SNOWFLAKES ON THE SNAKE

by Cliff Jacobson

As winter sets in, Cliff’s “over 50” crew paddles 280 miles on the Snake River in Canada’s Yukon Territories.

Around midnight I awake to an icy breeze. Susie loves fresh air, and as is her habit, she has left her vestibule wide open. Chilling air pours in and I snug deep into my down sleeping bag. Minutes later, I hear the determined patter of rain. Oh no, not again! It is the fifth day of our canoe trip and it has rained every day. This time it is particularly nasty—icy and persistent, the kind that chills you to the bone. I shine my light on the large dial thermometer that hangs off our vestibule. Thirty-four degrees. Nothing new; it has been below freezing every night and in the forties during the day.

We are camped in the heart of the Bonnet Plume mountains, at an elevation of 3600 feet. Our tents are snuggled between tight, snow-capped peaks that tower a thousand feet above us. My GPS gives reluctant readings; it can barely keep the satellites in view. This section of the Snake River at our door-step is aptly named. Barely 100 feet wide, It twists like a garden snake and pours powerfully downhill at nearly 10 miles an hour. Eddies are as uncommon as fallen meteorites, and there are no flat spots between rapids. Getting ashore requires advance planning. And the water is low, very low. And also cold—48 degrees by my thermometer. Long ago, we gave up trying to avoid rocks. The prevailing attitude is “survival!”

Previous parties reported 40 mile days, so we planned conservatively at 22. But it is day five of our canoe trip and we are only at mile 32. We are lucky to average seven miles a day. Our crew is a 60/40 mix of experienced and inexperienced paddlers. One canoe team has had such serious problems that I split them the other day. Last night I scouted below our camp to the bend of the river. There appears to be no let up in the rapids. The map suggests that they will continue to book for miles—just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before.

I am worried about my crew and the real possibility that we will not make Fort McPherson on time. We are currently 78 miles behind schedule, and there is no indication we can pick up time. No one has a wet suit so we dare not canoe difficult drops until the weather improves. I don’t even want to think about a capsize.

I try to put all this out of mind and get some sleep, hoping we can bank on the adage, “Rain before seven, dry by eleven”. I doze off into a deep sleep and a frightening dream. Around 5:30, Susie shakes me awake and says, “Hey, wow, look out there, it’s snowing!” In a flash, she’s up and out, smiling and throwing snowballs at the other tents. I peer through the bug-net. “My God, it is snow!” Real snow. And it’s coming down real good, and sticking to the ground. I peer at the thermometer—24 degrees.

I decide we are not going anywhere until the weather warms. So, I dress slowly and meander over to the giant tundra tarp, where two people are already huddled. I begin to shiver, so I return to my tent for warmer clothes. I emerge wearing wool long underwear, a wool shirt, down jacket, Gore-tex/fleece hat and rain coat. The temperature has warmed to 29 but the wind is blowing bloody murder. Dick (Person) has a fire going and the kettle is on, so there’s no need to start the stove.

I pull Dick aside for a consultation. I see concern (fear!) in his eyes.

We agree to postpone our start till noon. Hopefully, the sun will be out by then. Besides, everyone is dog-tired and can use more rest.

By 9:30, the temperature has warmed to 36 degrees, the wind has dropped and the snow has changed to rain. There is no sign the weather will improve. I consult with Dick and the decision is made: Today, we’ll just hang around, even if it means getting farther behind. Hopefully, tomorrow will bring a better day.

Attitude has deteriorated from deep concern to the edge of panic. The crew is bummed by the weather and the continuous rapids. One man fears for his life. He believes that winter has set in and that a helicopter rescue is our only out. We have nine days to canoe 308 miles to Fort McPherson. I doubt that we can average 34 miles per day.

Convinced we cannot make up lost time, the crew pressures me to use my satellite phone and call Peter Firth, a member of the Gwitchin band, who operates a river taxi service (30 foot river boat), out of Ft. McPherson. Peter will pick up paddlers anywhere on the Peel River. The first access point is 148 miles from here, at “Taco Bar”—a large gravel bar at the confluence of the Snake and Peel.

The pressure builds and reluctantly I make the call and confirm a pick-up at Taco Bar. As the phone rings off, I experience a gnawing dichotomy. On one hand, there is the satisfaction of knowing that now, we won’t have to hustle. On the other, is the realization that, by making this call, we have just changed the nature of the trip. I did not have a satellite phone on previous trips. If we got behind schedule, we just hoofed it night and day to make up lost time. For example, twelve hour days were usual on our 1995 Caribou River (Manitoba) trip. Even then, we barely made our float plane. In 1998, we canoed the

Tha-anne River to Hudson Bay. Our final day began at 4 A.M. and ended at 10:20 P.M. The alternative was to miss our chartered boat to Arviat.

Yes, a satellite phone does change (spoil?) the nature of a trip. Giving up becomes an option.

Canoeing the Snake River began as a dream in 2000 when my friend, Jim Mandle, suggested that Dick Person--an internationally known outdoorsman who lives in Teslin, Yukon--and I, co-lead a trip in the Yukon.

We focused first on the Bonnet Plume, but abandoned it for the Snake because the Snake looked more intimate. The Snake has been described as a downsized version of the famous Mountain River, which Bill Mason so loved. The Snake begins high in the MacKenzie Mountains at an elevation of 4100 feet. It falls 4000 feet by the time it reaches the Peel River, 160 miles away. The average drop is 25 feet per mile. Leave your bent-shaft paddle at home. There are continuous rapids all the way!

Generally, there are just two portages. The first comes at the start, at Duo Lakes where the float plane sets you down. When the water is high, this portage—which meanders through trail-less tundra and dwarf willows--is a bit over a mile. It grows in length as the river drops. The second carry, which comes around mile 90, bypasses a marginally runnable (Class IV) canyon. It’s an easy quarter mile over tundra. Everything else on the Snake is either canoeable, line-able or drag-able.

Dick turned 74 this year (shortly after our canoe trip!), and he keeps himself in marvelous shape. Still, he has a bad hip. As we approached the time of departure, he questioned his ability to pull his own weight. I told him not to worry—that our macho crew would carry his share, and that canoeing the Snake would be a grand birthday adventure. Susie was quick to say that I would be 63 in September, and was no spring chicken either.

“Maybe you guys should write up this trip for AARP, she giggled.” As it turned out, she wasn’t far off target. The average age of our ten person (seven men, three women) crew was 55.

Whitehorse was the gathering place for our Snake River adventure. Susie and I drove our van from River Falls, Wisconsin (ten days on the road!). Everyone else flew in. With a population of just over 19,000, Whitehorse is the Yukon’s largest town. Over half the people in the Territory live there. Whitehorse is a progressively modern western town. Coffee shops and bistro’s abound, and there’s a bustle and enthusiasm that’s normally associated with larger cities. But go beyond the city limits and there is wilderness. Only wilderness. One hundred and fifty miles between gas stations is not uncommon.

The plan was to rent a second van in Whitehorse then drive both vehicles 250 miles to the small community of Mayo, where we would meet our charter float plane and fly to Duo Lakes. We had arranged for Sharron Chatterton (Dick’s wife) and her friend, Debbie Greenwood, to shuttle the trucks (drive the Dempster highway) to Fort McPherson at the end of our trip.

First stop was Norcan Auto Leasing, where we rented a Chevy Astro van. The tab came to $748 (for just four days)! We learned there is no such thing as “free mileage” in the Yukon--you pay for every bone-jiggling kilometer you drive. And don’t you dare say you’re taking your rental car on the Dempster highway!

A rainy start turned to sun by ten, and we pulled into Mayo on schedule at 2PM. I had booked our flight (and pre-paid) with Blacksheep Aviation & Cattle Company—a curious name. A tour around Mayo took just five minutes and revealed nothing in the way of float planes. There was a lake, of course, and lots of cows. I began to wonder if we’d been had.

We parked the trucks near a cow pasture and I went in search of a human, who immediately said, “You can’t park here!” I asked him where the float plane lands. “Right there,” he said, pointing to a jiggly dock. “But you can’t park here.” “Yeah, yeah,” I countered, and we drove down a weedy path that terminated at the lake.

Almost on the scheduled minute, a refurbished Turbo Otter landed and glided right to the dock—a perfect landing. It was the prettiest (new seats!) bush plane I have ever seen! Right then, I developed new respect for cows.

In minutes, the first flight was off and the adventure began. If you’ve seen the Disney film, “Never Cry Wolf”, which was photographed in the Bonnet Plume watershed, you know how spectacular this country is. There’s a part in the movie where Rosie the pilot is standing on a float, hammering away with a wrench in an effort to get his wheezing old DeHaviland Beaver running again. Suddenly, the plane fires and Rosie jumps inside. He yanks back the stick and the plane soars skyward, just in time to clear the mountain by millimeters.

That was a movie of course, and we didn’t expect it to mimic our flight into Duo Lakes. It’s roughly 140 air miles from Mayo to Duo, and you fly over—and through—the mountains all the way. The plane sets down on the largest of the two (Duo) lakes, which is barely half-a-mile long, and sandwiched between rugged peaks that rise to 10,000 feet. The pilot must negotiate a narrow slot between two high peaks then suddenly, cut power and drop into the tiny lake below. This requires considerable skill. Susie, who is known for her calmness under trying conditions, screamed and grabbed me when the right wing tip appeared to nearly scrape the mountain. The pilot later told us we had 300 feet to spare.

The pilot’s take-off from that tiny lake was quite impressive. Suddenly, I understood the need for turbo power!

Within minutes after the plane took off, it began to rain, so our first order of business was to pitch the tents and tundra tarp. After that, Jim and I turned our attention towards putting together Dick’s folding (Scansport Pak) canoe. When we had finished, we turned the boat belly up and pressed down hard on its flexible skin.

“Looks pretty wimpy,” said Jim.

“Wait and see,” I countered. “These boats are amazing!” Turned out, they really are. The side-bar, “Boats and Paddles,” tells all.

We awoke the following morning to a clear sky and a delightfully cool portage temperature of 45 degrees. It was Sunday, August 3. Someone remarked that a “Sunny Sunday” brought good luck. “Look at the sky—not a cloud anywhere. It’s a good bet it won’t rain for weeks.”

Most parties complete the portage out of Duo Lakes in half a day. We needed 10 hours! But, the scenery was spectacular--described later by Jim Mandle as “Just like in the ‘Sound of Music,’ but no nuns to help carry the gear.”

A cold drizzle began around 9 P.M., just as we were setting up camp. It rained all night and well into the next morning. Still, we were out by ten A.M., dragging and wading our canoes down a tiny tributary which, we hoped, would eventually flow into the Snake. It was late afternoon before the “main river” appeared. Immediately, the rapids began. They never let up till we hit the Peel!

Arctic rivers usually start out slow and pick up speed as they near the ocean. The Snake, however, is quite the opposite. It rushes furiously downhill at the start, then levels off as it approaches the valley. In the upper reaches, the river flows between canyon walls that seem to touch the sky. You can see and sense the downhill slide. Ninety degree turns appear abruptly. You must understand currents, and you must know how to backferry. There is simply no space to turn and run upstream. One person remarked that he felt like he was in a slot car on a twisting race course.

Those who were able to take their eyes off the river momentarily, saw herds of white Dall sheep grazing on the mountains. We sighted many caribou along the way--all of them had giant racks.

Susie and I were in the lead when, coming around a bend, two grizzlies on shore (a sow and cub) stood up and curiously looked our way. They were maybe 20 feet from our canoe. For a while, they watched contentedly. Then, they turned and ran.

Bugs? There were none. Okay, just a few—but far less than at our Wisconsin home. That, everyone agreed, was a highlight of this trip.

August 10 (day nine) was peppered with close calls. The first came at a long and pushy Class III drop above a low canyon. Susie and I went first and eddied in (I believe this was the only eddy on the river!) below a large boulder. I remember telling her to “hang tight—I think we’re gonna lose some people here.”

Charlie and Shelley followed in their Dagger Venture. No problem. They eddied in behind us and waited. Dick and Doug were next. Their Dagger Legend climbed a huge wave, then plowed and rolled. Suddenly, two men were in the icy water.

Dick abandoned the canoe immediately and swam to a gravel beach nearby. I yelled to Doug to “Let go and swim!” But, he rode the capsized canoe for about 100 yards, before he released his grip and swam ashore. Fortunately, neither man was in the water for more than a minute or two. It was a textbook perfect rescue and everyone took part: Susie and I captured the capsized canoe; Shelley, Kurt and Betsy and Mike pulled warm clothes from packs and got out lunch; and Jim and Charlie had a blazing fire going almost before Dick reached shore. Dick lost a favorite paddle, that’s all. A change of clothes, hot tea, warm hugs and food, and in an hour, we were on the river again.

Susie and I were on deck for the next near disaster. Susie saw a nice caribou rack laying along the beach. It measured nearly four feet across the tines. We set it on top of our spray cover, where it rolled—and nearly twice fell into the river. Susie then demanded that we “tie it on”. I explained that this was not a good idea as we were encountering frequent over-hanging trees (strainers) along the river.

“If a branch catches this rack, we’re in big trouble,” I warned. If you know Susie, you know that she didn’t hear a word I said.

As we exit the mountains and emerge into the valley, the nature of the river begins to change. Now, pointy spruce trees poke out from every outside bend. Ferry the inside curve and you’ll be slammed aground and around by the powerful current. Stay inside the bend and you’ll be speared by spruce trees. There’s no down time between strainers--one oxbow bend blends to another. This is very treacherous canoeing, and I fear for my crew.

Just ahead, is a tight left turn with spruce trees spearing out from the outside wall. It’s too fast to backferry so I set up well ahead for a forward ferry. I tell Susie to “point her to the (inside) wall and paddle like hell.

We almost make it. But the bow runs aground and the canoe spins around. A low, over-hanging branch barely catches a caribou tine and we spin around again. Suddenly we’re on the outside bend and facing upstream. Seconds later, a wrist-thick branch snaps into the caribou rack, and we come to a dead stop.

Now, we are really in a mess. The tree is locked to the caribou rack and the caribou rack is tied to the canoe. We are facing upstream, going nowhere fast, with the current going hell-bent-for-leather all around us. What to do?

My first thought is to cut loose the caribou rack. But Susie won’t hear of it. Besides, the tines are pointing straight at me. I fear they will spear me if I cut the cord. There’s another strainer a canoe length below us, so sawing off the branch is no good answer. We can’t go forward, back or side-ways. But, we can’t sit here with the current rushing by, forever.

I tell Susie I’m thinking of capsizing the canoe. I figure that if we’re upside down the canoe will clear both strainers.

“Okay, cut it loose,” says Susie, in a ticked-off tone.

I look hard at those sharp tines that are pointing straight at me and pray God I won’t be speared. Then, I draw my sheath knife and cut the cords.

Turns out, it’s no big deal! The rack simply sommersaults and slides under the branch. I cut a ferry angle as we power ahead and suddenly, we’re on the inside bend and out of danger. The caribou rack? It’s still there. And Susie is all smiles.

The strainers continue for the rest of the day. We camp—in the rain again—in trepidation of what lies ahead.

In the morning, we discover, much to our delight, that the strainers are gone. The rain—and the sour moodiness--returns. We are now ten days out and it has rained every day.

Finally, on the morning of the eleventh day, we awake to a streaming sun. The temperature reaches 75 degrees. We find a beautiful campsite. People go swimming. Everyone smiles. The sky is blue from horizon to horizon. And we made 35 miles—a record! We rejoice that the rain is finally behind us and the sun will shine again tomorrow.

Wrong! Day 12 and it’s raining again. The sky is packed with gun-gray clouds. The rapids are gone but the determined current persists. My GPS says we’re averaging eight miles an hour. We are now at mile 130 and will reach the Peel River—and our appointed pick-up place—in a few hours. But there are five days left on our canoe trip, and no one wants to sit around on a mucky campsite and wait. It’s 160 miles from the Snake/Peel River junction to Fort McPherson. The consensus is to paddle the Peel down to mile 60 then take the power boat. No one is disappointed; the final miles are all flat water, little more than a large lake. I phone Peter Firth and tell him that we have changed our plans. Peter notes the new location and tells us he’ll be there.

We arrive at the appointed pick-up place (a rough gravel bar) at noon on August 16th, a full day ahead of schedule. We are well into lunch when we hear the sound of a motor. Minutes later, a 30 foot flat-bottomed boat powered by a 40 horse Honda outboard, scrapes ashore. The man introduces himself as Ernest Vittrekwa, a member of the Gwitchin band.

“They told me to come up and get some canoeists,” he said. “Another boat was supposed to come too, but he didn’t show.”

I ask Earnest if Peter Firth sent him.

He looks at me quizzically and replies, “Peter doesn’t have any boats”.

Now, I’m really confused. Three days earlier I had spoken with Peter. He said, “I’ll be there!” Besides, our pick-up is scheduled for tomorrow, not today. What gives?

I ask Earnest if he knows Peter.

“I know his brother,” he says. And again, “Peter doesn’t have any boats.”

I tell Earnest I am going to call Peter and check this out. I do, but no one is home. I leave a message thanking him for sending Earnest—and saying that we are on our way out.

Vittrekwa’s boat can accommodate five people and two canoes. Dick, Doug, Mike, Kurt and Betsy go out first. Charlie, Shelley, Jim, Susie and I, stay behind. Earnest tells us it’s a five hour run to Fort McPherson.

“If I don’t make it back tonight, I’ll be here at nine tomorrow,” he promises. Then he hands over a plate of freshly grilled whitefish and a stringer of just-caught ones.

Around 5PM we hear an engine—a boat is coming up the river. The boat stops at a decrepit cabin on the opposite shore and picks up a piece of plywood. Then, it slowly chugs our way.

“They told me some canoeists were up here and needed a ride to McPherson,” calls a man.

I ask if Earnest sent him. I say that Earnest said he’d pick us up tonight or tomorrow morning.

“Maybe Earnest won’t come back. We can take you now.”

Confusion compounds. The boat is small, maybe 24 feet, and it already has a crew of three.

I say, “Thanks anyway, we’ll wait for Earnest.”

Earnest arrives at 9:15 the following morning. He knows nothing about the boat that came for us last night.

Our trip ends at Fort McPherson (N.W.T.), at the ferry boat crossing on the Dempster highway (the Peel River is the dividing line between the Yukon and the Northwest Territories). There is no bridge, just a mucky landing and some well-worn wooden boats. Everyone, except Dick is gone when we arrive. He tells us that a native family who lives nearby, has invited the crew to their home for tea and caribou soup. A Gwitchin woman, whose name is Winnie, said her grandfather liked canoeists because they “loved the land and treated it with respect”. Before he died he made her promise that she would always “look after paddlers”. She certainly did.

Our two vans arrive later that day. As we are loading up, a man walks up and introduces himself as Peter Firth.

“I thought I was supposed to pick you guys up this morning,” he says.

“What? Didn’t you send Earnest? Didn’t you get my message?

“Yeah, I got your message but I didn’t send Earnest.”

“How’d he know to come for us?”

“I dunno,” shrugs Peter. “But no big deal; you guys got out okay and that’s all that counts.”

I tell Peter that we paid Earnest quite a bit of money and that he should probably get some of it.

“No matter,” says Peter. “Just glad to see you guys got out okay.”

With that, we shook hands and parted.

So how did Earnest and the other boatmen know about us?

Shelley gave us food for thought: “I think they were listening in on the radio-telephone when you called Peter,” she said. “Everyone scrambles for business up here. They saw an opportunity and grabbed it.”

Perhaps so. We’ll never know. I figure it’s just part of the mystique that comes with canoeing wild Canadian rivers.

SIDE-BAR—BOATS AND PADDLES

We tried some new gear on this canoe trip. Most noteworthy, was the Scansport Pak (folding) canoe. No one in our crew (including me) had ever paddled a folding canoe on a wilderness river before. However, in 1992, I watched two teams of Norwegians negotiate a long Class III rapid (which we, in our hard boats, elected to portage around) on the Hood River in Nunavut, Canada. The canoes slammed boulders and nosed into holes. No problems! Afterwards, the crew put ashore and we shared smiles and tea. I was impressed with the light weight (under 50 pounds) and strength of their canoes. I became even more encouraged after talking with canoeing experts Laurie Gullion and Joel and Bev Hollis, whose testimonials you can read in my book, “Expedition Canoeing”.

Our Royalex canoes took a terrible beating on this trip. By day three, the protective vinyl on all the stems had been scrubbed off. And the bulbous bow of the Dagger Legend was split in several places. Fortunately, none of the boats leaked.

Each night, we would turn the Pak Canoe over and, with much trepidation, “check for tears”. There was none! In the end, we discovered just one deep scratch, that’s all. We were also amazed at how forgiving this boat was in rapids. It was fast too—Jim Mandle and Mike Kluznik, who paddled it almost exclusively--were always near the lead.

Zav’s New Paddle

More pro-racers probably use Zaveral bent-shaft carbon-fiber paddles than any other brand. Some white-water competitors use them too, even though they are not designed for technical boating. Enter Zaveral’s new “Power Curve” White-Water Paddle, which became available in July, 2003. Designed by 24-time Whitewater Open Canoe Slalom National Champion, Harold Deal, and developed with Jeff Allott, this stiff new stick has a very strong carbon shaft and blade and a polished wood T-grip that has a unique thumb index on each side.

We found the “Power Curve” to be smooth and stable, and very predictable in rapids. Yes, rocks can nick the blade, but the edges are super strong. Twenty minutes work at home with a file and sandpaper, and the edges will be smooth again. We loved these new paddles!

SIDE-BAR: DICK’S WISDOM

Canoeing with Dick Person is like stepping back in time. Dick has remedies for just about everything.

• Fireweed tea: Soon as camp was pitched and a fire going, Dick would prepare fireweed tea. Recipe: Just choke the tea pot with fireweed shoots (and flowers, if available); add water and boil like mad. It’s quite good, really. Even without sugar. “It’s good for your prostate too,” says Dick.

• Yarrow: Clots blood, good for stopping cuts. Grind the leaf till the sap comes out—works like a styptic stick. Make a poultice for bigger wounds.

•Spruce pitch: Everyone who has spent time in the woods knows that spruce pitch makes a great fire-starter. But it also seals and heals small cuts. Really works good on weather-cracked fingers!

• Cool way to warm cold hands: Bend way down at the waist and hang your arms at your sides. Now, swing them quickly and slap your back with your hands. You’ll feel a sting as the blood flows to your finger-tips. The warmth returns in seconds.

•Hot rocks to dry your socks: An old woodsman’s trick. Heat (in a fire) some smooth rocks until they are hot to the touch. Insert the hot rocks in your wet socks. The socks will be dry by morning.

SIDE-BAR: GETTING THERE

Directions: Drive or fly from Whitehorse to Mayo. Charter a float plane from Mayo to Duo Lakes. Blacksheep Aviation & Cattle Company (tel:867-668-7761/cell:867-333-1313), based in Mayo, has a turbo-prop single Otter. Capacity of the Otter is five people and one solo canoe inside the aircraft, and two tandem canoes on the floats. At this writing, cost is about $2600 Cdn. per flight.

A charter float plane or boat can pick you up at “Taco bar”—a wide gravel bar at the confluence of the Snake and Peel Rivers. Or, you can continue on to Fort McPherson, 160 miles downstream. Peter Firth (Tel: 867-952-2232), a member of the Gwitchin Indian community, operates a river taxi service. He will pick you up anywhere along the Peel.

Trip Length: 340 miles from Duo Lakes to Fort McPherson. Or,160 miles to “Taco Bar”. Figure on a minimum of 17 paddling days, more if the water is low or you want to hike.

Best time to go: The upper stretches of the Snake get very bony when the water is low. Late June or early July is the best time to go. The ice usually goes out of Duo Lakes in mid-June.

Highlights and hazards: The Snake is a powerful whitewater river in a very remote setting. Rapids rate almost continuous Class II-III with no let up or eddies. The water is cold, even in August. A wet-suit or dry suit is suggested. Spray covers are recommended. Expect to see Dall sheep, caribou and grizzly bears. Don’t plan on catching fish. The scenery is spectacular—right out of “The Sound of Music”.

Maps (1:250,000): 106C/Nadaleen River, 106F/Snake River, 106E/Wind River, 106L/Trail River, 106K/Martin House, 106M/Ft. McPherson.

Outfitters: Nahanni River Adventures/Neil Hartling, in Whitehorse, Yukon.

Tel:1-800-297-6927, Or, info@nahanni.com.

THE CREW

1. Cliff Jacobson, River Falls, Wisconsin

2. Sue Harings, River Falls, Wisconsin

3. Dick Person, Teslin, Yukon

4. Kurt Warnke, Charlotte, North Carolina

5. Doug Mandli, Racine, Wisconsin

6. Jim Mandle, Woodcliff Lake, New Jersey

7. Shelley Himel, Roanoke, Virginia

8. Charles Sharnberg, Roanoke, Virginia

9. Betsy Wallace, Davenport, Iowa

10. Mike Kluznik, Mendota Heights, Minnesota

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