You know you have good friends when they change the dates of an outdoorsy trip to a rainy morning forecast just so you can go with them. Hence my two adventure friends, David and Rebecca, and I found ourselves hiking in the rain on a fall day just a bit past peak color along the Manistee River. A lot of Michigan backpackers are familiar with Manistee River Trail, one of the state’s most popular loop trails, but I wonder how many people know how gorgeous the other sections of trail that run along the Manistee River are.
For this adventure, we met at Old 131 State Forest Campground near Fife Lake, set up camp, and left canoes and kayaks for the next day’s adventure, then traveled to Baxter Bridge State Forest Campground and left a car near the canoe launch. From there, we hiked out of the campground, and began the roadwalk to connect to the North Country National Scenic Trail (often abbreviated NCT). As we walked, the cloudy sky turned blue and by the top of the first hill we had shed our raincoats. We admired the fall colors and farm houses as we walked, and hoped the roadwalk would end soon, as logging trucks zoomed by. As we turned onto the dirt road section of road walk, the sky clouded over again and the rain began in earnest. Still, we were enjoying each other’s company, as it had been a while since the three of us had hiked together.
Eventually, road walk turned into trail, and after another mile or so we began to see the river views we had come for. Ox bow bends, high bluffs, leaning trees, and still some hints of autumn color. We followed blue blazes through forests, up and down hills, across old two-tracks, admiring toadstools, bright orange maples and yellow tamaracks. Occasionally a gust of wind would stir the aspen, and their quaking leaves would shower into the river below. The rain continued on and off. During our lunch break, we hung our raincoats on tree branches to dry, and they had just about achieved that state when the rain began again. On we traveled, reminiscing of previous trips along this trail. (My most recent one being a camp trip with a bunch of teenagers, so I had some stories to tell!) The wind picked up a bit, and the temperature dropped during our last couple of miles. While the forecast had predicted the rain would dissipate and the afternoon would be comfortably warm, that was turning out not to be the case. I shook my head at my optimism in having packed a swimsuit for a post hike dip, and shorts to wear kayaking the following day.
It had stopped raining by the time we hiked back into the Old 131 campground, and we began foraging amongst our bags for dinner fixings. I checked the forecast before getting the firewood out of the car, which turned out to be a wise move, because in spite of the blue sky, more rain was predicted for the early evening. As we ate, it began raining again, and we sat in our rain gear joking about the ridiculous things we consider fun. Before too long, the rain stopped again, and this time the forecast predicted we wouldn’t have to worry about it for the rest of our trip. We lit a campfire, sipped hot cider and ate fudgy brownies (courtesy of David’s wife) and watched the stars begin to populate the sky. In the distance, I could see the glow of one far away tent, but otherwise we had the campground to ourselves.
By “hiker midnight” (9:00 p.m.) the temperature had dropped and my down quilts were calling me, so we cleaned up our campsite and headed to bed. I had to get out and make a few adjustments to my hammock underquilt so that I didn’t feel a cold breeze running under me. Bundled up in two pairs of pants, wool socks, a shirt, hoodie and a dry raincoat, you’d think I would have been warm. Not so. I shivered a bit, cinched up my two hoods, and hoped for sleep. Eventually the down’s coziness warmed me up, and I slept until the moon rose and brightened our campsite to the degree I thought maybe a car had pulled in. But upon discovering that it was just a bright moon, I dropped off back to sleep until about 6:30 a.m. As it was still too dark to get up, I slept for another hour, cuddled in my quilts and ridiculous number of layers.
Upon hearing the zipper of a tent door, I decided it was probably time to get up. My damp socks and shoes from yesterday were frozen on my Tyvek door mat that I left under my hammock. I grimaced at the idea of putting on my Keen water shoes with bare feet in preparation for today’s paddle. My phone said it was 32 degrees.
After breakfast, in which Rebecca and I both successfully used David’s technique of partially submerging our propane canisters in a shallow dish of water so they would work with our stoves in the cold, I began to get my kayaking gear ready and my camping things put away. My hammock tarp was stiff with frozen rain, and the tie-downs on my kayak in the back of the pick up truck were frozen as well. “What am I doing?” I wondered to myself.
The canoe launch at this campground is like a sea wall–you’re immediately in deep water, so there is no straddling your kayak at the shore and plunking your butt in–you have to artfully transfer from the sea wall into the cockpit without flipping, which we all managed, but I’m glad nobody else was there to see. “That was close,” was David’s evaluation of my kayak entry.
Mist was rising from the river, as the water was warmer than the air, and we gently set out on our journey back to David’s car at Baxter Bridge. Once I was safely in my boat, I could relax and begin to enjoy the scenery. The river twists and turns, with a gentle current and few true obstacles. As long as I kept an eye out ahead, I could enjoy the scenery and not worry much about an unplanned swim. A great blue heron kept us company for while, perching on driftwood at the river’s edge, and flying ahead as our boats approached. David stopped to scout out dispersed camping sites that we could paddle to in the future. In many places the river was wide and slow enough that we could paddle near each other and chat. As the sun rose, the temperature did too, taking the chill off of the morning.
As we paddled, I could feel the joy that such experiences fill me up with–the fluffy milkweed pods bursting along the shoreline, the red and yellow leaves floating in the water, the rippled sand visible through the greenish hue of the river, the sun filtering through the tree branches and burning off the river mist. And I understood why it makes sense to hike in the rain and paddle in the frost.
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