By Andrew Graff
Volkswagen Rock is said to be a challenge. By midsummer, as the spring flow eases and raft companies begin their first descents of the season, Volkswagen Rock is hurling 12-man rafts over its back and burying them in the eddy beneath. Today, eight other paddlers and I approach the waterfall that will drop us directly into the boulder’s path, challenging the rock head-on in high summer water and full glory.
We’re on the water with Kosir’s Rapid Rafts, the longest standing river outfitter in the area. Its teams of river guides offer day trips on both the Peshtigo and Menominee rivers. The Kosir’s headquarters and campgrounds lie a short drive west of Crivitz, in tiny Silver Cliff, along the banks of “The Pesh”: river talk for the Peshtigo River’s Class III whitewater. If you happen to arrive near the end of a river trip, you’ll notice river guides wrestling rafts and kayaks onto trailers, while smiling customers—having satisfied the river gods with whoops and hollers and a few good dunks—make their way to the staging area to peel off wet gear and grab a bite at the Rapids Resort. Inside, at the bar and around diner tables, stories abound: Who fell in first, who paddled the hardest, who shrieked loudest at the sight of the first drop. The company photographer—who happens to make a mean Italian sausage—beckons rafters to her computer to show them images of the day’s trip. Also showing are photos from the week’s trips on the Menominee River, which inspires us to take advantage of our proximity to one of the best sections of whitewater in Wisconsin. So, full from lunch, we drive up Highway 141 to Kosir’s Menominee outpost.
Niagara is a small paper town centered around a river and built on logging tradition; its name means “thundering waters” in the Iroquois language. In 1889 the first pulp mill was erected near one of the power-supplying falls that dot this section of the Menominee River. Juxtaposed against high cliffs framing the river, the mill still operates, and serves as the starting point of rafting runs down the river.
Check-in for our trip is at 2 p.m. “Two trips a day,” explains Zac, the lead guide. Having guided the Menominee for more than 14 years, Zac has become something of a legend among repeat customers.
“You should see him,” whispers a fellow rafter. “He stands on the bus sometimes.”
“Aren’t we all getting on the bus?” I ask, nodding toward the big blue shuttle that will take us to the put-in.
“Yeah, but not on top of it.”
Spending summers navigating Class IV whitewater must have some inhibitory effect on the adrenal gland. But we, Zac assures us, will get our day’s fill of excitement. He explains the preliminary aspects of the afternoon’s trip while we’re fitted with life vests and helmets. We’ll be on the river for just over three hours, arriving at the main section of rapids after a lazy half hour float along Niagara’s bluffs.
Upon arriving at the put-in, we find our boats and paddles waiting for us, meet the rest of the river guides, and push off into the cool water. Nineteenth-century timber cruisers navigated the river using long pine boats called bateaux, and area loggers drove cut timber down the Menominee into Lake Michigan for shipping. In the largest section of rapids we’ll be running today, loggers once built piers along the shores to help guide logs. The last timber drive on the Menominee River took place in 1917, but the remnants of those drives are still evident in the names of river sections like Sand Portage Falls and Piers Gorge. Today, we opt for 12-person inflatable rafts and trade our pikes for paddles.
After bouncing through a Class II-III section of river—which the smiling guides assure us is “just a warmup”—we round a wide bend and arrive at the top of the main gorge. Huge green bluffs hem in our approach to a small sand beach above the falls. We line our fleet against the shore and wade across a golden river bottom, concentrating on crayfish, unable to ignore the tension that builds from hearing (but not yet seeing) the tremendous roar ahead. We parallel the river, following our guides up a trail to take a look at what they call simply “the big stuff,” and arrive atop an outcropping of rock that ends in a sheer hundred-foot drop to the river churning beneath us through the narrow canyon walls.
“Welcome to Piers Gorge!” Zac calls out above the vibration. “The first drop we’re going to run is called Mishicot Falls—we’re going to drop in right where the river falls in that big V-shape!” He points. “The falls will drop us directly into the wave train. It’s important to keep a good forward paddle going on through there—keeps your center of gravity in the boat!”
Sound advice.
“Just after that we’ll crash up over Volkswagen Rock and drop into Hell’s Hole,” he continues, pausing for effect, “We’ll explain why we call it that once we get down in there.”
A few laughs ease the tension, and Zac continues describing the remaining rapids. My eyes are fixed on a boulder larger than a Volkswagen Beetle, which reveals its color through surges of water racing over its broad back. It’s only a matter of moments now.
We arrange ourselves into groups and head back to the boats to listen, wide-eyed, to our guides’ last instructions. Then we’re bobbing toward the horizon of Mishicot Falls with our guide in the back.
As we pick up speed, Zac fine-tunes our lineup. “That’s it everybody,” he coaches over the roar, “nice and easy, just match the paddle in front of you.” The front two paddlers wedge their feet farther under the raft’s tubes, settling deeper into the boat. “Forward, keep it forward,” yells Zac. “All right—here we go! Dig in—forward hard!”
The nose of the boat pushes out over the brink, paddles bend against white knuckles, and the river drops from beneath us. The raft dives hard toward the base of the falls. Water erupts on all sides as we shoot the falls and crash through the waves at its base. Bucking along the jet stream, we spot the dark hump looming ahead—Volkswagen Rock.
“Left side back, left side back!” the guide calls, keeping our boat centered along diverging currents. We dig our paddles into the froth. “All right, everyone forward, forward hard!”
The wave train picks us up, drops us, and raises us again to meet headlong with the giant boulder and a ramp of angry water. Water sprays past our hull. The front is up, then the back; we’re granted a moment in midair, a freeze-frame hover at the weekend’s summit: a warm drive, good food, rafting stories, the story of a steep river. We crest the wave. We smell the pine. Volkswagen Rock has been met.
Hell’s Hole, here we come.
Andrew Graff is a freelance writer and river lover living in Wisconsin.
If You Go
Kosir’s Rapid Rafts, W14073 County Highway C, Silver Cliff, WI 54104; (715) 757-3431, www.kosirs.com