the Adirondacks

Part 2

I 

If you wake up in the middle of the night on the shores of Low's Lake, you'll hear it: the plaintive voice of a loon. You'll never forget its strong and trailing voice, coming out of the misty waters of a still lake.





II 

And now comes the low point of the entire Adirondack adventure. The moment of disagreement. 

To understand the momentousness of this, you have to know that Ed and I, being so different in so many ways, never disagree. We each engage in acts the other wouldn't dream of pursuing, but our common path is steady and peaceful.

Camping area number 27, where we overnighted, turns out to be the only place during this entire Second Journey where I am able to pick up a cell signal (admittedly I don't try very often elsewhere). I have enough battery life left to check the weather, which so far, as you can see, has been incredibly generous to us. Sure enough, the promise is of storms. Well, it's a speculative promise: 50% chance, the entire afternoon.

If weather were not an issue, we would pack up (leaving the beautiful number 27) and head out on a side trip -- down Bog River to Bog Lake. Then we would look for a site to pitch the tent closer to the tip of the lake (where we came in and from where we would be leaving the next day). The lake is so empty! Maybe another magical site would present itself to us.

All good ideas for a good weather day. But I do not want to be in a canoe in a storm. If the skies seem okay, I think we should do a quick excursion and come back. In the alternative, skip the excursion and head out now in search of a new site. Ed wants to ignore the whole weather issue.
If the storm comes, we'll wait it out by the shore.
You know there are no landing spots for long stretches of shoreline!
We can pull over and ride it out in the canoe.
That's not safe!
Nina (no "gorgeous" when he thinks I'm being irrational and it affects the direction we take), it's a lot safer than driving a car.
But I'll be scared and it'll ruin it for you!
Do you want to stay here and I'll explore Bog Lake alone?
What if you don't come back? 
I have no answer to that (..very stupid question).


III 

After I'm done shedding tears of indecision, I take a look at the sky and see no sign of trouble.

We eat breakfast -- nice, very nice... 
 





No threat yet and the lake is absolutely still.






I take a deep breath and agree to pack up camp and head out together. (It is our history: when I turn braver than I feel, Ed turns gentler and more willing to accommodate my foibles. And I know I'm nursing an irrational foible.)


IV 

The lake crossing is memorable: not a single ripple, not a wave or a shudder. Just us and the loons.
 





V 

Let me introduce you to the names of the lakes and rivers around us: Otter, Iron, Horseshoe. Beaver Brook, Big Moose Lake. Marian Lake. I'm sure when they named a lake "Marian," it's because someone had a sweet spot for a Marian in his life. And Otter Pond had otters. 

And Bog Lake has the bog.
 





The floating bog is easy to pass. A few shallow spots, a few murky moments, but all doable.

Thereafter, we pick up the slow moving river, which meanders between bogs, lilies, pickerel weed, and fallen timbers.

Suddenly the population of black flies explodes! The dragon flies, our most precious friends and warriors are outnumbered. They try, they really do. But the flies rule vast stretches of the river.

After a half hour of constant battle, we turn back. However pretty Bog Lake may be, it's a messy paddle to it. 

Alright. We're almost out. Pass the floating bog and we'll be on Low's Lake again.








(with dragon fly friend)


And now I relax, because I know we can beat whatever storms come our way. My biggest fear throughout has been not the currents, winds, flies, sites, navigational quagmires, but storms. My sailor guy has no fear of them, whereas every encounter with lightening and thunder in my life, when exposed and outdoors, has left me shaking.

I know now we'll pitch the tent before a storm will find us.

It is a huge relief.


VI 

Now is the time to see if the prize of all prizes (in my opinion) - the lovely tip of an island at the head of the lake, with pine needle beds and water every which way, and a beautiful beach to the side -- is unoccupied.







It is! (If you're ever on Low's Lake, it's number 18 -- a stunning place indeed!)

We pull out the canoe.

Among the pines, there is a beautiful fallen log: lean against it, sit on it, contemplate the entire lake before you. Like all the wilderness camping places, it's immaculate. Leave no trace behind. No one has even carved his or her initials on the naked log. When you sit on it, you are part of something greater than just yourself.

From tears of sorrow to tears of joy. Isn't it always like that?




(lunch)


VII 

It's early afternoon when I set up camp (I let Ed rest a bit -- he does all our cooking). We have nowhere else to go, no exploring, no climbing to do.
 





We read, I write, we swim.






What're you doing, gorgeous?
I'm running along the island beach ready to plunge into Low's Lake! -- I shout back.






VIII 

The wind picks up, a few puffs of clouds roll in. We meet a couple of passing paddlers from Mystic. We compare notes on sites, on the water conditions, on the wonderful roaming ranger woman. We feel like oldtimers.

And the afternoon waves bang against the shore and if there is peace to be had ever in a life that sometimes gets too complicated, it is here, on a log, facing Low's Lake in the Adirondacks.



IX 

Our last dinner in the wilderness. I'm half tempted to build a fire: someone has neatly stacked kindling to the side of a carefully cleaned out fire ring. But like Ed, I prefer the simplicity of doing none of it.

He lights his ancient stove and boils water. We eat our pouch dinners in the fading light of the sun. 
 





And the storm? It rumbled past, just south of us. Ed wanted to watch a display of lightening on the lake, but all we got were beautiful clouds, playing hide and seek with the sun.






And a farewell sunset.






X 

In the morning, we shower to the music of loons. A long, clean note, a quiver. Ed says -- people come here for this sound. Maybe we did too?
 





A last breakfast. We're down to Cliff bars. And coffee for me.






We pack, efficiently, rhythmically.






And we pull out and make our way toward the river, we feel a gentle wind on our backs. The current, too, is with us this time.



(loon family)


It took us four hours to paddle down the river to the tip of the lake heading out. It takes us just three to paddle back.

But in that time, everything above us changes. At first, a solitary cloud moves in from the west. Halfway down the river, the sky becomes overcast.

And the rain comes down. Initially it's gentle. Just a tease. We do the portage, past the dam, without fuss, experts now, each in our roles of carrier and mule.












But as we paddle into our final hour, the shower turns into a steady, relentless rain.

How funny, really! I had so trusted the sunny forecast, that I pushed my rain jacket to the bottom of the bag. I had to dig for it now. Ed has his on as well.

And yet, despite this miserable (from one perspective) weather, we encounter paddlers heading out toward the lake: a group of three canoes, heavily loaded with coolers, as if for a never-ending feast. Then a couple: she is in a bathing suits and life vest. He's in a t-shirt (and vest). They greet us cheerfully. Looking at us in our jackets, he shouts out -- someone's afraid of getting wet!

I have to laugh. Everything downward of my jacket is soaking.
No, not afraid! 

 And so the Second Journey ends.
 






XI 

If I were a New Age type, or inclined to meditation, I'd write about such things as inner peace, finding one's center, touching eternity. The week of camping in the Adirondacks grew each day -- from just an adventure, to something that became really grand and extraordinarily beautiful. Calming any tumult that I brought along with me.

But I'm not inclined in that direction and so I'll leave that thought, to dangle here for your own contemplation. 


XII 

We overnight at the Dartbrook Lodge, in Keene, New York. Just east of Lake Placid.

It's not really a lodge. There are a few Adirondack cabins, neatly tucked into a landscape of wild flowers.

Our is just gorgeous!

Outside: 
 





Inside:






And all around:






Normally, I'd settle in and enjoy the detail of this rustic but so very comfortable little gem. But I can't. I gave my soul to the outdoors this week and I'm not ready to part with it all.

Ed naps, I go for a hike. To these falls and back (toward center left, there is a guy fishing on the rocks -- to give you some perspective on their size).






Not more than a couple of hours, there and back. The falls are nice, very nice, but they are only an excuse. The goal is to connect all these strands of thought and move forward. And I do.

We eat dinner at the village cafe. It has a menu that's remarkably similar to the one at the Long Lake place we ate at our first night in the Adirondacks. Again we split a roasted chicken. With salads. I missed my salads!






Ed falls asleep soon after, but I find myself already gliding into routines from home. A late night, an Ocean post and only then -- the comfort of a bed. A big bed, a crispy linnened bed.

I am acutely aware of the fact that there is no breeze blowing through our night. No stealthy movement of a curious animal. No music of a loon out on a lake.

the Adirondacks

The Second Journey 

(twice as long as the first, therefore in two parts, each consisting of, as before, twelve short chapters)

Part 1 

I 

After our sprint down Long Lake and the Raquette River (see previous post), we reenter civilization.

First stop: the Raquette River Outfitters. We're changing canoes. The Royalex will be cheaper and sturdier than the Kevlar we'd been using. We can pull the Royalex up on sand and not fret every time we go over a branch or near a rock. [On the downside, there will be short-ish portages and the Royalex is twice as heavy!]

And I want to retrieve my water bottle (left in the jeep that took us to the put in)! Sharing Ed's has been tough. He drinks like a whale so we have to purify with iodine. The river water has gunk in it and it just doesn't look refreshing, made worse by white bits of pill floating inside. With my own bottle, I make do with what we boil in the morning and at night.

Ann (co-owner of the Outfitters and an extraordinarily helpful soul) is surprised to see us. We were to do the First Journey in three to four days and we did it in two. Why the push? Why the impressive but somewhat manic paddle? 

I suppose to escape the mosquitoes. On the river, our choices are -- paddle, or sit in a zipped up tent. We hoped for fewer bugs by the wind battered lakes.

I write my (previous) post at the Well Dressed Food Cafe -- a newcomer to the village of Tupper Lake. It's an extremely friendly and likable spot and my smoothie is like a nosedive into the luxury of yogurt and fresh fruit.


II 

For the Second Journey, we take the canoe to the put in point at Bog River, just above the damn. It's late. The Ocean update took time; Ed, as always, never hurried me or complained, but it is 3:21 when we push off and, too, it's Saturday. Finding a place to pitch a tent will be a challenge.

Let's concentrate on the beauty of the river at the point that we join it.


 



III 

Ah, but let's not limit the challenges to just finding a place to pitch a tent!

For the first time, we are paddling upstream and against a strong breeze.

Navigation is also a major challenge. On the Raquette River, we watched for the current: where it went, we went, ignoring the side inlets, streams and stillwaters. That's not so easy now and within thirty minutes I get us lost in a boggy, murky nothing.

Tick tock, tick tock...

You have the map: tell me the compass direction -- Ed says, with the patience that is his hallmark. Don't say left or right. West? How many degrees? 
Maybe 15 degrees to the south of west...
Call it what it is: 255 degrees. What's the magnetic adjustment? 

I'm learning!

Too, there are the black flies. They are not to be deterred. Every time we come near a bog, we pick up a few and they follow us until Ed swats them dead.

And of course, our portages are now tougher. Heavy canoe! Ed carries the boat, I become mule extraordinaire and carry all five dry bags on my shoulders.

And we have to push the canoe through a moving bog. Who knew bogs were mobile?!





But we're okay!


IV 

I get nervous about finding a place to stay. It's getting late. There are so few spots to pitch a tent here! What if? What if?
 

We pass a canoist retreating from the trip we're just starting.
Hey! I shout...
Great weather! -- he shouts back.
I see you're leaving. Where were you camping?
Over on 18 -- by the lake. (The numbering system is exquisite: it tells you where you can pull ashore and it assists you with navigation when you're more lost than you care to admit.) But someone took it already.
I groan.
We passed number 12 though. On the river. It's empty and gorgeous!
My heart soars.

An hour later we find it: it is empty and it is gorgeous!





Ed mutters: a beautiful Saturday in the middle of July and no one is here.

I have to admit that it surprises me as well how underused these wilderness areas are. Every city person would do well (it seems to me) to sooth a frazzled soul here. Sure, it's nearly five hours from NYC, but I know many a Wisconsinite or Minnesotan who would regularly drive that distance for an escape up north.

Where is everyone?

Ed gets the burner ready for our dinner, I sit back and take it all in. The flies are gone, the mosquitoes -- almost nonexistent. I thought we got lucky yesterday with our camping. But this!

Yes, this.












VI 


Waking up in this most beautiful spot along the Upper Bog River is like waking in a sanctuary. The Douglas Firs (I don't think I'm wrong with that label) tower above us. The carpet of dry needles is soft. On three sides we are handed water views. Misty morning water views.
 





This moment is, of course, what we look for when we face the wilderness.






The breeze is lively and refreshing. We "shower" again with our all purpose little pot. The water is cool, but the feeling of warmth after is sublime.

(A selfie moment!)






We eat breakfast outside, of course. It feels like this is our highest point, in a whole string of high notes -- as if we've reached our experiential summit.











VII 

Nothing grand comes freely. Really nothing.

As we paddle out, promptly at 9, I keep an eye on the sky. These are to be our days of storms, but I don't see it. We glide under a hazy blue sky.

But we surely have the wind in our face. And the current. We're working hard to move forward.

And it gets tougher as we paddle out onto Low's Lake. The breeze gains in stature. I would now call it a wind and it whips the water around us, so that the crossing feels more like a ride in a water park than a gentle paddle.


VIII 

The goal is to find a place to pitch our tent -- for one night, maybe two, if the weather deteriorates. Yes, there are clearings that stand empty, but after a night in a temple, I'm not going to be satisfied with a buggy, stuffy, murky landing.

And yet, there is this: when I look up and down the long lake, it's nearly always empty. It's because these wilderness areas aren't accessible by power boats and right now, I do believe America has a love affair with speed on water -- big boats, small boats, but with power! Surely they outnumber canoes and kayaks 1000 to 1! (In Poland, those numbers would be reversed.)  Surely we'll find some place to hunker down!

Ah, but we're up against pros. People here paddle smart. They have maps. They know to avoid sites near bogs, dark woodsy spaces, still waters and murky shores. 

The lake is long and wide. Ann had identified two spots as places of great camping beauty, but both are taken.

We paddle to the end of the lake. We portage over a short isthmus. We hit bogs. Black flies buzz around our canoe. We enter a still bay. There are spaces here for camping. I hate them all.

We've gone too far.  Everything at this end feels remote. I want the wind from the lake, not this graveyard of fallen timbers!

Are we able to pull off another bit of magic?

Nope.


IX 

At least -- not on our own. As we retreat back up this most beautiful lake..
  





... we run into her:







She's a forest ranger and she paddles the remote lakes and rivers to check on sites and the people who come through here. She tells us -- I just came from landing number 27. It's empty and it's lovely.






And it is.

No, it offers no pillars to the heavens above, but it has a lovely clearing, it's gusty with the lakeside breezes and is virtually bug free and best of all -- it has a strip of sandy beach that gently slopes into the lake.

We throw down our gear and plunge into the water.

And then Ed dives under and loses his glasses in the deeper part of the lake.

I sweep my feet across the bottom, barely touching the murky sand and come across something thin. Could be glasses. No, a branch.

Try again.

Luck, sheer luck directs my feet to where they are. [To Ed's credit, he does travel with a spare set, but you can bet anything that he'd be diving there still, if he knew one rested on the bottom of the lake.]


X 

The weather stays good. Our tent is up. We're refreshed. Both Ann and the ranger suggested a hike up the mountain that juts out behind us. The ranger, a woman nearly our age, is blunt about it: you'll do some weed whacking and rock climbing to get up there, but it's worth it. Take some food or a couple of drinks up with you. It's fantastic!

I smile at the idea of Ed and I, scaling cliffs, aperitifs in hand!

We keep it light. Just water and a camera.


XI 

You have to paddle to a boggy, murky, buggy spot to find your way up the mountain. But we wouldn't have done the climb if it wasn't for the fact that a couple from Albany was there before us. They made all the mistakes and took all the wrong turns before us, so that by the time we showed up, they spared us a repeat of their errors.

So, a wonderful climb, right?

Wrong. As we reach the rocky upper section, I'm thinking: isn't it ironic that I just sent emails to daughters (curiously, our campsite is the only place along the entire lake where I am able to pick up cell service) that the dangers are all behind me? Wouldn't it be so terribly pitiful for them to then receive a call with the message that "your mom is sprawled at the bottom of the cliffs overlooking Low's Lake?"

There is no trail, though some good hearted soul tied a piece of orange plastic to trees and if you followed these, you'll at least be in a good position to scale the boulders.

Wait a minute: scale the boulders, with drop offs where one slip puts you in touch with the grim reaper? 

That's so not me.

But Ed (in his $9.99 Walmart water shoes, no less) finds the possible landing spots along the cliffs and slowly, patiently, he guides me to them.

And yes, the view is grand.

 






See the thin strip of light brown to the right? That's a floating bog. It's tomorrow's challenge. Among others. Because believe it or not, the best and worst are yet to come.

Summit selfie:





The retreat is easier. We get down on our asses (Ed's terminology) and slowly slide our way to safety.


XII 

Dinner today is superb. Hungry as anything, Ed devours his pouch of dated pasta (but dated by only five years, as opposed to the beef stroganoff, which had an expiration date of 2003) and I do great justice to my pouch of mushroom risotto. What I leave behind, he finishes in the middle of the night. When I ask -- how was it?  He tells me -- better when it was warm.
 






Part 2, to be continued, tomorrow.

the Adirondacks

Discussion early this morning in tent on Low's Lake in the Adirondacks: should we pack gear and set out on a big exploration, given a 50% chance of thunderstorms this afternoon? See if you can guess how the votes align themselves.

To be continued tomorrow (posted via iPhone email).

Sent from my iPhone

The Adirondacks

I turn on my phone, testing, sparingly -- the battery life is short! Cell service! An email post is possible. Of the one sentence kind. My thought, summarizing the last two days: things you think will be easy often turn out to be tough as hell! Things you think are difficult can leave you gasping with disbelief -- at the beauty of it all.

Sent from my iPhone

the Adirondacks

The First Journey

A post in twelve brief chapters.

 I

There's a shack by the tip of Long Lake. It's owned and operated by a guy who moved here from the city (thirty years on the big island, then thirty on Manhattan and now here...). We stop for my morning coffee.






So, you have espresso...
Well, I'm out. I have decaf espresso. I'm guessing you don't want that.
I just want coffee. And we'll talk to each other. I'm referring here to the sign that says "no WiFi. Just talk to each other."

Ed and I have left over raisin bread and pepper jack cheese for breakfast.


II

We're riding in a jeep with a guy who is taking us and our kayak to the put in point.

My great great grandfather took a canoe up these lakes. 226 mile trip, in 1886. He kept a journal. Hey, his canoe is in the Adirondack Museum! You should go there. In the Fall, I'm going to follow his trail.

He's young -- he just joined the team at Raquette River Outfitters this year. In contrast, Ann and her partner Robbie, who own and run the place, have been doing this stuff for over thirty years: build, clean, rent, sell canoes. They know every put in point the region. They help us plan our trip.

We are impossible customers.
Royalite v. Kevlar canoe? 
We'll be okay with Royalite (cheaper!). 
But there's a 1.25 mile portage!
Let me lift it. Hmm. Still, you have to be so careful with the Kevlar.
It's a big portage.
We'll take the Kevlar (this from me).

On our first journey, we'll be going down Long Lake (day one), then following the Raquette River (day two), all the way to Tupper Lake (day three).
There are bugs on the river. You'll be okay once you get a fire going. Wear long pants.

No, I'm not taking long pants and we don't build fires. I grab her Balsam Ridge Herbals Extreme Summer Time Solution. We have the usual potent stuff, but I read recently that the oils are equally, if not more effective.






III 

First set of issues: Ed leaves his sun hat (essential!) in the car and I leave my water bottle (even more essential!) in the jeep that took us to the put in point.


IV 

Long Lake is well named! But out tip is pointing toward the Adirondacks.
You do not get views like this in the Midwest.






The water is clear. No algae. No run off. Luck New Yorkers. Someone worked hard to keep the supply of the City's drinking water clean. 


  



The raindrops make an appearance in the last hour, but they're gentle. Nonthreatening.

Long Lake permits speedboats of course and we do encounter them, but much more common are the skiffs, with a few guys fishing in them.






Do men talk about their wives in all the time they're on the boat?
Never.
Never?
Never - says my guy of great authority on the subject.
Maybe how to build a porch or put in a patio door?
Or what car to buy or politics.







We do not encounter a single paddler. And yet it's hard to find a take out point that's not occupied by a skiff. Ed had thought we'd just find random spots to land, but that's not the way it works here. Most of the shoreline is inaccessible. Either the bank is steep or it's boggy. When there's enough of a clearing to pitch a tent, there are markers announcing this. Some are just okay spots, some are unusually beautiful. But along Long Lake, most have a skiff nearby and unless you're desperate, you do not land where someone already has set in.






V 

At the tip of the Lake, our absolutely last chance for docking for the night, we find, in fact, a beautiful spot. Ann had told us of it -- it's not yet marked and it really is lovely.

 




The mosquitoes? Moderately dense. We've seen worse, but they are bad enough to keep us inside the tent. It is, to me, like the porch back home -- a safe haven.  As we pitch it and unpack, I smile at the routines we know so well! We've worked with this tent since backpacking trip two. (Trip one, in the Canadian Rockies had us in a leaky tent sized for 1.5 people. That would be all of Ed with little room for much else. This one is for two and fits us and our gear well.) It has protected us from bugs in Wisconsin, in Iowa and in the Upper Peninsula of  Michigan. We've slept in it in French speaking Quebec and French speaking France. In California, we pitched it under redwoods, in Scotland -- under Douglas firs. There's a sweet space for my flashlight an book (though here's an upgrade: no flashlight needed for a Kindle!). In these remote places, it feels like home.





VI 

On this first day, we barely paddled for four hours. Are we done now, in the early afternoon? It's raining. We dare not go further. It's hard to pitch a tent in the early miles of the Raquette River.

We head into the lake again... 






...then decide to explore a little at the river's beginnings. Lilies grow abundantly at the river's edge.










Ed navigates us toward some still water. All is quiet here. Except when it;s not and in a burst of anxious flight, a heron takes off. Quiet again. Then the stomp of something in the boggy water.
Want to get closer?
Can a moose or a bear swim?
Let's not disturb Mr. Big Splash further!


VII 

Ed takes out his ancient cooking gizmo and starts a flame. Out comes the even more ancient pot for boiling water, the ouches with our selected dinners -- Mac and Cheese today.





Shortly after, Ed falls asleep. On these adventuring outings, he so quickly loses himself to sleep that I sometimes wonder if this is what he looks for: the quiet mind that comes with the quiet landscape, from which there is no escape (because it's a long way to human contact).

For me, it's never really quiet the first night out. The rain on the tent, the plane above that sounds like thunder. The gallop.
What was that?
Deer probably.
Then deep, rhythmic breathing like sounds.
Ed? Do you hear it?
Uh huh.
What is it?
Frogs.

All night long, frogs huffed their rhythmic song.


VIII 

We wake to a glorious morning outside.

 


But who wants to leave the tent when there is a blanket of bugs clinging to the mesh, begging to come inside?

We watch them bounce and buzz. We tap the tent walls, they go into a tizzy then settle again.

As the sun begins to reach the forest grove, some of the bugs disperse. Enough for us to start moving. Familiar routines. Oatmeal, coffee. But inside. Bug free.





Fold tent, pack bags, set out.


IX 


Or maybe not? 

Get in the canoe? 





Not yet!





X 


And now we are on the river. I could take a thousand photos and none would look like the other. You'll see just one or two. I'm writing on the fly, in the few hours I have between trips. Here's the river's peaceful moment.





But there are many with a faster current. And then there are the famous Raquette Falls. We know about them and I am on the look out for the warning sign. (Will we miss it? Will we be thrown into the current?)

Of course, no one wants to lose a couple of tourists to the cascading river, so the sign is obvious and the take out point straightforward.

And now comes the moment of muscle truth -- the portage.

Ed takes the canoe and two of the light bags.






I take the three heavy sacks. Up the hill, then down again. A mile and a quarter, but it takes us forty minutes of huffing. I feel like the mule that I am, with my bags at my side.

It's a huge exhale for me when we get to the put out point.





XI

A few hours past the falls, we're scheduled to set up camp again. The river here is very different. Beautiful, but at very high water levels, routinely overflowing.





It's boggy and buggy and most importantly, it seems too early to stop. The skies are beautiful (too beautiful -- I'm just a touch too late with the application of sun screen). Why stop at 3? Or even 4?


I'll tell you why: because after you pass landing point number 26, there are no more wild camping possibilities until you reach Tupper Lake. If we don't stop now at 4, we'll have three hours of paddling left for sure. And what if the immediate lake-front landing spots are occupied? What then?

It's a tough call and I make knowing the risk involved (paddling in the evening without an obvious place to overnight). I want better for us than these last few riverside camping clearings. Wont the lake breezes disperse some of the bugs?

We pause for a quick lunch of trail mix, then continue.





We paddle rhythmically, steadily. We started at 9 a.m., did not pause after the portage and now it's getting close to evening. My back, shoulders -- they're not used to so much use.

And still we continue.


XII 


We are more lucky than I can possibly explain here. The very best possible camping spot is empty. At 7 p.m., after 10 hours of work (with only a 25 minute pause for lunch), we pull in.






And here's the beauty of it: there is a breeze and it is almost completely bug free.


Curry for me and an ancient, dated camping packet for Ed labeled "beef stroganoff," from the years when he still ate beef (significantly before we met).






And the morning dawns bright and clear...






And the ducks keep us company for breakfast...






(We shoo them away. They should not be eating handouts. But one lingers, watching the morning preparations...)











We're in a good (bug free!) place for very brisk "showering" (accomplished out of the lake, with the help of the tiny pot) and we do that today, ready now for the big village of Tupper Lake.

We paddle in the brief stretch of lake to our take out point at Tupper. And WiFi.


Post Scriptum 

The storms are coming tomorrow. But that's tomorrow. We have a handful of grand days behind us. Arms stronger, souls well rested. We're ready for the Second Journey. (I'll be offline for at least two days. Too, my apologies for Flickr photo issues. I've tried to use a quick fix and I'm hoping to correct the previous photos with the embeded information when Flickr develops a permanent solution. It could be that my temporary improvised fix will wipe out all my photos. Be patient. Any such problems and editing issues I'll correct when I get home.)