My Reach: Unacceptable

My friend John Lipscomb is the captain of R. Ian Fletcher, the Riverkeeper patrol boat. I’ve known him since I was a child as our parents were friends and so I know that water—the rivers and oceans--are in his blood; he’s lived on the Hudson for most of his life. I know few people as passionate about the environmental issues facing the Hudson as John—closing Indian Point, shutting down the shad fishing industry so that the fish can swim free, and clean water.

Clean water. Several times a year John makes the journey north to sample water quality in the river.  He tests the water for salinity, chlorophyll, turbidity and oxygen levels. But what is most important is he tests the enterococcus levels—yes, the levels of raw sewage in the river.

John then posts this information online. This ongoing study is fascinating to read to see how certain locations rate over time. Lucky for me, one of the sites is my reach off of Tivoli. So I know that for all of 2010 our water was acceptable, and I took that as a given. But the most recent set of water samples shows that the water quality in my reach is unacceptable.

(This is a photo of John on his boat--note the focus; he misses little on the river!).

This is from John’s most recent Riverkeeper member email: “Our May patrol was rainy, wet and nasty. It rained between 1.2 and 2.5 inches during and before our patrol (with local heavy rain every day as we worked north) and, as a result, we found more unacceptable water quality than ever before. Not one sample site north of Poughkeepsie was acceptable. This is stunning.”

It is stunning. John attributes this to sewage systems overloading during heavy rains. The solution: build better sewage treatment plants or repair old and broken systems.

Where this pollution comes from in my reach is troubling. If it is sewage from Tivoli, then that means that it has traveled from the Stony Kill into the North Tivoli Bay and then to the river. Perhaps with the incoming tide that raw sewage floats north. But the idea of that raw sewage entering the bay—a slice of marshland isolated from the river—makes me sad. There, snapping turtles, bitterns and rails make their lives. They deserve better than this.

To get my kayak in the water I wade in, the cool water slapping my calf muscles. Sometimes after an evening paddle, when it is hot and still, I like to beach my boat, then swim out into the river to cool off. That is what I almost did last night after a late paddle to the Saugerties Lighthouse. But something held me back and now I’m grateful I simply packed my boat up and headed home. Still, I’d like to be able to go for an after paddle swim, and to know that the waters I swim in are clean. It’s little and yet a lot to ask. But we do have to ask. One way is to support John in his work.

My Reach

 As I slid my kayak into the Hudson River last Wednesday evening, the water grabbed my ankles. My calf muscles seized with the cold.  I tuc ked into my boat and settled into the seat of my kayak. I then strapped the sprayskirt tight, before dipping my paddle into the spring-brown water. This was my first time in my kayak on the river this season, a late start for many reasons, but mainly due to our over-rainy spring. I was eager to scout about the section of river off of Tivoli that I think of as my reach.

A reach is a stretch of navigable river, often the distance the eye can scan. On the Hudson there are a range of reaches, most with direct names like the Barrytown Reach or the North Germantown Reach. Some have names that have existed since when Henry Hudson sailed up the river in 1609 like the Long Reach off of Poughkeepsie. When Ed Abbey claims the desert in Desert Solitaire as his own, “Abbey Land,” it is because he is the only one there and because he loves it. I too make my claim out of love, but I can’t claim I am the only one on the river. I share my reach with many—many who no doubt imagine that this is their reach as well.

Because I see this as my reach, when I paddle about I note changes, good and bad: new graffiti on the abandoned dock; the for sale sign down on the blue-roofed house at the end of the jetty (who gets to live there?!); more debris like sticks and logs in the water from all of the rain. And because I call it mine, I pick up the plastic water bottle bobbing in the water, and wonder how the herring run was this year.

The Saugerties Lighthouse pulled me north and across the river. I scanned for boats as I crossed the choppy channel mid-river. Motor boats were out on this rare clear day, but I did not spy any barges or tankers. At the lighthouse, I slid onto the sandy beach on the north side, and pulled out of my boat. In just a short time—the half hour it took me to cross—my lower back already had a pleasant tightness. As I wandered the beach and onto the path that leads from land to the lighthouse it sounded like I was at a baseball game as several Baltimore Orioles gave off their exuberant calls. And then overhead I spied a large flock of small geese, silent in their journey north. Brant. Brant are a small goose that nests in the arctic. These birds had come a distance, anywhere from Georgia to the New Jersey coastline, and had a long distance in front of them.

There were about fifty Brant in that first flock. But just minutes behind them was another flock, their messy V shape dotting the blue sky. Over 250 birds had gathered for their annual pilgrimage. I walked back to my boat, pushed off and cruised south with the outgoing tide. I needed to make a full sweep of my reach, down to Magdalen Island, with a quick dip into the North Tivoli Bay.

As I paddled south, one flock of brant after another crossed overhead ranging in size from eight, cruising low to the water, to flocks of several hundred, higher in the sky. I wondered if they used the river to navigate, to find their way from Georgia to the far north.

A fisherman idled in the river in a flat bottomed boat. As I neared I saw his line tighten. I watched as he pulled up, the rod arcing with the strain. Then he lowered his rod, reeling in the line. Pull, reel, pull, reel. It took a good ten minutes to get the fish up. And as soon as it was in his boat, he had it unhooked and had dropped it back in the water. I watched the fish—a good foot and a half long—as the fisherman slid it into the water.

At Magdalen Island I crossed back to the eastern shore of the river. Cutting in close to the island, I smelled a rich mixture of earth and honeysuckle. The fluky waters at the southern end of the island tossed me about as I rounded the island to dip into the North Tivoli Bay. An osprey swooped overhead and perched on the north end of the island. Just a dozen yards from the big raptor perched three great blue heron, perhaps settling into the trees for the night.

The water pushed me under the railroad trestle and into the bay. The late evening light added a glow to the quiet bay where the cattails and phragmites have yet to start their spring growth. The bay looked barren, but the bird calls let me know that life was alive and well. From the stubby reeds of last year I heard swamp sparrows, marsh wrens, and the ever-present red-winged black birds. And then from inland  emerged the distinctive tap-tapping call of the Virginia Rail. From the other side the rail was serenaded by another rail, cack-cacking in response. Grinning, I turned back to the big river, wanting to get back to Tivoli before nightfall as I had forgotten my light.

As I approached the underpass I saw that the water was running faster than usual; the rain swollen river was making the outgoing tide more vigorous. I tightened my life vest, felt happy my binoculars are waterproof, made sure the toggle on my sprayskirt was easily accessible. If I went over, I would tug on it, and drop out of my boat. In other words, I headed for the underpass expecting to go over. I’m not sure why I expected the worst, since in ten years of paddling the Hudson I have yet to dump out of my boat. But the waters felt tricky.

I took a running start, picking up speed as I headed toward the steel girders that support the trains that rush by overhead. I aimed for the southern end of the underpass, knowing the water would push me north. Fueled with adrenalin, I shoveled the water. Then I had to bend over to pass under the girders. This gave me less leverage. Not so slowly, I was being pushed toward the cement supporting wall. I adjusted my boat, paddled, adjusted and finally slammed into the cement wall. I waited for the water to suck me under but instead, I held the wall as the water rushed past. I pushed off from the wall and gave the last ten feet my best effort. When the nose of my boat emerged from under the bridge, the waters instantly calmed. I stroked a few feet toward Magdalen Island, sat back in my seat and breathed deeply.  I did not go over, I felt lucky.

The herons sat placid in their trees, unaware of my adrenalin-inducing moment exiting the North Bay. The sun dipped behind the Catskill Mountains adding a glow to the sky. Two more flocks of brant cruised silently overhead. The sun set--another gorgeous sunset--over the Catskill Mountains.

Two young men were standing at the landing when I pulled up. One helped me put my boat on my car. They were graduating Bard College students, one a dancer, the other a history major. I told the dancer he shouldn’t smoke as he puffed on a cigarette. “I’ve been smoking longer than I’ve been dancing,” he said with a smile. I wanted to tell him he should have taken a course in basic logic.

They asked what I had seen. Many wonderful things. “Brant,” I told them. “Sixteen flocks.” I wasn’t convinced they were interested, but I had to tell them of the brant’s remarkable journey north.

“What’s that?” the dancer asked pointing across the river.

More brant. Seventeen flocks of the arctic-bound geese.

Back on the Water

I write back on the water and not on the river because this first paddle of the season was on a freshwater marsh, named the The Great Vly in Ulster County. The weather was warm, the sun out, and the wind blowing—a perfect northeast spring day. The Vly is about a mile long, choked with phragmites, and cattails. Short cliffs and woods rim the Vly on the western side and low hills cradle the eastern side. The tail end of a cement factory is visible at the far northeastern end (Lehigh Cement runs from the Vly to the Hudson River).

I settled into my kayak, pushing my back into the seat and my knees up into the side of the boat. I tugged the spray skirt into place, and took my first stroke, my hands adjusting to the paddle. As I glided forward, mute swans flew overhead, the whoosh of their enormous wings like someone bowing the air.  This was perhaps the only time of year it is possible to paddle into the Vly as in summer the surface is covered by floating mats of vegetation.  But in early spring a wide shallow channel marked the middle of the marsh.

Peter was ahead of me in his green kayak, his camera cradled between his legs.  We passed Canada geese nesting in clumps of grasses, and a few beaver lodge, the sticks piling high like water-based teepees. Ring-necked ducks, mallards and a few teal rose when we got within two hundred yards (ducks are skittish!). At the northern end of the Vly, I followed a narrow path into the grasses. I couldn’t see Peter or the birds. I knew that but a mile or so away in one direction ran the New York State Thruway, and in the other sat the cement plant. But there in the marsh was a sense of still isolation, just a drop of land protected from the rush of the world.

As I paddled about I kept thinking: this smell is familiar. And then it came to me. The Vly smells like my sister’s turtle tanks from when we were children. Inside those tanks was a mixture of algae, turtle poop and then the turtles themselves, a cast of  soft shell turtles and painted turtles that lived short but loved lives.

The tanks always needed more cleaning. Every so often, when the water became unhealthily murky, Becky would stick a clear plastic tube into the tank and siphon out most of the water. To get the water flowing, she would fill the tube with water, plug both ends, and if all went well, when she released her thumbs, the water would flow. Often, it did not, so she resorted the most assured way: sucking on the end of the tube. Only she didn’t like sucking on the tube. So she would call in her little sister. “Help me out,” she would coax. And I would. The first time I ended up with a mouthful of turtle tank water.  Later, I would watch the cloudy water zooming down the tube toward my mouth and let go just before it arrived. But there I would be, hovering over a plastic bucket of turtle water, inhaling the smell of turtle life.

So there I was, paddling in a large body of turtle water. Which means there had to be turtles.

“I’ve seen five,” Peter said, which didn’t surprise me. Peter sees and hears everything in the woods and streams—the mink by the side of the pond, the grouse drumming in the woods, a thumping beat I would easily miss.

I had seen none. But truth was I hadn’t been looking for turtles, I’d been looking at the eagles soaring overhead, and hoping to see a goshawk as well.

I scanned the shoreline. Peter told me to look on logs, and on the beaver lodges. Turtles like to sun. “Look for something shiny,” Peter said. “And if you are lucky, maybe we’ll see a yellow spotted turtle.” He paused. “They are pretty rare.”

The yellow spotted turtle is on the endangered list in Canada, and though it’s not on that list in this country, it is “vulnerable to extinction in the wild.”  

I wanted to see one. What is this urge to see the rare, the species poised to disappear, perhaps in my lifetime? This wasn’t the first time. I’ve made long detours in hopes of seeing a whooping crane, and I’ve tromped through miles of sagebrush to see a greater sage grouse. It is Peter’s stories of when he set afloat in the waters of Arkansas looking for the Lord God Bird—the Ivory billed Woodpecker—that thrill me the most. Somewhere in my thinking is that seeing these creatures means they are still here with us, that things are not as dire as I fear. But beyond this need to be reassured is something else more primitive: seeing them—when I am that fortunate--is special. It’s like being awarded that grant or residency, which always feels like half work, half (or more) chance. Or, it’s like finding that one perfect partner—amongst the several billion on this planet--to venture out with onto a marsh on a spring day.

I suppose my urge to see the rare isn’t unlike someone who flies to Paris to see the Mona Lisa or to Rome to see the Sistine Chapel. But to see these treasures simply requires determination, paying a fee (and usually standing in a long line). And it’s possible to return again and again to see these rarities. To see the turtle would require stealth, a keen eye, and good luck.

We approached the shore where we had put in two hours earlier. My lower back could feel the tender ache of this first paddle. I felt happy, even though I had given up on the goshawk,  and had resigned myself to no turtle.

“There,” Peter said, as we neared the shore.

And there they were, two spotted turtles, sunning on a log. We watched them for ten minutes before they slid off the log into the turtle water.

Boat School

At noon on the second day of boat school, I folded up the

lines of plywood I had stitched together with copper wire. Before me rested

over seventeen feet of something that had the shape of a boat. It would sink, but

it had the feel of water about it. I was not particularly proud of my

accomplishment. All I had done was follow the careful but relaxed directions of

the teacher, a master boat builder named Geoff Kerr. What I had done to arrive

at my boat-like creation was all pretty basic. Drilled a few holes, cut copper

wire, slipped the wire through the holes and twisted them tight. My thumbs were

sore, my back a bit achy from standing and bending over for so many hours; I

had not done anything technically difficult. No wood to cut. No precision to

anything I had done. “Six inches between holes?” I had asked. “About, just eye

ball it.” Whatever might go wrong could be fixed. Nothing that sanding, epoxy

and paint could not fix.

On the first night at the Wooden Boat School, Rich, the generous

and welcoming director, asked everyone to introduce themselves. One man ran a

boat yard down the way and wanted to learn bronze casting; another owned four

boats and needed to know more about diesel engines. A few from the coast guard

were there to learn how to inspect wooden boats. Many people were repeat

students. What was I doing there? All I knew was that I wanted to be a student

for a while, to learn something new that had nothing to do with books or words.

My class was to build an Annapolis

Wherry, a boat I had never seen or rowed but for some reason fell in love with

the sleek lines when I saw an image on the internet. In other words, this was a

version of internet dating, impulsive and perhaps all wrong.“Do you row?” people asked, trying to

understand why I was building this boat, which is 34 inches wide, and rows like

a crew boat, with a sliding seat. Nope. “Is this a stitch and glue boat?” I had

no idea. “Is it made of plywood.”

Probably. (One week later I could say yes, and yes to these last

questions).

I have not built many things in my life. In grade school I

bought balsa wood airplane models and under the guidance of Woogie Ham (not an

invented name; the boy was teased) did a lousy job of gluing them together. I

did not have the patience for the meticulous work of airplane building. Since

then I had acquired a few tools, though I used my drill mostly to hang pictures

on the wall or curtains in the bedroom. But I do have faith that with the right

instruction I can do anything, and that anything can be taught. I wanted to

learn, to be the student, not the teacher.

I am a teacher. I teach creative writing, the personal essay

and nature writing at Bard College. As my students struggle to get their

experiences into beautiful prose, I too also often say, “it will be ok, a

little sandpaper, a little paint, and we can figure this out. Just keep going.”

Determination, going into the writing every day, twisting those bits of copper wires

even if the act of twisting is not inspired, is as essential as the great idea.

Building is building, whether a sentence or a boat.

I was building my boat in the home town and final resting

place of one of the great writers and teachers of writing, E.B. White. For a

clean sentence he can’t be beat. His Elements of Style so often guides me: write

with nouns and verbs. Use the active voice. Don’t place words in the negative

if you can write it in the positive. In tribute to White, I have named my boat

Radiant.

To build something beautiful, truly radiant, I am sure that

it takes more than following the steps. Still, rules are helpful. Stir the

epoxy well. Try not to leave globs, but if you do you can sand them off later.

Try not to use adverbs, but if you do, edit them out later. And it helps to

have a teacher confident enough in his craft to let you make mistakes and still

believe it will all work out.

And lo, at the end of the week, I had a boat. Still not

something that would float—all those holes I drilled now needed to be filled

in--but I was getting closer. It gleamed in the light as I loaded it onto the

roof of my car. I have a few weeks of work left to do—filling and sanding,

daily work that with patience will add up to something called boat.

At the same time, with Elements of Style at my side, I will

be editing my manuscript about kayaking the Hudson River. Daily work that with

patience will add up to something called book.

.