The River at Night

Yesterday was one of those hot July days that keep me inside. Lucky for me I had the thrilling and heartbreaking women’s soccer game to watch. Then, I needed to be on the river. At ten at night, I drove across the train tracks and into the gravel space near the river.  There was a van at the launch and several people chatting on the make shift dock. They too were no doubt looking for cooler temperatures. The lights from Friendship street offered a little help as I unstrapped my boat, slid it off the car and walked it out to the water. It was low tide, the water lapping gently onto the rocks.

It’s a strange thing to launch in the dark. Usually I start my paddles in daylight and journey into the night. But to start in the dark felt a bit odd. What was I paddling toward but more darkness?

The water felt warm around my ankles as I stepped into the river. I twisted on my 360-degree white light that I stick onto the back of my boat. Immediately, bugs flew to the bright light, mobbing my boat. I turned the light off, preferring to move dark and silent through the water.

Though it was low tide, the water was still making a push to the sea. I shoved south with the outgoing current.

“You kayaking?” someone with a drunken slur called from shore.

“Yep,” I called back.

“You should use your light. I’ve run over boats at night,” he said.

I bet you have, I thought. I kept on paddling. The river was calm, empty, wide. The moon had yet to rise.

A mansion on shore—the Pynes—shone lights into the night sky, giving me a sense of life on shore. On the water, I felt the pinpricks of bugs, as I paddled in the shadow of the shoreline that rises to the east. White lights dotted the far shore, and a flashing green light indicated the channel for the bigger boats that move at night. In the distance danced the lights of the Kingston-Rhinecliff bridge (photo at left!)

Paddling in the dark disorients me in intriguing ways. Sounds are amplified and smells become acute. My sense of distance is altered as well as the depth of the water. I often imagine that the river—which is relatively shallow outside of the shipping channel—is hundreds of feet deep. In the dark, I skim the surface as if on a high balance beam.

Smack, a fish flipped just to my right startling me. My heart raced.  This smidgen of fear has always been a part of my outdoor adventures. It’s the fear that keeps me alert to all around me. It reminds me of the dangers, which are also the joys of outdoor adventure.

As I neared Magdalen Island, which lay huddled in the dark, the moon rose, a few days past full, a beautiful glowing orange-red lopsided ball. I heard voices from the island and wondered if someone was camping there. Or of someone might be there looting the island. But it was a canoe with a man and woman heading back to Tivoli. I saw their outline in the dark.

“Oh, there’s someone,” he said when I was about fifteen feet away.

“It’s pretty dark to be paddling,” I joked.

And we went our separate ways.

At the end of Magdalen a great blue heron croaked its discontent that I had disturbed its roost for the night. I slushed through the shallow, grass-filled water on the east side of the island. A fish flipped in the water and smacked against the hull of my boat. I let out a cry of alarm. Was it a sturgeon there, lurking in those shallow waters? I liked to imagine the long, primitive fish making its fearless way through the dark.

I chugged my way back north against the tide. A train passing interrupted the silence, blowing its horn, long and insistent. When I pulled out of the water an hour later, the river had worked its magic: the heat of the day was replaced with the lights on shore, the lopsided orange moon, and a rush of excitement at the slap of a fish.

Goosebumps

On July 11, the local papers reported a boating accident on the Hudson just north of Tivoli. At 4:30 in the morning a motorboat crashed into a cement wall, killing four. Two made their way to help and were in intensive care. These boaters were all in their twenties, except one who was 41 years old. Young people, from Kingston, the city south and across the river from Tivoli. The reports were quick to note that alcohol might have played a role in the accident.  They also noted that no one was wearing a life vest.

I knew that there would be a storm of response, a sort of "blame the victim" and then a call for regulations on boaters. But my first response was to wonder what the boat had hit. I paddle this stretch of the river regularly and I mentally scanned the shoreline for a cement wall sticking into the river. None came to mind. So I needed to go out and see what had led to this sad accident. I suppose too that seeing the site was part of what we all do, witness in order to understand the many ways that we can die.

I’ve thought about death a lot while paddling on the river. Not the expected thoughts of going over in my kayak and drowning. I’ve thought of the deaths of my parents, the death of turtles and sturgeons, and once when I saw a dead body on shore of the life and death of this person I did not know. I do not think that I am morbid; the river forces these thoughts in its endless flow in and out with the tides. The river gives and it takes away.

It was eight in the evening when I slid my boat into the summer-warmed water. Cicadas were buzzing their song on shore, letting me know of the heat of the day. The river was a shiny black surface. I stroked north, as the sun spiraled toward the west, leaving an orange-pink glow behind the Catskills.

I soon realized that I wasn’t alone on my paddle. A group of people talking loudly were walking the shoreline, that gravely space between the train tracks and the shrubs that line the river. Through the shrubs I caught sight of them, most dressed in black. Several carried twelve-packs of beer. And I knew right away what this group of 12 were doing. They were on a pilgrimage to the site where they had lost their friends.

Since kayaking is walking on water, we moved at the same pace, those trudging on land, making calls, laughing, swearing. I rarely caught what was being said except  for the louder curses. There was a sense of jollity and outrage. I stroked north, keeping pace, as the Saugerties Lighthouse appeared to the west. I kept away from the shoreline to allow the mourners their space.

I was a good mile north of Tivoli then I saw the cement wall, not but fifteen feet stretching into the water.  It must have been the remains of a dock. Those boaters were too close to the shoreline, I thought. But in the dark that shoreline, the shadows and eddies can be deceiving.  I knew this from my nighttime paddles, how disorienting the river can be in the dark. It’s hard to gauge speed and depth, it’s hard to know where the shoreline is. And, throw in a few beers and it could become even more complicated to read the water.

I floated on the river off of the cement wall as the friends, bathed in grief, gathered near the wall. At that moment a bald eagle flew over, and I pulled out my binoculars to follow its powerful flight. The group turned to watch the eagle as well, and they became silent. The silence stretched as the eagle disappeared over the ridgeline. Finally one young man spoke: “Goosebumps.”

I continued north a bit further, waiting for the moon to pop over the ridge. We were one day short of the full moon, the July full moon, the Buck Moon. This is when new antlers push out on buck deer. Bugs pricked my skin, as lights dotted the shoreline.

Through the tall trees that lined the hillside on the eastern shore I could see the deep glow of the moon. Slowly it rose, like a hot air balloon, silent but steady. And there it was, full and round, bathing the water, casting shadows from the shoreline, washing this sad spot in light. Goosebumps, I thought.

Hitchhiking on the Hudson

Every boater and his cousin is out on the Hudson River on this fourth of July when I slide in off of the dock in Athens. The DEC has put in a new, wonderful dock there making entry a lot of fun. Just east is the dredge-created island, Middle Ground Flats. The sun is high, and far too hot. There’s a whitewash of cloud covering a too-blue sky. What I tell myself is that for most of these boaters this is their first time on the water this year. This makes them happy but perhaps unskilled boaters. And, given that it’s the fourth of July it’s also possible they are drunk. I paddle, keeping to the shallows on the western side of the river.

The water is murky brown, and turbulent from the wake of boats zipping by. There are boats towing children on floating tubes and boaters loitering as people drop a fishing line in the water. There are jet skis galore, making circles in the water. And almost no sailboats. But most are mid-sized motorboats, shoving purposefully north or south.

As I paddle I look at the wisp of clouds in front of me and think: I don’t know anything about clouds. And yes, then I sing to myself, softly…

(I look up at home that I was looking at wispy cirrus clouds then later puffier cumulous clouds; I still, however, know nothing about love. I mean clouds.)

This stretch of the water, from Athens on the west bank and Hudson on the east is a particularly wild stretch of the river. The train tracks scoot inland leaving the banks green, and on the western side marshy with cattails. I listen for birds and in the heat of the day hear only the obvious red winged blackbird.

I am paddling north looking for a particular boat. And an hour and a half in I see it. Low in the water, moving more slowly than the playful motorboats. A gentle line. A working boat. It’s the Riverkeeper boat, the R. Ian Fletcher. The captain, my friend John Lipscomb leans out the window and I stick out my thumb. He idles the boat, then leans over to steady my kayak as I hoist myself aboard. There’s little time for hellos as he returns to the controls and points us south.

John (who I wrote about in an earlier post this spring) is out on a mid-summer patrol of the river that extends north above the Troy dam to Waterford. He’s been on his boat for a few days, taking scientists and activists on board as he checks water quality, and in general keeps a keen eye on the river.  I am the only hitchhiker he’s picked up on this trip.

“You know you’re the only one out here working today,” I say, standing next to him at the wheel, scanning out low over the water. (the photo above is the view from his controls)

He looks at me and gives me a smile that says, Don’t remind me. But it also says, Of course I am. He has worked every day since March. John works for the river.

There’s a line of plastic bottles lining one side of the boat. “Pee samples?” I ask.

“Good news,” John says. “Your Tivoli reach is cleaner.”

Earlier in the year, the water samples (which are part of a larger long-term study) off of my village had had unacceptably high levels of enterococcus.

A boat wooshes past and I wave.

“OK, let’s get this waving straight,” John says. “First, you can’t wave from inside the boat, because no one will see you.” He sticks his hand out the open sides and tips his hand. It’s not so much a wave as a palm facing outward. “This is fine, this is what guys do.”

I laugh.

“You can do this,” he says. He tips his hand a bit. “But not this,” he says waving his hand back and forth. “That’s fluttering. Birds flutter.”

“Got it,” I say, pleased with my waving instruction. I put my hand out the window and wave madly at a passing boat. John pretends not to notice.

We head south at a steady 7 knots, John and I chatting about the river, about my book, about work, about family. Though I only get to see John a few times a year, usually when he docks in Kingston, we talk like family. His mother and mine were best friends, two French women who married American men. While we talk we throw a French word in here and there, acknowledging that tie. But we’ve forged our own tie through this river, and that’s what we focus on.

Right away I jump into the news that Cuomo wants to shut down the nuclear power plant, Indian Point. This is an issue that has kept Riverkeeper focused for years and I know it’s something John cares about. I’m excited about this, taking the news at face value. But John isn’t celebrating. He’s too smart to the ways of politicians. First, what the governor can do isn’t so direct, he explains. And, isn’t it curious that this announcement comes a few days after he states that there will be fracking in New York. It’s as if the environmental issues are being balanced out: one good, one bad. I feel stupid for not seeing the bigger picture and roll into a tirade about how hydrolic fracturing, even if done outside of the state parks, or outside of Manhattan’s water supply, will affect water everywhere.  I don’t need to convince John of anything here. (Some environmental thinkers believe that if Indian Point is shut down it will create more pressure to frack as New York City needs power. I don't think these are the only two options.)

We carve in on the eastern side of Middle Ground Flats. A few years ago I paddled out to the Flats from Hudson on a hot summer evening. The island was alive with campers, and with those who had set up rogue encampments on the island. There were small shacks and tents, signs stolen from land and posted to oak trees announcing a Narrow Bridge, where there is none. A One Way sign where there are no roads. A green sign that labels this is Rayville, when there is no ville. Most of it had a quirky, fun feel to it. And some of it, like the bus seats left to rot in the sun, felt like a slum. Since then, the DEC has come in to claim the land and to clean it up. This didn’t happen without a dispute as some felt that this former underwater land created from dredge belonged to all. (photo is of the earlier Middle Ground Flats)

Despite the clean up, there are still a few shacks on the island, and a half dozen boats are anchored on the northwestern side. People splash in the water, and a few grills send off the smell of roasting burgers.

In front of us a small motorboat languishes. Three men have wooden ors in the water, stroking toward the Hudson dock. John sidles up to them. His precision in placing his boat in the water is impressive. He’s close enough that we can speak, but not so close as to rock the already struggling boaters.

“Doesn’t look good,” he says as a way of greeting.

We learn they need to get to Catskill, where they have their trailer. John tells them we’ll tow them south. They look wonderfully relieved as they throw us a thin rope.

And off we go, continuing downriver.

I tell John about one of my students at Bard College who heard him speak, who was  motivated to form a clean up club for the Tivoli Bays. John is a story teller. He’s got a great sense of pacing and a terrific sense of humor. And great scoops of outrage. So to listen to one of his stories is to want to take action then and there, to do something for the river. That’s what got my student, Gleb. He organized a clean up in the spring.

“What did you pull out?” he asks.

“Styrofoam.”

“What color was it?”

“Blue-green,” I say.

“Dock foam.” He gives me the dimensions of the huge hunks of foam I pulled out.

“That’s it. And bottles. Lots of bottles. I tried to do a sociological study from the bottles,” I say. “I wanted to show that Bud drinkers toss off more bottles than those who drink Stella. But it doesn’t work that way. Smart water drinkers litter just as those who drink Arizona Ice Tea.”

John laughs, and we talk about how garbage ends up in the river, and not always because people toss stuff overboard. It runs off from land. Boaters lose their buoys that they let drag in the water. We see a few, and scoop up. And some of it comes into the river through our sewage system. He tells me about all the condoms he saw when he was patrolling the Gowanus with a reporter on board. “Did you do a sociological study of those condoms?” I ask.

I spy an osprey nest on one of the channel markers, and look for baby osprey. A boat parade pushes north, flags waving. There’s a few motorboats and one beautiful lobster boat. “I want one of those,” I say. Being on the river makes me want a dozen boats.

“Riverkeeper, are you towing?” a voice asks over the radio. All of the boats slow as they pass us with our tow.

We wave. I get the wave right.

Basha Kill Paddle

“Turtle!” Peter called. With two swift strokes, he paddled toward the beaver lodge and snagged the turtle before it dropped into the water.

I grinned as he held the turtle up to identify it. Clearly Peter had spent his childhood scooping up turtles—that strike and capture took years of practice.

My camera had inconveniently died just moments after taking this first of morning picture so we couldn’t photograph the turtle. “Memorize this,” Peter said. The yellow line along the face, the edge of the shell, the shape of that shell. Later we matched this small, struggling catch to a stink pot, or the common musk turtle. It slid into the water and was off. Peter put the tips of his fingers to his nose. “Smell this,” he said, and I leaned over to take in the musky smell of turtle.

Peter and I were paddling through the over 2,000 acres that make up the Basha Kill Wildlife Management Area. It’s an area that draws birders in spring migration and we had been there to spot warblers in May. We were now back looking for marsh birds and to move about by kayak, not on foot.

We had put our kayaks in the water just south of Wurtsboro, off of route 209 in Sullivan County around 6:30 in the morning. The water was clear and still, with a gorgeous fog hanging over the low lying hills that surround the marsh.

Moving by kayak was easy as the water was so high after a very wet spring. We meandered past pickerel weed, putting up its baton of purple bloom, and a range of sedge grass. We could hear moorhens cackling from within stands of reeds, and several shy wood ducks flew by overhead. As the fog floated off and the sun warmed the water, dragonflies darted about, and we could see fish gracefully working through the clear water. For me, used to the turbid Hudson, this view into the water was a treat.

When we reached Haven Road, which cuts across the wetland, Peter paddled across the flooded road in his boat. And though this was fun for us, for the birds of the marsh this high water is a disaster. John Haas, a local birder, had reported that many moorhen nests had been drowned, and the birds had been frantic, trying to save or rebuild their nests.

Forty-five minutes out, we circled an island, then began our return. Peter stopped paddling.  “There,” he said. He pulled out his camera, which he had been cradling between his legs, and focused. I followed the line of sight. But I couldn’t see anything. “Least bittern,” Peter said, to help me focus my gaze. Still, I couldn’t see the bird. He snapped photos, then paddled closer, the bird not moving. “Where?” I asked. Peter pointed to where I had been looking. There are times birding when the birds are invisible, when something about shape or color are elusive. This bird was unmoving, perched awkwardly in the grasses. When it came into focus, the long lines of light brown amidst green grass, I felt a rush of excitement. But soon it flew off.

As we returned toward our car, we looked again for the stinkpot on the beaver lodge. It was gone, replaced by a fat, four-foot long water snake, it’s subtle red bands weaving into the sticks of the lodge.

We pulled out onto Haven Road where John Haas was just arriving for a morning paddle. He’s the Basha Kill Birder, the man who knows and sees everything in this little paradise. We shared our sights, echoing his sights of least bitterns of a few days before. He showed us a stack of dead bowfin, left by fishermen to rot in the sun. They were about as long as my forearm, solid and sleek. Flies darted about their still bodies and something had ripped into one of the fish. “The fishermen don’t like the bowfin, so they shove a knife in their heads and leave them on the shore here,” John explained. Bowfin, apparently, eat other, more prized fish. And being a bony fish, they aren’t good eating. But the bowfin joins only the gar and the sturgeon (one of my favorite fish) as contemporaries with the dinosaurs. It’s a primitive fish, with a line of short, menacing teeth. When water is too shallow it can surface and breath through a swim bladder, which works like lungs. And there they were, a stack of dead, wondrous fish. The sadness of this left me dazed.

In the beautiful, isolated Bash my thoughts had been meandering like our own paddle. This slow time made me feel like we had been gone days, not hours.

 We loaded our kayaks onto the car, and too fast we were back in the world. We drove into Wurtsboro to have a late breakfast at Kathy’s Tea Kozy. I picked up a Post and read about Anthony Weiner buying his wife flowers. Who cares about Anthony Weiner, I wanted to ask, when a least bittern is sitting still in the grass, when stink pots are sunning on a beaver lodge, when bowfin are lying dead by the shore?