River city

When August's heat proves too much, most people head for the water. But glaring sun and steaming beaches don't offer much respite.

To escape the heat last week, a friend and I kayaked from Whitefish Lake to Highway 40. Rarely did the sun break through the thick canopy of trees that line the river.

A hundred feet or so from City Beach, the lake spills about six inches down into the river, creating the only current we saw until we reached the Highway 40 bridge.

Flood debris gathered in piles against trees, resembling beaver lodges. Six-foot diameter sawn logs lay on the river bottom, just visible in the greenish water, relics from past logging days.

Small canoe docks overgrown with grass or weeds marked the location of homes hidden behind trees. Bright blue damsel flies landed on underwater plants where brownish-green pods broke the still surface.

A train moved across the trestle as we paddled underneath. Next came the city's new river park footbridge, then the busy Baker Ave. bridge.

We were temporarily stopped by three large culverts at Spokane Ave. Small concrete dams blocked two of the culverts.

I helped my friend maneuver her 18-foot long fiberglass sea kayak into the opening of the far right culvert, then climbed back into my small kayak and shot through the small log jam at the mouth of the steel-lined echo chamber.

On the other end of the culvert, the river widened beneath steep hillsides shaded by willow trees. A flock of domestic geese honked from a muddy shore as we passed.

Further downstream, a riverfront bike path project was nearing completion. High on the river bank, Gay 90s-era street lamps marked a new subdivision under construction.

For several miles, the river meandered through farm-and-ranch country, with the occasional large home visible, perched high on a hill. A truck tire mounted on a steel rim floated aimlessly downstream, twirling in the current.

At one point, the river runs smack-dab into a sandy bluff topped by cliff swallow nests and turns hard right in a sharp U-turn. We passed beneath a rundown single-lane steel-truss bridge, steering clear of 20-foot long angle-iron stiffeners dangling dangerously in the river.

The river's slow-moving greenish water appears to be eutrophic — a scientific term that means "full of life." When applied to natural water bodies, however, eutrophic has deadly implications. Fed by nutrients — fertilizer run off or septics — thriving plant life and microscopic life can mean oxygen depletion. Not good for fish.

We ran into some fishermen at the end of the day, heading up river from Highway 40 in a camouflage canoe. They said the river provided good fishing for rainbow, whitefish and pike.

We never saw fish ourselves, but we saw several kingfishers swoop down over the water, turtles basking in spots where the sun broke through the cattails, and families of ducks hiding in the brush along the banks.

It's not the Mississippi, and kayaks don't substitute for Huck Finn's raft, but the effect is the same — a river of discovery.