Day 8, July 4: Delaware River, Part Deux?

No pictures today. It would be that kind of day.

Last night’s spaghetti did little to calm my anticipation of my first day on the St Lawrence. I was in the boat at 5:15 in the morning, wanting to take advantage of the perfect calm and quiet of the hour in order to acclimate myself to the river ahead. Trois-Rivieres was only about 40 miles downstream and while I was confident about reaching it with plenty of time to spare, I didn’t want waning daylight as an added variable along with other unknowns that I might face along the way.

The absolute quiet of the morning reminded me that I was departing on my own for the first time in over 700 miles. Matt no doubt was curled up in his featherbed in Saratoga at this very moment and I missed the easy banter, relaxed confidence, and motivational cadence of his company. 2010’s Row, Canada! adventure came to mind as well: eighteen days, 502 miles, all in Brian’s company. Pushing off on my own this morning evoked an afternoon in 1974 when Ron, my flight instructor, told me to come to a full stop on the runway after the third touch-and-go, climbed out of the plane, and shouted over his shoulder, “You’re ready. Go fly.”

Could “Go row” be any more challenging? Let’s see.

It was still dark but the combined lights from Sorel and Tracy, the well-marked channel buoys, an easily discernable shoreline, and the inevitability of morning light within the hour fed my urgency to get going right now. The boat was a bit lighter for the stuff I’d sent home with Matt and Courtney and, combined with the current, a steady 18 rpm yielded an easy 6 mph over a black mirror. My small wake described parallel silver slivers across the glass as the city lights receded behind me. It felt good to be underway again, and Trois-Rivieres seemed right around the corner: calm water, a following current, plenty of time, a lighter boat, and strong resolve seemed an unbeatable hand.

Obviously, I don’t play cards.

Two hours later, in rain but good light, I reached the large open lake that pretty much defines the passage between Sorel and Trois-Rivieres. Shallow outside of the shipping channel, eight or ten miles across at its widest point, and with no high ground on either side, this is the kind of water that can hammer a small boat when the wind comes up. In 2005, the Delaware River had taught me how wind-driven waves over the shallows can create the kind of frequency and sharp crests that quickly overwhelm a low-freeboarded boat like mine, so prudence suggested a shoreline course rather than staying in the channel and putting four or five miles of water on each side of the boat.

Sadly, I picked the wrong shore. Nature’s single card soon trumped my full hand.

Within an hour of my course along the southerly(westerly) side, a strong northeast wind kicked up (but of course!), quickly building nasty sharp-crested two-footers that compelled me to bail more than row . I was soon driven into the shallows and tall grass of shore. By 9:30 I’d covered twenty miles, already halfway to TR, but I was pinned in the tall grass by waves that would quickly overwhelm me if I ventured out again into the open water.

This was a low moment. It was raining hard. I was cold and essentially immobilized. No docks, no people, no progress, no alternatives appeared within my reach.

I called Peg. Sitting in the swamp in the rain, shivering, looking at the whitecaps hitting the grass offshore, I might even have whined a bit. She asked me how much further to TR, hun, and I said, “Maybe twenty miles.” I asked her what time it was. She said, “9:30.” Her voice helped. The moment stuck, a moment emblematic of how past experience can sometimes buoy one’s confidence and steel one’s resolve. It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was 20 miles from my destination.

Gentle Reader, I’m not a math guy but sitting in the rain in the swamp, even I could run these numbers: If I rowed until dark, roughly eleven hours from that very moment, I could make my destination (or hit spittin’ distance to TR) by sustaining an average of 1.8 mph. 1.8. 1.8. One-point-eight. Eleven hours. Eleven hours to dryness. Out of the swamp. Off of this Canadian version of the loathed Delaware River.

Considering the New Math (20/11= 1.8), I then took stock of what I knew to be true:

1.      I have rowed nonstop for eleven hours before, and I felt prepared to do it again if I had to.

2.      If I was to change my current state, I would have to.

3.      1.8 mph, about the pace of a child ambling across the family room to grab his/her favorite toy (or to get out of a cold rain), was also within my ability.

4.      I could not traverse the open water in these conditions, but I could slog through the high grass of the bordering marsh. The grass, a buffer of surface turbulence, beats down the waves even though it poses great friction and resistance to the hull and oars.

5.      Weather changes. I had eleven hours until dark. It could change for the worse, but I had the grass. If it changed for the better, I’d be in clover. Or gravy. Whatever.

6.      Sitting in the boat grousing was getting old. It was time to go.

Eric Burden and the Animals sang the classic “We’ve Got To Get Out of This Place” in the 60’s, and it became my adopted anthem on Lac St Pierre. It wasn’t pretty or easy and it hardly looked like rowing, but for the next four hours I kept 1.8 as the baseline on the GPS as I slogged through tall grasses and weeds, occasionally having to stand up in the boat to get a sightline on a course. I could hear the cresting waves of the open water over the whistling of the wind in the grass. It would be a long day unless…..unless…..

…unless the wind began to shift from north to westerly which, by mid-afternoon, became apparent as I continued my occasional prairie-dog sightings from the swamp. Could it be? That blasted crosswind was now veering around to become a blessed tailwind and, to make a long story short, by 3:00 I stuck my nose into the open water and caught a quartering tailwind and manageable waves towards Trois-Rivieres.  Clover and gravy. And I was out of that place and into the Trois-Rivieres marina by five thirty.

The marina would be happy to accept $20 for dockage for the rest of the day but would not let me camp out, but I didn’t really care. I was that tired. I told them that I was writing a blog and that their hospitality would be broadcast to the world and wouldn’t that be nice? They said no, no, don’t do that; doing so will only encourage more vagrants like yourself to visit our facility.

So, back in the boat, I hit the beach at a public campsite that I’d passed a bit upstream, ate tuna out of a drypack, and slept like a stone.

Oh, it was the 4^th of July, wasn’t it?

Clover and gravy, everyone. Clover and gravy.