New York

I inadvertently started a tradition of giving myself a surprise B-day party in NYC. It has been a decade of spring visits to Manhattan, that is until this year. This year with my nephew’s marriage in the spring and an eventual trip to upstate NY to pick up Carrie Rose I demurred. Still I did not want to miss out, so once Carrie Rose was tucked away — this time in Vermont — we took the Amtrak south.

Train travel in this country is a pathetic mess. I am not sure why it is tolerated but that is a story for another day. The train did provide us with a ringside seat of our trip south to New York City next summer. We were advised to sit on the train’s port side to better view the west side of Lake Champlain, the Richelieu river and the Champlain canal. The train crossed over at the Hudson’s eastside but at that point, it was dark so the utility of sitting on the left side was mute.

The train, at least in the north, does not travel in a straight line. It sways, it twists and turns, and it snakes along the edge of the lake. It must have been hell to build: blasting granite off a shear cliff into the lake to lay the track. The route we traveled this year whether by boat or train was bought at the cost of hundreds, maybe thousands, of Chinese, Irish, and I am sure many Europeans. Our path was littered with long forgotten monuments and cemeteries honoring these men.

Saturday was taken up with the train and as I looked out the window, I saw Lake Champlain narrow into the Richelieu River. Red & Green markers started to appear as well as several cruising boat heading for the Hudson River. Then the river verved off in one direction and the first northern lock (#12) of the Champlain canal appeared. The canal is a ditch and from the angle of a passing train, it is nearly invisible. These canals as well as the Canadian canals we traversed are purely recreational. The Erie retains some commercial traffic but the rest have succumbed to the loss of industry along their banks, as well as trains and trucks.

We arrived in NYC tired and hungry. The only redeeming thing was that our inn was only two stops away on the subway. Our room was a garret complete with a steep skylight worthy of a French impressionist painter. It was moist and warm with a cranky air conditioner going full blast. If it had not been 10:30PM with nobody at the front desk (this is a B&B, so they go home early) we would have complained. In the end, it turned out fine. The windows opened and NYC remained mercifully cool so we listened to the 23rd street noise.

Manhattan is an odd combination of threating and non-threating. I seldom feel unsafe there. People are genuinely friendly and helpful. Most of the poor souls with problems keep to themselves with the occasional gesticulating screamer to avoid. This year we encountered the worse of the above on our first subway ride to the Metropolitan Museum.

The subway has the benefit of multi-social/economic ridership. Day or night, it is packed with rags to riches. At $2.50 a ride the cost starts to add up but in 5 days of travelling north and south we spent less than a couple of taxi rides.

As I said, we were staying in a B&B. The breakfast never varied: bagels, some egg concoction, peanut butter and jam, cream cheese, chopped fruit, and yogurt. A Spartan spread but perfect for us.

The clients were from Europe and Asia, with a few Yanks thrown in. We awoke enthusiastic to get on with the business of being a tourist. Carrie Rose occupies a lot of brainpower, so I had not put much effort into our NYC itinerary. But it is not that hard in this concentrated city.

Sunday we went to the Metropolitan Museum and had dinner at Eataly. Monday was a trip to B&H camera, then the Highline, Chelsea Market, and the Mingus Big Band at the Jazz Standard. Tuesday was the Italian Futuristic show (1940-1945) at the Guggenheim, Japanese sweets from Minamoto on Madison Avenue, and dinner with friends who have spent their entire adult lives 65 stairs up in a tiny Greenwich Village apartment. Wednesday we went to the design museum in the morning and I had a shakuhachi (Japanese flute) lesson on the upper west side in the afternoon. I also traded my old (1900’s) bamboo flute for a newer one (1930). Dinner was with a friend who sailed (yes, I mean sailed) half way across the world from China to start an internal medicine residency in a Brooklyn hospital. Five busy days in a busy city.

New York City is an aesthetic muddle. The streets stink. Piles of garbage block the sidewalks. The air is thick and gritty. It is visually chaotic and sonically intolerable. But the creative energy is palpable. It draws me in.

Despite what New Yorkers think, not everything is the best. In fact, a lot of the stuff that goes on is just silly. But the point is it goes on, in spite of every common sense convention prohibiting it. This paradox brings me back to be surprised.

Island Life

In the last two years — if you do not count our time in Manhattan — we have spent about a month on islands. One in New York, the other in Vermont; one in the middle of the St. Lawrence River, the other in the middle of Lake Champlain; one with the feel of a country club, the other more homey with farms and a year long community.

Wellesley Island, NY is the former and Grand Isle, Vermont the latter. Carrie Rose brought us to both and friends helped us to leave. Next year we are determined to remain on the mainland. We’ll see…

On islands, everyone seems to know (or at least seems to think they should know) something about everyone else on the island. I am not sure this is true but with only three weeks of experience, I am not qualified to this opinion. I take that back, I am qualified to an opinion, just not one based on any certainty.

Another thing I have noticed is that we sleep longer on an island. Charlotte and I try to wait until 9:30PM before crawling into the focsule, and in the morning, I have to talk myself into staying in bed past 6:30AM. It is dark and mostly quiet in the island’s marinas. Except, beginning on Friday the regulars start to show up and percolate until Sunday afternoon, when their energy exhausted and they flee until the next weekend.

The marina becomes ours for the week. Charlotte paints and I write. We look forward to a glass of wine and the simple dinners I habitually cook. Projects are imagined and occasionally completed. We take walks, ride our bikes, do a little shopping and sightseeing, and then one day head home. It is bittersweet time.

Carrie Rose, clean with everything in its proper place does not seem herself. It is as if she is telling us to go home and take care of the garden, see some family and friends, and restart city life. Leave her — in good hands, we trust — to rest for the winter. As we step off for the last time we can hear her say, “Don’t forget me”. To which we answer, “We’ll be back in June and get you on the water too another island or maybe not.”

It's Time

There comes a time in every cruise’s life (at least in ours) when it is time to put the boat away and that time came today. I was a little apprehensive if for no other reason, despite our neighbor’s reassurances, that this boatyard is new to us. Last year we left the boat in the slip on Wellesley Island, NY and went home. The yard did everything without us in tow. This was not usually the case. I normally am, even if a by-stander, part of the process.

Well, this year I am in the process again. I winterized the boat. For the uninitiated this means 14 quarts of motor oil to replace and 20 gallons of antifreeze pumped into every system: toilet, hot and cold water systems, wash down pump, fore and aft bilges, air conditioner, generator, and finally the main engine.

Carrie Rose needed to be delivered to the pier but first the holding tank needed pumping and the fuel tank needed filling. Neither of these is complicated just a bit time consuming due to taking on 130 gallons of diesel.

Bringing a boat like Carrie Rose into a dock presents certain challenges. Nordic Tugs are many things but nimble is not one of them. Jerry, our fellow tug enthusiast, took us out on a couple of day trips and I noticed how well he handled his tug in close quarters. So, when I commented on this he proceeded to teach this old dog a new trick, and I got to try it out today. And what do you know it worked.

To shorten a long story, Dan and the crew pulled CR out of the water using a big John Deere, which did not seem to notice it was pulling a 17,000 lb. 32 foot long boat up a steep grade. Within a short time, she was parked with the keel supported by numerous wooden blocks and six side-stands.

And this happened with me on CR’s deck going along for the ride, while Charlotte raced around taking pictures. Quite a ride and quite a day, tomorrow the Big Apple by train and I am sure more adventure!

Grand Tour

For many years, we have told ourselves to find a place in the watery world and just stop. After all, we spent years sitting on our mooring in Montrose Harbor in Chicago not going anywhere. And so, that is what we did this year. Ladd’s Landing Marina a series of piers hanging off the northeast shore of Grand Isle, Vt. in Lake Champlain and this where we ended up.

It is from here that we left for our grand tour of Lake Champlain on Water Horse, Carrie Rose’s sistership. Jerry (her owner) asked us to be ready by eight and then informed us that we were in for a long day. Eight o’clock came quickly. We are usually up early but as is often the case, when there is a deadline, it seems problematic to get the things done in time. I have practiced Chanoyu, the Japanese Tea Ceremony, for decades and in this world, if an invitation says 8:00 it means 7:45. But in Water Horse’s world, it appeared that thirty minutes early is the proper protocol, so of course I delayed our departure.

I was forgiven (at least I think I was) and settled in as we motored under the only drawbridge on the Lake Champlain Islands. This leads to an irregular shaped oval basin named the Gut. The Gut is a mile wide and two long. It lies between North Hero Island and Grand Isle. It is hard to tell if nature or the road and railroad builders stitched these islands together. The railroad is gone now so the western end is open to the broad lake.

Water Horse passed out at Bow Arrow Point and headed across Lake Champlain toward Treadwell Bay. There was a small chop on the lake, which slowly diminished throughout the day. The plan was to head south around Cumberland Head (in New York), back behind Crab, Valcour, and Schuyler Islands, and into Willsboro Bay.

Water Horse was then going to cross the lake at its widest point to tie up in Burlington, VT. for lunch but alas, due to a wooden boat show and a paddle board race there was no room to be had. A few phone calls later and we expertly glided into Indian Bay Marina for a pleasant lunch accompanied by the squealing of ancient machinery lowering a boat into the bay.

Dodging tacking sailboats off Indian Bay Marina

The traffic picked up as we closed on Burlington. I was impressed at the number of large sailboats tucked into every cove and littering the outer harbor at Burlington. Their names (mostly French) were proudly displayed in large florid fonts on either side of the bow. As we cruised the harbor, which is delineated from the lake by a large W-shaped breakwater, we saw the gleam of fresh varnish and the remnants of the paddle boarders straggling in.

Approaching busy Burlington Harbor

Now it was time to point north back to the Gut. But first we had to head west for Burlington is snuggled into an about two mile deep dimple. Then there was Lone Rock Point amply named for the large lone rock that sits off its point. Appletree Point, Providence Island, Wilcox Point and around Young and Bixby Islands, and through the cut in the abandoned railway bridge, back under the drawbridge and Jerry’s adroit backing Water Horse into her slip and the day was over. Our chart book marked with notations and anchoring symbols we departed. It is hard to know how to thank a fellow boater for the invaluable local knowledge passed down.

Home is just around the corner

The grand tour lasted nine hours and close to seventy statue miles of Lake Champlain passed under Water Horse’s keel. Exploring this long narrow lake dotted with islands and bays, beckons us to come, drop an anchor, and sway in the winds that divides these two distinct states.

Geology

Geology was one of those subjects that failed to grab my attention as a youngster. Not that many subjects did. In college, they tried to hide it under the rubric of Earth Science but nobody was fooled. Same old boring rocks with unpronounceable names and worse yet, eons of dates to remember. Now sixty years mature and cruising in geographically interesting regions, I am finally attentive to my rocky surroundings.

There is nothing like being anchored in a secluded cove surrounded by the signs of obvious terrestrial upheaval etched in the rocks, even if it occurred a billion years ago, to start me wondering about what caused it. As Carrie Rose, our 32’ Nordic Tug, has cruised from Chicago south to north, west to east and now north to south she has traversed a flattened landscape the result of recent glaciers, then through one to two billion year old rock in Canada and New York, interspersed with 150 million year old sedimentary rock, and now sits in a marina which was once a slate quarry that dates to 450 million years ago.

I am not sure why the rocks have called out to me. Maybe it is because of the leisurely pace we cruise by them: 6 to 10 mph as opposed to 60 to 70 mph. Maybe because on the boat we live among them. It is easy to tell when we passed from the hard dustless environment of the granite of the Canadian Shield to the muddy rubble of the friable rock laid down layer by layer in an ancient river bottom.

Now we are mingling with rock midway between the two above extremes. It is layered in many places but much less prone to disintegrating into dust and mud. It crushes under foot like a hard cracker. And here and there, there are intrusions of smooth or volcanic rock that slid over the top or penetrated from deep below. Here on the Lake Champlain islands we can see how the rock bent and twisted in respond to the stress placed on it.

The owner of the marina informed me that the lake’s bottom around these parts is tricky to anchor on. That I will think the anchor has a good hold on the bottom but if the wind picks up it may not. It seems the mud and weed that the anchor grabs onto is only a shallow layer resting on smooth shale. The moral of the story is to anchor in a bay protected from the wind, and if the wind picks up or changes direction keep a close watch on the anchor. This I promised to do.

Soon we will leave Carrie Rose in Vermont for the winter and before venturing home spend a few days amongst the granite outcrops in NYC’s Central Park, and amid the canyons of buildings constructed of sand and limestone, and marble and granite brought in from as close as Vermont and as far a Carrera and beyond. The rock walls and floors in NYC have been selected, polished, and laid before me. It is like geology on the hoof and it cannot help but grab my attention.

A Coral Reef in the Rocks

Local

We have a simple fare on Carrie Rose. It is a bit monkish . . . actually, monks would probably revolt. In an effort to vary our diet it was decided to define just what we eat for dinner as breakfast and lunch have little variation. Thus a small Moleskin notebook titled “Carrie Rose =Meals= (AKA Dinner)” was born in June 2013.

Each entre starts with the date and at some point the location made its way onto the heading. There are entries from Beaverstone Bay in Ontario’s Georgian Bay to Poonamalie Lock on the Rideau Waterway; from Clayton, New York to Montreal, Quebec. To revisit the remote anchorages, small villages, and metropolises where we have enjoyed a simple meal is fun.

It did not take long to realize the futility of the above endeavor. After about the first five notations the meals started to repeat. There is pasta (whole wheat or regular) with tomato sauce or pesto; rice (white, reconstituted or whole grain) with pesto or soy sauce; frittata made with whatever pasta was left from the night before; quesadillas; veggie burgers; and of course sauté vegetables. Throw in some cheese and a salad and there is the summer’s cruising menu.

Not too long after starting the list, I started to list the beverages that accompany dinner. These consist of wine mainly. The wine selection in the eastern part of Ontario is limited, so I usually stick with and Italian pinot grigio or one with a mix of hard to pronounce local grapes. There are many Canadian wines, but they tend to be sweet rather than dry and are more costly.

The farther east and south the better the wine selection has become. I have been surprised by the selection of wines in Quebec. I envisioned French wines from the appellations I have become familiar with buying wine in Chicago, but unless in a large urban area with a similarly large budget these wines are not to be had. Most French wines on the shelves are from nondescript southern regions and Vin d’ Pays at best. Ah, the sacrifices one has to make!

But to the purpose of this tale, last night’s dinner. We ate (not on purpose) an entire menu of local foods. Salad, onions and green beans from Pomykala Farm on Grand Isle, goat cheese from HI-Land farm in Franklin, organic whole grain bread made with “a touch of VT Maple Syrup” from the Klinger’s Bread Company in South Burlington and a white wine made from traminette grapes by East Shore Vineyard in Shelburne.

Not a bad attempt I’d say — on top of leaving Carrie Rose for the winter — at supporting the local economy. Vermont deserves it.

Images

Home sweet home

Marina in a quarry

Grand Island scenery

Kale's captured everyones attention

Hi-tech blueberry pancakes

Landings

Blanche DuBois had it right about depending on the kindness of strangers. In this forth year of wandering on the Great Lakes and their tributaries Carrie Rose has relied on the help of both strangers and friends to make it to Ladd’s Landing Marina on Grand Island, Vermont. As its name implies it is an island that along with South Hero, North Hero, and several others delineates Lake Champlain into the broad lake and the inland sea.

The marina is tucked into the northeast corner directly south of the only drawbridge on the lake. It opens on request every half hour, and so I have been watching a parade of sailboats cross from one part of the lake to the other. It ding-ding-dings as it stops the traffic hopscotching from island to island on their way from Vermont to New York and visa-versa.

Ladd’s Landing is a family run operation with mom, dad, and at least one (maybe two) young daughter running the show. We are here because Water Horse’s captain boarded Carrie Rose at U.S. Customs and politely hijacked us here to his marina. Water Horse is a similar vintage Nordic Tug to Carrie Rose and thus the instant camaraderie between us.

On the way into the marina, I maneuvered alongside a dock of small sailboats, and then turned left down the second dock and into the last slip, which is made up, on our starboard side, of the main walkway connecting all the docks. It took Charlotte and I about a minute to decide to settle in and leave Carrie Rose here for the winter.

Ever vigilant, I noticed a few oddly place mooring lines as I motored to our slip and stored this away for further investigation. While I was securing the dock lines I looked up to see an open fetch of water from the northeast for which this marina offers no protection, and understood at once the reason for the odd lines . . . I am anticipating a few rough days and nights before we depart. But I am sure that whatever befalls us here friends and strangers alike will lend a hand.

Memories

Lachine is a town, district, or ward of Montreal. I am not sure which. We pulled into its marina bow first onto the usual short slip and confused the entire staff. But once it was settled that I was comfortable in this awkward position . . . ah, well, no problem. After looking around, we realized Carrie Rose was on an island.

This has happened to us before and last year, we were rescued by Charlotte’s cousin who had a cottage serendipitously close to our dock on Wellesley Island in the St. Lawrence River. This time we were on our own. I suggested we get on our bikes to ride off the island and explore, and after some discussion, it was agreed.

With the boat’s stern hanging 8 feet off the back of the dock it required several well coordinated maneuvers to get the bikes on finger dock. Once there we asked our gracious neighbor, a self described septuagenarian, how to get off the island and where should we go once on shore. He looked concerned and was not immediately forthcoming. I asked again, using the time honored techniques of speaking louder and slowly enunciating my words.

Language was not the problem, the problem was that in the late 1600’s the “Indians” attacked and massacred the entire (“men, women, and children”) settlement at Lachine. In response, the French king sent an army to massacre the “Indians” but they failed to so and so, it was probably not safe for us to ride our bikes in Lachine.

Charlotte and I both went “hum” to this superb example of — I’m not sure what to call it — cultural or institutional memory, or maybe Jung’s Collective Consciousness is a good thought, but his concern was for all mankind and this memory was limited to this particular French Canadian.

We decided to take his warning under advisement and cautiously rode off the gated island. For as much as we saw of the outside world it appeared safe. There were people conversing in outside cafe’s, children played in the sculpture park directly across from Carrie Rose, young mothers with strollers strolled, and thousands of people streamed by in tight biking gear on thousand dollar bikes reenacting the Tour-de-France.

We never saw our neighbor again. He went to Maine for the 73rd time in his 73 years to spend a week in a foreign land amongst strangers . . . strange.

P.S. The above bit of history was later confirmed in a gruesome pictorama at Fort Chambly.