Pine River

Exploring Northern Michigan in winter is not for those deterred by single digit temperatures.  As any stalwart Michigander will tell you, there is no bad weather, only those not dressed for it. Determined to demonstrate that my creaky bones would not slow me down, I accepted my younger daughter’s invitation to go winter rafting.

The Pine River is 53 miles long and meanders through the Manistee National Forest just south of Sleeping Bear Dunes.  But meander is not the right word. The Pine’s rushing white waters and relatively modest width have earned it the label of a “technical” river, requiring a fair amount of skill to navigate.  The lower section has been designated a national scenic river, its shores thick with cedar, hemlock, ash, elm, pine and red maple.

It is a blustery 10 degrees when Aster and I arrive at our departure point.  Dressed in thick layers of thermal underwear, jeans and waterproof pants, I feel like the younger brother from a Christmas Story, doing an  imitation of the Michelin tire guy.  I tread carefully- A single tap on the shoulder could knock me off balance and send me spiraling to the snow packed earth.

The Pine River Paddlesports Center is a family business. The rafting tours are  launched out of a garage where an older woman is handing out thermal glove warmers and bags of homemade iced sugar cookies shaped like paddles. A beautiful silver haired dog, a timber wolf we later discover, is greeting the morning passengers.

We put on our life jackets and pose for a photo in front of our inflated craft. Aster decides that I should be the paddler. Our guide is a clean-shaven young man in this 20s named Steve, his cheeks already flush with cold.

“Don’t worry I will do most of the work,” he reassures. I have my doubts.  We are instructed to sit on the raft’s edges, not on the bottom where we would sink too low to paddle. Paddle at the ready, I take the front seat.  Steven, who grew up in these parts where lumber towns once thrived. lives alone on 40 acres of land. He works construction and supplements his income by filling in as a wedding DJ on weekends. As he pushes away from a snow packed shore, He points out an eagle soaring overhead.

It takes about 75 minutes to float from Walker Bridge to Lincoln’s Bridge on the Pine; what lies in between is worth the four-hour drive north from Chicago. It is like floating through a snow globe. Summer’s branches of green are now brown and laced in white. Delicate Ledges of ice have formed at the river’s edge, shielding  gurgling water that will spirit away summer kayaks. Snowballs of slush, tinged brown like cinnamon rolls, bob on the murky surface.  Halfway through our trip, we round a bend and see towering sand banks. I remember that we are not far from Sleeping Bear Dunes. It is humbling and breathtaking. We float in silence, except for occasional gurgling pools.

I remember a line from the Irish poet John O’Donohoe. “Landscape,” he writes, “lives mainly in silence.”