A Photo Journey Up The Roseau River

   
       It's been dry this August and the little river by our place which usually has a few inches in it, has dried up into a series of shallow pools. This is the South Fork of the Roseau River which begins a few miles southeast of us and runs mostly north through Roseau then mostly west (and north) into Manitoba, finally ending up in Hudson Bay.
     I called my travelling companion Steve and asked if he'd like to walk upstream on the dry parts of the river. I suggested he wear his Mucks boots and bring along his waders in case we ran into some deeper areas.

         That's not Steve over my shoulder, but my waders. Steve had bought his waders a couple of years ago and has never worn them. This might be his waders' lucky day. I decided to start our trek upstream and away from Hudson Bay. 

     After Steve picked me up we drove over to my neighbor Frank's place. We parked at the end of an overgrown road. This road leads to an abandoned farmstead, "The Old Palm Place," where Steve's great-grandfather lived. The road was thick with ferns and we had to climb over several blowdowns.

         All that remains of the bridge to the farmstead are some pilings and the stones that were rolled down the bank to prevent erosion. We headed upstream crossing the shallow pools that alternated with sandbars. The most amazing sight was the hundreds of little frogs pouring off the sandbars and into the pools as we approached. Had they turned and attacked us in a mass, we would have been in trouble.

     One pool contained dozens of black insects, swimming rapidly round and round. If you didn't know any better, I thought, it wouldn't be so bad to be a bug swimming in a pool on a hot August day.

    Closer to the old farm there was a pile of rocks that had been cleared from the fields and rolled down the bank by the industrious Palms. There were also several pieces of broken machinery.

     There was one long stretch that was completely dry, like a sandy path through the woods. This is a nice place to canoe when there's a few inches of water.

     By now we had had enough.  Man those waders were heavy! We climbed up into a wheat field and made our way back to Steve's vehicle. He had brought along a couple of cans of Cwikla beer, God love 'im, which we consumed on the spot. Cwikla beer is named in honor of neighbor Frank. Back in the days when Frank was farming, he would sometimes stop by my place. After a bit of chat he'd ask if I'd like a beer. Sometimes the cans had been rolling around so long in the back of his truck, you couldn't tell what brand it was. Nothing wrong with Brand Anonymous, I always say.