that beautiful!", "Wouldn't you like to land there?", "Isn't that color scheme wonderful!". We just looked and looked and I know that we could go back and look and look some more. Evening came all too soon in our little paradise, but the sunset coloring and the lingering shadows made the scene even mote entrancing.

However, we had to plan for a camping site for the night and no spot seemed just right for either it was too swampy or the bank too steep. Finally I landed at the foot of a sandy bank, clambered up to what appeared to be a clearing at the top. The grass was cropped close and a sort of path led inland through woods. I heard the tinkling of a cow-bell so I joyfully followed the path thinking it might lead to a farm house, but to my utter dismay I came plump into an Indian camp with wigwams. The squaws were were working and the men were lounging around. It was a very awkward situation as far as I was concerned for I was armed with only a frail canoe paddle. They looked none too prepossessing and I wanted to get back to the canoe and out on the water as quickly as possible. At a very respectable distance, for something to say, I asked how far it was to Kettle River Rapids. When I had asked it a second time, the women jabbered in their own toque for a minute to one of the men. He finally informed me , in fairly good English that, he was not sure but he thought they were some fifteen miles away. My retreat was as dignified as I could make it until I felt I was out of sight, when I scampered like a good fellow. After we had reached mid-stream, I told R--- that I would rather paddle all night than camp close to a bunch of Indians. I concluded that the "cow-bell" that I had heard was a horse-bell.

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The sun drew closer and closer to the western horizon. The sky was lovely pink and the distances along the shore were in a purple haze. The water was as still and smooth as glass; there was a most wonderful evening's calm. I do not believe that there is any place as perfect as the river or a lake, to view and enjoy to the fullest such a sunset. The shores, however, presented no inviting camping site. Finally, like sweet music, came the sound of children's voices and laughter with the tinkle of cowbells and we knew we must be near white people. As we rounded a curve we saw, far ahead, a group of buildings and a clearing with cows in a pasture nearby. The children were playing on the ferry that was transporting people across the river. As we drew near we were accosted by a fisherman who was casting from a rowboat. He asked us where we had come from and when I replied, he asked if we had caught any fish. We had brought along fishing tackle but I am such a poor fisherman that I even did not know how to use the stuff. When I truthfully told him that I did not know how to fish, my tone must have been misleading for this was his answer, "Gosh, I haven't had a bit of luck either for the last week".

We landed where the cows had cropped the grass short and where an overhanging elm spread protecting bows above us. The place had formerly been a logging center and had harbored hundreds of men know as "river rats", who helped to guide logs down the stream to the saw mills. We pitched our tent close to a brook emerging from a high bluff back of us.

We learned from our friendly neighbors that there was a farm house on top of the bluff that might supply us with bread, R--- volunteered to go after it if I would fix up the tent and start a good fire. She had to wait for it as it was just being baked, but it was worth waiting for. I had the table set and coffee and beans boiling by the time she returned. It was a wonderfully beautiful sylvan spot. The water which bubbled out of the bluff was a delight to us, for up to this time spring water had been scarce. We watched the operation of the ferry which is a barge-like concern pulled over and back along a cable stretched across the river. It is so arranged that the current assists it in going either direction. It is large enough to hold an occasional automobile which bravely bumped its way over the single track, sandy roads of that section. There were other tourists nearby whose main purpose seemed to be fishing. I cannot speak from actual experience but I understand that fishing is especially good in these northern waters. Pickerel, bass, sand-pike, trout and an occasional muskellunge afford variety enough for any fisherman.

The owner of the farm house on the hill had been one of the loggers of the old days. He told of the multitude of men engaged in that industry and pictured the river as it had been. I was very much interested in his description of certain men, some of whose physical prowess or temper had become traditional. The farmer was the only one of that woodsmen army to remain.

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Our next experience, out of the ordinary, was to "shoot" the Kettle River Rapids, famous along the length of the river. In the old days their nine mile stretch kept hundreds of loggers busy, breaking up log jams. Here the Kettle River widened and became many shallow channels between rocky ledges and boulders. It was indeed confusing, for every where I looked I saw swirling water and rocks. All of the channels seemed equally dangerous with boulders. The swirling eater, the rocks and the roar of it all seemed to deaden onus sensibilities. We passed through miles of such places and had no time to gaze at the beautifully rocky islands and shores covered with evergreens. There was a constant, distinct drop in the river bed and the canoe was carried along with speed.

I thought we were getting through the last series of rapids successfully, when suddenly in front of us I saw a ledge over which the water was pouring with velvety smoothness. It was too late to avoid it. We struck it with such force that the canoe was perched squarely on the top and balanced there. For a moment or two we sat as though paralyzed. The eater dashed by us in a great translucent flood, green, and with such speed that I was dizzy from looking at it. It dashed white foam into the air as it struck against the boulders. I can not recall how finally we pushed off and glided into quiet eater, but I do remember that there was a tremendous relief from a strain of tenseness. Fortunate were we that the ledge had been worn smooth, otherwise our canoe would have been punctured or broken. We looked back and wondered hoe we had escaped so easily, as from below we could see not only the exposed boulders but also those which appeared to be submerged from upstream.

From there on we noticed increased signs of civilization. At one place men were pulling out logs submerged in the sand of the river bed and hauling them to portable mills where they would be sawed. We enjoyed hearing the hum of the saw and seeing men up to their waist in the water, working the logs to the carriers. At another place the skeleton remains of a deserted ferry. About this time the weather became unsettled and we were caught in a shower. We landed as quickly as we could on an island. The underbrush and grass reached to our waists and served but to wet us all the more. Clouds of mosquitoes in close order kept us continually slapping ourselves. We had no sooner put up the tent for protection than the sun shone and we re-embarked. Further down river we came to a clearing with piles of lumber. Near the shore was a huge pile of sawdust left there by some portable saw mill. It looked so inviting we spent a pleasant half-hour playing on it. Another sudden shower caused us to roll our tent about us. In that way we spent the time reading.

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That evening we became acquainted with John Etle. We had landed in a pasture on the Wisconsin shore, just below a group of islands. A little farther down river we saw a clearing, the roofs of a farm house and barn. Behind us glowered a high bluff. Shortly thereafter a man, in a flat-boat pulling his way down river, scrutinized us so closely that I asked him if there were any objections to our camping there to which he replied that we were welcome to stay there as long as we liked. He returned just as we finished our evening meal and engaged in conversation with us. He was an affable fellow of fifty or fifty-five years of age, with a decided German accent, who claimed that he had been some sort of engineering specialist, who had come to this country some years previous and had set up a plumbing business in St. Paul. His health, however, had failed him so that he had to seek outside work. He bought acreage along the river and came there to live.

John appeared to be a typically better class German, His eyes were keen and like many philosophers, he made a pal of a little stubby pipe which he puffed contentedly as he talked. His English was diluted with Teutonic gutterals. His personality was decidedly engaging. The topic of prohibition crept into our conversation, a topic on which he had very definite ideas. He was especially antagonistic to the enforcement of the law, giving as an example the arrest of the farmer-owner just down the river, who had had on his premises three bottles of stale beer. Things were certainly getting pretty rotten, according to him, when a man could not have beer, of his own manufacture, on his own table. He himself had never been a drinking man, but, now that the law prohibited it, he was never without a supply of good whiskey on hand. However, this supply came to him because his wife had a prescription from a doctor, Her health required that sort of treatment.

He then went into an explanation of his wife's operations of the previous year for which he alleged he had paid over $700, and during which, according to his story, her stomach had been removed, causing her to be fed at this time only certain prescribed foods. He referred back again, in his conversation, to the injustice of having his neighbor to the south, put in jail and required to stay there because of the aforesaid beer. He went on to relate what he thought of a sheriff who would arrest a man under such circumstances. Fishing was the next topic. My question as to whether or not there were big fish in the river, was replied to thus: that there was always good fishing there. Just the previous summer he had caught such a large fish that he had not sufficient strength to pull it in, so he had tied the line to a stump on the shore and secured a team of horses to pull the monster in. A stone-boat was used to drag the fish home where it was dressed and eaten at a neighborhood barbecue the next day.

I always did like fish stories but I was relieved

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when John had finished this one. It was a masterpiece and truly deserved the apparent amazement and belief that I made every effort to show. John then asked us if we wished to see some real blueberries. Upon our eager assent he led us through a swamp and through woods, up the top of the bluff back of our tent, to the finest field of blueberries we had ever seen. They were small plants growing close to the ground, the berries in clusters, like cherries. The plants were so thick and were so covered with berries that the ground looked blue. From that moment John became a real friend. We picked only for our stomachs that evening, but during the next two days we picked for the future, bringing home with us 24 quarts in a wooden boa. About dark we returned to our tent, just in time to see John pulling off with his boat to the opposite shore. We spoke of John as apparently the ideal husband because of the nice things he had said about his wife.

The next morning John appeared again on his way to Grantsburg where he said he was doing a job of plumbing. Thereupon we ordered some supplies through him. That day was famous in our domestic life for the reason it was our first wash day -- the work being done in our pail. In the evening the caretaker of the place below us, an American-Scandinavian, allowed us to fill our tick with newly made hay from his barn. His name was Al and he seemed lonesome.

When we spoke of John, he had a twinkle in his eye and then gave his version of the arrest. Al's wife and A1 were working for the man who had been arrested and who kept on his premises a large rifle to be used in case the sheriff should come to arrest him. The sheriff came unexpectedly, however, and the rifle could not be used. Al's wife, who he admitted had been drinking too much, made such a fuss and spoke with such profanity that she was also taken into custody. She was ordered by the judge to go out of the state, in lieu of which she would have to serve a sentence. Al seemed to take quite a degree of pride in his wife, saying that the sheriff complained that she was the worst woman he had ever tried to arrest. His eyes sparkled when he said that the sheriff didn't know her half as well as he did.

During one of the days that followed we visited Mrs. Etle, a volatile, black-eyed little person who hesitated not at all to disagree with her husband in some of his statements. We found that she was almost as much of a character as her husband, so we enjoyed our visit very much. Although John seemed solicitous toward her, there was an undercurrent of suspicion on her part. The cottage was very nicely arranged. John explained some of his ideas of construction to me. In the little lean-to we found a quantity of corn meal, which he was careful to explain, he had bought at a tremendous bargain because it was part of a train cargo which had been badly wrecked a few miles from there. It came in very handy as chicken food. John accompanied us back to the river whence he pulled up-stream to visit a neighbor. When I flatteringly spoke of his wife he gazed at me somewhat quizzically, making a remark that you never know a woman, even if you've been married as long as he'd been.

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Al made us another visit, poor lonesome soul, but he seemed to have a few drinks too much. I told him that we had been over to see Mr. and Mrs. Etle, that John had left to go across the river to see a neighbor. As I said it, for some reason I winked and to my amazement AI winked back.

The next day, Saturday, we finished our berry-picking. That night it rained and blew, the thunder roared and the lightning flashed continuously. The bamboo poles supporting the tent sang under the pressure of the wind. I was afraid that the tent would blow away. I crept out, lowered the poles, crept back in and held up the top of the tent so that the water would run off. It was some time before the storm, the worst of the season, abated when I crept out to put up the tent. Everything outside was simply soaked and the water was standing around in the low places like lakes, Inside, however, we were dry but it was fortunate for us that we had the old tick filled with hay, otherwise our mattresses might have become damp and uncomfortable, Early the next morning we heard footsteps and then the voice of the Swedish caretaker gruffly demanding that we get up. When I asked him why, he replied that it was altogether too wet for us to make breakfast where we were and that he wanted us to come up to the house where we could have breakfast with him and where it was dry. Although we could not see him, it was evident from his speech that he had seen too much moisture of a different kind from what had fallen, Seemingly divining that we suspected his condition, he went on to state that he had been up to a party at a neighbor's and had had a few drinks too much, that during the rain he had taken refuge in a hay-barn and that he had lost a pint someplace, he did not know where.

I did not think him dangerous and since there was logic to his statement that it was too wet, with R---'s consent, we accepted his invitation. We took the supplies we thought we might need and went through the tall grass and brush to the pasture-path that led to the barn yard. The place was weed-grown but still beautiful. Back of the house, beneath the bluff emerged a spring which had been piped into the house and into a small structure which served as an icehouse, in which were kept the cream and butter. What had been an orchard, toward the river, was now grown up into brush. The house itself was old, with low ceilings, and had not been kept up properly for years.

Our barefooted host met us with a genial smile. As R--- and I cleaned up the kitchen and prepared the breakfast, he was in and out of the house still in a fruitless search for the lost pint. How ever, later he gave up his endeavor and was content to resurrect a pint which he had heretofore cached for perhaps such an emergency. He offered me a drink but I was glad to refuse it. During one of his trips out of the house, R--- and I went into what had been a sitting room. We examined the pictures on the wall, pictures of some twenty or thirty years ago, of a man and wife of foreign appearance. In another frame was the picture of a baby boy. Later the care-taker told us that the little boy, after having served in the war, was now out west some place; that the wife and mother had died under

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questionable circumstances of poison either at her own or her husband's hands, years ago,

We prepared coffee of double strength, bacon, eggs, and sat down with our host to breakfast. We hoped that the food and coffee might serve to sober him but he thwarted our plans by continuing to drink. The conversation turned to old John. R--- and I had agreed between ourselves that he was really a moonshiner and that the poor fellow who was arrested had been his tool in the sale of his illicit wares, Quite suddenly I turned on the caretaker with the remark that John wasn't so wise in thinking he could live in Minnesota and manufacture moonshine in Wisconsin. He fell into the trap wonderfully, saying,
    "He doesn't make it Wisconsin, he makes it on an island",

Having secured the information I desired I switched the conversation by telling the fish story John had told me. He said that that was nothing, that John was quite famous for his ability to tell .stories, Why one winter day when the snow was very deep, desiring to get away from home and his wife so that he might play poker at a neighbor's, John had told his wife, and gotten away with the story, that his neighbor wanted him to dig post holes.

At times A1 would become distrustful of us and say, "You are not spotters are you?" Thereupon we reassured him that we were not.

Hardly had we finished breakfast when old John himself came in, sat himself down and puffed at his pipe, When Al offered him liquor he pretended not to know what it was. It was only after urging that he partook of it, being careful to mix it with water, Old John was decidedly interesting to us and more and more looked like an old fox, While R--- cleared away the breakfast dishes we men cleaned out the sewer pipe leading from the house to the river. Old John showed himself to be a real plumber - located the trouble, As we worked he started to hum an old German tune with which I was familiar, I faked a tenor to our host s apparent enjoyment, In Al's condition he had a most roguish manner and gave the appearance of a small boy caught in the midst of a wonderful trick. He spoke to R--- and pointing to me remarked that he bet I was a church singer. He was by this time losing control of himself so after a couple more German songs, R--- and I promised to come up and prepare the evening meal.

That evening we, unwillingly, journeyed back to the farm house to make good our promise but when we were a short distance away R--- discovered that the place was full of men. I left her and went in after our belongings, A group of men were playing poker around the kitchen table, bleary-eyed and under the influence of liquor. They gazed at me suspiciously and said not a word, Old John was the only sober one and at my entrance smiled his fox-like smile. I had read of Kentucky moonshiners, This gang of men looked as though they had been transported from that place. Old John was likely disposing, in his own way, of his wares and Al was probably sleeping off the effects of his all night jag,

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R--- and I decided it was no place for us since we might be thought of as "spotters". We hastily prepared our camp supper, packed our stuff and embarked. Old John himself was leaving by boat as we paddled by and we waved goodbye* We were about a quarter of a mile down the river when we heard rifle shots back of us, 1 was indeed glad when we had paddled around an island so that it lay between us and the old farm house. I don't suppose they were shooting at us but one never knows.

The river became wider and the current more sluggish. The shores had lost their wild aspect. Cultivated farms became common. Here and there summer cottages were built. One little picture that I remember was where the Wisconsin shore became a veritable ledge of rock, rising perpendicularly from the edge of the water, on top of which nest- led. a little summer cottage. Evergreens grew around it, even in the crevices of the rock, The country became flatter as we approached the Rush City Railroad Bridge. People occupying summer cottages just north of it hailed us, inviting us to spend the evening with them, but we continued on until we had gone about a mile below the bridge. Here we made camp on an island. Pasturing cows had cropped the grass short. Beautiful elms ïnterlaced their boughs overhead. Few pernicious mosquitoes were in the area. As we prepared our evening meal the moon rose over the Wisconsin shore, flooding the place with silver light.

The next afternoon we reached the back-water of Navers Dam where man had stopped the natural. flow of the river so that adjacent shores and woodlands had been (loaded. The tops of dead trees showed here and there above the currentless water. In my previous trip down the river, my pal and I found this whole river channel, wide as it was, blocked with logs for miles up from the dam, so that we had to drag our canoe up the side of a wooded bluff and portage it several miles to the dam. But those days were now passed. No more logs were going dawn the river. The only logs being sawed now were those which were being dragged up from. the bottom, Now we paddled right up to the dam itself, and landed on the Minnesota side.

The dam was an ancient structure of wood, long ago condemned as dangerous. Warning signs notified travellers who considered walking or driving their cars across its top, which formerly had been used as a bridge. The water below the dam was about thirty feet lower than above it. We pitched our tent below the dam. As we were preparing our supper the watchman came down to see what we might be doing there. He looked around here and there, around at the tent and

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our belongings and opined, "You fellows have a purty fine outfit there". R--- and I grinned at each other. Then I introduced her as my wife. His old Irish eyes twinkled at the joke on himself, as he gazed approvingly at her. He invited us to visit him at his little house on the opposite shore. After supper we took a walk over the dam to visit him. We watched the water as it thundered through the sluice-ways, where it looked like green molten glass as it rushed down an its way to its lower level. It foamed and churned and shot up several feet into beautiful creamy spray. It looked like the wake from the stern of a big ocean liner plowing its way through the water. It was fascinating.

The next morning we visited the group of buildings a quarter of a mile up stream above the dam, on the Wisconsin shore. These buildings are owned by the Northern States Power Company, owners of the dam itself and of the shore line for miles up and down river. When we found the cook, we purchased some milk from him f`or our cornmeal mush. He admitted being cook there for the last eleven years. A lady came out as we were talking to him and began to converse with us.

She later told us that she had seen us come through the yard. and had mistaken us both for men until she had seen the glistening diamond in R---'s engagement ring which she wore on a string around her neck. Curiosity then impelled her to make our acquaintance. Under the circumstances we invited her down to see our camp. she arrived there almost as soon as we did. She was keenly interested in all we did. When I could not find the matches with which to start a fire, she volunteered to supply me from a pouch affair in which she carried a supply of cigarettes. Her daughter, whom she introduced as a High School girl, dressed in riding breeches, joined the party and slightly reproved her mother when she asked if my wife and I had any objections to her smoking. We raised no objection, naturally, and she smoked as naturally as a man, all the while entertaining us with stories of her travels in the Canadian Rockies when they were not as famous as they are now; and then the latest gossip of the University of Minnesota where she had had a daughter graduate that spring. She admitted having come from Boston whereupon, thereafter, we regarded her as our "literary friend". Some day we would like to meet her again for we enjoyed her very much. She told us she was a welfare worker for the Northern States Power and was, at this time, recuperating at this spot. She and her daughter watched our leisurely packing and from the dam waved a friendly goodbye.

From this point it is only some eleven miles from St. Croix Falls on the Wisconsin side and Taylors Falls on the Minnesota side, two towns guarding one of the beauty spots of the Northwest. Again there was no current, the water being held at the dam between the two towns. The shores were beautiful with heavily wooded bluffs. Here and there a spring glistened in the sunshine and delightful camping spots invited us to tarry for a while. The warmth and sunshine of the beautiful July day, the humming of the insects in the air caused us to cease paddling. We watched the turtles basking in the sun on logs along the share and enjoyed the splash as they plopped info the water at our nearer approach. We spoke of many things and of the future as

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happy young married people can. R--- sometimes clambered over the luggage, back to the stern where I was paddling, a veritable little Indian in her braided hair and her khaki trousers, She forgot that she had ever been a solemn-eyed pedagogue of mathematics, She was now mistress of all the wiles and witchery of a lovely wood nymph, a graduate Cum Laude of the great school of flirtation.

About three o'clock we landed on the Wisconsin side just above the falls. A Ford truck conveyed us and our canoe through the town of St. Croix Falls, over the bridge connecting it with the town of Taylors Falls, through the State Park to the old steam-boat landing. We again launched the canoe, only to land almost immediately across the river where we made camp and loafed for several days.

The bridge below, connecting the two towns, is built over dangerous rapids. We were told that a young man, two or three months previous, had lost his life shooting them in a canoe. Below the bridge the river flows into a beautiful canyon and then suddenly turns to the southwestward. The perpendicular cliffs of the canyon contain many peculiar shapes and formations. It is said the the rock is of volcanic origin. On top of the cliffs on the Minnesota side are "wells" said to have been caused by whirl-pools, These vary in size from dishpan dimensions to large cisterns.

Geologists come to examine them and to talk about volcanic origins and glaciers. Tourists come by the hundreds to look at the Devil's Chair, The Great Stone Face, to experience the coolness of the Devil's Ice Chest and to ponder over the Devil's Kitchen. It seems strange that freaks of nature should have to be connected with

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with the devil. The Wisconsin side is also very interesting. A road, along the top of the Wisconsin bluff, gives one a wonderful view of the river and its guarding cliffs. It leads to a round, rocky lake which is supposed to have been the channel of the river before some glacier cut its present one through veritable mountains of rock. Inland from this Lake is a meadow surrounded by wonderful wooded bluffs, a perfect fairy playground. This region has been dedicated by the two states as an Interstate Park.

R--- and I played with the fish, took long walks, watched swimmers as they dove into the deep water from the rocks near our tent, took pictures, fed up on ice cream, cantaloupe and home-baked pies, as though we hadn't a care in the world. We found the water rather cold. for bathing but went in anyway. We enjoyed listening to the sonorous tones of the owner of the launch who made a livelihood by taking people up and down this stretch of river, pointing out to them the most interesting places. One morning we were startled by a voice yelling again and again, "Get up, Get up". We were up and eating at the time, There were our three friends, the boys who had paddled with us some distance down the river. They were now encamped, comfortably, on an island about a half mile down stream. Gone was their fatigued attitude and they were decked out in white trousers and silk shirts.

Those who desire a river trip of only one or two days, through wonderful scenery, can send their canoe up to Taylors Falls or rent one at that place, and the paddle from there, down to Stillwater some thirty miles away. The trip can easily be made in twelve hours if one so desires. One can start on a Saturday afternoon, paddle as far as Osceola that evening, where there is a very goad hotel, beautiful camping sites and springs along the river. It is said by those who are supposed to know that it is more beautiful than a trip down the Hudson River.

Regretfully we continued on our way. High bluffs, heavily wooded, guard the river an each side as it curves and winds majestically. Here and there a rocky ledge would be the home of hundreds of swallows flitting in and out. Sometimes the bluff on one side retreats leaving in its place a table land. A few miles below the Falls the river swung through a gateway, between two majestic bluffs, apparently also of volcanic origin. A rocky island lay in the center. On the Wisconsin side, high on the cliff, like a look-out on eternal watch was built a rustic cabin from which one could look far miles down the river. A variety of trees, shrubs and flowers, bright and cheerful, sprang from the clefts of the rocky wall. A great iron ring had been driven into one place far steamboats and log-rafts, indicating that many years ago the water had been much higher.

From the gateway, where the bluffs receded again there were low lands on which herds of cattle grazed. Here and there we could see an occasional bayou or side channel. When the water is high the canoeist finds these bayou delightful because of unexpected vistas and intriguing curves.

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About eight miles below the Falls, perched high on the Wisconsin. bluff, lies the little town of Qsceola, a quaint little town with a water tower, a couple of general stores, a moving picture theater with shows three times a week. This place was originally famous for the healing waters from a spring nearby, From it a road down a steep incline, leads to the rickety wooden bridge connecting Wisconsin and Minnesota. From the river only the water tank is visible. Were it not far the bridge one could easily paddle by without even knowing of the town above.

That night we camped on the Wisconsïn side, at the foot of a huge bluff. It was our last night on the river. As if in sympathy with our regret, a number of owls hooted in the tress round about. Since it was a bit weird to listen to their conversation , I started to do a little hooting myself and had so much to say in owl language that the conference, or whatever it might have been, moved its headquarters to other points. The silver moonlight shining through the trees was our only light for our lantern was empty. 1 was awakened during the night by a little black and white animal called a "SKUNK!" Wïth his peculiar sniffing he thoroughly investigated our tent and then did a little clawing around our pans and box of food stuff. I left him strictly and severely alone. As far as I was concerned, whatever he could dig up would be his; The next day loafed, loitered and floated. '

Marine-on-St. Croix, a sleepy little village beautifully located on the Minnesota side, some twelve miles above Stillwater, merited our attention. An old time Ferry conveyed autos and teams to the Wisconsin shore. Springs by the dozens emerge from the rock ledges on which are built many beautiful summer homes or cottages. The village itself lies rather up and away from the river and is built on a slope so that some of the homes overlook the rest of the village, It is said to be one of the oldest settlements along the river and was populated by Scandinavians. Should you climb the steep hill, winding past a church on top of the hill, you will come to a little beauty spot known as Gables Glen. A trout stream flows in from the west and at this point forms a series of water-falls down through a gully so beautiful it is called a "Glen". Although the place is within the city limits, there amid the beauty of the trees and the silver water-falls, one feels miles away from other things. This is a very special retreat. To us the village has another attraction, "Dennis 0lson's", an old home where wonderful home-cooked dinners are served.

From Marine the river makes a slow, majestic turn, Here and there are wooded islands. If one is of an exploring turn of mind, frequent side channels offer allurement. If the water is high it is sometimes better to take one of these channels as a short-cut. To us it was always more enjoyable because we could better enjoy the growing things and foliage along the shore line. Soon we saw ahead of us the graceful arches of a railroad bridge, spanning the St. Croix from the top of the Wisconsin bluff to that of Minnesota. I would estimate it was about three hundred feet high. From a distance

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it looks spidery, One can see it for a long time before actually approaching it. Three miles below this beautiful piece of mam s handiwork are the old deserted stone piers of what was formerly the Wisconsin Central Bridge, near the Wisconsin end of which is one of the best springs it has been my pleasure to visit. The river is well populated with islands thus opening up many channels for the canoeist. It would be my suggestion to hug the Wisconsin banks, leave the main stream and enter what is known as "Little Venice" where one leaves the world behind while floating down a bayou, about eighteen or twenty feet wide, which curves around in a perfect fairyland. On the right islands, overgrown with elms and maples, separate you from the maïn channel, and on the left rocky cliffs, some almost perpendicular from the water's edge, but broken here and there with springs and places where one might camp. The rocks, away up on the upper ledge, gold and brown are known as "painted rocks". Here and there the spires of pine trees appear along the top.

Emerging from "Little Venice" one sees some of the buildings and church spires of Stillwater, a town of about eleven thousand , which in olden days had been a lumbering town and now is slowly transforming into a factory town. Here the river forms a lake across which is a wooden bridge. The city lights were lit. Their reflections dotted the still waters below as we approached. This was the end of the river portion of our honey-moon, a trip that has been the most delightful thing in our lives and which we two like to think of as the real beginning of a happy married life.