August 13: Blog Finis….or Page One?

Greetings, Gentle Reader,                                                                         

To add to the confusion of the time travel that has characterized this blog, this final entry may ultimately introduce the book, Sojourn to Saguenay, which could augment your coffee table collection of Row, Canada! (2011), Locked Up, Locked Down (2008), and The Big Row (2006). My appetite to leave behind an old-timey print edition of this summer’s row is simply a manifestation of my Techno-Peasant temperament, so don’t order one up if you don’t want to. No pressure. But if you’re in the Inner Circle and have just received your signed copy in the mail or under your windshield wiper….well, enjoy!

My ten weeks of “summer enrichment and professional development” have been dominated and defined by only thirteen days of intense experience. While I might include my tepid preparation or this subsequent flurry of writing activity as a part of the rowing experience, in truth there is nothing quite like being underway in the boat, focused on the water, one’s body, and the unfolding day, stroke by stroke. I now pause more than a few times each day with a flashback of my time on the Richelieu or Lake Champlain, of the magnificent waters of the St Lawrence, or of coming to grips with nature and my own limits along the coast of the mountainous Charlevoix region.

If I print this all up in a bound volume, I’ll have to wrestle with the title. After all, I never made it to Saguenay by water; the boat was strapped to the roof of the Mini when Peg and I viewed the mouth of the river. Perhaps it’ll have to be Sojourn Towards Saguenay or even Sojourn to Saguenay, Part I ….if I intend to complete the trip someday.

The good news is that I was able to cover about 425 miles during the thirteen days of this adventure.... good work, perhaps, for a largely chair-bound fellow (Ouch! That’s too close to “large chair-bound fellow”) on the cusp of his 63^rd birthday. The reality is that I had intended to proceed 100 miles further but didn’t… and therein lies my lesson for the summer.

In retrospect, I’m fortunate to have experienced the severity of adversity that I faced in July. More than two thousand miles had led to overconfidence, a too-flip and casual attitude about “learning along the way” and accommodating trials as they emerged, a relaxed fatalism regarding what might be around the next bend or out of the next bay. This approach worked until it didn’t and when it didn’t, I had no margin for error. I’m pleased that I am able to write about all of this in the past tense, in my own voice, with the possibility of a sequel. Brian would have written a great memorial reflection, I am sure…. but happily, it will have to wait.

 Peace, love, and happiness,

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.

     

 

Day 7, July 3: Cause for a Pause

Today, Day 7, is for rejuvenating , re-provisioning, and re-orienting. Courtney is on her way north from Saratoga to retrieve Matt; she’ll arrive in his truck looking as fresh as if she’d just bopped down to the corner store for the paper instead of having traveled 250 miles and through Customs before breakfast.

In the meantime, Matt and I have work to do.

Up off the dock after a night on the boards, Matt cleans his boat and packages his stuff for the trip home while I decide what to send back from my own too-heavy stores. I’ve been freighting around clothes I will not use, gear I will not get to, and gadgets I don’t even know how to deploy, and it’s time to shed a few pounds from the boat. After an hour of intense decision-making, two sea bags and the detritus of a week on the water are culled from my boat for the trip south in the truck; my boat is now lighter and marginally faster; less is more!

Clean up that room!

This morning I also covet the newer mechanicals in Matt’s boat; after all, the building St Lawrence is no place for equipment failure, right? Our boats are identical, but Matt's borrowed boat is very-low mileage while mine is showing some worrisome wear and tear. We wonder whether Bob Ashton will object to some temporary swapping-out of parts from his boat and while we debate his response, we swap out the parts: new floorboards, the rails for the sliding seat, and the sliding seat itself are purloined and installed in Old Paint while Bob’s boat takes on the old gear.   

Later that day I call Bob to ask permission. Whew. Knew he would. This is the stuff of friendship.

Courtney arrives right on schedule at 0930 and Telemachus morphs back into McGuyver, master rigger, as Matt secures Bob’s boat to the truck. Straps, ratchets, and lines knit it all together and within ten minutes they are good to go. (I make this point now only because later on it will take me, the alleged tree for this acorn, the better part of two hours to tie my boat (badly) onto my Mini. I have no such intuition about straps, ratchets, lines, and such.)

Courtney cheerfully jumps into the passenger seat for the rest of her 500 mile-day (Unsung Heroine Award #2!), Matt gives me the big bear-hug and as they pull away from the marina, I find myself welling up for a minute. Great kids, a wonderful week, the blessing of sharing….Al is a lucky man for a host of reasons that have nothing to do with rowing.

Time to get back to work; this may be a day off the water, but there are things to do.

We have rowed off the charts and I head off to find a map of the St Lawrence. Sure, I could have procured charts at any freaking time during the four freaking months that have passed since I hatched this freaking plan, but why would I do that when I could struggle at the very last minute? After walking around for a bit I find a map that covers the next leg to Quebec City but nothing for the waters beyond to the Saguenay. Quebec City is a big place, I reason. Surely I will find my next necessary charts there, right? Sounds reasonable, yes? This is the way I operate, Gentle Reader: superficially reasonable logic meeting uncooperative reality.

Anyway, when I return to the marina from my MapQuest, I spot Phil and his 42’ Beneteau at a public dock about half a mile away, a massive crane on the pier holding his 50’mast high in the air while he crouches on the deck trying to guide it all into place. His wife, sitting on a bench back at the marina, calmly suggests that I might consider joining this tableau. I note her furrowed brow.

Never having raised a mast so consequently not feeling very much like the cavalry coming to the rescue, I nevertheless quickly clamber down the steel rungs of the pier in time to “help” Phil with the placement of the foot of the mast into an impossibly tight fitting on deck. Even a child could see that there is no tolerance for error in this procedure. “I’ve never done this before, Phil,” I confess, “but I’ll do what you need me to do.” Phil advises me that this is a first for him as well…quite an admission as fifty feet of aluminum seeking a home bobs over our heads with each passing wave and wake. “But I’ve seen it done before.” Last night over cocktails on this very boat I learned of Phil’s engineering and design background, and it is the recent memory of this conversation that sustains my hope.

High above us, out of earshot but responding to our hastily contrived hand signals, the crane operator moves the mast in small increments as we try to guide this huge spear to the target. Since the boat is in the water and the deck is moving, the target is in perpetual motion. Holding this mast in place by hand is impossible; its mass is too great. All we can do is use the motion of the boat to “guide” it to a metal fitting on the cabin roof, and it takes many tries to finally get a hit. But it’s the spaghetti mix of stainless steel shrouds and stays that actually holds a mast in a vertical position, so while the crane guy holds the new line on the mast, we quickly scramble to affix the hardware. Excitement builds for me when, for some reason or other, I look over my shoulder and notice a huge freighter heading our way. It’s generating a very large cresting wake that will reach us in probably five minutes or so and if the mast is not standing independently and secure by then, who knows? The crane operator sees this unfolding drama as well and, after a surprising eye roll, smiles and shrugs. (I say “surprising” only because an eye roll is not what I‘d expect from a crane operator at a poignant moment such as this.) Phil, to his credit, misses this silent exchange and has his head down, doing the necessary work, totally focused, taking it step-by step, calmly giving me my next task which can best complement his task.

Gotta love an unflappable, sequentially-thinking engineer. I bet he has all of his charts, too.

And...hey, where is McGuyver? This is his bread and butter!

Depiction of the relative mechanical skills of McGuyver and his father 

Anyway, hours later, as we toast the apparently successful completion of this task back at the marina in the cockpit of the Beneteau, the mast towering straight and true above us, I secretly both wish and lament the fact that I’ll not be on this boat when the sail is next raised and real tension and torque is applied to this assembly.

The proof will be in the pudding, as they say….but I’ll be sitting at a different table. I hope it all works out.

Sunset in Sorel

 

Tomorrow will come early. Spaghetti in Sorel, then early to bed.     

  

        

Day 6, July 2: A Fast Ride to the Big Waters

Last night’s big storms never materialized and we awakened at our lovely campsite to a quiet river and the prospect of reaching the St Lawrence by the end of the day. I knew that this would be my last day of rowing with Matt, as he would have to depart tomorrow from wherever we landed because of work. I was especially mindful of how much I would miss his company during the rest of this journey. Some people just make traveling like this seem easier, more joyful, more naturally liberating and refreshing, and they accept the occasional hardships as necessary and welcomed seasonings to the main course. When you travel in the company of people like this, you are lucky. I am lucky beyond description to call one of this company my son. We haven’t climbed onto the boats for our last day yet, Matt, but let me tell you now that I love ya, man.

A quick round of Starbuck’s Vias and Nature Valley Oat Bars and we are off and flying; a south wind builds along with the beneficent current, and we are soon clocking up to 7 mph over the ground this morning. A few hours later we reluctantly slam on the brakes to visit Handfield’s, an oasis of refinement (and the purveyors of a truly proper breakfast) and sure enough, as we climb back in the boats an hour or so later, the wind shifts from the west and then blows from the northwest, becoming an impediment for the first time in six days. We’ve been lucky.

But the current is still with us and it is easy to seek the shelter of shoreline trees on a river. The end of the Richelieu is in sight.

We traverse the final lock with about fifteen miles to go and as we bob through, we meet Phil and Helen from Vermont. They have departed Lake Champlain on their beautiful Beneteau sailboat, mast on the deck to get under the low spaces, and they are also headed to the Saguenay fjord. We exchange pleasantries and good wishes as they motor off ahead of us. If I wasn’t so enjoying rowing with Matt, I would be envious of their diesel….and their on-board coffee maker.

Two hours later, Matt and I sense the urbanization of the Richelieu as we approach the city of Sorel on the St Lawrence. The white noise of the internal combustion engine rises in the distance and suddenly, in turning a corner, we are there.

 

After four days of rowing in confined waters, emerging onto the St Lawrence presents the spectacle of oceangoing ships moored along the shore or moving up and down the river at impressive speeds. We immediately realize that situational awareness is the new top priority. The residential and rural intimacy of Champlain and the Richelieu has been supplanted by industrial activity; we row past a freighter along the shore that is taking on some sort of granular cargo, and we are immediately coated with some sort of fine dust...almost a powder. Is it grain? A mineral? Do we want to know? Lick it, Matt, and tell me what you think. Keep rowing, dad…just keep rowing.

Since the confluence of the Richelieu and the St Lawrence rivers promised to present confused waters, Matt and I had already decided that we would hug the west (south) shore of the St Lawrence and pull into the first protected jetty we found to take stock of conditions and determine our next steps. We soon come across a bulwark of stone- an artificial harbor, of sorts- and pull in before we are swept past in the current. I am met by a distant call of, “Hey! New York! Over here!” and see Phil and Helen at a berth not far away. They are amazed that we have made such good time from the lock and offer us a bit of wine. We, by now knowing the importance of hospitality, graciously accept.



Vermont's Finest

Maybe it’s the wine but as we take stock of our surroundings, I realize that this might be a good spot at which to take a day off. First, Courtney will be driving up from Saratoga to collect Matt and his boat tomorrow morning; this marina will be easy to find and offers a nice ramp for lugging stuff up from the water. I’d like to stay until he leaves and even though Courtney is an early bird, theirs could be a later departure than a time at which I’d like to head out for my first day on the St Laurence.

Second, Phil will be stepping the mast on his sailboat tomorrow and has contracted with a local crane operator to help him with the task. A second set of hands might be useful and helping out might be a way of returning their hospitality. Also, truth be told, I have always wondered how one goes about putting up a mast on a large sailboat, so this could be a part of my own Continuing Ed.

Finally, with the Big Waters ahead, I could stand a bit of R&R. I’ll be on my own from here on out, and a day to get my head in the game (and to find necessary charts) would be a day well spent.

Matt and I found dinner at a cheesy Chicken Shack in Sorel and later joined Phil and Helen for more wine as well as to share the excitement of the arrival of Sorel’s Quick Response Team on an adjoining dock. We later learned that a crewman on a freighter had fallen into its cargo hold and had been killed, so the Response Team included medical, police, and maritime authorities…quite a show on the dock right next door. I couldn’t help but hope that the perils of the coming days….the mast-raising, the river, and unfamiliar cuisine…would not require their return.

 

Matt tidied up his boat one last time before bed and chose to sleep on the dock under the stars while I, in the spirit of the Flomax Moment®, set up my tent ashore. It rained a bit that night and Matt slept through it all like a seal on a rock….final seasoning for the main course.    

Intermission, Part Deux

I know, I know, you want to get back on the row, and so do I, but these next few strokes are simply to document our (Peg, Timmy, and me) present (7/27) return from Quebec with Old Paint on board.

Mini with a Mohawk

 We collected the boat and my gear at Baie St Paul this week and then spent four days gooning around the Charlevoix/Saguenay area, and what a beautiful part of the world it is! While a mid-January visit might assault our opinions of “habitability,” the grandeur of this area as a summer destination is breathtaking. We dipped our toes in the frigid waters, climbed into a Zodiac for a whale watch at the mouth of the Saguenay River, and enjoyed the cuisine and hospitality of the area; I saw my first Beluga and Humpback whales (way cool), ate my first Canadian Chinese food (at a pizza shack…not as rewarding as seeing the whales), and of course asked myself each day if I could have/should have continued from Baie St Paul to Saguenay. The short of it is that I think I made the right call.

 So….this travelogue of our return will now give way to the resumption of the row, but not without the encouragement to any and all of you to visit our Neighbors to the North. Quebec is not far away but if you are pressed for time or money, a visit there can act as a reasonable surrogate for a trip across the Big Pond, I think, with the added benefit that French Canadians are still engaged with disco in ways that Americans (or the French) are not. For a child of the 60’s, the car radio in Quebec is a jukebox.

Now…back to the row!

There we were, pushing off for our second day on the Richelieu, yet another early south wind building behind us….

July 11, 2014 - An Important Pause

As I write this entry at my mom’s dock at Lake George, back where Matt and I started exactly two weeks ago, I’m reminded of Ricky Ricardo’s line, I’ve  “got some ‘splainin’ to do.”

The “why” of my return involves Jane, the mother of my best friend (other than Brian) and my own mother’s best friend, who has entered hospice in Albany.  Early this week, when I learned of this turn of events and the urgency of her state, the present unconditional joy and freedom of this adventure pretty much evaporated; Jane has been “the other mom” in my life, a lady for whom the idea of “just being there” could have been coined, and rowing on in blissful exploration was just not in the cards. Jane, her wonderful family, and my own mom seemed too far away at a time when, as powerless as I am to effect events, I nonetheless felt like I needed to “be there” for someone else.

So here I am, back at the lake. It’s a vigil of sorts, if still from a bit of a distance, but it feels like the right thing to do and the right place to be.

So the row is on hold…or, is it?

As previously noted, the boat is stored at Auberge Le Cormoran & Le Domaine Belle Plage at Baie St Paul, a charming inn about 60 miles short of the Saguenay River. Proprietors Nicole and Daniel, exhibiting the hospitality typical of so many on this route, have allowed me to store my boat alongside their barn adjacent to a freshly planted flower garden, and the detritus of my cargo is tucked inside.

Guideboat's present home 

 

In addition, as I packed up, Adam, a nearby summer neighbor who resides in Montreal, provided wonderful commentary of Baie St. Paul and guided me to a magical shortcut to the bus station.

Prettiest walk ever to a bus station....n'est-ce pas?

The boat will be safe until Peg and I return, and I am enormously appreciative of my hosts’ generosity of spirit in allowing me to maintain an outpost.

So, again you ask, is the row on hold?

Gentle Reader, your question has been on my mind since I sledged the boat through the mud into Baie St. Paul on Wednesday.

Stuck in the mud...lower right. Muddie' Pate' la Baie?

Since leaving Quebec City, I’ve come to experience what my research and those with local knowledge have stated without exception: this stretch of the St Laurence River is truly the beginning of the North Atlantic Ocean. The tides and currents are far stronger than my own horsepower; when those forces are in full play, I can only point the boat, I cannot propel or direct it. The fog which instantaneously enveloped me on Tuesday morning put me into complete white-out conditions; I had read of sailors navigating in pea-soup solely by the sound of the waves crashing on shore…and now I’ve had to do it out of necessity. Keeping situational awareness of the seaward cresting waves looking to spill you while staying off shore just enough not to lose touch with it is pretty exciting….and might I add, harrowing. The winds that turn in an instant and, in pressing against tide or the current, create funnel waves through which I simply cannot row without being rolled are no longer abstract ideas inspiring caution: they’re scary, and they arise in minutes as water and winds shift. But most sobering of all is the price one would pay for a single mistake in these conditions. The water at this point in the St Laurence is bone-crushingly cold. Yes, I wear a safety vest, but it would be of little help in water that would render me hypothermic and helpless within minutes, with no prospect of help. These are truly Varsity conditions and more than a few times on Tuesday and Wednesday I recognized that my appetite for adventure and moderate skill as an oarsman were placing me in circumstances of real peril with no tolerance for error. Six inches of freeboard at the beam are all that separate me from the most dangerous environment I’ve ever encountered -frigid, turbulent, remote waters, flash fogs and deep-water rapids- and do I really have to rely on Clint Eastwood to pose the key questions? “Are you feeling lucky, punk?” and, of course, “A man has to know his limitations.”  

Last night my mom reflected that maybe Jane’s turn for the worse, as sad and poignant for all of us as it is, is a kind of small gift to her that got me, her son, off the water in time to really think through my next decision. When I go back up to Baie St. Paul, do I get back in the boat and continue the row, seasoned by caution? Or, as Adam urged me when he said goodbye on Wednesday, should I consider my journey sufficiently meritorious at this moment and put the boat on the roof of the Mini…finis, complete, ferme’?  

Yesterday Peg offered an elegant compromise, one which is sticking to the ribs this morning as perhaps a fitting ending: put the boat on the Mini, drive to the Saguenay River, wait for proper conditions, suit up, and row her, Tiny Timmy, and myself out a ways to see and hear the whales.

I’m liking this idea.

So, to be sure, until my boat is resting back on the dock here in home waters, the Sojourn to Saguenay will continue. I still have a lot to think and write about….some events and people and ideas that deserve mulling and reflection if only for my own sense of closure. I want to tell you more about Helen and Phil from Essex, Nancy of Portneuf, Gerald and Denise of Levy/Quebec City, Adam of Baie St Paul, rejection at Camp Dudley and Trois Riviere, unconditional hospitality everywhere else, sobering evidence of emerging Canadian (hence worldwide) screen addiction, my first seal, my first whale, my night spent wrapped in a rain tarp on the beach, the heroic role of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Matt’s emerging ambitions as an America’s Cup competitor,

 

and of course my own sobering confrontation with a limitation after thousands of miles in my guideboat….so much to remember and to save, and maybe some of it will be amusing enough to be of interest.

All of this is trivia in the context of Jane’s and her family's circumstances, and I’d ask you only to take a pause right now, close your eyes, and in recalling and embracing a wonderful, warm, spirited, selfless and generous lady in your own life, you’ll be embracing her.  

Big ups,

Al

 

               

 

          

July 7, 2014 - Checking in from the boat

Looking out from the gazebo at Levy Marina, Quebec
 

Al checked in while still in the boat, afraid he may not have a cell signal tonight.

He got a late start this morning after a productive map review with new friend Gerard. So far Al's racked up 18 miles on a flat river in the pouring rain.  The views are beautiful, even in the rain, and he plans to keep rowing until dark.

July 6, 2014 - Portneuf to Quebec City

Parc Nautique Levy, Quebec City

Al had another wild ride today, facing the second highest waves he's ever encountered (after Barnegut Bay - see The Big Row), but still managed to log 38 miles and is spending the night at the Levy Marina in Quebec City.

He first pulled into the Quebec Yacht Club, where he feasted on a dinner of a cheeseburger and 3 cups of coffee.  Unfortunately, they wouldn't let him pitch his tent there, but the marina on the opposite side of the river welcomed him and insisted he spend the night in their gazebo so he would be sheltered from the rain.  (It's been cold, windy, and wet for most of the day).

The best news of the day is that new friend Gerald will be meeting Al for breakfast tomorrow to review and lend him charts for the remainder of the trip!       

July 5 - Trois Rivieres, Quebec to Portneuf, Quebec

7/5/2014 - Trois Rivieres to Portneuf (heaven on earth)

42.5 miles, 9 hours 20 minutes

Portneuf marina 

 

How could a day that started out so problematically end so perfectly?  So far this week I have confronted a ferret (cute), a ground hog (cute, eating a Sabrette hot dog right out of the wrapper), and this morning at 5:30, a skunk barring the way to the Porta-Potti.  I threw a stick; it hissed.  I threw a second stick; it hissed but backed off a bit.  A third stick gave me the advantage sorely needed, and I was in.

But … was I in at a high cost?  A Porta-Potti at 5:40 AM is a place for the quiet contemplation of the wiles of a rodent.  Was he repositioning outside for the perfect shot?  Had he signaled his skunk friends for group participation?  Sadly, the ventilation slits around the top of a Porta-Potti are not suitable for surveillance, and I was in the dark.  I could wait him out; I’ve spent a lot of time in bathrooms and as Porta-Pottis go, this one was pretty nice.  But my book was in the boat, and the river was calling ….

I could use my pack as a shield, but everything I needed to live with for the next two weeks was in it … too smelly to contemplate.

So I did what I had to do: I hit that door like Ray Rice hits the seven hole behind Vonte Leach – I wished Vonte was up front on this one – and blew past that skunk before he could get his tail up.

Arriving back at the boat unscathed, I later felt silly for ‘fist-pumping’ my achievement.  Running past a confused rodent just isn’t that big of a deal, certainly not deserving of a fist pump.

What is a big deal is my current port of call, Portneuf, about 40 miles upstream from Quebec City. Nancy, the charming marina proprietor, met me at the dock and within 4 minutes I had a cold beer, a plate of pate, and a key to the men’s room.  A crowd gathered around, chattering in French and clearly bemused by the spreading word of my adventure.  I needed a friendly port … especially after this morning’s unpleasantness, and I’m settled in for a pleasant night.  OAR VOI !!    

 

 

July 4, 2014 - Trois Rivieres

Marina Trois Rivieres 

Battling cross winds from the north, Al rowed for 9 hours straight today without getting out of the boat, covering 36 miles.  He's spending the night at a campground next to the Marina Trois Rivieres.

Tune in tomorrow for an actual blog from Al himself! 

July 4, 2014 - Mid-day update - between Sorel and Trois Rivieres

Lac Saint Pierre
 

Al is currently slowly working his way through the weeds of a 'dismal swamp,' otherwise known as the Lac Saint Pierre, hoping to make Trois Rivieres by the end of the day.  A strong north wind was sending waves directly into the boat earlier, threatening to swamp it. 

Al originally hoped to row 76 miles today in honor of July 4; at this point he'll be happy with a 30 mile day.

More info on this part of the Saint Lawrence:
http://www.tourismeregionsoreltracy.com/quebec-vacations/discovery/lac-saint-pierre-biosphere-reserve.aspx

July 2, 2014 - Sorel and the St. Lawrence

Entering the Saint Lawrence

Our rowers reached Sorel yesterday afternoon and spent a wet night in a campground there. The highlight of the evening was cocktails on a 42' Beneteau, whose owners raved about Parc Saguenay.

Sadly, Al is losing his rowing companion Thursday morning, as Matt's wife Courtney will rendezvous to pick up him and the boat.  Al plans on spending the day laying in provisions and finally finding charts for the rest of the journey.