Coyote Bluff Blog: Departing Canada

With a heavy heart we motor away from Pumpkin Island after a very enjoyable two week stay including sailing, canoeing, kayaking, bird watching, fabulous meals, and catching up with my parents, aunt and uncle, and sister Diana (www.dkthreads.com) who overlapped with our visit. The water is a smooth mirror as we putter across the channel heading for Champaign Bay and our patiently awaiting camper, which miraculously has waited for us with four properly inflated tires as we tarried elsewhere. On this morning's paddle we spot a Great Blue Heron, gaggles of cormorants, and then get to watch an Osprey dive out of the sky, submerge from the ferocity of it's downward charge and flap free of the water with a small fish in it's claws. Returning upstream to the back dock through the fast moving water at the narrow spot in Lover's Lane we spot a flying piliated woodpecker, it's red head spot flashing boldly in the dappled light swooping over from Pumpkin to Ash Island.

Packed away are the snorkeling mask and bathing cap, the VHF radio and GPS, the sketchbook and summer novel, the rotting water shoes, which never really dried out during the entire last month of activities, and the waterproof snack box which has been along on all our outings afloat. Left behind is the mildly acrid exhaust of the the two-cycle rowboat motor, puttering away, the fresh sawdust, and motor oil aroma of the shop, and the damp and musky smell of the island's wet places, nursury for bugs and frogs, and fish- supermarket for the patrolling minks. We leave in our wake, the softly lapping sounds and hollow knocks made by the water as it caresses the dock, and the creak and moan of lines as they tug and stretch gently holding the boats back from the river's persistent pull. Past the gulls swalking on Gull Island past the rock cliff painted boldly proclaiming "Weston Island", to the protected harbor at Champaigne Bay - full of mountainous plastic cabin cruisers and ungainly houseboat barges, snuggly docked behind the breakwater. Water lilies, duckweed, and cattails close in at the channel at the back of the Bay, and a small band of ducks flaps noisily away as we nose into the slip and tie off the boat for one last time. We heave the unwieldy duffels up onto the floating dock and into the camper and drive off, not yet wishing to stow away our memories even though we know we must begin the next leg of our journey.

It seems like each place we go we could settle down and stay for months - with the scenery, and fellowship sinking tent pegs into our wandering spirits pounding them ever more firmly into the soil with each day that passes. But, we know with only a month left before we move back to the Donner Summit house we must tear ourselves away from this bucolic setting to begin the long circuit home again.

We are delayed for 30 minutes at US Customs as we wait patiently in line with the other Labor Day vacationers traveling south to the US for the long weekend, and then quickly get off the big interstate and head south east across the Tug Hill Plateau on Route 12 towards Utica. Here the lands rolls lazily and we pass prosperous looking family pocket dairy farms set in a patchwork landscape of woodlots, corn fields and wildflowers. Each farm seems to have the requisite red hay barn, 2-3 blue metal and ceramic silos, well painted farmhouse and collection of equipment sheds. Invariably, on this hazy afternoon, before the rain we see a woman mowing the expansive green lawns surrounding the house on a tired looking lawn tractor, while dust rises near the larger barn with equipment and farm hands milling about on some chore or another.

Rt 12 crosses the State at a diagonal just below the wooded belt of the Adirondacks and along the high points we pass through the largest wind farm ( Tug Hill Wind Power) east of the Mississippi centered around Lowville - a name I well recognize from it's daily mention on North Country Radio's weather report. From the high points of the road we can see the deep green of verdant upstate New York rolling out before us. In Utica, we'll reach the relatively flat waist belt of the State where the Mohawk River, Barge, and Erie canals run connecting the Hudson to the Great Lakes. But for now, we roll up and down the wooded highway looking at farms and slowing though the small towns with permanent yard sales, and all manner of goods shown for sale in the method universally seen in our travels - parked with the best side facing the highway, often with a hand drawn "for sale" sign tacked up, but unnecessary. We roll down and down off the Tug Hill Plateau and the sky haze is ripped away with golden sun rays tearing away edges of the cloud cover, the density of navigation signs and exits increase and then all at once we are just one of a swarm of cars rolling down the New York State Thruway heading east and south for the weekend.

Floating Bridge over Charlston Lake Skinny Inlet: