e mail address change

Al is moving to G-mail; please change my address from earthlink to alfreihofer@gmail.com !?

Many thanks!

 

Al

Bringin' it on home...

Greetings, Gentle Reader, October 1, 2008

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……..

Almost home...

Greetings, Gentle Reader, August 31, 2008

So much for my promise to "get back soon." And…I left you in Amsterdam. Yikes!

I can offer no real excuse except the rigors of preparing for another school year. This year's run-up is exacerbated by the fact that this year, I and many of my colleagues will be teaching in "Learning Modules" (fairly swanky trailers, actually) while our school builds a new Middle School building. The teaching spaces are spacious, the numerous "modules" are interconnected by a summery boardwalk, and the whole place has the feel of quite a nice little campus. I'm especially grateful that the designers and construction crews made a point of working around and saving the numerous old trees sprinkled around the lot.

I offer this excuse because setting up for the year has entailed essentially starting over, unpacking the boxes I hastily filled in June and reconstructing furniture in a hapless simulation of the night before Christmas. But….egads…I left you in Amsterdam!

Let's get back to the row, shan't we? We're so close to home.

Saturday, 7/5, was the next-to-last day of my row. I bid adieu to Peg and Kathy who had to head back to Baltimore. One couldn't ask for a better support team; even while they were galavanting around the countryside sightseeing, they always knew when and where to appear with ice, Yoo Hoo, Gatorade, salty snacks, and egg salad sandwiches. Their psychic powers enabled them to appear on bridges, at docks, and even from seemingly inaccessible woods to deliver the goods, and of course our end-of-day meal and shared tales were among the highlights of each day. Peg & Kathy, thanks for traveling so many miles and especially for building your vacation around my own adventure. You guys rock!

As Peg & Kathy pushed off for Baltimore, they passed their logistics baton for the day to Peter and Karen, dear friends from Vermont. Peter, you may recall, peddled much of the Hudson while I rowed it two years ago on my way to Baltimore, offering logistical support and also tips on rowing, as Peter had rowed competitively at our shared alma mater. They had brought their bikes and made use of the excellent bikeways along the canal. Fifteen miles later were they were waiting for me at the famous Jumpin' Jacks in Scotia, right along the Mohawk River. I scarffed down two vanilla malts, a couple of cheeseburgers, and onion rings under their skeptical gazes (they're healthy and fit; I was hungry and unsupervised), and I later enjoyed a leisurely afternoon on this stretch of river. I had lived and worked in the Albany area for most of my life and yet had never seen this part of town from the water. The Mohawk serpentines back and forth under some impressive cliffs, and it is clear that the folks of the capital district know how to use the river: rowing clubs, environmental facilities, and beautiful homes line the banks.

A few miles further downstream, the Schenectady Yacht Club hosted me on my last night on the river. They asked only for "some good press" in the blog, and I herewith offer it now. They let me pitch my tent right by the dock, granted me access to a perfectly clean shower room and a delightful pool, and all of this enabled me to spruce up for the arrival in Waterford tomorrow, my final day.
Their hospitality on my last night prompted me to reflect on how such small acts of kindness can mean so much to a traveler, and how over the last two weeks the kindness of strangers made this row so much more than a traverse of New York state. There was Harold on my first night way back in Lockport, my middle-of-the-night visitor who braved the rain to bring me items he scoured from his home that he thought would be useful. His care was the best item of all. Days later, the Morehouse family adopted me in Cayuga. They and their friends shared their time and history, and they let me pitch in and make me feel a part of their gathering. Joe of Cross Lake introduced me to the impossible idea of using a Venetian gondola for my kind of traveling…and opened his home (and refrigerator!) for a much-needed respite. Fellow mariners, friendly lock-keepers, and the scores who waved and shouted encouragement from the banks all contributed to a special camaraderie on this trip. I came to see a canal as a continuous community, the shared waters connecting folks in a way more poignant than town boundaries or zip codes.

So, Schenectady Yacht Club, I am in your debt for your final act of kindness to a stranger. Tomorrow I will head for the dramatic final "flight" of locks leading to Waterford and the Hudson. That I will arrive shaved, showered, and quite well rested is due to you, and on behalf of those who will meet me and perhaps might be moved to give me a hug, I thank you.

Three hundred twenty five miles down…fifteen to go.

Sweet.

More soon…..very soon!

Hugs,
Mr. Frei

Picking it Up Again

Greetings, Gentle Reader, August 20, 2008

I know that I've taxed even my most faithful readers with this inexcusable lapse. I last wrote in mid-July and left you hanging in Frankfort…much as I myself was hanging on to my tent and worldly possessions during a midnight thunderstorm. In the same way that I at that moment asked, "When will this ever end?", so too must you be wondering, "Al, when will this (blog) ever end?"
Soon, Gentle Reader, soon. Gotta get you (and me) home first, OK?

But…why the lapse? In a word: sloth. I spent two wonderful weeks with family and friends at my mom's camp at Lake George, rowing in the mornings, feigning home improvement projects in the afternoons, succumbing to a nap by three, taking a refreshing swim and rejuvenating libations by five, and generally living the life of a teenager….all under direct parental supervision. My daughter and I built a Potato Cannon on my birthday – just the activity to busy a summering teacher and an aspiring doctoral candidate – and it performed magnificently, lofting Russets hundreds of feet behind a gout of flame and my mother's protestations. (I highly recommend William Gurstelle's Backyard Ballistics, which Dava Sorbel refers to as "the official manual for REAL boys." I concur. The Cincinnatti Fire Kite is another personal favorite, but watch that wind!)

So, where were we? Oh yes, Frankfort. After gathering the trail of debris left by the storm, I packed the boat and made a largely rainy 30 mile day of it through four locks, one of which – Little Falls – presents, at 41 feet, the greatest vertical transition on the Canal. Believe me, sitting at the bottom of that lock in a rowboat is sobering as you contemplate both the ancient concrete and the 1919-vintage machinery protecting you from the deluge upstream. I felt like the proverbial rubber ducky tub toy when the lock keeper opened the lower doors. As an aside, the acoustics of the Little Falls lock are truly superb; my blues harp was never far from my seat, and as I bent a few notes before I headed out, I imagined Muddy Waters in the back seat, providing that back beat and soulful vocals. Muddy Waters on the Erie. Oh, yes.
The St. Johnsville Marina offered a clean campsite and showers that night (7/2). Of the three boats transiting the canal tied up there that evening, lo and behold, two of the three families had Boys' Latin connections. One fellow's son had graduated a few years before, and another fellow's wife had dated a BL student "back in the day." I couldn't clarify what she meant by "back in the day," and decorum prevents speculation here. Nonetheless, Peg, Kathy, and I hit an Italian restaurant in town – as did my fellow transients- and I loaded up on carbs. If I were at a wheel instead of at my oars, I'd weigh 300 pounds after an Erie journey. Note to file: keep rowing.

July 3rd dawned sunny and calm. Four locks and 34 miles later, I pulled up just west of Amsterdam, a town still reeling from departed or marginalized industries. We had heard that there would be quite a fireworks display that evening, but it never happened. Instead, as Peg, Kathy and I sipped a saucy merlot at sunset along the canal, we were visited by two kids on bikes. Sal and Robert started the interrogation with zest. Who were we? Where had we come from? Where were we going? Was I really sleeping in that tent over there? What did I do for food?

As conversations with pre-teens often do, the questioning eventually turned to "How old do you think I am?" as Sal and Robert challenged me to guess their ages. Six years in an 8th grade classroom have taught me that in the interests of domestic tranquility, it is always wise to guess low. I came comfortably close with Sal and Robert (10 and 11) and then made the mistake of turning the tables. "Sal," I asked, "how old do you think I am?" Sal sized me up, discreetly conferred with Robert, and then confidently pronounced, "Seventy two." Cripes, had I not just told them that I had rowed the boat before them over three hundred miles in the last ten days? As Peg and Kathy wisely opined after a few more glasses and many laughs, to a kid on a bike, anyone over 20 is an enigma; 32, 52, 72….if you're ten on the canal in July, what's the difference, really? Of course, Sal and Robert staged a comeback when they sized Peg up as "about 37" and Kathy as "forty-something."

Sal and Robert…the Diplomats of Amsterdam. Sigh.

More later, and soon, 'K? We're almost home.

Baltimore man visits B’ville

An article came out today. It is by Richard Palmer - Al mentions him on his 7/23/08 blog entry.

Baltimore man visits B’ville
Richard Palmer 07/24/08

On a recent rainy evening, Al Freihofer of Baltimore, MD tied his Adirondack Guide Boat to one of Baldwinsville's docks where he spent the night. It had been a long day as he had rowed some 30 miles from Lock CS-1 in Cayuga.But this is only part of his story. Freihofer had spent the previous four days rowing the entire distance of the canal from Tonawanda.


To read more, go to

http://www.cnylink.com/cnynews/view_news.php?news_id=1216911119

Illuminating

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

Betcha' you thought this monologue had ended, huh? Alas, it has not…at least not quite yet, because I haven't even gotten you off Cayuga Lake. Let's go, OK?

But first…fast forward. Last Thursday I was at 30 some-odd thousand feet, homeward bound from a teaching seminar in Colorado Springs. I had brought my lil' GPS device with me - the same one that silently counted out the miles and my glacial speed during the row - and as I held it to the window so that it could pick up satellite contacts, here's what it told me: the 4 miles that took me a full hour to row passed the window in 37.6 seconds. My entire 14-day trip was covered in 39 minutes, twenty twos seconds…hardly enough time to peruse the editorial page of the New York Times. I sipped my in-flight coffee, marveled, and turned the page.

The only other quasi-nautical connection to my Colorado Springs visit involved my unwitting participation in a morning aqua-aerobics class. I was swimming against the current in a nifty 50' diameter "current pool" to get some early-morning exercise when a svelte "aqua-aerobics" instructor informed me that a class would start in five minutes and she'd need the pool...unless I wanted to join in. I foolishly elected the latter, and within five minutes I felt - and no doubt looked - like a thrashing Labrador in the midst of a pod of sleek porpoises who anticipated each of their trainer's commands with precision and grace. It wasn't pretty…but I was a game pup, and it was a good workout.

OK, so it's Monday, June 30. We're pushing off from a three-day layover at Cayuga Lake; the gracious Morehouse crew, the wine country, the softening of the hands and derriere, all of this is now subordinate to getting back in the rhythm for the 200 mile pull to Troy. Today's destination: Baldwinsville, Lock 24, about 37 miles away. What started as a hot, calm day ends in a downpour and a nighttime arrival, and an interview over dinner with Richard Palmer of The Canal Times. Richard covers the entire waterfront of the Canal…all 360+ miles…and that he tracked me down in Baldwinsville on this given evening is a testament to his coverage. Richard is a great fellow, and I think whatever he works up will run in the August issue.

But before we dismiss this day, let me urge you to visit the links Kathy has set up to meet and learn about one Joe Deverell. I met Joe at the Morehouse boat show, and he invited me to stop by his house on Cross Lake which is bisected by the canal (the lake, not the house). I did stop and as the link will show you, Joe's passion, authentic Venetian gondolas, makes my rowing of an Adirondack guide boat seem wimpy by comparison. His elegant craft - a small ship, really - is 36 feet long and weighs three quarters of a ton. By comparison, my guide boat is 15 feet long and weighs about fifty pounds. Frankly, the only thing these vessels have in common is the necessity of human propulsion…one human to a boat, thank you. Joe is an imposing fellow and looks well able to get his 1500 pound vessel moving smartly, and he does: check out his site! He's been all over the Erie canal and has even given the Hudson a shot. HOW one propels a 36', 1500 pound craft over great distances - with only one oar, no less - is incomprehensible to me, but he does. Simply awesome. If you're at all nautical and are anywhere near red buoy #420 on the Erie, be on the lookout for Joe; he's a great guy, just the kind of adventurer and free spirit who makes a trip like this so enjoyable. I hope I will have the opportunity to return his hospitality when he ventures out again. An original Venetian gondola.

Sheeesh. I ask you, are we still the last remaining superpower, or what?

The next day dawns sunny and warm, perfect for an attempt to get across Oneida Lake, the single largest body of open water on the canal. For years I'd heard stories of Oneida Lake, warnings that were reiterated by any and all who knew I'd be attempting a crossing. You see, Oneida Lake is out in the open; there are no hills or mountains to blanket one from wind, and its shallow depth accentuates the wave action anytime a breeze kicks up. A Canadian trawler I'd met in Spencerport warned me that Oneida Lake presented the worst wave action he'd seen since leaving Florida two months earlier. These thoughts were on my mind 19 miles later, when I finally nosed into Oneida's wide waters.

A west-east crossing of Oneida presents an immediate challenge to the oarsman. There is no horizon: just water, as if one were looking into the Atlantic. I knew that I'd better follow the widely-spaced markers to minimize the distance across just in case the weather turned, and I lamented that I was starting across the 22-mile expanse so late in the day. It was 4 PM, and while it would be light even as late as 8, I knew I'd have to book it in the event the winds turned on the nose. All of the worst stories I'd heard about Oneida Lake's petulant weather were stifled by my get-home-itis, the bane of nautical and aeronautical adventurers throughout the ages. I lathered up, took a long drag of Gatorade, and leaned into the oars.

To make a long story short, the wind did come up smartly, but in the form of a blessed 15 knot tailwind, right from the stern. I was even able to augment my progress - for the first time- with the small 'pusher sail' I had mounted for just such an opportunity. The GPS was reading as high as 7 knots as I surfed most of the way across, intermittently rowing and using the oars to maintain stability. Broaching in the middle of Oneida Lake might have made for a more exciting tale, but I am not sure how such a tale might have ended. This particular day ended at Sylvan Beach at dusk, 44 miles closer to home and with an after-hours burger served by a most sympathetic waitress. It was "Cycle Night" at the Beach, but I had no trouble pitching the tent in the park and almost immediately finding the Land of Nod. My neighbors that evening were nursing a 48' sailboat back to Erie, PA, that had been hit - and fried - by lightning. My thoughts turned to Joe, standing tall in that gondola. Joe, stay low - or home - when the bolts start to fly, 'K?

Hey, I'm on a roll, and we're only four days from home. Let's tackle Wednesday, 7/2, OK? As I recall, it was pretty uneventful. But the night was illuminating.

"Illuminating, AL? What do you mean?"

As I arranged the boat for the day, I came across my sliding seat tucked up in the nose. I'd not been using it out of concerns for my posterior which had not been conditioned for the rigors of 10-hour days in the boat. I oiled it up (the seat, Gentle Reader, the seat) and fixed it to the rails that morning, thinking that I'd use it to make better time until the ache started to come and then abandon it for the fixed wicker seat I'd been using exclusively up to that point.

Gentle Reader, you do the math: by switching to the slider, my stroke rate went from 25 per minute to 16. a _____% decrease. The GPS showed a flat-water, no-current pace of 4.8 mph…fully .8 to .9 better than The Wicker Way, a _____% increase. I'd waited 226 miles to make this decision. Needless to say, I was "conditioned" to stay on the slider for the rest of the trip, lamenting that my early caution had cost me a lot of time and unnecessary calories. My legs were happy to finally have something to do other than cause me sunburned agony, and I was happy for their happiness.

My new Mach number of 4.8 - with an occasional "power ten" (thanks, Bean!) of up to 5.5 - enabled me to circle for a landing 34 miles later at Lock 19 in Frankfort. This town holds a special place in my heart as its bucolic grass strip was the destination of my first solo cross country flight when I was learning to fly in 1973. It took me a very long time to find the field, as I recall, because to this junior birdman it looked just like the agricultural fields that surround it. Only a Cessna sitting in what looked like a corn field alerted me to its location and, after a low drag over the field to be sure, I bounced in for the necessary logbook signature of "proof" to my anxious instructor that I'd been there…and a basket of tomatoes for more tangible evidence.

Ahh..Frankfort. Little did I know that my last Frankfortian Chapter had not yet been written.

I pulled the boat up on a low dock, emptied it of tent and supplies, enjoyed another placid evening setting up camp and enjoying Peg and Kathy's company (before they headed out to a picturesque B&B in Little Falls), and hit the hay at 9, looking forward to a good night's sleep.

I don't know what time it was. It doesn't really matter. When your tent has collapsed on you under the onslaught of a tornado-like vortex, your first inclination is not to check your watch. When your tent then literally lifts into the air, threatening to subject you to yet another take-off (and hard landing) in a town you'd thought you'd put in your aeronautical past, you tend not to ask, "What the hell time is it?" No, instead you ask, "What the hell is going on?"

The tent was alternately lifting and bucking, the rain flap acting as a perfect lifting airfoil in the hardest winds I'd felt in a very long while. Add lightning, thunder, and the resonating "splat" of fat raindrops, and you have the scene for "The Decision."

You see, even while I was trying to keep my tent and its contents - including me - on the ground (No, I had not staked it down, but given the placid evening upon retirement, you wouldn't have, either), I was thinking about my boat, pulled up on the dock fifty yards away. I'd not tied it down, and I knew that the winds could easily whisk it off the dock and create much trouble. I also knew that the moment I stepped out of the tent, it too would certainly be gone…to somewhere. Who knew?

"The Lady or the Tiger"…the Boat or the Tent?

Batman would have checked up on Robin. Roy would have checked up on Trigger. I, of course, had to check the boat. I stepped out of the tent and sprinted to the dock, the lightning and my own desperation illuminating the path. The boat was still there, rocking on the planks, and I lashed it to a tree. As I crested the bank back to the tent, the lighting illuminated the surreal image of my tent (and its contents) ballooning across an adjacent field like a crazed tumbleweed. In what should possibly be considered as a future crowd-pleasing Olympic event, I sprinted at least 50 yards to overtake it, tackled it at the knees, and literally rolled myself up in the fabric, trying to spoil its aerodynamic perfection. I subdued the beast, but the wind continued to howl. What to do now? To try to raise and stake the tent in such conditions would be even more entertaining (translate: comical) than the capture, and I had no appetite for playing "catch and release" again.

I've heard it said that "the decision not to make a decision is a decision." Rolled up in the fabric of my tent like an otter in sea kelp, I decided that the day's work was done. The boat would be there in the morning, and so would this mess. I slept, as wet…and as oblivious to my surroundings…as an otter.

Tomorrow…or sometime soon…we'll finish this trip, OK?

Hugs,

Mr. Frei

Morehouse Memories

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

Tonight's blog comes to you from sunny (or twilight) Colorado Springs, where your faithful scribe is attending a Gurian Institute seminar on gender-based learning research and consequent teaching strategies. It is fascinating stuff, explaining a lot about how boys and girls learn differently and how we (teachers and parents) can adapt some –or much - of what we do to better effect. I've only been here for a day…but this promises to be very useful information indeed. Sadly, none of it yet explains my three-time pass at Algebra I. That must be a different seminar.

Sadly, multi-day seminars present the allure/danger of the ever-present feed bag. This morning I found myself totally unsupervised in front of an enormous platter of corned beef hash. Not good. I need to be very, very closely monitored and counseled in such a setting. I went back twice. Three times, actually. Then, four hours later, it's lunchtime. Meatloaf. Uh oh. You get the idea.

So… this evening's Blog is written in lieu of dinner and will be followed by a vigorous amble (I can hardly call it a jog) through the hills surrounding the University of Colorado campus where we are staying. This setting enjoys a commanding view of Pike's Peak and Cheyenne Mountain across the valley, the air is as dry and cool as Baltimore's is hot and wet, and all of this simply must prevent me from sitting in front of my third square meal of the day.

Having re-read my last blogs to catch up, I am concerned that there is too much slow-moving pedestrian detail and not enough punch. I can't guarantee punch, but I can skip some of the tedious blow-by-blow stuff because, let's face it, this was a row, not a Rolling Stones tour. Suffice to say that the next three days (6/24, 25, & 26) were spent slogging through Rochester (big and animated by the confluence of the Genesee River), Pittsford (classy), Fairport (classy, but not very welcoming; they, too, suggested I "look for better options" further along the canal), Macedon (the Lockmaster at 30 mercifully let me pitch a tent after a long, long day and the rejection in Fairport), Newark (nice shower in the Welcome Center), Clyde (see Brian's comments….not deserved), and finally, through the Montezuma Wildlife Refuge (grassy, great birds) and the short Cayuga-Seneca Canal (up) to Cayuga Lake. That's a blessedly short overview of three days and 77 miles…but it gets me to Cayuga Lake so that I can riff a bit about the Morehouse Boat Company and family, a far more stimulating topic than my own labors at the oars.

On Thursday the 26th, shortly after I came through Lock 1 on Cayuga Lake (and got up close and personal with the Zebra Mussels congealed on the lock walls…a nasty miasma of shell and goo and skanky slime; if Peg will download the pictures, you'll see what I mean), I headed towards Cayuga Lake State Park, on the northwest shore of Cayuga Lake, where I hoped to spend the night and await Peg & Kathy's arrival on Saturday.

Rowing up to what looked like "the Park building" (it wasn't), the first person I met was George Zeth. George coached me through a strategy to pitch a tent close to the water at the Park without getting hassled (proved successful), regaled me with the local history of the Park and then, more interesting to me, of his forebears' boatbuilding business. George gave me a private tour of the charming waterfront museum which commemorates the Morehouse Boat Company and Cayuga's general boatbuilding and Park heritage, including a look at the very jigs and frames Morehouse used for decades to build a wide array of power and sailing craft in that building. He even allowed me to lend a hand at the Morehouse Boat Reunion at that very site over the coming weekend…and then let me off lightly on the heavy-lifting tasks. George is a great guy, very knowledgeable, and a fine host. All of this is just to say that when a random encounter on a rowing trip includes meeting guy like George at your first "hello," you have to count yourself lucky.

I won't butcher the history of this fine family's business by trying to recount it from memory (I think Kathy has afforded you the chance to look at it through a link to the museum), but I will simply say that the Morehouse story is the classic story of a small, enterprising business focused on quality and service, founded and built by very hard-working people who did whatever had to be done to keep it going through all seasons, economic cycles, and trends, and which morphed over time as circumstances dictated. Finally, for the myriad reasons that afflict so many small family businesses, it ceased to be. Gentle Reader, go to the site. It's fascinating, familiar, and now, for me, personal.

Yet happily, over the weekend of June 27th, I had a hard time believing that the Morehouse Boat Company had "ceased to be." For three days Morehouse family members, customers, friends, boat-nuts, historians, local politicians, and neighbors told story after story of colorful times, displayed their Morehouse boats (and their justifiable pride in them), and proved that as long as we remember them, the events, people, and objects of our nostalgia continue to live. To George, Betty, Jenny, Mike, Rob and the many others who hosted me so graciously over three full days and brought me into their pasts and presents…thank you. Your hospitality was a highlight of my trip, and I couldn't be more grateful to all of you for adopting me for a weekend.

On Sunday I was delighted to take Peg & Kathy on a wine tour of Cayuga and Seneca Lakes (in Kathy's Subaru, not my boat). Suffice to say that if I were a vitas vinifera, I could think of worse climes in which to spend the summer. (Winters I'd want to spend south.) Both Seneca and Cayuga lakes are cupped by gently sloping hills – framed by long, oblique "plateaus," really – and we tasted some very fine stuff. Being the Designated Driver on such a tour poses some restrictions on how much you can taste, but we ended the day with a full wagon.

I myself capped the night off with a guilty Vanilla Malt, knowing that three days of lallygagging around the Finger Lakes was not getting me any closer to the Hudson.
The calluses were softening. It was time to go.

Tomorrow's Blog: The Amazing Gondola Man…and The Big Waters.

Rocky Mountain Hi,

Mr. Frei

Lock Keepers

Greetings, Gentle Reader July 12, 2008

"OK, Mr. Frei? So, what happened next?" I can hear you ask, perhaps offering a thought for today's blog entry.
But wait! Before I get into Day 2, let me thank those of you who have made something significant from a "quiet" fundraiser. As of today, we're at $6776 for financial aid for the boys at Boys' Latin. To those of you who have weighed in, thank you! To those of you who are still on the fence...climb in the boat!
Ok...on with the narrative.
6/23, Day 2: After loading in my stuff on the low dock at Lockport – including Harold's copious supplies – and after a Big Breakfast at Denny's, I readied myself for my first lock experience. I walked over to the lock keeper to get advice, and it was embarrassingly simple: "When I open the gate, row in, grab a line, and wait until I open the lower doors." He might have overstated the complexity.
Lockport is a double lock dropping 49 feet in total, and locking through was indeed a breeze. One feels like a tub toy as the water gets lower and you sit in an increasingly voluminous concrete cavern, but locking down is a pretty placid experience. It seems odd to see this enormous infrastructure serving the likes of a 15 foot rowboat, but throughout the trip the lock keepers assured me that that's what it's there for. They were a very accommodating and encouraging lot, calling ahead to the next lock with an ETA and, later in the trip, allowing me to camp out on their impeccably kept grounds.
One more riff about the lock keepers, if I may?

These guys (sorry, no lock keeper-ettes, to my knowledge) are extraordinary. They are not only responsible for the safe operation of some pretty massive machinery (not an altogether easy task considering the amateurs who call on those services each day), but for its upkeep as well. This is 1915 technology, machinery, and circuitry, and each winter they take it apart piece by piece to refurbish, polish, and bring it back to virtually new condition. Each lock's equipment is a museum piece…a work of art, really…and they would proudly open up the plates and shields that house the gears, electrics, and valves. It all sparkled. Unbelievable.

These fellows are sanguine about the role the canal now plays. I saw only one commercial vessel – a barge – throughout my trip, and one lock keeper put it well: "We're responsible for the upkeep of antiquated infrastructure within a stretched budget." They work under the auspices of the New York State Thruway Authority, and it seems that the Thruway folks are anxious to shift the Canal – and I suspect some red ink – to another agency. Whatever the future holds, the canal is a resource that is certainly in capable and caring hands.

In terms of distance travelled, Day 2 turned out to be my best. Because of the 62 mile stretch between Lockport and the next lock (#32, just east of Rochester), I was not slowed by lock transits and even enjoyed a bit of a tailwind all the way under a glorious sun. I had planned to finish at Brockport (42 miles). Upon arriving after about 10 hours of rowing, I discovered that the folks there had no appetite for entertaining a rowboat/camping combination overnight…and I was encouraged to explore other "options" along the canal. I DID get a shower…but then slogged 8 more miles in the dark to Spencerport, where I employed the "don't ask, don't tell" strategy of finding a place to sleep. Considering the virtual absence of boats and travel on the canal up to that point, I was astounded…and a little miffed…that the Welcome Mat would not be out at virtually any point. The days of the mega-cruiser showing up for 2500 gallons of fuel and copious re-provisioning might be over – at least for this summer. I would think that any community looking to take advantage of its proximity to the canal would accommodate anyone using this resource…but, alas, not in Brockport.

So I rowed on to Spencerport in the dark, flopped on the town dock at about 10 PM, and slept well under the stars. Very well. A 50 mile day on flat water is a full day.

Day 3 tomorrow, 'K?

Mr. Frei

P.S. Mark McCarty's trip of the end of the row can be found at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/25133618@N07/sets/72157606117000843/

Cayuga Lake - June 30, 2008

Marck of Belgium (http://www.flickr.com/photos/marck_from_belgium/2660362777/) took one of my photos and played with it. I like the result!

Unconditional Kindness

Greetings, Gentle Reader, July 11, 2008
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

Home at Last.

Greetings, Gentle Reader, July 9, 2008

Well, it's over.

At least the rowing is over. But this novice adventurer's appetite for the tedious chronicling of his experience is, I'd say, about half finished. I have some thank-yous to administer, some stories to get down, and, as Rickie Ricardo might say, "some 'splainin' to do."

On Sunday at noon I rowed out of Lock 2 in Waterford into the stream of the mighty Hudson. While I'd like to tell you that my first plucky impulse was to wave to the assembled crowd and turn downstream towards Baltimore, my posterior had another more strident idea: get out of the boat…now. So, I did.

The crowd, as it turns out, was largely oblivious to my journey's end, having assembled for the celebration of Waterford's Canal Day: reggae music, a farmer's market, crafts and wares, and a dozen steam-powered craft which were giving rides- a particularly poignant activity given the $5 diesel I'd been hearing about from fellow boaters for the past two weeks, While there were some TV and news crews milling about, I don't think I made the press; I was out for the count by 9 PM and if there was coverage, I missed it. But Matt, Kate, the Doc and Jan, Mark, and Jack were there to greet me with oatmeal cookies, egg salad sandwiches, and a quart of chocolate milk. I ask you, what more could anyone want? At least Fox wasn't there, as they were in Baltimore in '06, asking me to reenact my arrival. When it's over, it's over. And it was over. Kate's thoughtful and timely gift said it best: a pound of Epsom Salts.

So…the stats? Fourteen days to the day, including three full days cavorting about the Finger Lakes and making friends by shore and vine. 367 miles, including said detour to Cayuga Lake. Two nights in hotels, eleven in my tent or under a tarp. Longest day, 50 miles…shortest day, 15. Two days of rain, primarily a blessed tailwind most of the way, one thrilling 22 mile "open water" crossing (Oneida Lake), 36 locks (32 down, four up, for a net fall of 572 feet), and lots and lots of fluids. The scales this morning told me that eight pounds had melted away or have been converted to matter more dense…but sadly, the mirror suggests that this "melting" was but a veritable trickle down the glacier. I should have kept rowing. I count eleven gnarly calluses which will fade quickly, a nasty friction chafe on the top of my left hand where the oars overlapped, and layers of sunburned skin that will soon join their callused brethren. Oh…and some money raised for the fine families and boys at Boys' Latin, but I'll have an update on that stat tomorrow.

As I anticipated, in its physical demands, this row was not the relative epic of the '06 Troy-Baltimore sojourn. Except for Cayuga and Oneida lakes, I was within easy hailing distance of shore the entire time. There were no tides, no appreciable currents, no denizens of the deep. While there were some straight stretches of five miles and more than a few panoramic views, this was a row affording an intimate connection with beautiful country.

What truly distinguished this row from '06 was, for want of a better word, its "sociability." A lot of people live and work along the canal, and more than a few wanted to talk, tell stories, or ask me about my trip. I often relied on the kindness of strangers and more than descriptions of my toil at the oars, these folks will be the topics of the next few blogs.

It's nice to be home. Thanks, Kathy and Peg, for sustaining the blog - and me - for so many days. I should perhaps let Kathy's pictures replace the thousands of words I may be tempted to write in the coming days, but how can I coach my students to keep their writing sharp if I myself rely on Kathy's fab pix to give 2 U on the DL?

See what I'm up against?

More tomorrow?

Hugs,

Al

Row to finish at Waterford Visitors' Center

Al is spending the night at the Schenectady Yacht Club tonight, and is being treated royally!

His friends Peter and Karen met up with him this morning at Lock 11, and watched Al take Peg through the lock.

We last saw Al at Riverlink Park in Amsterdam, as we headed south today. Peter and Karen spent the day trailing him down to the Yacht Club.

If you are in the area tomorrow, he will land at the Waterford Visitors' Center at noon. The map can be enlarged by double-clicking on it.

A few new photos added to the set at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

If any of you are there when he finishes, please email me photos, so that I can add them to the blog.

Hope you all had a great 4th!

Kathy

Amsterdam on the 4th of July

Mr. Frei made it to Amsterdam, New York by 4:30 this afternoon. It sounded like a smooth row today.

We had dinner and listened to fireworks being launched in the surrounding towns until the mosquitos drove us to take cover.

Mr. frei estimates that he will finish the row on Sunday around noon.

A few new photos and 1 video of Mr. Frei playing the harmonica at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

Happy 4th of July from St. Johnsville, New York

Mr. Frei is happily ensconced at a marina in St. Johnsville, New York after a large plate of spaghetti at a local Italian restaurant. It was a rainy day, but he said that he was a nice change from the hot sun.

There were 2 Boys' Latin connections out of the 3 other boats staying at the marina for the night. One couple were parents of a graduate, and one lady had dated a graduate back in the 80's.

Lock 17 was amazing, and one of the tallest in the world at 40 feet. Will add a few photos taken there to the flickr set at

http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

Mr. Frei had an interesting night last night sleeping in his tent by lock 19. In the middle of the night a strong wind came up suddenly, causing him to worry that the boat might get blown into the canal. He chose to go to the boat rather than stay in the tent, even though he was the only thing weighing it down, since he would rather lose the tent than the boat.

After lashing down the boat, he discovered that his tent had blown across the field like a tumbleweed, and the contents resembled a tossed salad, which included the water from the cooler than had broken open with the force. Mr. Frei is a tough guy!

Today was a light day for Mr. Frei, as he "only" did 24 miles.

More tomorrow!

Mr. Frei in the FINGER LAKE TIMES on July 2

Hello, We had no computer access yesterday, and it is quite late tonight, but we thought you'd enjoy seeing this article that just came out in the FINGER LAKE TIMES.

Also, I continue to add photos to the photoset on flickr.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

Mr. Frei is at Lock 19 tonight, sleeping in his little pup tent. He did about 34 miles today.

More tomorrow!

Kathy


WEDNESDAY JULY 2, 2008 Last modified: Tuesday, July 1, 2008 6:08 PM CDT

‘All about the journey’

By MIKE MASLANIK/Finger Lakes Times

He doesn’t have a mule named Sal, but Al Freihofer is seeing the Erie Canal the old-fashioned way, by row-boat.

“I’ve always wanted to see the Erie Canal, and what better way to do it than from a boat,” Freihofer, 56, of Baltimore, Md., said, speaking on a cell phone from near Cross Lake, west of Syracuse.

On June 22, Freihofer set out from Buffalo in his 15-foot Adirondack Guide Boat, determined to paddle roughly 360 miles to the Hudson River, near Whitehall in Washington County.

Along the way, he has enjoyed the sights and sounds of the Finger Lakes region from a unique perspective.

“This whole canal system is such a special resource,” he said. “It’s great to be able to see it in slow motion.”

Freihofer’s boat never leaves the water. He spends his nights sleeping in a tent under the stars.

He is especially struck by the friendliness of the lock operators, who happily operate the mechanisms for his small boat and send workers at the next one word of his approach, he said.

This past weekend, Freihofer’s cruise took him to Cayuga Lake State Park in Seneca Falls, where he spent some time at the Morehouse Boat Reunion, a gathering of folks who own vessels built by the now-defunct company.

The trip is mostly for pleasure, he said, a way to clear his mind after another year of teaching eighth-grade English at the Boys’ Latin School of Maryland, a private school in Baltimore. But he’s also raising money to bolster the school’s scholarship fund. Before he left, Freihofer took pledges for the miles that he travels.

This is Freihofer’s second major canoe trip.

Two years ago, he paddled down the Hudson River from his native Troy, Rensselaer County, to Baltimore — about 460 miles — raising about $18,000 for the Boys’ Latin School.

By Freihofer’s estimates, he should make it to his destination by early next week, but he’s in no hurry.

“This is definitely one of those trips that’s all about the journey,” he said.





http://fltimes.com/articles/2008/07/02/news/doc486aade6529bf976758535.txt

Bonus Blogette

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

It's now July and I'm back on the canal, streaking east. Yesterday was a 36 miler, much of it through rain, and my arrival at Lock 24 coincided with a downpour followed by a delightful interview - and subsequent dinner - with Richard Palmer, editor of The Canal Times. His beat is literally the full breadth of the Canal, making my episodic row look like a lark. He joined Peg, Kathy, and me for dinner...and no doubt learned a lot more than will be - or should be - printed.
I also interviewed with The Finger Lakes Times yesterday via phone. If it's a slow news day, I'll be something of a celebrity in these here parts. Uh oh.

This morning it's off to one more lock and then Oneida Lake, 19 miles away and itself 22 miles across. I have been warned of this lake since Tonawanda a week ago; apparently its shallow depth and lack of protection can make it the Kiddie Pool from Hell in any kind of breeze, so I'll sniff my way out and see what the conditions are like this afternoon.

I'm sore all over today; yesterday I sustained a 4.8 mph avg for 36 miles...really booking with the load I'm carrying (and am), and the legs and shoulders feel every stroke of it this morning. But I'm psyched make it on to the lake, and the 'lil Shackelton in my aspires to get across the thing today, weather permitting. When your Inner Voice is Evil Twin Skippy Shackelton, only trouble can ensue.

It's nice to still enjoy the companionship of Peg & Kathy on this leg; I think they'll be with me for another day or so, and then the blog entries and pictures will take a breather until I get home. I'll still be calling in and Kathy will post, of course, but I'll miss the electronic communion with you, my Gentle Readers.

That's it for now. Some new pix are up. I don't know how Kathy does it, and probably never will.

Hugs,

Al

Pictures!

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

Tomorrow I'm back on the water...but this evening Kathy has led me through the electronic magic and enabled me to post some pictures with comments. I'll take more that I'll post when this is all over, and perhaps Kathy and Peg will post some that they take as they shadow me for a few more days. But me...starting tomorrow, my attention returns - finally - to the last 200 miles of this trip. It's (past) time to get down to it. Now, Kathy will offer guidance for those of you who, like me, might be Techno-Peasants and uncertain of how to see these flix.

Latah! Kathy?

Thanks, Al.

To see Al's photos, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/ktylerconk/sets/72157605887017822/

Click on Slideshow near the top right. When the first photo pops up, click on the "i" in the center of th photo to read Al's descriptions as you proceed through the show. If you want to get rid of the information and just see the photo, click on the little "x" about 2/3 down on the right side of the photo.

Alternatively, you can just click on each individual photo and read the descriptions. If you want to see the photo in a larger size, click on "all sizes" above the photo and choose the size you would like.

A Pause

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

This is a first: writing a blog entry while underway! This magic is only possible because Peg & Kathy have chosen to meet up with me here in Seneca Falls. After two nights of lakefront camping on Cayuga's waters, I am now in room 234 of a Holiday Inn, sipping on a coffee, anticipating a hot shower and a day of frolicking through the region's wine country with two wonderful ladies...and then one more evening of civilization (defined as "shower, fresh towels") before I strike out again in earnest on Monday.

I'm taking copious and definitive notes along the way, and I will not take the time now to cram the adventure into this single entry. But, previews of future chapters include:

1. The NYS Canal System Lock Keepers are awesome. They maintain their 1915 facilities and machinery with the precision and pride of craftsmen - indeed, they have to be - and they take care of my passings with the same attentiveness and hospitality they would afford a barge of $5/ gallon (or is it now $6? $7?) fuel oil. It's stunning to me that this extrordinary infrastructure is available to me, a lowly rowboat, and is offered with smiles and enthusiasm. These guys have put friendly faces and lively banter into this sojourn, and I'm appreciative of their encouragement. Thanks, Lock Keepers!

2. The Morehouse Family on Cayuga Lake. On Thursday I rowed through the entry canal to the Finger Lakes with the vague intention of finding the Cayuga Lake State Park. Just north of the Park I bumped into shore at what used to be the Morehouse Boat Company...and have since been adopted and treated like royalty by the extended Morehouse Family. Kathy has placed a link on this site to their former family business and history. It's a story that has come to life for me in meeting the children and grandchildren of a colorful and enterprising entrepreneur. I plan to about them later, but the link provides the history. Thanks, Morehouse family. You guys rock!

3. The Row Itself. I'm feeling pretty good. I might have gone a bit overboard with a 50-miler on my second day, but the hands are hardening nicely...and yes, the derrierre is the weak link. I've used my "sliding"seat sparingly, having to "rest"in the relative comfort of the fixed wicker seat and sacrificing some speed in the process. Yet keeping the boat moving at 3.9-4.2 mph is preferable to having to take periodic "butt breaks" after 4.3-4.9 mph legs. The canal itself is placid and great water for rowing: no appreciable current (what little there is has been with me), no strong winds, and very little traffic. Yet in that way it is "unforgiving" if honest. You get what you put into it: no extra benefit of a tidal push or a trailing breeze, no penalty of a contrary current or sea zephyr. Like life, maybe. But, all-in-all, this is nice rowing. And as already hinted, the people and scenery make this a very intimate experience. Nothing is more than 40 feet away.

4. Finally, a possible Change of Plan: As I suspected, this row is as much a transit through the history of a region as it is a simple row along a canal. Yes, I've had a 50 mile day and some 30's...but I can already see that at this rate, my pace will extend this journey well into July should I keep Whitehall as a declared destination...probably the 10th or 11th...and I have to board a plane for a seminar on the 13th. Yes, I'd love to make it all the way to Whitehall...but not at the expense of having to blow right past the history and characters that beckon along the gunwhales. I want to row, and row hard, but it's clear that this journey is truly and literally all about the journey, not the destination. There is simply too much to see and learn...and the people along the way are far too welcoming and interesting...to just row on by.

So...Gentle Reader, I hope you will not think lesser of me if I call it quits in Troy. That will complete the "classic" Erie from Buffalo to the Hudson (342 miles, plus locks, plus maybe another 20-30 miles of meandering on the Finger Lakes and tributaries). But I want to savor this, not rush it as I would have to if I am to catch my plane on the 13th.

Will you stay with me? Am I a wuss? Sure, in ten minutes I'll be cavorting among the vineyards with the ladies, not hard at the oars. But, wouldn't you? And... is 342 ++ enough?

Hope so.

Much, much more later. Are you there?

Hugs,

Al

PS

Thanks, Tom, for the poignant pledge; that "57" number is getting bigger all the time; will you still be there (and flush) at 80? 90?

And Brian, thanks for your colorful commentary and insightful reflections. Your "Comments"deserve point/counterpoint responses that I cannnot attend to at this moment. But I will. Oh yes, I will.

And finally, Chuck, I'm inching closer, ever closer to Red Raider territory. I won't be half suprised to see your name carved into the aged vines of the Cayuga Wine region. You and your buds were never far from succor in Seneca, nes pah?

Seneca Falls

Peg and I met up with Al this afternoon at Cayuga Lake State Park ,where he has made some new friends and has had a nice camping experience. He was interviewed by a reporter for the FINGER LAKES TIMES earlier today. Hopefully, I will be able to post the article when it appears.


I managed to get his camera away for a few minutes, so am posting a few photos. You can see the size of the locks that he is going through, which are enormous compared to those on the Canal du Midi in France. Also, shots of Mr. Frei and his mother as he is about to embark on the voyage.

For those wanting to enter the contest, he is not rowing again until early Monday morning, so factor that into your guesses.

Mr. Frei plans on posting some words for you all tomorrow!

Kathy

Mr. Frei finally getting to do some reading

As you know, Mr. Frei is an avid reader, and he is finally taking enough of a rest to start reading from the stash of books that he purchased when stopping in Saratoga, NY last weekend. This photo was taken on the Canal du Midi in Southern France last July. That week-long canal trip was taken on a self-hire barge, and there was plenty of time for reading.

When I see him tomorrow, I will find out about his latest book.

Wednesday Evening - Update to last post

I just had a call from Peg. Al actually made it past Montezuma, and is sitting on a bench on Cayuga Lake eating a hamburger. A nearby family was having a cookout and brought it to him. One of their little girls also brought him some dandelions.

Earlier he found a bar with a buffet, and managed to scarf down a lot of food.

He has also befriended someone named George Zeth, who used to build boats, and gave him the address of his Finger Lakes Boating Museum http://www.flbm.org/. The boat on the home page looks very similar to Mr. Frei's. It sounds as though he will be attending the Morehouse Boat Reunion of antique boats this weekend, while getting some rest. http://www.flbm.org/morehouse_boat_reunion_2008.htm

Wednesday Evening - Montezuma's Revenge?

Tonight I thought Brian's comment would be appropriate for this blog. As you will see, food might be scarche for Mr. Frei tonight!

"So, maybe if he's lucky, Albert will be spending tonight in lovely Clyde, NY, population about 2200, which is good, because only maybe two of them will be cops who might wake him up as he sleeps in the public parks.Ahh .... Clyde .... named after the river in Scotland, it was once a major manufacturer of peppermint oil.And interestingly, German POWs were held in Clyde during World War Two. But I'll bet they never saw an Aryan like Albert, bulked on YooHoo and Chinese takeout. Lookout Clyde!I note with interest that Clyde has a restaurant called "Aunt Ju Jus Chew Chew" and I just hope Albert takes the time to check it out and report back on what that's all about.And my advice is, stay in Clyde. After that is the Montezuma National Wildlife refuge http://friendsofmontezuma.org/, and the town of Montezuma, which could be a kind of revenge for pushing too far.The only restaurant in town: The Clifford House, and Albert, unless you've been sneaking in a shower here and there, they're not likely to serve you."

Al is spending the next few days in Cayuga State Park. Peg and I are planning to meet him at Seneca Falls on Saturday. We are taking him a life preserver, since a rumor is running around that he won't be allowed through some locks without one.

Tuesday evening at Lock 30

Al spent the night of the 24th at Lock 30, near Macedon, NY. It was a 30-mile day. Apparently, he tried to stay in Fairport, NY (the jewel of the Erie Canal), but they wouldn't let him sleep there, so he continued on to the lock, so that he would be ready to go through it Wednesday morning.

We haven't heard from him today, and think it is due to a bad cell phone signal. Hopefully, there will be more news tomorrow!

Monday Evening in Brockport

Al rowed 42 miles on Monday and was quite sore by the evening! He stopped in Brockport, NY (see A on map).

Someone, who shall remain nameless, has suggested another contest for all readers who would like to guess Al's arrival date and time at Whitehall. Please email me (ktylerconk@aol.com) with date and time, and any suggestions for what the prize should be. Dinner with Al to hear about his adventure is one idea, which would sure be my choice. But creative ideas are always good to hear, so have at it!

I hope we get some more pledges, as he is quickly catching up to the red line on the Can-Al-Ometer!

Kathy

P.S. If you double-click on the photo, the map will be enlarged for easier reading!

Monday Morning

Al called as he was having breakfast at a Friendly’s in Lockport. After launching at Tonawanda at the beginning of the canal, he rowed 15 miles to Lockport and had to stop at the first lock since it was closed for the night. He spent the night on the dock at the lock, and except for the cold and a few passing showers, slept fairly well. The row was easy – calm water and a trailing wind – and the great thing about rowing so close to land is the impression it gives you that you’re really moving. The locks are huge for someone used to the Canal du Midi; he’s got two to go through at Lockport, then the next one isn’t for 63 miles near Rochester.

Please vote in the poll on the right side of the page...

Thanks to the people who responded with pledges last night! It energizes Mr. Frei!

News Flash! He's off a day early!

7PM Sunday - Just had a phone call, and Mr. Frei decided to leave Buffalo this afternoon. At the current time, he has rowed about a mile.

The Can-Al-Ometer is just past Rochester, and it would be great if we could keep it ahead of Al!

Rochester is only a few days away! Feel free to email me at ktylerconk@aol.com with pledge amounts, and Al will ask you for the money after the row has been completed.

Tomorrow...tomorrow...

Greetings, Gentle Reader, July 21, 2008

As I sit here this evening on my mom's porch at Lake Grorge, two thoughts emerge.

The first is my recollection that the last time I wrote a blog entry from this halcyon spot, I was training aggressively for The Big Row of 2006, knocking off 20+ mile days, hardening the hands and derriere, developing the attitudes of patience and perseverance that that would see me through the 452 miles to come. Today, my first and only day here at the Lake- the objective being to collect my boat for this upcoming adventure- the boat didn't even get wet; it went from its rack in the garage directly to the roof of the car, ready for the drive to Lake Erie tomorrow morning. Other than handling the boat, today's most strenuous act was chipping some ice out of the freezer for the delightful Vodka Tonic. That ice was really wedged in there.

The second and more pleasant thought is what a joy it is to be here, if only for a day. This place is the center of gravity for my family, best friends, and many, many happy memories. There simply has to be some psychic benefit to this (however brief) recharge. Yes, my preparation is too much like The Music Man's "Think System"...but believe me, it's the Think System performed at a very, very high level of competence indeed.

So, mom will accompanying me to the shores of Lake Erie tomorrow- what an intrepid mom! I hope to be on the water by 2 PM or so, leaving enough daylight to get off of Lake Erie, through Buffalo, and into what the map promises to be some clear countryside (and promising campsites) by dark. I'll be calling in to Kathy or borrowing computers for entries once I get going...I know I owe my faithful readers more than these lack-of-preparation confessionals.

Hey, the VT's getting low; time to chip a little more ice to get the wrists in shape.

To mom, Bill, Matt, Peg, Kathy, and the rest of the supporting cast, thanks for helping me get this far, even if I have yet to get wet.

Hugs,

Mr. Frei

Reading for Row

Reading for Rowing

Greetings, Gentle Reader, June 18, 2008

I see that Kathy has installed a nifty "Can-Al-O-Meter to track contributions, and while it's cool to see that we're closing in on Rochester, Whitehall seems quite a long way away…both fiscally and nautically. Hitting you all up for Financial Aid money was not the intent, but it's nice to see that many of you are already generously nudging me through the canal with your checkbooks. Thanks!!

It's hard to believe that in only four days I'll be on the water. My hands are soft, I haven't rowed a stroke in a real boat since last summer, but as I said to Brian tonight, "Sometimes you just have to push an old guy into a boat and let him go." I continue to gaze at my chart and am now scanning the long range speculations of The Weather Channel, but this hardly counts as constructive preparation. I guess I'll have to subscribe to The Music Man's "Think Method." As I recall, Robert Preston enjoyed a happy ending; we can only hope the same for this production, yes?

On a completely different note, I'm just finishing Common Wealth by Jeffrey Sachs, a treatise concerning "economics for a crowded plant." In the course of measuring our environment's health and prospects from every imaginable perspective, he optimistically charts a path to sustainability through a thicket of profoundly disturbing statistics. Of course, the reality of sustainability depends entirely on malfunctioning institutions being smitten (very soon) with the capacity for rational, holistic thought and the impulse to act rationally, in unity, for the common good.

Show of hands, please?

Nonetheless, it's a great read even for those of us who are quantitatively challenged because it raises the kinds of questions that we need to vocal about as we launch into a Presidential year. For example, did you know that within easy technological and logistical reach we have the ability to fully protect 300 million people from malaria each night for five years for the cost of one day's Pentagon budget? You didn't jump on the blog to listen to me rant, but get the book and rant to those who need to change, 'K?

On a more whimsical note, I have of late joined The Cloud Appreciation Society. There are 8,000 of us sprinkled across 43 countries, and in their recent photologue, Hot Pink Flying Saucers , editor Gavin Pretor-Pinney observes, "Our extensive and rigorously scientific research has shown us that people tend to see shapes when they are cloud gazing in a relaxed and contented manner- when they have time on their hands and are not particularly bothered whether they find a shape or not." (Go to www.cloudappreciationsociety.org for more.)

The confluence of these two recent books seems perfect for my row. Sachs argues persuasively that the beauty I will soon see is indeed ephemeral; if we don't act aggressively and soon to preserve it, it will inexorably and inevitably be gone. Pretor-Pinney, of course, will calm me down between rants as I "cloud gaze in a relaxed and contented manner."

Rant, gaze. Rant, gaze. I feel a certain rhythm, don't you?

I head to Lake George on Friday, then to Buffalo O-Dawn-Early on Sunday to be rowing by late afternoon. Some final packing tomorrow…maybe a final pull at the rowing machine at the gym down the street…I'll try another entry before I head off, but this won't really get interesting until after Monday.

Be patient. I certainly will need to be as I streak eastwards at 4 mph… for 400+ miles.

Rant, gaze, rant, gaze…repeat.

Hugs,

Mr. Frei

The CAN-AL-OMETER

This Can-al-ometer will be kept at the bottom of the blog, so scroll down whenever you want to see how much money has been raised.

One Week to Go!

One Week to Go! June 15, 2008

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

These infrequent entries will hardly be substantial enough to warrant another Big Row - esque book, but then, perhaps (as been said about the Presidential campaigns), enough has been written, enough has been said.
(Take note, Fox: When content chases volume, boredom and disenfranchisement ensue.)

This being said, one week from today I will be in transit to Buffalo in order to be on the water next Monday. The logistics of actually getting to the water are proving to dwarf the rest of the expedition's requirements. You see, asking someone to drive you to Buffalo with a 15' boat strapped to their car is no small request and is proving to be beyond even my own considerable moxie. Mom offered to drive me out…with the proviso that she then "come along for a lock or two," thinking that "there must be a Hyatt or something along the way" that would afford shelter. While she is renowned for her appetite for long-distance driving (slide War and Peace into the CD player and she's good non-stop to Kansas City), I gracefully (and gratefully) declined her overly generous offer…but you know, I bet that I'll pass three Hyatt's over the first 50 miles.

So the game plan is to 1) drive a rental car out west, 2) find a secure launching point on Lake Erie, 3) drop off the boat, 4) ditch the rental at the Buffalo Airport, 5) cab back to the boat (hopefully still there), and 6) finally, push off. Whew.

Other preparatory activities have included some visits to the gym (depressing), a shopping spree for supplies/gadgets at REI (expensive, but thrilling), a walkabout at the local bookstore (a day in the tent out of the rain might be nice), and more perusal and planning over the charts (always a vicarious pleasure). As next Monday draws near I'll include monitoring The Weather Channel in my mix; hey, let's all coalesce our psychic energy for a deep, enduring cold front out of Canada (winds WNW at 190-15 kts, if you please) starting next Monday, shall we?

Commercial Pause: Gentle Reader, may I pause for a moment to update you on the heretofore understated fundraising aspect of this sojourn? Kathy (Exalted Blogmistress) assures me that we will have a pledge paddle (and pledge instructions) up on this site in short order. No, this is not a full-court-press fundraiser as was The Big Row…but a little would be nice, and as you may recall, it all goes to financial aid for deserving fellows at Boys' Latin School where I teach 8th grade English. Pending Kathy's efforts, if the spirit moves you right now, you can certainly let me know of your largesse via my e mail at alfrei@earthlink.net , and we'll take it from there. We raised over $18,000 in '06, and while we're headed to two thou right now, a lil' bit more gravy over the '06 potatoes would be nice. It goes to (effectively and efficiently) support great kids…and you have my profound thanks for whatever you might do. Pass that gravy along, 'K?

One of the highlights of this trip promises to be a side-trip to Seneca Falls, the acknowledged birthplace of the women's rights movement and home of the National Women's Hall of Fame. Peg and Kathy have suggested that they might meet me there, affording me the opportunity to start the nomination process that will install these two deserving stalwarts in that hallowed hall. Getting there will entail darting off the main canal about 130 miles (and 14 locks) into the trip, heading down the short Cayuga-Seneca Canal which connects the Erie with Seneca and Cayuga lakes. I've seen the Finger Lakes many times from seat 34A at 28,000 feet…and once when I visited Cornell as a teaser for college admissions…but getting on their clear waters will, I suspect, be a welcome change from the Yoo Hoo of the Canal itself. At that point I'll have 130 miles of sea stories under my (hopefully tightening) belt to share with the ladies over a campfire (imagine their rapture at that prospect. Sigh). I don't know how far into the Finger Lakes I will go; as with The Big Row, the lack of choreography is a particular delight in this kind of travel, and I'll proceed as the spirit, weather, and my derriere dictate. Just expect an extensive Blog communique at that point, OK? The Blogmistress will find a way.

That's it for now. I'm off to the gym for another rehabilitation session. A persistent rotator cuff tear, a partially detached bicep, an Achilles ripper, and (of all things) tinnitus (sp? It's that perpetual "ringing in the ears" thing) - and a few too many pounds - are all that stand in the way of physical perfection. This reminds me of that wonderful "Lost" poster for the wayward dog: "Missing right front leg, lost left eye, neutered last year, abdominal scar tissue…answers to the name of Lucky."

"Lucky," signing off for now. More soon, I promise.

Hugs,

Mr. Frei

What's with Dr. Paniche?

What's with Dr. Paniche? June 8, 2008

Greetings, Gentle Reader,

Ok, Ok…I've been besieged with questions about the photo that accompanies this blog - the one in which I'm sporting an institutional white coat and curious headgear. Here's the story.

Last summer, Peg, I, and three other crewmembers (including Kathy, our peerless Blogmistress!) spent a week on the Midi Canal in France. For those not in the know (as I was deeply not in the know; Peg and Kathy, devout Francophiles, arranged this trip), the Midi Canal bisects France from the Med to the Atlantic. It is a true historical (and pre-Industrial Age technological) treasure, meandering through the northern Pyrenees and southern France's extraordinarily beautiful countryside. Starting about 100 miles north of Toulouse, we piloted a 38 foot barge through dozens of picturesque "Architectural Digest" locks, over rivers and gorges via aqueducts, and put-putted through charming villages, breathtaking forests, manicured farmlands, and, of course vineyards. Lots of vineyards. Oh, yes.

Peg and I have done a bit of sailing over the years…the Virgin Islands, the San Juan's in British Columbia, shorter jaunts on Champlain and elsewhere…and one of the key tasks that a bare-boater faces is provisioning. Stocking the boat wisely has implications for the degree of independence you can enjoy as a voyager, as well as for the quality (and efficiency) of the fare you consume along the way.

Needless to say, provisioning a barge for a countryside jaunt in France is a different matter. The fact is, when you get hungry on the Midi, rather than go below to rustle up well-considered provisions, you simply turn the wheel to the left (or right), bump the barge into the grassy shore, tie it up, toss your bike(s) ashore, jump from the boat with an empty sack or pack, and peddle off to the culinary Nirvana that is rural France. Were I rowing this canal this summer, my biggest concern would be trying to figure out which Fat Camp I'd need to patronize upon my return…and for how many weeks.

So…again, you ask, "This is fascinating stuff, Al, I'm really riveted, but what's with Kathy's whimsical Dr. Paniche photo?"

"Paniche" refers to the style of barge we chartered from Locaboat. A nifty little craft, it was spacious enough for five but sufficiently maneuverable to negotiate locks and docks with ease.

The hat is a different story and, let's face it, the real story. The photo would be otherwise unremarkable were it not for the hat, nes pah? Our barge was equipped with numerous bumpers (fenders) to prevent us from scraping the sides of the vessel as we transited locks. Sadly, one of our bumpers was a casualty of an "event" involving the wall of a lock, tearing in half amid the bloodcurdling screams of my crew….or perhaps it was poor Billy Bumper himself?

Anyway, with a little trimming, my crew fashioned Billy's top half into quite a stunning headpiece, one that commanded attention and respect among the locals as we locked through. Attired in the white coat, brandishing a staff (the brush), fortified by the viticulture of the countryside, and egged on by my shameless crew, we were expedited through each and every lock after Billy's untimely demise.
"Ugly Americans?" I think not. Natty? Improvisational? Resourceful? Perhaps. You be the judge. At least we gathered some smiles for America along the way, if not enhanced international respect. (I should think that Obama's international stature would soar should he don such a hat during his next press conference. McCain…not so much. Could be a little scary, in fact,)

On a more bittersweet note, last Friday we graduated our 60 eighth grade scholars. It was gratifying for me and my dedicated colleagues to see so many great kids now move on to the rigors of high school. I find eighth graders to be enthralling because they are in a state of such enormous transition. Physically, emotionally, socially, and intellectually, they are in metaphorical fusion with themselves and the world, which makes it incredibly invigorating (and challenging) to work with them. Anyway, they're off to the next life- stage, and while I already miss them and the wonderful pattern and rhythm of the school year, alas, they must "go." In fact, that's what I told them at the end of my brief remarks and a favorite poem: "Just…..go!"

And…they did. Sigh.

Two weeks from today - give or take a day - I should be pushing off from Lake Erie on my way to Whitehall. I'm excited, if a little concerned about my physical conditioning (at least compared to the prep for The Big Row in '06), but I'll be ready.

Hey, are ya comin' with me via the blog? I'd love to see some activity on the "Comments" board! I enjoy the therapy of writing, to be sure, but I'd be delighted to have some company. And if there is anything you'd like me to riff about, clarify, or expand on in future blogs, just let me know!

Hugs,

Mr. Frei