We thumped to a stop as the nose of our canoe wedged itself into the soft sand. I lifted my right leg over the side and planted my neoprene shoe into six inches of water. Holding the canoe’s gunwale, I climbed out and strode ashore, an adventurer staking his claim to a nameless island in the Wisconsin River.
Nameless, yes. Unexplored, no.
Footprints dotted the sand — evidence that someone had been here recently before (presumably) continuing west toward the Mississippi River.
The 10 of us pulled our five canoes 30 yards up the island, set up camp, and tried unsuccessfully to avoid becoming mosquito bait. That was clue No. 2 that humans were frequent visitors here: The mosquitos stayed because they knew they’d have plenty to eat.
Even with the footprints and mosquitos, on this beautiful late summer evening, the island felt remote. I looked up and down the river and saw no evidence of humanity. Then loud rock music coming from who knows where — a campsite across the river, maybe, or perhaps a village a mile or so north — shattered the mood.
Whatever its origin, the music broke our tranquility and proved a point I’d been thinking about as I researched and traveled through this region: While this section of the Wisconsin
