Endings (Mr. Frei)

 

Each day during the row there arrived a particular moment when we had to consider where we were going to pull up for the night. Sometimes that moment occurred over our morning coffee when we would peruse the map, assess our own stores of energy and provisions, and decide on a worthy destination. These decisions were easy when rowing the canals; the locks themselves suggested logical legs, and the protected waters enabled us to plan ahead without having to react to winds or waves.

More often, however, the decision of where and when to end the day was made on the fly as weather or fatigue weighed in, sometimes overriding our boyish enthusiasm to continue.  With but twenty miles under our keels on the early afternoon of June 28,for example, we were getting hammered by a building crosswind on a broad stretch of the Ottawa River. We’d put together a string of 32 mile days and at that moment, twenty miles seemed a short effort. But we looked across the choppy water at one another, surveyed the distant shores, and spotted a lone steeple on the horizon perhaps three miles distant. Over the strong gusts Brian declared, “Let’s head to the church.” Gentle Reader, believe me when I tell you that when a Rooney declares that he or she would like to head to a church, a moment of import has arrived. And it was the right call. The weather built quickly, two thunderstorms soon rolled through, and rejuvenating cheeseburgers were captured only one mile inland. Any mention of St. Placide, to me, will forever bring a sigh, a smile…and a confirmation of the occasional power of intuitive, spontaneous decision making.

But as I sit here on the back patio in Baltimore on a perfect mid-August morning, I wrestle with the prospect of ending this blog, an ending I’ve been subconsciously avoiding, I think, because the journey has been such a delight. Putting a wrap on the writing is, for me, as bittersweet as was pulling the boat up on the beach at Lobster Night on July 8th; the row had ended, Brian’s steady companionship in the shared journey had ended, and the exploration of new waters and personal limits was, for now, over. Kathy promises to translate it all into a book embellished with new photos, Brian will add a wonderful article he has contributed to a travel blog out in LA, and some of you might even wish to add a final comment or two that will be included in that publication (do it soon!). To be honest, I feel a certain profound sadness at ending this commentary, and yet I’m simultaneously overwhelmed with gratitude as I think of how lucky I am to enjoy the friendships and good health that have made the adventure possible.

So we’ll end it now, unless Brian adds yet one more erudite nugget before Kathy gets to the business of building the book. I hope that he will because he says in a paragraph what I say in a page, and a tight paragraph is always better than a padded page. I know this to be true. I teach 8^th grade English.

In closing, though, I’d like to share some final pictures with you…images that never reached the lens of any camera but will, for me, forever define the joy of this adventure.

First, here’s a picture of Brian- I have hundreds of mental pictures of Brian – this one of his cedar boat bathed in the golden light of late afternoon on Lake Champlain, the bow parting a feather of silver water with each stroke as he pulls strongly under the deep green backdrop of the Adirondacks. It’s a perfect picture.

Oh! Here’s another picture of Brian sitting at the picnic table we’d camped next to at Brewer Lock on our first morning together. He’s heating coffee water on the little Pocket Rocket burner. It was at this moment that I knew each morning would be sublime. This too is a perfect picture, but in a different way.

Ah…look at the way the joggers and roller-bladers on shore seem to be stationary figures as we row with them through downtown Ottawa. They don’t seem to want to maintain eye contact as we row at their pace and really, who can blame them? We’re water-born vagabonds and they, urban sophisticates, are at this moment wondering about the wisdom of their relatively open borders.

Here’s one of many similar images: we’re locking down on the Rideau and Brian, gently holding the guide rope on the far wall of the lock, has fully reclined in his boat, his Tilley hat rakishly drawn over his eyes, taking advantage of a few minutes of respite until we’ll be rowing again. Is he napping? It’s a picture of casual competence if ever there was one.

Woah! Now here’s a dramatic photo! A fierce squall has just hit us just north of Montreal, the waves so high that Brian’s boat literally disappears between whitecaps and blowing foam! And what’s this? If you look closely, Gentle Reader, there’s Brian again stretched out in his boat, legs casually crossed, an arm draped over the oar he’s using for steerage as he surfs at breakneck speeds down rollers propelled by his gaudy orange beach umbrella. Casual competence…or sheer lunacy? After 500 miles with him, I can tell you it’s the former.

Oh! Here are Peg and Kathy, Support Team Extraordinaire, who have appeared from out of nowhere on a dock along the bank of the loathed Richelieu River. They bear cold beverages, news from the outside world, and encouragement. Peg is wearing her cool khaki shorts, a natty newly-crafted “Row, Canada!” Team t- shirt, and a smile. After I tether my boat, I like hugging her.

This shot’s not especially clear; it’s dark at almost 10:00PM on July 7^th, the night before our finish, and we’ve just arrived at Ticonderoga after rowing 48 miles in 14 hours. That’s Brian down on all fours on a dock eating a gourmet hamburger. It’s a “Hasselhoff” moment, I’m told. He was tired, but he was not too tired to chew.

Be advised: this image could be PG-13. In the low light of evening I’m lying in my tent, examining its fabric ceiling. I’ve just finished tracking down and eliminating each and every mosquito that could plague my sleep. See all of those red streaks? The mosquitoes have been dispatched, but not before they’ve had their fill first.

This penultimate mental picture is my view of my own boat while rowing. At the bottom of the picture you see my weathered feet braced against the foot-block which itself is buffered by rags to reduce blistering. The oar handles are left and right. That smooth cherry wood has propelled me through almost two thousand miles of water over the last few years. The Igloo cooler you see on the wicker stern seat carries the remnants of the day’s provisions, and the short cedar deck beyond frames the small wake I leave behind as I row. I like this picture because while the foreground images are constant, the water, hues, and horizon change from minute to minute.

Brian, this final picture is of you. It’s a face shot one morning after you’d let that beard start to come in…a bit silver, a bit sun-touched, a very salty look indeed. The eyes carry that observant light which animates your every waking moment, and you suppress a hint of the smile that I treasure when it breaks through. But I like this picture most because of what it reminds me about unconditional friendship, the kind that requires no effort and calls for a lot of care. In this picture I see the roust-about, irreverent, energetic, lovable kid I grew up with echoed in the remarkable man I so admire and love today, and I am reminded of what a treasure it has been to spend eighteen uninterrupted days with you. I think that I like this picture most of all.

Thanks, Brian. I love ya, man. And Bob, I still love you, too.

So much for the final pictures… but I’m not finished with the thanks.

Thanks to those of you who contributed money to the fundraising effort; we raised more than $7,000 for Boys’ Latin and, in a belated effort, almost $4,000 for Loomis Chaffee. Our students and their parents thank you…and the kids’ teachers thank you, too.

Thanks to Peg and Kathy for their untiring efforts to get us through when chips were down.

Thanks to Cecile, Emma, and Katherine for sharing their dad for a few weeks.

Thanks to Matt “McGuyver” Freihofer for taking a huge day off -and for a very full day of problem solving - to get us safely on the water.

Thanks, Mom, for the boat and the genes. Even though I had no say in the matter, I’d pick you.

Finally, thanks again to Mo of Rockland. Mo, that was a big one.

Ending now, for now.

Love,

Mr. Frei

       

 

       

         

        

Variety (Mr. Frei)

Photo courtesy of Dave Rosen

Before we started, Brian and I knew that we’d be rowing across a variety of waterscapes. Even a child leafing through a Best Western Road Atlas could easily divine that the Rideau and Richelieu are “canals”, the Ottawa and St. Lawrence are “rivers”, and Champlain and George are “lakes”. Yet one of the unexpected pleasures of this row was, indeed, its variety. This is not to say that each distinct leg was pleasurable; we loved the Rideau, for example, and yet have already cited the explorer Samuel deChamplain, who said of the Richelieu, “…we had all the misery of the world trying to paddle the river upstream.” So did we, Sam. So did we.

Certainly, my earlier rows offered a variety of waterways. In 2006, “The Big Row” carried me down the Hudson and up the Delaware rivers, through some big waters along New Jersey and in the Chesapeake Bay, and through the C&D Canal. Later, the Erie Canal was – no surprise! – a canal with a few lakes sprinkled in, and in 2009, “Mr. Frei Rows to Washington” covered the broad waters of the Chesapeake with the gentle (if heartless) Potomac River pushing back at the very end. But none of these journeys offered so many abrupt transitions between such a variety of waterways. Not all canals, lakes, or rivers are alike. Want to hear some highlights?

As Brian has already shared, the 125-mile Rideau is actually a river joining Lake Ontario with Ottawa through a chain of lakes connected by an elaborate, elegant, beautifully preserved canal system. Our first days on the Rideau were rainy….and yet essentially perfect. No current affected our progress and we rowed for hours at a time bathed in cooling rain, serenaded by the haunting calls of loons, surprised by fish leaping all about, mesmerized by herons soaring silently alongside or overhead, all mirrored by pristine, clear water. The Rideau’s locks – 45 of them – came in clusters and provided both welcome breaks from rowing as well as delightful campsites at the end of each day. The lakes ranged from intimate pond-like bodies connected in chains by narrow passages and canals to larger, twelve-mile lakes calling for care in navigation, an eye to the weather, and perseverance when the wind was on the nose. Brian might agree that if we were to retrace only one leg of our journey, it would be the Rideau. On a five hundred mile journey remarkable for its variety of scenery and setting, the Rideau itself shines as a microcosm of variety. I hope that its pristine natural stretches will remain so; while there are many adorable old-timey cottages and bungalows tastefully sited and only a few McMansions spoiling the landscape, it’s the wide swaths of natural beauty and crystal clear water that make this region such a treasure. Canada, stay on your toes, OK? We didn’t invade this region when we had the chance; now your defense is against “progress” itself. So far, so good…but don’t relent!

RIDEAU LOCK

The Rideau terminates in Ottawa, and rowing through that city has already been documented and described. Our urban rowing, while flanked by countless cyclists, roller-bladers, joggers, walkers, and strollers on paths on either side, was a delightfully relaxed means of sightseeing the city. Brian might have noted some of the pretty joggers keeping a purposeful pace with his boat, or he might not have noted it. I just don’t know. You’ll have to ask him. “The flight” of locks descending the final plummet to the Ottawa River was a picturesque highlight. We were THE tourist curiosities of the day as we descended; our modest rowboats were the only boats occupying an army of lockkeepers that day.

A tourist curiosity

As we cleared the final lock in Ottawa, the intimacy and serenity of the Rideau abruptly gave way to the bustle and breadth of the Ottawa River. The 98 mile downhill run to Montreal was not as downhill as we had hoped; the current was quite mild – maybe one knot or so in the main channel- and the sun came out, baking us for four days straight. We quickly found ourselves wishing that we had savored the Rideau a bit more than we had; the Ottawa’s brownish waters - Yoo Hoo comes to mind - are clean enough for swimming, but we pined for the dark, cool clarity of the Rideau. Anyone who has pulled onto I-89 in Vermont after a drive up bucolic, tree-lined Route 100 will understand the transition from the Rideau to the Ottawa rivers; after 125 miles of being within fifty feet of shore, we were now in a channel that could span two miles across, buzzing with boats and jet skis and offering no shade trees.

After transiting the several large lakes and two large locks at the southern end of the Ottawa River, another Urban Row awaited us: the roughly nine miles of the Lachine Canal cuts through a largely industrial landscape, but it was all in French, the coffee and pastries were excellent, and we were struck at how even the “back yard” of industrial Montreal was clean and well-tended. Bravo to you, Canada, for caring about your environment…even the parts that are out of sight and could easily be rationalized as an industrialized lost cause.

Brian rowing on the Lachine Canal in Montreal

More and dramatic variety awaited us as we glided out of the last lock of the Lachine and faced the main body of the St Lawrence River. If I must construct another automotive metaphor – and honestly, Gentle Reader, I don’t know why I should have to – it would probably involve your (or my) Aunt Edith pulling out of the Joyce Kilmer rest area on the northbound side of the Jersey Turnpike; she’s at 45, slowly headed to 50 with a coffee in her hand and fiddling with the radio, edging tentatively to the left, peering at mirrors that are not adjusted to her diminutive stature, and you, you’re steaming up the turnpike at 80 plus, “just staying with traffic,” talking on the phone and wondering hey, woah, what the hell is that Dodge doing? Something’s gotta give.

While Aunt Edith and you had a few hundred yards for the old Dodge to build up some steam while you made hard choices, Brian and I saw no such transition. We rowed in circles for a few minutes in the calm of the protected water of Montreal’s harbor, sizing up the roiling, boiling juncture – a watery seam - where the harbor’s slack water met the crush of eight-knot water, a cauldron of undertow and rip currents that would clearly overpower any rowing (or swimming) power we had in our tanks. So, shifting out of the sliding seats and into the lower center-of gravity wicker seats, donning life jackets for the first time, keeping our balance and trying to keep our cool, we entered the down escalator of the St. Lawrence that would propel us to Sorel, sixty miles away, in less than two days. The St Lawrence is remarkable not only for its strong current but also for the oceangoing vessels that ply its often narrow waters; those tankers and freighters can be on you in no time, and “see and avoid” is the simple survival strategy.

Brian rowing on the St. Lawrence

Two days of The St. Lawrence Sleighride came to an abrupt and crushing halt when we turned the corner at Sorel to head south (and upstream) on the Richelieu River. Brian’s earlier descriptions of the Richelieu tell the tale, but I’ll simply echo his comments (and Sammy deChamplain’s) by saying that record high waters (and commensurate contrarian currents), five-abreast go-fast boats driven too fast on a narrow river by those very same Canadians you see flying by you on the turnpike, somewhat unsympathetic landowners, blistering heat, and an average of 2.5 mph over the bottom for days on end made this stretch a real grind…and our recollection of the gentle Rideau even more poignant. We have no desire to return to the Richelieu except to return the kindness of the Lock Nine Angel masquerading as a lock-keeper who permitted us to camp out when we truly needed a break (see “Heroes”).

The crushing brown tentacle of the Richelieu eventually gave way to the broad reaches of Lake Champlain. The current abated, the water darkened and clarified, and as the Adirondack and Green Mountains slowly emerged on the southern horizon, we began sniffing for home. We saw much of what this magnificent lake has to offer during our three day transit, from glassy calm water, sheltered island communities, and stunning sunsets to strong winds, very large waves, a violent ‘hailing’ thunderstorm, and broad expanses of water with no land on the horizon. Frankly, I could spend an entire summer on Champlain in a guide boat; the lake combines the intimacy and cleanliness of the Rideau with the breadth and power of the St Lawrence. Its central and southern stretches in particular rival Lake George in beauty and grandeur. But…we were itching to get home (remember the pledge of Lobster Night?), and we used our third day on Champlain- and a blessed steady, strong north wind and southbound rollers- to position ourselves for an “on-time arrival” on July 8th.

Gentle Reader, we all find our way home, don’t we? Dorothy clicked her heels, Lassie followed her nose, and on July 8th, Brian and I wheeled our boats from Lake Champlain, through Ticonderoga, to the edge of Lake George. Our exuberance to be back on our home waters of Lake George expressed itself most spontaneously when we jumped out of our boats for a long, refreshing swim at the first little island we reached. Yes, Lake Champlain was nice; we had had a few excellent and refreshing swims on the Vermont side and, if you must know, Brian was unencumbered by any stitch of clothing. But, Gentle Reader, Lake George…ah, Lake George. Ringed by majestic mountains, protected by its springs and high ground, there is a magic in the lake’s waters unrivaled by anything we had seen for 480 miles. I can’t say that we had “saved the best for last” because I will not so easily dismiss the variety and abundant natural beauty or uniquely elegant works of man we had encountered over sixteen days of rowing. “Variety”, the title of this unworthy travelogue, is spice, as we all know, but Lake George is home…and we all know what Dorothy had to say about home. In the case of Lake George, it’s especially true.

First sighting of the guys arriving at final destination at Lake George