The weekend that happened when we made other plans

Right about now, my plan was to be putting together our website's first photo gallery: "Eric and Jenni's first 2008 canoe outing" or something with a similarly bland title, featuring photos of us, in a canoe, plying the chilly blue waters of Bear Island Lake. Thinking about those images, I can feel the sun on my face, hear the dip and gurgle of paddles hitting the lake, see the haze of spring green spreading through the woods on shore.

It's all in my imagination.

Like 90 percent of the state's not-living-Up-North population, Jenni and I planned to spend Memorial Day weekend...where else? Up North. At her family's cabin, to be precise, for a weekend with the whole kit 'n' kaboodle - her mom and dad, brother, his wife, and their two children. Thursday evening last week, the phone rang. Jenni answered, and it was easy to infer, hearing her half of the conversation, that the trip was in doubt. When Jenni hung up, she explained: Her grandmother had fallen and broken her hip (not the first time, apparently), was in the hospital and headed to surgery on Friday. This seemed like not the most opportune weekend to head north to an isolated cabin without a phone or electricity. Understandably so.

(Before we move on: Despite suffering through a minor heart attack while under the scalpel, Grandma pulled through and was doing well enough by the end of the weekend to throw a drinking straw at her doctors, presumably because she did not care for them - or the food.)

The turn of events left us with a wide-open weekend. So, as the sun slipped behind the horizon Thursday, Jenni and I cleaned up the kitchen and discussed what our alternate plans could be. Go to the cabin anyway, without the rest of the family? No, that would seem rude and irresponsible, Jenni said. (I agreed.) Have another overnight adventure to somewhere? No, too much work to pack up a tent and all of that stuff just for one night, I said. Go for a really long, adventurous bike ride on the Root River Trail in southeastern Minnesota? Only if we bike the whole length and camp at the end, and ride back to the car the next day, Jenni said. (The trail is 40-something miles long.) Well, see my previous comment about not camping.

We settled on something slightly less ambitious: Sticking close to home. Everything has a silver lining, and the weekend would, too: We still made it out on the water with paddles in hand. With the cabin trip scuttled, we would be home for a kayak demo sponsored by REI at Weaver Lake, just a few blocks from home.

I was anxious to be in a boat again - and to try out the bright blue PFD I'd bought at REI a couple of weeks back. It's a long way from the crusty, dirt-stained armada of life jackets moored in the closet at my cabin. Those are vintage Stearns life vests - first or second generation - faded orange, with industrial-strength zippers, in the design that my grandfather pioneered (you've Maurice O'Link to thank that PFDs aren't still variations of the foam neck-strangler). I'm still proud to wear those old life jackets, emblazoned with the Stearns logo, but they're not very comfortable - or practical - in a kayak. The new vest, however, fits me like a glove, and was thoughtfully designed for the arm movement that comes with paddling and a high-cut back that would fit a kayak seat. And it looks sporty.

Feeling only slightly foolish, I hopped on my bike with my royal blue PDF zipped securely around me, and Jenni and I headed off to the beach Saturday morning. (Jenni's brief explanation to the neighbors that we were headed to Weaver Lake to go kayaking was appreciated.)

We arrived just in time to beat the crowds and tried several boats. The blasting west wind notwithstanding, it was a perfect morning. We slid into 14-foot kayaks, then tried a 16- and 17 footer, to get a sense how they handled differently. The 14 was nimble and easy to turn, while he 17 boat's turning radius felt like I was piloting an ore boat. But the 17-footer was sleeker, faster, and tracked better through the waves. My PDF was perfectly comfortable, and it was thrilling to be on the water for the first time in more than seven months.

The demo could not have come at a better time, for on Tuesday Jenni placed an order with Current Designs kayaks for two boats of our own. We opted for two 17-foot boats, based on their speed, efficiency, and cargo-carrying capacity that will likely play a hand in future adventures. As it turns out, Current Designs is now part of Wenonah Canoe (or "We-no-nah," as you'll see it emblazoned on the sides of canoes throughout the north), a Minnesota company headquartered in Winona. Our boats should be ready for pickup in a couple of weeks. (Though we will assuredly use a canoe for our Gunflint to Ely canoe trip, essential because of the many portages along the route.)

We've had a few calls and e-mails from people asking us if we survived Sunday's storms that tore through the north metro. That caught us off guard, because we hadn't watched the news Sunday evening. In fact, we were out on the Mississippi River when the storms hit, checking out a few canoe landings and campsites with Jenni's boss, Wilderness Inquiry Executive Director Greg Lais. (This was a work-related trip for Jenni; I was invited to tag along.) We had motored from Hidden Falls Park in St. Paul all the way down to the Gray Cloud Island area, and were on the way back when the storm rolled through. As we puttered through the no-wake zone along the downtown St. Paul waterfront, the sky above the city grew progressively darker and more threatening. Tendrils of black clouds hung low and swirled above us. A gust of wind caught Greg's hat and blew it into the river. Spray whipped off the water, and the gusts kicked up clouds of dust on the shore. Half expecting a funnel cloud to drop from the clouds, we gunned the 90-horse outboard and got the hell out of there. This, we later learned, would have been about the time that an EF3 tornado was ravaging neighborhoods in Hugo.

Thankfully, there was no damage in our neck of the woods.