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.  

Day 1 - Beginning

Matt and I climbed into our boats on Friday, June 27^th, fueled by coffee (Dark Magic K-Cups), Freihofer’s Corn Toasties (getting very hard to come by, former colleagues!), and the heartfelt if sleepy exhortations of those congregated at my mom’s dock for the 7: 00 AM sendoff.

Join us, please, for Day 1? You can climb out anytime, but I hope you won’t.

Neither Matt nor I had spent much time in the boats “training” for this trip. Matt, to be honest, had yet to touch an oar this season, but five minutes in I could tell that (you pick: a. the exuberance of youth, b. boyish enthusiasm, c. an extraordinary propensity to learn and adapt, d. all of the above) would trump any paucity of preparation on his part. After a quarter mile or so he fiddled with the geometry of the sliding seat, realigned the foot-brace a few millimeters fore or aft, and by the time we reached Elizabeth Island one mile up the lake, Matt had settled into a strong, fluid stroke that suggested- no, it screamed- that Daddykins ® would be the limiting factor on this sojourn. 

If you travel far, invite this man to join you.

Over time and through the wise coaching of cousins Bob and Bean Tarrant (Saratoga Rowing), I’ve learned that speed and efficiency on the water have much to do with just letting the boat run after a power stroke rather than in recoiling quickly and putting more power into the water. This reality is counter-intuitive to the newbie as it would seem that more power applied more often would be the key to speed- and I suppose that it is, in a sprint. But augmenting speed with the endurance required to sustain a 4-5 mph pace for up to nine hours each day calls for a curious combination of competing sensibilities: tight concentration on the moment and one’s technique while suspending the moment’s fatigue or emerging discomfiture….. patience with slow going but sustaining a kind of urgency in maintaining forward motion….maintaining an efficient heading by sighting off of an object behind (remember, we’re facing backwards) while keeping situational awareness of what is ahead. It’s a mixed and sometimes conflicting bag, this rowing is.

Finally, and most importantly, for distances, one must find unqualified joy in the moment. Boat packed and plans set, the euphoric excitement of starting a row of several hundreds of miles soon wears thin as the first blisters emerge or the lower back starts to unionize with the hamstrings and parts in between. Sustaining the excitement of the macro with an appreciation for the little things- the feather of the wake, the crystalline transparency of water receiving cherry oars, the silhouette of the fishing loon or the promising dark ruffles of a breeze building behind- these sights, sounds, and sensations feed and fuel the happy rower or are totally lost on the miserable fellow who is only counting the miles. To my delight but not at all to my surprise, Matt dialed in right away, finding his groove in technique and spirit before we hit Fourteen Mile Island. The gentle quiet between us as we rowed through our first days counts among the richest conversations we have ever had.
Gentle Reader, all l ‘m sayin’ here is that I sure was happy to have Matt as a wingman: MacGuyver in a pinch, the proverbial (and literal) calm man in a storm, a wonderful conversationalist, the keenest of observers and a faultless navigator, I missed him terribly when he had to head home from work two hundred and five miles later…

But hey, it’s no time for lamenting now, right? It’s Day One! Let’s get back in the boat!

So up the lake we headed. The glassy calm of morning morphed into a considerable headwind with twenty miles to go as we labored up the east side of the lake, Matt taking a refreshing dip across from Roger’s Rock while dad ran the calculus of the energy necessary to get in and out of the boat and decided to sit tight for now. We gnawed tentatively on the egg salad sandwiches that mom had put together perhaps three days before, while Matt continued to coach me about the long-term benefits of water over Gatorade (he’s right!).

At about 3 PM we found Peg and Tiny Tim waiting at the Ticonderoga gate where the northern headwaters of Lake George flow into Le Chute and then into Lake Chaplain. We scrambled up and down a rough hill to unload the contents of our boats into the Mini (here’s the math: 1 Minicooper Clubman= 2 Adirondack Guideboats, rounding up), the plan being that Peg would meet us at a downstream park after we had portaged our boats through town on nifty little carts.

Peg is an adored and treasured member of my family in part because her plans make sense and usually work out and this one did, too. After a portage that sparked curiosity and greetings, we put in at the base of La Chute where clear, perfect Lake George water tumbles from a series of rock ledges falls into a large pool perhaps forty feet below, then flows through a stream and a swamp to Champlain, hence to the Richelieu, hence to the St Lawrence….and then past Saguenay? This forty feet or so of vertical separation contributes a great deal to Lake George’s claim as “The Queen of American Lakes.”  The separation of waters (and hence flora and fauna) between LG and the Champlain/Hudson valley is essential to maintaining LG’s unique and fragile ecology; the connecting waters here at La Chute represents the front line of this separation….and protection. Champlain is lovely and the Hudson is extraordinary…but these water systems and environments are unique and must remain so.     

Anyway, we loaded the boats again with our stuff, Timmy showing no interest whatsoever in jointing us as Scupper® or Scout or Comfort Dog, but at least he reassuringly sanctioned the safety of mom’s egg salad sandwiches.

"Go ahead and row, Al; I'll catch up to you later." 

After a final embrace of lovely, heroic Peg, we rowed off from our home waters towards Champlain and beyond. It was by now touching 5 PM. We’d rowed 28 miles, mostly upwind, and it was time to think about our first night ashore.Five miles later, Matt and I came across the very dock that had been the scene of Brian’s “Hasselhoff Moment” three years earlier as he and I had labored home from Ontario. Exhausted after fourteen hours and over fifty miles at the oars and too tired to stand after crawling out of his boat, Brian ate a cheeseburger from a plate placed on the dock in front of him while on all fours. He was too tired to wag his tail…as were we all. (See Row, Canada! for the full story).  

The sun was setting and this site seemed a good launching point for our second day, so Matt and I set up camp on a knoll overlooking the dock adjacent to a parking lot which served a boat-launch ramp. We soon learned that we had established our new home at the site and moment of a fishing tournament, and trucks and trailers circled us all night long. A family told us that a state record for carp- 45 pounds- had been set just a day or so earlier off of that dock, and I asked Rufus, their son, how much he weighed. “Forty one pounds,” replied Rufus, making the connection, I think, but not liking it.

We slept well that night. We’d faced our first headwinds, completed our only portage, and heard a big fish story from a little kid. We were on our way.