Recently, I wrote about planning a long weekend getaway with my son and daughter. Our mission (mine, anyway) was to leave behind the world of work and everyday concerns and give us all a chance to slow down and connect with one another in a way that is hard to do where we live and each have our own priorities and distractions.

The agenda included several days in a rustic log cabin where we have stayed several times before, floating and paddling down a picturesque north woods river, with a little fishing thrown in for good measure. And, most likely, some unplanned events that might be remembered as much as the high profile stuff you plan a trip around.

After several hectic days making lists, collecting baggage and gear in our staging area (the garage floor), sorting things into logical duffel

piles and - last, but not least - raiding the pantry, we were

ready. A bit behind schedule, but ready and once more came that wonderful moment when we pointed the nose of our vehicle in the direction of adventure.

We have made the journey between home and the Twin Ports of Duluth and Superior so many times that there is no mystery to it. There are no surprise turns in the road, no unexpected features of geography, no need to consult a map or GPS. Yet the destination is still as appealing as ever, thanks to many experiences our family has shared in these two towns and on both the North and South Shores of Lake Superior.

The first gateway en route to Wisconsin's Brule River, our destination, is the bridge that spans the harbor, from Duluth to Superior. It's named for America's World War II fighter pilot ace, Richard Bong. Col. Bong downed more enemy planes than any other American ace - in any war - and was tragically and ironically killed on the last day of the war in the Pacific, on a test flight in one of America's first jet fighter planes.

Just a few miles beyond the bridge is the small community of Poplar, Bong's hometown, near which he grew up on his family's farm. Unlike many of similar fame, Bong is buried not in Arlington National Cemetery, but in the family plot here in Poplar. Knowing his story, I always feel a twinge of melancholy when I pass through. We stop here, briefly, at the local grocery, after my daughter discovers that her father has neglected to plan for the vegetable course for the dinners ahead.

A short distance east is the town of Maple. Here we top a high hill on Highway 2 and lose our "bars," and are beyond our cell phone network, which I consider a plus for our getaway. (On the next night, however, after a trip to the convenience store in Brule to buy ice cream, my son will drive back west to Maple to get within cell phone range of his girlfriend. As the song says, "What you won't do … do for love…")

Arrival night at the cabin, not far from the tiny town of Brule, turns out to be a time of "grilling and chilling," with everyone losing their ambition soon after our dinner and KP duty. It didn't take long for the kids to also lose consciousness, drifting off to sleep early, with a gentle breeze blowing through the open cabin windows helping to lull us all into dreamland.

Saturday morning was equally unhurried and we took time for a true stick-tothe ribs breakfast to fortify us for the day of canoeing ahead. I'm keenly aware of scents and few are more pleasing to me than the blend of bacon sputtering and browning in a frying pan and coffee brewing and spreading its aroma into all corners of a cabin. Skilletfried potatoes and eggs scrambled in the hot bacon drippings, rounded out a breakfast fit for a lumberjack or voyageur.

Then it was off to the shuttle office on Highway 2 in Brule, to secure a ride for ourselves and our canoe, along with a pair of kayakers, upstream to the put-in point. Our car would remain at the take-out point, awaiting our arrival. Float trips on the Brule are a big summer business for several canoe and kayak liveries in the area, which can rent you everything you need except paddling skills and good judgment. They will also shuttle you and your own canoe, or kayak and other gear upstream, something that's necessary if you don't have two vehicles.

The day was sunny, the sky's intense blue dotted with puffs of high, nonthreatening white clouds, with a muscular breeze blowing mostly against our backs. Though I enjoy canoeing on lakes, there is something special about rivers. No matter how busy it might be with fellow paddlers, there are many moments when you can feel entirely alone, with no other human or craft in sight, one of the things I come for.

The depth of the Brule was described as only about two-thirds its normal flow, which was evident in the care we had to use in navigating many shallow places. One of the constants in our journey downstream was the spots of color that dotted the shoreline almost everywhere. Large, dense beds of pale blue forget-me-not flowers grew not only on the bank itself, but had found footholds on moss-covered rocks, sandbars and partially submerged logs jutting out into the stream.

Also constant were the birds that occupy the streamside niche. Just as the rich insect life of the Brule nourishes the trout and salmon that draw sportsmen here, many species of birds feast on the insect bounty, too. They dart from streamside trees and brush to intercept caddis, mayflies, stoneflies and other insects. Robins, which at home are usually seen tugging at earthworms, here on the Brule will dive from streamside perches to pick off fluttering insects, showing themselves to be as acrobatic as any flycatcher.

The Brule is lined in many places with northern white cedar, so common that a large estate owned by the Ordway family (patrons of St. Paul's Ordway Theater) is called Cedar Island. Appropriately, here on the Brule can be found more of that birders' favorite, the subtly beautiful cedar waxwing, than any other place I've been. We also saw many mergansers, those sawbilled waterfowl also known as "fish ducks," not surprising on a stream as productive of fish as this one.

There's not space here to recount all the events of our weekend. Fishing was tough with low water and high boat traffic, but that was expected. There was the usual amount of sunburn in odd places not reached by sunblock, as well as a close encounter with the stub of a dead shoreline tree, which nearly speared me out of the canoe. A paddle was lost in poling ourselves out of a jam-up in a rocky rapid, reminding us of the wisdom of always bringing a spare!

When it was all over, contentment and gratitude for the time together, were the unanimous emotions as we tightened the canoe straps one final time and headed for home.