Day 2, June 28: Rejected, Accepted

The bass fishermen and the daunting automotive and marine infrastructure that supports them had faded into the dawn as we clawed out of our tents at the boat ramp on the morning of Day 2. Fishing boats and animated anglers had serenaded us all night with their comings and goings- there were lots of goings, I can tell you- and my nocturnal survey also suggests that 76.8% of fishermen rip the stock exhaust systems out of their trucks and install straight pipes. And did I really see four guys on a scaffold above their scow, fishing with compound bows and arrows under spotlights last night? And would lil’ Rufus emerge from the trauma I might have instilled in suggesting the relative sizes of record-breaking carp and story-telling towheads? And could I find the min-burner and my Starbuck’s Via packs in the cold light of dawn? 

We were about to row for 9:40 to Essex, New York, 33 miles north into Lake Champlain.

This can all be in the boat in three minutes

Matt breaks camp like he knows what he’s doing. After a quick look at the map to get his bearings and to size up the scope and scale of the day, a practiced fold of the tent and packing of the boat for balance and comfort and a quick app of sunscreen, he’s good to go. I, on the other hand (as brutally if accurately documented in Row, Canada!) wrestle with too many sea bags, too many loose bits, all the product of too much “Hey! Maybe I’ll need this!” decision-making at yesterday’s launch. In six days I’ll send 80 pounds of unused and unneeded garoosh home with Matt and Courtney but, for now, it all takes a free ride to Essex, courtesy of Al.A couple of Vias and Nature Valley Oatmeal Bars and we’re in the boats and off early, gliding past Fort Ticonderoga on the New York side as we hug Vermont. Yesterday’s north headwind has blessedly subsided; the water is glassy but carries the Yoo-Hoo-esque patina typical of a current moving through silt. The day is warming but we’re feeling good, making good time in our rhythm. Matt is really one with his boat now; it’s a joy to watch him row, even though he is usually out ahead.

Fort Ticonderoga

Fifteen miles later, fully warmed up and getting hungry, we reach the new Crown Point Bridge, the old one having been razed (spectacularly blown up) a few years ago in a co-mingling of infrastructure-improvement-meets-Hollywood.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3fVgLuTV2kU

We find a marina just north of the bridge, tie up, and walk about a mile to a diner which can meet our substantial needs. We fill our water jugs before we head off, Matt scores a three-foot length of PVC pipe at the dock (significant later), and we’re off to face the heat of the day as Champlain begins to widen from tributary to an aspiring Great Lake.

Gentle Reader, I’m tempted at this moment to take a Zen-like detour into the nature of hospitality. Graduates of Mr. Frei’s English class will of course recall that in The Odyssey, Odysseus is received first as a traveler, unconditionally welcomed and sated by his hosts before any revelation of identity or motive is solicited. Hospitality was a sacred expectation then, an overt obligation of the host, bestowed generously and even gratefully by those with the power and means to provide relief. “Hospitality” takes other forms, of course; there’s the formal granting of succor that carries no sincerity but is offered for show or to avoid harsh judgment. There’s conditional hospitality as well, the meat and potatoes of the “hospitality industry” (now there’s an unfortunate confluence of words)…and then there’s what happened to us at Camp Dudley in the high heat of a July afternoon.

I know people who love Camp Dudley. They are wonderful people in leadership positions who have in the past assured me that if I were to arrive on its shores on the west side of Lake Champlain in the baking sun of mid-day looking only for a place to take a quick, refreshing swim in the now-clarifying waters of Lake Champlain, I would be welcomed. These people- good, caring people, well-intentioned and dedicated to the culture of Camp Dudley and the good work that it does- went on to say that I might even be able to pitch a tent there in a pinch and enjoy a meal with the campers and staff if I had a seafaring story to tell. All of this I shared over the gunwale with Matt as Camp Dudley hove into view. “This is a great place, Matt; my friend (unnamed) told us we should stop here and say hi; all we need is a quick swim of their beach, right?”
“Right, dad,” replied Telemachus.

No campers were in evidence as we approached, but the pier was packed with what appeared to be counselors preening and sunning themselves.  As we headed towards their beach, one stood up like that one alert sea lion on Animal Plant, spoke into a walkie-talkie (like Starsky, or Hutch), and we were met on the shore by a Leader who politely but firmly said that no, we’d not be roasting any cattle in tribute to Odysseus or Matt or Al today; two guys rowing to Canada in Guideboats could not be permitted to take a quick dip in the water off the very beach upon which they now stood. There were rules. I’ll take your names, thank you, and pass them along to your friend, but no, no there’s swimming for you today. Not here.

“They love you here, dad, I can tell,” I could hear Matt/Telemachus thinking as we climbed back into our boats. “What nonsense you let slip between your teeth,” I telepathed back. “This is what happens when mindless, heartless bureaucratic rule-following overrules good judgment, consideration, and hospitality.”  

We pressed on, finding a delightful swimming site at Barn Rock Harbor a few miles up, and we ended the day at Essex on the New York side. The marina owner, perhaps a former camper at Camp Dudley, perhaps not, allowed us to pitch our tents on a nice spit of his lawn and we enjoyed a fabulous pasta dinner (replenish the carbs!) at the restaurant.

Day Two was a test of sorts…a long day of flat water on very big water, the kind of expanse that tests your resolve to keep rowing because progress on the wide-screen horizon is measured in millimeters, not feet, and certainly not miles. But the Green Mountains were a beautiful tableau nonetheless, Sugarbush and Mansfield adorning the eastern horizon and giving Matt and me much cause for happy memories. The callouses are forming as we knew they would but, so far, mind is trumping body, the body just got a nice infusion of pasta, and the going is good.

The First of the Many

And I can authoritatively report that the campers of Camp Dudley are certainly safe under the watchful eye of their well-tanned guardians, but I guess they’ll hear no sea stories from the likes of us. “What price security?” is a question for our times, of course, and the answer, at Camp Dudley at least, is clear.