It was the summer of 2017, and the year had progressed for me much in the manner of the previous. Ithi and I had tried out some trails in the Kettle Moraine which were new to us and revisited some old favorites; I added many a new species to my arsenal, and we had managed to squeeze in a June camping trip with a friend. All in all, not a bad year for experiencing the great outdoors.

But, itching to try something new once again, we began to put together a plan for our next adventure after having a wonderful opportunity come to us through the generous offer of our friend Elias, who was kind enough to provide his experience, time, and materials to enable us to to take a kayaking trip! Based on his suggestions and a little research on our end, we decided to opt for an expedition down the local Mukwonago River in Mukwonago, Wisconsin, which offered a strategic point of departure that could offer a route that wouldn't be too intimidatingly long for novices such as ourselves, and would connect up with the scenic Phantom Lake for a somewhat ceremonious sense of finality.

We would begin our outing at the endpoint, parking the car at the lot beside Phantom Glen Park in Mukwonago. The park's boat launch would make for a convenient spot to haul out after the long paddle, which would amount to some 6.5 miles from start to finish. Elias would meet us at the park and drive us (and the kayaks he kindly lent us) to our launching point, a bridge over the Mukwonago River at the Rainbow Springs Nature Preserve, about three miles west as the crow flies. From there, we would embark and paddle downstream on the Mukwonago River until we reached Lower Phantom Lake, where we would navigate the intriguing islands via their crisscrossing narrow channels, and then have a kayak picnic once we hit open water, continuing on until we reached the boat launch at Phantom Glen Park. If we had extra time, we would explore Upper Phantom Lake to the south of the park. We allowed about 6 hours for our route (including setup).

The problem with our plan was...

...we weren't looking at summer satellite imagery. The above satellite image, taken in July, is a much more accurate representation of the conditions we would face. And although the voyage wouldn't go exactly as we had planned, we were in for an interesting time nonetheless.

We arrived at Phantom Glen Park a little before ten in the morning, a bit earlier than we were expected, and spent some time enjoying the scenery while we awaited Elias. Shortly thereafter, we were collected and driven to Rainbow Springs, where he gave us some last-minute tips and suggestions, equipped us with waterproof bags for our phones and wallets, and showed us around the kayaks. Ithi wound up taking the longer of the two, and I the shorter — a choice I would come to be selfishly grateful for during the twists and turns ahead. We stowed our bagged things in the storage wells and took advantage of the ample space behind Ithi's seat to load in the little cooler containing our lunch. My kayak featured a conveniently placed cup holder in front of the seat, so I placed my bottle of water in it for easy access.

As we were getting set up, I took a few photos of the already very evident abundance of wildlife that called the river home. Among the creatures spotted was a beautiful male ebony jewelwing damselfly (Calopteryx maculata), one of the larger and perhaps most beautiful damselflies in the country; I had seen this remarkably handsome species only once before near the Kettle Moraine State Forest — Southern Unit headquarters, so it was an exceptional treat for me to see. I couldn't know then that it was only a harbinger of what lay downriver.

Also spotted was a common watersnake (Nerodia sipedon), an occasional but not frequent sighting for me. It rested on a rock face just beside our launching point, but slithered away cautiously before I could get a closer shot.

And so, a little before eleven, unaware of the challenges that lay ahead, Ithi and I began our journey as these things often go, scuttling gracelessly into the kayaks as we scooted them into the water, the gentle current of the river sending us on our way, whether we were ready or not. We exchanged goodbyes with Elias as we were slowly swept away, quickly attempting to orient ourselves in the slender crafts.

We took to the kayaks with much more ease than we had to the canoe a year ago; not needing to coordinate movements with a partner simplified things greatly, and the shorter length overall of the vessels allowed for a much finer maneuverability that I enjoyed immensely. On occasion, we would find that my shorter kayak would manage to navigate tricky spots with less difficulty, Ithi having to struggle somewhat on a few of the tighter turns of the river's winding course. But always fond of the water, both in excursion and general ambience, Ithi was very apparently enjoying himself from the start.

Our initial segment of the river was at times quite restrictive, with the forest edge leading right up to — and often beyond — its banks, the watery corridor at some points becoming problematically narrow. At its most forgiving, we would feel only the stringy caress of silk strands as we blundered through them, their matting threads accumulating on us as we went; at its most punishing, we found ourselves desperately trying to slow our kayaks as the river mercilessly carried us in slow motion towards a dense tangle of thorny overhanging limbs in a foreseeable but unavoidable development that we could only endure helplessly, cracking and snapping sticks as we crashed noisily through.

We weren't on the water long before our arms and faces bore a good few scratches, small bits of leaves and twigs (and who knows what animal life) woven into our hair. If able to safely do so, we would occasionally gently remove a stray spider that had found itself, bewildered, suddenly a passenger in either kayak, feeling a little guilty that we had so rudely separated it from (and probably also destroyed) its web.

We soon came to the first of many obstructions that would complicate our journey downriver. With some, including this one, a bit of forceful scooching, undignified paddling, and grasping overhanging limbs to push against them and propel ourselves forward was sufficient to get beyond whatever obstacle was in our way. But on more than one occasion, the blockage was severe enough that it would necessitate that we climb out of the vessels and portage over (or under) the obstruction; fortunately we had had the foresight to wear water shoes and swim trunks for any such occasion. I remember thinking to myself that such a wade through unclear water, even shallow as it was, would be terrifying in my native Texas, and that I had grown perhaps overly trusting of the harmless quality of the flora and fauna here.

For some of the lesser, lower barriers downstream, gaining a little speed was sufficient to send us over with a skip, but we would occasionally pay the price afterwards by hurtling ahead into a snare of thorny branches.

All in all, though, the going was pleasant. The tighter passages eventually gave way to more open waterways, allowing for more relaxed going during which we could more easily take in our surroundings. The busy happenings of forest life took place around us, and in places the air was filled with the ethereal whistles of cedar waxwings and the pipping squeaks of flycatchers, the latter of which occasionally made an appearance in the opening that the river carved into the woods to catch an insect deftly in midair.

In a few stretches of the first mile or two of the lazy course of the river, we had the fortune to witness an absolutely stunning sight. Ebony jewelwings, like the one I had seen at our launching point, had congregated into aerial parades of courtship, dancing in the dappled sunlight to create a dazzling display, their jet black wings contrasted against their resplendent green bodies as they flitted about in a heavy flight unlike that of any I had seen in other damselflies. I watched their elegant performance with nothing short of fascination as we passed beside and beneath them in the riparian wonderland.

By about an hour into our paddle, we had accumulated a wealth of hitchhikers. Tag-alongs included everything from large spiders to tiny planthoppers, various shapes and sizes of caterpillars, a myriad of aquatic larvae, and ample plant debris. After stepping out of my kayak to wade over a fallen tree and waiting for Ithi to do the same, I took a few moments to release as many of my passengers as I could.

As we neared the two-hour mark, we came to our first bridge crossing. This was something that might seem inevitable but which we had not really considered beforehand.

Fortunately I was able to duck and slide under, my head scraping the bottom of the bridge as I went. Ithi, on the other hand, is quite a bit taller than I am, and despite his best efforts was unable to pass the lower end of the structure even while folding himself into a tight tuck against his kayak.

After some uncomfortable squirming, he finally elected to pry himself out of the kayak and wade alongside it for the crossing. Minutes later we came to another bridge, this one spanning a public roadway, and we were able to glide beneath it with little more than a slight crouch.

The river widened as we pushed ahead aided by the current, the tree cover gradually receding and the claustrophobic twists and turns giving way to open space and bright sun. The twiggy wall of the woods turned to swaying grasses, and soon cattails lined the banks in a thick wall. While before the meandering course of the river had wound us through forested land and the occasional grassy expanse of a home's riverside back yard, the here the habitat melded into marshland, and before long it was as if we were on an entirely different river altogether.

For a long span of that marshy waterway, our view was unsullied by the unsightly works of man — such visions are a rare thing and I treasure them deeply, this being no exception. Exploring the somewhat remote waterways, those brief stretches where power lines, rooftops, or manmade debris can't be seen brought a profound peace, but also a strange sense of trespassing.

It was around this point that we started to hear red-winged blackbirds for the first time on the river. Their elsewhere near-constant presence and gaudy, raucous calls were lacking in the wooded waterway, and it wasn't until I heard them here that I realized that they had been absent at all.

For about an hour, the going carried on with much of the same, winding through the tranquil marshy expanse with little of note to mark the time. Eventually we came to a sudden, sharp, leftward bend in the waterway. We rounded the turn, drifting northward briefly before an eastward turn to our right that led us under one more bridge; I had studied our route enough beforehand to know that this was County Road I, our passage under which would signify our entry into the westernmost point of Lower Phantom Lake.

The interesting patchwork of islands that I had studied in preparation for the trip was not yet apparent, and while the channel did widen briefly ahead, it soon narrowed again, oppressed on both sides by an increasingly thick mat of cattails. We pushed on, trying our best to follow what seemed to be the dominant pathway in the water's flow, but found ourselves in dead ends after several short-lived attempts. Undeterred but increasingly concerned, we continued our endeavor to find a path, but the marsh soon became an unconquerable maze of dead ends and dense tall growth. At several points, we thought we spotted a clear path ahead and, being in the shorter and more maneuverable kayak, I would venture out to see if the route was viable, inevitably turning back after realizing we had hoped in vain. Eventually, after pushing our vessels with all our strength over a floating mat of green and with no idea of the depth of the water below, we had no choice but to admit defeat. It was as though we had come ashore and were attempting to paddle through prairie.

We paused to rest in a particularly dense segment of the impenetrable marsh when something extraordinary happened: we were approached. We first spotted the rustle of a long, blade-like leaf or two, and then others, until we caught glimpses of the culprits. Marsh wrens, curious to see us in their domain, had approached us, sometimes nearing to within only two or three feet of distance, watching us, constantly changing angle and vantage point, but remaining entirely silent, and, seemingly, unafraid. It occurred to me in that moment that it was entirely possible that these small birds, out here in the impassable wetland, had never seen a human being in their entire lives.

I sat there, so far from a path, from landmarks, from the sights and sounds of our own species, that I felt humbled by the sudden realization of how little power I really had there. Here we were, somehow wedging our way into the dense, tiny, isolated, miniature forest world of these keen creatures, passing a threshold that was never really intended to be passed on a trail that didn't exist, in a place where the best that we could do was push ineffectively against the mud and greenery and hope that we would make it back to our more familiar domain of comfort, competence, and control.

But we weren't lost. Civilization was just over the cattail horizon, the sound of traffic faint, but still audible, in the distance.

One of my favorite words that was ever deemed to merit a place in language comes from German: "Waldeinsamkeit," roughly "woodland solitude," the sense of peace and solitude one finds in nature. It's an increasingly elusive experience. Man's reach has become incredibly vast within a few short centuries, and it can be guaranteed that if you find yourself on the most remote path this world has to offer, there's a good chance that you will be haunted by a stray wrapper, or helpful signage, or the footprints of the trailblazer. The path, by its very nature, can never be truly remote.

I have learned to be content with the illusion of remoteness. I find peace in setting aside my own world, not the world entire. And for a few moments in the wild of that marsh, in the eyes of a few curious, unfearing wrens, I found that peace.

Ithi consulted the dated satellite imagery on his phone, which indicated that we were already in Phantom Lake, the realization dawning upon us like some kind of mischievous joke on nature's part. With no way of knowing how far ahead of us the thick marsh extended, and unwilling to make the gamble of pushing ahead and possibly worsening our position, we decided to turn back and hope that Elias could retrieve us at the first road-accessible point we could reach, the crossing of County Road I. Our journey was over. With a good deal of effort, the hints of exhaustion beginning to sink in after our futile attempt to best the green labyrinth, we turned back, paddling upstream until we reached our meeting point, and waited.

Elias had not been expecting to meet us for a few hours yet, so we settled in beside the road and found a pocket in the waterway where we wouldn't be swept away by the gentle but still persistent current, preparing to bide our time after assuring our ride that he could take his time to collect us.

The pause allowed us to take stock of the area and our condition.

We had not been waiting long when Ithi and I noticed a young painted turtle, which we quickly deemed Turtlebro, surreptitiously poking its head out here and there from the blanket of duckweed on the water's surface, submerging only to reemerged a few feet away several moments later.

The aquatic reptile accompanied us for the duration of our wait, feeding sporadically on the floating vegetation and overall being adorable.

We were joined by other creatures of the riverside, both visitors and residents alike. A beautiful black and yellow mud dauber (Sceliphron caementarium) alighted on a stem, pausing as if lost in thought.

About an hour after our request for rescue, Elias arrived. We said our goodbyes to Turtlebro and paddled the last few strokes to the roadside bank of the Mukwonago River, then lifted ourselves from the water and hauled the two kayaks into the back of the truck before loading ourselves in as well. We arrived shortly thereafter at Phantom Glen Park, not quite making the arrival we had hoped for but not at all ungrateful for the unforgettable day that brought us there. We removed our belongings from the kayaks' storage spaces, sincerely thanked Elias once last time, and bid him farewell.

Not yet having eaten, and deprived of the possibility of a victory picnic over Phantom Lake, we set up the cooler at a table in the park, taking advantage of a picnic pavilion overlooking the lake and surrounded by tall black walnut trees that dappled the park grounds in pleasant shade. As we ate, we watched a small colony of yellowjackets work busily away at a wooden pillar, forming the chewed pulp into a purposeful shape. The sunlight was beginning to fail, and as the scene took on a tranquil evening haze, the fading energy of the day matched the winding down of our spirits after our exciting excursion. Including our backtrack, we ended up paddling some six miles between the river and the overgrown lake, and we were beginning to hear the irresistible siren call of rest.

It was nearing six in the evening when we finally departed, a feeling of contentment radiating within us after a day well spent. We decided to make one last stop on the way home, paying a visit to the Ottawa Lake Recreation Area to treat ourselves to some ice cream from the contact station. After enjoying that most welcome indulgence, we spent just a few more minutes driving slowly through the day use area, admiring the prairie wildflowers. I finally managed a long-sought daylight shot of some of the blazing stars (Liatris sp.) adorning the field, one last addition to an excellent day.

And with that we left, heading off northward to home and whatever the next adventure might be.