East of Topeka, the landscape opens in long languid rolls like a calm open sea. As we travel west, the trees shrink in size and retract from their proximity to the road and the sky vault lifts high supporting the broad canopy of thick clouds covering the heavens. The smaller neat pocket farms are replaced by sprawling expanses of row crops and grains, and once again we can see from north horizon to south, unobscured except for an occasional grain elevator or church steeple off in the distance. In this openness, even a one hundred car train has no place to hide and we can see from one end to another with no obstructions. It is not until we are within 100 miles of the Colorado border that the gently rolling plain takes on the more flat, high desert pancake we are more accustomed to further north in Nebraska and along the Rt. 80 corridor. Flat like a freshly oiled pancake griddle. Flat like the 4th avenue billiard table. Flat like a fresh pie crust stuck to the bread board.
All day we have been laboring under an oppressive and seamless, thick matt of featureless clouds, then all at once, as the road begins the long climb to the mile high plateau of desert scrub east of Denver, the sky opens into deep blue, with a parade of widely spaced billowy nimbus clouds marching north between us and the front range. We are overcome with the openness of it all, after more than a week of rain, and City streets, overarching deciduous trees, dropping sodden foliage from the water logged canopy and humidity stickiness, and twisty roads with a million stop signs, we are back in the BIG, the OPEN, the western states and their grandeur.
The landscape begins to rise, and swell again after over 300 miles of Kansas flats, and windrows have been planted to deflect the snows and weather which sweeps across the open waist of the country. Corn and soy fields have given way to open grasslands, grazed short revealing small mounds of rocks and outcroppings of crumbling ancient seabed. Small groups of cattle, far off in a field, gathered around the water trough, filled by the slowly spinning windmill with fanned arms facing windward. Another mixed herd, closer to the roadway, with scruffy brown coats and white faces, calfs, nursing mightily from the tolerant cows. And the sun, once again piercing cleanly through transparent atmosphere, not slowed and dispersed by humid mist beams happily over our shoulders - on our left- first time from this aspect in over a month. Happily, no billboards mar the scene - making claims, of the tallest pie in America, or the biggest prairie dog in the mid-west, or the cheapest price in town.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Turning south towards New England, New York, Philadelphia, and Washington
Tugboat Rosebud departs Peck's Marina for the river...
Wooden boardwalk near Charlston Lake, Ontario
Picnic Pavilion on the St. Lawrence River near Mary Island
Water Lilly
Final Pumpkin Island Sunset before we depart for points south...
Lake George between rain storms, just south of the Narrows. This lake is 36 miles long and boarder by the broad tree'd slopes of the eastern Adirondack mountains. The northern half of the lake is all wild with many islands and inviting wooded shores.
Dragon Fly
Rainy day in Essex, a historical ship building town in Connecticut, full of early 1700's houses, still in use. Cobblestone lanes lead down to the waterfront.
George Washington Bridge crosses the Hudson River north of New York City
Ben Franklin makes his point at founder's hall in the Constitution Museum in Philadelphia
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Connecticut Coast - Neptune clambers ashore
Neptune has clambered ashore, shaking his soggy, natty dreads as he clears his eyes to look inland. Our windshield wipers struggle to keep up as we are pummeled with the spray. Driving south and west down the New England coast with salt marsh and harbors to our left, we pass through one small town then the next, each with their quaint saltbox colonial whitewashed wood shaked houses with black, or red, or green window shutters, held open with wrought iron twists. Creeks overflowing, and signs of recent flooding high on the bridge embankments on the larger rivers. The historical towns of Essex and Mystic, where tall wooden warships and nimble whaling boats were crafted from the native pines stays untouched by the clutter and clamor of fast food chains and franchised commercialism, while others have been overrun by Dairy Queens and A&W. The town names every few miles are proclaimed modestly upon entering on plain white placards with founding dates prior to 1750. The squat and firm churches with modest steeples anchor the town common, with crisply painted black wrought iron fences defining the perimeter. The large shading deciduous trees, already turning shades of yellow in anticipation of the true fall reach over the roadways in many places blocking out the sky so we feel we are driving through a green tunnel lined by dry laid stone walls, the blocks of which were meticulously cleared from the surrounding fields by stubby calloused hands two centuries ago. This is as close as it gets to ancient in this part of the country and we constantly remark on the differences here from the wide open spaces of the western states. In one day, we pass from New Hampshire, to Massachusetts, to Connecticut to New York. Remarkable. The key capital cities of Boston, New York, Philadelphia, and Washington relatively closely clustered along this small section of sea coast. Compared to LA, San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle this part of the country feels like a thimble compared to a barrel in terms of proximity.
Today, the thermometer drops below 60 for the first time in 2 months, and we scramble for socks and shoes. Our calloused. tanned feet feel hot and cramped when stuffed into full shoes for a walk out in the cool rain. We shoo a full flock of geese off the road on our way to camp and feel bad as they waddle a few feet then settled again in the rain - apparently accustomed to campers in this area.
Rain continues to pound away, and our plans for a tour of the Mystic Seaport historical park are thwarted. We settle for a soggy, open, quiet campsite mid-afternoon at the edge of a marsh looking out at the Long Island sound beyond the whispy mist at Hammonasset Beach State Park near Madison Connecticut. Rain drums the skylight and we drift off to the percussion band our van has become in this dripping wailing storm.
Today, the thermometer drops below 60 for the first time in 2 months, and we scramble for socks and shoes. Our calloused. tanned feet feel hot and cramped when stuffed into full shoes for a walk out in the cool rain. We shoo a full flock of geese off the road on our way to camp and feel bad as they waddle a few feet then settled again in the rain - apparently accustomed to campers in this area.
Rain continues to pound away, and our plans for a tour of the Mystic Seaport historical park are thwarted. We settle for a soggy, open, quiet campsite mid-afternoon at the edge of a marsh looking out at the Long Island sound beyond the whispy mist at Hammonasset Beach State Park near Madison Connecticut. Rain drums the skylight and we drift off to the percussion band our van has become in this dripping wailing storm.
Friday, September 2, 2011
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:
Charlston Lake lunch stop:
Charlston Lake, Old boardwalk:
David, Eva, and Diane at Charlston Lake:
Downwind sailing with reefed main:
Birh Trees below front deck:
David and sister Diana (www.dkthreads.com):
David and Diane before departing:
Red sun at night...
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:
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Charlston Lake lunch stop:
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Charlston Lake, Old boardwalk:
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
David, Eva, and Diane at Charlston Lake:
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Downwind sailing with reefed main:
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Birh Trees below front deck:
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
David and sister Diana (www.dkthreads.com):
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
David and Diane before departing:
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Red sun at night...
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Sunday, August 28, 2011
August 28 - Pumpkin Island, Ospreys, minks, and the edge of a Hurricane
Last night as the sun sets the water explodes into a fanfare of sparkling diamonds, a dazzling disco ball unfolded and laid smoothly over the undulating surface of the pulsing river. The sky and water's swirled orange colors almost merge as one except for the broken line of weathered pines marking the river's northern shore. The hurricane swirling slowly up the New England coast has spun off wisps of weather, reaching us as early this morning as gusts of wind and gun metal grey sky. The towering white pines and gnarled hemlocks sway mightily up high on the island, but down on the soft needle covered paths winding between front and back docks, the air is calm, but expectant. We inspect the island's fleet of watercraft to insure all are snugged and secure- ready to withstand a blow. The rigging of the sailboat whistles longingly in the strong wind, as the small craft tugs at its mooring lines along the front dock, being blown against the current from an unfamiliar side.
Yesterday as we paddled upstream towards Mulcaster Island, we found the eagle's nesting box abandoned - the birds fledged and off about their life's exploration. Contrary to the Eagles, there are more loons this season than I remember in the past, and we catch sight of one nearby almost daily. As we round the western tip of Owen Island, looking for the narrow slot that splits the Island in two with a quiet, protected and languid stream, just deep enough for small craft to pass, along the edge of the mid-Canadian shipping channel we notice a mink swimming to the point. We stop to watch as the small head leaves a growing V in it's wake until the sleek animal climbs ashore, gives one small shake to free its oiling pelt of loose water, and disappears into the jumbled lichen covered, pink granite rocks forming the island's shore. The river's water is clear, and greenish blue, unlike the tea colored tannin laced waters we experienced north and west of here earlier in the summer. As we float over the shoals and shallower areas, we can easily see 10 feet down to the grasses, and sandy bottom. The white crushed shells of a million zebra mussels form whitish patches in the sand, swirling and pale green as seen through the river's flow.
We paddle slowly back downstream returning across the big water west of Pumpkin Island, to the duet of persistent Osprey whistles. One impressive stark white bird with black eye mask and wingtips sits atop a large tree while a second smaller, darker, and younger bird stands on the edge of the massive coarse nest nearby. The treetop birds whistles non-stop to the nest bound bird, we think urging the adolescent to get out of bed and get on with some fishing perhaps. The nested bird complaining that he just wants fish delivered as he experienced just weeks before.
This river, as massive as the mighty Mississippi drains easily a quarter the continent east and north to the Atlantic, but here past most of the great cities, except for Montreal, still to our east, the water is clean, and clear, and flush with life - the vast and varied birdlife a testament to the abundant fish. The river flow and wind's churn leave little but organic matter upon the variegated shoreline, with little or no plastic or oily sheen evidenced upon thoughtful wandering along the shore even though this same water has passed the shores of the big mid-western cities of Detroit, Chicago, Duluth and others on its way through the Great Lakes. This is a hopeful sign for me, as similar walks along the beach in California invariably turn up vast quantities of debris - even with the powerful flushing of the Pacific Ocean to assist with the plumbing.
Yesterday as we paddled upstream towards Mulcaster Island, we found the eagle's nesting box abandoned - the birds fledged and off about their life's exploration. Contrary to the Eagles, there are more loons this season than I remember in the past, and we catch sight of one nearby almost daily. As we round the western tip of Owen Island, looking for the narrow slot that splits the Island in two with a quiet, protected and languid stream, just deep enough for small craft to pass, along the edge of the mid-Canadian shipping channel we notice a mink swimming to the point. We stop to watch as the small head leaves a growing V in it's wake until the sleek animal climbs ashore, gives one small shake to free its oiling pelt of loose water, and disappears into the jumbled lichen covered, pink granite rocks forming the island's shore. The river's water is clear, and greenish blue, unlike the tea colored tannin laced waters we experienced north and west of here earlier in the summer. As we float over the shoals and shallower areas, we can easily see 10 feet down to the grasses, and sandy bottom. The white crushed shells of a million zebra mussels form whitish patches in the sand, swirling and pale green as seen through the river's flow.
We paddle slowly back downstream returning across the big water west of Pumpkin Island, to the duet of persistent Osprey whistles. One impressive stark white bird with black eye mask and wingtips sits atop a large tree while a second smaller, darker, and younger bird stands on the edge of the massive coarse nest nearby. The treetop birds whistles non-stop to the nest bound bird, we think urging the adolescent to get out of bed and get on with some fishing perhaps. The nested bird complaining that he just wants fish delivered as he experienced just weeks before.
This river, as massive as the mighty Mississippi drains easily a quarter the continent east and north to the Atlantic, but here past most of the great cities, except for Montreal, still to our east, the water is clean, and clear, and flush with life - the vast and varied birdlife a testament to the abundant fish. The river flow and wind's churn leave little but organic matter upon the variegated shoreline, with little or no plastic or oily sheen evidenced upon thoughtful wandering along the shore even though this same water has passed the shores of the big mid-western cities of Detroit, Chicago, Duluth and others on its way through the Great Lakes. This is a hopeful sign for me, as similar walks along the beach in California invariably turn up vast quantities of debris - even with the powerful flushing of the Pacific Ocean to assist with the plumbing.
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Visit to Celia's and a paddle to Lost Channel
Visit to Celia's house...
Red Bell and Key Limes
Thousand Island Bridge near Lost Channel
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Red Bell and Key Limes
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Thousand Island Bridge near Lost Channel
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Thursday, August 25, 2011
More paddling in the St. Lawrence River near Pumpkin Island
Mink investigates a piece of drainage pipe on the back dock...
Ed and Eva paddling to the International Rift...
Great Blue Heron...
Ed and Eva at a rest stop on a small granite island in the rift...
Kayak sailing in the outlet to Lake of the Isles. We sit back and sail as Ed and Eva paddle to catch up...
More kayak sailing. Ahhhhh.
Paddling in Smuggler's Notch...
Video of a Great Blue Heron considering us as we paddle by:
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Ed and Eva paddling to the International Rift...
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Great Blue Heron...
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Ed and Eva at a rest stop on a small granite island in the rift...
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Kayak sailing in the outlet to Lake of the Isles. We sit back and sail as Ed and Eva paddle to catch up...
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
More kayak sailing. Ahhhhh.
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Paddling in Smuggler's Notch...
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| From |
Video of a Great Blue Heron considering us as we paddle by:
Monday, August 22, 2011
Clear paddling after a stormy day
Lover's Lane departure...
Heading down the lane downstream...
Smuggler's Notch
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Heading down the lane downstream...
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Smuggler's Notch
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Visit to Pumpkin Island in the St. Lawrence River
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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