Inspired Musings

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 4^th 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 4^th 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.