Not long after I acquired my first kayak, I found myself on a fast‑moving little river in the eastern Adirondacks. It promised to be a straightforward run, and it was — at first. But halfway between put‑in and take‑out the river ran out of water. It was a little river, after all. And this happened at the worst possible spot, just as I was negotiating a sharp bend. The current was pushing me toward the cutbank on the outside of the bend, where a tangle of sweepers waited to enfold me in an unwelcome embrace. So I decided to “hop the ferry” out of trouble, pointing the bow of my kayak toward the very sweepers I wanted to avoid and backpaddling furiously. It worked, too. That is, it worked right up until the moment when my paddle stopped moving water around and started shifting rocks. My back ferry had taken me over a gravel bar in mid‑channel. I now had just enough water under my keel to float my boat, but not enough to allow me to control it. I didn’t need a crystal ball to predict what lay ahead. I knew I’d soon be headed back toward the sweepers.

Luckily, after a few seconds of feverish indecision, I had the presence of mind to make a quick — if somewhat clumsy — exit from my kayak’s cockpit. In no more time than it takes to write about it, I was standing in less than a foot of water, picking my way cautiously down toward the end of the gravel bar, one hand on my paddle‑cum‑wading‑staff, the other on my boat’s stern painter. All was right with the world once more.

Looking back, I can’t understand why I hesitated even a few seconds before abandoning ship. After all, I’d waded my canoe over washed‑out beaver dams and sandbars many times before. Not to mention all the days I’d spent wading trout waters, fly rod in hand. But for some reason I didn’t connect wading and kayaks. The combination seemed unnatural. It doesn’t seem that way today, however. Wading may lack the fluid thrills of river‑running under paddle, but working watermen have waded their boats around obstacles and over bony shallows for centuries. And the technique hasn’t outlived it usefulness. In fact, it’s worth considering the very next time a river runs out of water under you.

First things first, though, beginning with the obvious question: What’s the right time to abandon ship?… Read more…

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The hills are quick to lose the light in winter, but just the other day, as I made my way along the eastern flank of a ridge overlooking The River in late afternoon, I was delighted to stumble on this reflected image of the hills opposite, their nearly leafless flanks transformed by the light of the low sun into a brilliant orange tapestry.

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Some days, ya wanna stay in bed. Ya know what I mean? But a guy’s gotta eat, right? And us turkeys ain’t any different. We gotta scratch for a living, just like you. It’s bad enough we don’t get no respect, already. Turkey. It’s like a sick joke. Some schmuck screws up and somebody else says, “Jeez, what a turkey!” And then everybody starts laughin’.

Well, I got news for you, buddy. Us wild turkeys ain’t no turkeys, if you unnerstan’ what I’m saying. We’re smart. We’re sharp. And we’re quick on our feet. It’s either that or dead. I gotta thank Tamia here for givin’ me a chance to set the record straight. Us turkeys have gotten a bum rap for too long.

Tom’s the name, by the way. And don’t confuse me with that sorry dude in your freezer. I’m a lean machine, not some hormone-injected factory reject who’s never seen the sun or stretched his wings. Of course, it’s not the freezer dude’s fault that he ended up where he did. He didn’t grow up wantin’ to come to dinner at your place, did he? No way! It’s like ya made him an offer he couldn’t refuse… Read more…

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