Pictures

Backwater

Same as building Chicago's river and canal system

What's left

And a horse . . .

Typical lock architecture

Newboro boat shacks

Locks

I will try my best to describe a lock for those that have never guided a boat through one. Most folks from Chicago have been through a lock if they have been on a river cruise and I imagine many others have had similar experiences. But here I will talk about the type of manual locks we have passed through on the waterways of Canada.

Yes, I said manual. Except for a few locks, the Trent-Severn and the Rideau Waterway’s locking systems are manually operated. These waterways were built in response to our (meaning the good old USA) aggression and visa-versa for the English during the formation of our republic and their Canadian Commonwealth. The waterways were built to get men and materials into the continent after the War of 1812. I might have the history a little off but that is the gist of it.

The British government reactivated Royal Engineer lieutenant colonel John By and sent him to the New World with orders to complete the Rideau and the Trent-Severn out of the wilderness of what is now northern Canada. Though from my reading of it, this area was not completely wild. Many people had already settled here. There were enough skilled workers that he was able with varying degrees of success to hire contractors to do the job.

He brought with him a small contingent of miners and sappers, the equivalent of the Army Corp of Engineers and the Sea Bees. The land was surveyed and plans drawn up to create a navigable waterway through a series of dammed river, existing and created lakes, dug and blasted canals, and interconnected rivers. And sure enough in the end, he did it.

Of course, it was over budget and time. He returned to England in disgrace and died a few years later. So much for creating four hundred miles of passable water and close to 100 locks out of granite, mud, malaria-ridden marshes, and rapids!

Carrie Rose is docked to the “up” side of Davis lock #38. It is by all accounts the most remote lock on the Rideau. Though as I look around there are five boats tied to various docks and one canoe with its inhabitants tucked away in their tent. The lockmasters house is in front of me and the shoreline has several small rustic cottages attached to it. I can see the lock gates 50 yards to my right and about a half a block away to the left is the weir. Bridging the two is the arch of the original earthen dam that the colonel built.

The lock, dam, and weir are a compact grouping built to circumvent the rapids that once raged here. The lock is fed from the lake that the dam created and the weir is like a safety valve. It is either opened to allow the abundance of spring water to flow downstream or closed to keep the lake full as the summer drought progresses. Of course, this is not an all or nothing proposition. Depending on the need the flow is regulated with large timbers that are either pull or lowered into the weir’s gate.

Yesterday as we approached the opened lower lock gates, I could feel the effects of the fast running downstream water. I am still getting used to dealing with flow and eddy of currents after spending most of my boating career in, for all practical purposes, current less Lake Michigan. This has been a particularly wet year in Canada and the current is strong. Carrie Rose is heading into it for now until we reach the zenith of the Rideau system at Newboro Lock #36 and then the flow will be behind us, pushing us towards Ottawa.

The Davis Lock gates were open because we were travelling fourth of four boats from the last locks at Jones Falls. Locks come in all sizes, though on the Rideau they are standardized. What is not standard though is how many in a row there are. Jones Falls is a series of four locks: three in a row, a turning basin, and then one more. It raised us approximately 60 feet in the hour and a half it took to negotiate it.

As I turned Carrie Rose away from the raging torrent of water coming from the lake above, there was the lock. It is often the case that locks, for being such an imposing structure, are demurely hid away around a bend. The other three boats were almost secured to its walls, so I slowed and glided in using my bow-thruster to steer.

The lock walls were dripping and covered with moss and tiny plants. They are dark with over 150 years of use but the limestone blocks still show the signs of the artisanship that went in their formation. I can see the marks of the various chisels and hear ping as the metal hit the stone.

The lockmasters have made the process of locking easier by the use of black rubberized cable attached to the top and bottom of the wall. I get Carrie Rose close enough to the wall so that Charlotte can grab onto the aft cable then I stop and step out from the pilothouse to grab a forward cable. We wrap a dock line around them and back to the boat’s cleats. This is not a time for contemplation. The lines need to be adjusted as the boat rises to meet the water level above.

The lockmaster and an assistant close the gate behind us. They crank open valves at the bottom of the lock which open to let the water flow in. There is quite a bit of turbulence when rising, so the staff lets the water in slowly at first. Once we are level with the water above, the gates are opened. We may head off to the next lock or tie up here to spend a night or two. We will do this forty-nine times on the Rideau and be lifted a total of 464 feet.

Not bad for a system completed in 1832. Alas, it was never used for military purposes and its commercial usefulness was short lived. But as a source of recreation, it is incomparable.

Distance

Day to day, season to season the distance we cruise each day changes. On the Great Lakes, especially Lake Michigan, it is common to cover fifty miles of open lake per day. The least we have traveled is around twenty, the most being over one hundred nautical miles. It can make for a long day at 10 mph, and depending on the weather conditions a long and trying day.

The last few years cruising in Lake Huron’s North Channel and Georgian Bay the distance has shrunk. Instead of marinas, we mainly anchor, and the various bays and coves are seldom more than five miles apart. It is a joy to wake up in the morning and not have to rush. While it is always better to get on the water early, even when the destination is close, it is acceptable to chill out and smell the roses in certain circumstances.

This year Carrie Rose is on the Rideau Waterway in Ontario and the distances have shrunk even more. So far, I would say the average is fewer than five. The locks are particularly close together here in the southern section.

Our mission statement for this year, formulated in the depths of the winter, was to take our time and not rush through the Rideau. From what we read and from the advice of numerous cruisers the lower section is the most scenic, so we have been moving at a snails pace. We have spent several days at each lock and will make some side trips that we might not otherwise take.

Tied to Newbor0 Lock #36 is the farthest Carrie Rose has been from her previous mooring #16 at the mouth of Montrose Harbor in Chicago. This will be her third year absent from what seemed like home for most of my life. If I had to guess, I would say we are approximately 1500 miles from home. And with distance comes new experiences.

One in particular springs to mind. I have never been a water person. I mean I enjoy being in a contrivance but to jump into the water for fun takes a lot of coaching on Charlotte’s part. I like my water warm and salty with waves, or even better, since I am fantasizing now, the 113-degree flowing mineral water of a Japanese bath is perfect for me. Yesterday though everyone was going swimming and I had just bought a new swimsuit, so I was lured into the water.

Before Charlotte and I ventured to the dock with a local woman, we mentioned that the ever present fish seem to enjoy human flesh. Put our feet in the water and a school will appear, and start to harvest the dead skin on the soles of our feet. It seems harmless enough. Then her husband explained that the little buggers will go for your nipples and he went on to explain a somewhat gruesome example. A friend of theirs was chased out of the water by an aggressive attack and left bloodied with fish hanging from his appendages.

As it is with these stories, many times they go in one ear and out the other. I mean how many urban myths have been debunked. So, I walked lazily to the waters edge and as per usual took an inordinate amount of time to fling myself into the water. It was a shock but felt good on this hot sticky day. The only problem was I had forgotten a floatation device, something that is necessary due to my ineptitude in aqua. I swam to the wooden steps and started to ascend when a piercing pain went through my left chest.

Was this the angina pain I treated in many patient? Had all these year of a low fat vegetarian diet failed me? I will not say I panicked; there was little time to have done so as my legs responded and catapulted me onto the dock. I am sure there is a biblical allegory to this. The unbeliever is brought to faith by their experience.
I am a true believer now. The Canadian North harbors its own type of piranha. Be they sunfish, crappie, bass, or pike I neither know nor care.

Back at the boat, I related the nipple-biting event to the soothsayer and he started to explain that the bass could get to 12 pounds and the musky even bigger. I vowed never to set foot in the water again until we retraced our path back to the more equatorial but safer waters that lie a thousand mile distant off the coast of northern Illinois.

Racing About

I am not sure where these boats are racing too. Carrie Rose is in Morton’s Bay anchored in about 13 ft. of dark green water. Morton’s Bay is shaped like a prehistoric club: a narrow handle with a big oval rock at its end, which is where we lie.

To our right — at least the way we are pointed now — is a chiseled granite cliff. It must rise at least 150 ft. from the water. It is covered with jack and tar pine, and enough deciduous trees to make the fall spectacular.

To our left is the tiny gap that serves as the rocky entrance to the bay. There is just enough room for a boat about twice our size to enter and that is about as big as boats get on the Rideau.

Morton’s Bay is known as the preeminent anchorage on the Rideau Waterway and it would be a stellar spot anywhere on the Great Lakes. It is Sunday and upon entering there were a few boats scattered around. Yesterday was the opening of bass season, so most of the boats were small fishing skiffs. I cannot help but think that the bass do not have a chance considering the zeal of these fishermen.

I maneuvered Carrie Rose closer than last year to the granite shoreline. Charlotte suddenly calls a halt to the proceedings when she notices a loon family off our bow: two magnificent adults in breeding plumage with their twin dark brown fluffy chicks swimming amidships. The chicks are about as long as their parent’s beaks and hard to make out without binoculars.

Loons do not scatter. They slowly moved their family away from us and towards the shore, far enough away that the chicks become invisible. Then the parents submerge and surface not 10 feet from our bow. They look us over and then one lets out a cry as only a loon can do. We get the message. I slowly lower the anchor and they get back to their husbandry.

This drama unfolded in about 15 minutes. I look at the clock and see it is 11:15. I figure it is just about time for the locals to have done their toilet, had breakfast, finish up a few chores and be looking to get their boats on the water. I was not far off. Of course the fishermen had been out for hours by now and were probably thinking about heading for home and the first beer of the day.

Now is the time for PWC’s, pontoon and speedboats to populate the water. It is like the changing of the guard. And so the racing about began. We’ve been to the end of the bay and know there is nothing much down there. And so back to my question…where is everyone racing too?

I think I understand the fisherman’s reasons. They either have short attentions spans or know by experience that if a fish does not bite quickly it is better to move on to more fertile grounds. What I do not understand is why there are not just as many fish close to home as far for it seems that most of the fishing boats are crossing paths with each other.

I know my musings are futile. I am no closer to knowing the answer then when I started, but the racing about made me think of the loon family and their call, so maybe there was a purpose after all.

Watching

Nothing ever stays the same. Change is the norm: millisecond-to-millisecond. I am reminded of this while watching clouds as they parade over me as I sit on the stern of Carrie Rose, which was in slip 714 at the Gananoque Ontario Marina.

High and wispy, these distant clouds look like crystals. Along with regularly spaced scallop ones amorphous powder puffs are mixed in. This conglomeration slowly moves across the sky. I try to think of the proper names for them, but that is not in the cards right now. We are out of Wi-Fi range so I thankfully cannot get distracted with a web search, but while I contemplate this, the scallops and wisps dissolve into clear blue sky.

Off in the distance — beyond the St. Lawrence River — on the mainland of New York state fair weather cumulus predominate. They stately march far below the icy crystalline clouds I just spoke of. In the space between the above I notice a layer of thin widely spaced C-shaped clouds that look like strips of cotton candy pulled off the tall round mass just before it is popped into your mouth.

All three groupings of clouds move in different direction: Low: NE, Middle: W, and High: E. The winds that push them along alter their shapes, density and destiny.

Later in the day the entire picture changes as lines of dense rain and wind packed squalls scuttle in one after another. They etch black lines across the sky and announce their arrival with distance rumbles and lighting. The light and the sound arrived prior to the rain, white caps and gusty wind. With this I retreat into the confines of Carrie Rose’s salon.

The squalls are relentless and continue into the night. The temperature drops into the fifties and from my for once dreamless sleep, I surface just long enough to pull the down comforter over Charlotte and I.

Watching clouds, scalloped and high —
Their ice crystals
Chill these old bones.

From Seeley's Bay on the Rideau Waterway in Ontario

Still Life

I long to be arty but I have come to a realization that in all likelihood it is not possible. Does this mean I am going to stop trying, hell no! So here is my latest attempt, a still life called “Wine with Impellor”.

My inspiration to create this piece is the select few that have an intimate knowledge of their engine rooms and of their need to self medicate after a particularly strenuous project down in the bilge.

Scene of the Crime

Today was a beautiful day to leave Gananoque, ON and the Thousand Island region for Kingston. The Bateau Channel is the main throughout fare. It is about a 16-mile cruise and we did not see another cruising boat in the two hours it took. Last year was a different story. The waterways were choked with boats of every shape and description, and Kingston was a nightmare. Unbeknownst to us we arrived just as the “Quebec Navy” was making its way down from the northeast.

The Quebec Navy consisted of tradesmen from Quebec that get a two week summer holiday. The marina was packed with every make of Sea Ray type boat in existence. Our little tug stuck out like a sore thumb. Everyone looked at us with wide eyes. I’m not sure they had seen the likes of us before, but of course how would we know, we do not speak French.

The Kingston Marina has the odd trait of putting boats on short docks. Why this is will probably be revealed when an enthusiastic citizen sits down to write the history of the Kingston waterfront. Carrie Rose is on dock H in slip 46 and when we arrived no one else was on dock H. A few other boats have joined us but I’d say the marina is about a quarter full. This was the same story in Gananoque. Over the years I have noticed a disturbing trend: more and bigger marinas, and less and less boats.

By now (if you are still reading) you might be wondering about the crime. The crime took place on this very dock when I foolishly let my guard down for several seconds to help our friends on Sir Tugley Blue depart. In an instant someone from the mass of boats reached out and grabbed my Nikon SLR. Marinas are generally safe places where a sort of camaraderie exists and on the day it happened there were many people about. Go figure…

But I take full responsibility. I am from Chicago after all and know better. Later in the fall, after mulling it over, we filed a long distance police report and recouped some of the money from our homeowner’s insurance. I bought the same rig and have it with me. If somebody wants it they will have to pry it from my dead cold hands.

Oh Canada/2014!

Carrie Rose crossed into Canada at 12:10 today (Saturday actually) under the watchful gaze of a small but sleek looking Canadian Police cutter hanging just north of the border. It had two black rubber Special Forces type appendages. The border must be hotter than it looks inside a tug traveling at six knots due to the current.

At 2:10 we tied up to slip 714 at the Gananoque Municipal Marina. It is 60 degrees and dizzily which is depressing, as it was suppose to be warm and sunny. Out of the blue strangers engage us with talk the miserable winter and the delay in summer’s restorative climate. But being Canadains and finding out we are from Chicago, they immediately demure and say that Chicago had a much worse winter than them.

It seems Gananoque has a new benefactor from Toronto and it shows. We were here in August last year and the town has taken on a new shine since then. Ah, the altruism of extreme wealth!

Cranky

We found Carrie Rose resting peaceably in slip 119. Our next slip neighbor, Tom on Parrotdise, welcomed us with an, “I was wondering when you were going to show up.” The first thing I notice about Tom was the Spanish doubloon hanging around his neck, but that is another story.

Cranky might be the operative word since neither of us had slept much the last couple of nights. And then there is the anxiety of not knowing what we are going to find. Let’s just say it is a process to prepare the boat to be sea worthy. There are always surprises and this trip is no different.

At this point in my career the process of approaching Carrie Rose is intuitive but for that no less rigorous. As I walk towards her I looked to make sure she is lying on her lines. For CR this means a list to the port (left). That is where the uncompensated weight of the generator is reflected. I make sure the dock lines are appropriately tied, and the power core is duly supported and not hanging in the water.

When I step on board I feel her give way under my feet and if I am not careful I get a bit unbalanced especially if I am carrying anything with weight. This will pass in time; it is called getting your sea legs. I have noticed that when one is no longer able to get them is when the boat goes on the market. Once inside the cabin after a cursory look my olfactory sense kicks in big time: mold, mildew, sewage, diesel — my nose searches for any untoward smell.

Next concern is the state of the batteries. There is science and myth to batteries. It is chemistry and physics after all, and though I have taken inorganic, organic, biochemistry and physics I am on the myth side when it comes to batteries. I have tried to cross over to science but in this pursuit I am frustrated. I comfort myself with the notion that I probably know more than 90% of the boaters out on the water. As a justification for ignorance it is not a bad one.

There is other stuff. The screens we had made sight unseen by the canvas maker in Chicago were an inch too short. By the time I finished filling our two fifty gallon fresh water tanks I realize I had the hose connected to the river water spigot. And when, after I finally drained and refilled the tanks (and dosed them with a generous dollop of bleach), I turned the Water Pressure switch on Charlotte screamed as a pencil-sized stream of high-pressure water flooded the space under the sink. It seemed in my glee at being finished I had neglected to attach the body of the water filter.

I could go on but when it came time to hit the sack, under a down comforter mind you, we both fell fitfully to sleep in our little quiet gentle swaying cocoon, and when awakening both said it was the best sleep we had since leaving Carrie Rose last August. It seems that all the preparation had washed away the crankiness.

Preliminary

Most trips have a run up period. Time devoted to dreaming, research, logistics, outfitting and eventually getting the hell out of Dodge. A cruise on a small personal boat is no different. The only difference is the systems that need to be addressed. By systems I mean everything from the engine to the toilet. And now in the 21st century on board information technology eats a lot prep time.

A small boat cruise is more of an expedition than a vacation. Water, the vagaries of weather and being responsible for your own butt differentiate it. Thus for the last four years much of the time after New Years has been spent contemplating spring and a return to Carrie Rose (CR).

It is odd to have her sequestered in Alexandria Bay, NY. As most people have a picture of a loved one on their desk I have an 8 ½” x 11” picture of CR anchored in a distant bay. I need it there to remind myself that the purpose of my labor still exist even though I cannot jump in the car to go visit it.

The proper Canadian permits have been secured. The United States government has collected copious information concerning both Charlotte and I. We have been the recipients of several new numbers, as has CR. We would certainly be extra paranoid it we were Tea Party followers.

Last August when we departed CR we told ourselves that everything needed to cruise is on the boat. Other than water, food and alcohol we are ready to go on another three-month sojourn. I remind myself of this as I think of things to bring. Being on the water is compelling enough that distractions are rarely necessary. I wonder about the boats with multiple gyroscopic domes adorning their super structures. These allow access to the Internet, to satellite TV and phone, and who knows what else, Facebook I suppose. I know people have more complex lives than we. Kids, grand kids, businesses, aging parents; the list goes on and on.

I do not begrudge them. It is just that I consider myself lucky if I get through one book in three months. Staring out of the pilothouse windows seems an appropriate way to spend most afternoons.

This year I will have my flute. If I can concentrate enough I may not have to relearn to play it in the fall. I’m not proficient enough to consider myself more than a nuisance, so I am not sure where I will practice.

We have our plane reservations, someone to drive us to and pick us up from the airport, a place to stay in NY and a generously donated car once we get there. So on June 10th we’ll head out and see how far these preliminaries get us.