Lake Francis Case, South Dakota
The first day on Lake Francis Case began better than forecast. The temperature was warm with mild breeze as I paddled four miles around two small bends. Wind was supposed to have exceeded 20 mph from the south. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, I paddled to a point where the river bent southward, and the wind was hiding.
The difference of water for one bluff was amazing. Approaching the point, the lake was a deep shade of olive. Farther ahead, I spied a line in water, tracing the path of the strong winds rounding the point. The separation was stark, from calm surface to rolling waves of the wind. Its strength was palpable, undeniable. I attempted three runs, headlong, but each was a lost cause as soon as gusts caught the canoe. This was a wind of no progress, for even furious paddling. The sustained force pushed me north faster than I could paddle south. Giving up, I pulled into what appeared to be a barren cove, north of the point, about 11:00 a.m.
Planning for a nap, I pulled out the tent for relief from midday sun while reading a book. Hank spotted three cows on the opposite side of the cove and took off, barking. He ran circles around the heifers, and they hopped back over a ridge. I had not seen Hank herd anything, as he’d lived mostly in a shelter, so this was impressive. A few minutes later, his job done, Hank ran back and slid into the tent beside me. After making it through a couple chapters, I fell asleep.
A strange rustling woke me, and I peered out the tent to find the three cows had returned and summoned backup. The whole herd was parked outside my tent, and I wondered how to handle the encroachment. I noted a couple steers but did not see any bulls, thankfully. Growing up, my parents would take my brother and I to friends’ farms, and we picked up manners I’d almost forgotten. One trick was clapping and spreading arms to direct livestock.
Walking slowly toward the herd, I waved my arms and yelled “Haw” several times. The cattle turned as a group and retreated a few yards, and I repeated the action, hesitating to get very close. If cows charged, I could climb high ground behind me or hit the water, where a stampede didn’t seem likely. But acting alone I was not confident to test fate. Several attempts at rerouting the cows only resulted in their walking back toward the tent, so I stopped.
I had left Hank in the tent, praying he wouldn’t burst out the screen flap. But now I figured he could provide distraction enough to allow time for loading the canoe. I released the screen and out came Hank, who went to work immediately. I realized his previous roundup was no fluke.
Hank began with half-circle rotations in front of the herd, streaking one way then back to the other side. Quickly he sent the cattle inching back into each other, shrinking the black herd. Then he stopped dead center and ran directly at the cows, but not into them. The entire herd turned and ran several fevered paces before stopping. Hank repeated this exercise several times with amazing precision for a shelter pup. Before long the entire herd decided we weren’t worth the trouble and disappeared over the pass, dropping into the next cove for their drink.
I packed the canoe, called Hank, and we set out for a new landing in late hours of the day. Shortly, after rounding the bend that was so windy earlier, I spotted a gravel bank clearly frequented by other paddlers. A large pile of rocks, known as a “cairn,” marked the spot. Someone had also arranged driftwood of various lengths, above the gravel bar, to message an enormous “HELLO.”
Summer was ending, but the afternoon was a toasty 85 degrees at 5:30, my time for a much-needed rinsing. Diving in, the cooling water shocked my system a bit. A few short weeks ago, Lake Oahe had felt like a warm bath. Feeling refreshed and more human for the moment, I set camp and crashed early.
Next morning, Sept. 24, 2021, marked Day 72 of the adventure. I launched before dawn, an early start for me, and watched sunrise from the water. Light swelled behind distant peaks, glowing in navy blue that turned soft pink, a glint of champagne color. Faint turquoise introduced Grandfather the Sun, as Osage Indians named the light force, with sunrays breaking at the horizon. Temperatures were cooling, meanwhile, to herald autumn. It rained twice that day before noon, compounding chilly dampness, and I went 40 miles on the Missouri, wearing me out. My face was sunburned, my fingers strained to grip the paddle, but all I could do was smile.
I had traveled a big chunk of Lake Francis Case, and I celebrated with sips of Pendleton Whiskey, mentally reviewing events. Winds had picked up but were from the north, allowing me to sail most of the day albeit on rough waters. Some sailing was dicey, requiring me to lean out over side of the canoe, counterbalancing forceful gusts. Flipping was a constant threat and a must to avoid, particularly in middle of the lake. Hank, the canoe and gear held up admirably. The day was a great example of why boredom was non-existent in pushing personal boundaries, and how comfortable the individual becomes in doing so.
I pushed similar boundaries on a day in 2006, had to, while on my final deployment to Iraq with the U.S. Marines. The stakes differed, however, involving more than my well-being.
The helicopter was low on fuel, returning from a daytime mission. Our squadron landed at Al Taqaddum Air Base. We taxied toward the fuel pits as the call sounded of incoming fire, mortars and rockets. The occurrence was common at this point. We had experienced attacks for three years, with many Marines injured on deployment in 2004. There was a level of panic initially, then we grew accustomed, almost lax in response to threats. We took direct hits which caused casualties, but seldom. More often the enemy’s aim dramatically missed the mark. In any case, no aircraft was allowed to taxi during incoming gunfire and bombs, placing us in bit of a pickle on the tarmac.
As crew we discussed and recognized that refueling was imperative. We were a CASEVAC air unit, charged with evacuating combat casualties. We could not afford to wait, which could cost lives. We were also short on aircraft, with our excellent maintenance crews run ragged, so a backup wasn’t available. The pilot requested permission to taxi and refuel. After some brief discussion in tower command, our request was approved as an exception.
We resumed forward taxi, bumping along in the green CH-46E, an amphibian-like Boeing chopper known as The Phrog. I immediately smelled something and tried to decipher the source, which wasn’t fuel or oil. Seconds later, another radio call, this time from the fuel pits, where technicians saw our brakes were hot.
The CH-46E had three wheels in a fixed down position. The brakes were discs set between the two wheels, at each back strut, and operated on pressurized hydraulic fluid. Disc brakes could lock up, twisting metal on metal until red hot. In this case we had not taxied far, but our left brake was already smoking. The scent of roasting metal and burning hydraulic fluid wafted to my seat onboard.
Often the locked brakes were relieved by releasing pressure on the hydraulic line. Grabbing a 3/8-inch wrench from the flight toolbox, I quickly walked back and lowered the ramp. Stepping off left and around the aircraft, I squatted to inspect the situation and radioed our pilots.
“It’s clearly locked, and smoking, but no flames.”
“What can we do?” replied the captain.
“I’m going to release the pressure.” I placed the wrench on the valve and tweaked a bit counterclockwise. “It’s done, sir. Can you taxi forward slowly? I’m going to follow on foot to confirm it’s unlocked.”
I kept a close eye on the discs as the aircraft bobbed forward, and I confirmed the brakes were released. With the bird still taxiing, I rolled up my radio long cord and leapt onto the ramp. I informed the pilots the brakes were unlocked, and they picked up speed. Within 60 seconds, having covered less than 50 yards, the burning stench returned.
“Sir, I think they’re locked again,” I called, jumping out. The brake release was malfunctioning, short of fully opening, with the fuel pits 100 yards away. But we had to fuel up. “How would everyone feel about me walking behind?” I proposed. “We can keep taxiing slowly. I’ll carry the fire extinguisher just in case, and try to keep the pressure off that disc. That should get us to the pits.” The reasoning, in my mind, was sound. But the approach was out of bounds. I anticipated rejection.
“Whatever you think, Hoenes. Let’s do it,” responded the pilot. “Just yell if we get to taxiing too fast.”
Twice more the brakes locked, both times throwing flames in protest. Only once did I need to use the fire extinguisher. The rest of the day would fog in recall, but I was aware of pushing the limits with aircraft and environment. I was comfortable utilizing critical reasoning to take a risk worth the potential reward.
Mission accomplished.