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| 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!
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| First sighting of the guys arriving at final destination at Lake George |
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