Bow to the Wind

To balance out the last couple of days of cycling, I intend to paddle most of the day, but first I bike out to the closest bagel/coffee shop to get my shot of caffeine and carbohydrates. Wheeling the kayak across the top of the lock gate to the put in spot on the other side is tricky, as the catwalk is barely wider than the kayak but I manage with a bit of back and forthing in the middle bend where the gates meet. On my right paddle blade I adhere one of the Troy Bike Rescue stickers the group gave me and with it I wave goodbye to them as I enter the lock.

Lock Master standing on the catwalk on which I had to wheel the kayak across

This is the part where the Erie Canal starts to join the Mohawk River -- sometimes they meet, sometimes the canal cuts its own straighter, lock-stepped path while the river is left to its natural whims, intertwining like a couple just getting to know each other. It certainly feels more like a river, the banks are gentle sandy slopes, my paddle sometimes hitting bottom when I get too close to shore.

The wind has shifted today, and I am now going against a stiff headwind. When I stop paddling it is strong enough to push me upstream against the current. When I cycle against a headwind, I usually find it discouraging, as if suddenly I am robbed of power, but i feel differently when I am kayaking. It is more of a challenge and, strangely, it gives an illusion of speed because of the wind-whipped waves lapping at my bow and the air blowing against my face. If I don't look at my slow progress against the shoreline, I can almost believe I am going faster than normal.

Despite being a Saturday, there are hardly any boats on the canal. I encounter less than ten in the entire day of paddling. On the water I definitely meet a lot less people, and the ones I come across have barely enough time to wave or smile as they pass me on their faster craft. It's fine by me, as similar to cycling, I find paddling alone very meditative, even more so. It's not long before my brain just churns away at just about anything it wants to think of. I am seldom ever bored on my own. Someone who was interested in doing a long solo bike tour once asked me how I can handle it because they didn't think they could stand being lonely. I told them "If you know the difference between loneliness and solitude you can do it." That's what makes you value the company of other people when they are around, and appreciate the inward reflection being alone affords you. One of my favourite websites is TED.com, and i just love this brilliant talk by Elizabeth Gilbert on nurturing creativity. I think it is mostly in solitude that you can commune with the disembodied genius she mentions.

A strong wind from the east on this part of the continent usually means rain, and the sky starts to show signs it will pour sometime soon. I find a marina with an easy place to take out the kayak. At the dockside cafe, i munch on a sloppy pulled pork sandwich, then find a motel for the night out of the wind and rain.

Grime and Reason

It rained a lot last night and I got up to find a good amount of water in the boat. At least I get to use the bilge pump after carrying it all this time. I pack up and go before the shrieking camp kids are wound up again for the day

On recommendation from the park's front desk, I ride on to Chittenango for breakfast at a sweet local diner -- the kind where the waitress calls everyone "Honey". Of course eyes are on me as the crazy guy when I walk in after I pull my rig and park it in the front lot. I sit at the counter with some old guys on one end and two police men in the other far end. It's inevitable they would ask what I'm up to so I tell them while waiting for my order. "Here, honey, yer gonna need this for today" as she set down my plate of eggs, sausage, hash browns and marble rye toast.

So one man asks why I'm doing this, expecting me to say I was doing it for a cause or something. "I just wanted to see if it can be done" seems like an odd answer to him. It got me thinking about it, though, after I finished my breakfast and pedalled away. For the first ten years of my schooling I went to a rather innovative private school that let me go on my own learning pace, and I never saw grades or marks to compare myself with my classmates. Instead, our report cards just had colour-coded check marks opposite statements such as "Shows interest in the world around him/her". I guess from an early age I was programmed to find personal growth in play and exploration and it stuck. Sometimes there is no answer, but you find meaning in the search.

I want my own pictogram

I continue on to Canastota and stop at the museum, and had a lengthy chat with Shirley who was minding the place. We have an interesting talk about American and Canadian politics. I also find out that there was such a shortage of engineers when the canal was being built that some of the talent behind working things out was a mathematician.

Although the canal was partially filled in, Canastota has a few of the canal side buildings still intact.

Shirley at the Canastota Canal Museum

It is tempting to put the kayak in on this stretch of the old Erie, but there are so many obstructions like fallen trees and modern road culverts that it is unpredictable how far I could go without interruption. Converting the rig takes at least 15 minutes, so I just stick to towing. In all honesty, the water looks stagnant and phegmy with dark dirty looking weeds, and that's enough of an excuse!

The trail sometimes dwindles to singletrack, making towing laborious, but still more palatable than the canal water.

Near Rome, the old canal meets the new one and I try to find a place to put in but it is fenced off. After wasting a bit of time on a bit of a detour, I find a place in Rome but I change my mind as it is getting a bit late, so I keep on towing down the highway. I stop at a diner before searching for a place to camp.

A bathtub in which you can wash away your sins

Lock 20 is the logical place to camp, and when I get there, I find a group of odd bikes from a touring group from the Troy Bike Rescue. They are a fun, enthousiastic bunch of young people on their way back from a conference in Toronto. They have several weird and fascinating bikes created from junked bikes, one dubbed "The Camel", another was the "Ghost Bike"

The Camel

Ghost Bike

Across the locks is a loud religious gathering with a live band. One man comes over and feigns interest in us, but as I was talking to him I could tell he just wanted to steer the thread of conversation into the narrow needle eye of his religious perspective. Mercifully the music ends and they pack up and go, leaving us, the unwashed (there are no showers at this campground) with our ragtag fleet of bicycles and a kayak, to spin tales of ghost bikes into the night.

Erie Spirits

Most of my route today is dry, following the path of the original old Erie Canal. The new route of the barge canal now heads up north of Syracuse and into Lake Oneida, far too much of a meandering detour for me. Parts of NY31 were built on on top of the old canal, and as a result the towpath route weaves in and out of the highway. Where it is parallel, I take the paved shoulder for the convenience.

I stop at the old Jordan Locks, which is now a lonely ruin by the side of the road, and just for fun I tow the boat though the now grassy lock chamber. I figure Cruise-eau could be the first boat to lock though those stone walls in almost a hundred years! If these stones had a spirit, shaped by those who cut them for a purpose, I thought they could be singing at the sight of a familiar object :)

Farther down the towpath trail, the ghost of the old canal reappears, choked with weeds and just a hint of water. It's hard to imagine that this was once one of the most vital links to the American Mid West, the grandest infrastructure of its time, and responsible for New York becoming the "Empire State". Goods from all over the States floated past here: Appalachian coal, cotton from the South, woven goods from New England, grains from the West. It positioned New York City as the king of port cities on the Eastern Seaboard.

Then I miss a turn on a road crossing and I find myself on a hill overlooking the I-90. It's interesting how these parallel lines of old and new exist within a mile of each other: the former built and fuelled with muscle power, drifting steadily to what was then a future of unimaginable promise; the latter pumped up on oil, the fast road to    (insert destination here)     .

 I stop in Camillus and realize I am halfway to Albany. I spend a lot of time talking to people there, from an old volunteer at the museum, to a young man who was really interested in the kayak cart. I go across an old restored aqueduct, and no mater how often you see one, it is still fascinating to see a bridge built so that water can cross water.

The old canal once again disappears heading into Syracuse, buried under the city streets. I have an interesting time navigating the rig through the busy roads. I stop at a store to get some drinks, and they generously give me a couple of slices of pizza, fresh out of the oven, free! It is enough to fuel me for the ride through downtown Syracuse, past the fountains at Clinton Square. A crazy woman dares and offers to help me to put the kayak in the fountain but I decline.

Getting out of Syracuse is confusing and I have a hard time finding the continuation of the canal trail on the other side of the city. It is sticky hot and the afternoon traffic is steady on the hilly city streets which were on the recommended route I found on the internet. I stop to check my GPS and map, and a man tries to offer help, but he himself is not entirely sure which way I should go. Luckily, two cyclists, Mitch and Kathleen, who were on an afternoon ride pass by, and say that they are on their way towards where I need to go, so I follow them. They are on nice racy road bikes, and while I can somewhat keep up on the flats and downhills, they lose me in the climbs. After numerous twists and turns, climbs and descents, we finally get to the towpath entrance, and they tell me of a good campsite at Green Lakes. I see them again miles after, when I get off the path an on to the road to the State Park We say our final goodbyes just outside the park office where Mich refilled his water bottle for his ride home.

Green Lakes Park is a bit hilly and my campsite is a good climb to get to. My gears are starting to get out of tune and annoyingly act up in the last steep climb, slipping at the lower end. Great timing. I set up my tent amid the sound of screaming children, which seem to be a feature at every State and Provincial Park.

After a shower, I get sweaty again riding three miles up a big hill to a golf course clubhouse to grab some dinner before they close, as they are the only place around with food. I enjoy a nicely prepared panini and a couple of pints of draft beer on the terrace. The view is spectacular over the lowlands where the old canal runs, and as the sun sets my spirits remain high.

Obsoletely Fabulous

Trains. Throughout the night in Macedon, what I thought would be a nice quiet night of camping was periodically broken by the rumbling of freight travelling on the railway and horns sounding as the engines approached the village's level crossings, rousing me from sleep or colouring my dreams with earthquakes and near collisions with trucks. The railways most likely spelled the demise of the Erie Canal, and the noisy intrusion against the peaceful gurgling of water through lock gates is a rude reminder of it. Above it all, of course, is the constant unceasing din of the highway....

One of the things I've gotten to appreciate about the Erie Canal is its no-nonsense industrial look and feel. It's a bit rough around the edges, the concrete lock chamber walls sometimes crumbling as I grab a hold. It is staffed by weathered down-to-earth men who look like they could be truckers or machinists if they had to make another choice, as compared to the chipper college students on the Rideau Canal. It's not a criticism or favouring of either, just an observation. I do however like the fact that non-motorized craft travel the Erie at no charge, and without discrimination. Lock Masters dutifuly operate the locks even when I'm the only one inside, and when I expressed to one that I really appreciated what he was doing for me, he replied, "It's what I do, I'm just doin' my job." They have been incredibly helpful, even calling the next lock ahead to expect my arrival.

This section of the canal east of Rochester is more overgrown, cattails and berry bushes softening the banks. While towpaths in the western part look like a mule can still drag a barge alongside the canal, here it is has been obscured by the woods. The foliage is lush, a Carolinian forest mix that is skewed to the brighter, yellowish greens, as opposed to the dark blue greens of the boreal forest i'm used to closer to home. I hardly see any pine, spruce or cypress but it is peppered with sumac and wild grape.

I didn't quite like ending the day by paddling yesterday, as it is a much slower mode and it is frustrating trying to hurry to get your goal as the sun is coming down fast. After paddling from Macedon to Lyons, about 20 miles (32 kms), my arms say no more. In a small park I switch to towing mode, but not knowing where the canal bike route was, I just took the highway (NY31) which had really nice wide shoulders. It is a rolling road, and there were some good hills that got into my lowest gears at times.

The canal bike route leaves the functioning part of the canal in favour of the old alignment that is now dry in some parts. I head for Weedsport, which has not been a port of call for canal boats for a very long time. The canal was realigned several times in its history, leaving some communities high and dry, other places such as Rochester and Syracuse requested to be by-passed, as they saw the writing on the wall for a waning technology.

Droplets of rain convince me of staying indoors tonight. Batteries need recharging, mine as well as the computer's.

Genesee Quoi

To avoid surprising pedestrians or other cyclists when I pass them from behind, I have taken the habit of saying, "On your left, long load." After overtaking them I would hear something to the effect of "Whoa", then a laugh as they realize I was telling the truth. To the quizzical look I get from the oncoming traffic I say, "It's a towpath, after all"

I wake up to another nice morning, early this time, with heavy dew clinging to the tent and all the stuff I had left outside. I search out a place to have breakfast within walking distance, but Albion is one of the sadder cases when it comes to the fate of canal towns after the commercial demise of the waterway. It has beautiful buildings from the mid 1800s — one of them even included a third floor "opera house", an investment to what must have been unbridled optimism back then. Yet now the main street storefronts are mostly dark and empty, a dingy collection of used appliances decorates a window more ornate than its contents. The coffee shop is only open from 10 am to 3 pm — that's about the time I don't need coffee anymore.

So I do what everybody in town does and towed my rig up ten blocks past the stone church and old homes, to the busy highway lined with big box stores and fast food joints, some of which are open 24 hours. It's bland, "anywhere North America". It's obvious that the old saying, "Location, location, location" has been replaced by "Parking, parking, parking". I remember overhearing one guy in Lockport lamenting that there used to be a tavern or convenience store in every corner in town, now they're all gone because of the Walmarts. What makes people vote with their wallets and not their hearts, anyway?

I see a Tim Horton's and said what the heck, breakfast with the familiar taste of home. I'm good to go after a "large double-double" (except I didn't say that just in case they look at me funny) and a breakfast sandwich.So far, I had been paddling in the mornings so I decide to switch it up today until I get past the urban sprawl of Rochester.

Brockport is the on the happy side of fate, its main street lined with mom-and-pop stores. I grab a panini for lunch at a funky coffee shop and take it back by the water. The guys at the Welcome Center are very friendly and I have a lengthy chat with them, first about the history of the town, then about the parallel American and Canadian canal systems. I become self-conscious of my rounded Canadian accent, pronouncing locks as 'lohks' compared to 'lahks'

Nearby Spencerport was also quaint and vibrant, and I stop for an exquisite frozen custard cone to beat the heat. At the lift bridge mooring area, I meet Janet, Don, Pam and Bob who were travelling along the canal on a rented houseboat. They invite me to sit with them in the picnic shelter, and had a nice long chat.

I'm glad as I cycle through the outskirts of Rochester. The canal here is a deep trench, and would have meant paddling a good while to find a place to put in and take out. Where the canal meets the Genesee river is picturesque, forming a perfect 'X' with almost symmetrical bridges on each leg. I get lost in the maze of crossings, but found the right combination after asking around.

At the nice town of Fairport I decide it's time to get in some paddling quota. I come across a canoe and kayak rental which had a perfect launching spot. I would have chatted more with the guys there, but after doing the conversion the sun was starting to get low on the horizon. Too much talking with people today, now get paddling!

I reach swampy Macedon at dusk, mosquitoes swarming as I get out of the boat. I am disappointed there are no showers in the lock station's camping area, as I am a sticky and stinky mess, a melange of sweat and sunblock. The fire station is just across from the lock so I go over to plead to use their shower. As luck would have it, I had passed the fire department's boat earlier and waved to them, so when I walked in the chief recognized me."Sure," he says after I asked " 'cause we're that kinda guys." 

I feel human again after the hot shower, but super famished. The only thing in the village is a gas station convenience store. I practically inhale two packaged sandwiches, a 24 oz can of beer and a Twix bar. I crawl into the tent, and suddenly the simple joy of being clean and full is beyond description.

"Low Bridge!" But I'm Not Down

I wake up to a brilliant morning, blue skies and sunshine but I'm slow. I had a good sleep, it was one of those times where you wake up early in the morning and then have a second sleep after which seems better than the first. I'm glad i'm indoors as last night there were flashes of lightning and bouts of rain as I tucked in.

On advice from a local I back track using the busy main road, stopping by the Denny's along the way for breakfast. I must have given them quite a show, crossing the four-lane road and then taking up a full parking spot. A few of the patrons coming out of the restaurant inspected my stuff and asked questions. An old man, somewhat concerned with my oddity said "I hope people are good to you" and I assured him, "Yes, sometimes more than I deserve." It is funny though, how people approach a sense of adventure; some appreciate it even if it is not theirs; others don't and consider those that do foolish.

Well, the advice I got regarding a good place to put in ended up being foolish, a 10 kilometre detour along the busy highway for nothing. There was actually a boat ramp in town, just a few hundred metres from the bridges and locks I wanted to paddle! One bridge is unnecessarily wide that it actually supports what could  be an interesting town plaza but is unfortunately used for parking.

(the grating sound in the video is my lifejacket rubbing against the chest-mounted camera)

A tour boat comes out of the lock not long after I get to the gate. I paddle in and the lock master tells me I have to wait for the tour boat to turn around and come back in about 20 minutes, as it is a set of two locks which take time to operate. In the meantime he hands me copious amounts of information with the phone numbers of all the locks and lift gates. He wonders if I am able to slip through the low bridges with my bike sticking up.

I roast in the lock chamber reading and the tour boat returns full of curious people and I'm in the firing line of questions echoing across the emptying lock chambers. I try to answer them all, and after I mention it's probably going to take me ten days to get to Albany one woman asks, "Doesn't it get lonely?" "No," I say, flashing her my best smile, "I meet a lot of nice people like you." I think I made her blush. The tour boat motors out of the second lock and I find my own pace. I see them again 20 minutes as they turn back towards town, everyone waving and wishing me well.

Nice strong tail breeze as I paddle along the canal. It is built like a railroad, where the high parts are trenched and the low parts are built up. From the canal, sometimes all I see are the tops of trees and houses that are lower than the water or even the bottom of the canal. Cyclists riding the towpath wave and occasionally chat a bit which is fun. I am liking this departure from my regular cycling trips, as it resets the often unfair expectations I have of myself, like the feeling of under-achievement if I do less than 100 kms/60 miles a day. It's a relief that on this trip I can escape terms like "doing a century" that seem to pepper cycle speak.

Paddler's view of a cyclist on the tow path. Hi, Paul!

I looks like I can fit though the unraised low bridges with ease, albeit sometimes ducking my head slightly just in case. Even raised the bridges are still relatively low, and in the old days people on deck had to bend down, as the captain shouted "Low Bridge!" It is fun reliving that in my own way, so I call out the same words as I sneak under just for fun.

Into Middleport, paddling gets a little tiring and I want to try cycling on the stone dust towpath. I take out along the rocky canal bank slippery with algae. Cool, this is how the canal looks from up here, looking at the road beside being much lower. It reminds me of the dikes in Holland that hold back the sea. Most of the towpath is well maintained, and really neat to see the dam-like structure that holds up the canal as it goes through Medina.

sooner or later there had to be a shadow photo :)

I get into Albion and I find out there is no camping there. After speaking to the bridge keeper, I found out having a boat opens a magic door unknown to most cyclists. He lets me camp by the moored boats, and gives me the pass code for the toilet and shower. While the towpaths are set up by the parks department (no money), the canal system is run as a subsidiary of the NY Thruway (mega money) which ensures its survival.

Another great day, one of those summer days that seems to stretch on.

Floating Away From Wings and a Pier

I arrive in Buffalo in the early evening, and the first thing I want to do is scope out the harbour for a convenient place to put in. I find my way to the downtown marina which was hopping with activity. I stop at the gate to ask what was going on and Julie who was in charge explained that there was a "Poker Run" going on. I ask her about the possibility of leaving my car in the massive parking lot for at least a week, telling her what I was going to do. As a visual aid, I show her pictures of my amphibious rig on my iPod. She says it would be possible and to talk to the guys there in the morning, giving me their names.

Second order of the evening was chicken wings. I, of course, had to seek out the original home of the famous pub grub, The Anchor Bar. The place was packed so I opt to sit at the bar, the ceiling dripping with motorcycles and license plates from all over the world. There are official  police shoulder patches including the OPP and the Quebec Surete in front of me behind the bar, you can tell this place has pull. I order 20 hot wings and they are excellent, especially washed down with a couple pints of Genesee Cream. At my local pub, I have no problem putting away 20 wings, with some fries to boot, but I forget these are wings from Buffalo, All America City, and I could only manage 15 with a few celery sticks and the amazing blue cheese sauce.

As it is dark and getting late, I drive back out to the I-290 to find a cheap motel. Everything close to the city seemed to be full up — Saturday night, duh — but I finally find a place into Tonawanda. I toss and turn all night, as my stomach lived out the revenge of the chicken wings, along with my excitement and anxiety of casting off in the morning.

After a mediocre free breakfast at the motel, I head back to the downtown marina. I introduce myself to Jerry at the gate, explaining that I had spoken to Julie last night and chatted with him a bit. He was also into kayaking and wanted to do a long trip sometime. Julie, and Jerry, if you ever read this, thank you so much for accommodating my request. The peace of mind that you have given me goes a long way in allowing me to enjoy this trip.

packed up and ready to go

It took at least half an hour of unloading the boat, which entailed a thorough inventory just to make sure I had not forgotten something important. I did — water bottles. I had put them in the dishwasher and forgot to pack them before leaving.
 
Paddling out of the safety of the harbour and into a short stretch of the open width of the Niagara River, the gusts off of Lake Erie were churning the water into unpredictable chop. Scary, as it tossed me about randomly, and I considered heading back and maybe cycling this portion but kept on. There were also very high solid concrete embankments onto which the waves would smash and bounce back, amplifying the choppiness, and would make climbing out quite difficult should I overturn. A breakwater and a slight bend in the river farther up calm things considerably, and soon I was slipping under the Peace Bridge which was carrying  heavy trade between the two countries. Having passed the choppy ordeal in my red boat, wearing a red rashguard shirt, the song that was humourously in my head was this. thus the parody in the post's title.
 

"can  I just take that next exit?"

 

Peace Bridge

There was one point I passed ten feet in front of a humungous barge which I thought was stationary, only to find out after passing alongside that a massive tugboat was on its stern just to push it against the swift current. Yikes!
 
 

big tug and barge

The I-190 bridge

 
I got to a set of enormous locks meant for the big Lakers, and I asked the lock master when the next lock-through was so I could hitch a ride. He says, "as soon as you slip in and I close the gates. You guys get priority." So here I was all alone in a lock that could hold a tanker, and several million gallons of water is moved just for me. Wow, and it was free of charge! He must have radioed the guy on the other side (yes it is that long) who operated the lower gates, and he shouts down to me, " I hear you're going all the way to Albany. Stick to your right, the current is fast and don't miss the turn or else you'll end up at the Falls." He was being a bit funny, but the possibility is there so I make a point to set a waypoint in my GPS for Tonawanda Creek, lest I give thousands of tourists quite a show, a red kayak tumbling down to meet the "Maid of the Mist" 
 
 

 
Into the mid day I was soon sharing the river with noisy cigarette boats. I hate those things, they are like Harley Ds in the water. The water was choppy again from the traffic, so just short of Tonawanda I decide to switch to cycling. Plus I was hungry and ready for lunch. I found a pebbley incline right beside the bike path which was perfect, and only a few hundred metres from a snack bar.
 

Lunch was a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich

Bank Stop. If there had been a drive-thru ATM I would have used it

A few people admired the set-up. John, who was literally a couple of miles from finishing his ride from Albany was taking a picture of me as I was coming along the path so I chatted with him for a bit. When he saw my cage had no water bottle in it, he offered one of his. Nice guy. Thanks, John I hope we meet up in Albany when I get there.

The ride to Lockport goes smoothly, except for the somewhat annoying constant switching from pathway to roadway and back. Signage was lacking in some points and I did get lost, Luckily it resulted in stopping at an ice cream place to ask for directions, and talking with locals as I ingested a cone and some ice cold water.

How could anyone ever refuse Uncle G's?

I get into Lockport by 6 pm, with enough sunlight left to get to the next campground 15 kms away but I am suddenly tired, not really from physical exertion, but from the release of tension and anxiety now that I'm finally really on the road. I check into a motel hoping to catch up on sleep (haven't been sleeping well for the last 3 days) plus I want to backtrack a bit and paddle through the interesting bridges and locks at Lockport. What a great day!