Blue Mountain, New York There’s something captivating about canoeing. Trust me on this. Paddling on calm water, river or lake, you are inches from the water in the same way that when you drive a motorcycle, you feel as one with the road. Done well, you glide on the water, magically.
Admittedly, it’s not for everyone. Unless you are lucky enough to live by water, getting to good places to paddle is a hassle. Securing a boat of any size and weight from a 10-foot pack canoe to a 14- or 16-foot boat is work requiring time and attention. Mistakes and shortcuts mean endless stops along the way to retie and secure. Canoes are remarkably stable watercraft, but getting in and out of a canoe from any kind of dock always looks like the odds of a swim might be higher than a cruise.
None of that takes away from the personal pleasure of this usually solitary sport, but it made me especially interested in what was happening in upstate New York in something of a canoeing convention. Unknown to me until recently, there’s a grueling event called the Adirondacks 90-miler. I’m not sure if that’s the official name, but for over forty years people have tied their canoes of all shapes and sizes on top or behind vehicles and made their way to small, almost unknown towns to paddle from lake to river to lake for 90-miles over three days beginning in Old Forge and ending close to Saranac Lake. I heard about this from my daughter’s partner, Han, who was from the area and is an aficionado of the course, having done the race almost a dozen times. When I first heard Han tell the story, it sounded amazing. I said, “sign me up!” I thought, hey, I’ll recruit some folks who I know have canoes. Later I learned it was 90 miles, so I had second thoughts. Then I read about the numerous and sometimes mile-long portages, and the blush fell off the rose. Nonetheless, mi companera and I agreed to help our daughter and become ancillary parts of the pit crew for Han and their team on the race.
None of which quite prepared me for the scene. More than 250 teams had assembled for the first day from single seat canoes or kayaks to war canoes with seven paddlers, taking off in nine stages against the clock and each other. Wild and crazy, but very serious business on fortunately a beautiful day when this pre-fall season can turn rainy, windy, and cold on a dime.
I was fascinated. This was hardcore. I’m sometimes embarrassed to admit to owning eight canoes and two kayaks, with only two Minnesota-built, handcrafted Wen-on-ahs bought new. One of Han’s team told me he owned eighteen, which made me feel like I had found my people. My Wen-on-ahs might be compared to small, heavy trucks compared to the scores I saw glide into the water made of fiberglass or graphite and looked light as a feather and translucent to the eye.
The gear was eye opening. There were lifejackets that looked like an around-the-waist fanny pack with a ripcord, if ever called into action. The paddles were fragile $400 space age looking things that weighed nothing and that all of these folks used in ways that seemed backwards to a punter like me. The wheel carriages positioned in the boats between paddlers to ease the portages made mine look hoopty, so I took pictures like a neophyte. Hauling stuff around to various vehicles, I took pictures of different alignments on pickups to hoist and hold multiple canoes. I was envious, and it was an education.
We weren’t paddlers. We were drivers. As a longtime comrade and upstate native reminded me in a text – New York is a big state. We put more than six hours on the road driving along these lakes up and down in the hills.
I was glad to be a day tripper in a great canoeing community, but I didn’t lose my mind. I’m not signing up for next year’s race, although I wouldn’t mind putting a paddle in the water in some of these beautiful lakes.