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!