The Drive

Kerry and I lived at the River for thirty one straight days this summer. On the morning of the thirty-second day I was off in a flurry with Nathan Sass and Jordan Poffenberger, headed to the wilds of Canada. One chapter ends and another begins.

Our time at the river was special. We arrived with Olive and Mogul in mid-July. The days were and the nights perfectly cool as we built fire after fire and watched the lights of Clayton glisten in the distance. We finally visited Gananoque, enjoyed a rainy day in Kingston, and celebrated our anniversary at the Wellesley Inn in T.I. Park, (afterward I almost made Kerry puke by spinning her around on the merry go round at an impossible speed.) We knee boarded, visited the sunken freighter, had parties in the Skiff House, jumped off Leake Island a million times, and drifted off to sleep at night listening to Christopher Timothy deliver the memoirs of James Herriot. It is undoubtedly a special place, and the two of us love it dearly. It now holds a remarkably special place in my heart, and I am beginning to understand the melancholy regret that goes along with leaving the dock at Rockledge for the last time of the summer. I am not sure what the future holds for the two of us in terms of staying at Rockledge, but I am fairly certain we will find a way to continue to spend time in such a magical place.

All things run their course, and on the morning of the thirty second day I was off on a new adventure. It was necessary that we drove two cars into Canada, even though there was only three of us. The first shuttle in particular presented a pressing feat of driving endurance. We were on our way to the fabled Taureau River, one of the most difficult runs in eastern Canada. The Taureau is fifteen miles long and cuts through some formidable terrain in the boreal forest of Jaques Cartier National Park approximately one hour north of Quebec City.

As we crossed the border, I stared down over the bridge into the clear and smoothly tilting waters of the Rift on the St. Lawrence. Moments of summer lilted like a soft ray of sunshine through my mind. I pushed the pedal and crept forward, slowly letting the breath of August course through my veins.

We stopped to grab some lunch along the way, and before long we were passing through Quebec City looking for the road north into Jaques Cartier Park. After a few wrong turns and an impressive view of the three hundred foot Montmorency Falls we found 175 and headed into the storm clouds looming on the horizon.

Quebec City is a majestic piece of urban ground set aloft on high ground hovering above the St. Lawrence River. As we corrected our course, I stared at the St. Lawrence, a pathway to home. When I am on the road it is usually not long before a baroque loneliness begins to chill my soul. This fact is not unappreciated, but rather it is interesting to me that I often long for this feeling of stony solitude. I consider it a necessary natural process of keeping the balance between my diametrically opposed internal workings of equal tendencies to be both an intro and extrovert.

It began to rain as we made our way into the park. We stopped at the booth and a strikingly cute young girl took our money in exchange for entrance. We headed down the windy road working our way toward the put-in. The sun was set, and the mist hung over the Taureau like a solemn totem, a foreboding warning that made the hair stand on the backs our necks. It was like traveling through the Gates of Mordor.

It took one hour to reach the take-out point. We dropped Jordan's car, loaded he and Nathan's boats on the Jeep and hung a few pieces of kayak gear from trees on the banks of the river so we knew where to take out.

It was nice to have some company, and just as we were about to leave a park ranger showed up and began to yell at us in broken english with a strong shot of a french accent. He thought we were going to try and illegally camp, but we explained we were only setting shuttle to run the river tomorrow. We made our plans clear to him so we could avoid a fine, but more so to make sure someone would come searching for us if things went wrong on the river. We were warned the river was very high by an experienced local guide.

Once things were settled with the park ranger, we were off on our two and a half hour shuttle to the put-in. There were no signs, no lights, and no gas stations on the way there, just mile after mile of tall wire fence lining the highway to keep the moose from crossing inconspicuously. Finally, we reached the entrance.

It was pouring and the fog was thick. We began our way down the dirt track into the Canadian wilderness. There is no way to describe the feeling other than ominous. Ten minutes down the dirt track and I jerked the wheel almost jumping out of my seat. A giant moose bounded out of the wood and into the road. We chased him for several minutes before he reared off into a small cut in the trees. The forest was dark and foreboding, thick with moss, ferns, and infinite bramble. It was impenetrable.

The dirt road ended, and I turned to Nathan to ask confirmation to continue. He remembered it steep and treacherous, so we plodded on. There was no more road, just an overgrown double track trail that seemed occasionally used by hikers and more likely moose. We descended downward for about twenty minutes when finally the trail became so tight it seemed the Jeep might no longer be able to pass through. The rain smashed the gun metal roof in angry droves. I hopped out of the car and stood in the rain. I felt as if the forest were swallowing me whole. I stared at the tiny sodden Jeep and knew it was our only lifeline, our only way back out. I hopped back in the driver's seat.

We backtracked up the trail and the tires immediately began to spin. I stopped the Jeep and put the car into four wheel drive. I pressed the pedal. Traction. Then, the tires began to spin and the Jeep slowed. Slow, slower, until our movement forward was nearly imperceptible. I knew that if we stopped, we were cooked. We would have been stuck in the middle of that thick black boreal forest, drenched in rain with no where to go, and many miles from anything or anyone.

We fishtailed wildly to the point where I thought I might lose control of the Jeep. We bounced dangerously up and down as the tires sloshed about in helpless desperation searching for some piece of solid ground. Inch by inch we moved forward, the engine whining in exhaustion, begging for mercy, but I knew there was none to be had until we were safely at the top. In a surge finally the tires bit solid ground and we climbed voraciously. The three of us breathed a sigh of relief. They congratulated me on my driving prowess. It was our first test as a group, and we had made it.

We made the decision to continue back to the entrance and make camp for the night in the rain. They set up a two man tent and I passed out in the back of the Jeep. My eyes closed and I gently drifted off to the pitter patter of rain drops on the windows.

When I awoke, I momentarily forgot where I was. The rain rolled rhythmically down the glass and the air was thick with a smokey fog.

A sense of ominous foreboding filled the air.

We were going kayaking, and the river was Richter high.

Day 31 - Kingston

It was a rainy day. Kerry and I boated over to Wolfe Island, borrowed Rebecca's car and drove to Marysville to take the ferry over to Kingston. We ate lunch at Panchanco, one of Kerry's favorite restaurants. I picked unwisely and had a less than appetizing tostada with scallop ceviche, probably not the thing to order in a restaurant specializing in the local organic.

We went to the market to pick up a few fruits and veggies, and I stopped in a local book shop to pick up a few maps of Quebec. A few friends from home are driving up, and we are heading off for a few days to kayak in Canada. The timing is not perfect, but I have wanted to do the trip for the whole summer, so I am trading some final days of family time to go.

It was a great day in Kingston. The drive back to Rockledge in the boat was a wee bit stormy. We all had dinner with Aunt Roslyn's sister and her family, and Cullen taught me how to make an alcohol stove out of a beer can.

Nathan and Jordan arrived around nine o'clock. We talked trip logistics before heading off to bed, intending to head off late morning.

Day 30 - Work

It was this morning that the idea of returning to work began to set in. I checked email and tended to a number of issues with 'My Own Backyard'. I am definitely looking forward to the upcoming year, but I know when it comes time to actually leave this place, I will immediately long to be back.

Day 28 - Sunday Recovery

Everyone spent most of the day recovering until late afternoon. We all ate dinner at the Clayton Yacht Club, the premier and most venerable institution in town. We shared some ice cream at the Scoop afterward and concluded the day with an evening Parcheesi game.

Day 27 - Polish Horseshoes

Cullen turned twenty-one on Saturday, and we spent the day making preparations to host a large party at the farm cottage on Saturday night. There are few social gatherings I enjoy as much as a good family gathering at the River. We split firewood, hung lights, and Cullen and Conor built a new game called Polish Horseshoes, which became an instant classic.

Polish Horseshoes consists of two spikes set in the ground big enough to host a beer bottle atop each. Players can play singles or doubles and take turns throwing a frisbee at the other team's pole attempting to knock the beer bottle off the top. Points are awarded for knocking the bottle off clean, knocking it off hitting the post, and lesser points if the other team catches it after the bottle is knocked off. The game went on into the wee hours of the morning.

Kerry was sick most of the evening and unable to take part in the festivities. I ended up sitting around the fire until three with only Luke Metcalf left to accompany me. The canoe full of ice and beer was three quarters empty when I finally retired to bed.

Day 26 - Down and Out

I opened my eyes, and quickly realized I was not feeling much better. I felt like I had a fever, but as I am usually not sick and a bad patient, and did not have much confidence in my own assessment. I tried to head over to Rockledge for breakfast, but soon decided I was better off resting. I went upstairs and laid down on a bed overlooking the river and was in and out of sleep for the entire day until about five o'clock. Somewhere in there Kerry took my temperature and it came in at 102. No sooner had the bug set in, my fever broke and around five, I decided I felt well enough to crawl out of bed and walk down to the dock. I gradually improved over the next day or so, as the illness passed to Erin Clare and Kerry the next night.

Day 25 - Stricken

Another great day ended up around the bonfire on the Point gathered after dinner. Everyone was cooking Smores when I began to feel a bit ill. It was within twenty minutes that I removed myself inside to the floor around the Parcheesi table. I promptly passed out and awoke to Kerry shaking me to head back to Cottage. I could not stop shaking and felt desperately cold. The short walk home felt unbearably long, and I was relieved to crawl into bed. The worst was yet to come.

Day 24 - Brothers

I went for a run to the town dock. My foot has been aching for days. I tried to start running again, and overdid it a bit on my first two days back. After a few days of rest, I was feeling pretty good and gave it another go.

My foot was feeling better. I ran a bit past the dock, and down the old gravel road to a white mailbox and turned around. On my way back I was confronted by a black lab. He is always out and about, and lives at an old cabin on the side of the dirt road leading back to the farm cottage.

He stood in the middle of the road. I tried to make friends by holding out my hand for him to sniff, but he would walk within inches, give a startling bark and then scamper back down the road. I advanced further, and finally his owner who was cutting the grass on top of an old red riding mower stopped in the middle of the road.

When I started my run I ran into a guy named Charlie who lives next to the farm cottage with his wife. I stopped and we chatted for a bit. I asked if I could still borrow his log splitter. He said his offer stood, and I was welcome to come by to use it in the morning. Once, I start running, I don't like to stop, but it was really no trouble, and I was off again in no time. However, on the way back, it looked like I was going to stop again, and I must admit it was in begrudging fashion that I felt obliged to offer some friendly island conversation.

Over the past few summers, I have run by this old cabin many times on runs around the island, but have never before seen the inhabitant. He is a barrel chested old man of about sixty or seventy years of age. He was dressed in old blue jeans and a flannel shirt, on this particularly cool afternoon.

We started talking about all manners of things. I always enjoy the conversation of complete strangers. I am eager to hear about what they do and where they're from, trying to assemble the pieces into a picture of their life.

Rick lives on Grindstone year round. He hunts most of his food and heats his small cabin with wood through the winter. He stopped at one point in our conversation meticulously eyeing a bird down the dirt road on which we stood. He sat atop his red tractor and told me stories of his life on the island, and his years spent in the mountains of Montana in a small logging town.

'Nice and peaceful here on the island. In the summer there's a lot of traffic, or what I would consider a lot of traffic, but otherwise nice and quiet,' he mused.

He told me of his back troubles and his upcoming surgery when I inquired about the 'for sale' sign on his lawn.

'I can't move ten feet without it hurtin' real bad these days.'

'My dad just had surgery on his neck, and he came out alright,' I said as I tried to offer some assurance.

'My brother lives on down the road. We don't talk much though. He's an overbearing doctor, and I don't take well to people tryin' to tell me how to live my life.'

I sympathized with him. I don't either I thought. I hate when people try to tell me what to do about anything. I could not help but think though that if his brother was a doctor, what a shame it was that he lived down the road and they did not speak. It seemed likely his brother might help him with back.

'What kind of doctor is your brother?' I asked.

'He is an orthopedist.' Oh, the crushing irony. His brother, who coincidentally turned out to be the man I stopped to speak with on the start of my run, was an orthopedist. Here I was speaking with his brother at the end of my run who had a bad back and needed surgery, but they did not speak and it was highly likely the one brother even knew about the plight of the other.

People are complicated in such peculiar ways.

I took a glance at the old white pickup truck on the side of the road with a snarled tire falling off a battered silver rim leaning in the dirt. He noticed me looking at it.

'Been there for three weeks. Can't move around so well, so I can't work as well as I used to. Havin' a hell of a time gettin' that thing off.'

I inspected the tire and looked carefully at the rim.

'I could come and give you a hand if we can jack it up.' He was pleasant enough and I liked his black lab, Tucker, who seemed to finally take a liking to me and was licking my hand. I felt a drop of rain on my forehead.

'I best be going. I will try and wander up in the morning to give you a hand.'

'That sounds good,' he said.

I jogged down the dirt road. A few more rain drops splashed down. I could not help but feel a bit fascinated by the story lurking beneath the surface about two brothers on a small island in the middle of a huge river, separated only by a few hundred yards of dirt road and their unwillingness to speak with one another.

I thought about my grandfather at home in Virginia. I thought of his ill disposed attitude toward my parents, and his stubborn, unruly, wayward, and wrongheaded attitude toward life. It is a shame the pickles people work themselves into in life.

Yes, I would definitely travel back tomorrow to help Rick remove that hub. Perhaps, it was the sense of comradery I felt with Rick, or some internal sense of reaching out to my stubborn grandfather vis a vis this old dirt road man on Grindstone Island. I am certain of one thing.

You never know what you'll find on a dirt road.

Day 23 - Great Sandy Bay

Kerry loves Great Sandy Bay. The water was placid, calm, smooth as silk. We headed out to meet the rest of the family on the sandy shores of Lake Ontario. The boat ride takes forty-five minutes, and the ride is beautiful.

On the way out we passed a swift moving freighter. In calm waters there were no other winds or currents to dissipate its wave action, and we were suddenly hurling full speed toward a set of six to eight foot rollers. We flew off the top of the first, airborne, as I pulled back quickly on the throttle. We slowed and rode out the rest, diving into the deep troughs and staring skyward as we flew over the crests.

We rounded the point, and into the bay, floating over wave sets with significantly longer periods than one sees further upriver. The Grady White was anchored near the shore. The sun was high in the sky beating down on our increasingly brown bodies. The wind turbines stood like silent sentinels watching the shores. The air smelled fresh and clean, like laundry dried on the line.

Kerry loves this place, and if I could pick a place that makes her most happy, I believe it would be this one. She smiles in pure joy, swimming along the sandy bottom, counting the ripples in the sand, feeling them with her fingers. I laid lazily in the bow of our boat gently floating up and down and drifting off into a peaceful afternoon nap as she begged me off to do a dolphin race with her. It was an afternoon wrought with the spirit of childhood, making up silly games like jumping off the bottom, up and out of the water and back down again as many times as possible before we got dizzy. She climbed and jumped from my shoulders repeatedly laughing all the while, and I challenged her to a swim underneath our boat which lay in shallow water. We swam down pushing our chests into the sand and emerged on the other side. She climbed on the boat, and in one last trick of the day she jumped from the bow.

Her spirit connects with this bay, and it was obvious for me to see in a way so strong that it offered understanding.

I was glad we visited.

Day 22 - The Plunge

Some things in life simply draw you in. I cannot resist the allure of the sense of a bit of danger. The cliff on Prince Regent Island is an impeccably dressed cliff, standing tall in its suit of solid grey granite, capped with a hat of brisk green conifer trees, standing in a deep aqua blue pool of shimmering crystal water.

My urge to share this treasure is equally as strong as my desire to jump from atop its crown. I try desperately not to be too pushy, but I find the experience so invigorating it is impossible not to implore others to take the plunge... especially when I can see the shimmer in their eyes and I know they're game.

Conor and Keith hopped in the boat with me. Keith drove out to the cliff. We circled around and hid in the cove so as not to be seen by the property owners. I accompanied Keith on a quick depth inspection and we quietly edged our way to the top while Conor manned the boat. We stood and stared out among the islands, the silhouettes of Cormorants tucked in the evening shadows. We hushed in whispered tones. I counted, 'one, two, three' and was sailing. Time slowed, and my arms spread in a primeval desire to fly before slowly retracting in vain, held close to my body as I plunged beneath the surface.

I stared up at Keith, his knees bent, and then in a flash he was airborne falling precipitously. He emerged awash in a giant grin. 'That was big.'

Conor climbed and I followed again, while this time Keith manned the helm. The same scenario played itself out again, a scenario as old as time itself - men standing at the edge of the abyss and hurling themselves off into the great unknown.

In those moments when you fall, it is only these and similar moments in life when the coin lands neither heads nor tails, but lands perched unwavering on its edge, in a moment perfectly balanced between chaos and order.

Day 21 - Party for a Princess

James and I stood patiently beneath the oak contemplating how to hang a pink pinata that said 'Princess' on it from one of the branches.

James finally accomplished the task.

James - 'It's a good thing, I'm not evil.'

Me - 'Why?'

James - 'Because I'm a genius.'

And so the afternoon ensued, cousins by the dozen invading the island eyes set on the pretty pink prize hanging from the tree. Finally, it was time and we all gathered round for the show. One, two, three whacks. No dice. Alas, the blind fold came out, and three forcefully placed precision whacks later, a swarm of children dove simultaneously at a pile of candy floating down from the tattered pink ribbons floating in the breeze.

The afternoon rolled into evening and finally folks motored off to their own family dinners.

Day 20 - Molly's Gut

I once heard someone say,'if something makes you happy attack it'.

I am beginning to get a bit stir crazy out here. The days are coming and going with rapid fluidity, and they are merging one into another.

Erin Clare was feeling the same way, so we decided to head back to Molly's Gut near Stave to do a bit of snorkeling and then maybe on to Gananoque to eat some barbecue. Kerry could not decide if she wanted to come, and then finally at the last minute hopped aboard.

We headed to Stave to find the rest of the MacLean clan. Two of the younger cousins wandered into a bees nest in Molly's Gut and were stung from head to toe, and hence forth for the rest of the afternoon the entire family descended upon Stave Island enlightening the Mullen's day with unrequited company.

Erin Clare and I found less than ideal conditions for snorkeling in Molly's Gut because of weekend boat traffic, and were pulled into the MacLean vortex at the Mullen's and the rest of our afternoon disappeared into thin air.

Day 19 - The Twins

The twins arrived in tow with their parents and sister, James, Ashley, and Chloe.

James called the day before and asked, 'Is the house quiet?'

Kerry responded, 'Yes, it's been pretty quiet around here.'

James - 'Good, because it's about to get loud'.

Immediately upon their evening arrival, I found myself in the boat with their family taking their first boat cruise of the season. I was happy to introduce them to Molly's Gut, near Stave Island and took James for a leap off the new cliff on the back side of Prince Regent.

James - 'Ash, can I jump?'

Ash - 'If you don't love your children.'

We jumped.

As the house gets crowded, things always get interesting.

Day 18- Soggy Bikers

We awoke to a vicious and mighty storm that ensnared the entire Thousand Islands within its grasp. Keith and Conor were arriving from their cross country bike trip, an undoubtedly impressive and inspiring feat.

Erin Clare, Kerry, and I made our way across the river to Clayton in conditions where visibility was reduced to almost nothing. The rain pelted our faces and our glasses fogged as we slowed to a crawl. We finally arrived at the town dock thankful to be in one piece.

The guys rolled in sopping wet. They completed their journey of over three thousand miles in front of Jreck's Sub Shop. We ordered subs and headed back to Grindstone, enjoying the rest of the of wet and rainy day listening to the stories of their cross country adventure.

Day 17 - The Mullens

The Mullens invited us over for dinner. Ker and I love visiting the Mullens on Stave Island. They have a cozy little spot overlooking a beautiful spot on the river. The Mullens are simply great people. They are a modern urban homesteaders, living in Philadelphia during the year, and Stave Island during the summer. They have three kids, chickens and a sport rifle so they can shoot red squirrels from their deck.

When we arrived at their home they presented us with a set of hand crafted Adirondack chairs as a wedding gift. The chairs are incredible, and we set them by the fire ring in front of the cottage. Toni made homemade tortillas and we ate some of the best fajitas I have ever had.

We shared stories and some great laughs, and around eleven we headed off in the dark, with only our bow light. We drove slowly all the way home and Erin Clare and Kerry stood in the bow with spotlights looking for shoals.

Day 16 - Stave Island

The day was incredibly slow moving until about two o'clock in the afternoon. We ran some errands in town, and headed to Stave Island afterward to give Andy Mullen a ride to Wolf Island where everyone was gathering for dinner.

Stave is an incredible island, and the Mullen's have an awesome spot. The water is deep and their house is nestled in a tiny alcove perched atop a small woody cliff. Andy always has beer on top and we shared a beer on the dock and caught up about the year.

We set off for Wolf a bit later and arrived to a roaring fire and hot food. I took the younger cousins out knee boarding, which seems to be everyone's new favorite activity this year. I had waited all day for a turn, and just as it was getting dark I was able to beg Kerry out to drive while I took a few spins on the board. I had one major wipe-out, but on the bright side was able to pull of a few three-sixties for the first time.

Day 15 - Blue Paint

Kerry woke up in a rampage. She was set to paint the bedroom blue. Erin Clare arrived the night before and was staying with us for the week while Ryan Northington’s parents were visiting from Texas. When Kerry’s mind is made up that she wants to do something, she is going to do it, quite the same as myself. It was easiest to go along with her plan and stay out of the way.

The three of us loaded the boat and headed into town. Erin Clare took care of a few things at the library in preparation for her year in England. Kerry and I grabbed some breakfast. We picked up our supplies at the hardware store and headed back to the island.

I did not want much to do with painting, so I continued my shore line clearing project, while the girls painted. I took apart the chainsaw and cleaned the air filter. It was a finicky machine, stubborn, and prone to easily flooding and not starting. I let it sit for twenty minutes while another large thunderstorm brewed on the horizon.

We sat on the edge of the thunderstorm line for most of the afternoon. Finally, the chainsaw started and I began to clear. I felled three trees, the sky turned black, and it started to pour. I hurriedly retreated inside the cottage to wait out the storm. It was violent and thick. It rained with fury for about thirty to forty minutes and just as quickly as the sky had blackened it was once again a beautiful opaque blue with puffy white clouds. I grabbed the saw and headed back outside.

It is immensely satisfying to watch the trees come down, throw them in a huge pile, and haul them away with the tractor. I enjoy using the saw, but most of all driving the old nineteen sixties red and rusty Massey Ferguson tractor. She is an impeccable machine that has worked hard through the years. She starts right up without so much as a hiccup, and I am amazed at the ease with which she pulls seemingly intolerably heavy loads.

I spent the good part of four straight hours working with the saw and tractor.

When I was finished, I set out for a run. I wanted to test my current state of physical ability, and painfully discovered I have a long way to go. I spent so much time kayaking this fall and spring, that I spent little time running or working out in other ways.

I started running for the town dock. My legs were heavy and my knees sore, but I was pleased with how I was moving along. When I got to the town dock, I felt like going farther so I headed to the school house. When I reached the school house I was about 2.5 miles out. My legs felt like lead, and I was moving along quite slowly. It was a long painful slog back to the cottage, but I made it without stopping.

It was a start.

Day 14 - Canada, Oh Canada

Kerry and I woke up and headed out on a mountain bike ride through Grindstone Island. We were in search of Mid River Farm, an on island farm selling grass fed beef, pork, chicken and eggs. We found the farm, but a storm was brewing on the horizon, and no one was home. We had time enough to snap a few pictures of the farm and pushed onward. The mountain biking on the island is a great mix of dirt and gravel roads, fire roads and even a bit of single-track. We cruised through a huge expanse of open meadow filled with thousands of Black Eyed Susan wildflowers. It started raining and we pedaled faster back to the cottage.

We got back to the cottage, changed, and headed out in the boat to Gananoque. I was excited. The boat ride to Gananoque takes about ten minutes. It is just on the back side of Grindstone Island, but a world away. We pulled up to the Marina and everyone was speaking French, likely a herd of vacationers from Quebec.

Our assignment was to ‘check-in’ to Canada. We docked the boat and walked to an old school pay phone booth, and dialed 1800-CAN-PASS. I was under the impression that you could ‘check-in’ to Canada for the duration of the summer and freely boat back and forth between American and Canadian waters. I was all set to get my ‘summer pass.’ I happen to be an idiot. The conversation went something like this:

‘Hello, yes, I would like to check in to Canada and get my ‘summer pass’’.

‘Where are you?'

‘Gananoque.’

‘Where are you?'

‘Gananoque.’

‘Where are you?’ Surely there was a misunderstanding between me and the Canadian woman on the other end of the line. I was not sure what game we were playing, but it seemed likely she simply could not hear me properly, so I yelled into the telephone line for the third time.

‘Gananoque!’ There, that should do the trick. She could not have missed that one, nor did the French Canadians passing by in the rain.

‘No sir. Where in Gananoque are you?’ Well, that seemed like a simple question, and as I was still unsure why she did not clarify her question in the first place, I began to look around for some identifying marks to explain my location. Ah, there we are.

‘I am in the James T. Stone Park.’ Kerry was squished next to me in the phone booth in bewilderment telling me to tell the woman that we were at the municipal marina. She was of course correct.

‘Sir, that location does not exist. You need to be at a registered check-in location.’ Who knew going to Canada was going to be so complicated and without any instruction for how to properly navigate this cumbersome process. I looked up at the sign and realized that the James T. Stone Park was yet to be built and under construction according to the sign. I went with Kerry’s suggestion.

‘I am in the municipal marina’.

‘Oh, of course, don’t ya know sir. That is a registered check-in location. Thank you. Now, how long are you going to be in Canada?’ Finally, I was making progress.

‘Well, I will be in and out of Canada for the next month, and I would like my summer pass.’ The woman sounded exasperated and took on a very serious tone.

‘Sir, let me explain something to you very carefully so that you are clear on the rules. Every time you go into Canada or Canadian waters, you have to call this number to check in. You can get in a lot of trouble, don’t ya know, if you don’t go aboot checkin’ into Canada the proper way, and don’t ya know I don’t want you getting’ yourself all kinds of fines, don’t ya know.’

Well, I wanted to yell into the phone, no I don’t know, don’t ya know, and I was just doing as I was told, and as there were no other instructions anywhere for how to go about this, I was utterly lost and confused. I listened to her instruction and checked in for the afternoon and hung up the telephone, looked at Kerry and said, ‘Well, that was easy’.

We walked around Gananoque as close as we were to Grindstone Island there was a very clear feeling in the air that we were now in another country. It was a beautiful little town. We walked through the town park next to a huge fountain and intricate wire frame sculpture of a Blue Heron. We wanted to eat some barbeque, but the place was closed, so we decided on fish and chips after we stopped at the local beer seller to pick up a few Canadian imports.

It was our lucky night, as we walked in on ‘wing night’, a wonderful accompaniment to our fish and chips dinner.

It was a cold and rainy ride back home, but all in all it was a great day.

‘Don’t ya know?’

Day 13 - Disappearing Days

Not much to write home about today. We slept in late again, a gloriously evolving habit. Evan, Paul, and Roberta headed out around three o’clock. It was great to see Evan, and too bad he could not stay a bit longer. They were headed back to York to see Conor and Keith who just arrived from pedaling their bikes across the entire country from Seattle. Conor and Keith are joining us at the river on Friday along with James, Ashley and the kids.

I caught up on some work for ‘My Own Backyard’. I had to upload images for the website, and laid out a plan for the upcoming year. If I can meet the goals I set this year, I will be able to solely run the business in two years and retire from full time teaching. Time will tell.
The days are starting to quickly melt away, and I am finally unwinding, slowing down, and living in a much more natural rhythm. If I can achieve my goals with ‘My Own Backyard’ I will be able to live this way every day in the not too distant future.

The River - Day 6 - 12

Day 12 - Canadian Police and Airborne

Five boats deep, we cruised over to Leak Island again to swim and jump. Andrew and Gil were interested to see the big cliff I found, so we set out to find it. The cliff overlooks a beautiful deep spot in the river. I had yet to jump it, so I dove in and swam for shore. I quickly climbed to the top and stared down. It was definitely a big jump. The cliff is slightly overhanging and falls into water fifteen to twenty feet deep. I jumped off and felt the sting on my arms when I hit the water. I left them out a bit, so I would not go so deep on the first jump just in case.

I came up to the surface and Gil was already climbing and Andrew was in the water. I swam back toward shore, and suddenly Andrew jumped in and was swimming back to the boat.

'Police'.

We climbed into Andrew's boat and Gil was standing ready to jump. We heard the police on the horn.

'Sir, you're going to have to climb down from there please'.

Luckily, they were not too interested in us, just making sure we were not on private property. Nevertheless, we were in Canadian waters and Kerry and I had not checked into Canada yet. If they run your numbers and they want to, they will impound your boat and slap you with a massive fine.

We lucked out. We are heading into Canada tomorrow to check in with our passports. We spent the rest of the afternoon jumping off the rope swing at Cement Point.

We cruised back to Rockledge in the evening and Evan and Alex were biking out to the airstrip on the island to go up in Al's plane. I decided to ride my bike out to the airstrip to watch them land. The airstrip is just a field that a farmer mows with a windsock in it. They came in over the trees and landed smoothly.

They motored up and Uncle Alex offered me a ride as well. It was a great surprise and I took him up on the offer. I was a bit nervous taking off in such a small plane, but once we were up it was unbelievably beautiful. The sun was setting and the bird's eye view of the islands was incredible. We saw Rockledge, the Acorn and the Farm Cottage, as well as Wolf Island, Beauvais Point, Wellesley Island and Lake of the Isles. I even had the chance to take over the controls for a brief moment.

Great day!

Day 11 - Custom Paint

We went into Clayton Marina first thing in the morning to sign the papers and close the deal on the boat. It was an exciting morning. I dropped the trailer off up the road behind Mike Bogart's barn to store it for the rest of the summer. I drove back to French Creek and met Kerry who picked me up in the new boat. The hull is a '96 and the engine a '05 with really low hours. The folks that owned it lived up the road from Rockledge on Grindstone Island. They took great care of it, and it should last us a really long time.

We drove over to Beauvais Point in the afternoon and went wakeboarding and kneeboarding with the cousins. Kneeboarding is high on my my new favorite activities list. Kerry is awesome at it and was pulling some sweet three-sixties!

Day 10 - Boats

We decided to try and work a deal on a Boston Whaler that we found at a local marina. We were able to sell our Montauk for more than we paid, and use the cash toward a trade-in on a much newer cleaner, and thoroughly less complicated rig.

While we were waiting to finalize the deal, we went back to the Cottage and finished up the last of the shoreline clearing job we started when we arrived. It felt great to finally finish it.

I went up to visit Olive's grave under the apple tree in the evenings. It feels much quieter without her around.

Day 9 - Olive

Sometimes the greatest gifts in life come in the most surprising shapes. I came back from my trip through North Carolina almost three weeks ago and had my first chance to meet 'Olive'. Kerry temporarily adopted Olive from her cousin Elizabeth's farm. Olive was the runt of the litter, and no one was sure if she would make it. She was almost stepped on by her mother, and she was unable to get any milk because she was so tiny. Kerry asked Elizabeth if she could try and take care of her until she was big enough to return to the farm. Elizabeth said yes, and Olive became a part of our lives.

Kerry sent me pictures of tiny Olive while I was on the road. She was sitting in Kerry's lap wrapped in a blanket. When I walked in the door I was excited to meet her. She squeaked and ran around the house, constantly falling down because her tiny little hooves would slip on the wooden floors. We fed her milk mixed from a powder that we heated in the microwave. She let us know when she was hungry by squeaking and rubbing her snout against our legs. She squealed in joy when we set the milk on the floor of our kitchen and she hungrily thrust her tiny snout deep into the dish drinking thankfully.

I never knew how cute a tiny little pig could be, and I immediately fell in love with Olive. I sat on the couch in the evenings and she curled up with her legs tucked quietly underneath her body in my lap while I let her suckle in the palm of my hand.

We took Olive with us every day when we did our last camp of the summer with four little kids from the area. The kids loved Olive. They picked her up, petted her, and fawned over her every minute of the day. Olive stayed in the car while we tubed down river or picked blueberries, but we returned a few hours later and the kids got the chance to feed her.

Nine days ago Kerry and I arrived at the River. We slowly set up a home in the white farm cottage sitting on the banks of the St. Lawrence. It is a paradise for our dog and our pig. The first few nights were windy, and we built a huge bonfire in our newly constructed fire pit. We sat beside the river watching the waves lap against the shore and the moon rise in the distance over the small town of Clayton. We set Mogul's dog bed beside the fire and he and Olive curled up beside each other. Olive followed Mogul wherever he went, back and forth on the trail between the Cottage and Rockledge. Olive loved to stand beside me while I built the fire, and as soon as there was a flame and heat, she would nuzzle her tiny nose and body against the rocks so she could get warm. She sat in my lap and I snuggled her head while she fell asleep night after night. Many people imagine pigs as rather smelly animals, but not Olive. She smelled sweet and soft, a mix of vanilla and lavender.

I opened my eyes this morning. I felt my leg and ankle still swollen from being stung the day before. The swelling was so bad last night I believed I was likely having an allergic reaction and took some Benadryl. Sleep came quickly. I had strange dreams last night. Dreams of being transported through another dimension. I opened my eyes and I heard a quiet voice.

'Your Pig. Your pig'.

Kerry jumped awake. I was not quite sure what going on. She ran downstairs and I followed after her. She threw open the screen door and a woman sat on the creaky old wooden steps. She was covered in blood. She was crying.

'I am so sorry,' she said.

Olive wandered down the trail, following Mogul this morning. He was following Eliza who was out on her morning run. We did not know there were vicious dogs just down the trail on the neighboring property. The dogs played with Olive at first, but when she turned and playfully ran, they attacked.

Her wounds were mostly superficial, but one of the dogs bit through her chest and punctured her lung. I took Olive from the woman and held her in my lap. I could tell she was in shock. The conversation clattered around like a dusty old breeze. Telephone calls to local vets were made. I held her in my arms and knew the terrible truth. Her breaths were becoming more labored and shorter by the minute. I stared into her eyes, but they were listless and vacant.

I put pressure on the puncture wound, but knew there had to be a way for the air to escape. I attempted a makeshift occlusive dressing out of saran wrap, but it was useless. She was fading away. We headed toward the dock at Rockledge. I stopped in the middle of the trail. Her breaths were short and drawn. In a small space where the sun filtered through the trees and speckled the ground, I sat with her. The ants crawled beneath my feet. The flies buzzed around my head. I held her wrapped tightly in a kitchen towel. The blood soaked through and stained my shorts. I stared out into the hazy morning, and she took her last breath. Kerry cried beside me. The hot summer haze filled the air like smoke.

We loved our tiny pig named Olive. She was a special animal. She had personality. She loved you back. You could feel it in the way she nuzzled your leg and curled up in your lap besides the fire. I like to believe she was grateful to Kerry for taking care of her and giving her a little more of a chance in life than she had.

There is a violence in life. We all live on the edge of the sword, kneeling precipitously between life and death. Reaching out to love something is in turn reaching out to know pain. There is not love without loss.

I chipped away at the pale crusty brown soil under the apple tree. I felt that burying her there would at least allow her body to be absorbed into the tree, and that perhaps when we see the apples we may still feel the light of her life.

My sweat dripped from brow and mixed with Olive's blood. I closed her eyes and placed her body in the hole. We chose a flat stone from the river and placed atop her grave with a few stems of goldenrod. We said a prayer and asked God to keep her safe.

I am thankful for the gift of Olive while she was alive, and angry that she is gone.

We walked solemnly back to the Cottage. Our small family felt torn.

Day 8 - Boats...

We woke up and headed into Chalk's. Chris put the boat in the water so we could take it for another spin. It had a bit more pick up than the day before, but we still wanted the engine checked out. We made a passing offer, but the guy would not budge on his price. We are still awaiting the results on the engine, but likely we will have to pass on this one. It is looking more and more likely that we will wait until next summer to get our own boat.

In the afternoon we headed over to Leak Island with the cousins. We all had some good laughs jumping off the cliffs.

We drove back to the Cottage to feed Mogul and Olive before heading out to Beauvais Point for dinner again.

Day 7 - Trailer Woes

Ker and I headed over to Wellesley Island this morning to take a look at a boat trailer for the Montauk. We pulled off the side of the road. Two guys stood next to an old white van. The first gentlemen approached me to shake hands. He was a barrel chested man with sandy hair. He introduced his brother who stood in the back round. I shook his hand as well, and it was immediately apparent that he was the one who would not be speaking. The trailer was in decent shape, and probably would have worked just fine for the boat, but the two of us could not strike a deal. I was reluctant to dole out his full asking price, so we went on our way.

The decision to not buy the trailer reopened the conversation about the boat, an engine, trailers etc. We headed to Chalk's Marina to figure out what to do with our boat, and at the least make sure it was still there. Chris is the sales guy at Chalk's. He seems a nice genuine and good hearted man in an honest way, quite opposite of the way that most salesmen make you feel. This of course meant one of two things, he was an honest good men, or he was incredibly skilled at his profession. I like to believe the former.

We spotted two Boston Whalers for sale, an Outrage and a Dauntless, and the Kerry and I immediately began dreaming up new plans to sell our boat and get something that would be much less of a hassle. We took the Dauntless out for a spin. It was a really nice boat that would be a great fit for what we need up here. We decided to head back in the morning to take another look.

We ate dinner with a few of the cousins at Beauvais Point. I played laser tag with the boys and we all went for an evening swim.

Day 6 - High Seas

Woke up to a strong westerly wind blowing in from Lake Ontario. Kerry and I decided to get the kayaks out and head to Club Island to watch the women's world cup final in the skiff house with the cousins. The game was exciting, but sadly the U.S. could not pull out the win after overtime and a penalty kick shoot out.

It was another beautiful day, and the paddle back was a bit easier than on the way over. I did a bit more clearing along the shoreline and should finish it up tomorrow morning.

The First Few Days...

Day 5 - The Black River Race

I woke up and packed a few things to head out for the day. I was heading into Watertown to compete in the annual Black River Race. Kerry and I started driving over to French Creek in 'Little Bear' only to realize we left the car keys in the 'Ventura'. We pulled a quick u-turn and headed back to Rockledge. We docked 'Little Bear' hopped in the 'Ventura' and headed back out.

We said a quick goodbye in French Creek as I hopped out. She threw a sarcastic 'brown claw' and said 'go get 'em tiger' as I headed to the Jeep. The 'Brown Claw' is an amusing and ridiculous anomaly that has swept through the larger kayaking community like a rampant and incurable virus. It started as a joke between two paddlers and has grown into a symbol adopted by legions of followers that throw it around at every turn and ripple in the river. I believe there is a rather quiet majority of paddlers who hold the 'Brown Claw' in great disdain, and will throw it or some distorted version of it to make fun of the 'Claw' and and its utter absurdity. Nonetheless, this likely only further perpetuates the omnipresent nature of the apparently immovable phenomenon of the 'Brown Claw'.

The drive to Watertown takes about twenty minutes, and passes through some beautiful countryside. I always enjoy it. I pulled into the parking of Hudson River Outfitters around noon, only to realize the race was not until four o'clock. I only kind of know one person in the New York kayaking scene, and he was busy running the event. I searched the parking lot, trying to find someone to pal around with for the day and get a quick practice lap in before the race to scope out some race lines. I spotted a guy carrying his Greenboat down to the river, and asked him if he was going all the way down and if he wanted someone to paddle with. He said definitely. I threw my gear on and headed down to the put-in.

We surfed a bit in 'Hole Brothers' and then drifted on down. There is a good bit of flat water before the first rapid 'Knife's Edge'. We talked about all manners of things as we floated down. It was a gorgeous day, and really nice to just be out on the water. We scoped out a race line at Glen Park Falls and ran it smooth. The Canyon on the Black River is a really fun little section of whitewater. My favorite rapid by far is this large curling wave that falls quickly into a big pour over hole, aptly titled the 'Poop Chute'.

We finished the section quickly and proceeded to wait at the take out for another group of paddlers and rafters so we could catch a ride on the bus back to the start. We didn't realize how far ahead we were so we sat in the shade and waited for close to two hours before the group got there. The time went by quickly and we swapped stories on all aspects of life: family, girls, marriage, careers, school, and sustainability. It never ceases to amaze me how easily a shared passion for the outdoors and whitewater opens the door to forging new friendships.

The rest of the group finally arrived. We helped carry some rafts out and headed back to the put-in. We geared up for the race and headed down. I raced my 'Remix'. It would have been awesome to have a long boat, but I left it at home. I kept pace with the top long boats for a short bit in the beginning and quickly faded back. My goal was to do my best to keep up with the back pack of long boats and at least beat the rest of the creek boats out there. The race went well, and I was the first creek boat to finish.

Plenty of laughs were had on the way back to the put-in. Once we arrived everyone quickly transitioned to get ready for the 'Floateo' competition. All manners of inflatable watercraft are permitted and I had a large grey dolphin as my tool of choice. I was unable to stay in the hole the first ten tries, but finally decided to deflate it about half way, and just as everyone was finishing I caught an epic several minute surf in the hole on an inflatable dolphin. It was the perfect finish to an awesome day on the water.

I was exhausted. I called Kerry, enjoyed a beautiful drive home watching the sunset, and she picked me up at French Creek. My head hit the pillow and I was out when we got back to the Cottage.

Day 4 - Swimming Pigs and Chainsaws

Woke up this morning to another beautiful day. I was set to clear some brush from the shoreline around the Cottage with Mike, but first we had to run into town and pick up 'Little Bear', the tiny Boston Whaler. 'Little Bear' was restored over the winter and she looked and drove great on the way back to Grindstone.

I hopped out at Rockledge to talk to Mike and get ready to clear. We headed over to the cottage and Mike told me that the neighbors took Olive (our pig) home the night before. Apparently, while we were out running errands, Olive was lonely and heard some people lying out on the floating yellow raft in the river. She decided to jump in and swim to the raft. The neighbors got a good scare because they had no idea what was swimming toward them in the water. She hung out at their house for a few hours and they escorted her home at nightfall. She is one crazy pig.

We spent the afternoon clearing the shoreline, and we now have a much expanded view of the water from the cottage. Kerry made a great dinner with homemade bread made from Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. It was awesome.

Black River Race tomorrow!

Day 3 - Fish Tacos from the Burri-Tow

We had a lazy morning bumming around the cottage again. I hope this becomes a habit for the next six weeks. I enjoy milling about, lifting a rock and adding it to perfect the aesthetic of my fire pit, and eating a bowl of cold cereal with fresh whole milk in the hot sun in a big comfy chair next to river. Mike was out in the garden watering the vegetables. Kerry and I were excited to talk to him. I enjoy Mike's company and have a great time talking about the various projects we want to pursue around the property. Tomorrow we plan on elevating and clearing a bunch of trees to tidy up the view from shore.

The highlight of the morning was building a snake stick. Mike was attempting to investigate the broken down Ford pickup next to the barn. The Ford is an old eighties rusty grey Ranger that rumbles so loud when it starts you think you're at a drag race. Whop! Ba-Ba-Ba-BOP!!! It rumbles along the dusty dirt roads of Grindstone announcing it's old age like it's the second coming of Jesus. Sadly for the Ford, it's cacophonous rumbly tumbly symphony came to an end several weeks ago. The weather warmed, the wet weather cleared and parked in the sun next to the big red barn, the innards of the Ford quickly became infested with a large array of snakes. Mike does not like snakes, and when he went to lift the hood this morning, there were two huge snakes sitting on the engine block. He came down to see if I could help remedy the situation. I quickly constructed a 'snake stick', a trick my father taught me when I was a kid. A 'snake stick' is simply a long stick with a piece of rope secured to one end with a loop. You let the snake squirm through the loop, pull the string and it tightens around the snake's neck. You can then carry the snake where you want to release it, pin it's head, loosen the string and then let the snake go. I walked up to the truck with the newly fashioned stick. Mike popped the hood. An enormous black snake quickly slid into the shadows under the truck, but a few Gardner snakes remained. I caught one with the stick and brought it to the woods. The others eluded me. Mike thought it best to leave well enough alone. Where there are a few in sight, there are likely many unseen.

Morning lingered into mid-afternoon and finally Kerry and I jumped in the boat. We had no destination, just to see where the afternoon was going to take us. We headed over to Leak Island and jumped off the cliffs. It was my first swim of the year in the River, and it felt great. We continued on looking for Stave, but not too hard. We trolled passed Gananoque, but didn't have our passports to dock, so we headed downriver. We found the quintessential perfect cliff jump somewhere on the Canadian side of the river on our way in search of the 'Rift'. We did not find the 'Rift' and wound around the back side of Wellesly Island, bought some gas in Alexandria Bay, and cruised to the farmer's market in Clayton.

We discovered the most amazing invention, 'The Burri-Tow'. This traveling red vehicle is apparently home to the world's most amazing fish taco. We ate them ravenously with a fresh lemon. I enjoyed them some much, I began selling them to passers-by, much to the chagrin of the owners. Needless to say, we were fast friends, and I attempted to convince them they should drive the 'Burri-Tow' to the Gauley River Festival in West Virginia assuring them they would be a huge hit.

Mosquitoes are out in droves tonight. I started a fire, but couldn't stay out to enjoy it, so we enjoyed it from the screened in porch. Finishing the night with a Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Great Day!

Day 2 - Strip Malls, Whitewater, and Thunderstorms

We woke up early and dilly dallied around the Farm Cottage. We hopped in the boat and headed over to Clayton to hop in the car to head to Watertown. Watertown is about twenty minutes from Clayton on route 11. Clayton is a tiny town with one grocery store, the Big M. We needed to stock up on staples, and Kerry wanted to head to 'The Mustard Seed' and organic grocer in Watertown. I happily obliged as it meant I would get a bit of whitewater time at the local play spot on the Black River.

We stopped in K-Mart to get a few necessities for the cottage. An enormous thunderstorm blew in while we were inside and the weather changed in an instant. I enjoy the fickle nature of summer weather.

The Mustard Seed was super cool. I bought a whole body 'total Cleanse'. Use your imagination. They're supposed to be really good for you, so I figured I should give it a whirl. After 'Mustard Seed' I stopped in the kayak shop and talked to Brian. He led us down the Black River last summer as part of the bachelor party. I discovered the Black River Festival is this weekend, so I am headed out to race and enjoy the festivities. Hopefully I'll meet some folks who know a bit about the river scene in Quebec. I had a good time in the play hole while Kerry bargained for a table for the cottage at an antique store up the road. I decided I am definitely interested in play boating a little more, but I absolutely hate the green Jackson All-Star I own.

We headed back to the cottage. Kerry made some Brats from her cousin Elizabeth's farm, and I built a huge fire pit next to the river. The wind blew strong and cold the entire evening and when we were finished with dinner we sat by the fire and stared across the open water to Clayton.

Day 1 - The Return

Back again after a long stretch on the road. I started my own company in January after a year of running pilot programs and building a business plan, I decided to make a run for it and follow a dream. The trips went really well, and we covered a lot of ground through Virginia, West Virginia, Tennessee, and North Carolina. We caved, backpacked, mountain biked, kayaked, surfed, and laughed until we fell asleep at night under dark star lit skies among the mountains, fields, and streams closest to home. Many folks seem to have an ideal of the exotic, a vision of paradise. There are droves of people wanting to convince us that a beautiful place with crystal clear water, white sand, and a swaying green palm trees is all we need, and even the only possible way we can truly relax, unwind, and let our spirits wander and dream like they are meant too. Thankfully this could not be farther from the truth and if you adopt a sense of adventure and a bit of a willingness to get lost, one can easily see that this ideal of relaxing affairs and freedom we all desire and need is but an attitudinal adjustment and openness of spirit. In any case, before I digress even further from my intent here, let me begin where I last left off at the end of May.

I finished up the paddling season with Curt and the boys. The school year quickly came to a halt and I was out the door as mentioned on the road conducting trips. Alas, the trips came to an end, and Kerry and I left to spend six weeks on the St. Lawrence River in upstate New York on the border of Canada. Kerry's family's summer home is an extraordinary place set on a 300 acre peninsula in the middle of the river on an island called Grindstone. The river is no ordinary vision of a river and exists in great breadth as it pours from Lake Ontario, several miles wide in many places. The region is called 'The Thousand Islands', and you guessed it, there are in fact over a thousand islands of all shapes and sizes littering the landscape.

There are three structures on the property: Rockledge, the Acorn, and the Farm Cottage. The two of us are staying in the Farm Cottage for the remainder of the summer. The Farm Cottage is an old white farmhouse circa the turn of the last century. The interior walls are a dark grainy pine replete with wooden floors. There is an immense fifty year old lilac bush that borders that left front corner of the house. A large red barn sits about one hundred yards behind the cottage. The house sits about one hundred feet from the riverbank which is littered with old Shag Bark Hickory trees. There is a silver metal floating dock that juts into the river good enough for the temporary docking of a boat if one is in a hurry to get in and out. The floors creak, the water pressure is weak, and the upstairs sleep hot when the summer nights are still, but the river is cold, the skies blue and speckled with a painter's version of puffy white clouds, and the air crisp and warm in the splendid summer sun. It is a glorious place to slow down and get back to basics.

We left on Tuesday afternoon. We spent an exorbitant amount of time packing, strapping, and installing a new roof rack system to haul up our mountain bikes and kayaks. I am hoping to adventure around in Canada for a bit to see some new rivers. We finally had everything ready and hit the road. The drive was not too bad. We stopped a few times to feed 'Olive' our pet pig who gets a bit rambunctious and squeals incessantly when she is ready for milk. It was almost dark when we arrived at the French Creek Marina. We quickly unloaded most of our things on to the new eighteen foot Boston Whaler. The wind picked up as we pushed off the dock. We trolled out of the marina and under the bridge and there were white caps by the time we reached open water. Just as suddenly as it had come on, the wind ceased as we rolled into the dock at Rockledge. A welcome 'hello' from the River.

We retired to bed around midnight and eagerly awaited morning.

Beginnings and Endings

It is hard to know where to begin. It has been hard to place my thoughts lately. Spring is a time of change, growth, and new beginnings. The idea of spring is of course a literal physical manifestation in our environment, at least for those of us accustomed to the variation of four distinct seasons. It seems that in my own life I possess a sort of spiritual spring that embodies the essence and evolves concordantly with spring in the natural world. As I crawl out of the blanket of winter, and the daylight begins to creep evermore into the tight grip of lingering cold nights, my inner clock starts to shift. I begin to change. Life feels fresh, and it is exciting to see where roads cast in new, warm, pale golden light will lead.

The twang of the country guitar and steely rustic vocals filled the cabin of Curt's fading red 1994 Nissan pick-up truck. We paddled with Don just six days before. The conversation in the cabin shifted to all manners of things. It was hard to follow. I snapped some pictures of a few dandelions littered in a sea of green grass with the specter of half burned white farm house flying a tattered American flag in the background. We walked down the muddy road alongside Sovern Run to the put in for the Big Sandy. His memorial service was Sunday afternoon. 1:00 pm. Sovern Run was lit like a candle amidst a clatter of trees swaying in the breeze about to burst with a new set of leaves. They were just waiting for a bit more sun. Just a few more days.

The Sandy was great. Just like it always is. Curt took one over the handlebars over 'Big Splat' Times moves slowly. The next run he nails it. Time moves at a normal pace. I do not choose to go on this one. I slide off the rock. I take the safe route. I ramble on down the river.

I think about the kids that Curt and I are teaching. Curt and I talk about how they are progressing as we float downstream. We glide through 'Island' rapid. The 'River Mobsters'. What a crew. What a special opportunity to share our love for something so spectacular with a group of guys just starting out. Just barely getting their feet wet in the grand scheme of things. Spring seems to always exist when we are young. That is just how we remember it though when we look back. Only as real as the ideal we hold in our minds. Sharing our passion. What a great opportunity.

There were about one hundred people gathered at the put-in of the North Fork of the Blackwater. The river Don had died upon just a week ago. Time seems but an impression sometimes, and reality no more real than my dreams. I could feel the tiny waves of anxiety creeping in my fingertips, thoughts of maybe I would just wake up and realize it was a dream as we all stood in a circle, held hands, bowed our heads and prayed.

His ashes drifted over the forty footer. The one drop he left alone and never ran. The petals on the flowers swirled in the eddy as we all stood and gazed upon the rusted brown rocks and water. They swirled. We stared. They swirled and tore apart, tiny piece by tiny piece.

They fluttered softy carried away on the wings of the calm amidst the chaotic. How much of our lives do we spend feeling different than everyone else? How much of our lives do we spend trying to be understood and to understand ourselves? All of it?

I knew little of Don. I spent a weekend at his house in Canaan Valley four days before he died. He showed me down the Upper Blackwater for my first time. Don had shown dozens down the Upper B. He was 'Blackwater Don'. He was a character written into his own story. He kept a fox for fifteen years. He was a lawyer in Pittsburgh. The fox led him to be a lawyer and kept him in a relationship with a woman until the fox passed away. He knew the Blackwater as well as anyone. I am almost certain that I was the last person that 'Blackwater Don' showed down the 'Blackwater'. My first was Don's last.

The pale golden light of spring was painting the road. The light was paler than usual. Life can be like that sometimes. You know what I mean? The bittersweet feeling you have when you leave people you love, but the horizon is promising, bright, and you can smell the freedom in the air. Pale golden light, a little paler than usual. It feels just like this.

I felt a few tears when I stared at the petals being torn from the flower drifting aimlessly in the eddy. That is what we are. People. Left to our own devices we may drift aimlessly in eddies being torn. Piece by piece. Searching for the calm amidst the chaotic. All we have is each other. Most of us reach out and try to hold on as we try to embrace the idea that we all walk our own path.

The red Nissan pick up truck rambled on down the highway. The truck smelled of wet kayaking gear. It smelled a little like one idea of home.

I was glad when she opened the door and I could feel her warm embrace. It felt like life.

A week later I was in the back of the green bus sleeping on a love seat. The river flows on. Life moves forward. My first. His last. A beginning. An end.

Curt edged me about by forty-five seconds in the race. I had to own up to the kids on Monday and accept my defeat. All in thankful spirits. The shine melted the soreness away as we crammed over a hundred steamy bodies in a yellow school bus and made our way out of the canyon. The chatter and laughter shook the steel and the smiles and spirits could have cracked stones. Gifts from the river.

The Green Dragon rode. We filled her up with the will of possibilities. The open road and the music from a 'rented' Wal-Mart stereo wired to a cigarette lighter. We should grow up, right? Irrelevance is irrelevant.

We are all writing our stories. We play the parts. We act the hero, the villain, the savior, the warrior. It's all there clambering around in one big soupy stew. The moments are short, the lines are tight and wide open with blue skies all at the same time. The choice is ours.

Eric Ornstein came home yesterday. He, Geoff, and I wandered out to the 'Bridge Channel' on the Falls. He dislocated his shoulder under the bridge. I was holding the rope. I down climbed in time to grab his boat out of the water. He clung to a tree. I struggled to pull his boat on to the rock as he clung to the tiny sapling sitting in the eddy. It was hard not to think of the flower swirling in the eddy on the edge of the North Fork of the Blackwater.

Geoff and I laid him down on a rock and set his shoulder back into place. We hiked out and I drove him home.

Like I said from the beginning it is hard to know where to begin. It's been hard to place my thoughts lately.

'Brett, why aren't you coming?'

'I'm writing.'

There is no movie for this one. There are no pictures. Just a song and images floating in my head from the past few months. Most of the time darkness gives way to light if you let it, but our moments here are brief. This screen is black, but not for long. I don't know what comes next.

Maybe that's the way I like it.



The Sad Sun - Deer Tick


The sad sun
shining down on the day I drove to the cape
And a thing that was slowly dying
The sad sun was taken away

Never had your chance to live
And it's hard to forgive
Never had your chance to love
And it does not happen like this
In heaven, if heaven exists
And we'll never know until the moment we're finished
And the few that care
What have they accomplished right here?

The sad sun
Shining down on the day I drove to the cape
And a still thing was slowly dying
The sad sun was taken away
The sad sun was telling me that
You'll never see his light again
All rolling around with no skin
And your wrists cut from start to end
And they're laughing
Clouding your head with bad thoughts
But I'm your friend
And the close encounter
Never happens like this

Never had your chance to live
And it's hard to forgive
Never had your chance to love
And it does not happen like this
In heaven, if heaven exists
And we'll never know until the moment we're finished
And the few that care
What have they accomplished right here?
What have they accomplished right here?

Red Creek

The Upper Blackwater

4 Minute Warning

Hard to stop thinking about the movie 'Gasland' lately. There's a short clip from a Radiohead song, '4 Minute Warning' in the film. It was released as a bonus track on the second disc from their 'In Rainbows' album.

If you haven't seen 'Gasland' check out this link... Gasland

Every Now and Then...

Well, I should be telling stories about dirt bagging in the Smoky Mountains over spring break, or possibly hitch hiking home last Friday night after being stranded in Leesburg, or perhaps the chickens that are roaming my backyard, but this afternoon trumps all. The inaugural Magic Bus trip took place this afternoon. It is officially tagged, titled, and towing a trailer full of old school Perception Dancer kayaks.

Curt and I met at Old Angler's Inn with our team of eight. It was our second day out on the water, (the first day was officially cold and miserable). Today the weather was glorious, eighty degrees, sunny, and and the occasional gusty headwind. We continued teaching the forward stroke, slowly introducing the sweep stroke, and draw. The guys were having a great time. It was one of those perfect magic spring days on the Potomac. The kind everyone waits for all winter. The water was cool, clear, and refreshing. It is the beginning of what is usually a great stretch of kayaking on the Potomac. The river is alive with activity, plenty of folks training for Cheat River Festival in early May.

We put in at Sandy Beach and paddled up the back channel to the backside of Maryland chute. We had the guys practice a few wet exits so they would be comfortable with it. We hiked through the island and climbed a rock overlooking the Potomac. Scott was paddling up river and I yelled out to him. I had not seen him since he left for the Grand Canyon. He paddled over and we chatted for a bit. He joined up with us and we took the group paddling back downriver to the Sandy Beach to finish up the session for the guys. Curt and I ran up to the parking lot to quickly load the boats and then hustled back down to the river to attain upriver to Rocky Island Waves with Scott. We got a good workout and some awesome triple surfs at Rocky before heading back in a long since faded sunset.

We convened in the Magic Bus to enjoy the moment, discussing all the potential of the new beast. Today was a great new beginning. I deeply appreciate the opportunity to paddle with Scott and Curt tonight. Days like today do not come around all the time, but when they do, it is nice to take a moment to step back and breath them in.

Tsali

Day four down in the Smokies...

On the Run

My first two days in the Smoky Mountains, North Carolina...

Gooney Creek

This little gem does not run often, but when it does, it is a great class III/IV creek outside of Front Royal, Virginia. The storm of the century blew through on Thursday, giving Curt and I a great time on and off the water on Friday without having to drive too far from home.

Gooney Creek from Brett Mayer-Aschhoff on Vimeo.

Dear Eleanor

Dear Eleanor,

You do not know me yet. I am a friend of your father. Well, I suppose you could call us friends. We are more aptly titled brothers. I am not sure when it began, but somewhere along the way he started calling me 'big bro' and I him 'little bro'. It was probably somewhere in between waking up in the dusty soil on the banks of a river in Colorado and sitting beside a campfire drinking whiskey in the mountains of Appalachia. In any case, we are good friends bound by rock and water, and have seen each other through some interesting times in our lives.

You are only two days old and know nothing of this world yet. It is a rather crazy place, full of ups, downs, and all arounds. Your father was fresh out of college when I first met him. I am almost five years his senior, and at the time, was in his eyes an 'old man' at the ripe age of twenty-five.

There are a few more characters that you might hear about one day. Strongarms, Warthog, and a man with a slick shootin' southern drawl named 'Captain Haddock'. We roamed around together like a band of modern day cowboys for a while before setting out into different seas. We all traveled the world, and between the lot of us covered a great span of cultures and continents. I stood toe to toe with a penguin in Antarctica once. Strongarms was robbed in a Bolivian hospital while having his appendix removed. We chased our fair share of ladies. Warthog once followed a girl to New Zealand, and Captain Haddock could not resist the allure of the setting sun. We were always up for a good adventure, and passed out next to more than our fair share of roaring fires beneath a canopy of stars.

This is the romanticized version of things; an important skill to have in an often acrimonious world. The truth is that things are tough out there, and it really helps to surround yourself with critically loyal friends and family. There is no two ways about it. You are going to fall down in life, but the old cliche holds true: it's how you pick yourself up and dust yourself off that matters most.

Life is full of change and ever shifting horizon lines. Rivers are a good place to go to learn about things like this, but if that does not suit your style, the world is full of wonders that will let you catch a glimpse of the deeper meaning of things. Just keep a smile on your face, a spring in your step, and an innocence in your eyes.

If you ever find yourself a bit confused and navigating some roads that seem like they may never end, pull off to the side. Take a deep breath. Gather some wood. Light a fire, and look to the sky. You'll figure it out after a while.

I hope this finds you well.

Here's to a celebrated life.

Brett and the rest of the gang

God's Tongue

We woke up around eight o'clock on Saturday morning. We had a great night hanging out in the Purple Fiddle hostel, making new friends, playing the guitar, and listening to the band play below us.

It felt great to sleep in a bed. We usually sleep on the ground or in the back of our trucks when we are out paddling. We were cold and exhausted from 'High Ridge'. Getting a good night's sleep in a warm bed was a great choice.

We checked the gauges. There were plenty of options, but we decided on Pringle Run. Pringle is a short, but incredibly steep section of whitewater that pours into the Cheat River near the Narrows. I was excited to finally have the opportunity to kayak it. It was one of the first steep creeks in West Virginia that caught my eye in my early days of paddling.

It took thirty minutes or so to get there from the Valley. We parked the truck and started walking up the dirt road. The gate was locked. The army owns the land on top of the mountain and conducts a variety of training exercises that involve building and demolishing bridges with explosives. They installed the gate to keep folks out.

We scouted most of the creek. The boulder drops were large and complex. We grabbed our boats and hiked to the top, and bushwhacked our way down to the creek. We put in above what many consider to be the main attraction, the twenty foot waterfall. The middle lands on a large pile of rocks, so it is important to get right. It looked a bit too low to paddle the lead-in slide, so we walked down ten feet slid into the eddy above the right line of the falls. The line was tricky, but I managed to pull off a decent boof. I stared back at the falls and Curt dropped in close behind.

The creek consists of four sections. The waterfall section comes first, followed by three large, complex boulder garden style rapids. Each rapid consisted of five or six moves through tight technical lines. We scouted each section, and talked for a few minutes about how to best approach the series of rapids. Once we felt confident, we threw our helmets on and proceeded down stream. We took footage and photographed much of the run. It is posted prior to this entry.

We finished our run on Pringle. The day approached mid-afternoon. We took a look at the Cheat. It was big. We hiked up to the truck and loosened our gear. Down the hill we spotted two kayakers scoping out Pringle. They walked up the hill to see what we were up to. We gave them the beta on the creek, and they offered us a lift a few miles up the Cheat so we could run some big water. It was a great trade. The Cheat was pumping, and some of the waves were well over head high and breaking hard.

Curt and I took off our wet gear and changed into some dry digs. It always feels incredible to put on some warms clothes after a cold afternoon on the water. I eagerly threw on my brand spanking new six dollar grey hooded sweatshirt from the Shop and Save in Davis. Perfect.

We milled around the hood of the truck and opened a few cans of sardines and threw them on some crackers. I prefer the ones in hot sauce. Curt pulled out a mason jar of clear liquid. 'It's from Kentucky'.

We decided to hobble up stream to take a look at the guys who gave us a lift upriver an hour ago. We were hoping to catch them in the middle of the action on Pringle, but could not find them. Finally, we noticed them below the waterfall. We walked back downstream to watch them paddle the most technical section. We stood on the banks and waited. The sun shone through the canopy illuminating a cadence of white swirls dancing over the face of bronzed rocks. The rocks were likely bronzed from old mine drainage upstream. The roots of large river birch engulfed car sized boulders like human hands holding baseballs. Prehistoric ferns six feet tall grew on mere inches of soil smeared on vertical surfaces of rock. Tree branches reached from bank to bank holding up the sky arched over the creek. My nasal passages cleared as the mason jar hit my lips. It was like standing on God's tongue.

I was so enraptured I forget about what we were doing. The two kayaks barreled their way downstream in a hurry. Their lines were evidence of a long day on the water. We walked out of the small canyon and back to the car. Curt turned the key and we headed to Jim's house.

Jim Snyder invented the cartwheel. The cartwheel was my first introduction to kayaking. I first witnessed the spectacle sitting like a log on a large raft lumping its way down the New River Gorge. I was twenty years old. It was my first foray into the world of whitewater. I was a surfer, mountain biker and skier when I was not playing soccer in the those days. I knew little of kayaking. There were no big rivers where I grew up. I was having a blast on the river that day with a few close friends. I did not even understand what a kayak was. I watched this guy floating down the river as if he were some sort of wild animal, when suddenly the tail of his boat popped skyward, and then as if by some sort of river magic, he flipped his tail underwater and his nose was pointing skyward. I had no earthly idea how this happened. I was mesmerized.

In any case, Jim Snyder invented this move, and we were on the way to his house to pay him a visit. Curt is the proud owner of a wooden Backlund paddle, Jim's mentor. Curt intended to ask Jim to make a few changes and clean up some damage he'd done over the years. We hopped out of the truck and shook Jim's hand. He brought us into his shop.

Walking into Jim's shop is like walking into the inside of a tree. It primarily consists of sawdust, wood, and sawdust. The walls are covered in sawdust. The ceiling is covered in sawdust. The floor is covered in sawdust. Throw in a whole lot of glue, and it makes you feel like your inside the wood of a tree with sap coursing all around you.

Jim is no stranger to strangers. Most river people are this way. If you speak boat and paddle and your soul is made of rocks and water, you are welcomed into the company of others who appreciate the simple truths of whitewater. Jim poured tales of big water runs on the Grand Canyon, and thrill seeking descents on Roaring Run all over the shop floor. Our mouths stood agape as he displayed the artistic ingenuity of his various paddle and boat designs. He stood before us a simple man who understood the absolute importance of a life lived with aesthetic brilliance and creative grace.

Well over an hour passed and we finally bid Jim farewell. Curt left his paddle behind and was happy with the proposed modifications. Putting a scratch in such a beautiful piece of work is hard to stomach, but the paddle does not truly become art until its blades dip beneath the surface of cold mountain creek, and clamor against boulders in an attempt to seek the grain of time.

Back to the Fiddle. We drove. The weather cleared. We lived true to our roots on Saturday evening. Dirtbags, quasi-lunatics and happy. We marched into the hostel, unpacked our gear in front of the gas stove and melted into the couch. The place bustled with activity. The band played loudly. People came and went. The fire burned hot. The case ran dry. The hours dripped by and our eyelids slowly closed as the banjo pickers sitting on the pool table finally decided to call it a night and give their instruments a rest.

We rose early. A group of skiers from my hometown cooked breakfast in the kitchen. A young girl with a merry smile made lunch for her husband and friends. They accidentally took a bag of our food the previous morning, and we all shared a good laugh about the mistake. The Top Yough was calling. We said our goodbyes and hit the road. We would be back soon.

The day was glorious. Blue as blue gets with orange rays of sun trying hard to melt the snap of winter. The river was high. We bounded down stream losing gradient. We continued on for fifteen minutes and passed Muddy Creek Falls, the tallest waterfall in Maryland. We got out to take a peak. Time slipped. The boat was awkward and our momentum was lost. We pulled over, and I climbed the bank. I threw a rope down and we hauled our boats up the icy crag. Sometimes its just time to call it a day. No one likes to tuck tail and run, but best to save it for another day. We hiked below spires of blue ice and hero sized stalagmites of winter's hard work.

We arrived home tired and happy.