Day 9, July 5: Portneuf Pate’, Delivered

During the row Peg occasionally asked me to write a blog entry in longhand, to take a picture of my scribbling with my phone, and then to text it to her so she could transcribe and post material other than real-time tracking shorts of my progress. On July 5^th I wrote about my face-off with The Skunk of Trois Rivieres, a rodent which wilfully contested access to the Porta-Potti at my campsite, and all I would add now is that I still feel bad about my celebratory antics after running past this benign creature. It was silly then, and I feel silly bringing it up now. Let’s just move on, OK?

Original Text.....For the Ages

As I heat up my coffee on the beach this morning, my lil’ transistor radio is filled with Canadian commentary regarding the pending anniversary of last year’s tragedy; on July 6^th, a runaway train hauling oil derailed and exploded in the town of Lac-Megantic, not far away, killing 47 people. The blaze could be seen from space, and the long-term effects on the people and environment of the region occupied the airways all day. Along with tributes to heroic first responders, many callers worried that train safety – and the hauling of oil in particular- still had not received necessary scrutiny. The discussion reminded me of the impossibly long “oil train” that had passed Matt and me along the New York shore of Lake Champlain last week; the train- more than one hundred oil tank cars rolling along a track directly adjacent to the shore- took thirty minutes to fully pass us. We later noticed a poster in a marina calling on people in the Adirondacks to action in protest of growing rail shipments of oil through a region that would be devastated with a Megantic-like accident. Our addiction to fossil fuels seems to make such an event inevitable.

Boat packed, stretches done, skunk outwitted, and map sectioned and at hand, I launch for my second full day on the St Lawrence. The strong northwesterly wind and the downstream current offer me a morning’s rocket ride, my only concern being whether the wind will trouble the water into waves that will pose too much of a problem. My guideboat handles following waves very well but requires very close vigilance; if the plumb bow finds a lateral line during a run down the backside of a wave and veers left or right, an unmanageable “broach” will ensue….and an unwelcomed swim will immediately follow. Keeping the boat on the aquatic fall line is the prime imperative all morning long.    

Have you ever had one hand on the wheel while fishing around for that Slim Jim® you know is buried somewhere under the jumper cables behind the passenger seat?

Anyway, the morning’s Quebecois sleighride continues into the afternoon. At about 2:00 I pull off at a small beach to stretch a bit and discover a phalanx of truly spectacular Porta-Potties, a detail I mention here not out of prurient adolescent fixation but only because if you had been with me then, Gentle Reader, and if you were with me at this moment, you’d say, “Al, remember those Porta-Potties north of Portneuf? Unbelievable! You’ve gotta’ put them in.” Of course you’re right to wonder what particular features might catapult a Porta-Pottie from merely a welcomed surprise to “Unbelievable!” in a blog. Well-finished FRP construction, elevated above the ground and served by elegant aluminum stairs, ventilated by generous windows and stocked with three-ply toilet paper, these Best-In-Show Porta-Potties get a tip of the wide-brimmed hat from this grateful sojourner.

Tip 'o the Hat to "Unbelievable!"

The marina at Portneuf is nestled behind an enormous circular stone jetty and even though I’m reluctant to give up the great conditions that have enabled me to rack up a 45 mile + day, this looks like a good place to put in. The chart suggests I’d be pushing it if I rolled the dice any further. The boat and I are looking a little weatherworn as I grab the dock at the marina and before I can get out of the boat, a small crowd gathers. In my halting French accent I explain my situation and ask if I might pitch a tent somewhere nearby and within minutes, Hospitality is defined. The boat next to me delivers two cold beers and a plate of bread and pate’. Two cold beers and pate’, Gentle Reader, delivered-to-the-boat. De-liv-er-ed. Nancy, the marina manager, not only consents to my request about the tent but augments the beer with a dinner reservation.

The Boss Delivers...thanks, Nancy!

Dany and (yet another) Nancy applaud my madness and soon present me with a bowl of incredibly delicious freshly-picked strawberries, lamenting that Americans are too fixated on California produce and should look to the north, not to the west, for quality. Based on these plump berries and their congeniality (berries and hosts), I agree wholeheartedly.

Berries Across the Border?

This is a friendly place indeed and I immediately feel at home. Refreshed by a shower and basking in celebrity, I look forward to a great dinner and a sound night’s sleep before my assault on Quebec City tomorrow. But before I turn in, can I jump up on my soapbox for a minute?

I sit at the rail of a balcony overlooking the basin of the marina, the St Lawrence outside, and the vertical granite cliffs of the far shore bathed in the pink light of sunset. Silos and rich green fields direct one’s view to the horizon and painted clouds beyond. Two freighters ply the river, laboring north, sending up elegant bow waves and lending an oceanic tincture to a decidedly rural portrait. Seated across from me amid this splendor are two couples and two boys, ages eight and twelve, I’d guess, waiting for their dinners as well. The couples are engaged in animated conversation that I wish I could comprehend. The boys are looking into their respective screens.

The tankers pass. Sailboats are turning in for the night. The place is abuzz and yet settling in, a wonderful tableau…and soon, dinner is served.

The boys do not look up.

The boys do not look up from their screens for seventy minutes.

No conversation, no social contact, not a word is spoken as fingers fly. There is no sighting of the tankers, no glances upwards as meals arrive or acknowledgment of a service provided. The food is shoveled in around the sightlines to the screens. Chewing is labored when it takes place at all. Eyes are glazed…almost unblinking. The (assumed) parents regale one another while the boys- for seventy minutes- are in a different world...and are left to stay there.

I remember learning a lot from watching and listening to my parents and their friends in social settings. I remember fighting boredom with the power of my imagination. I even remember being miserable in settings where I wanted to run around and explore but had to remain at the table. I remember, too, the warmth of acknowledgment now and then, being invited into a snippet of an adult conversation, a moment of community and acknowledgment, a brick in the foundation of  maturity.

Many of those of you who know me may see my concerns about the screen lives of our young as a fixation, but I have to ask: What will these boys remember of this pristine night in Portneuf? Where did those seventy minutes go? What might this new construct suggest about their futures?

Overly dramatic, perhaps? I hope so. I really do.

Tomorrow: Quebec City at last?

      

        

   

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.