Category: Uncategorized (Page 6 of 6)

While eating breakfast we discussed the distance we should travel each day. Our necessary thirty miles a day, easy on good days, would be impossible on days with strong winds, big rapids, and upstream travel. We decided thirty-five miles still allowed plenty of time to contemplate the beauty around us.

A strong current pushed us along easily leaving us plenty of time to try fishing. I had never caught a fish before, and I desperately wanted to land that first one. Doug and Byron patiently taught me how to cast and showed me the most likely spots for fish, but try as we would, none of us caught a one. I had envisioned catching a fish every night, and coming up empty-handed disappointed me.

We camped on the grassy riverbank instead of the usual grove of trees and enjoyed watching the river roll by, its water going to the artic—so were we. The Athabasca River had grown considerably since the Lesser Slave River and the Pembina River joined us. On our tenth full day on the river, we determined we had traveled a little over 330 miles. Pleased with our progress, we decided to hit the sleeping bags early and hope to beat the wind with an early start next morning.

Our early start was rewarded with an icy cold head wind for a couple of hours. Although amazing, a simple wind can aggravate to the point we were swearing at it. It may seem silly to be angry with wind, but this one seemed to have a mean temperament, devious and shifty. It blew from all angles, mostly directly in front of the canoe, and it never tired in delaying innocent canoeists. Doug coined a rough and ready rule about wind: If you paddle downstream, the wind will always cancel the current. If you go upstream, the wind and current will combine against you.

The second rule of canoeing states: A canoe will head straight for any rock or obstacle in the river, and canoes attract each other. These rules are derived from a much more famous set of rules known as Rieseberg’s Rules. With only four at present, the number increases steadily as Rieseberg learns more about life.

1. Rule #1. Whatever you do, someone is going to think it’s wrong.
2. Rule #2. Disregard Rule #1 and go ahead and do it anyway.
3. Rule #3. For every problem, there is an answer that is quick, simple, easy, and wrong.
4. Rule #4. Things wouldn’t need to turn out so right if they hadn’t turned out so bad in the first place.

Just before we stopped to camp, we passed a ramshackle trapper’s cabin, and the trapper came roaring out in his boat to talk. The old Indian had rough, dark skin and dirty, gray hair done in long braids. I wasn’t in the mood for talking so when he asked, “Where you boys going?” I answered, Fort McMurray” rather than explaining we were traveling to Alaska. He said, “Yeah, that’s a good trip. Long ways, though.” As he left he warned, “Watch out for the big rapids before Fort McMurray.”

One unexpected problem was cold feet. Because the bottoms of the canoes equaled the temperature of the river, the cold seemed to suck all the warmth out of our feet. Doug kept saying, “I’m going to send these feet home and have a heated pair sent out.” I wore two pairs of wool socks, and if I kept my feet on a pack off the bottom of the canoe, my feet stayed warm. Because Doug and Byron had to keep their feet resting on the canoe bottoms to operate their rudder controls, they suffered more. After a cold morning we started a big fire to warm our feet when we stopped for lunch.

On a particularly cold and windy morning, Byron walked to the fireand I announced, “This trip is sure different than I thought it would be. I can’t believe there isn’t a place to take a shower every night.”

That was the cue for Doug to chime in, “Yeah, I expected motels every night. We are going to have to get after the travel agent who sent us on this tour.”

“And this wind -– it’s terrible the way it blows against us.”

“And look -– it’s starting to rain.”

“My feet are freezing. Why aren’t heaters installed in canoes?”

“That’s not the worst of it. The people at Sawyer Canoe had the gall to send us a boat without a motor. Can you believe it? –- we have just little paddles.”

With a straight face I said, “Well, I’m glad I’m not doing a trip like that. No sir, I’m glad I’m not in your shoes.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks—that’s the best way to look at problems–laugh at them.

We stopped at Athabasca, the first town right on the river, to buy odds and ends and goodies for our sweet teeth. Before we were a mile out of town, a motorboat pulled up beside us, and an old craggy-faced man leaned out the window and asked, “Where you headed?”

Doug answered, “Alaska.”

“You’re crazy!”

Yep:

Then the old man told us about two or three people who had drowned recently in the rapids ahead, and he decided he should get a letter he had at home from some other canoers who had traveled the Athabasca a few years earlier. We pulled to the shore to wait. The Athabasca River between the town of Athabasca and Fort McMurray is well known for its violent rapids, and the letter he brought us gave descriptions and advice for each rapid. Along with the letter he brought a friend, his wife and kids, and a bottle of whiskey. He introduced himself as ‘Ab,” better known as ‘Old Relic.” He looked the part with receding white hair, jutting nose, and jagged teeth. We told him we didn’t drink, but he insisted, “You guys got to be cold, and this whiskey’ll warm you from your head to your toes.” Not wanting to offend him, we drank it.

A guide by profession, he took great pleasure in telling us all he knew about the river. He said, “I get mostly American hunters to guide up here, and I call them ‘you-alls’.” When he learned that both Doug and Byron lived in the states, he laughed and said, “A bunch of damn you-alls.” As he left he admonished us, “Be sure to return that letter.” Then he pulled out four pounds of steaks and gave them to us. His wife didn’t seem too happy about giving away their supper, but we were all too glad to accept. “I don’t usually do this for hippies, much less ‘you-all’ hippies,” and with a wave he roared off.

Our mouths soon began to water, and we decided to stop and cook the steaks—what a meal with as much steak as we could possibly eat. A natural result of our full stomachs was sleep, but sometimes the night hours hold wonders that out value the luxury of repose.

The night became alive as beavers splashed and slapped their tails, coyotes howled, adding their mournful music to the night winds. The clouds drifted away, pulling back the curtain on a stage of stars, a crescent moon, and then the aurora borealis flashed across the sky. Doug kept murmuring, “Wow,” as sheets of white light dimmed and brightened and shimmered across the black sky playing for about three hours before dying away. But we quickly slipped from one dreamland to another more familiar one.

After that glorious night a glorious day followed. Morning fog soon dissipated into sunshine, and the blue sky contrasted with marvelous thick fluffy, feathery, white clouds. They entertained me all day as I tried to see shapes. Doug had told us, “If you see a dragon, that means good luck.” Naturally most of the clouds became dragons of various sizes and shapes, but I also saw a couple of geese, two or three old men, a few beautiful girls, and a whole school of fish.

A moose calf wandered along the shore, but I didn’t know where Mama might be so I played it safe and stayed in my canoe. The calf didn’t seem at all shy or frightened. Finally, acting brave or foolish, I climbed out of my canoe for a closer look, but the calf slowly wandered away, looking more bored than scared.

Feeling so good about everything, I picked little moths from the water and set them in my canoe to dry. Silly things: as soon as their wings dried, they flew out of the canoe and usually right back into the water. Sometimes my best efforts to help just weren’t appreciated.

Canoeing seemed more conducive for thinking and meditation than hiking because it became completely automatic. I didn’t have to watch my step or look for branches that threatened to slap my face. And if indeed I ever thought of anything I’d like to write while hiking, I’d have to stop, take off my pack, get out my notebook, look for a pen (sometimes a long and involved hunt), sit down, and write. Usually though, I had forgotten my cleverly phrased thought, so I would put everything back in the pack, sling the pack on, and ten feet down the trail I would know exactly what I wanted towrite. While paddling I kept a notebook under the seat, and whenever I wanted to remember a thought, I could jot it down quite easily. I wrote a significant share of my journal while drifting in my canoe.

While we ate one night, a black bear strolled by on the opposite shore, ambling along as only a bear can do, sniffing and poking and nibbling at everything. Where else could we watch a bear eating supper while eating supper ourselves except in the wilderness?

Great shafts of white light shot up from the horizon with columns of light forming a huge white cone pointing into the sky that night. The tips of the shafts, tinged red and purple, periodically retreated down the horizon as the cone disappeared. Then, like a locomotive headlight piercing the night, the lights would shoot up again making the sky alive with dancing lights again.

Shortly after falling asleep, I heard shouts of, “Hey, George.” Sitting up, I asked Byron, “Why are you yelling at George?”

Doug, awake by this time, asked, “What the hell is going on? Who’s George?”

Then three half-drunk Indians staggered into camp and announced they had lost their friend George. They needed a flashlight so Byron offered his since only he had brought one. They set off with the light, yelling for George and firing a rifle at intervals. We never saw them or the flashlight again. I hope they found George.

We were all tired in the morning, and I thought, “A few more nights like this, and we are going to have to take a rest day just to catch up on sleep.”

Doug and Byron carried thermoses and many freeze dried foods. In order to avoid the hassle of cooking breakfast, they filled a thermos with boiling water in the evening, and next morning poured hot water over a freeze-dried meal. In five minutes breakfast was ready. Almost as lazy, I left a pot of water sitting on my stove near my sleeping bag, and in the morning I rolled over and lit the stove. By the time I finished dressing, the water would be hot, and I would pour my morning cup of cocoa and cook my cereal or whatever for breakfast. I didn’t even have to get out of bed. If I were in a hurry, breakfast would take only about twenty minutes, but usually I was in no hurry to be on the river until the sun had warmed the air to well above freezing.

We planned to camp at Macmillan Creek in a cabin built by German canoers. With only thirty miles to go, we spent a restful day, sometimes just drifting while we watched a moose browse in the willows and occasionally paddled a few strokes to keethe canoe in the center of the river.

The unique Macmillan Creek cabin had no nails, only wooden pegs. A little door made of sawed, carefully planed and chiseled boards just fit the opening. It hung on carved wooden hinges. On the roof were cedar shakes fastened to poles with wooden pegs. Instead of staying in the cabin, we opted to camp a few yards away by a creek. Soon a skunk wandered into camp. The last thing we needed was getting sprayed by a skunk, but what could we do to persuade it to leave? The white stripes down his back gave him a rank far above us. Fortunately, it didn’t appear too interested in our camp and wandered off. I grabbed my camera and followed trying to get a picture, but the thick undergrowth stopped my pursuit.

That night I slept on a carpet of cottonwood leaves five inches thick — that plus my 3/8 inch blue foam pad and two inches of shredded foam insulation in the bottom of my Frostline sleeping bag made a bed fit for a king or a tired canoeist.

As usual, after breakfast I looked at the sky and pronounced, “It’s going to be a great day.” Our tradition required that each day, regardless of rain, snow, cloud or sun, be declared a great day. And it was. With a strong river current the miles just zipped by. Cottonwood and aspens gave a faint tinge of yellow green to the hills interspersed with the dark green of the conifers and the bright emerald green of newly leafed birch. Every breeze filled with the aroma of fir and spruce gave us a double pleasure of sight and smell.

At lunch I spread my foam pad on a bank of greening grass beneath a budding tree and grinned. It can be so wonderful to just enjoy the simple pleasures of life. The three of us began to travel apart and eat lunch separately giving me a refreshing time alone with the trees and river.

Late in the afternoon we reached Pelican and Stony Rapids, the first big ones before Fort McMurray. I looked over the frothy waves crashing through the rock-studded channel and tightened my grip on my paddle. Anticipation was the worst; once in the waves spray and flashing paddles left no time to think.

At camp we decided we needed baths. The cold water felt wonderful, and we kicked up more spray than a Class Five rapid. But Byron refused to bathe claiming he was allergic to cold water.

Many horror stories have been told about the legendary mosquitoes in the north. Late in the evening an advance patrol came buzzing in to check us out. But we had prepared well—among us we had five head nets, eleven yards of mosquito netting, twenty-eight bottles of four different types of mosquito repellent, four bottles of B-vitamins, thick clothing, and, most important, a good mental attitude. We said of any trial or hardship, “We deserve it,” or “We worked hard for this.” When the sky was clear and the mosquitoes few, we just threw a piece of netting over us rather than pitch tents.

This morning we talked mainly about our impending doom at the treacherous Grand Rapids. Rated Class 6 plus, a few people had recently been swept through and drowned. “It sure is a nice day to drown,” said Doug as he loaded his canoe.

“And it’s such a nice place to die,” I added.

Doug grouched, “Well, when I die, just put me on a bus to North Carolina.”

Our fear of not locating the rapids and being swept into them was completely unfounded. They were audible for at least two miles upstream, and as we got closer they sounded like a 747 flying overhead. We maneuvered as close as we dared to the head of the rapids and then looked for the portage trail. When we found it, we paddled through a huge boulder garden, dodging boulders as fast as we could to within fifty yards of the shore. We could have run all the way to the trail, but that seemed an unnecessary risk. Instead we lined our canoes to the trail and prepared for the one-mile portage.

A faint resemblance to a path led straight up the bank, but at one point the whole trail had crumbled over the edge of a fifty-foot cliff. After 300 yards of incredibly steep ascent, the trail traversed the bank to the end of the rapids. With one pack and the canoe, I made the first trip to the top of the hill. Because the canoe’s bow kept digging into the trail ahead, I couldn’t see where I was going. It was just as well; when I returned for the rest of my gear, I couldn’t believe I had actually carried a canoe up that trail. Bursting with energy and excitement, after making camp and eating, we made one trip to the trail’s end with the canoes.

We returned after sundown and sat around our fire in high spirits. We were going to live another day. We couldn’t imagine how anyone could be swept into the rapids by mistake, but we agreed they could easily drown if they did. On the left side of an island the river swept into a huge cascade, more like a waterfall, and on the right side boulders choked the channel with water cascading violently around them making that way only a little less dangerous. We were happy to have met the challenge.

On our third night we camped directly across the river from the ugly, sprawling pulp mill at Hinton, Alberta, and prayed the wind would continue to blow the vile odors from the pulp mill away from us. As I watched the dancing flames of our camp fire, I remembered the lucky chance that had brought the three of us together on the Pacific Crest Trail two years before. Each of us had lost a partner so we began hiking together and calling ourselves the “Good Luck Guys.” Doug, so outgoing, friendly and enthusiastic; Byron, unpredictable, easygoing and unconscious of what others thought of him—they were the best of partners. These guys, whose thoughts and ideas were naturally akin to my own, doubled and redoubled my joy of adventure.

Next morning, not yet sure how many hours we needed to paddle the thirty’ miles a day necessary to finish our trip before winter, Byron pulled out his map and measured a thirty-mile day. Thinking the distance looked not too difficult, we paddled leisurely through the morning, running little rapids and basking in the sun. But by noon we realized we had covered fewer than fifteen miles. All afternoon we paddled steadily finishing the supposed thirty miles late in the evening. I felt a little discouraged about thirty-mile days, but after digging out the river report, I found, to my relief, that we had actually paddled almost forty miles. This discovery greatly boosted my spirits as on foot, twenty miles is a long distance, but we had easily covered forty miles on our fourth day.

No doubt not knowing how far a day of canoeing would take us shows some of our ignorance and lack of experience in long distance canoeing. Some might ask, “Why would three inexperienced canoers tackle 4,000 miles to learn to canoe? True, we knew little about canoeing, but we were experienced in wilderness travel and thought that if we couldn’t handle a rapid, we would portage around it, and of course we could handle the day-to-day flat water paddling. I never questioned whether I could canoe 4,000 miles, but I had questioned if I could afford the trip and when I should go. Always though, I had confidence in my ability to do what I chose to do.

When rain began the next day, I thought it just a passing shower and kept – paddling without covering anything. By the time I realized it was for real, everything, including me, felt rather damp. I stopped, covered my bright red canoe with a bright red spray cover, slipped on my red rain pants and raincoat, and pulled on my red hat—unplanned color coordination. Under the dripping clouds we joked about April showers bringing May flowers and, after a long and involved discussion, realized it was already May 1. Lunchtime brought a burst of sunshine just long enough for us to eat lunch, load up, and head out into the renewed downpour.

Tired of canoeing in the rain, we knocked off early although we had trouble finding a place to camp because of three to four feet high ice packs along the shore. After cruising along the shoreline, we found a spot where ice sloped right down to the water. I climbed onto the ice preparing to skid my canoe along the ice to an inviting flat spot under some sheltering trees. Then Byron started jumping up and down on the overhanging ice where I was standing. After four or five good solid leaps, the ice broke leaving me standing up to my shins in ice water. I swore mightily and jumped out, laughing at the ice in the cuffs of my pants. If I hadn’t laughed, I might have cried, so I said, “Just what I needed after a cold day on the river. What the hell were you trying to prove?” His reply—“I was just testing the ice to make sure it was safe for you to be out there.”

Later the cuffs of my pants drying by the fire caught fire, and as I leaped over to save them from cremation, I burned a hole in my glove and melted the lid to my water bottle. Everything seemed to be going wrong. My mood plummeted. Wild thoughts whirled madly in my mind as I sat silently staring into the flames. Rain and ice had drowned my ambitions and motives. As the sun slowly sank below the horizon, sending a brilliant flash of light between the clouds and cold still earth, my spirits sank with it. Depression clamped on my heart shrouding any glimmer of hope just as the dark, black clouds covered any signs of the twinkling stars. As the fire slowly burned to coals and then died completely, I slipped off to my sleeping bag, pulled the hood over my head, and drifted off to sleep.

During the night the clouds blew away along with my doubts and misgivings leaving a world bright, shiny, and covered with frost. The sun over the trees set all the crystals of frosty ice on the trees and grass dancing and shimmering with a clear silver light. My depression vanished with the light, so I jumped up and walked to the shore ice feeling like dancing and shouting “Hello” to the morning. My little red canoe seemed eager to continue the journey, and so was I. After my usual breakfast of oatmeal with liberal amounts of honey or sugar and lots of raisins and dried apples, I was off down the River.

Although the sky clouded over in the afternoon and we paddled on through shower after shower, my raingear kept me completely dry. Mother Nature has a way of throwing a nasty situation at you yet also providing something to laugh at while you suffer. As hailstones and rain driven by a strong wind were battering us, Byron pointed to shore with his paddle where two moose watched our little fleet. They had taken shelter under some pushes and looked at us as if to say, “Aren’t you guys being a little silly?” We had to admit we were, so we followed the mooses’ lead and took shelter under a nearby bridge until the hailstones stopped falling.

A flaming hot fire provides the best cure for a cold rainy day. We saw an inviting spot to camp as we floated by, but when we tried to paddle back, we began to appreciate the strength of the current. The spot‘s towering spruce trees and rippling creek made it well worth a little effort. We built a huge fire, a John Muir fire that lit the tops of the trees and warmed the whole grove. Our beaver neighbors didn’t come join us, but later we heard them swimming and splashing and slapping their tails in the creek. They had chewed through most of a cottonwood tree over three feet thick. Beavers were plentiful in this area, and we saw them and evidences of their work every day.

Our muscles were hardening after a week on the river although we had been in good shape before we left; Doug and Byron from planting trees and I from piling boards at a lumber mill. Still, paddling eight hours a day does take a little getting used to, and we were beginning to feel at home in our little crafts. I was bonding with my canoe and seeing it as a magic carpet taking me to the Arctic.

As the river increased greatly in size and current, so did the pollution. At Hinton, where a pulp mill dumped its malodorous sewage, the river changed from an emerald green to a stinking brown in just a few hundred yards. The river might have recovered had it not been for every town dumping sewage into it. Foam filled all the eddies, and the shores had garbage strewn along them for miles before each town. It really hurt to see a river treated like an open sewer.

Just below Fort Assiniboine we saw other canoers for the first time. They were just out for Sunday afternoon recreation, and we were surprised to see how easily we breezed by. Covering 35 miles a day was almost too easy. 5

We had considered tandem canoes but were now very happy going solo. We could go more or less as we pleased, pack our gear as we pleased, paddle at our own pace during the day, and be independent. The solo canoes enabled us to get along. Our theory for group happiness involved reducing the causes of friction. Fewer things to share or do together resulted in fewer problems. The key phrase is ‘have to.’ We often paddled side by side for miles and shared equipment and food. But we didn’t ‘have to.’

Next day the weather repeated itself with a cold, clear morning. We shook frost from our sleeping bags, broke ice in our water bottles, and cooked breakfast huddled around a fire or snuggled in sleeping bags. As the sun rose high enough to strike the river, the air warmed rapidly causing us to take off our shirts and apply suntan lotion. By noon, clouds magically appeared, grew, and multiplied until the sky grew dark, and we had to scramble for spray covers and raincoats. Just as they came, the clouds disappeared in the evening, and we prepared for a clear, cold night.

Few people have bedrooms as lavishly decorated as those where we slept with a living canopy of big spruce trees. We gazed on the grandest show one will ever see anywhere with sunsets and sunrises, the eternal twinkling of the stars, a moon sailing grandly over the mountains, falling stars, and the northern lights; where could one see anything more marvelous?

And what more reason did we need to be here than the uniqueness, an opportunity to live simply, to live each moment for its own sake, to confront the bare essentials, and to be in close contact with nature. Don’t you sometimes feel an irresistible urge to wander when you see a mountain or a river; don’t clouds beckon to you as they drift by, don’t you ache to feel sweat pour off your brow as you near the summit of a tall and craggy mountain, don’t the farthest parts of the globe draw you like a magnet, aren’t you happiest when you are moving? The future was ours, and we were free men for a summer and eternity.

Often our campsites provided entertainment as well as accommodation. One night three beaver came out as the sun set and began to work, carrying sticks from an island across the channels to the shore, their dark heads cutting long vees across the still water. Naturalists teach that beavers slap their tails only when they are alarmed, but these beavers obviously hadn’t heard that. They seemed to slap their tails often for sheer joy. When we did scare them, they frequently dived silently without slapping their tails.

Next day could only be described as magical with glorious sunshine and big, fluffy white clouds drifting across the blue sky throwing huge shadows on hills and water. Large splashes of green dotted the hillsides as trees began to sprout leaves. Everywhere grass greened, spring wildflowers bloomed, and songbirds trilled their delight. All cares and problems disappeared; worries and doubts fell away, making every paddle stroke exactly the right thing to be doing at that moment. My canoe seemed to feel the magic too as it chortled and danced through the waves. As I lay in my warm sleeping bag that night, every star seemed so close I could touch it. A loon laughed a wild and piercing laugh, a beaver slapped its tail across the river, and I knew I must be about the happiest man on this wonderful earth.

After several days of either a strong headwind or rain, I asked Byron, “Which would you rather have? Rain or a headwind?” He promptly answered, “What? We can’t have both?” And we had both all day, both rain and headwinds. The wind’s most annoying characteristic occurred after we had paddled to a hairpin turn bucking the wind, had gone all around the bend, and were still facing the wind.

My open canoe, in contrast to Byron and Doug’s decked ones, sat higher in the water making it more difficult to move against a wind. The decked canoes sit lower in the water but don’t have as much cargo capacity, are harder to pack, and have a less roomy seating area. However, their decks and rudders were an advantage in rough water. The one factor that determined my choice of canoe had been price—half the price of a decked one.

Cold and wet, we gratefully pulled into a grove of fir trees and built a huge fire. We much preferred camping under coniferous trees because they provide good, easy-to-light firewood and often some dry spots under their sheltering branches. Also, pine needles make luxurious beds with a woodsy aroma.

As the heat warmed our bodies and dried the dampness in our souls, eternal optimist Doug said, “Remember the Pacific Crest Trail? All the good times we had on that trip? I want to do it again. Remember the blisters and the Mojave Desert? It’s fun to think about them now. And remember the feelings when we stepped across the Canadian border? We are lucky —we have the chance to let it happen again.”

Byron added, “Yeah, it’s hard to believe we’re out here together again. I had some doubts for a while but look, here we are sitting by the river around a fire. I just want to enjoy this summer to the fullest. It’s going to be great. I can feel it in my bones.”

I answered, “Well, I had faith in you guys. I just know that we three can do it.”

The fire, with its pulsating, dream-inducing fascination, held our attention as we thought deep thoughts impossible to express. My dreams—what were they? Who was this person called Mike Rieseberg? Most of what I knew about him were reflections of other people’s opinions. I hoped that as I traveled down rivers and across lakes I would find a little of myself.

With ice piled high on the shaded shores of the Mackenzie River and the jagged snow line on the mountains not yet retreating beyond the valley, we knew we were pushing the seasons. Lake Athabasca might still be frozen when we arrived, and almost certainly Great Slave Lake would still have ice, but we were ready to take the chance. We wanted every day possible to enjoy our summer. We didn’t want a race; we had in mind something like a picnic.

I thought of my friends at the sawmill where I had sweated for five months earning money for this trip. They were still trapped by their desires and fears into spending eight hours of their lives every day doing something they didn’t really enjoy. And here I was, out on the river as free as the wind.

Because the mountains in Jasper National park were too beautiful to rush away from, we were unconcerned about making miles. Also, we were not yet used to canoe camping although we had extensive hiking and backpacking experience. Slowly I learned to organize thirty days’ worth of food so I could find everything easily. Pots and pans found homes in the right packs, and a system for packing and unpacking the canoe emerged, but on these first days setting up and breaking camp was a long and involved process.

Brule Lake, near the park boundary, gave us our first taste of rough water with wind blowing down the lake so hard that sand flew off the numerous sandbars. In shallow water the choppy waves began teaching us what our canoes could take and under what conditions we could control them. Our canoes splashed bravely through the crashing waves straining to keep moving against the wind. Later in the trip, we looked back and laughed at the apprehension we felt in the moderate waves of Brule Lake.

Michael Riseeberg — individualist, artisan, photographer, adventurer, author, and software engineer. Always dexterous, he made intricate balsa wood airplanes. Relatives remember him as a voracious reader, which his adult library also showed. A sign on the darkroom he constructed warned his family to keep the door closed so the dark wouldn’t leak out. When skiing, he admonished his siblings and friends that “If you don’t fall down, you aren’t trying hard enough.”

From an early age he sought experiences in nature. After high school he built a kayak and spent a summer seeing America’s most beautiful scenery. The next year he started hiking the Appalachian Trail but soon decided they were not his kind of mountains and instead hiked the Pacific Crest Trail with two friends. His hunger for adventure not yet satisfied, he and his companions canoed 4,000 miles from Jasper, Alberta, to the mouth of the Yukon.

Still not ready for college, he began building a boat in which he would sail around the world. Eventually he sold the boat and enrolled at Pacific Union College where he lived in his grandparents’ basement apartment and worked for a construction contractor learning skills he later used when extensively remodeling houses, building unusually beautiful furniture, and making decorative items and toys for his co-workers and their children. A lover of animals, when he put a fence around his garden and orchard to exclude deer, he carefully left several small holes to facilitate the movement of the rabbits, quail, and their offspring that lived in the orchard.

After graduation he worked for four different computer companies. His co-workers called him a genius churning out code amazingly fast and spotting problems in the complicated programs quickly. His code, like his writing, was a reflection of an elegant, original, and brilliant mind.