For weeks my daughter and I monitored the river level, itching to explore during low water. However, during the winter the temperatures are as low as the water line. Finally, during the third week of January, we caught a break: three days in a row with highs in the fifties. 
Our lake at home was still frozen over, so we set off to the creek we use for river access wondering if we'd even be able to put our fourteen foot Old Town in the water. Packing the dry bag with an emergency blanket, extra clothes, and matches, gave me a bit of a pause. Daytime highs were warm, but it was still hypothermia conditions.
Aside from the edges, the creek had no ice, and it was lower than we had ever seen. Access ramps sat exposed in near frozen mud. A bald eagle soared in the bare trees that revealed caves in the limestone bluffs. We had not noticed the caves before; they captured our imaginations.
When we reached the confluence we found our way blocked with ice floes: pieces over four inches thick and several feet across. We wondered how far north these frozen wonders began their journey. My daughter and I worked through the ice, trying to ignore the eerie grinding sound they created as they pushed against each other and the canoe.
We made a quick loop out into the river, surprised by the power it held even at a stage under six feet and then parked on a sandbar that stretched out like a beach. My daughter picked chunks of riprap and threw them at the ice floes, one so thick it shattered the limestone rock. We examined the strange channels the river cut in the sand, while the eagle above examined us.
We marked time by the passing of ice floes and the setting of the sun. The wind began to pick up and the temperature began to drop. It was time to make the two mile paddle back to the truck.
We were glad we made the effort.
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