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

Rituals (Mr. Frei)

 

Morning ritual - Coffee, Peaches and Breakfast Bars

Sociologists and anthropologists tell us that rituals convey a lot about the beliefs and values of a culture, and a culture of sorts does emerge over the course of eighteen days of rowing. Throughout a journey of significant physical effort and strain, Brian quickly established and observed daily rituals that served as a kind of glue for our shared enterprise, rituals embedded in the consonant-rich acronym “CPBBCCC”. Sure, it doesn’t roll off the tongue unless you work for the government or are of eastern European descent. How about shortened to a graphically catchy CPBBCx3…or perhaps an algebraic CPBB{(3)C}? In longhand, it would read:

CoffeePeachesBreakfastBarCleanlinessCompartmentsCare.

Coffee. Nothing happened in the morning without coffee, Starbucks Via served in shallow, wide-brimmed, heat-conducting, lip-scalding aluminum cups. Brian brought along a cute ‘lil burner (“The Pocket Rocket” was voted MVP of all of our gear by the end of Week One) which had us caffeinated in no time each morning. I came to wonder how I had embarked on my earlier rowing journeys without one. As we finished each morning’s coffee we’d save a bit in our tins, look at each other over furrowed brows, rakishly backhand the remaining coffee into an imaginary fire, and say, “We’re burnin’ daylight” as we headed to the boats. Yes, John Wayne made his mark on us as youngsters.

Peaches. Brian loves peaches. I’ve known him for fifty years or so, and I never knew of this affection until I caught a glimpse of his food stores and discovered a material proportion of Georgia’s peach harvest tucked away in many, many itty-bitty cans. The peaches went with the coffee. A day without peaches was a day without sunshine…but not as bad as a day without coffee might have been. We ran out of peaches now and then and felt the absence when we did; we never ran out of coffee.

Breakfast Bars. This was the last of the culinary rituals. Breakfast bars became a kind of currency on the trip, and Brian dominated the exchange rate: he had many….I brought but a few. He knew of this imbalance yet each morning (after Day Six; it took that long to prompt and train him) he would ask, “You want a breakfast bar?”

Cleanliness. My dad was a POW in Germany during WW2 and related that a reliable sign of self-control, mental health, and discipline in the prison camp was one’s consistent attendance to cleanliness and personal hygiene. By this account, Brian would have made a better POW than I. He scoured his tent each morning with a Sham Wow while I was content to just blithely roll mine up, encapsulating whatever crumbs, garments, or carcasses of the insect population that bunked in with me the night before. I kept clean, folks, but I was not ready to pass inspection in the way Brian could have at any moment of every day. Why, he’d even stake his tent down every night. I, on the other hand, counted on my prodigious bulk to be sufficient ballast. And it was.

Compartments (aka “Fastidiousness”). After the coffee, the peaches, the breakfast bars, and the sanitizing of the tent came the packing…packing stuff for the day’s row and loading the boats for proper weight and balance. Brian’s capacity for neatness and organization expressed itself in his luggage and the methodical ritual of his packing. He brought sea bags for everything. His tent, inflatable mattress, and sleeping bag shared sanctuary in a single impressive sea bag, and each article found a specific and consistent home in a zippered compartment or waterproof cubby. As a result, when we’d push off each morning, his boat would carry a few neat bags impeccably and consistently arranged for balance and convenience, ready for a photo-op as the preferred attraction for lock visitors. My boat, on the other hand, looked more like that of a refugee or fugitive, loose items wrapped in plastic bags and smaller sacks distributed from bow to stern. If Brian had been swamped, he’d use his luggage as buoyancy bags and not lose a thing. If I’d capsized, well, just revisit the last ten minutes of “Titanic” for a visual.

Compare the shelves!

Care. No matter how late in the day (or evening) we’d pull up…no matter how tranquil the waters or apparently safe the setting…no matter how tired he might be and how welcoming the prospect of rest, Brian always tended to his boat first. My Kevlar warhorse has long been accustomed to being ridden hard and put away wet, and it looks that way; if the line is secure and the gunwales and oarlocks are protected from wear, I’m ready for bed. Yet Brian’s end-of-day ritual with his beautiful cedar boat explains why it looks as new as it appeared ten years ago. The boat gets emptied of gear, gently pulled ashore, gingerly rotated to its inverted nesting position, and tied down ‘just in case’. To those of you who were a part of gifting this boat to Brian ten years ago, I can tell you that he’s taking care of it. Manic good care. Manic, I tell you.

You will note, Gentle Reader, that none of these rituals actually took place out on the water. The ritual of the campsite and of daily preparation was replaced each day by the individual effort of rowing. But the ritual of striking camp each day sated with coffee, peaches, breakfast bars, and well-packed gear set the tone for each day…and each day was good.

One guess as to who owns each boat!

Heroism (Mr. Frei)

Basin Harbor

The calluses are softening, the lobster is digested, and the boat is cleaned, oiled, and safely tucked away. But my gratitude to the acts of kindness – even heroism- that Brian and I received along the way is still fresh. Arriving at a dock or shoreline exhausted, short of supplies, and uncertain of where you’ll flake out that night can be daunting, and when a stranger steps up with no motive other than to help another in need…well, if you’re bushed, toasted, or if you’re Brian or Al, that’s kindness. And kindness ascends to the status of heroism when the help is offered in the face of skeptical “Others” or in opposition to a higher authority.

“Mo” of Rockland, on the Ottawa River, was our first true hero. After our first full day on the Ottawa, having been spoiled by the hospitality of the Rideau Canal system to journeymen like ourselves, we were now in the real world of for-profit marinas and private property; no more kindly civil-servant lock-keepers offering manicured lawns and spotless public restrooms. On 6/26 we pulled into a modest marina-condo setup at dusk and after explaining our plight to a gaggle of tenants gathered on the dock, I asked whether we might pitch a tent on their grounds that evening. A long pause ensued with some nervous glancing about (not a good initial response) and a self-appointed spokesman offered that perhaps we might find a place to camp “just around the corner” at a public park. (Parenthetically, Gentle Reader, let me explain that at dusk, after a full day of rowing, a “just around the corner” response is a killer. A real killer.) I demurely thanked them for their help and must have presented an “Oscar Clip” mien of abject vulnerability because then, from out of nowhere – Ta- Taaa!!- Mo stepped up. “You can tent at the jetty in front of the docks,” he said, “and here is the key to the rest room and shower.” Blessedly, Mo’s pronouncement held sway over The Others and after a suitable contribution to the marina coffee can (a few Canadian dollars to cement the deal; Mo has expenses, too), we were in.

Mo could have stood back. He knew us from nuttin’, and what upside could there be to saying “yes”? None. But he stepped up, added a key, and met us in the morning for encouragement and pictures.

Mo, if you’re reading this, thanks. You are a hero.

Brian has already well described our encounter with the Canadian Coast Guard three days later. Caught in a very nasty squall, they could have pulled us off the water with a warning. Instead, with the sage advice that “most people wear life jackets in weather like this,” they simply wished us well. When Authority allows consenting adults to take and accept risk, well, that’s heroic. Sad, but true. What have we come to?

A day after the Coast Guard courtesy, a Ma and Pa marina at Contracoeur on the St Lawrence was the site of the next kindness. Yes, money changed hands….but Ma and Pa did not have to say “yes” to the grizzled mariners looking to pitch tents right in their front yard. We were out of options after forty miles, and they said the most important words of our trip: “Yes” (or “Oui”, if I understood correctly). Kindness appears heroic when you are out of options… and when you need showers as badly as we did.

Three days later, on 7/3 at Lock 9 of the Chambly Canal, our next true hero emerged; she (Lockmistress Bonnie?) creatively navigated around the rule prohibiting camping at that particular lock by allowing us to camp on the adjacent floating dock…and, with a winsome wink, she threw in the Men’s Room key as well. On a late afternoon at closing time when “no” would have been easy, risk-free, and compliant with the rules, she said ‘yes’ and made a difference. (Hey, Kid Watchman on North Beach in Burlington….are you reading this? How easy would it have been for you to say “yes” and be feted in the blog?)

Emily at Ladd’s Landing Marina on Lake Champlain’s Grand Isle earned our heartfelt gratitude late in the afternoon of 7/5 when, desperate for supplies, we stumbled onto her dock after a tough crosswind row to the Vermont side. Emily had little in the store but, after a moment of seasoned assessment and creative reflection, she offered us unsupervised access to the leftovers from last weekend’s Marina Cookout. Chicken-Apple Sausage, Freihofer rolls, a robust potato salad, a gas grill, wonderfully clean facilities…Emily, thank you. You could have sold us Gatorade and Slim Jims with no extra effort or fuss, but you went above and beyond in offering the expanded menu and Charm City hospitality.

Two days later, David and Steve of Adirondack Guide Boat arranged to meet us at the Basin Harbor Club as we sprinted down the south end of Champlain under a glorious north wind and gentle rollers. These guys are the patriarchs of our particular boats- in fact, there was a pilgrimage-like quality about cruising so close to our crafts’ birthplace- and Dave arrived with a gallon of the most extraordinary Fruit Smoothie ever concocted. At the risk of creating an incestuous metaphor, it was the Adirondack Guide Boat of Smoothies. These guys not only know how to build great boats, they know how to fuel the motors that make them go. Kindness? I should say so.

Dave pours his magic smoothie

Heroes emerged on our final day as well. In Ticonderoga on 7/8, eight hours from our lobster and glory, Mike and his family (wife Linda, brother John, and sister-in-law Kitty, I think I recall) acted as tour-guides, logisticians, and home ports as we carted out boats through Ti to get to the north end of Lake George. They gave us a ride to survey the route of our portage in advance, offered their back yard to launch our boats on Lake George one hundred feet from the dam, and the intrepid Kitty even cleaned out and refilled a particularly skanky thermos…all starting from a casual introduction in the Park. I ask you, Gentle Reader: how many of us would interrupt a perfectly pleasant walk to go to all that trouble for heavily bearded strangers? How many of us would volunteer to sanitize and refill a stranger’s particularly skanky thermos? I’d like to think that we all would…but all I can tell you is that Mike and his family did.

Portage through Ticonderoga

Behind the scenes but squarely and vitally in the middle of this adventure, of course, were Kathy, Peg, Matt, my mom, Doug, Susie, and the delightful but unnamed lady who twice ventured out onto Lake George to act as our “entourage” as we made the final pull towards home. You guys made this trip possible, as did Cecile, Brian’s lovely bride, who heroically consented to share her hubby with me for seventeen days. Seventeen days. Seventeen days.

And finally, “Oscar-Felix” jousting aside, I saw more than a dollop of heroism in my partner as well. Brian rowed through pain, storms, darkness, cramps, and hands gnarled by cherry oars, and he rowed upstream for six hours after literally falling asleep at a counter over a lunch of bread and water. There’s no heroism in rowing 500 miles, but there’s an awful lot to admire about someone who perseveres with pluck, spirit, and good humor, getting it done while way outside of his comfort zone.

Brian, you’re my hero. Really.

Just out of the boata at the Lake George Club

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