How long has it been since the last installment? Oh, how I promised you there would be no such interlude! Oh, how I wish I had an excuse beyond the crush of the here and the now! I am indeed a slacker but, to my defense, I would offer that I'm a busy slacker.
Yet when I think of the extraordinary national soap opera unfolding at this moment – one that had been simmering for months but is now roiling to a full boil – I'm sort of glad I've waited. Sure, this blog is supposed to be about an old fellow's row along the Erie Canal, but oh, what metaphors our national drama has invited! How about, "Clearly, our nation's financial institutions lacked the control locks to manage the flow of events." Not bad. Or maybe, "Under the still waters of a placid canal lurks a turbidity- even a turbulence – that presents danger to the unwary investor." That, of course, is a mixed metaphor, but this is a crazy, mixed up time, so why not?
One more? Let's try: "Like the SEC, the Erie's lock keepers aim to maintain an orderly flow of traffic which operates by the rules and is, above all, kept safe. Unlike the lock keepers I met along the Erie, the SEC and its agencies have actually facilitated a maritime disaster of biblical proportions."
Wheee! This is fun! Should I try a Sarah Palin / Erie Canal metaphor? "Some have equated Sarah Palin's experience in governance and public policy as being analogous to, let's say, the Erie Canal: 338 miles long…and 12 feet deep." Woah, Snap. Or maybe, "Still waters run deep…or perhaps not."
Look, Gentle Reader, I don't mean to incite here a maelstrom of public debate and rancor. There's enough of that on the public airwaves as it is. I guess this is simply my way of saying that to the degree I owe any of my few faithful readers an apology for my tardiness in bringing the blog to a close, you have it.
So let's close it, shan't we? It's been 350-plus miles over two weeks. Let's bring it on home.
When I last left you I had spent my last evening on the bucolic shores of the Mohawk River, camping in the verdant grasses of the Schenectady Yacht Club. My final day – Sunday, July 6 – dawned clear and calm. I was up early, looking forward to a leisurely row through communities I knew well, having lived in "the Capital District" for fifty years. I rowed past the Knolls Atomic Research Center in Niskayuna, relieved not to have been serenaded by three headed frogs or assaulted by the toothed winged squirrels or fifteen foot Tiger Muskies of urban legend. I proceeded to the Vischer Ferry lock – a big one at 27 feet – and spent perhaps a half hour taking in the distant hills of Vermont shrouded in low fog but clearly visible from the ramparts of the lock.
Finally, it was on to "the flight", the final five locks that literally drop you into the Hudson Valley and, of course, the Hudson River. This series, compressed within one mile, are the world's most dramatic series of high-lift locks. They raise (or, in my case, lower) a boat a total of 169 feet. As a frame of reference, the entire Panama Canal system achieves less than half of this total over its entire length. Yes, I had experienced larger individual locks, namely the Little Falls lock of over 40 feet, but "the flight" is Industrial Age engineering at its finest and most elegant.
I had been warned that a transit through "the flight" could take two hours or more, yet my "keepers" fed me from lock to lock, from gate to gate, in a seamless, uninterrupted flow. I was through in less than an hour. I'd like to think that the lockkeepers' final gift to me was their way of saying, "Thanks, intrepid adventurer, for visiting our Erie Cana!" but it may well have been an exhale, a sigh, signaling, "Thank God this hazard to navigation is finally gone." Either way, those guys were great. I'll never forget their enthusiasm and hospitality, and I hope that New York appreciates their stewardship of an incredible resource…as well as their "Welcome Wagon" hospitality. Thanks, guys!
OK, Gentle Reader, so here's the set-up. I'm sitting in the enormous cavern that is the final lock in Waterford. Beyond the final massive doors is the Welcome Center in Waterford, and a short distance beyond flows the mighty Hudson. I'm slowly descending along the lock's wall, a slimy guide rope slipping through my hands, and I'm straightening up the boat, wondering who I'd see on the other side. Family and friends had been in touch via cell phone; they knew I'd be arriving at around noon, and it was – incredibly – 11:45 as the final lock began to drain. I'd heard rumors of a press presence: local TV, The Troy Record, The Times Union. I was picturing the myriad possible headlines…the pithy human interest tale of a local boy making some kinda' good, however differently (remember…we'd raised some $6,000 by now; most of your checks had cleared!). In the distance I hear music…a band! Celebration! They know I'm coming! In '06 (The Big Row, finishing in Baltimore), it was Fox and The Sun and scores of family and friends. It was sweet. Oh, Kathy & Peg, even though you'd had to leave some days before, the effect of your planning and insightful PR – the warmth, the love, the cheesy good will – all of this emanated through those massive lock doors as the water reached the Hudson. Oh, Happy Day! Fifteen days of adventure…now, the Homecoming!
Are we properly set up? Do you see what's coming? I should have.
The lock's water reaches the Hudson. The gears to the doors begin to thunder, their majestically powerful movement revealing a sliver of daylight beyond. The music swells; the doors swing wider, I grip the oars, assume a proper posture in my now-tidy boat, and begin to pull….and pull hard. By the time I hit the entrance from the lock I'm really booking. I want to have up a good head of steam so that when I turn to doff my hat to the assembled crowd, I'm still gliding gracefully in a way that only an Adirondack Guideboat can glide- that feather of water up at the cutwater, a gentle, undulating wake streaming behind. I clear the lock…the music peaks (in my mind, anyway), and I finally turn to face my adoring peeps and the press.
Gentle Reader, on most Sundays in Waterford they hold a Farmer's Market right by the Visitor's Center at the mouth of the Canal. There's a band, booths, and truth be told, it's a rather nice affair. It happens every Sunday, I was later told. I streamed past at five-plus knots, hat high in the air…waving and gesticulating like Lance Armstrong at the end of his final Tour. Imagine my surprise to see an ocean of backs, a few curious glances, and, blessedly, finally, from over there, a hearty wave from Matt, Kate, Peg's family, and maybe one or two others who'd been brought into the loop. No cameras, no reporters, flashbulbs, no adoring throngs.
I put on my hat, veered towards the dock, and it took me only an instant to laugh at my inflated anticipation and to count my blessings: son, daughter, close friends and family, and a lifetime of memories; what more could anyone possibly want? Well, truth be told, at that moment I had a hankering for an egg salad sandwich and a restorative chocolate milk, both of which magically appeared from a nearby cooler.
Thus, Gentle Reader, ended this sojourn, and here ends this blog. We raised $8,000 for a great cause, I learned a lot about the Empire State and the wonderful people who live and work along its shores, and yes, there will have to be yet another expedition. As Warren Miller once said, "Do it now; if you don't, you'll just be another year older when you do."
I'm one lucky fellah.
Hugs to you all……..
