Ponchos aren’t elegant, and they’re a nuisance (or worse) in high winds and big waves. But for day in, day out utility, versatility, and economy they’re mighty hard to beat. Having said that, I’ve a confession to make: I didn’t always appreciate them. When I first took to the woods and waters, I wanted only high-tech, high fashion raingear. If it was endorsed by a Himalayan climber, that was ideal. I wasn’t impressed by the fact that ponchos worked. They were too everyday, too down-home, too utilitarian, too simple. I wanted flash.

Then—you guessed it—my feelings did a 180. My epiphany came when I was working as a geologist. I tramped for miles cross-country in whatever weather the gods decided to throw my way. I also hauled a rucksack full of sample bags and field gear. My job required a lot of note-taking, not to mention photography and sketching. Moreover, the work had to be completed on schedule, and each day brought a new challenge. Swamps with standing water deeper than my wellies were high. Scree slopes that threatened to avalanche with every step I took. Hawthorn thickets that tore clothes and lacerated skin. Not to mention rain. Always rain. Yet though I carried a surplus German military poncho in my rucksack, I never used it — until the day an icy November deluge caught me halfway across a seemingly endless plowed field. This was no drizzle. The rain pelted down with tropical intensity, but no tree or shrub offered shelter. That’s when I remembered the poncho in my pack. I had the rucksack off in seconds. Out came the poncho. Then I shouldered the rucksack again and pulled the poncho over my head. From that moment on I was a convert. The rain continued to bucket down, but I stayed dry from the top of my head to the top of my wellies. My pack and log book stayed dry, too. And that was just the beginning of my enlightenment. In time, I came to understand that ponchos are the Swiss army knives of clothing Read more…

 
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Climbers have been using carabiners for a long time, but in recent decades paddlers have discovered them, as well. No surprise there. Carabiners are great for making connections, both on the water and off. They hold things together, in other words, and they help you lift, lower, and haul. They’re handy time‑savers, too. With a carabiner, you can attach a line to a boat — or a lanyard to your pack — with just a quick click. If there’s already a loop in the line, there’s no need to fuss with knots or hitches. And you can release the line as quickly as you attached it. Carabiners can also be used, alone or with pulleys, to rig improvised tackles like the Z‑drag, and these “force multipliers” are essential tools in salvage and rescue operations. Carabiners even make lashing boats for storage or transport easier.

But I’m getting ahead of my story. Let’s begin at the beginning. Just what are carabiners, anyway? Easy. They’re snap hooks. (The word comes from the German Karabinerhaken, or “carbine‑hook,” the snap‑swivel that secures a sling to a carbine. You’ll also see it spelled “karabiner,” frequently abbreviated “krab.”) Be careful, though: Not all snap hooks are carabiners. Don’t confuse novelty carabiners and light‑duty snap hooks with the real thing. You’ve seen these little guys on key fobs, on water bottles, and in dozens — maybe hundreds — of other applications. They’re fine, in their place, but when you really need to make heavy‑duty connections, baby ‘biners will let you down. Hard. That’s no fun, is it? So for serious work, when lives or vital gear are at stake, you need the real deal. Big jobs call for the big boys, hardware that can shoulder the load and take the strain without letting go.

Carabiners fit the bill. And every paddler should carry a few, just in case. That’s a given. But are you sure you know what to do with them, now that you have them? Or how to care for them? No? Then keep reading. First, though, a few words on what this article isn’t: It isn’t a primer on river rescue, nor is it a substitute for hands‑on instruction. If you’re lucky, you’ll find at least one good book on rescue and salvage techniques in your local library. (I can recommend the Whitewater Rescue Manual by Charles Walbridge and Wayne A. Sundmacher.) Read it. Then put in a little time under the watchful eye of someone who’s had a few years’ experience pulling boats and boaters out of troubled waters.

OK. I’ve offloaded my cargo of Good Advice. It’s time we got down to the business of the day—’biner basics… Read more…

 
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On Sunday I decided to make the most of the unusually warm weather, so I took a long walk in the mountains. There were signs of the land’s seasonal awakening everywhere. A balmy breeze whispered through the pines, ruffling the coppery, parchment-dry leaves still clinging to the scattered beech saplings. That same breeze carried the pungent smell of balsam to my nostrils, as the strong sun warmed this most evocative of mountain conifers. Tiny meltwater-fed freshets carved new channels across the trail, licking away at the few remaining islands of granular old snow in my path. Chickadees flitted about me as I walked, calling feeee-beeee again and again, while yellow-rumped warblers sang tentatively from their hidden refuges deep in red-spruce stands. From time to time the woods erupted in startling footfalls, leaving me to wonder whether or not I’d crossed paths with a grumpy bear anxious to break his winter-long fast…until the source of the disturbance was revealed as a foraging chipmunk bounding noisily through drifts of leaf litter. Meanwhile, red squirrels churred and chased one another in tireless spirals up and down the towering pines.

I climbed higher. The breeze that rolled down from the snow-covered summits around me turned chill, but I didn’t mind. The sun was hot. Then the trail sagged toward a bog-fringed lake, and I was glad I’d brought my fleece vest. The wind was blowing in real earnest now, wrinkling the surface of the little flow. Passing a sheltered bay, I decided I wouldn’t find a better place to eat lunch, so I plopped down on a rock in a sunny spot and rooted around in my rucksack for my sandwich. It was only when I looked up that I noticed a mote of subdued color on the other side of the weedy bay. Was it…? I dug out my camera with its telephoto lens and squinted through the viewfinder. Yes! The tiny fleck of color came into focus. I was looking at a turtle, who—like me—was basking the spring sun. But whereas I was squatting on a rock, he was perched on a submerged stump, or maybe (I was at the limit of my lens’s resolving power) a muskrat house or otter’s scent mound. There was no mistaking his (or her) identity, though. His carapace reflected the sun. The characteristic sheen was what caught my eye in the first place.

I clicked off a couple of photos. This was my best shot:

See the turtle? He’s just to the left of the green reflection. Now here’s a closer view:

He looks like a painted turtle to me, and a large one. I was surprised to see him so early in the season, just as I was astonished to hear leopard frogs singing at an altitude of 1,200 feet above sea level, high up the side of a mountain earlier in the day. Still, I’d also heard peepers chorusing in the sun the day before on vernal ponds newly freed of ice. Spring has come to the North Country several weeks before its time.

So, as unlikely as it seems, there’s no doubt that…

It’s Turtle Time Again  And if the Adirondacks are warm enough for turtles, it’s likely turtles will already have emerged from their winter holdfasts in more temperate latitudes. Which means that they’ll soon be showing up on the highway. That being so, why not join the ranks Turtle Taxis and give them a lift out of harm’s way when you see them in the road? To learn how, just read Become a Turtle Taxi. It will tell you all you need to know to give a turtle a lift—without endangering either you or your passenger.

Why bother reading up? Well, it’s true that helping a turtle across the road isn’t rocket science. But highways are dangerous places. (Just think of all the dead animals you see on the shoulder during your daily drive to work.) And turtles don’t always appreciate being assisted on their way. They sometimes kick and claw their benefactors, and many have no scruples about biting the hand that helps them, either. Take snapping turtles, for instance. They’re aptly named. Which isn’t to say that you can’t help one of these cantankerous creatures across the road. It just takes a little care and planning. The good folks at the New York Center for Turtle Rehabilitation and Conservation, turtle expert Kathy Michell and her photographer son, Tom, showed me how. I’ve summarized their advice in “Help Turtles Cross Roads.” Once you’ve read this you’ll be all set to help even a large snapper get where he’s going, in safety and (dare I say it?) style.

Of course, helping turtles across the highway isn’t likely to become an everyday activity, so it’s good to have a refresher course now and then. That’s why I prepared “A Quick Guide for Turtle Taxis.” It’s an illustrated, one-page summary you can print out and keep in your glovebox or in your bike’s handlebar bag. Some readers even print multiple copies and hand them out to anyone they know who spends a lot of time on the road. What with one thing and another, turtles don’t have it easy these days. They need all the friends they can get.

The Bottom Line  Spring is in the air throughout the North Country. That means it’s Turtle Time again. So keep your eyes open. And if you get a chance to shoot a photo of a turtle you’ve helped across the road, send us a copy. We’d love to add it to our Portrait Gallery. Thanks!

 
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