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

July 13, Pilot Knob, NY (Brian)

 My brain and my fingers are just beginning to work again. It’s a funny thing about the human body. If Al and I needed to get up and row on Saturday morning we could have done it. But once the message went from the brain to the body that we wouldn’t have to, everything fell apart.

My hands went numb and became unable to grip. I couldn’t hold a pen or button my pants. At night my hips and legs were screaming in pain. My mind went into a fog, incapable of holding a thought or completing a task. I slipped into a deep fatigue I have rarely had in my life.

Rowing 500 miles had been an all-consuming effort. I never lay in my tent reading a book at night, and never had need for a corkscrew. We rowed until we ate and camped, then got up, rowed, ate and camped again. Al would say goodnight, and I’d hear snoring within ten seconds.

Our expedition went from near-cancellation to completion in a dramatic 24 hours. Wednesday afternoon we were on the public beach in Burlington with Al’s back in spasms and he was sucking down a pharmacy of painkillers. We waited for sundown then raised camp on the beach. We had barely lay down when a security guard came bumbling along and made us move our tents off public property. I told him my friend was hurt and needed rest. He offered to call an ambulance or the police, whichever we preferred. Then in an uncharacteristic transaction with a security guard I said, “OK”, and we moved far enough to please him, which was 20 feet.



Brian and their tents


We woke the next morning with a North wind blowing over our backs and we were in the boats by 7:10. Al quickly discovered that his injury the day before had been caused by rowing all day in the stationary seat. He moved to the roller and he was good.

Meeting up with Steve Kaulback and Dave Rosen at Basin Harbor

Except for a lunch visit with Steve Kaulback and Dave Rosen, the builders of our boats in Vermont, we took that wind and rowed as long and as far as it would take us. We rowed until dark and beyond until our support squad of Peg and Kathy found us a boat ramp for camping at 10 pm, where they met us with the fattest killer hamburgers you ever saw. And beer. We had rowed 45 miles that day. I couldn’t stand and I couldn’t sit either.

Peg awaits the guys in the pitch black on July 7

Brian arrives exhausted (no sitting or standing for him!)

The next morning Al went ahead to find a spot to begin our portage. He rowed up the La Chute River, which goes through downtown Ticonderoga, but a half hour behind him, I missed the mouth of the river and rowed three or four extra miles making my mistake and correcting it. It probably cost two hours.

Al’s mother and friend Doug Livingston met us with our two-wheeled portage carts, and we rolled our boats out of the public park, across a covered bridge and right through downtown Ticonderoga, past the waterfalls, the Aubuchon Hardware, and a mile uphill to the outlet of Lake George.

Portage begins in Ticonderoga

Portage starts at a covered bridge

I think I finished the day on adrenalin. I was so excited to be on home waters, and looking forward to ending the pain and sleeping in a real bed that night. We rowed past Rogers Rock, to the 400-foot stone slope that Maj. Robert Rogers in legend slid down in winter to escape the French and Indians. We passed Hague, Silver Bay and Sabbath Day Point. We stopped twice to go swimming.

We were running a little late for dinner. But people were coming out to us in their boats asking, “Are you the guys?” and we said, “yes, we’re the guys.”

Al was expressing doubts about the merits of even trying to get the Lake George Club for dinner. I said maybe it was my fault, but we had built an expectation and people were going to be waiting for us. “We have to be the guys”.

At the mouth of The Narrows, where the lake widens to the south, we were met with a headwind. It was like being at the base of Heartbreak Hill. Eighteen days of rowing would have to end with one last supreme effort. It was 6pm.

At first we picked a line straight off Dome Island, which would take us to the end, but the wind was beating us. We veered west to go behind Clay Island in Bolton Bay, then up behind Three Brothers Island, and straight up the West shore into the wind. People came to their porches recognizing us, and giving encouragement. I was deep into grim determination.

When we pulled into the beach at the Lake George Club I felt relief, and some disbelief that we had done what we’d just done. It was 8:30 and that last row from the Narrows took the last of what we had.

During our interview Sunday with Buzz Lamb from the Lake George Mirror, he asked whether we’d had any revelations along the way, and we couldn’t answer. I said I was glad to find out that I was still as tough as I had hoped, but that’s not a revelation. People had asked why we did it, and we couldn’t answer that either. We joked that we were going to keep rowing until we had an answer.

Along the way I thought a lot about history and the development of civilization. The Rideau Canal, the result of a monumental effort to built a supply route to defend Canada from attack by the United States, was never used for that. Now it is an historic artifact preserved for the use of pleasure boaters. All that expense and lives lost building it, for nothing. We passed the churches along the Ottawa River, the St. Lawrence and the Richelieu. A couple of hundred years ago people arrived dirt poor and the first thing they did was put their money together and build magnificent churches.

We rowed past the ruins of Fort Montgomery, known as “Fort Blunder” at the Canadian border built to defend the US from the British, with its gun ports oddly facing South. It was never used and now it is North of the border. We rowed under the walls of Fort Ticonderoga, high on a ill an impregnable fortress that was captured with a knock on the door. You look back on these things and it makes you think what we are wasting time and money on now, the ruins of the future.

I thought about the loons that popped up next to our boats making the trilling call. They must have done the same thing to the French, the Indians, and the British and the Americans. They’ve seen the foolishness of man and they’re laughing.

At the end of it, my revelations are small. If you go on an adventure, make sure you have a way to make hot coffee in the morning. Kill all the mosquitoes in your tent before you go to sleep and sweep out the sand in the morning.

When rowing upstream, stick to shore and the lower end of the bends. But avoid rowing upstream if you can.

Point your small boat right at the highest waves and raise your middle finger to French Canadians in cigarette boats.

Dry bags are in fact superior to Hefty Steelsaks.

A good hat makes the sun bearable and a plate of spaghetti will restore you.

And if you do something this grueling with a friend, do it with a friend who is such a good friend that after the misery, the spoken tension, unspoken tension, the frustration and near disasters he is still a friend who laughs at himself, laughs at you, and will be your friend forever.

Still best of friends!

Some reflections from Mr Frei 4 days after the row ended

A much needed dip at the Lake George Club upon arrival

Greetings, Gentle Reader, July 12, 2011      

We’ve been home for four days, and I apologize for being late in getting to the keyboard for some post-row commentary, analysis, and perhaps some cosmic thoughts. Frankly, it’s been difficult to focus on the here-and-now. A persistent fatigue has dogged me since Friday and while it evokes the kind of feel-good drowsiness which follows a nice Sunday nap, it’s been four days- it’s time to wake up! I can report that Brian has been feeling this same malaise, but he counters it with periodic dips in the lake. I labor – and nap – here in steamy Baltimore.

Conk has done a great job keeping the blog going during the row, and I earnestly hope that Brian will continue to write in; his contributions have raised both the quality and readership of the blog, and I’ll be more inclined to stick to the facts and verifiable events if I know that I’ll be audited by his continued participation.

How do I start? Most Exciting Day? Biggest Lesson Learned? Greatest Surprise? Most Memorable Moment? Classic Felix and Oscar Exchanges? I suspect that I’ll get to all of these and more over the next few weeks, but let’s recap the drama of the finish:

Friday is “Lobster Night” at the Lake George Club. I know this through distant memory, my parents having taken me there as a kid and having celebrated Brian’s 50th birthday on the Club’s scenic veranda ten years ago. Drawn butter was involved, and so was a new tie, so I suspect that it was Lobster Night.

Anyway, Brian had proffered the idea of finishing at the Club – and at Lobster Night on July 8th – even before we took our first stroke on June 21st. In fact, his good friend and Lake George Mirror writer Buzz Lamb, in a pre-row article, published “our” alleged intention to make it to the Club in time to don our bibs on 7/8. The word was out and the clock was to be subliminally ticking throughout this row: two guys touching sixty who have a hard time touching – or seeing- their toes are about to row 502 miles through five major bodies of water and sixty-three locks TO GET TO LOBSTER NIGHT AT THE LAKE GEORGE CLUB AT 7 PM ON 7/8. (Q: Would you take that bet if you were the procurement manager at the Club?)


So, Gentle Reader, you no doubt saw the improbability of our arrival at the north end of Lake George on 7/8, twenty-five miles from glory. Our gnarled, callused hands would scarcely need tools to crack open the shells…and, frankly, eighteen days of living in the wild would have dulled our sensitivity to use them. After a portage through Ticonderoga, we put in and rowed on. It was noon. We had seven hours to row twenty five miles. A south wind was building against us. It would be close. Do-able with grit, but close.


Truth be told- and it must, because Brian will call me on it- as we rowed against a rising wind and cresting waves, I was ready to bail on the Lobster Night Objective. We’d be hours late for our own party. Others would be inconvenienced. It seemed too grandiose for Oscar. Besides, what would we do with the boats and our gear after the party was over? I had no intention of sabotaging the possibility of our arrival but, so close to the finish line, my crustacean commitment was flagging and I honestly just wanted to work my way home. It had been eighteen days…maybe Lobster Night at 7PM on 7/8 was a just a claw too far?


Gentle Reader, two images restored my resolve. First, Brian was hauling on his oars like a man possessed. At mile twenty, with five to go and darkness approaching, fighting a nasty chop and bucking a sustained headwind, Brian was plowing ahead, singing. He was singing, I tell you. I offered him the last of my beef jerky, my last breakfast bar, and my last Gatorade to fuel the machine, but he cheerily dismissed these treasures. (Those of you who know Brian will know that the phrase “Brian cheerily dismissed (food)” suggests a much, much higher purpose, such as lobster.)

The second image, self-induced, was that of Buzz Lamb’s follow-up article should we come up short after being so close. Follow-up headlines scrolled across my stern as I, too, pulled against the waves: “Lobsters Have Last Laugh”…. “Who Roasted Whom on 7/8?”…. “Rowers’ Late Arrival Predictable”…. “Crustaceans In No Danger Tonight!”


So we were an hour late – or stylishly on time – and enjoyed the companionship of family, friends, and excellent lobsters.

Eighteen days, five hundred miles…and right on time for dinner. Go figure.

Hitting the beach at the Lake George Club

Brian's father and friend Beryl excited to see the guys



Buzz Lamb interviews them for the Lake George Mirror



The Day After

Mr. Frei cleaning his tent



Mr. Frei has been cleaning up his gear this morning, and there was such a nice wind blowing that he was able to clean his tent while wearing it!

At 4 PM today Buzz Lamb of the Lake George Mirror will be interviewing Mr. Frei and Brian over at Brian's place on Lake George.  I will be over there to observe!

Kathy

Brody helps Mr. Frei clean his tent

Buzz Lamb, from the Lake George Mirror , interviewed Mr. Frei and Brian this afternoon over at Brian's place. It was fascinating to hear them recounting their journey.  I took this photo afterwards.



Mr. Frei and Brian after the newspaper interview



A few photos from the end of the trip

The bow of Mr. Frei's boat