looking north; the barge is on the horizon!When I talk about kayaking on the Hudson I am always sure to add a cautionary note: look out for the big boats. Tankers, barges pushed by tugs, and container ships all ply the waters of the Hudson. The river is theirs, and it’s important to stay out of the way: boats can’t brake or swerve. They need to stick in the limited shipping channel. I have heard that the captains of these big boats refer to kayakers as speed bumps; most of the time they don’t see us at all.

It would seem that staying out of the way of a big boat would be easy. They take up a lot of room; they are visible. But it is not that simple. This morning as I slipped my boat into the water at the Tivoli landing, the water was lightly feathered.  At 41 degrees, I urged the sun and its promised warmth as it peaked over the eastern shoreline. A faint rumble emerged from the north. I scanned the river and saw nothing. But the noise wasn’t going away. It had to be a boat. I looked more closely. There, on the horizon, was a double barge, pushed by a tug. It was enormous. And it was almost invisible, thanks to my angle, the angle of the sun, the height of the barge. It all worked against me. I hugged the shore until it chugged past, then I made a dash for the western shore.

one way to feel very small On the western shore I was looking for sunshine and ducks. Ducks tucked in near shore south of the Long Pier. The tide was out and the water so shallow my paddles grazed the muddy bottom. I couldn’t get in close enough to identify any of the ducks, just dots on a shoreline. And the sun hid behind thick white clouds, a light breeze pushing me from the north. I wished I had brought my gloves (which I left sitting on shore to be sucked out with the tide).

I looped back across the river cutting across the rocky prow of Magdalen Island. The North Bay sucked me in. A calm draped my shoulders, as I pushed back in my seat, my feet still a bit damp and cool from getting into my boat. The energy of the big river left me as I drifted with the incoming tide. I put my binoculars to my eyes and scanned the mudflats, exposed at low tide. I  landed on the foraging movement two compact shorebirds, which I realized were Common Snipe. Why are they called Common? There is nothing common about a Snipe. Their long bills dwarf their pint sized bodies. And it’s a rare event to see one so clearly, the streaked back and short legs. Usually they skulk in tall grasses and take flight in a blur. Just as these two did, wheeling into the air.

I stroked into the bay, Common Mergansers taking flight in objection to my presence. Again: why Common? They are big ducks, with those great white bodies, tufted heads, long bills. Yes, common in that they are present, and so perhaps not so special to see. But once seen, they are remarkable birds. Perhaps we should get rid of “Common” attached to any bird. I count fifteen “Common” birds including the Common Murre, Common Pauraque, and Common Poorwill,  three birds I have never seen. Let’s change them to Special. The Special Raven and the Special Grackle, like the ones feeding like crazy at my feeder this morning.

The calm of the North BayA very special Pied-billed Grebe foraged in front of me. Not wanting to disturb the little bird, I turned around, heading back toward home, toward mid-term grades.

 

The bay before the railroad tracks let me know I was in for a ride. Wavelets formed, ruffling what is almost always a placid body of water. The wind of last night had awakened, and I could see the trees on Magdalen Island bending in the breeze. How fast the river changes. What had been a gentle morning was now a windy challenge.

I steeled myself for getting under the railroad bridge, bracing my legs and shoveling the water with determination. Once on the river the wind hit me. It took my boat broadside and pushed me south before I came around and pointed my nose north.  My hands, which had been cold, now were really cold. My body was cold. I stroked into the wind, the waves sloshing over my boat.

I like wind. But I don’t like wind when I am cold, when the water is cold, when the wind is moving one way and the current another, forming frothy white caps. The wind made this big river appear enormous. I thought: I am not going to make it home.

It’s a sad thought to have.

I then did the unthinkable: I rode my boat onto the rocky shoreline. I pulled it out of the water, and above the high water mark. And I walked back to my car. It was the coldest, longest mile-long walk of my life. Leaving my boat felt a kind of betrayal. As I walked, I went through all of my options. I would drive home and pick up the wheels to attach to the back of my boat and wheel the boat back to my car. No. I’d drive down the rocky path beside the tracks (no doubt illegal), then walk on shore and float the kayak north. No. I’d drive down the tracks as far as possible then paddle the boat to that point. No. I could see there was no getting back in my boat.

What I did. I drove down the side of the tracks, where people in pick up trucks drive out to fish, drink or make out at the abandoned stone dock to Sycamore Point. I gave thanks to Subaru as the gravel spit beneath my tires.  I kept on past the dock, the gravel less packed down, the passage narrower, until a large log blocked my way.

I jogged the 200 yards--which felt like 2 miles--to my boat, relieved when I saw its pink body resting on the gravel.

My boat weighs 46 pounds. This means I can carry it from my car to the water, and that I have a system to get it on the roof of my car. 46 pounds is not bad, until you have to carry it several hundred yards. Because the 46 pounds are spread out over sixteen and a half feet, it is an awkward 46 pounds. I hoisted the boat on my shoulder and looked forward. I wished I could see my car, which I had tucked to the side in the bushes that line the river, in case a train swooshed past. I could feel my shoulder begin to sag. The wind grabbed the boat and swung it away from my body. I staggered a bit, caught my foot on a rock. What are you doing out here? I hefted the boat more securely on my shoulder, and marched on. Keeping moving, I told myself. My hands were freezing. Don’t stop. My shoulder ached. Don’t put the boat down. I knew if I put it down, I wouldn’t pick it up again.  Just keep walking, keep walking.