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.

Bon Voyage!

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.

Why would you do that?

I told my friend Tony that I had been way up north, paddling around on Long Pond (near Tupper Lake) and hiking and camping for 4 days.

"You did what?  You slept out in the woods when you could have been in a nice warm hotel, complete with a shower?  Why would you do that?"

This is why.

We put in on a sandy beach with a fine view.

Mama Loon and her chick swam by.

When you go camping in September, you generally have a good selection of campsites.  We explored a number of them before selecting #3 on Long Pond.  Why?  Jim, our chef, wanted use of the picnic table that we found only there, and you always want to keep the chef happy.

Always good to get your tarp set up when the sun is shining.

We got to engineer different versions of tarp support.
Doug is demonstrating V1.0 and V2.0.  V3.1 is doing the job for the moment.
We finally settled on V5.0

We got to set up our very own Home Sweet Home.

When you set up camp in the woods, it is all yours.  No one else to blame if you get wet when it rains, or if the wind disorganizes your belongings, or if the bears get your next dinner instead of you.

We got to paddle through this narrow channel into another little pond.

I got to use the GPS to determine where we were, pull weeds off my paddle,
saw logs with the folding saw, and admire my stubby legs.

We occasionally got blurry around the campfire.

Endless fun was to be had rearranging the burning logs.

We got to enjoy a nicely misty morning...

...from more than one vantage point.

We enjoyed warming up by the fire with our coffee.

Jim entertained us with his old "pull the string out of my chin" trick.

I got to add an element of adventure to the same old same old.

We got to paddle to the trailhead for climbing Long Pond Mountain.

We got to take pictures on a mountain top. 

Ate lunch on the mountain top, too.

We got to see for miles.
Peter Townshend must have been here years ago.

Pretty amazing view.
We looked across multiple ponds and lakes to small mountains
and the High Peaks beyond.

I always like to see what's around the next bend.  Jim is forever telling me that every "lost in the woods" story starts with "...and then I left the trail."  This time, I found a little bit of a path leading away from the ledge where we had spent the better part of an hour drinking in the view.  The second rocky outcropping I found was well worth the few minutes of exploring.

I returned to tell the others that I'd found something they didn't want to miss.  
I even let Jim come along.

And we got a nice second vantage from another rocky ledge.

We got to be mountain men.
I left a shiny penny for someone to find.

We got to walk this beautiful path through the forest on our way to Long Pond Mountain...

... got to see these toadstools along the way...

...and we got to walk the beautiful path again on the way back.

We paddled past numerous points and bays in Long Pond.

Looking around the lake, one can see that the cedars are all leafed out above a certain level.  It looks as if a gardener has gone around and trimmed them all about 4 feet off the water.  It is the same height all around the lake, and on other bodies of water as well.  Do the bears trim the trees when we're not there?

My guess is that cedars don't like being buried in snow.  The height of the snow on the frozen lake would account for the uniform height.  I'll have to come back in the dead of winter to confirm my theory.

We got to relax after a good hike.

A good reason to go camping is to get away from the never ending chatter of the wired world.  Unfortunately, we weren't really far enough away from what is loosely termed civilization to keep data feeds from arriving.  The day is coming when we'll never get away.  Oh well.  I suppose that as long as there is still a power button, there is hope.

In this case, it was probably a good thing, because there were family matters to stay on top of.

We saw that a big tree had uprooted, falling back into the woods.
I don't think the yellowing smaller tree is happy about the circumstance.
However, the birds nesting in the holes in the new high ground are very pleased.

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Never bring glassware into the woods.  Even if it only cost $1.98 for four stemless snifters.  They may break.  But if a glass meets with misfortune, there is always duct tape...if you brought it along.

It is really great to have your own monogramed glass in the woods.

We got to paddle out onto the lake to take in this sunset.
We went back out again to enjoy the Milky Way, satellites and shooting stars.
No shabbiness whatsoever.

I got to eat the smiley face pancake Jim made for me.

We enjoyed seeing this trio of loons paddle by.
Shortly after, they met with four others.
No shortage of loon views or loon music on Long Pond.

We paddled to the trailhead for Ledge Pond.

Doug and I went for an exploratory paddle to look for this trailhead.  It is completely unmarked, and not on the pond where Jim told us it was.  Of course, Jim will never admit his mistake.  Or maybe he initially told us that we had to paddle through the unmarked channel into the second pond to find the unmarked trail, and I'm the blockhead for not listening or understanding.  That's another benefit of going camping...you get to ponder, "What is reality?"

We had the privilege of traveling another beautiful trail to Ledge Pond.

We got to see an "Undesirable Fish Barrier."
Is being an undesirable a societal stigma?
Or is this a barrier to try to keep the carp and bass out of Ledge Pond?

The barrier clearly did not keep the beavers out, as shown by their dam.

We got to rock-hop this stream.

The little-used Ledge Pond campsite was a fine place for lunch.

Across the water, you can see the ledges if you look carefully.

Striding along a narrow path though the trees is always peaceful.

We got to see peeling "Barch Birk" above.

We saw twisted trees.

Peaceful.  No question.

We got to see interesting shrooms growing out of a dead tree.

We got to see the biggest pack in the whole world.

We realized it is good to have a sherpa!

And finally, we got to see a canoe-headed man.

What could be better?

P. S. - One more thing.  When I returned and took a drink of tap water, it tasted positively chemical.  UGH!