Letter sent to the River Rats of the Ledyard Canoe Club at Dartmouth
College
Dear Fellow Rats,
I MUST relate to you
3 of my most memorable trips on America’s most beautiful river, the Hudson. The
first two were from Kingston to Nyack by one man canoe, a Sawyer Summersong,
over successive 4th of July weekends in the mid-1980’s. My very first time
out in the Sawyer was the first 3 day trip. I parked at a boatyard in Kingston
for $3 and loaded up the Sawyer, a thoroughbred of a vessel, skittish at rest
and a dream underway. I carefully stepped off the dock right on the centerline,
put my other leg carefully into the boat, grabbed the gunwales and over we all
went, me at a crouch, the paddles, the gear, the water bottles. The 3 or 4
onlookers were particularly horrified as I had told them of my grandiose scheme
to paddle to south of Nyack, about 80 miles down river. Anyway, I got underway
at the next try by stepping in from the water at the boat loading ramp. The
secret seemed to be in pushing off to get the boat moving slightly whereupon it
became much more stable. I exited Esopus Creek into the Hudson and was shocked
to find rolling waves out past the lighthouse. I quickly learned to quarter the
Sawyer into the waves and ski down the other side as the Sawyer had a very low
bow and stern.
I camped that night at about 9 pm wrecked tired having only stopped
once all day. I set up my tent on the only spot of open ground I could find on
the riverbank, a small raised rocky spot of ground. I had no idea I had camped
20 feet down a steep embankment which carried the New York Central - AMTRAK -
freight trains to God knows where, Lorain, Ohio I suppose. The first train came
through at 3:30 am. I thought I was on the tracks. Then the rain started. A
torrent. The small spot of open ground I’d camped on turned into a small island
in the middle of a now rushing stream. The floor of the tent undulated from
water running under it. Thank God it didn’t leak. I became sick, feverish and
unable to move. I lay naked on my air mattress under my sleeping bag all
through that day and night immobile for 36 straight hours. The next morning I
began again after the longest sleep of my life.
Down the Hudson
Highlands past West Point, Popolopen Creek, Bear Mountain, Storm King.
Beautiful. You can have the Rhine. I cooked dinner under the Bear Mountain
Bridge and watched the 4th of July fireworks. Then the question? How
to get to Piermont, the picturesque river town south of Nyack, the next day to
leave for vacation on Shelter Island? Irrational alternatives all.
1. Bail out of the
trip and call for a ride.
2. Hitchhike home
stashing the canoe to complete the trip at a later time.
3. Paddle all night
and go for it.
Well, at 6:30 the
next morning I glided into Piermont, shouldered the Sawyer and carried it up
and up and up the hill a half mile to home. I had paddled for 22 straight
hours. My head rocked and I was dizzy for 2 days but I didn’t have a single
sore muscle due to the wonderful ergonomics of the Sawyer.
The next year I did the same trip somewhat more conventionally with 2
nights camping out on the way down river. I satisfied my life long desire to
paddle naked past a major metropolitan area at Newburgh. I began to dress by
first putting on only my sunglasses and savored wearing nothing else, and then
added my hat, then my shorts. Simple things are always best appreciated by
their periodic absence, water, clothes, loved ones. I found a lovely crescent
shaped beach across from Newburgh on the second night. Upon landing I went over
to a fresh campfire that was still smoldering and pushed at it with my toe. It
magically burst into welcoming flames. There were mulberry trees in full fruit
all around. The white, pink and black berries were falling on the beach and
into the water where they were gulped by occasional carp. My tent still has
stains from these berries. I ate mulberries of all three colors for dinner as I
was too tired to cook. I ate them until I was almost sick from them and then
crawled into my tent just as the fireworks across the river were starting up.
The flashes from the fire works were like a surreal light show as I watched
through the gossamer mosquito netting of my tent. I ate nothing but mulberries
again the next morning and haven’t been able to eat one since.
I beached at Stony Point late in the afternoon of the next day, out of
water, dying for a drink. I climbed 200 feet up the embankment to the old
Revolutionary War battlefield and the water fountains. Later, after dark, I
glided past the Grassy Point Marina. A 30 foot power boat started up its
engines so I revealed myself by shining my small flashlight which hung on a
lanyard around my neck. The captain turned on his powerful spotlight and spied
me out about 40 feet from his boat. “I see you. You’re crazy, but I see you.”
was all he said. What to reply to that? I just silently glided away in the
dark. I paddled the length of Haverstraw Bay, past Hook Mountain and finally
beached around 1 am at an ancient dock in Nyack. I returned the stares of late
night diners and drinkers as I carried the Sawyer through the city streets to
my waiting Subaru station wagon.
My last trip was a five hour paddle from Bannerman’s Island north of
Cold Spring on the Hudson down to Stony Point. A first test for my $120 custom
made canoe paddle from Brad Gillespie. A double bend beauty of balsa and
diamonds and opaque kryptonite bordered with mahogany brown basswood. I hang it
on my wall for decoration when I’m not using it. Push off and paddle. I didn’t
check the tides. A strong afternoon wind is at my back. I’m in luck. It looks
as though the tide is going my way. I’m three feet from the shore opposite West
Point. The tide is running 5 mph in my favor. Shut up and paddle. I’m flying.
The Sawyer was always fast but never like this. No canoe has ever gone faster.
Every stroke sends it skyward and it skips on the atmosphere like a spacecraft
reentering. Shut up and paddle. Don’t talk to people who aren’t there. 55
strokes a minute. 10 on one side then 10 on the other to straighten my track.
Past the power plant where that guy got killed in the explosion. Boy did we
celebrate at Kelly’s Bar after that happened. Moose milk by the pitcher full.
The recipe? Of course. 1 can lemonade concentrate, ½ bottle vodka - any brand
will do, fill the blender with ice, and whiz. Drink while still cold. They say
moose knock trains off the tracks in Alaska.
End of trip. Carry
the canoe 4 blocks to Mike’s dad’s house in Stony Point followed by a couple of
little boys asking questions. Bum a ride back up to Bannerman’s, home by 9 pm
or so.
And now? I look out at the Pacific here at Newport and Laguna and Dana
Point. It’s just not the same. Too cold. Great whites. Maybe get an ocean kayak
and split from here to Baja. Paddle naked past San Diego? Maybe.
And from Nessmuk.
“Nessmuk, I can’t wait until we can go out and rough it.” “Rough it! We don’t
go out there to rough it. We go out there to smooth it. We get it rough enough
in the cities and on our jobs.”
Keep it smooth.
Paddle. Paddle. Paddle.
Fond regards, Carlos
Postscript: These
two long canoe trips were taken in 1987 and 1988 when the Hudson still had a
terrible reputation for being polluted but was, in fact, quite clean from
previous years of cleanup. The 80 mile stretch of river I traveled passed 300
year old Dutch estates before entering the highlands, rocky wooded hills
towering over the river. Canoeing down river as I did was like going back a
hundred years in time. Many people on the riverbank wistfully watched me glide
by and half waved, knowing it would break my stroke to wave back. In all my
years back east I never saw anyone else in a canoe on the Hudson. The strange
malady that struck me may have been a reaction to my living with a woman who
had MS although she was quite ambulatory. When I lived with her I would wake up
exhausted and it would take my entire 2 hour yoga regimen to get going. I got
bitten by a deer tick at that camp on Shelter Island that I had to rush home
for and 9 months later contracted Lyme’s disease. Perhaps I’m overly empathetic
sometimes. It was VERY difficult for me to get correct medical treatment, as
Lyme’s was unknown in the New York area I was in at that time. A psychic had
diagnosed me so you can imagine the resistive reaction I got from the three
doctors I was forced to go to. I ended up with my right leg paralyzed having to
use a crutch for a while. Gurujii interceded in these karmic difficulties when
he arrived that summer to visit from India and he healed me although I still
have some slight paralysis deep in my right calf muscle.
