If you read the previous post about our misadventures in Red Creek, you know that my little camera had gone missing when our craft became a submarine. Alas, poor Olympus. I knew him, Nikon. Can you believe it? The camera is found. Not only found, but since it is waterproof to depths beyond those to which we plunged, all is fully functional. So here are a few more iconic images from our journey.
Hail Doug, the Conquering Hero. He came, he saw, he conquered MacGregors. Note the stylish and color coordinated PFD.
Here is Randy, demonstrating that the the paddle is mightier than MacGregors. What do you think is running through the mind of the woman in the background?
Here we see Doug in high spirits, having made it into the canoe on only his second attempt.
Full appreciation of Doug's plight is difficult from the previous image. A close-up is warranted. Note the glistening shoes, clinging pants and matted hair. His good cheer is impressive!
Yes, Mary is the one who found the camera. I was surprised that she was able to do so with the current conditions. But she is determined, and she dove again and again until she surprised even herself by retrieving the camera...from the clothes hamper.
Doug is moving away. He and his wife have decided that proximity to grandchildren is more important than volunteering about a million hours at the Rochester Curling Club. The nerve of some people.
Nonetheless, an ample crew decided to pay homage to Doug at a final luncheon at his favorite watering hole. MacGregors is the current incarnation of Red Creek, the long time hotspot that coincidentally resided near the headwaters of the Red Creek waterway.
In a moment of inspiration, I suggested to Doug that it was appropriate to paddle to the gathering instead of the boring and traditional arrival via automobile. We were already canoeing and camping buddies, so it made great sense to take the water route to the going away party. He bought it, so we were to meet under the Route 390 bridge and be on our way.
It was a Good Friday for a paddle. On my previous trip up the crick, I had been told by a couple in kayaks that one could get far upstream when the water was high. So this was a good Friday to see how far we could get.
Did you know that in New York State, you are required to wear your PFD between October 1 and May 1?
We paddled past numerous backyards and into wilder sections. The tiny diving duck kept a safe distance, but the deer stood and watched us pass. “Humans in a boat. Should we run?” “Nawww...those are paddles in their hands. Nothing to worry about.”
We passed under numerous deadfalls, and had to pick our way around submerged logs, but only had to portage once. A massive conglomeration of snags forced us to take the canoe out of the water and find the least damaging way through the prickers, but it was only a short delay. We soon paddled under the Jefferson Road bridge and beached our craft. The trip had taken less time that we anticipated, so none of our group were there to witness our triumphant arrival at MacGregors. To make amends for our early arrival, we positioned the canoe in full view of the entryway and went inside to celebrate our conquest of Red Creek.
The water was considerably higher, more swift, and less clear than this example from my previous trek.
A fine sendoff ensued. What a great time. Toast after toast to a good friend all will miss. Too soon, it was time to go, so we stayed until well past the proper departure time. Finally, we quaffed the last pint (“We can share one, right?”) and everyone headed to their respective vehicles.
There was a little riffle above our takeout point, so we decided it would be fun to take the canoe a little farther upstream and run the small rapid section. The put-in was a longer step down than we liked, but being skilled canoeists, and veterans of many Adirondack voyages, it would not be a problem. Doug demonstrated proper technique by stepping hard into the center of the boat and then going head-first over the side.
Completely soaked, he climbed out of the water and made a gentler second attempt. This time he succeeded getting into the boat without further mishap. I let myself gingerly down into the stern and we were off.
We made good time heading downstream, particularly since Doug was paddling not only for speed, but also to stay warm. The portage around the snag was easily negotiated since the path was previously blazed. Further downstream, we came to a tree angled across the stream so that passage was only possible near the eastern shore, and as we had found on the way up, also by leaning well back and using our hands to coax our craft underneath the rough bark.
The canoe was half way through the opening when suddenly it turned 90 degrees from the preferred orientation. Evidently the magnetic force of the tree had repulsed our wooden gunwales unevenly, forcing the starboard under the waterline. Measuring carefully, I discovered that particular point was chest deep. And not nearly as cold as I expected.
After emptying our vehicle and climbing back in, we headed downstream with renewed vim and vigor. Eager to end the voyage, we declined to rescue the floating softballs we had observed on the way in. Instead, we buzzed right past the baseball fields and our original rocky launch, opting instead for the floating dock of the Genesee Rowing Club.
Much later, it became apparent that Red Creek was not named for the color of its mud.
The low dock made for easy egress from the water. Doug carried the canoe and paddles up to the service road while I ran off to get the Ford Expedition that serves well as a boating service vehicle. Choosing not to spend the ride home in clingy soaked pants, I took them off and threw them into the back of the truck. I drove back near the dock and allowed Doug to help stuff the canoe through the hatchback window, hooking the bow over the passenger seat. Glad I had decided not to affix the boat to the roof, which would have taken significantly more time.
A very fine boat-carting vehicle.
Having docked just after I ran off, the ladies and one gent of the Genesee Rowing Club enjoyed our small display of damp disembarkation. However, we had to cut it short because we began to feel the cold after the paddling had ceased. I drove Doug to his car, and we were off, pronto.
As you might guess, other equally well-made plans had been thwarted by the tardiness of our journey. In addition to missing a business call, I arrived home after our dinner guest had arrived, saying hello and moving by tentatively, still dripping from my stylish underwear. “Happy Birthday, Judy!” Thankfully, I had given up tighty-whities years earlier.
No passive observer, this little book. Here it sits, drying after all the action. I had just begun a new one, and the writing on page 1 is obscured from view.
And if you lament the paucity of documentary pictures in this post, have no fear. I’ll be going back in warmer weather and on (not in) lower water to poke around the bottom near the tree to see if I can find my little waterproof camera.
With April and warmth approaching, this looks like the final ski of the season.
I was off showing our Picture-Fix software at the Beneath The Sea show in the New Jersey Meadowlands when Rochester got its late March winter blanket. Though tired, I was thinking that getting home late Sunday would allow me to ski on Monday before the snow was all gone. I would deal with what was left in the driveway and then head out the back for some fun and exercise.
However, there was more fun-with-snow to be had. The driving snowstorm I encountered during almost the entire south to north journey through Pennsylvania and on past Binghamton made me concentrate so hard that I was unable to get sleepy. I drove the 330 miles from Secaucus to my house with one stop, pretty wired the entire way. I didn’t even yawn until I got to downtown Rochester, about 10 miles from my goal.
With the emergency lights from the crash on the other side of the highway making the falling snow flicker alternately red, yellow and blue, I accelerated up the hill at the Penn-NY border, dodging the first bus stuck in the center lane on the left, and skirting the second partly on the shoulder on the right since it had come to a stop across 2 of the 3 northbound lanes. Amazing how the traffic thinned out after that.
My chewing gum remained unopened, and I purchased no coffee…I relied on a loud soundtrack to augment my concentration in keeping sleep at a distance. My only regret is that I did not have “We Gotta Get Out Of This Place” queued up as I left the stranded busses in the distance.
Well past the snow, I took a quick break at the NYS Thruway rest area just beyond Syracuse. As I emerged from my car, a lady called out to me, “That wasn’t much fun, was it?”
“Scranton?” I asked, puzzled by how she would know. “That was horrible.”
I looked back and knew. Though the Thruway was completely dry, a thick coating of ice covered the entire grill of my car. I chipped the hitchhiking ice from my headlights and went inside to reward myself with a milkshake.
The next day, though tired from the drive, I decided I'd better get out on the snow since I'd likely not have another chance until November. A few yards past my back gate, I heard the noisy bird and decided I'd go back and get the camera.
Is that him?
The woodpecker had found a fine dining location. The bright sun had warmed the dead limb on the silver maple so that the ants were active. My pileated pal was happily busy, so I was able to approach below without making him decide I was too close for comfort.
There he is.
Yakkin'
The pileated woodpecker has a raucous call. I wondered why any bird would call so much attention to itself until I remembered, "This is a WOODPECKER." Their dietary habits announce their presence far and wide, so what's the difference if their call is loud? I've read that they make these noises to establish their territory. Worked perfectly with me. I stayed out of the tree.
The selected tree providing color against the sky. If silver maples have red buds, then red maples...
"You looking at me?"
Part of the meal in the beak.
Gravity assisted meal insertion.
Gulp!
I moved on, leaving my friend to finish his meal and pick up the check.
Not usually necessary in Rochester, NY, sunglasses enhanced the snowy visuals.
The varying reflections of the sun off the snow provided a topographical appreciation of the sand trap.
An indication that the geese had preceded me.
Positive proof of aforementioned fowl.
Odd peeling bark and fruit balls adorn the sycamore.
Obviously a fan, the sycamore has decorated itself in honor of March Madness.
Climb up, slide down. I miss playground.
OK, I think this is quite enough with the snow already. Yes, I have enjoyed the skiing, but enough is enough. Time to move on to flower pictures and summer birds. And cars with the rag top down.
Thank you, aconites! Tulips, let's get with the program.
