Saxon Falls to Highway 122:
A short but thrilling trip in between two of Wisconsin’s steepest waterfalls before slipping into Lake Superior, this fabled segment of the mighty Montreal River is paradise for paddlers seeking continuous Class II-III rapids in a veritable canyon 200′ tall. Alas, accessing the river to launch is a prohibitive hardship.
Rating: ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
Trip Report Date: July 17, 2025
Skill Level: Advanced
Class Difficulty: Class II-III
Gradient:
≈ 52′ per mile
Gauge Recorded on this Trip:
Excel Energy hotline: 715-893-2213. The recorded message stated 350 cfs at the Powerhouse, which correlated to only two “fingers” coming down Saxon Falls (one of which, the middle, was thin).
Recommended Levels:
This is the lowest recommended level. We recommend this level for “lightwater” paddlers looking to splash and bounce. For entry-level whitewater paddlers itching to surf and play on big waves and catch eddies, you’d want more water.
There are pros and cons to 350 cfs. On the one hand, it’s marginally “safer” since there’s less volume, and the banks will be more accessible if/when you need to dump water out of your boat – or collect your boat (and anything else) after capsizing. On the other hand, it’s arguably more difficult since many nearly invisible boulders just above or below the surface will require regular river reading to avoid crashing into or running onto. Moreover, the final mile will be very shallow and potentially impassable for some, where the rapids mellow as the river fans out.
Whitewater enthusiasts will want a minimum of 600 cfs to keep things interesting. Famed (and tragic) whitewater paddler, Jim Rada, states that 1000 cfs is “OK” while 5000 is “awesome.” Curious but conservative paddlers should look for a range of 400-600 cfs. To appreciate the range of water levels, compare these two YouTube videos at 3200 cfs and 600 cfs. Other than intense flashes of hard rain or springtime snowmelt, the river is often low. In Northwoods Whitewater, Rada explains that the Saxon Falls dam has “a limited generating capacity,” as does the impounded flowage above the dam.
The bottom line is the river can be run just fine with only two fingers, even if the A-OK hand gesture needs three.
Put-In:
Saxon Falls Road, Saxon, Wisconsin
GPS: 46.53638, -90.37935
Take-Out:
Highway 122
GPS: 46.55673, -90.41493
Time: Put in at 4:30p. Out at 5:30p.
Total Time: 1h
Miles Paddled: 3.5
Wildlife:
Bald eagles, ravens, kingfishers, turkey vultures, mergansers, great horned owl.
Shuttle Information:
4.5 miles by vehicle or bicycle.
Background:
Despite being such a short run for paddling, few rivers have been so thoroughly coveted and documented as the Montreal. The reason this trip is short is simple: it begins at the base of a 90′ waterfall and ends before a hydroelectric dam past which an even taller waterfall crashes in three drops through conglomerate brownstone rock walls and finally into Lake Superior. And the reason for it being so coveted and documented is there’s nowhere else like it! In between the two falls the river drops over 150′ in three miles! (Even I don’t need a calculator to figure out that gradient – it comes out to Holy Sh*t!) And for two of those three miles the river twists like a coiled snake through a 200′-walled canyon featuring nonstop Class II-III rapids. This ain’t no bunny slope, folks; it’s a punky, rambunctious, ridiculously delirious, wild ride!
This river has long been on my radar, but it comes with several sobering caveats:
- By and by, it’s a 3-mile paddle 4 hours away from home;
- Once you’re on the water, there’s no way to get out since you’re in a canyon;
- Water levels are unreliable;
- To launch from the river one first has to descend a steep staircase consisting of roughly 150 steps down a drop of some 120′;
- Paddling the Montreal alone is risky and irresponsible – yet finding another paddler willing to put up with all the prohibitions listed above is just as difficult as catching the river at a good but safe level or schlepping your boat down 150 steep steps…
Nonetheless, I have wanted to do this for a long time. On some level, I’ve wanted to do this because of its difficulties. For the record, I am not an adrenaline junkie. Drivers who pass on the right at 80 mph are adrenaline junkies (with or without IL plates). Gamblers are adrenaline junkies. Favoring a sports team in the playoffs, investing in the stock market, or following present day politics are for adrenaline junkies (and masochists). I am attracted to Class II-III rapids because they intimidate but inspire me to lean into my discomfort (to borrow the phrase from Brené Brown). Especially in a canoe, especially in a canyon.
I finally carpe’d my diem while driving up to the Bayfield Peninsula for an unrelated mini-vacation. (The river is only three miles north of Highway 2.) I had called the powerhouse hotline first thing in the morning to ascertain water levels. At 350 cfs, I reasoned that I wouldn’t be in over my head (ideally in the literal but also figurative sense). And the weather was pitch perfect: a sunny 70 degrees with no humidity – warm, enveloping sun plus cool, clean air.
Before we delve into geography for a minute, first a word about geology. The landscape here is on a scale and scope that challenges comprehension. A couple billion years ago, continents collided in present day northern Wisconsin that created the Penokee Hills (aka Gogebic Range). There were volcanoes involved as well, an enormous meteor crashing into Ontario, too. In its day, the hills would have rivaled our contemporary Alps. Today, they’ve been whittled down by eons of erosion (and ice ages) as beautiful hills composed of iron and basalt and Precambrian sandstone. The original brownstone architecture, these conglomerate bluffs are bold, beautiful, and bad-ass – unlike anything anywhere else in the state. And they are some of the oldest rocks anywhere on Planet Earth.
Comprising a west and east fork, the Montreal River is one of three streams that make up the natural border between Wisconsin and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. That border is eccentric and full of colorful history. In the northwest corner there’s the Montreal River from Lake Superior to a nondescript point (GPS: 46.33727, -90.12118) about 8 miles southeast of Hurley as the loon flies. From here an entirely artificial straight line runs southeast for over 60 miles (while crossing a subtle continental divide) before the two states are cleaved by the Brule River which turns into the Menominee River, after which the natural border runs 100+ miles to Lake Michigan.
Editor’s note: feel free to jump down to the Overview if you don’t care about history and geography – no shame.
When Wisconsin was admitted to the United States, Congress declared that its northeastern boundary would begin at the mouth of the Menominee river, “thence up the channel of the said river to the Brule river; thence up said last mentioned river to Lake Brule; thence along the southern shore of Lake Brule in a direct line to the center of the channel between Middle and South Islands, in the Lake of the Desert [aka Lac Vieux Desert]; thence in a direct line to the head waters of the Montreal river… thence down the main channel of the Montreal river to the middle of Lake Superior.”
Over the years, I have become aware of, amused by, and in solidarity with seeing the Upper Peninsula (or U.P.) as belonging to Wisconsin. Call it ur-Wisconsin. Call it “Pure Wisconsin.” Call it the “W.P.” After all, that interior wilderness was originally part of the Wisconsin Territory before it was carved out and given to Michigan as a consolation prize over its dispute and miniature war with Ohio regarding Toledo. And Wisconsin would have one of the coolest state shapes if the U.P. were a part of it – like a head on fire. It wouldn’t be the last time “Ohio State” would screw Wisconsin…
But in October of 2020, an actual attempt to kidnap the Democratic governor of Michigan was hatched but mercifully spoiled. Three months later an armed mob of Trump supporters stormed the U.S. Capitol in hopes of overturning the results of a free and fair election, resulting in five total deaths. Only a month ago, Democratic state lawmakers in Minnesota were targeted and attacked by a crazed assassin, resulting in two cold-blooded murders. So joking around and poking fun of the “true” Wisconsin border is less funny than it used to be – to say nothing of the much bigger, more relevant, and more equitable matter of Native American nations who truly deserve getting the land back. So I’ma shut my piehole right quick.
Wolverine sympathizers might chime in here with a righteous “but what about?” regarding the “main channel of the Montreal River.” Misinformed surveyors incorrectly attributed the Montreal’s source at Lac Vieux Desert (which we all know is the source of the Wisconsin River). Moreover, any hydrologist worth her salt knows that the western fork of the Montreal should have been/has always been the main channel – meaning that by drawing the line on the river’s east fork Michigan was actually cheated out of land (present day Hurley and environs). The State of Michigan actually sued Wisconsin all the way up to the Supreme Court in 1926. Even though Michigan had an open-and-shut case, the High Court ruled in Wisconsin’s favor along the lines of letting sleeping dogs lie. Besides, this part of the U.P. backs the Packers and, unlike the rest of Michigan, is on Central Time.
Every once in a whisper, talk about a 51st state called “Superior” is bandied about, but it’s just that – talk.* At over 36,000 square miles, it would be the 39th biggest state in the nation – just larger than Maine. But with fewer than 302,000 residents, it would be the state with the smallest population – smaller than Wyoming. I like thinking of the U.P. as a state of mind, a place influenced by and connected to both Michigan and Wisconsin (“Michiconsin?”), but a semi-autonomous region all its own. Like Tibet den, eh?
* Permit me to point out the subliminally obvious, but wouldn’t “Yooperior” be better?
Even though the western fork is the main channel, most of its water is detained by the Gile Flowage dam (whose fake-lake waters will be on your left if you’re driving north on Highway 51). The west and east forks converge at a point roughly equidistant from the Gile and Saxon Falls flowages. In those very elusive but positively bewitching intervals when water levels allow, each of the forks can be (and have been) paddled by dedicated and proficient whitewater boaters. But each features occasional Class IV drops in dangerous environments – well above and beyond our skill sets or comfort levels.
Overview:
Even though the river is the border between two states due south of the largest freshwater lake on the planet, finding it is none too intuitive, and signage doesn’t help. From Highway 2 turn north onto County B. Stay straight onto Saxon Falls Rd where B abruptly bends west (although the actual road sign is ambiguous at best). The unpaved road first leads to a parking area and garage and then steeply descends along deep ruts and washouts to a second parking area and a barbed wire fence. The fence not only blocks off the daunting staircase that descends some 120’ to the river below, it’s marked with a No Trespassing sign. Bienvenue au Montreal!
To get to the water you will need to carefully go around the fence to get to the staircase. It’s not a catwalk, but it is narrow – and a long way down; losing any gear here, whether it’s your boat or paddle, phone or sunglasses, etc., would be extremely difficult if not impossible to recover. Be sure everything is tied down and secure! As for blatantly blowing off the No Trespassing sign, ordinarily we’re not so daft or dismissive. But the river is a public body of water, and this segment of the Montreal has been documented as a premier paddling (and rafting) trip for many decades now.
Next is the staircase. I’d read about belaying boats via rock-climbing ropes, but I was alone. My first idea was simply to lay my boat perpendicular to the slippery metal handrails and let gravity do most of the work – while holding on. But my canoe is 14.5’ long, so going down sideways would’ve meant knocking into or getting stuck onto tree branches every few feet. Instead, I tied rope around my seat and stern and let it slowly slide down the metal stairs with the rope’s other end firmly in hand – like being led downstairs by Clifford the Big Red Dog on a leash.
Once you’re at the bottom, you’ll want to schlep your boat to the right of a metal footbridge that connects the staircase to the Powerhouse, which means walking down a short rocky slope. Once here, the hard part is over! Now you need to at least look at Saxon Falls. How often do you begin a trip at the base of a 90′ waterfall? There are three chutes through which water, um, falls. But how much water falls down these chutes has everything to do with the hydroelectric dam above the falls. Colloquially, these chutes are called “fingers” – left, middle, right – and each more or less correlates to water velocity downstream and its corresponding whitewater conditions. Basically, one finger (right) equals Class II rapids in the canyon and Scrape City afterward. Two fingers (middle and right) means Class II-III rapids in the canyon and a low but floatable final mile to the takeout. Three full fingers (left, middle, and right) means you’d better be a skilled whitewater paddler and doing this with an equally competent peer, ‘cause it will be riotous!
It should come as no surprise that there’s no designated place to launch. But the banks here are flat – no otter slide required! An easy Class I-II rapid lies below the footbridge, so launch wherever feels most comfortable. And get ready for a wild ride!
While this whole trip is only three miles and change, the first two-thirds are an almost nonstop whiplash (-splash?) experience that will knock off your socks, take your breath, and make your heart pound. But it will go by in a wink. I had to dump water out of my boat at least four separate times, yet this trip took only an hour. Steep banks and standing waves start right off the bat. The terrain is northwoods on steroids, courtesy of Lake Superior’s South Shore.
The first of several Class III rapids/ledges awaits only a quarter-mile downstream in a tricky left-hand bend where a vertical wall on the right diverts the current. It’s two back-to-back drops of about 4′ total – a lapful and then some! If you can get there in time and it’s not underwater, a small grassy island on the left allows for scouting or portaging (although if you were inclined to portage this, then this isn’t a river you’d want to paddle in the first place). There are boulders mostly to the sides and river-wide shelves beneath, but nothing in number as found downstream.
Initially, the river flows westward and then meanders in every direction before a long northwest straightaway. Following a subtle flutter right then left, a staggeringly steep canyon wall on the Michigan side appears, crowning some 200′ high and lined with treetops like a buzz-cut. The upper canyon is made of volcanic basalt, while the lower canyon is composed of a brownstone conglomerate. Both have a rippling contour to them – billowy flow like vertical curtains complementing the actual standing waves of the water – and some feature white bands of gneiss running through them like veins. All the rocks here are incredibly ancient.
To be circumspect, most of the time only one side of the canyon is an imposing rock wall while its opposite bank is a steep-bluffed woods comprising a rich mix of conifers (cedar and hemlock, pine and spruce). Downstream, towards the end, it’s mostly deciduous (aspen, birch, and maple). Only occasionally are both banks true canyon walls. So, in case you need to take a break from the water– for whatever reason – there are places to do so along both banks – at least at 350 cfs.
Also, there are eddies to catch and pause along the way, even at high water levels. And there are pools in between the rapids that allow for catching your breath, retrieving gear and/or assisting in a rescue, or (like me) sponging out water. The pools will all have riffles or Class I rapids, but nothing so formidable you can’t divide your attention. Generally speaking, the bigger rapids and steep ledges appear every 300′-500′. American Whitewater states the following: “There aren’t many drops on this run, just a bunch of continuous class III rapids, most of which mellow out to class II at lower flow. A sheer wall on river left where the river makes a hard turn to the right is the Cathedral. A hole forms here that can be real trouble for intermediates, but great fun for aggressive experts looking for a good trashing.”
The river now arcs to the right of a sheer wall on the Wisconsin side of the canyon in the only series of dramatic S curves, about 0.75-long. Before abruptly angling to the right, the river plunges off a ledge along the outside bend and into a hole below. The Cathedral? Beats me; nothing is marked on the maps – plus I didn’t take a map with me anyway. (In lieu of a map I had a last will and testament, should something go south.) A short straightaway east treats the eyes to perhaps the prettiest stretch where the canyon walls are their most dramatic (and lit perfectly by the late-afternoon sun in the west). But then the river doubles back to the left (west) and features some 2’ standing waves before heading north. The steepest walls are on the Michigan side through this short stretch, the conglomerate rock looking more like the Dakota Badlands or adobe mounds than a state known for its cows, corn, and lakes. Boulder gardens begin to stipple the river as it crashes into canyon walls and heads west. Big frothy waves will clap and collapse upon your boat’s bow as the river is diverted north again against a left-hand wall. It’s simply exhilarating!
I am not a whitewater paddler, so I do not know what constitutes “a good thrashing.” Needless to say, I’m none too inclined to find out, thanks all the same – at least while alone. On this trip I noted three occasions where an island split the river in two channels. The first of these involves an unforgiving rock outcrop on the left of the left channel that sharply diverted most of the river’s flow in a 90-degree bend to the right while dropping several feet and resulting in a particularly sticky-looking hole. Above this outcrop lies an even bigger protrusion about 20′ high. Both are unmistakable since the current heads straight into them. By contrast, the skimpy right channel was a Class I sluice whose only impediment was a long log and some rocks to avoid. After scouting and deliberating, I chose to go right – the path of least resistance and risk-reward assessment. I do have limits…
Shortly after this the canyon continues, but with less grandeur as before. The mostly straight-lined river now features irregular shelves and boulder gardens. At 350 cfs, many of these shelves were just above/below the surface, meaning you can expect to scrape or get stuck, and threading your way around them is complicated. Either way, it’s easy to get knocked sideways – repeatedly. I should also point out that there are a good dozen horizon lines that are hard to determine until you’re quite close to a river-wide shelf or ledge and need to read on the fly. There were several times when I gave up trying to figure out which was the ideal line to take and just hoped for the best. Other times, I could not tell that a ledge would drop a couple feet until I was right there. I took in a lot of water on this trip! And trying to keep a 14.5′-long bathtub balanced upright with several gallons of water sloshing left and right while you’re still bombarded by Class II rapids is more than a little awkward. Note to self: get float bags.
After a short left-right bend the walls will taper and the tree species will change. After two miles you’re out of the canyon. But now the river swells to almost twice its width, resulting in a thinning of its water. The boulder-strewn course makes the river seem that much shallower, yet the rapids are still plenty active here. While all the technical stuff is behind you, this next mile can be a slog if the river is low. Islands become numerous. Another large one will create another dilemma of which channel to take. At the head of it I could just make out that shortly downriver the left channel was entirely blocked and had a light rapid making a beeline to it, so I went right, which was totally open. The left channel is more attractive and captivating, but the main channel is definitively on the right.
Class II dwindles to Class I, Class I to riffles, and in the last half-mile or so the river loses current altogether and becomes deep – you’re in a flowage caused by the Superior Falls dam – as you paddle through a ragged area of floodplains and braided islands. One last left-right hook takes you to the third large island, where again I went right as the left-hand side looked too cluttered with downed trees. The Highway 122 bridge is now in view. The rough access is on the Wisconsin side (river-left), upstream. A no-nonsense “TAKE OUT HERE” sign points out where specifically, although there’s no landing per se. On the road, a wide shoulder allows for a couple vehicles to be parked here and no worry of loading your boat along the highway. There’s not much traffic besides.
Only 1000’ downstream from the bridge is the dam, on the other side of which is the head of Superior Falls – arguably the most impressive and dramatic waterfall in Wisconsin that you’ve never heard of or been to. It doesn’t literally plunge into Lake Superior, but it’s awfully close; the third of its three total drops is only 1200′ from the big lake. Standing at the Highway 122 bridge and looking at the dam, you can just discern the insane horizon line. A parking area on the Michigan side only 0.75-mile from the bridge connects to a few hiking trails to take in the three drops as well as access to the lake itself. Après-paddle, do yourself a favor and scamper around down here. The falls are truly magnificent, and the overall landscape is majestic.
What we liked:
This unique trip was a combination of thrilling and ethereal. For me, it was pushing the envelope of “lightwater” paddling with an occasional Class II kick, or even a one-and-done Class III plunge, to continuous sequences of Class II-III for two full miles. Water levels were low, and it may not have been the most elegant run, but I did stay upright the whole time – damp but upright.
And then there’s the knee-buckling, knuckles-gnawing beauty of the landscape – an actual canyon, 200′ tall, made of ancient lava and Pre-Cambrian sandstone. I’ve read a lot about this river and have had it hot in my pocket for over ten years now. I anticipated the aesthetics, but only experiencing it personally can one appreciate the landscape’s scale and scope. I’ve visited environments like this before, but have never paddled them. This was unlike anything or anywhere I’ve been in a boat. It should say something that an access as awful as this trip’s still garners a five-star paddle.
Readers familiar with this site might know that we usually make references to music, inspired by the rivers we paddle. This trip provided melodies in spades – I kept thinking about the “new-grass” band Steep Canyon Rangers as well as the song “Four Walled World” by Temple of the Dog (except this was a two-walled world). But Of Montreal was the most obvious, of course.
What we didn’t like:
The “access” below the falls is notoriously terrible, formidable, and unwelcoming. Worth the effort? You bet. But still, this could be much better. Kindly consider contacting the Federal Energy Regulatory Commission (FERC) here about improving access and recreation on the Montreal River. And yes, the final half-mile is a slow and unbecoming coda to such a scherzo of a river. But I rendered it a welcome denouement that allowed for a ding-dong like me to have a victory lap after finally paddling the venerable Montreal!
If we did this trip again:
There are four core things I’d do differently next time…
1) Not paddle alone.
2) Paddle at a higher level, say 500-600 cfs.
3) Insert proper flotation bags in my canoe.
4) Begin earlier in the day, late morning ideally.
Lest I trip the trigger of rotten produce catapulted my way, I know that I shouldn’t have paddled this trip alone. Yes and I recognize that I’m a moron for paddling alone in a 14.5′ canoe without proper float bags. (Instead, I relied on my poor man’s “diaphragm” of thin plastic draped over my bow to deflect most of the tumult. Deflect, mostly/somewhat, but not prevent. Check.)
In Northwoods Whitewater Jim Rada wrote, “the more or less continuous whitewater can make boat rescue a lengthy process in the event of a swim. This, combined with the steep walls, has gotten boaters separated from their craft. It’s not always easy to walk downstream two hundred yards to your boat. This means only that it’s good to have a group mentality here, perhaps watching over less experienced boaters more than the difficulty of the water would suggest. Not a good run for teams of novices to practice synchronized swimming!” Touché.
Let me be clear and unequivocal: paddling the Montreal canyon alone is reckless. I did so for all of the reasons mentioned above, but above all else I did so because I knew the river was low. But something could have gone wrong, and the consequences of that would range from basic inconvenience to utter tragedy. Sharing my experience here on this website is not to show off a dumb stunt or strut around like a jackass. I’m doing so for the same reason we publish our time on any body of water we’re lucky to paddle: it’s a fantastic river in a phenomenal environment. I do want you to paddle this river if it’s a river you want to travel to and feel skilled enough to paddle. But I don’t want you to paddle it the way I did. If you’ve ever met me for a minimum of five minutes, you’d know not to follow my lead.
We live in a virtual era of venues and avenues where everyday people want to be online heroes for fifteen minutes of fame before social media splices an ad for reducing belly fat or automatically cues the next video you might like of how to grout bathtub tile. Tick frickin’ tock. It’s a fine line between calculated risk and stupidity, and toeing that line too often quickly makes for a slippery slope. I may not be motivated by clicks and likes like any two-bit gigabyte influencer obsessed with analytics or enthralled to advertisers, and I sure as hell do not think that what is shared here on a paddling blog is going to change the life of anyone reading these words. But I’m not so naïve as to write it all off either. Accountability matters.
I do what I do for the intrinsic value of it, not for the sake of extrinsic feedback upon which the social media ecosystem is predicated and dictated. I want to do what I love most and makes me feel most alive, but I also want to fall in love with rivers over and over and live to paddle another day.
As for water levels, this already fun (and nerve-wracking) trip would be even more fun at water levels bumped up a bit, to avoid some of the shallows and sneaky boulders/shelves.
Finally, since a fair amount of this short trip runs westward, I’d begin earlier in the day. By late afternoon, the sun was occasionally blinding, which made running the rapids and trying to identify iceberg tip-like boulders and irregular rock shelves rather difficult. That said, some of the canyon walls on the west-facing Michigan side positively bathed and glowed in the July sunshine and had the power of hierophany, to be perfectly honest.
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Related Information:
General: American Whitewater
General: Wisconsin Trail Guide
Wikipedia: Montreal River
Photo Gallery:
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