There’s something about being on a river in winter.

The senses switch on high alert. As the river courses its way between the hills and rises, the silences seem amplified. Yet your hearing becomes more aware, snapping your attention in the direction of each chittering chickadee, scolding squirrel, drumming grouse, or the water dripping back into the river from the oars. Despite the efforts of your best insulated boots, the cold seeps in through the floor of the boat. In the hands of a good guide, the riverboat moves effortlessly, as if drifting through a dream.

John Matson is a good guide.

I learned this about five minutes into a three-hour trip down the Pere Marquette River near Baldwin a couple weeks ago. Soon into our float we came upon a would-be blockade spanning the river, a deadfall, from the middle of which other guides had cut a pass-through. At eye level, smaller branches narrowed the opening to less than three feet.