Wolf River III

The first-half mile consists of quietwater as you paddle pass the blink-missed hamlet of Langlade and any associated properties grandfathered to the riverbanks. Illustriously named “Rocky Rips” give you a Class I wink and kiss after that. Giant dollops of boulders are strewn in the stream every which way, their stupendous dimensions and sheer numbers just dazzling in unapologetic audacity. It’s as if a magician with a wand went berserk and benighted these enchanting envoys from the last glacier here and there and there and there again – everywhere! A large, scrubby island interrupts Rocky Rips and the next stretch of essentially easy Class I-II, called Crowle Rapids, about 300 yards long. Soon after is an even steeper and longer set of solid Class IIs that on some maps is called “Unnamed Rapids” or simply the second pitch of Crowle. Whatever you call it, it’s a quarter-mile of liquid bliss. Also, if you don’t have your skirt on by now, you’ll wish you’d had put in on beforehand (unless it’s a summer-scorcher and being soaked is welcome).

A short hundred yards of respite precede the galloping hooves of Horserace Rapids, another solid Class II that canters for the frothy length of three football fields. Boulders are ubiquitous, as are reputable standing waves. You’ll likely need to sponge or bilge-pump your boat by now, unless you’re wearing a skirt or have floatation bags (for an open canoe).

After Horserace the river calms down for two full miles and casually flows south, east, and then southwest to the next run at the 3.5-ish-mile mark, called Twenty Day Rapids. (In between is nothing but boulders, small islands, and a beautiful landscape of unspoiled nature.) Twenty Day comprises at least three pitches, the first being short but fairly fast and steep. Catch your breath, for then comes the second pitch, loaded with boulders and ledges up the wazoo. At the end of these rapids is a prominent rock ledge on the left that makes for a cool hangout space.

Once more, the river calms down for 3.5 miles until the next rapids. Here, large islands interrupt the Wolf’s flow. It’s a pretty landscape, but if you’re on the lookout for the inconspicuous access at Herb’s Landing (on the right bank), you’ll be constantly wondering/worrying “is this it?” or “did we miss it?”

After about a mile past Herb’s you’ll soon come upon the first of two footbridges signaling Boy Scout Rapids, a long exhilarating run of Class II-III rapids. If in doubt, get out and scout on the right (or portage, although keep in mind it’s a long schlep over uneven terrain with hills and rocks and trippy tree roots – and not the psychedelic kind). The bridges also signal the 8-mile mark in this 10-mile journey. We got out to scout along the feint but fairly established path on river-right. From what we’d read, we were prepared for these rapids to be pretty intense. At half a mile-long, Boy Scout provides a pretty wild ride. There are a couple of eddies to catch – and catch your breath – but not many. In the event that something goes awry, well, it’s an unfortunate place to go for a swim. Indeed, to quote from the classic Whitewater, Quietwater, “It is a long rapids with no special visibility problems, but because of its length, rescue can be difficult following an upset.” But don’t just take the Palzers’ word on that…

On our way back from portaging one of our kayaks past all the hairy stuff, we saw two paddlers come down – the same couple we’d seen scouting Gilmore’s Mistake earlier in the day. The woman, who had the same model, even color, as Timothy’s Dagger Katana, rode down the rapids just fine. Smart girl, she was wearing a spray skirt. Her male companion behind her was not, and we watched him pitilessly take on more and more water until his boat sunk further and further down, too heavy and unwieldy to steer anymore – with nothing but additional Class II rapids downstream. So he capsized and lost both the boat and paddle. We scampered downriver hoping to snag one if not both, but each time we clambered to the outer banks to assess the situation, everything remained stubbornly midstream. This went on for minutes: everything would float on by, then we’d book it into the woods up and down like leaping deer, past trees and over rocks, then find an opening on the bank only to see that nothing was nearby without venturing into the rapids ourselves (which we actually did, but still to no avail). Over and over. Finally, his boat got pinned against a boulder and stayed in place, and the dude swam over to it and was able to dump out the water. Better still, his female companion had admirably grabbed his paddle while still managing the rapids on her own. Also, to the guy’s credit, he floated downriver on his back, feet up and forward. We share this tale solely for the sake of caution. If you too flip and go for a swim, don’t try standing up, as the river here is notorious for foot-pins that will ensnare you.

There are two footbridges across the river about a quarter-mile from one another, part of the Boy Scout Camp located here. We took our time at these rapids, in part to savor the experience, in part because it was intimidating, and in part to capture it from two different camera angles: from the bow of a boat looking out and from the bridges above looking down. One of the reasons why our video for this trip is longer than our normal format is to convey the unique experience of such continuous rapids action, and “Boy Scout” is a case in point.

Things will slow down for about half a mile before and following an abrupt right-bend in the river with some of the biggest boulders yet. Then Hanson’s Rapids come roaring in, another set of robust Class II+ whitewater in two pitches comprising a third of a mile full of splashy waves and surf spots. We learned from the seasoned folks we’d met while leaving a vehicle at Herb’s Landing that Hanson’s Rapids is the site of an annual slalom course competition called Buttercup that’s been going on for more than fifty years. I may not have the full quote right, but we learned something along the lines of, “The river teaches you how to float in a boat, but slalom teaches you how to paddle.”

Once more, and for the last time, the river will quell after Hanson’s for nearly a full mile to the next rapid – the biggest on this trip (and foreshadowing what lies further downstream in the rowdiest segment of the Wolf). But before that you’ll pass the bridge at County Road M, where there’s a dedicated DNR landing on the downstream side, river-right. (Incidentally, it’s worth noting that this is the first and only bridge in this 10-mile trip.) Lax quietwater, a couple riverside houses, and some scrubby islands, prevail until the fulsome roar of Gilmore’s Mistake Rapids, a no-joke Class III with huge waves and weird holes to watch out for. It’s easy to get out or scout, as an unusual but quite beautiful rock shelf extends from the left bank (behind which is an equally aesthetic amphitheatre setting below the supper club (forever memorialized as Wild Wolf Inn… but rebranded as Crab n Jack’s. Gilmore’s features easy-to-read chutes and lines along with impossible-to-anticipate humongous waves that were truly in both the literal and figurative sense awesome: intimidating as hell but also fun as all get-out.

Also, but for maybe half a dozen buildings total, there is no discernible signs of development along the banks in all of this trip (and as mentioned above, but one bridge).

This was our third consecutive day running the Wolf River, and on all three occasions we never saw anyone else on the water (true, the weather was somewhat crappy, but the river was on the rise and the air temps were at least 50 degrees). This is quite rare, finding such sumptuous solitude on a river as vaunted and venerable as the Wolf. But at the same time we loved the companionship of having Allison and Will for most of our trip, as well as the forged camaraderie of the other paddlers we’d met while leaving Allison’s car at Herb’s Landing.

There are few things in life that thrill me as much as paddling rapids (says Timothy). As a white, straight male living in a liberal small city in the American Midwest, I’m really never concerned about my safety or feel threatened. Whitewater (or “lightwater”) humbles me to my core. It is a sought after exercise in getting comfortable with being uncomfortable. Or, to borrow from Brené Brown, “to lean into the discomfort.” It scares me shitless, frankly, but I feel like a million bucks afterwards. I even feel good about it in the event that I’m really humbled and capsize, for at least I faced an anxiety. This is not an endorsement for risky behavior, but more of a risk management of challenges we set for ourselves. (It also probably helps that I don’t have a wife or children, and that I know that someone will take care of my dog in case something goes really south.)

Also, we have to mention that our campsite at Boulder Lake was no more than ten minutes away from Gilmore’s Mistake. The shuttling was some of the easiest we’ve ever been indulged by. We can’t recommend this enough. It was fabulous.

Emotionally, I’m sorry (re: not really sorry), but it’s a damn shame that the new ownership of the Wild Wolf Inn changed its landmark name to Crab n Jack’s. Furthermore, after we got off the river and loaded up the car, we walked into the restaurant and asked the bartender when the kitchen would close. (It was a Sunday night in late-September, but the Packers were playing the Sunday night slot.) She told us 9pm. We went back to our campsite, changed our clothes, had a post-paddle/pre-game beer, and returned before kickoff around 7:45, whereupon she told us that the cook had called it a day and was gone. What?!? Even though she knew we were returning? Even though it was a Packers’ game Sunday night?