Hike to Cat Mountain

After breakfast and cleanup, the big hike began.  The Gang of 5 made their way across the river and to the old road alongside the Oswegatchie.  The remnant of the road was interesting only in that it was at a level over the stream where more of the swamp was visible.  

Where are we going?

Glad the bridge is here.

It looks as if there are many channels through this section.

The old road headed through an odd area where it appeared the river had tested many different waterways, and then to the junction with another barely discernible road with a path down the middle that would take them toward Cat Mountain.  This road must have been important at one time, since both sides were trenched to remove water.  

Soon, any trace of a road disappeared, and the trail meandered through the forest.  Before long, they found themselves at one end of a long log spanning a wide expanse of water.  The trail markers were visible on the other side.

See those little red and blue dots on the tree on the far side?
Those are the trail markers.
"Follow me!  Follow me!"

The bridge provided proved quite sturdy as Randy ascended.  Not only was the log wide, it had been skived flat for easy walking.  A rope was also provided as a hand hold.  No way the thin cord was going to keep anyone from getting wet if full weight was put on it, but one could make small balance corrections with it.  Or more realistically, perhaps it was merely a psychological aide.

Regardless, no one wanted to get wet, at least not right there.  It wasn’t so much the water as what might be underneath.  Inky black, one couldn’t see the bottom, and though it was probably no more than waist deep, who knows how deep and disgusting the muck below might be.

Randy started out confidently with a near-normal gait, but just past half way, the log became significantly more rounded, thinner and less sturdy.  Ripples moved outward as Randy’s walk changed to cautious baby steps, or better stated, cautious old man steps.  He managed to pass the moss adorning the narrowing sides and finally jump to the shore.  All made it across in similar fashion, but none were looking forward to the return crossing.

Matt strode across, assuredly.

Jim took a little longer.

Look at the rippples created as Mike vibrates across.

Russ demonstrates the shuffle technique.

Heading straight ahead after the log bridge, they encountered a really tough section of the trail.  They soon realized that it was unlikely the trail would be heading over blowdown after blowdown.  Returning to the bridge, they were happy to see that the trial  markers did in fact continue 90 degrees from their previous path.  

Why happy?  Because they knew that it was not a cruel joke that had sent them across the log bridge.  On the re-found path, the blowdowns were cleared.  One log even sported a smiley face carved with a Department of Environmental Conservation chainsaw.  

So that's where those pesky markers have been hiding!

The trail curled around to cross an impressive beaver dam.  No complaining about this one...it helped them get to a nice section of the trail following alongside another swamp.  

Walking atop the beaver dam.

"Thank you, Beavers!"

They eventually crossed the picturesque wetland at a narrows to ascend the rise that took them to the fork leading to Cat Mountain.  Should you ever go to Cat Mountain, consider coming in on the other shorter branch from Cranberry lake.  

When the need arises,
use this photo to illustrate "Picturesque Wetlands."

Almost to the narrows, another impressive beaver dam.

Only another mile and one-half.
No big deal after walking 6 or so.

The little stream was tempting, but giardia parasites provided by the beavers
make it much less so.
Nobody wants the major intestinal distress of Beaver Fever.
After washing your face, don't lick your lips!

They began the walk up the mountain and passed by a pretty pond with an empty campsite, perfect for a stop for lunch.  

Sights like these are great motivators
to overcome the inconveniences of camping and hiking.

"Hey, Jim, is that the rock face where we're going?"

"Hey, guys, this is a perfect spot for lunch!"

Others had come this way also.
Can you make out the cleft hoof of the moose track just above
my pudgy little boot?

A rock face showed high on the far side, but Jim let all know that the destination could not be seen, though none necessarily believed in his surprisingly accurate map reading skills at the time.  All soon headed upward, with Jim and Randy hanging back and taking their time, remembering that there is no prize for being the first in the party to reach the mountaintop.

Another rock face.
Actually, I see several faces.
You don't?  What's the matter with you?

The Cat Mountain rock ledge provided a fine view.  Morning might be a better time for pictures since the outcropping faces west, but even in the midafternoon, no one was disappointed.

Jim is happy he made the trip.

We were much too early for the peak,
but some trees on the peak had begun the annual autumn process.

There's magic in my eyes.
"I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles...."
"Oh yeah..."

Level headed?
Not quite.
The guru on the mountaintop?
No one asked him any questions.

A better view than the previous image.

Long way down, eh?

The view definitely made the hike worthwhile.  Unfortunately, languish long was not an option, since getting there took longer than anticipated, and everyone agreed that stumbling along the trail in the dark would be no fun at all.  

Not sure which one is supporting the other,
but neither look very stable.

One last look.

So they bid adieu to the view, the rocks and the solar powered radio repeater on the summit and headed down.  Randy shared one of his hiking poles with Russ.  They really help old knees on the way down.

Back on the flat on the trail through the marsh.

Jim, Matt and Mike had started off first, and Russ and Randy did not see any sign of them until hitting the junction of the two roads.  Though it looked as if Jim had waited there, it turned out that he had lagged a bit behind the other two, and his tired brain had sent him in the wrong direction.  He realized his navigation error when he passed an ancient piece of logging equipment hiding in the woods.  He was just returning as the others got to the intersection.  They followed Jim, now headed in the right direction, for the last two miles toward the campsite.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Russ.

“Well stop it!” Randy shot back.  “This is the part where we just slog through the hike we wish was done and don’t think about anything.”  Jim followed this advice really well, once again leaving Russ and Randy a bit behind.

More like it.

Randy has never been a big fan of case camping.  You know...the kind of camping where you take as much beer and ice as you can possibly carry into the woods and use them to sustain your carbohydrate and hydration needs while you whoop it up.  Yes, “never” is probably too strong a word, particularly considering the invention of beer can bocce at Utowana Lake, but that was clearly an indiscretion of youth.  Massive coolers in the woods just seem wrong.

But he is considering a change of heart.  When Russ and Randy arrived back at the bridge, they could have gone a little out of their way to skirt the close-by campsite, but after 15 miles of hiking, they were too tired to think of anything but the shortest route.  So they cut right through the site where Bob and Joe, local teachers, had settled.

“Where you guys been?  You look beat.  Wanna beer?” asked Bob.  Randy considered the proposal for two full nanoseconds before answering, “Yes!”

Bob produced a pair of cans and handed them over.  Moods swung appreciably upon hearing the “spwoosh” of the pop top.  

We usually use white lights at night in our campsite,
but we were willing to make an exception.

And as luck would have it, it happened to be Mike’s favorite beer!  He had informed everyone at the campfire the night before that, “My favorite beer has two characteristics, the first and most important being ‘free’, and the second being ‘cold’.”

We returned to our site, sporting our spoils for the visual benefit of the remainder of the group.  Jim cooked another fine meal and became glued to his fire-side chair, from which he never moved until he crawled to bed.  Given the diminutive size and limited compliance of Jim’s bladder, this is especially noteworthy.  The dehydration from the long hike was a blessing in disguise.

We would have found Jim sitting there the next morning
if we hadn't rolled him to his tent.

The rest of the crew returned to compensate our new friends with complementary fluids, and to make sure that too much of Mike’s favorite would not weigh them down on their return trip.  No one had any idea why they brought such mass quantities with them, but none will place any fault upon them.  When the 4 returned, Jim reported that the next door laughter had been very loud.

Paddling Black Water

All were to convene at 9 AM at the put-in near Wanakena, but Russ and Randy stopped for a fine breakfast at the Blue Anchor Restaurant and Cabins just outside of Poland, NY.  It’s a fine spot to relive the 50’s in the tiny tidy doll house cottages, immaculately painted white with blue trim.  The picket fence completes the effect.  And the restaurant’s clientele fit right in.  

The stop at the diner also concluded the most dangerous portion of the trip.  Since there were no services in the garage at Randy’s camp where Russ and Randy had spent the night, there was no coffee to be had until the stop.  Russ’ knuckles regained their color as he chowed down.

Randy's canoe awaits.

The gang's all here.

Let's go!

They were glad to have stopped, and even more so when they learned that they did not need additional late-arrival excuses regarding fog and construction.  The rest of the party was much later due to oversleeping.  All finally hit the water around 10:30, but no matter, since no one else was headed in the same direction except one pair, who couldn’t coordinate paddling to save their lives.  Their bow man had that distinctive Charles Manson look, but there was no concern, because it was apparent those two would never make it far enough upriver to create an event requiring the participation of the media and law enforcement.

Six hours after starting, they arrived at the spot on the Oswegatchie where the foot bridge carries the blue trail across the river.  There are two campsites right at the junction, one high above the bridge on the western side, and another more spacious one on the east.  Both were good choices, but the group opted for a site a short distance upstream on the west, which would prove to be a good decision.

The main reason for the choice of site was the proximity to a natural spring.  While the flow from the plastic pipe someone had inserted was nothing great, a little patience allowed filling one’s containers with great tasting water without purification.  A major benefit.

Water falls from the spring.
It tastes fabulous!

And it had a privy.  A new-fangled stainless steel one.  Much better than digging a hole in the ground, even if the placement was a little too close to the blue trail.  Just like crossing the street, look both ways before you go.

A very minor example of the twist and turns.
Most of the way, the Oswegatchie writes its signature into the flood plain
in flowing cursive.

As for the time span of the upstream trek, everything is against you.  The narrow channel flows swiftly, sapping your inertia at every opportunity.  Though there are very pretty straight stretches, they are overshadowed by the many, many serpentine turns as the river makes its way through the flood plain.  Only the position of the sun indicates the direction of your progress, since one can rarely see anything over the thick bushes that crowd the shore and often squeeze the thoroughfare into a channel just wide enough for a single canoe or kayak.

Mike and Matt make their way upstream.

The gang at High Rock,
a good spot for a break and a view.
Attractive group, eh?

Then there are the rocks.  Some are exposed, providing a picturesque view, but many more are lurking close beneath the surface, just waiting to grab your boat, stalling your progress.  You point your canoe around the spots indicated by the riffles, assuming the fluctuations of the water will be your guide, but they often lie.

Are those rocks I see up ahead?

Where to go, where to go...

It's often good to learn the best channel
from the lead boat.
More often, it's good to know where not to go.

The finishing touches are provided by unseen rodents.  Though they rarely make an appearance, their presence is everywhere.  The slides grooved in the banks and the pointed chewed ends of the bushes would be an adequate indication, but that is not enough for them.  They also create barriers to insure they are not overlooked.  Beaver dams, we call them, but after getting out of the canoe for the 5th time to pull the boat over one, the word order is reversed.

It is good the weather cooperated.  I’m not sure it would be all that much fun dragging the boats over the mud and sticks in cold, wet weather.  I can’t imagine doing it in the spring with icebergs in the high water.

Yanking up and over.

Sometimes there is no other way than to get out and pull,
particularly when the canoe is laden with all your gear.

Jim being a good citizen.

Urging the canoe through the debris field.

They sleep comfortably in their condominiums while we struggle with their handiwork.

There is a space wide enough for the canoe,
but the edge-on current does not make for easy going.

Major traffic jam.

Mike is becoming a sail,
hoping a gust of wind will push him through.

Not again!

The group set up camp and got firewood as Jim cooked dinner.  Though they had begun driving before 6 AM, they still ended up eating and cleaning up in the dark.  

A good shot of Jim by the campfire.

New fleece, now a certified camping-only bit of apparel. 

Though dead tired, it did not stop them from passing a bottle while telling campfire stories.  None can relate all that transpired, but suffice to say that Russ is now the Grand Imperial Emperor of the Northern Spider Monkeys.  With a business card.

The schedule highlight for a following day was paddling on up to High Falls.  More beaver dams, and some very pretty sections of the river as well.  Mike and Randy settled on a policy of not trusting their memories in regard to order of occurrence on the river.  They verified that one memorable stretch with a campsite overlooking some small rapids did not repeat itself above the bridge, so they resigned themselves to the fact that the area was indeed located downstream.

Mike is sporting Randy's most excellent duct tape job.
Jim asked for more paddles, but did not specify that they should be good ones.
The splits in this one made it only marginally useful.
They said the fix wouldn't last,
but it served Mike well, all the way home.

High Falls directs the full flow of the Oswegatchie in split channels over a rock ledge 20 feet high.  It is really more impressive from the lip above than from below, since one can see the speed and power of the water in the channels in addition to the cascade.  But the falls must be much more impressive during the spring run-off, since large sections of surrounding rock have no clinging vegetation.  No standing on the lip then.

Not going to paddle up these rapids.

One of those much-more-impressive-in-person cases.

One on the brink, looking downstream.

Upon returning to the campsite, all engaged in some tightly focused lollygagging, and also set up a tarp against the light rain.  With just enough time to make the trip before dinner, Russ and Randy made their way to the first of the 5 ponds, for which the wilderness is named, for the pleasure of the unspoiled view.  

The trail to the Five Ponds, as trails should be.

Shrooms along the way.

The beavers have made Big Shallow Pond even bigger.

Contrary to proper woodsmanship and the primary purpose of escaping into the wilderness, Jim placed a 2 hour limit on the duration of the hike due to the planned dinner hour.  With Randy tasked as timekeeper, their return was only 30 minutes late.  And they timed their return to the readiness of Jim’s famous Hoover Curry, so all was well in the world.  Tired from three days of escapades, all turned in early.

Shortly before 10 PM, the intermittent rain intensified.  3 of our five became one with the rain due to leaking tents, leaking tarps, or just plain bad luck.  Once wet, it’s hard to dry out, and harder to sleep even if the problem has been resolved, so it was a long night.  The next morning, the tent Randy had provided for Russ was decommissioned, and will spend the rest of it’s life as a mystery object in a basement somewhere.

They ate oatmeal, packed and headed out as soon as possible.  The uneventful trip down the river took half the time the upstream paddle had taken, and they soon had the boats atop the cars and were on the road back to civilization.

Downstream and out.