Pike

Carrie Rose spent the day chasing a lone osprey down the Champlain Canal. I was convinced it was an eagle (albeit a small one) until I looked at the 100 pictures we took trying to catch it in the act of diving for a fish. At the end of the day locks 12, 11, and 9 were transited. In the building of the canal, it was determined that lock 10 was not needed but the numbers were left as is. This is a common occurrence. It was so on one of the canal systems in Canada.

South of lock 9 is the highest point on the Champlain Canal system at approximately 140 feet above sea level. Bill the lockmaster was an engaging fellow. He has 7 months to go before retirement and he was proud of his lock. I commented on how good it looked. The grass was perfect (all 7 acres of it), the bollards and all the other various equipment was brightly painted in the New York Canal Systems navy blue with cadmium yellow detailing. I am surprised the locks are not pinstriped.

Charlotte informed me to dock on the southeast wall once we passed though the lock. We had this quiet place to ourselves, lined with 100 years old cedar trees. Bill asked me if I wanted him to leave the street lights off. Yes was my answer. And he wanted to know if he should leave the bathroom open overnight. Now this is a different story as walking to the bathroom would entail about a half block walk back to the lock over the gate. This in itself was not a problem, the problem being the notorious Champlain Valley mosquitos. I knew Charlotte would never venture out after sunset and I doubt I would either, but I agreed.

To get some exercise we walked to the bathrooms and found out it was his and her, or his and his, or her and her side-by-side commodes. Let it be said, we did not take advantage of this feature. Back at the boat, Charlotte settled in with a good book and I took the Nikon with the long lens to go bird shooting. This approach to bird watching is new to me. I started experimenting in Costa Rica and have kept at it. Now, sans binoculars and bird book, I take as many pictures as I can of the unsuspecting avian and wait until I am back on the boat to identify them.

So, while I am back in the pilothouse identifying birds I see several limbs (or what use to be limbs) in the middle of the canal. Making a mental note of its location I go back to my task: an eastern phoebe and black-capped chickadee for sure. When I look up it is closer and aiming for Carrie Rose’s bow. Making an executive decision, I walked back to the lock house and informed Bill of the trees existence.

Despite the fact that I have interrupted his afternoon snack, he jumps to his feet to investigate. I follow in close pursue as he stops to pick up a 10 foot long yellow (of course) pike. I think I will divert from the story here to explain to all you land lubbers and non-fans of Irish Folk songs exactly what a pike is. A pike is like a spear but at the end — at least in this case — is a hand forged black point with a backward facing hook. The points are used to spear errant debris, mainly logs, or to position them close enough to be speared. It is an ancient but effective tool whether in war or waterway management.

Now back to the lock we walk out to Carrie Rose and watch the barely floating tree's almost imperceptible movements for clues. Both our brains do the math and it was determined to be heading for CR. Bill also looks a bit deeper into the water and realizes that it could be 30 or more feet long. He decides to let water into the lock thus creating a current and drawing the log towards the gate. Just in case it is not swept past CR, he leaves me with the pike. I take this as a true vote of confidence in my ability not to make a bad situation worse.

Locks have personalities. I never would have thought this but after locking through over 100 of them, I take nothing for granted. I read their descriptions, study the charts and pictures when available, and as soon as they appear on the horizon focus on them with my Canon 10x30 Image Stabilizer binoculars, looking for clues.

There is a low rumble; probably like the description of elephant calls I have read about. Its not so much hearing, though it is that, but feeling. Deep subterranean valves are opening at Bill’s command to let 1,000,000 gallons of water into lock 9. The log begins to move towards the lock gate. It picks up speed and with that stops its trajectory towards CR.

I take this as my queue to return the pike. It is long and heavy, and walking with it on the narrow canal wall makes me feel like a trapeze artist. This is a first for me. I hand it over to Bill who informs me he would have gladly come to get it and we both watch the progress of the ever-enlarging log. Bill stabs it and pushes it away. He has decided to get in the lock and call his boss. It slowly floats back against the current; heavy with the water it has soaked into its porous cells. The lock lets out higher pitched sounds, and the squeaks and shrills of un-lubricated hinges.

There is the whirl of electric motors generating hydraulic pressure and the gleaming metal rods that are attached to the gates begin to appear. I do not know why but this kind of stuff fascinates me. I do not regret for a second my medical career but wonder if a career counselor (not that I would have listened to them) would have suggested engineering, if that had been a better choice.

That is unimportant at present. The log slowly moves into the middle of the lock. Gates close and it finds itself 140 feet above sea level, and on the way down 16 feet. The north gates open and the log sits there. Good thing no boats wanted to lock through. Earlier Bill had informed me that the number of boats locking through has decreased steadily over the last three years. We ruminated as to the causes: the economy, the aging of the boating community, the disinterestedness of youth to anything not digitized, the cost of fuel. A long list but for today, whatever the reasons it was a blessing that no boat needed to pass.

In the end, the log was longer than the lock was wide and that is 44 feet. Bill closed the northern lock, refilled the lock, and corralled the log to its side. It was time to head home and these days on the locks there is no overtime allowed.

I sauntered back to CR. Did a little more bird spotting and then, what do you know it was time to make dinner. Locks, trees, birds, pikes, enjoyably interactions and home keeping, all in a day slowly cruising south on the Champlain Canal…ahhhhh!