Woah! This is a very 90's moment for yours truly. I have ambled down to "Spoons," the local coffee shop, and am at this moment masquerading as one of the intelligencia as I tap at my keyboard, periodically gazing thoughtfully into the distance, trying to develop just the right distinguishing tic or trait that will enable me to blend into this trendy mix. I've suppressed the urge to order a Vanilla Bean Whipped Frappuccino and instead sip a small coffee - black, unsweetened- just the stuff of writers. I've not shaved this morning, and today's grey T shirt carries the subtle patina of yesterday's spills. Sunglasses propped up on top of my head, I gently chew a frayed wooden stirrer (Eureka! I think this is my qualifying tic!). C'mon, Muse, c'mon; everyone round me is tapping away like monkeys on crack. Let's go.
It all makes me want to read Hemingway's A Moveable Feast one more time.
The question is, are there any more CanAlCanal Tales in the larder? Let's see, shan't we?
During the row I kept an abbreviated Journal – just a 3x6 spiral notebook, the same one I carried on the '06 Big Row – and at the end of each day I would jot down highlights, hoping that my memory would fill in the blanks later. Hah. That it took me 30 minutes to find the notebook this morning does not inspire confidence on the "fill in the blanks later" assumption…but let's see what's here.
Day One: On 6/22 I made a note about the aerodynamic incompatibility of a 15' Adirondack Guideboat and the Volvo station wagon. My magnificent mom offered to let me drive her (in said Volvo) to Buffalo so I could launch from there, and it soon became clear that no combination of line tension or boat placement would yield a stable combination. We'd be trundling west on the NYS Thruway, chatting about my brother or sister, when suddenly the boat would be riding sidesaddle along mom's side of the car like a bad imitation of a rodeo cowboy. I'd pull over to center the boat and tighten the lines, and the process would repeat fifteen minutes later. To paraphrase Frost, "Something there is that doesn't like a Volvo…" My boat sure didn't…and it made for a tender trip.
Mom, as is her indefatigable style, watched me push away in Buffalo at about 5:00 PM…and then drove herself all the way back to Lake George….by my count, about a 720 mile day for her. (Hey, kids, Note to File: When I'm into my 80's, don't compare me to your grandmother, 'K?)
I put in 19 miles to Lockport that evening, arriving after dark. The Lockport locks were closed, so I tied up to a low dock as it started to drizzle, set up a tarp on the dock next to the boat, and hunkered down for the best night I could make of it.
Which leads me to Harold...and a brief tale of unconditional kindness.
At about 10PM I spotted a fellow walking his dog on the opposite bank. He saw me huddled under my tarp and greeted me cheerfully, introduced himself as Harold, his pup as Ripa, and asked me what was up. I explained my journey, we exchanged pleasantries, and bid each other goodnight across the canal. I soon tried to sleep, acutely aware of what sounded like a hard-drinking crowd gathered on my side of the canal just above the lock. Gentle Reader, believe me when I tell you that sleeping with one ear on a wet dock and another tuned to the pending antics of a well-lubricated crowd is not a recipe for good night's sleep.
Around midnight I became aware of footsteps on the boards. I peered out of my tarp to the beginning of the dock and saw Harold, sans Ripa, carrying two enormous bags. I climbed out of my hut, greeted him again, and he explained that he'd been rummaging around his apartment to see what a rower might be able to use on an extended trip. He handed me the bags, I thanked him, and he headed off into the drizzle.
Gentle Reader, I'd taken great pains to pack lightly for this trip, knowing that each pound would have to make it to Troy under my own untested power. I know I sound ungrateful, but these bags were heavy, and I waited until morning to sort through them: canned goods, envelopes, stamps, paper, a map, a compass, candles, a lighter, a frying pan, batteries, candy, baggies, soap, gloves…
I ask you, what kind of fellow crosses a canal at midnight in the rain to deliver items that might be of use to a total stranger? Harold, thank you. In the coming weeks I would see extraordinary wildlife and scenic vistas, but nothing can match a kind heart. The added weight meant little whenever I thought of the care he took to make my trip a little more comfortable.
Peg will join me here for lunch any moment. It's time to ditch the stirrer and the pretension, order up that Whipped Vanilla Bean Frappuccino, and grab a menu.
More tomorrow?
Hugs,
Mr. Frei
