488 
FOREST 
AND STREAM 
September, 1920 
THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER MIXING BOX 
A CRUISE THROUGH THE BLACK RIVER BOTTOMS OF WISCONSIN REVEALS SOME 
SECRETS IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF A NOVEL AND EFFICIENT THREE-BOARD CANOE 
By JULE MARSHALL 
I T was a business trip to Chicago all 
right enough, but I’ll bet it wasn’t 
more than a matter of minutes before 
I was moored hard and fast along side 
of my new friend Charlie’s desk listening 
to his description of the Upper Missis- 
sippi Valley and the new type of canoe 
that I had never seen or heard of. I 
knew, too, before he even broached the 
subject that we were going up there 
together, for his old stamping grounds 
were calling us with a voice that no out- 
door men could resist. Nor did we try 
to resist it. Rather we enlisted our 
chief of the six day week to come and 
play with us and grabbed off the first 
nearby holiday that was combined with 
a Sunday. 
We were all set when the time came 
around. It was a 600-mile journey for 
Charlie and Harry, and some 1,300 miles 
for me. But that is the way of the West 
- — miles mean nothing. With our rail- 
road trip behind us, we found ourselves 
at La Crosse, Wisconsin, that beautiful 
little town nestled in the Mississippi bot- 
toms. We raised headquarters’ flag over 
the La Crosse Hotel and lost no time get- 
ting into our good old outdoor clothes. 
Down in the lobby, I got a thrill as I was 
introduced to a grand old character, an 
Indian fighter of long ago, who had 
ranged the prairies with Custer. I had 
to tear an attentive ear away from this 
living history as Charlie was waving a 
provision list in my face and Harry drag- 
ging me toward our throbbing motor 
pointed northward. With the grub bag 
filled, we were away with a rush to a 
cache on the Black River. 
That panorama as we rode along the 
Wisconsin Ridge was a living moving pic- 
ture that one could 
never forget. Riv- 
ers, lakes, islands, 
woods, hills, nearby 
green blending to a 
far-away blue ; all 
those things that 
we love so much 
and do not go to 
nearly enough were 
spread before us. 
And part of the 
picture was Char- 
lie’s face. He was 
like a child let loose 
in his very own 
paradise. La Crosse 
had been his boy- 
hood home and 
every foot of the 
valley is known to 
him. Charlie was 
our guide and mas- 
ter thereafter and 
it was well that he 
was for I defy any 
one to go into those 
bottoms and come 
out at a definite point on scheduled time. 
It wasn’t long before Charlie was say- 
ing “Howdy” to old man Lytle and ask- 
ing questions about the canoes and out- 
fits. Down the trail to the edge of the 
Black River he led us to the shed where 
we found the outfits just as Charlie had 
left them years ago. After brushing 
away a few cobwebs, we laid the para- 
phernalia out on the grass where we 
sorted the duffle that we ' were to take 
from the lot. Here were the Three Board 
Canoes or “Mixing Boxes” that I had 
come so far to see. And mighty fine little 
crafts they are, too, fit for any canoeing 
waters in the country. Forest and 
Stream is glad to present the simple 
plans for this boat and particularly pass 
them along to those who wish to build 
one of them at home. 
T HE canoes were placed under water 
for a matter of ten minutes so that 
the joints might swell. Very little 
of this was required, however, as we had 
but a few tiny leaks for the first half 
hour, and none afterwards. 
We’re off. Charlie and Harry taking 
the lead in one canoe and I following 
closely in another with most of the duffie. 
Down the Black River for a mile and 
then turning west into the rushing cur- 
rent of Hammond Chute. Turning and 
winding with the course of the stream, 
fooling wicked cross rifts, hauling over 
fallen trees and crashing into branch 
baths we went until about noontime when 
some one shouted, “All ashore who are 
willing to eat.” There was no one there 
to judge which canoe beached first. We 
had no more than landed before mosqui- 
toes began to arrive from both coasts to 
hold a convention on Harry. Charlie 
saw his plight and built a smudge fire 
which kept both of my companions busy 
while I cooked our food and prepared 
table on a big fallen tree. Charlie sat 
down to rest and then a terrible thing 
happened. He discovered that he had left 
HIS PIPE home. Imagine an old woods- 
man leaving his pipe home. Things were 
so black for awhile that even the mos- 
quitoes broke camp and fled. Harry and 
I reminded Charlie often enough about 
his hard luck during the rest of the trip. 
It certainly must have been a brutal 
cruise for him thereafter. 
Dinner over and 
the canoes packed 
we were off again 
down Hammond 
Chute to the “Dad- 
dy of Waters.” We 
were sleigh riding 
on a fast current 
and made the ten 
miles in about two 
hours. The Missis- 
sippi was as flat as 
glass when we came 
down on it and the 
reflection o f the 
Minnesota B 1 u ff s 
were perfectly mir- 
rored on the water 
in front of us. 
Right here I want 
to make a broad 
statement, one that 
I find verified by 
the best fly casters 
of today, that these 
waters afford the 
best black bass fish- 
ing in the country. 
Here were the three-board canoes that I had come so far to see 
