Like Rick, we came for the waters. Unlike the wise-cracking proprietor of Casablanca’s hottest nightspot, however, we found them. We’d come to scout a whitewater drop on a river only ten miles from our home. So far, everything had gone according to plan. The two-lane town road narrowed to one. The pavement gave way to gravel, then the gravel turned to dirt and the road ended in a bulldozed clearing. Just beyond lay a towering mound of trash and discarded household appliances. This didn’t appear on the Chamber of Commerce’s recreation map, but we weren’t surprised. The distinction between public land and public dump is often ignored in New York’s North Country.

We didn’t let this discourage us, though. We ignored the stink of rotting garbage and the lazy, droning flies. It was a glorious autumn day, and we could hear falling water singing in the distance. Leaving our kayaks on the roof rack, we bushwhacked down to the riverbank through a tangle of mixed second-growth. One look round and we knew it was no-go: the stream was too narrow and too obstructed for our touring kayaks. The next time, we agreed, we’d bring the pack canoes.

We climbed back toward the truck, enjoying the unusually warm fall weather and paying little attention to our route. After all, we were on public land. Or so we thought. We began to have doubts when we came across the first salt block. By the time we saw a permanent tree-stand, our doubts had become certainties. We knew we were trespassing.

So did the four guys standing on the road where we broke out of the woods. They were all suited up in woodland camouflage, and each cradled a rifle in his arms. They didn’t look welcoming. “Oh, Hell!” we both muttered. And the chords of “Dueling Banjos” started echoing in my imagination… Read more…

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Spring means different things to different people, depending on where they live. For folks who make their homes in hot climes, spring can be little more than an arbitrary division between the temperate and the torrid. For those of us in higher latitudes, however, spring is anything but arbitrary. It marks one of the great watersheds of the year. On one side, the frozen and apparently lifeless world of winter. On the other, the lively, fecund warmth of summer.

In fact, those of us living north of the 32°F January isotherm—that’s one more or less meaningful way of drawing a line between merely temperate and “up North,” at any rate—are twice blessed. We enjoy two springs. The first is what the Russian naturalist Mikhail Prishvin christened the “Spring of the Light.” This comes early in January, when the wheel of the year has turned a bit more than full circle, and when the days are already perceptibly longer than they were in dark December.

Wonderful as it is, however, the Spring of the Light is full of false promise. The days are longer, of course, but winter’s grip is still strong. Brilliant days are followed by Arctic nights, and storms move relentlessly across the country, piling new snow on old, and burying the landscape beneath a monochrome mantle.

But then, months later, comes the “real” spring—the Spring of the Waters. Sometime in March or April (or even May or June in the highest latitudes), the snowy mantle melts away at last and the ice on the lakes breaks up. Even the most matter-of-fact among us can’t help but be moved by this magical time. Stockbrokers and attorneys skip down their office corridors like schoolgirls—at least when they think no one is looking. Used-car salesmen pause in their spiels to listen to the cries of north-flying geese. The landscape begins to come alive… Read more…

Further Reading

• “The Cold-Water Paddling Omnibus”
• “Winning the Cold War: How NOT to Die of Hypothermia”
  

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We were on a river that emptied into James Bay, but it would be a long time before the water flowing under our keel tasted of salt. Just ahead of us the river jogged to the right. We couldn’t see what lay beyond the bend — an unbroken forest of spruce and fir crowded down to the river’s edge on both banks — but the curtain of mist that the fitful northerly blew our way suggested that whatever awaited us must be impressive, and the close‑set contours on the Canada Map Office quad confirmed our suspicions. We could feel — feel, rather than hear — the thrum of falling water, too.

So we shipped our paddles and drifted with the current. We were in no hurry to reach the bony rapid that served as gatekeeper to what lay ahead. A week had passed since the little whistle‑stop train had dropped us off at an untenanted station. (The only signs of occupancy were a competition‑grade billiard table and an impressive collection of pornographic wall art.) A short carry then brought us to the water, and the next seven days had been a sequence of delights, in which short, steep drops alternated with long, lonely lakes. Up till now, our trip had followed a predictable pattern. We’d run Class II–III rapids in the mornings, stopping before lunch to empty our heavily loaded boats of any water we’d shipped. Then, after a leisurely meal on a rocky, windswept point — the breeze kept the biting flies at bay — we’d surf the swells on some picture‑postcard lake, with flotillas of loons our sole companions. Thus far we’d met with nothing we couldn’t handle. The only portages had come when we crossed over from one watershed to another.

Now, however, we sensed that our luck was about to change. Farwell and I put our paddles back in the water and pulled for the river’s gravelly shallows. Our arrival didn’t go unnoticed. As soon as our Tripper’s keel scraped bottom, we were playing reluctant host to a squadron of blackflies, each of whom had invited her entire extended maternal lineage to the feast. Before long, though, the blackflies had a choice of venues. The second couple on the trip beached their Mad River Explorer beside us, and one of the two solo boaters followed suit. But the remaining soloist — let’s call him Solitaire, shall we? — had other ideas. He figured he’d continue on down the river for a ways, to “check things out.” And he did just that.

I didn’t think much of Solitaire’s plan. The river picked up speed as it approached the bend, making the already tricky job of negotiating the bony drop even trickier. And then there was whatever lay beyond… While I was still a comparative novice in a boat, I was already an experienced climber, and I’d had plenty of opportunities to absorb one of climbing’s fundamental lessons: Don’t overreach… Read more…

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