You heard it here first: Canoe Country is under siege, and the Threat Assessment Team is hoisting the red warning flags. Their message? Enemy aliens are invading our waters. That sounds alarming, doesn’t it? And it is. How can we fight back? Let’s begin by spotlighting the poster boys of this alien invasion: the Dreissena twins, aka zebra and quagga mussels (Dreissena polymorpha and D. bugensis, to those in the know). These bad boys cling to boat hulls, pilings, and other underwater surfaces, multiplying shamelessly and displacing native mussels. The predictable result? Localized extinctions of native species. Moreover, the twin troublemakers infiltrate water pipes of every description, from municipal water-treatment intakes to power-plant coolant systems to the raw-water intake pipes on outboard motors. That’s not the worst news, however. Quaggas are also bioterrorists, known to harbor Clostridium botulinum, the organism responsible for botulism. Yellow perch chow down on quaggas—it seems that these popular panfish have developed a taste for the tiny mussels over the years—and then … you guessed it … the botulism organism moves up the food chain. I’ll bet you can also guess who’s at the top of the chain. Us, that’s who. This certainly puts the traditional shore lunch in a different perspective, doesn’t it? Bon appétit!

OK. That’s the threat scenario in brief. And just where did these alien invaders come from? No one is saying for sure, but it’s thought that the Dreissena twins were stowaways, hitchhiking from the Old World to the New in the ballast water of ocean-going ships. In any case, they were first ID’d when they established a forward outpost in the Great Lakes. But they weren’t content to stay put. They had big plans. They didn’t just want to move in. They were determined to take over. And they’re following through. In fact, they’ve already pushed inland as far as the Colorado watershed. How did they move so far, so fast? That’s painfully obvious. They’ve made unwitting collaborators of their natural enemies—boaters. Yes, you heard it right. People like you and me are aiding and abetting the enemy. So what are we going to do about it? Read more…

 
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A Note to the Reader It’s a hot Memorial Day Weekend and Adirondack waterways are crowded with holiday-makers. On the first leg of their shake-down cruise, Ed, Brenna and the gang crossed wakes with Deputy Sheriff “Bubba” Buck, radio host “Jerkin’ Jake” Slaughter, and the Hollywood Lady. Now only some of the gang are continuing on down the Raquette River.

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Eighteen

 
Zoe Grimes’ cough rattled over the water as Ed and Brenna paddled their big canoe along the northern shore of Long Lake. Two pontoon boats idled opposite them, the occupants leaning against their rails, waiting for signs the fish were rising. They sipped coffee from insulated mugs and talked in quiet tones as they watched the remaining wisps of early-morning fog dissipate. A distant peal of bells welcomed worshippers to eight-o’clock services in the village church.

The thunderstorm of the evening before had done nothing to break the steamy heat. The air already shimmered with humidity, and water droplets sparkled on every twig and needle. If anything, it was even more tropical than yesterday, and no breeze dried the paddlers’ sticky bodies. A lemon-yellow sun shone through a gauze-curtain haze. Ed and Brenna paddled hard, hoping to outpace the swarm of blackflies that had followed them since they’d left camp.

The fishermen on the pontoon boats noticed the canoe and raised their hands in silent greeting. “At least you can see them coming,” Brenna said, remembering yesterday’s close call near the island. “I wonder if Ken will ever wash his hand again? You’d think he’d never met a movie star before!” She giggled. “Come to think of it, I don’t suppose he has. Who’d have thought we’d run into Chadd Wellington here, of all places?”

“Not me,” Ed replied. “Then again, I don’t read Variety.”

Brenna tried to remember when she’d first seen Chaddwicke Wellington. Damn unlikely name, she thought. Was it in Bug-eyed Monsters or Jakarta? “Or was it Old Glory?” Without meaning too, she spoke out loud.

“What?” Ed asked, twisting round to look at his wife

“Huh?” Brenna said, startled out of her reverie. “Sorry about that. I was trying to remember when I first saw one of Chadd Wellington’s pictures. Bet Ken has all her videos. I’ve never seen someone so gaga. I’d never have guessed he was the type.”

“Mmm,” Ed grunted. “Isn’t every day you get to meet a real-life Hollywood star.”

“That a fact?” Brenna made a wry face. “You’re not smitten, too, by any chance, are you?”

“Naw. Got me a woman already.” He looked back at Brenna again and winked. “Still, you gotta admire Ken. There’s life in the old dog yet.”

Brenna snorted.

Just ahead of the canoe, a beaver slapped its tail against the water’s surface and dove. “He’s out late,” Ed said. “Or she…. Can’t really tell, of course. Wonder where the lodge is?”

“You’re just trying to change the subject,” Brenna protested, squinting from under the brim of her faded jungle hat. But she put down her paddle and pulled her sketchbook out of her life-jacket pocket anyway. When the beaver surfaced, he was almost a hundred yards away. She scratched furiously with her pencil, letting the canoe drift down lake until the beaver vanished behind a snag.

They began to paddle again. The shorelines were closing in. The Raquette River lay ahead, and Ed and Brenna started looking for Pete and Karin Neary. Then a shout rang across the water from near the outlet of the lake.

“Hey! Pete and Karin! You made it!” Brenna yelled back, and then headed toward the Nearys. They looked like they’d had a bad night. Sweat dripped from their noses, and the skin around their eyes was puffy with blackfly bites. When the Tripper came alongside, Pete grabbed the gunwale.

“We wondered if you’d be here, what with the…uh…problem with your daughter,” Brenna said.

Karin rolled her eyes skyward. “She had a fender-bender. Had to be picked up in Albany. No big deal. Anyway, here we are. Spent the night not far from one of the lean-tos. Glad we weren’t planning to stay there ourselves. Six guys in a powerboat landed after we began setting up camp and moved in. Not exactly a quiet crowd. We barely got a wink of sleep! Got outta there at first light.” Karin thrust a large naval orange out toward Brenna.”Want one?” she asked. Brenna seized it greedily and began to strip off bits of peel, tossing them into the bottom of the canoe.

“Those guys were talking about some kind of accident,” Pete said. “You know anything about it? Some speedboat hitting a rower, or something like that?”

“Did we see it?” Ed exploded. “Hell, we were there! Some local schlock-jock called ‘Jerkin’ Jake’ was out for a cruise in a Hacker inboard. He wiped out a heirloom guideboat that belonged to Chadd Wellington….” Seeing the unspoken question in Pete’s eyes, Ed added, “Yeah, that Chadd Wellington. Damn near wiped her out, too. Talk about pissed-off! By the time her lawyers finish with Jerkin’ Jake, I’m betting he won’t even have a pair of swim-trunks to his name. Serve him right, too. That Hacker smelled like a grass fire.”

They paddled along side-by-side for a while, talking companionably, as the lake became a river, one or the other boat dropping back to pass in single file whenever the current wandered languidly among marshy islands and sandbars. Occasionally they passed lean-tos. Most of the campers were still sleeping in, but one lean-to hosted a lively party of card-players, sheltering from the blackflies behind an improvised curtain of mosquito-netting.

As they continued along the river, the two boats entered another world. The powerboats and jet-skis were left behind. A white-throated sparrow called from the depths of the forest. A muskrat slipped off its tussock into the river, making a soft plopping noise, while a great blue heron lifted heavily into the air, a still-struggling frog clamped in its long beak. Ed fitted the sections of his fly-rod together and cast a #10 muddler minnow into promising eddies from from time to, though with no real expectation of success. Soon Raquette Falls lay just ahead, and he put his rod away. Everyone wanted to get the mile-long carry done before lunch.

As the paddlers slowed down, clouds of blackflies gathered around them. Karin burrowed through her pack, looking for the plastic bottle of Buzz Off! Then she and Pete slathered themselves with the all-natural herbal repellent. She offered some to Ed and Brenna, but they simply donned head nets. Neither had much faith in herbal repellents, but neither much liked DEET, either. They kept their Jungle Juice in reserve.

“There it is!” Karin said suddenly, pointing to the signboard that marked the start of the portage trail. The rumble of rapids could just be heard downstream.

“I wonder if we could run that drop?” Pete mused, while the Neary’s Explorer drifted toward the shore. As the canoe grounded, he half-rose, straining to see around the bend in the river just ahead. “Hell, I’ve been told there’re only two real falls. The rest’s just rapids.”

Ed shook his head. He caught Brenna’s eye, seeking agreement and finding it. “No thanks. Not today. Not for us, at any rate. We’re looking forward to a relaxing trip.” Brenna nodded vigorously. “Still, I wouldn’t mind scouting the rapids. Might be worth coming back to run ‘em some other time.”

An unfamiliar voice boomed out from the trailhead. It sounded like the croak of a disappointed raven. “I wouldn’t even think of runnin’ those rapids if I was you, ya know!”

Startled, the two couples looked up, squinting to make out a solitary figure in the deep shade of a thicket of stunted spruce. It was a man, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, standing with his hands on his hips. Next to him, a chalky, dark-red Coleman canoe rested bottom-up, it’s keel hogged and its bottom bearing evidence of many rough landings. Both boat and owner looked to Ed like they’d been ridden hard and put away wet.

“Hel…lo!” Karin was the first to speak. “We didn’t see you.”

The man remained standing beside his canoe. “Ya know, I’m not surprised ya didn’t see me. Ya weren’t supposed ta. Ya know what I’m sayin’? Like, I’m trained to blend into the background.” He paused, then suddenly screamed “Hiii-yaah!” and assumed a fighting crouch. He waited for a moment for a reaction, but getting nothing but puzzled stares from the four canoeists, he straightened up. “Don’t worry. Just jokin’! I’m Stu Clayfoot, by the way. Please ta meetcha.” And he walked toward the two boats, his right hand extended.

Once the introductions had been completed—still seated in their canoes, the four friends were too stunned to do more than shake hands, nod, and mumble their names—Stu continued without a pause. “Ya can trust me. About those rapids, I mean. I’ve run ‘em dozens of times. OK for an expert, sure, but beginners like you guys…no way.” He waved his hands lazily in the air, as if simultaneously dismissing his accomplishments and warning off any attempt to emulate him. “Anyway, ya gotta be prepared to die for the thrill. Ya don’t look like the type. Trust me. And think about it.”

Ed stepped out of the XL Tripper, followed by Brenna. Together, they hauled their boat ashore. Ed walked over to the Coleman and studied its bottom. Stu’s eyes followed his. “I know what you’re thinkin’. Why ain’t I runnin’ those falls today? Well, I’d be doin’ jes’ that, except I got this little leak in my boat. Ya know what I’m sayin’? Still, I’ve got the perfect thing for it.” And he bent down and pulled a plastic bag from the side pocket of a camouflage frame pack, “Here it is. Ya ain’t never seen nothin’ like this glue. Trust me. It’s from a secret lab in Rooshee-a. I know what I’m talkin’ about. I’m a Fed.” He stopped for a minute, bent down, and studied Ed’s face carefully. “I shouldn’t a said that. But ya look OK. I can usually tell. You don’t look like a bad guy to me. I work for the D-O-E—that’s the Department of Energy, understand?— in D-C.”

Ed finished examining the Coleman, straightened up, and turned his gaze on its owner. His first impression strengthened on closer acquaintance. Stu was middle-aged. Middle height. Slim to skinny, with a budding pot. His face was divided by a single eyebrow like an overgrown median-strip on a deserted highway. One ear-lobe was gone—it looked as if it had been torn off. A receding chin bristled with rusty stubble, and tired ringlets of rusty hair poked out from under a baseball-cap worn backwards. Even when he was talking—and that was just about non-stop—Stu’s lips seemed to be set in a permanent smirk. Without quite knowing why, Ed found himself thinking of the president.… Read more…

 
Hooked? A new chapter in our serial adventure novel, Trip of a Lifetime, will appear every Sunday. If you’ve missed a chapter, or if you’re coming aboard for the first time and want to catch up, just use the hot-linked title to go to the archives.

 
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A REMINDER This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the imaginations. It’s NOT a paddling guide. If you’re planning a trip on the Albany River—or any other body of water, come to that—consult the most recent edition of a good guidebook and be sure you’re thoroughly familiar with all applicable regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned here, the places depicted in our story exist only in our minds—and in yours.

 
My great-grandfather was a machinist. As a small girl I would watch in awe as he cut through large hunks of iron or steel, cover my ears when he mauled aluminum bar stock over an anvil that was bigger than I, and be amazed as he built beautiful objects from brass. But I never warmed to metalworking. I saw metal as cold, inanimate, slightly intimidating. Until I became a mountaineer, that is. Then I had to learn about metal in order to keep my ice tools and pitons in top shape. I went on to become a geologist, and came to appreciate metal even more as I learned about it in its elemental state. But I’ve never been a metalworker like Pop. Still, I love bikes. And bikes—my bikes, at any rate—are metal. Two are steel and the other is aluminum alloy. So when something needs doing on my bikes, I like to be able to do it, whatever it is.

Today the time had come to do something about the seatpost on my Long Haul Trucker. I’ve sunk it into the seat tube as far as it has to go to give me the right seating position. Most of the time. There are times when I’d like it to sink a smidge lower, like, for instance, when my hip bothers me. No problem you say? Just drop the seatpost a bit, right? Shouldn’t be any problem, but for one thing—the top waterbottle braze-on on my seat post. Its hidden interior self imposes a stricture in the seat tube, and so I cannot drop the saddlepost beyond it. Here’s the seatpost aligned with the seat tube to show what I mean:

 
What to do? Cut an inch off the saddlepost, that’s what. Cutting an aluminum or even a steel saddlepost doesn’t need to be a terrible hardship, and it’s certainly not an intellectual challenge. But you need tools. Just ask my great-grandfather. While a determined and capable person can fashion metal using little more than a file and a hacksaw, the job is made easier and the result more satisfactory with the right tools. Here’s a list of the tools I assembled for the job:

 
• Black & Decker Workmate®
• Portable Vise

• Hacksaw

• Cutting Oil

• Cutting Guide

• Deburring Tool

• Safety Glasses

 
I took the job outside so metal dust would disburse into the gravel:

 
I covered the saddle with a plastic grocery bag to keep metal dust away, and rolled a heavy paper bag round the seatpost for padding and to avoid scarring the finish. I tightened the ‘post in the padded vise, but tightened the jaws only enough to hold the ‘post tightly, and not so much that the ‘post would be crushed. To make the cut square, I clamped a “Nashbar Steerer Tube Cutting Guide” onto the seatpost with the guide slot aligned over the place where I’d cut.

 
The guide slot is wide enough to permit the hacksaw blade plenty of room for maneuver without binding:

 
With the seatpost clamped and the cutting guide in place, the hacksaw had to be prepared. I placed droplets of cutting oil along both sides of the blade, then started the cut.

 
With the blade at an angle, I started the cut until the blade began to sink into the alloy ‘post, then leveled the blade and cut with long, deliberate strokes, holding the front of the saw frame with my left hand. Progress can be gauged by taking a gander from the end of the seatpost:

 
You can see the cutting guide clamp holding the seatpost from the top (it’s black, and in the middle top inside the cutting guide’s mouth). Note the metal dust and flakes—you don’t want any of them in your eyes, so safety glasses (or prescription glasses) will help keep your vital orbs safe. This isn’t a job for a windy day, either. In the fullness of time, the cut end falls to the ground and the hard part of the job is over.

 
It’s a clean cut:

 
Yep, I said a clean cut, though the cut edges require dressing before the job is over. That’s where a deburring tool comes into its own:

 
Drag the deburring blade around the inside and outside of the seatpost, peeling off the burrs and creating a smooth beveled edge inside and out. A swipe with a clean rag finishes the cleanup.

 
We’re not done yet, though. Now comes the rest of the cleanup. I deburred and cleaned off the stub of seatpost just in case it might be useful for something someday. Then the saw blade had to be cleaned:

 
With that done, the tools had to be returned to their proper places and the work bench folded up for storage. The final step is easy—replacing the seatpost and saddle, tightening the seatpost clamp, and going for a ride!

 
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