Day 10, July 6 : First Signs….

 

Leaving Portneuf felt a bit like leaving home yet again: delightful people, convenient amenities, a protected harbor, hot water…but with a bit of a push I’d make Quebec City today, and the push had to start early. I’d texted Phil and Helen to see if they were behind me in their newly re-masted Beneteau, but they had yet to depart Sorel; getting the mast up and secured is one thing, but accurately rigging the umpteen miles of lines and cords that hang from it all is yet another. I let them know that Portneuf was a great port even without a storm and that they should make a point of stopping. Maybe Phil could talk some sense into the Screen family.

I felt like a cork coming out of a bottle as I hit the main stream from the marina basin; a standing wave ripped across the river where the turbulent main course hit the relatively still water of the harbor. Before traversing it to the main channel I pulled up to take it all in. It was daunting but seemed manageable. Nevertheless, I slipped into my lifejacket….and I would remain in it all day for the first time in over 2,000 miles of rowing. 

“Daunting but seems manageable” became my rubric for the next three days on the water, but like grade inflation, my standards began to creep as I made progress through increasing risk and found success in tamping down the “daunt”. This creep in judgment vs. reality would bring my rowing to an end in two more days.

If yesterday was a sleigh ride, today’s ride was a roller coaster as the winds continued to build and the current picked up in a narrowing river. Every mile closer to the Atlantic was delivering a stronger tidal effect and on this morning, my Machmeter indicated a groundspeed of better than 7 mph through the swells. I was estimating only a bit more than forty miles to Quebec City and at this pace I’d be there for a late lunch. Yeeehaaa!!...right?

Gentle Reader, no doubt you’ve heard expressions like “less is more” or “scarcity breeds demand”? How about “go slow to go fast”? “Slow and steady wins the race”? “Haste makes waste”? “Don’t run with scissors in your hands”? Well, maybe the scissors thing doesn’t really fit but the idea here, the irony, I guess, is that this morning I’d been given a trifecta of natural phenomenon that any rower would welcome: a following current, an outgoing tide, and strong tailwind. On still water, each would be a blessing. In combination on a river rapidly morphing into ocean, they became unusable at best…and opponents at worst.

As the waves built and soon became as confused and randomly directed as the 113^th Congress, I pulled down my diminutive “pusher sail” (good for tailwinds, bad for gales), dropped out of my sliding seat (good for power and efficiency, bad for center of gravity and stability), and settled into my fixed wicker seat. For long stretches I had to stop rowing altogether simply to maintain a safe heading relative to the large waves that were building and breaking around me. At times I even turned around, facing forward, stabbing at the water with directional, not propulsive, strokes in order to be able to see and take a path through the most threatening stuff.

As I read what I have just written, I wonder why I did not simply pull for shore to wait it out. In fact, my handwritten journal at the end of the day carries this closing sentence: “Took too many chances today in open water, pushing for speed and line. Took sail down twice after scaring myself…a dump (in the water) would have ended it all. Gotta’ slow down/ take time out!”

Did I really need to be ashore, safe and dry in my sleeping bag, to have this epiphany? The fact is that on the water, in the middle of it all, concentrating on staying upright and keeping the worst of the water out of the boat, knowing that you are making progress even if more at the whim of the river than your own heavy labor, the impulse is to stay at it, keep going, plug away, press on. Perhaps because I have spent a lot of time on many trips rowing against headwinds, currents, and waves, when the cards were with me this day- even if they were one quick draw away from overpowering me- my unthinking impulse was to keep going, to make progress, to take advantage of any serendipity regardless of seemingly manageable risk. As a former pilot I’m reminded of the malady of “get-home-itis” that plagues aviators who hazard flights through conditions beyond their experience or ability. You read the accident reports of crashes based on this “probable cause” and you say, “What poor judgment. Why didn’t he just wait it out? What could have been so important to have risked it all?”

These questions are rarely answered. They hang there, hoping to be used as lessons for the rest of us. 

So “daunting but manageable” got me to Quebec City late in the day, but the trifecta had compelled me to slow down, to limp into port in a cold downpour. I’d eaten only Nature Valley granola bars and water all day and, famished and freezing, I pulled into the Quebec City Yacht Club wondering if the 1% might be feeling generous this day. I noted that there was not another boat like mine in their inventory. A taciturn bureaucrat would not grant me permission to pitch a tent on their property but was perfectly happy to sell me an early dinner, and I was too tired to be righteously indignant. Sitting alone in their capacious dining room, dripping an expanding puddle on the flagstone floor and making periodic forays to the Men’s Room to warm myself with the hand dryer, I feasted.

I asked the Yacht Club Manager where I might find success pitching a tent for the night (hoping that he might relent at the last minute seeing as how I was obviously harmless, had just dropped a fortune on an early dinner at his empty establishment, and would leave no footprint of my presence the following morning). He said that downstream, a few miles past the city, a municipal beach on the east side was sometimes “used by those kayakers for such purposes.” I asked him about the small marina that was directly across the river from us in a clearly industrial-looking area, and he frowned and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, no. No, don’t go there.” 

Back in the boat in the cold rain of a grey evening, facing the river again just north of Quebec City, I rowed directly to Levy.

Today I’d picked up the first signs of the ocean ahead…a first taste of salt, a first taste of ceding control to the water….a first taste of doubt.

But tonight, I would sleep well at Levy.    

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 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.    

Day 5, July 1. Locking Down to Mayhem

 Waking up on a wet dock in St Jean sur Richelieu did nothing to inhibit our typical get-going-itis, but this morning our start would be reliant upon the opening of the first lock at 8 AM. We packed the boats, tidied up in the marina’s men’s room, and prowled into town for breakfast. This town sleeps well after a street festival, and it took some time and the obvious gesticulating with an amiable street sweeper to locate a breakfast nook.

Some Fast Facts about St Jean while we wait for the lock to open?

·       5,750 of its inhabitants commute to Montreal , while only 745 Montrealers work in St Jean. None seemed in evidence this morning. If you like St Jean sur Richelieu and hate traffic, live in Montreal.

·       Hockey legend Bernard (Boom Boom) Geoffrion and 1993 World Champion figure skater Isabelle Brasseur both call it home. We walked past an impressive gymnastics training center but saw no ice until our water arrived in the diner. The locks and canal, as it turns out, are popular skating venues in the winter.

·       The Chambly Canal’s ten swing bridges and nine locks (all “down” as we head north) are designated as a National Historical Site of Canada and many of them, including all of the locks, are hand-operated.

·       If I were a college kid or an aging teacher, operating a lock would be just about the coolest summer job ever. The lockkeepers wear these great uniforms with cute little beavers on the pockets.

Breakfast done, I arrived at the first lock on foot because we had to purchase passes for the system ahead. The lockkeeper had no extra uniforms (hey, no harm in asking, right?) but did say that after we passed his lock, he’d be the first of eight lockkeepers to call ahead to his colleagues after we’d passed; we could expect an easy, delay-free passage today. Cool.

The locking-through process is a snap. After the lock doors open and a green light is issued, you power into the concrete and stone chamber to either wall and grab a rope. The doors close, you remain along the wall by hanging on to the rope, and the still water of the lock gently descends to the next level as the valves behind you are opened. The doors at the other end then open and- voila!- out you go, rowing out onto the canal and the next lock.

 

The eight-mile transit of the Chambly Canal is advertised as taking from three to five hours, but the very light traffic and total attentiveness of the lockkeepers enabled us to proceed more quickly even though we didn’t want to rush this pleasant row. Flanked by charming houses, a bike path, and lovely fields, the canal’s narrow width also provides a rower with a sense of speed. As the day grew hot, the tree-lined shores provided some shade but no breeze, a stark contrast from the wide waters of Lake Champlain.  

Heading north, the canal terminates in Chambly at a flight of three locks in succession in a dramatic descent to the Chambly Basin. We paused for lunch at the top of the flight, leaving the boats at a park and enjoying an expansive view of the Basin below. We commented on the strong building wind and the density of the boat traffic. Then I was distracted by a plate of spaghetti. Just for the carbs. Need the carbs.

Back in the boats after lunch, we entered the “flight” and immediately began to chat it up with the gathering crowd. We were “it” on a busy day, Canada Day, and our journey seemed to fascinate the gathered vacationers. One very kind family offered their house for our next overnight (“we’re about 20 kilometers miles upstream…two red chairs on the lawn...you can’t miss it…”).

We pushed out of the third and final lock at about two o’clock, rowing into Chambly Basin, a circle of aquatic mayhem or, more precisely, 

The Evacuation of Dunkirk as Reenacted at Skippy’s Water Park during Hurricane Andrew on Canada Day, When There Are No Rules…and No Limits.

The Chambly Basin, a small lake of perhaps two miles in diameter, feeds the narrow band of river to the north where we were headed. The winds had piped up very dramatically, creating stiff, nasty cresting waves which competed for dominance against the confusion of the boat wakes…and there were boats, scores and scores of boats, all being driven either at that particular speed before planning which guarantees the largest possible wake…. or at 70 miles per hour. Nothing in between. Add to this mayhem the whine of jet-skis (some carrying riders), windsurfers and kite-surfers riding and sometimes flying the breeze at easily 30 knots, and even a figure along the shore wearing a jet pack which enabled him to rise above it all on two marbled pillars of water. Biblical, really.
The strong wind, confused and dangerous waves, and cacophony of internal combustion precluded any conversation; eye contact and frantic gestures confirmed that we simply had to row for our lives through it all, which we somehow did, arriving at the narrow continuation of the Richelieu River in relief, amazement…and in hysterics. The Canadians put a lot of livin’ into Canada Day even if living to the next day takes some concentration and effort.

The rest of the day seemed almost anti-climactic; we again enjoyed the current north and a tailwind, enabling Matt to move to SailPlan Revision 3.0 and for us to make great time along waters that bedeviled me three years ago. I recalled a particular point during Row, Canada! that presented Brian and me a particular “all-or-nothing” challenge in the dead of night…a narrow channel under a railroad bridge that required us to row at maximum effort until we could pass, and my memory of the painfully glacial progress we made against the current until we could reach shore prompted me to glance at the Mach Meter as we passed under: 8.1 mph. Give 5 to Matt and me and the rest to the river. Brian, today was a good day to go downstream.

At dusk we pulled into a campground on the eastern shore….two red chairs faced us from the yard across the river, but we saw no sign of anyone….and were given the OK to pitch our tents anywhere and use the facilities just as the mosquitoes began stir for the evening. Two tuna pouches and some Starbucks Mochas saw us to bed on a verdant lawn with the boats bobbing gently in front and threats of “tornado” issuing from the radio.

After the Chambly Basin, we laughed. “Tornado.” What fun.

A View from a Tent......

 

                    

Day 4, June 30: Oh, Canada at Last!

While Matt and I slumber at Mooney Bay on the morning of June 30^th, might we nip to now and examine this writer’s present moment…just for a moment?

It’s just before seven as I sit at Brian’s dining room table at Lake George. It’s perfectly calm, the quiet broken only by birds and the gentle murmurs of Mr. Coffee in the next room. As the sun crests Pilot’s Knob, 32 miles of pristine water cradled in the Adirondacks glisten outside, water ultimately and inevitably destined for a ride over La Chute, a trip up Champlain, a course along the Richelieu, and an eventual procession through the St Laurence, past the Saguenay River to the sea.

In a cup at Pitch Pine Point or bordered by the Adirondacks, tumbling over La Chute or scaring the crap out of an oarsman forty-two miles east of Quebec City, was this water once all of one? Water, like people, is labeled for its boundaries and borders, identified not for what it is but for where it lives or for what holds, controls, or shapes it. Water can be seen in a molecule or a drop but takes on its identity in a cup, a lake, a river, or an ocean. Has that happy droplet lapping the gently sloping shore of Brian’s bay right now once rubbed elbows with the droplets contributing to my extreme discomfort off of Baie St Paul? What’s the history of this water in my cup? Where is confluence in the Ukraine, and when did the individual who launched that missile last tuck a child into bed?

Were my boat here and not in Quebec I’d be rowing, not writing. And if I had the next Great American Novel in me, here is where I’d write it. But for now I’ll let this Kosmic Moment pass, perhaps take one more cup out to the point, and get back to writing about the row. After all, Matt and I have a border to cross and a loathed river to revisit!

Better get back to writing....

Back in the boats for our third day on Lake Champlain, Matt and I were pretty sure that we’d make the Canadian border but less certain about our state upon arrival; dark cumulus clouds more typical of a late summer afternoon storm were already well developed by seven in the morning, and soon out of Mooney Bay we were wrapped in heavy, penetrating rain. The wind came up from the south again so we were able to deploy our running gear, but keeping a sightline on shore was not so easy as visibility began to deteriorate. Think “buckets” of rain…the kind of leaden rain that makes water dance and hat brims thunder…and you’ll have it.

Happily, and perhaps in no small measure due to the controlling beneficence of our present Administration, the rain abated as we approached the Canadian border at Rouses Point. Matt and I used the Customs Dock and the advice of a most pleasant officer to walk into town for a late breakfast at The Squirrel’s Nest. Wouldn’t you? A plate of eggs, another cup ‘o joe, and a spot ‘o corned beef hash later, the sun met us for our walk back to the boat and an easy crossing to Canada.   

The delightfully casual Canadian countenance that greeted Brian and me three years ago on our way home from Ontario has been beefed up considerably. Two stern, armed, Kevlar-jacketed gentlemen asked for our IDs and our intentions, might have cocked an eyebrow or two behind the aviator glasses in hearing “Saguenay,” but then passed us on to the suction of the upper Richelieu.

I carry a small GPS unit in the boat not so much for navigation purposes as for monitoring boat speed and, in doing so, in trying to assess the current. On flat water at cruising speed, Matt and I sustain about 4.5 to 4.7 mph. Up to now the wind had been the only variable on this progress, mostly for the better. With a tailwind and maybe a bit of sail to augment our rowing, I’d seen episodic registers of “5.5” or even “6.0” on the Mach meter and, of course, numbers as low as “2.8” or “3.2” when nature pushed back. But now, in water flowing north from Champlain into the Richelieu River at an increasing rate, the very current that bedeviled Brian and me back in 2011 again exerted her grip (see “Row, Canada!”…ibid, Brian, “goddamned Richelieu!” and “I’ll be glad never to see this place again.”). Our flat-water pace now generated 5.0, 5.1…5.2 as the lake narrowed and we entered the top of the river. When the south winds built later in the day, the new standard would be six. Oh, what a difference a compass heading makes!

Almost forty miles into the day brought us to St. Jean sur Richelieu and the top of the first lock of the Chambly Canal, a great place to stop if not to camp. Peter, allegedly the marina owner, allowed us to pitch our tents on the dock next to the boats…not the most comfortable ground, but convenient. Peter’s restaurant roasted a steer for me and we hit the hay amid the festivities of a pre-Canada Day festival. Late at night it began to rain and since my rain tarp was now a part of Matt’s sailing kit, he graciously allowed me entrance to his capacious tent during the downpour. This prince of mine….he’d been living like a king, I learned. But I sure appreciated his hospitality.

Objects on the plate may appear closer than they are...but not larger.

Today we crossed the border, remained thoroughly soaked for much of the day, felt the embrace of favorable currents, and ate well.

Tomorrow we’ll hit our first locks… and then barely survive Skippy’s Charnel House of Aquatic Mayhem, eh? 

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.

July 7, 2014 - Night on the St. Lawrence

Al did continue rowing until dark, when the combination of rocks, waves, and wind convinced him that it was time to go ashore.  (He's again thankful that his boat is made of Kevlar.)  His GPS had stopped working at some point, so he wasn't sure exactly where he landed, although he did know that it was 47.5 miles from his starting point in Quebec City.  He was on a narrow beach and could see a town about 18 feet up a steep cliff. 

With the tide rapidly rising, Al decided that he should find a better place to spend the night.  He finally came to rest about another half mile down the river, location still unknown, although he was looking at the bottom of a ski lift if anyone would like to try to figure it out!

Day 2 Map - June 28

June 28, 2014 - Essex NY

Al and Matt have reached Essex, NY, where they had a pasta dinner and are waiting until dark to pitch tents in a park near the marina. They rowed 35 miles today on completely flat water. The only mishap was dropping the maps in the water, but they should be dry by morning.

Al, as usual, is developing major blisters on his right hand.  He says that Matt is an indefatigable rower and a great companion!

June 27, 2014 - And they're off!

Al and Matt left right on schedule a little after 7 this morning. It's a beautiful day on Lake George to start the row; a little bit of a north wind working against them when they pushed off but it seems to have completely died down.  After a quick stop for coffee at the Ashtons', they're aiming to make Ticonderoga and the portage to Lake Champlain by mid-afternoon!

Day 1 Map - June 27

June 25, 2014: Training by Climbing?

Today I’ve slapped some more varnish on my boat and oars…a plausible excuse to stay off the water and “train” in different ways while the varnish dries in the boathouse.

It’s pouring rain this afternoon, but this morning I took a vigorous hike up the mountain which faces our camp. I think a slog like that counts for training. Rocky might have carried a log on his back or rocks in his pack, but I’m not Rocky: I carried an i-Pod and kept a hand free for the bugs. There may have been some risk in this outing, my first extended uphill climb since Achilles tendon surgery last August, yet the leg and foot were pain-free and responsive. In May my doctor prescribed “A Summer in the Adirondacks” as the next step in my rehabilitation, and I’m taking him at his word. He’s my kind of doc.

This afternoon Peg and I provisioned a bit. You “shop” if you live on land, but you “provision” if you are taking it afloat, and for those of you planning to follow in your own boats, here’s a cut at our present store: Raisinets® , pouch-pack tuna, water and Gatorade®, granola, Raisinets ®, assorted power bars, Starbucks Via® packs, Raisinets ®, dehydrated  stew, dehydrated spaghetti, Raisinets ®,  an assemblage of beef jerky, crab shorts, light PJ pants for sun protection for the legs, Raisinets ®, batteries for the radio, Hermit cookies (almost gone!) and sun goop.

It’s only a 15’ boat; I’ll have to remember to leave room for me. 

I’ll confess that I also splurged on something called Endurox®, a magical “recovery powder” that a very athletic co-sextegenarian had shared with Brian and me three years ago during Row, Canada. Gentle Reader, I’m not a big fan of mysterious multi-syllabic miracle cures (except, obviously, for Raisinets®), but this stuff worked then and I’m counting on it to work again starting on Friday night.

Otherwise, it’s been a pretty uneventful and relaxing day. It’s pouring in buckets at this very moment and I am mindful that this weather, if repeated in 48 hours, may not stop the rowing but it sure will introduce real- if enlightened- discomfiture.

There’s still a Hermit left, and fresh coffee. Gotta go train.

Mo ‘latah,

Al

June 24, 2014: Training by Actually Rowing

The Think System is behind me. Yesterday I climbed into my boat and rowed.  

Resetting the ergonomics of the sliding seat, ensuring the proper security and lubrication of the oarlocks, arranging the handy little bungee cords I use to secure stuff along the sides…to be honest, all of this took longer to accomplish than the actual seven-mile initial outing. And to be totally honest - and why not be?- this brief foray on the water was itself punctuated by two separate coffee stops: Brian’s house is 2.2 miles north of my mom’s, and I can always count on him for a strong cup ‘o Joe, great insights on the news, and the epiphany that if we both head north for 1.3 miles more, Bob and Tina will augment our coffee with muffins until, well, until it’s time to head home.

That’s how I got to seven miles, four cups of coffee, and two muffins by noon yesterday.  

“Al,” you may be asking, “what did seven miles, four leisurely cups, and two Everything Muffies teach you yesterday about your state of preparedness for your journey?

Yours is a fair and good question, Gentle Reader, one that should be considered in the incubator of history. In 1969, Apollo 11 took one and one half preliminary orbits around the earth, going nowhere but checking systems and gaining steam before heading off to the moon. But nobody sits down next to you in a diner, stares into the curdled cream in his coffee, and sighs, “Man, those Apollo guys sure were something to take those extra one and one half orbits before they headed off to the moon….” And when Indy was over, did anybody ask, “Hey, how many warm-up laps did Ryan Hunter-Reay take before that flag went down?”  I think not. And Hillary? She traveled 956,733 miles as Secretary of State, far more than I will in the coming weeks. Does anyone ever ask how far she rowed before she started her remarkable round of itinerant diplomacy?

I rest my case. We each prepare in our own ways. But the chickens will come home to roost on Friday morning at 7AM when the orbits end, the flag does down, the wheels go up, and Saguenay sits 560 miles off the bow.

Today, I rest. It’s my way.

Mo’ latah!

Al    

June 20, 2014: Still training. Training hard(ly).

Whew! Today I washed and waxed the Mini. “Wax on, wax off….wax on, wax off….” I imagined the stoical Mr. Miyagi standing by, arms folded, nodding imperceptibly as long-dormant musculature came back to life, generously overlooking the fact that Daniel-san was 14 back in ’84 and had something to work with. The Mini, significantly smaller than the ’46 Buick that was the object of the Karate Kid’s labors, enabled me to stumble inside to a training Guinness (“a food, not beer”) before any real damage was done.

“So much, for now, regarding the motor’s continuing overhaul, Al. Don’t let it get tedious. But what about the hull? What are you rowing?”  

Ah, Gentle Reader, thanks for the counsel and candor. You’re right. I’m (usually) only a few keystrokes from tedious if not already over the line. Let me try to pull it back from the edge.

Permit me to offer a tip ‘o the wide-brimmed hat and this link to the Adirondack Guide Boat Company in Vergennes, Vermont.  http://www.adirondack-guide-boat.com/ Having rowed my guide boat for more than a few thousands of miles through all kinds of weather, water, and “inadvertent contacts,” I can assure you that any superlative that these otherwise modest craftsmen ascribe to their boats is grossly understated.  Easily driven, stable under a load, and as durable as Vermont craftsmanship and Kevlar can make her, the Adirondack guide boat is the perfect vessel for this kind of trip. And if an elegant sheer line between plumb ends defines “salty good looks,” she’s got that, too. During The Big Row in ’06, I suggested that if parents ditched the jet-skis and put their kids into one of these boats instead, threw in a jug of water and some tuna sandwiches and told them to get lost for a few days, lives -and the environment- would improve. Better yet, if the parents themselves parked the Clorox Bottle, picked up the oars and a saucy Merlot and adopted, if only for a few days, the liberating spirit of enlightened discomfiture, things- big things- would be better yet.

So tomorrow (Saturday) I’ll actually climb into my boat for the first time this year and yes, the training (as defined by actually rowing) will indeed begin in earnest. I’ve already slapped some fresh varnish on the gunwales and oars, and it’s a tribute to these boats that so little has to be done to ensure safety for so long. Hands must harden and, to be honest, derrieres must acclimate (TMI?), as these are the repetitive-motion contact points with boat, but Old Paint herself is resting…waiting…ready.

No wax on, wax off for her.

Let’s just get going, she says.        

Big ups..’mo latah.

Al