A Voice in Our Wilderness by John Husar

Author:John Husar [Husar, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Triumph Books
Published: 2012-10-19T05:00:00+00:00

June 14, 1992

Multifaceted Mackinaw inspires awe

CARLOCK, Ill.—The green hills of Woodford County rise tantalizingly toward puffs of tree-lined bluffs to the north.

The country roads wind up and down, torturously around and about, until they dive into the prettiest valley in all of central Illinois.

Be careful when you cross the Mackinaw River. Cars ahead invariably slow as drivers gawk. Wherever roads kiss this gorgeous prairie stream, the Mackinaw presents an irresistible face.

Riffles, sand bars, leafy overhangs, huge meandering bends. Each crossing reveals a different allure.

Solitary herons croak from translucent pools. Kids pole battered jon boats. Immense boulders are strewn across gravelly points where 50-foot glacial bluffs crumble before the hammer of time. Here the river rushes; there it seems to trickle. Now it is a lazy, southern backwater. Next you sense an alpine torrent.

The Mackinaw is revealed fully by canoe, from its narrow rise in McLean County through sublime enrichments from Money, Panther and Walnut creeks—all exquisite, if furtively hidden, natural waterways.

The river glides along, even in this time of drought. It moves in a steady fall. Ending in the Illinois River’s bottoms near Pekin, it carves through gravelly Ice Age residues from its birth in the black soil beyond Bloomington. Its frequent drops make great rides for light craft. Canoes move just fast enough to challenge paddlers to find chutes without much danger when they inevitably do run aground.

We were well armed against danger last week. Mike Conlin, the state fisheries chief who cut his biological teeth on the Mackinaw, was showing off some of the river’s treasures. We were fortified in an old steel canoe, the kind of solid, stable, barge-like craft that biologists use to keep from flipping when they scoop up samples.

This canoe had a mind of its own, and it seemed to know the “Mac” fairly well. Shove off and this armor-plated tank takes over. Steering becomes a form of negotiation. Should the canoe elect to go in an undesirable direction, you just paddle like maniacs and shout apprehensions. It turns as ponderously as a World War II sub passing through the mined nets of Tokyo Bay. We did just 13 miles in two days, and I’ve never paddled so hard and so fruitlessly. My arms and back will ache for days.

But it was an awesome introduction to a river I had wanted to float for years, but never seemed to have the time. Conlin has a fine way to explore the Mackinaw. He takes it in short, languid bursts between holes full of smallmouth bass.

We didn’t paddle half a mile before we were beached upon a gravel bar, flailing jig spinners into the swift current. “What beautiful water!” Mike kept exclaiming, and there was no way even an irascible cynic could disagree. The Mackinaw winds almost continuously beneath tall, tree-shrouded bluffs, hidden from the prying eyes of man.

From gnarled benches and points, huge cottonwoods and sycamores screen a sense of dark forests rising up and out, presumably to the bean fields of harsh reality. Deep within its magical concourse, the Mackinaw provides serenity and solitude.

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