Search My Journal
|
|
Search My Journal
|
At 2:47 in the afternoon river guide Stacey Campbell dropped me off at the boat ramp just south of the Canaan dam. The river was low this year and I expected the going to be difficult. I did not realize how difficult until I started paddling. The water was only 12 to 24 inches deep and boulders were just beneath the surface. I bounced off more than a few for the next three hours. Fast water often spun me around so control of my boat was difficult. Around 5:30 I spotted a level site for camping and called it a day. In 45 minutes or so I had the tent up, the cot prepared, and dinner cooking on a propane stove. An afternoon shower dampened standing wood and weeds. The thick, humid air hung heavily over the river. I built a small fire as night fell. After I ate dinner and finished my chores I turned in early. Before bed, I emailed friends to let them know all was okay. I could not do that in 1979.
I slept soundly and rose at dawn's first light. A thick fog hung over the river and engulfed my campsite. The night was cool, down to 48 or so and the water was much warmer. A thick, wet dew-soaked everything outside of the tent. I cooked oatmeal for breakfast and then had coffee and orange juice. As I started to take down the tent two Old Town canoes with four paddlers, slipped past in the thick fog. They looked like an advertisement for LL Bean. I waved and shouted "Good Morning". They nodded and kept moving along.
All day I fought with the low river by trying to avoid rocks and sand bars. I only met with moderate success. Once the fog burned off the weather turned warm, humid, and sunny. The going was slow and I began to have doubts about reaching Old Saybrook before October 12 when my friend Ed was picking me up. Stacey suggested that I pull out at her place just below the Columbia covered bridge. She kindly offered to give me a ride to North Stratford where the river was deeper. By email, I agreed to meet her in two days.
September 19, 2021
I camped at Holbrook Point, a "developed" site. It was a nice flat spot on the Vermont side of the river. A 25-foot-long set of wooden stairs rose from the water to the bank. I tied up at the stairs and slowly hauled my stuff up. In 1979 I ran out of food and drank river water. I got dysentery and quickly ran out of energy. At age 66 I did not wish to repeat that part of the trip. So I carried a big plastic bin with 21 days of food in it and five gallons of fresh water. It was heavy but I ate well and stayed healthy. The Holbrook site promised mowed grass, a picnic table, and a privy. However, the privy seemed to have disappeared in one of the spring floods. Mowed grass is very important because otherwise six-foot-tall ferns, weeds, and mud dominate the river bank and floodplain.
In July of 1979, I hitchhiked to Pittsburg, New Hampshire with a backpack, tent, sleeping bag, camping supplies, $20.00, an inflatable Sea Eagle kayak, and a two-piece paddle. About ten minutes after putting the orange and blue craft in the river I snagged a discarded and broken pallet. It ripped a three-inch gash in the outside bottom hull. The boat did not leak but my butt felt every rock I slid over for the rest of the day. That night I repaired the hull. The patch held for the rest of the trip. 21 days later I arrived hungry, sick, and exhausted at the Boat Basin in Hartford, Connecticut. From there I hitchhiked back home to Branford, Connecticut. The 2021 trip included a bumpy ride but the boat and I were better prepared.
Both river trips required a dream, a goal, planning, and discipline to achieve the dream. As always the hand of fate; God, made everything come together. The 2021 trip also required a 2,800-mile drive from Emigrant, Montana to Columbia, New Hampshire. In 1979 New Hampshire was just a one-day hitch from my home in Branford, Connecticut. Both trips were done solo; just me and the boat. Both afforded miles of near solitude which I relished. It was a good time for thinking, relaxing, planning, and enjoying the moment. I lived in the present but freely traveled to the past and wondered about the future. Both times I met very few people and sometimes days would pass before I saw someone that wanted to talk. But I was never lonely. In 2021 I was able to converse by email and phone with friends.
I should have packed lighter. The boat can hold 625 pounds and I only weigh 165 pounds. My gear weighed about 150 pounds. The inflatable Sea Eagle fishing kayak, made in China, came in at 45 pounds dry. It did not take much effort to pick up 30 to 40 pounds of water during the day from whitewater or rain.
My 1979 Sea Eagle kayak was made in Italy. It was about eight feet long and three feet wide. I carried everything in an aluminum frame backpack that fit nicely in the bow. There was just enough room left for me to sit cross-legged on an inflatable orange seat. The kayak had three air compartments and came with a foot-operated, bellows pump. My 2021 Sea Eagle kayak had four air compartments and came with a dual-action bicycle-style floor pump. The PVC material was much thicker than the 1979 craft and held up well. The inflatable floor and seat were removable. The kayak was about 12 feet long and three feet wide. I built a trailer so I could wheel it over various portages. That sat on the back of the new boat. My original Sea Eagle cost around $120.00. The new one was ten times more at $1,200.00.
I was just as happy with my original Sea Eagle kayak as I was with the new boat. Both gave me a chance to fulfill a dream and test my abilities. For continuity, I carried the same Cannondale backpack that I used in 1979. It still worked well and fit fine in the bow of the new boat. Both trips gave me many days of tranquility on the river.
It was easy to fall into a paddling pace that would last for an hour or two. When I was tired of sitting cross-legged I rested my outstretched legs on the sides of the kayak. Then I fell into another, less efficient paddling rhythm for an hour or so. Neither Sea Eagle kayak had foot pegs which could have helped with comfort and control. But the current Sea Eagle kayak had a large keel and a removable skeg that provided exceptional stability in flat water.
Ipulled into Stacey Campbell's yard around 1 pm. I ate lunch, peanut butter, and jelly on multi-grain bread, and then emailed her. Stacey was home and arrived quickly with her pickup truck. Together we loaded the boat in the back and packed the cargo in the roomy back seat. We picked up water and shampoo at her house. Then we headed to North Stratford, about ten miles away. On the drive south, I saw that the river was so shallow that one could walk across the exposed rocks. There was not even enough water to line the kayak from the riverbank. Stacey dropped me off at a small park where I proceeded to reload the boat. It took about an hour to load everything and lash it down securely. Finally, I got in and pushed off. About 200 feet down the river the water depth dropped to less than six inches. For the first time, I had to get out of the kayak and tow it like a mule, to deeper water. It was not a pleasant experience and one I had to repeat twice more before I finally called it a day. Soaking wet to my knees I paddled on. Gradually the river deepened to a foot and I got much better at avoiding sandbars and gravel. About an hour before sunset, I found an open beach that led to a clearing next to a cornfield. I set up camp and changed into dry clothes. I could hear traffic and see headlights on both sides of the river. Busy highways parallel the river and a train track runs along the New Hampshire side. One passerby in a beat-up truck waved to me from the New Hampshire side. I am sure he meant well and I waved back. But the vision of motorcycle riders being ambushed at night in the film Easy Rider flashed across my mind. The weather was warm so I did not get chilled. No fire tonight and I turned in right after dinner and chores.
Fast water was fun in July of 1979 because the river was higher and I could speed through the rapids. I paddled through the shallow water south of Columbia, over the broken-down Lyman Dam, and shot right through the Wyoming dam ruins. I never got stuck on a sandbar, in the gravel, or trapped by boulders. In 2021 the same drop in elevation that created fast water now filled the river with obstacles that I could not paddle around or over. Large boulders, partially submerged trees, and limbs tried to snag me or blocked my access completely. Once I was high-centered on a submerged tree in the middle of a rapid. The kayak turned perpendicular to the current and water started to rush over the side and into the boat. A few times I was trapped between submerged boulders while the kayak took on water. Towing was very difficult. The gravel gripped the kayak well but my wet shoes slid all too easily and I often fell into the water. Fortunately, the water and air were warm so I never got chilled. I always had dry clothes I could change into at night when I camped.
I did not like skipping a 10-mile section of the river above North Stratford. But it was a wise choice as I would learn the hard way in 2022 when I ran that section and almost drowned.
Wet clothes and shoes were uncomfortable. Fortunately, the weather improved, it was sunny and in the '70s for most of the day. The river made many turns but was generally deep so no towing was required. I got stuck a few times but could always push my way off the underwater obstruction. I pulled over to a sand spit for lunch. It felt great to take off my wet shoes and socks and sit under the warm sun. I hung some of my wet clothing on tree branches to dry. Later I draped wet clothing over my cargo on the boat to finish drying. Lunch was the usual fare of peanut butter and jelly on multi-grain bread. It was especially appreciated on that warm and dry beach.
In 1979 I made about 15 miles per day. The river was much higher and I never had to tow or line my kayak. Unloading the kayak was easy as I only had to remove the backpack and seat. Two hikes got me around any dam. The pack was about 40 pounds and the kayak was around 20 pounds. Progress in 2021 was averaging about 8 miles a day and with considerable effort due to low water and a larger, heavier craft. I felt strong and my stamina was excellent. I usually paddled for five to six hours every day.
I made good time today. In deeper and quiet water the kayak handled well and held a straight course. By dusk, I approached the Riverside Speedway and RV Park on the New Hampshire side. About a mile later I found a wide, high, and dry sandy beach to camp on. No fire tonight because I could see and hear vehicles on the nearby roads. I ate and slept well.
A warm and sunny day on the Connecticut River. |
Brilliant fall colors along the riverbank. |
Twin silos on the Vermont side near Groveton. |
The wind was from the south and warm. No fog today but grey clouds hung heavily on the horizon. Light showers fell so I covered the cargo with waterproof tarps. I lashed everything securely because I planned on lining the loaded kayak through the remains of the Wyoming dam around noon. In 1979 when the water was higher and my boat light, I simply paddled over the broken-down dam.
Sandy banks and beaches ran high on either side of the river. Underneath the shallow water was a desert. Small sand dunes covered the bottom and followed the current. The steep side of the dunes always pointed downstream. I did not see any fish longer than one inch and very few plants for them to feed on. Around Lancaster, junk cars littered the river's banks. From Caneen down the river rotting vehicle tires - some with white walls, aluminum cans, old road signs, and other trash littered the shallow and sandy bottom. White foam spots, like soap suds, dotted the river's surface. After a steady rain, the white foam turned brown. Thousands of downed and rotting trees clogged the riverbanks for many miles. Some banks were completely inaccessible due to fallen trees. I often had to dodge old trees that were just beneath the water and waiting to snag my boat. The natural channel is circuitous and often goes quickly from one side of the river to the other. Every mile brought new obstacles. My journey was almost always a continual battle with the low and debris-clogged river.
Around noon I sighted the broken down Wyoming dam. There was a portage route on the Vermont side. I checked out the water level and thought I could line the boat down the New Hampshire side. At first, everything worked well and my feet stayed dry. Then the boat got stuck and I had to wade in to free it. So I got wet feet and shins. I aimed the kayak towards the final set of rapids and tried to paddle. No luck. It was stuck solid on a few boulders. So I got out again and tried to line it. That did not work either. I then walked around to the back of the boat, lifted and shoved it off the boulders. It took off like a rocket. I slipped and fell into the water and was completely soaked. However, I had my life vest on and was holding onto the rear boat handle. I quickly pulled myself onto the boat and rode it like a surfboard through the upper rapid. Thoroughly soaked I climbed into the boat and paddled over the last set of boulders. The sun was bright and warm. I headed towards a sandy beach on the Vermont side and made lunch while resting. After I dried out a little, rested, and relaxed, I climbed back into the kayak and paddled for a few more miles. That night I stayed at the South Guildhall developed campsite just a few miles north of Lancaster, New Hampshire.
Cold, wet, cramped, and tired I stumbled up the 20-foot tall stairs to the South Guildhall camping site. A grassy spot for the tent, a picnic table, a fireplace, and even an outdoor composting toilet adorned the developed spot. Tall weeds and floodplain mud picked up where the mowed lawn left off. I was grateful to unseen and unknown volunteers who made this site possible. Slowly I unloaded the boat and hauled everything up the steep stairs. Showers still threatened so I quickly set up the tent and then made dinner. I slept well.
After breakfast I drew some river water for a shower. The water was yellow in my white bucket. I boiled three quarts, which in turn warmed three gallons, to about 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Then I added a few drops of laundry bleach to disinfect the water. I rested after the shower and planned the day. I was close to Lancaster and knew that an RV park was on the river. It was renamed Riverside after the previous owner closed it down. The previous name was Beaver Trails and that showed as permanently closed on my iPhone. After lunch, I leisurely paddled to Lancaster and found the campground and a tent site. $44.00 for one night was expensive but I was able to do laundry, shower, and walk to town for dinner and supplies. I stocked up on freshwater too. Both fresh water and supplies were surprisingly difficult to locate along the river.
Corn rows often occupy the river's flood plain. One morning I came around a bend and smelled something awful. Like raw sewage. Above me and to my right was a filthy tanker truck spraying a dark brown liquid on a cornfield. My first thought was that it was a rogue septic tank pumper getting rid of his load. Later I learned that it was liquified cow manure that was sprayed from the truck. Vermont, the dairy state, has enormous dairy farms. Cows produce so much manure that it has to be hauled away with front-end loaders. It is commonly used for fertilizing large fields via tanker trucks equipped with sprayers. The stench is disgusting. But what bothered me more was the unknown amounts of cow manure that flowed with every passing shower into the river. Now I understood why the water was yellow, why the white foam turned brown, and why my river-soaked clothes dried stiff as cardboard.
I carried my supply of electricity in a white five-gallon bucket. A six-pound power pack with a lithium battery recharged my iPhone, electric toothbrush, and water pic. In terms of necessity, the toothbrush and water pic was more important than the iPhone. Good dental health was learned the hard and expensive way well after my 1979 river trip. The iPhone was simply a convenience. The phone did help me locate some developed campsites along the river. I still missed several though. They should be better marked; orange signs with black letters are my suggestion. The phone was moderately useful for getting some information on what was ahead. However, web information is often incomplete or outdated. Once in a while, I read the daily news too. I felt better when I ignored the outside world and lived simply with the river. Like I did in 1979 when most people got their news from a newspaper. On my 2022 Connecticut River trip the iPhone would become the first casualty.
Treacherous Wyoming Dam Breach |
Camping at the South Guildhall Site |
Dirty and yellow, river water |
Ileft the Riverview RV park around 9 am. Showers were predicted. 15 minutes later a pelting rain came down. I was soaked despite my Gore-tex jacket and rubber rain pants. Then it showered off and on throughout the day. As long as I kept paddling I was fine. The loaded kayak handled much better in deep and still water. I kept up a good pace and was determined to reach the Gilman dam, 10 miles away. The river grew wider and a stiff wind from the south created four to eight-inch waves. None broke over the boat. Rain collected though and after a few hours, my soaked feet were resting in two inches of water. During a break in the showers, I took a few photos and ate lunch on a muddy bank. Around 3 in the afternoon, the rain picked up again and became a steady, wind-driven downpour. I kept paddling so I could stay warm. My eyes scanned both shores for shelter but I did not see anything. I dreaded trying to set the tent up in a ferocious storm. Around 4:30 the rain slowed and stopped. The sun peeked from behind a few clouds and I could see the Gilman dam about a mile away. The pace of my paddling picked up and soon I landed at the New Hampshire portage spot. I decided to camp at the landing and do the portage in the morning. Almost everything that was under the tarps was dry. I pitched the tent, brought most of my gear inside, and tried to cook dinner. Unfortunately, the propane stove was soaked and refused to work. So cold granola had to do. The dessert was applesauce. I went to bed early and slept well. By morning the stove dried so I could cook my breakfast of oatmeal and coffee.
Another wet day on the river. |
Soaked before lunch...again. |
Mount Orne covered bridge. |
The morning fog returned but burned off quickly. Unfortunately, the 1/4 mile portage path was carpeted with foot-tall wet grass before ending on equally wet rocks that sharply descended into the river. My trailer worked well on the grass and rocks so the kayak with 20 pounds of gear was easy to transport. The backpack was next and just as easy until I slipped and fell back first on the jagged rocks by the river's edge. Fortunately, the pack absorbed the brunt of the impact. I the rest of the cargo I carried by hand and made several trips. It took about two hours to move everything and securely pack the boat. The sun felt great and the sky was almost cloudless. Another day where I thought I could try to dry out on the river.
Quick water started just below the dam. The loaded kayak handled poorly in fast water and wanted to spin around. I had a tough time keeping it pointed downriver and more than once cold water washed over the sides. Finally, I reached the quiet and deep waters where Moore Reservoir began. I carefully bailed as much water as possible out of the boat. Enough so my sodden feet and shoes would no longer be submerged. Paddling on the lake was steady and easy. A warm sun in a bright blue sky shone overhead. I draped wet clothes over the boat to dry. Somewhere along the way, I lost a sock. Perhaps it was back at the Gilman dam. Contrary to popular wisdom I did not find an extra Tupperware lid in my pack either!
The water was still quite low but I never ran aground or snagged anything. The lakeshore was well maintained by the private company that owns the reservoir. Not a single tree was submerged. The banks were heavily forested and clean. As the lake widened a light wind created waves but they were not a problem. A few passing motorboats produced wakes but I just turned the kayak into them and bobbed along. One couple stopped and we chatted for a while. They were the first people I spoke with in several days. Towards evening I found a small beach to land on. A trail went past it in the thick, White Pine forest. A rock ring fireplace was already constructed on the beach. I set up the tent, dried everything, and made dinner. Later I took a shower behind the tent. The water was a little cleaner than previously perhaps because the shore was thickly lined with trees and not cow manure-fertilized rows of corn.
Gilman Dam - Lower portage end. |
Turbulent water and two bridges downstream. |
Quiet water in Moore Reservoir. |
A light fog and drizzle greeted me at first light. By habit, everything was stowed in the tent or covered with tarps. So all was dry except my shoes. I ate breakfast and packed quickly. I was concerned about the afternoon wind kicking up white caps on the lake. The widest part was still ahead of me. By 9 am I was ready to go. The days are short at this latitude and time of year. I only had about six hours each day to paddle. Unloading and loading took almost two hours. I shoved off and made for the other shore. Progress was good all morning. By noon the fog burned off, the showers stopped and a brilliant blue sky appeared. Another fine afternoon on the water. After lunch, the wind picked up and the waves grew bigger. I hugged the Vermont shore and moved steadily forward. The boat handled well and kept a straight course despite the wind and waves. Now I had Moore dam in my sight and my paddling increased in intensity. An hour or so later I made landfall on a small beach on the New Hampshire side. The portage was relatively easy. The grass was mowed low and was dry. The path went up a slight incline, leveled for 200 feet, and then wound gradually down a grass embankment, across a gravel road, and to a dock.
The trailer performed flawlessly. Next was my backpack and then slowly I carried all my cargo down to the dock. The portages were the most difficult part of my journey and where I wished that I took less stuff with me. My back hurt after each one. I thought about camping at the portage site and probably should have. Then I could have loaded the kayak the next day and done it just once. But the afternoon was early so I lugged everything to the dock. Around 4 pm I was ready to push off. The water was deep and had only a few fast spots. In a mile or so I found a nice spot in a pine forest for camping. I quickly settled in for the night.
Fog over Moore Reservoir. |
Moore Dam - Lower portage dock. |
Moore Dam Portage Path. |
Comerford Reservoir was narrow and thickly lined with summer homes. Many of the large, two and three-story homes were fronted with acres of closely cropped lawns that reached the river's edge. Boathouses, large docks, and outdoor kitchens dotted the shoreline. I scanned every property for anyone I could ask for water. Not a soul was outside except me. Most of the houses appeared to be closed for the winter. Campsites were non-existent as everything was developed land.
The day was cool and cloudy. I was dry and warm. An occasional shower passed by but this time the Gore-tex jacket kept me dry. Towards 1 pm I stopped for a late lunch on a rocky riverbank near a paved road. The banks were shorter here, just a few feet tall. This lake was still full and looked like it stayed that way most of the year. The dock stairs were short and the banks were free of flood debris. Picnic tables and outdoor grills were a common sight. Fall colors were starting to show with splashes of yellow, red, and orange dotting the hillsides. Peak leaf time was still a few weeks off. I thought I might see even more autumn colors as I moved further down the river.
After lunch I saw a long, straight green line on the horizon. It was either a road bridge or a dam. I paddled to the Vermont bank since the portage trail was on that side. In about an hour, the thin green line slowly changed into a recognizable dam. In another hour I landed by the boat ramp at Comerford dam. I was forewarned about this portage. It was reputed to be the most difficult one on the river. I beached the kayak and unloaded my gear to the nearest picnic table. Then I took two empty water jugs and went to scout the portage trail. The dam was massive; maybe 300 feet high. Way down below the dam, a trickle of water could be seen flowing south. I read about an alternative path that was easier than the official 45-degree portage trail. It appeared that the easier path disappeared into a jungle of vegetation a few years back. So I walked the official trail. It was very steep, about a half-mile long, and had a rocky put-in spot. Narrow, steep, wooden stairs were part of the treacherous trail. I climbed slowly back up the trail, pausing every few minutes to catch my breath. This was going to be an exhausting portage and one that could take three to four hours. It was too dangerous to camp at the bottom because a water release at the dam could wash away everything.
Finally I was back at the boat ramp on Comerford Reservoir. I thought about camping there but the sign advised otherwise. The clock ticked 3 pm and I had to make a decision. I checked my phone while thinking and read a very sad email from my niece Susan. My niece Tracy Brockett had unexpectedly passed away. She was only 51. I was shocked and saddened. I thought for a few minutes and then gazed upward and asked my Mom for advice. I decided to cancel my trip and head south to Branford, Connecticut so I could visit Tracy's parents, her daughter, and relatives. I emailed Stacey and asked if she could pick me up. Then I decided to camp at the boat ramp for the night. I set up the tent, made dinner, and settled in for the evening. A light rain started to fall. Later I heard from Stacey. She promised to visit in the morning. No one bothered me about camping. A security guard walked past me every hour on his way to check a dam road gate. In the morning I packed everything and waited for Stacey. She arrived with her husband Don around 9 am. Don drove the truck and Stacey drove my car. We chatted for a while. Then I gave Stacey a donation of $150.00 for her outstanding assistance and bid them both goodbye. I promised to return next year and finish my river trip. I do not quit easily. I draw inspiration from adversity and relish overcoming the challenges that pulled me down. Success is much sweeter when the battle to achieve it is most difficult. I am very patient too. I can easily wait years or even decades to achieve my dreams.
September 28, 2021
Around 10 am I started the car and made my way to Branford, Connecticut. I checked into Motel 6 and then visited Tracy's parents, Tom and Carol, around 4 o'clock. Both were surprised to see me. Tom asked how I knew about Tracy's passing. I offered to help them with whatever needed to be done and I offered them my deepest condolences. I sat down with my brother Tom at his kitchen table. I asked for a drink of water. He pulled some bottled water out of the refrigerator. While I drank, he talked about how he was running for First Selectman of Branford. After about 30 minutes he announced that he had to leave for a "meet and greet" with Branford residents. He invited me to come back later in the evening. I went to the Parthenon Diner for dinner. Then back to Motel 6 for a shower and a fresh set of clothes. Around seven in the evening, I arrived back at Tom and Carol's home. Carol was watching TV. I joined her and made small talk. I tried to comfort her as much as possible. After about an hour Tom sat down. He chatted about his campaign and how it was going for the next hour. Then I headed home to Motel 6.
Lunch Break on a Rocky Shore. |
Comerford Dam on the Connecticut River. |
Camping at the Comerford Dam. |
Tracy Lee Brockett
August 6th, 1970 - September 25, 2021
From the New Haven Register:
"On September 25, 2021, Tracy Lee Brockett, 51 of Branford, passed away peacefully surrounded by her family. Tracy was born August 6, 1970, in New Haven to her beloved parents Thomas and Carolyn Brockett, of Branford. She was a loving mother to Marissa Lillian Brockett and her dog Minnie. She leaves behind her brothers, Thomas II, and Christopher, her nephew Thomas Brockett III, her niece Brianna Brockett and many aunts, uncles, and cousins. She was predeceased by her maternal grandparents, Frank and Lillian Santos, and her paternal grandparents Elmer and Jessie Brockett, and her favorite dog "Little Boy" Mickey.
Tracy was a graduate of Branford High School and Gateway Community College (formerly South Central Community College) where she earned a degree in Early Childhood Education. She spent her career working with Pre-K children. She loved these children, as she did her family, and many of these children will remember her laughter, love, and kindness.
Tracy loved spending time with her family. She enjoyed scrapbooking, bowling, and being with friends. Her favorite special place was Disney World, especially Mickey, and Minnie. Above all, she loved being a mom to Marissa. The impact she had on her family and others will last a lifetime.
Relatives and friends are invited to visit Friday evening from 5-8 p.m. at the W.S. Clancy Memorial Funeral Home, 244 North Main Street, Branford. A funeral service will be held Saturday at 10 a.m. in the funeral home. Burial will follow in Branford Center Cemetery."
In ten days I paddled 79 miles down the Connecticut River. Low water, a heavy boat, perhaps age, and shorter days reduced my average daily mileage. I felt strong, ate well, and slept soundly. Portages were difficult as was towing the kayak in low water. River guide Stacey Campbell helped tremendously. The trip would have been much more difficult without her assistance.
Solitude, nature's beauty, and a sense of adventure drew me to the river in 1979. The pursuit of happiness pulled me back in 2021. Both times the goal of paddling the entire river strongly appealed to me. Both times I was unable to complete the full journey to Long Island Sound in one trip. I will return, God willing, in 2022 to finish the 2021 journey.
The 79 miles I paddled was more developed and had more vacation homes and busier roads than I remember from 1979. Campsites were fewer but the developed ones were a nicer experience than camping on a sandbar. I was happy with my 1979 trip and even happier with my 2021 voyage. I know more at age 66 and thus the experience was richer and in retrospect, more enjoyable. Both river journeys were a struggle with nature; the elements and the river. They were a test of my strength and endurance. I was often physically drained during the journeys. In 1979 it took me almost a month to regain my strength. Each voyage had brief moments of happiness in between long bouts of physical toil. Perplexingly, as time went past the hardships of 1979 were mostly forgotten but thoughts of happiness remained and grew.
Click on the "Bookmark and Share" button to:
What do you think of this page? How can it be improved? Do you have questions about its content? Share your thoughts with Tim and other readers by clicking on "Leave a message". I read every message and will respond if you have a question.
Page 1 Pursuit of Happiness - Introduction |
Tim's Life Main Table of Contents |
Pursuit of Happiness - A Continuing Journey Table of Contents |
Page 3 Vanishing Branford |
Certified by:
|
