The Flying Canoe

We were supposed to cross Lake Champlain starting on April 30th, and we did. The trip, however, was made on a car ferry and not in our canoe.

On the 29th, Ben and I were on the Saranac River, as planned, and only about a half day from Plattsburgh, NY and a few hours more than half a day behind schedule. The thick ice on Raquette Lake had set us back a day or two, and we had been steadily making it up on the downhill run off the Adirondack Plateau. It was clear from our experience on the Raquette River that everything on the eastern side of the 'dacks was in flood stage, so it was time to be very careful.

We portaged most of the rapids we saw on principle, as the maps all reported them to be Class II or III, and with the amount of water we were seeing that was too big. We did several long portages, including the one around Permanent Rapids. The whole mile stretch of Class II & III rapids are famous, but with the melt water swelling the river, they were mostly drowned out. The whole stretch was a magic carpet of fast riffles. Like multiple other stretches of the river it looked like fun, but we took to the road and avoided it just in case. On a trip like ours, the emphasis must be on minimizing risk wherever possible. Later that same day, we would learn a very hard lesson in minimizing risk.

After a series of large pond crossings and portages around the small-scale hydroelectric dams that created them, we dropped back into quickwater section of the Saranac. As the banks steepened, the flooded river returned inside its normal course, and the wave trains began to grow in size. An open canoe could handle it, but we stopped anyway and attached our homemade spray cover and tightened our spray skirts. As errant waves splashed across the boat, they slid harmlessly off and I was glad for the long hours spent coaxing my mother's sewing machine into punching heavy thread through nylon and canvas.

Eventually, we came to a portage that was marked on the map. It went .1 miles around Tefft Pond Falls, and was clearly mandatory. We inched up along the bank to the start of the trail and unloaded quickly. The trail was barely noticeable, but we pushed through carefully for about a tenth of a mile, then decided to portage further down to another eddy that provided more space for a safe peel out with the fast water. We also know that there were a few Class III or IV ledges a-ways downstream that would require quick eddying out and we didn't want to be too far out in the current, even if the ledges were a good distance downstream.

As I finished loading the boat, Ben walked downstream to scout the section that followed the falls. He returned with the all clear, so we got in the boat, snapped on the three-piece cover, and peeled out. We rode fast for a short time, and then drew left to avoid a large spill-over. The boat responded, and dropped into a short chute to the left. We both realized as the bow of the canoe crossed over into the chute that it was far too big and we had made a grave mistake. The canoe turned over to the left and threw both of us out into the water. I grabbed onto the overturned boat and held on, but lost sight of Ben immediately. Within the seconds the boat turned so that I was downstream of it, so I let go and pushed off as it had become more of a danger than a help. I turned and saw Ben on top of a rock on river right, and then got into position with my paddle in one hand, spray skirt in the other, and the toes of my boots poking out on the river, pointed downstream.

About a half mile or mile downstream I got ashore and started back to look for Ben. The water was cold, my guess was about 40-45 degrees, so I was expecting hypothermia to set it quickly as the sky was cloudy and the air was not that warm either. To my surprise my temperature stayed up and I was adequately warm, though my legs were much colder than my core and responded a bit slower because of that. Insulating layers really do work, I supposed.

I was shocked when I saw the canoe. The bow painter had come loose, seized, and snagged underwater despite the lack of the knots beyond its attachment to the boat. Two-thirds of the canoe was out of the water just downstream of a small ledge, and it was surfing in place with all of our gear tied and wedged in. The canoe was in perfect shape, and more interestingly, it looked like it was flying.

Ben was just downstream on the island, and he was obviously the more immediate concern. We communicated with whistles, but we couldn't assertain each other's exact condition other than a thumbs up. All of my rope, including the throw bag, had been at my feet when we dumped. I made my way up the banks and through the trees until I got to level ground, and a ways after that, a pasture and a road. A scattering of farms and camps were strung along the road, and I returned to the river later with about 100 of heavy rope from an old man's pick-up truck. Not perfect, but the best I could do with the afternoon already just about over. The river was far too wide and fast to get me or the rope across there, so I hiked upstream about a mile and swam across in the fast, but flat water. We set up one system, but the rope was too elastic and would have put Ben in the water about halfway across the narrower channel river left. Instead, I anchored and Ben swam; the rope went taught and he swung into an eddy just downstream. We abandoned the boat for the night as any rescue that late would be far too dangerous. We were taken in at a farm down the road for a hot meal and hotter showers.

The next day we met up with a group of guys from the fire department and their swiftwater rescue instructors. They were running a training class, which they were kind enough to turn into a canoe rescue mission. When we returned to the river, the boat was miraculously still surfing along, still flying. The rescue crew went in, and when they had maneuvered as close to the canoe as possible, got lines on the bow painter and tried to pull the boat in. Instead, the boat immediately filled and sank just below the surface, discharging the remaining gear into the river. That was the last effort, it was too dangerous to try again. They were able to retrieve the pickle barrel (with sat phone) and Ben's dry bag, along with my day pack downstream. When all was said and done, after Ben and I walked the banks for miles downstream, we had lost quite a bit of gear: three paddles, an ice hook, setting pole, my ammo can (wallet, cell phone, camera), and my blue dry bag with tent, sleeping bag, and clothing. My tumpline was ripped off the wannigan, but I managed to fish the wannigan out from a small strainer. Interestingly enough, the packs that were not tied in survived, while some of the gear that was tied in (my dry bag and ammo can) was washed away. It doesn't usually work that way, but it goes to show that you can always secure your gear more. For a gear head like me, it was a mean, square kick in the teeth.

The river was running at about 2500 cfs, 690 cfs higher than its mean average of 1810 cfs. It was big, but not absurdly so. After the ledge, it would be OK for an open canoe, even a tripping canoe, but not one loaded with gear and not one on a long trip in cold water; we should have portaged much farther than we did, even cutting a trail if necessary. We should have scouted better, the maps could have been clearer, we could have braced better, the line between the thwarts would have been thicker or better tied, or we could have not even tried to do this trip. It is also not much of surprise that this happened at the end of the day. Searching for causality in this mess is important, but assigning blame is not. Mistakes like this are not an excuse to give up, but rather a call for more training, more education, and above all else, more caution.

One guiding principle of my efforts in the out of doors has been to avoid doing anything that Jon Kraukaur could write a book about. It soulds funny, but it is true. Plan and prepare until it hurts, don't take unnecessary risks, and get the education you need to minimize the risks that are necessary and to control situations when the shit hits the fan. Both of us are a bit bruised and sore, but we are alive. The boat is in fine shape, and when the water goes down (amazingly, it has dropped 500 cfs since I started writing this) we'll try to fetch it out. I lost some gear, but a tent is just a tent and a paddle only a piece of wood or aluminum: it is a small price to pay. Some of the gear may wash ashore and get turned in, it is not a wholly wilderness river.

With the help of several good friends, new and old, we have dried off, warmed up, and gotten a half dozen good meals in our bodies. Now we plan. There are still about 580 miles to go, and we're not stopping yet. Stay tuned.