This month, Paddling Magazine is featuring the story of my near-death on the Mississippi River in 2021, It’s possible (or probable) that if you know me you’ve read this story before, either in the Minnesota Star Tribune, or in my book, Pushing the River: An Epic Battle, a Lost History, a Near Death, and Other True Canoeing Stories.

This version does have two nice additions: It features one photo by each of my daughters. I’ll never take for granted being around to watch them grow up.

Nonetheless, it’s a good reminder to be careful out there. Because as I learned the hard way, even though the cold water beckons every spring, below its surface is a world of pain.

If you haven’t read it, here’s the intro:

The sky was still dark on a Sunday morning in late March when I set my new solo canoe on the surface of the Mississippi River. I’d been thinking about this moment for years, dreaming of all the places I could paddle once I got this boat. Now, I was finally ready to launch on its maiden voyage.

I strapped my dry bag onto the crossbar, checked my pocket for my phone (which was also in a small dry bag), and waded into the river in my rubber boots, just north of the Ford Parkway Bridge between Minneapolis and St. Paul. I slid the boat out. When I stepped in, I noticed that it felt unsteadier than boats I was used to. Then I sat down, started paddling, and forgot about it.

Spring had come early. The temperature the week before had been in the 70s, and the snow and cold felt like a distant memory, even though a week or so before ice floes had drifted past here. I knew the water was cold, but that seemed like more of an inconvenience than a threat. 

The sun was rising. I paddled up the gorge section of the Mississippi, which runs between the high banks of the Twin Cities, with hills—cliffs, almost—on either side. To the east side, an owl called. From the west, another answered. I was in the middle of the city, but also very far from it.

Although I was a fairly experienced canoeist, I’d never owned, or even paddled, a solo canoe. I’d been to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness many times, and I’d worked as the trips director for a YMCA camp in northern Minnesota. A few years earlier, my wife and two daughters had paddled down 125 miles of the Mississippi together on a five-day trip.

I was careful. I always stepped along the midline. In all that time, I’d never tipped a canoe, and I had no reason to expect today would be any different.

Read the rest here.