Lost on the Baptism
Copyright by Jon Kramer 2-5-24 / 4,178 words
Nonfiction. These events took place Memorial Day, 5-26-14
Perhaps the greatest good fortune of my life has been, despite the incredible number of extreme adventures I’ve been on and led over my lifetime – many of which have, admittedly, been very dangerous – I’ve never lost a team member on any of my expeditions. Some serious injuries, for sure, but no one in my party has ever come back dead. There was, however, this one time…
“The inevitable will occur…” Dad had a fondness for saying, sometimes prophetically. He wasn’t Nostradamus, but he sure nailed it on Memorial Day 2014, even though by that time he’d been exploring the afterlife for 15 years. Hey, if Nostradamus can keep predicting things umpteen centuries after he kicked the clay pot, why can’t Dad?
We left Minneapolis O-dark thirty on that soon-to-be-unforgettable Memorial Day, heading north toward another wilderness adventure chasing waterfalls for our “North Shore Waterfall Project”, a multi-year effort to discover and document all the significant falling waters of Minnesota’s Lake Superior watershed accessible from the Superior Hiking Trail and/or Highway 61. Our target this trip was the mighty and mysterious Manitou River.
I have great affection for the Manitou River. And huge respect. It’s one of the largest tributaries on the North Shore and certainly one of its wildest – as regards its remoteness, personality, and attitude. Many years ago, there abided along the banks near its confluence with the Lake, a private campground replete with picnic tables, meandering trails, and a scenic footbridge over the lower canyon. It’s all gone now, excepting the stout steel span which yet crosses over the deep lower gorge, now settled into a pleasingly quiet, nearly secret, anonymity. I call it the Nowhere Bridge. It goes from nowhere, and to nowhere. Perfect.
Access along the Manitou is limited and often difficult. There is a small stretch, however, along the lower river – just north of Highway 61 but not directly accessible from it – called George Crosby Manitou State Park, which houses several miles of hiking trails and 16 walk-in-only campsites spread over four miles of riverbank. Each one is a unique gem, and none have neighbors, save for the animals and plants Nature has in residence. Its remoteness and unique beauty make it, for my money, the best state park in Minnesota. It is untamed and, for the most part, untrammeled. It holds some of the most breathtaking cascades, dells, and waterfalls in the state. Each summer the campsites are reserved far in advance.
And then there’s winter.
In winter, the canyons of the Manitou form palaces of sparkling crystals – ice manifest in every magical form imaginable. The crystal-coated walls, optically clear stalactites, and transparent blue curtains take your breath away. The frozen cascades look like something from a children’s fairy-tale.
Each winter Julie and I bring a few friends to climb amongst this incredible crystal wonderland in the zeros and subzeros of winter. For some several weeks, the canyons here form spectacular grottoes of glitter which will bowl you over. It happens only once – and then they are gone! You will never see those formations again, ever. They melt away and return to the Earth. But the next year nature grows different crystal forms in a new, just-as-wondrous, spectacle. This is the stuff of dreams.
But I digress. This story takes place in summer, so let’s shed the down jackets, gloves and crampons and return to when the forest is overcome in full glory green and the songbirds are calling:
About 8:00 am Julie pulled over to the side of the dirt road at a narrow bridge crossing the remote upper reaches of the Manitou, 10 miles upstream from Lake Superior. The river was swollen with early summer runoff and was running very high. The water temperature was cold, but we had wetsuits and floatation vests. Still, hypothermia was a real danger – guaranteed debilitating if we didn’t take care.
Call it superstition if you like, but I hold close an abiding awareness of our environs in my adventures. I’ve learned to respect the Earth and her splendors. I seek out the signs and listen well to the messages she gives. I pay attention to what the Great Spirit is telling me – before, during, and after an expedition. It’s rewarded me and kept me safe.
How many signs do you need before you realize God is trying to talk to you? This lesson I learned the hard way when I was on Mt Aconcagua in the El Nino year of 1998. It was brutal. Reports from high up on the mountain were not good and getting worse by the day. Yet we paid no attention to them. We were fit, full of youth and vitality. It just took grit and courage to conquer this beast -right?
It wasn’t my expedition – I was not the leader. Being a team player, I initially allowed the rest of the tribe to override my own intuition. But I was feeling increasingly uneasy as the days passed and conditions worsened. The mountain did not want us there, I was sure of it. While I was loath to go along with those who would argue with a mountain Goddess, I did anyway – up to a point.
One night, as I lay in my tent at Base Camp, resting for a big push to carry supplies up the mountain, the Dalai Lama came to me in a dream. It was evening and he was plodding placidly and peacefully between the tents, inviting whoever wished to walk with him. But no one came out and I watched as he eventually walked away, over the crest of the glacier, heading alone down to the valley green far, far below. In the morning, I wondered if it was a dream – or was it real?
The next day me and John, my tent mate, hauled a load to our highest camp. On the way up we got caught in a blizzard. We pushed on. I personally love wind and snow, so the combination of the two makes me grin under the grimace. We finally made it up to the camp where we dropped our loads. Afterwards, we took refuge from the howling wind behind a boulder, sitting on a mound of snow, sipping tea from our insulated Nalgene bottles. Turns out we were sitting on a corpse. (see my story “Escape from Aconcagua”). But, to be quite honest, it was no big deal at 20,000 feet. At such altitude your brain is Play Dough and tragedy does not come into focus. Nothing does. We headed back down to Base Camp.
The next morning, I awoke early and went out for my morning yoga and prayers. Afterwards I meditated. My thoughts turned to the dream with the Dalai Lama. I gradually realized he was a messenger. I came back to the tent and announced to John I was leaving the climb – heading down, following the Dalai Lama’s path to the green valleys below.
It’s one of the smartest things I ever did. Thirteen people perished on that mountain while our team was pushing up the Polish Glacier Route. Everyone ignored that. I ignored that! I knew we were going against the wishes of the mountain, but I let the whims of other people speak for me.
No more! On the long trek out, I resolved that I would never again let others make my decisions for me. Since then, with rare exception, I have led my own expeditions. Or, quite often, just gone solo. As a rule, I cannot follow others on expeditions because they demand allegiance to their leadership, which – don’t get me wrong – I agree is necessary. But I cannot trust they are tuned into Nature and the Great Spirit. So, for that reason, I choose not to follow others. I am compelled to pay attention to the signs and stay tuned to the Earth. And I damn well don’t argue when the mountain Goddess says “Don’t do it!”
So, on this particular morning, when I walked to the bank of the Manitou and bent down to speak with the river, I felt an unnatural coldness creep into my heart. The message was clear – attempt to descend the Manitou this day, and you may not get out alive. That was that – we were not going down the Manitou today. She would not allow it.
As one must in all wilderness adventures, we had a Plan B. In this case it was B for Baptism – meaning the river 10 miles southwest of us. As you will see, the title became more prophetic than planned. Of this we were blissfully unaware. So, Julie drove us south on a winding tract through the woods to the little hamlet of Finland, situated at the junction of the east and west branches of Baptism River.
The Baptism is comparable to the Manitou in volume but, as a result of its geology, has a much broader river bottom in its upper reaches. While the Manitou likes to hold close its cliff walls and slot canyons, allowing little in the way of sunlight to hit its deep waters, the Baptism spreads its arms wide and welcomes sunshine into its belly. As a result, the waters of the Baptism warm much more easily and quickly than those of the Manitou. The water temperature of the Baptism was thus much more to our liking.
Julie, our driver, cheerleader, and primary support, got us there and helped the team deploy in Finland. She passed out compasses, headlamps, and whistles. We held a brief safety meeting with my two expedition companions, Ken and TJ. In the course of the briefing, I emphasized that, this being wilderness, there was no cell phone service. If anyone got lost, the best thing to do was head due west through the woods. Trust your compass – stay with it and eventually you will hit Highway 1.
After 40 minutes of outfitting, we were ready to go. Once we double-checked each other’s gear, we waived goodbye to Julie and waded into the river. We laid back into the water and began our trip downstream. The plan was to float eight miles down the Baptism and document all the waterfalls along the way. Eventually the river crosses under Highway 1 where there is a campground. We would meet Julie and set up camp there for the evening.
Between here and there the river bends into deep forest, dropping through unexplored territory. We had no idea what we’d encounter. And that is precisely the point: to explore and document these rivers firsthand, like no one has done before. Based on experience and the topography we were certain to find waterfalls. But how many and how big, we had no idea.
TJ has accompanied me on several of our wild forays (see my story Hallelujah Wire). He knew to expect the unexpected. I think he is secretly hooked on the danger of these expeditions. He and I have companioned through some hairy situations together – like the time we ended up going over a waterfall together on Devils Track River joined in fright. There was nothing anyone could do as we went over the edge. It could have been Doomsday, but wasn’t and while the injuries were serious, they were not life threatening. Thankfully it was not a big waterfall. It was, in the end, a lesson in how things go wrong with the best laid plans.
This trip was Ken’s first really wild expedition with us. Earlier I had confided in TJ that he and I needed to pay particular attention to Ken. Even though I had known Ken for several years and been on some small adventures with him, I didn’t know how much true grit he possessed. This expedition could easily tip someone of less-than-stout wilderness character over the edge and freak them out. I trusted my instinct that Ken was up to the challenge, but even so one cannot be too safe. TJ tried to make him feel comfortable, but I was concerned Ken might be a bit out of his element. Still, he was excited and raring to go. Into what fate, we had no idea.
Initially the going was easy. A half mile from Finland the river winds past a farmstead with pasture down to the river’s edge. Kids were playing in the field. When they saw us, they freaked out and ran to their parents, pointing at the river. The adults were, of course, startled to see three bodies floating in the current. But as we drifted by, we all waved and called out that things were as they should be. No emergency here. As we rounded the bend downstream the whole family was left standing on the bank, staring in bewilderment.
A few miles south of Finland the Baptism bends to the east and into the wilds. No roads and scarce few trails reach the river in this section. The first few miles passed easily, and the team settled into convivial sharing of wilderness stories. Ken remarked that it was easier than he thought it would be, It’s downright comfortable… Little did he know.
It was several miles before we heard the tell-tale rumblings of the first waterfall approaching. Time to get out and take a look. For practical purposes each of us carries what I call a “Wilson” – named after the Wilson device in the Tom Hanks film “Castaway”. In our case it is a very stout tree branch – usually mountain ash – that is about seven feet long, three inches thick, and has a slight bend. The Wilson is vitally important in our situation. When properly handled, it allows you to seamlessly move from a prone floating position to standing upright in the river. It is also an effective third leg that helps stabilize you in the current.
We approached on foot through the woods. The fall was a series of curtains that tumbled down basaltic ledges where the river made a bend. In all, it was perhaps 20 feet of vertical. Not a huge drop but certainly enough to kill you if you happen to go over, getting smashed against rocks again and again.
Everyone agrees there’s something about waterfalls. From my perspective there’s a lot of things! The smallest waterfall thrills me to no end. It’s a well-known fact that when people encounter the sights and sounds of falling water, they instantly become calm and relaxed. People feel happy just sitting next to a waterfall. Studies have shown that in such instances the pituitary gland secretes feel-good hormones, promoting feelings of well-being. Why that is must be tied to our evolutionary ancestry. It makes sense. Next to air, water is the most essential of our daily needs. Most animals of the planet spend a good portion of their day searching for it. So, if you’re wandering the dry plains of the savanna during the Pleistocene, constantly on the lookout for water sources, and you stumble upon a waterfall, it’s a huge bonanza – one that thrills you to the core.
We took a break and enjoyed those waterfall good feelings. Added to the thrill of our adventure, there’s a great satisfaction in sitting beside such a remote geologic feature in the wilderness, knowing that it is rarely, if ever, seen by humans. We photographed it and recorded the GPS location. I made notes in my logbook. In the plunge pool below the fall, we slid back into the water and carried on downstream. Other waterfalls came along as we progressed downstream.
Eventually the Baptism broadened out and the water became shallow. This presented a problem. The nature of our floatation outfits – what I call the “River Jacket” – allows us to lay in the water with our heads raised so we can see where we are going. But that means the lowest point of our body is our butts. In a couple feet of water this is no problem. But when it’s a foot or less, your ass takes a pounding as it inevitably hits rocks on the bottom. This problem we became painfully aware of. We were thus forced to stand up and walk the shallow areas to save our butts from continuous beatings. But that presents another problem: When you stand up, all the warm water in your wetsuit drains out. And when you return to floating again, you are chilled by the cold river water refilling your suit. Cycling too often between these states will quickly lower your body temperature.
And that’s what happened. After a few hours of this, Ken was getting hypothermic. He needed to stay out of the water for awhile and warm up by hiking in the sun. We came to a long righthand arc in the river. I pointed to the farthest spot we could see downriver where a couple boulders were leaning against the bank, perhaps a half-mile away. You hike along the bank, and we’ll meet you there at the boulders.
TJ and I got into the river and floated down. When we got to the boulders, we stopped and munched granola waiting for Ken. Ken, meanwhile, found the going along the river very difficult. It was heavily overgrown and impassable. So he turned into the woods to make a “short cut” across the obvious right bend in the river. Or so he thought. But the river did not continue its bend to the right as it appeared. It zigged while he zagged and before long Ken was hopelessly lost deep in the woods. It was classic! He got totally turned around and directionless. He lost his bearings and half his mind once he was out of earshot with the river.
TJ and I waited and waited at the boulders – but Ken didn’t show. After half an hour we backtracked along the bank to look for him. We spent 90 minutes combing the section where Ken had left the river and headed into the woods but quickly lost his trail. We systematically searched the entire area but found no trace of our friend. By this time, we were using the whistles. There was no response. It was an altogether hopeless feeling. A dark gloom settled over TJ and I. This was the first time I’d lost a person on one of my expeditions.
It’s a well-established fact that the expedition leader cannot ensure the safety of every member, every moment. I know that, you know that, even they know that. Even so, as the leader, it’s my responsibility to be aware of the hazards and to mitigate potential dangers as much as possible. The team relies on the leader for their experience in that environment and counts on the leader’s judgement in charting the safest course. Here, it seemed, I had failed and now one of our team was lost. It’s a terrible sinking feeling when the magnitude of such a situation finally comes home to you. The thought of calling Ken’s wife to tell her he was lost in the wild made me nauseous with dread.
It was getting late – the sun was going down and we still had some miles to go before making it to the bridge. I eventually stopped our search and told TJ we had to press on for our own sake. We had no choice – Ken was on his own. He would have to tough it out. He had food and water, but it was warmth I was worried about. Ken was already getting hypothermic. Hopefully it would not cool down much and he would survive the night. I called out to the Great Spirit to keep our friend safe.
As we floated, I ran the scenario through my mind: As soon as we got to the bridge, we’d call the sheriff and he’d mobilize the county SAR. Next morning we’d be out with a search party. I had GPS coordinates of where we last saw Ken, so that’s where we’d start. Probably there would be a team from the road heading east, while from the river we’d head south and west. I’d done it before, so I knew how these things rolled out. I had confidence that we could find Ken the next day, I was just hoping he would be alive. In the midst of all this would be Ken’s wife. She would come up from the Cities to help in the search. I was thankful my own wife, Julie, was here with us and waiting at the bridge. She would be vital in helping Ken’s wife cope with the situation.
By the time TJ and I got around the last bend in the river it was 9pm and getting dark. We had headlamps on so Julie could see us as we came down the home stretch. Silhouetted in the fading light, I saw a petite figure along the bank way ahead near the bridge and knew it was Julie. I steeled myself to convey the story to her and ask her help in comforting Ken’s wife. The news would upset her terribly. But we had to deal with it. It was going to be a long, sleepless night.
Then, as we neared the bridge, I saw another figure appear beside Julie on the bank, one much taller. For a moment I hoped it would be Ken, even prayed it might be Ken. But I then realized that was not possible. Ken would have had to trek several miles through the woods just to get to the highway, much less down it to this bridge. That was physically impossible. I realized it was simply wishful thinking and returned to brooding about how I was going to tell Julie the sad news.
But as we got closer the Great Spirit smiled on our little adventure and I saw it actually was Ken! TJ and I let out a whoop, hauled over the last 20 yards of rapids and finally pulled our battered butts out of the river at the bridge. We clamored up over the rocks into the Land of the Living and embraced Ken and Julie. We were chilled to the bone but the excitement of finding Ken there beside my beautiful wife warmed my soul and made me cry. I’ve never been so thankful.
Originally, we had planned to set up camp there at the campground there, but in talking with Julie we realized we were not far from a place we sometimes stayed at: the Baptism River Inn. When I suggested it might be nice to take hot showers and sleep in a bed, no one objected.
We knocked on the door and a woman answered, looking askance at the soggy apparitions in the darkness before her. Hi Lura, it’s Jon & Julie, I announced to the innkeeper we both knew. Lura was aghast but she quickly warmed to us. I inquired if they might have room to fit all four of us. As providence would have it, a family had cancelled just a couple hours prior and there were three rooms available. Divine guidance! She invited us in.
When guiding people on wilderness adventures I offer up this advise: You’re never really lost as long as you keep control of your mind. But lose your mind and it’s all over. Ken kept it together. He never lost it. At the Inn he told us his story and how the hell he beat me and TJ to the bridge.
When he left the river and realized he was turned around, he did as I had instructed – “head west to Hwy 1“. He did just that and climbed out of the canyon heading west. Before long he lucked upon a path that led the way he was going. He followed it to a small homestead that had a locked gate with a sign and a phone number on it. By this time, he was high enough on a ridge to get one bar of cell phone service. He called and a fellow answered. Ken nonchalantly said, I have no idea where I am, but I’m apparently at your property… It was the guy’s hunting shack and he lived in Finland. He came down, picked up Ken, and drove him to the bridge. There are, I think, more Good Samaritans on this Earth than just ordinary people and fortunately they are often there when you really need them!
It was a very long day, fraught with deep anxiety for a time. But it ended happily over a fine bottle of Pinot Noir with convivial philosophizing deep into the night. It was very late before the adrenaline wore off enough for us to retire. As Julie and I settled in, I gave thanks to the Great Spirit for our good fortunes. We were all safe. And with it came a story none of us will ever forget. A good story, with a happy ending. Just the way I like it.
