A cold trickle of water ran through my hair and down the side of my face. I swiped it away irritably as I stomped past what probably would have been some of the Adirondacks’ crown jewels. I tried not to let the weather get to me, but I didn’t always succeed. The forecast now called for 7 straight days of rain. In the shoulder season that could get more than a little uncomfortable.
I had left from Heart Lake earlier this morning after a restless couple hours of sleep in the back of my car. As I set out, a ranger standing to the side of the trailhead flagged me over. “Planning on sleeping out here tonight?” I knew that she was really asking, “Do you have a bear canister?” These were required in the Eastern High Peaks due to heavy bear activity, but not in the rest of the Adirondacks.
“Nope”, I replied, gesturing to the paddle blades and helmet strapped to the sides of my pack. “Just passing through. I’ll be paddling the Hudson.”
She looked at me even more suspiciously now, like I was some idiot who had just shown up to Niagara Falls with an inner tube and a case of beer. “You do know that there are dangerous waterfalls along the Hudson up here?” I tried out my most disarming smile. I had been planning this route for over a year, but didn’t really want to get into details of it right here if I didn’t have to. “Yes, ma’am. I’m prepared for that.” She waved me on, and I hustled down the trail before she could change her mind
My route would take me along the Van Hoevenberg Trail to Marcy Dam. From there, I’d head up through Avalanche Pass, along Avalanche Lake, past Lake Colden, to Flowed Lands. Past the remnants of the old Flowed Lands dam, I’d connect with the Opalescent River, and take it to the upper Hudson. I’d follow the Hudson down river, paddle through the Essex Chain of Lakes, jump on the Rock and Cedar rivers, rejoin the Hudson, then paddle through the legendary class III-V whitewater of the Hudson River Gorge staying with the Hudson until Hadley-Luzerne.
There was very little beta on what I’d find along the Opalescent. This river had always been considered inaccessible to boaters, located as it was in a remote region of the Adirondacks and surrounded by high peaks. Flows could be high and wild during the spring snowmelt, challenging a paddler’s ability to read and avoid the many obstacles clogging the narrow waterway. Usually they were too low though, setting up for a classic rock garden drag. And of course, that flow data was not available online.
Hanging Spear Falls was the grand centerpiece of the river, a 75 foot hourglass-shaped waterfall, one of the tallest in the Adirondack region. No one in their right mind had ever considered paddling it until 2014 when two world class paddlers, Steve Fisher and Pat Keller, fulfilled their dream of making the descent. They monitored the river flows daily and when everything was just right, carried their kayaks along snow covered trails through the mountains and paddled the Opalescent down Hanging Spear Falls and to its confluence with the Hudson River. Steve injured his shoulder in the attempt, but the trip was overall considered a success.
I had nothing so risky in mind. Instead, I planned to follow the Opalescent along the East River Trail and put in below the falls.
Avalanche Lake was a beautiful stretch of water sandwiched between Avalanche Mountain and Mount Colden. High stone walls rose on either side, and in the light drizzle, fog rose from the water in ghostly tendrils. The trail zagged along its rocky shoreline, challenging to navigate with a pack full of rafting gear, as it continually required climbing over and through large boulder fields. Where the sheer stone walls rose straight up from the water, “hitch up Matildas”, narrow metal framed walkways with splintered wooden planking had been bolted to the cliff faces. I passed a group huddled together in this area debating whether to turn back. They had been attempting the hike with an anxious looking German shepherd who was having a really hard time with the bouldering. I hoped for the dog’s sake that they did.
I stopped by Lake Colden to enjoy my lunch, glad for the chance to sit by the water for a few minutes and rest my legs. The water was crystal clear and I watched the minnows darting along its rocky bottom as I licked some cream cheese off my finger. I was eating an open-face sandwich of artisanal salami neatly arranged atop a bagel with cream cheese. I had picked up the salami at Zingerman’s Deli the week before. The bagel had unfortunately come from the supermarket. Still, the combination was quite satisfying, as everything can be when you are starving and sore.
In past years, I had tried to bring along fresh New York style bagels, but by the time I would get around to eating them, they would always be hard and chewy. I had even tried vacuum sealing them, but sucking out the air left the bagels flat as pancakes and still unpleasantly chewy. The supermarket bagels started at a much lower level of excellence, but at least they stayed pretty much the same until needed.
Past Flowed Lands, I finally connected with the Opalescent River and roughly followed it along the East River Trail. I was a little disheartened by what I saw, or rather didn’t see. The river was barely a trickle up here, and it was hard to imagine that I would be able to paddle it. I hiked on for a couple hours, and when I finally came to my planned put in point, my fears were realized. The Opalescent was just a wet gravel bed. So I walked on, this time off trail, following the course of the river. An hour later, things were looking a little better. But only just a little. The water was ankle deep, but I thought I might just be able to float it.
Also, possibly time to update my hiking wardrobe. The Huck Finn look wasn’t quite working for me anymore.
I inflated my boat by catching wind in the green inflation bag and then squeezing it into the raft, an ingenious lightweight solution that avoided the need for a heavier pump. Just ten minutes later, I was making my way downstream. For all that the water was so shallow, things were better than expected. Every few minutes, I’d have to jump out and drag the boat over an exposed gravel bed in the river, but I was definitely paddling.
I continued down river in the deepening dusk, until I couldn’t make out the rocks in the river any longer. Too tired to head inland in the dark in search of a campsite, I pulled onto a large gravel bar in the river and set up for the night. I pitched my tarp using river rocks to hold the guylines in place, and was soon slurping down hot pasta in a spicy tomato sauce. I drifted off to the burbling sounds of water around me and was out for the count.
Spoiler alert: I got some great pictures of my tarp under a purple dusk sky on my phone camera. You will not be seeing those pictures.
I woke in the dim light of early morning, and had just enough time to stow my gear before the downpour hit. It was a small but meaningful consolation. I continued along the Opalescent in the rain for a couple hours before finally making it to its confluence with the Hudson. It was the kind of day where I’d paddle several hundred yards before having to get out and pull the boat over whatever obstacle was in my way, all in the rain, then get back in and do it again and again. This was a misery that only someone who had dragged a boat down a dry creek for the sake of having “explored” it could empathize with.
Bob came home exhausted after a day on the golf course.
“How was your game?” His wife asked.
“Awful!” Bob replied. “Everything was going fine, and then Harry had a heart attack on the 9th hole.”
“Oh my God! That’s terrible”, she exclaimed.
“I know,” Bob said, “For the whole rest of the game, it was hit the ball, drag Harry. Hit the ball, drag Harry”
Not surprisingly, for the remainder of the trip, I would mentally refer to my raft as Harry
By early afternoon, the drizzle had paused, so I took advantage of the moment to pull up on a rock for some lunch. I brewed a hot cup of coffee, and by brewed I mean dumped a packet of instant coffee into a cup of hot water, and worked on getting my hands warm. I was enjoying some chorizo and Idiazabal, a Basque smoked cheese, when the winds blew away the cloud cover and I was treated to one of the most beautiful scenes of the trip. It was an almost perfect moment.
The afternoon was less than perfect. For one thing, it was raining again. I had come to a stretch of the upper Hudson that was extremely shallow, with large, round river rocks lining the bottom. It was too shallow to paddle, but the smooth, slippery, rocks made it nearly impossible to drag the boat without catching an ankle. I stumbled and cursed, climbing in and out of the boat often without making headway. My shins were taking a beating.
I dragged the boat toward shore, hoping to bushwhack along the shoreline until the river deepened, but the heavy tree cover and thick underbrush prevented me from pulling the raft through without risk of puncture. I then tried the opposite shoreline without success, growling a steady stream of curses that, in retrospect, were really quite creative. There was no choice but to continue in the river, fighting for every foot gained. It felt like I was suffering pointlessly, without a story to tell or pictures to show. The rain had kept my camera in its case for most of the trip and would likely continue to do so.
After what seemed like long hours, the water deepened enough to float again and I continued until it was too dark to see. I had only made it to Newcomb, 4 hours short of my planned itinerary. I found a clearing on the side of the river by an old two track, and pitched my tarp for the night. Demoralized, I decided to pull out my favorite camping dinner, a Thai-inspired peanut noodle dish.
And then, just as the clouds had parted earlier in the day, as I snuggled in my quilt eating my noodles, everything was ok again.
Day three took me down the stretch of the Hudson between Harris Lake and the Blackwell Stillwater. This was a nice stretch of river with the class II-III rapids of Ord Falls and Long Falls to keep me entertained. I zigged and zagged happily among the rocks, regretting only that the rain limited my ability to photograph it.
Hitting the confluence with the Goodnow River, I pushed inland along a two-track, carrying the raft over my head like a giant umbrella for 4 miles or so, until I hit the Essex Chain of Lakes. I put in at Sixth Lake and then paddled lake to lake through Fifth, Fourth, and Third Lakes. The lakes were beautiful, with water lilies dotting their surfaces like one of my favorite Monet paintings, but sadly, the rain limited my ability to capture the moment.
I pulled ashore on the south side of Second Lake, where my map suggested I might find a connector trail to the Cedar River. It wasn’t there. I bushwhacked southeast through thick overgrowth, thorns catching at my raft and dry suit. This was another truly memorable portion of the trip, and not in a good way. Lesson learned; if ever you are planning an ambitious enough packrafting trip that you think you might need an ultralight dry suit because every ounce counts, I can almost guarantee that suit will not be able to handle the conditions you throw at it.
Eventually I stumbled upon a two track and as darkness closed in, I made my way to the Cedar and followed it west until I found a spot to put in. I paddled just long enough to find a campsite beneath a large evergreen tree and set up for the night. Tomorrow I would finally face the Hudson River Gorge, the long anticipated crux of the trip.
I slipped out of the dry suit as I was boiling water for dinner and almost immediately started to gag. I had been marinating in that full body condom for 3 long days, and the moist smell of sweat and decay was so potent that I almost lost my appetite. Almost, but not quite. A few minutes later, I was wearing my stink like a badge of honor, a very tangible reminder of what I had endured thus far. Dinner was wonderful as always, a well earned respite from a challenging day, and afterward I fell asleep hard. I woke briefly in the middle of the night to rub at the greasy backs of my ears, and vaguely remember thinking before falling back asleep that they smelled like a belly button.
I looked out from beneath my tarp at the sun streaming through the fall colored leaves, a light mist rising from the water. Too excited for breakfast, I put in and was almost immediately engulfed in the class III-IV rapids of the Cedar River. I quickly warmed up with the exertion of paddling and soon was having the time of my life. Then, the Cedar dumped into the Hudson, and after a few more rapids I came upon a splintered wooden sign on river right. The paint was faded but perfectly legible. It warned “Last chance to exit. Dangerous rapids ahead.” This was the Hudson River Gorge.
I found a nice spot off to the side of the river and stopped to batten down the hatches and eat breakfast. I brewed up some coffee, made up a bacon, egg, and cream cheese bagel, and got some hash browns rehydrating. The trick to the hash browns was to hold back a handful before rehydrating the rest. These were then added back in at the end to give the dish the crunch of real hash browns. I took my time enjoying breakfast, savoring these moments before committing to the most highly anticipated part of the trip. After breakfast, I secured my pack tightly to the front of the raft, making sure that everything important was safely stowed in my dry bag. And then, at last, I launched into the flow.
I had planned out an escape route in the event that conditions were untenable, but needn’t have bothered. As soon as I hit the first of the rapids, I was having such a blast that any thoughts of avoiding the gorge were quickly erased. Snicker-snack, I cut sharply left to avoid a rock, then backpaddled on the right to correct course and complete the maneuver. Snicker-snack, snicker-snack. I bounced through wave trains, water sloshing across my spray deck. It was like an aquatic ballet, pirouetting, leaping, and spinning through the waves. And of course sometimes it was more like a pinball game.
Meanwhile, my inner voice was having a field day.
“Nice job giving that rock the slip!”
I laughed uproariously from my perch on top of the only rock in that particular stretch of river
Or “Are you gonna dodge some of those, hotshot?” As I careened off yet another submerged rock.
I found myself laughing out of the blue, either at something my inner voice had just said or just for the sheer joy of it.
Hours went by like minutes, and then, all too soon, I saw it; A black railroad bridge crossing the river. I had made it through the worst of the gorge, without being unseated once. My heart buoyant, I continued on to North River, then pulled off at a little riverside park for a reflective lunch. I spread all my gear out in the sunlight, like a giant yard sale, excited that for one night at least, I’d be completely dry and warm.
After lunch, I continued onward in the bright sunlight. The river had been swift all day, and I suddenly found myself ahead of schedule, a novelty after running behind up until today. I took advance of the current to make miles, but also to pause in the calmer areas and bask in the moment. After having made it through the most challenging part of the journey, it was hard not to feel completely relaxed.
I paddled until dark, then pulled off the river, climbed a tree covered bluff and set up camp for the night. You know the routine by now. Start water boiling, pitch tarp, climb into bag, eat pasta, marvel at my own stench, out for the count.
I woke to an overcast morning, packed up quickly, and jumped into my raft, anxious to start making miles. After making it through the gorge, I was expecting a long day of not-so-challenging paddling, but was pleasantly surprised. The river went through cycles of fast, flat water and class III whitewater. I was running and gunning it (picking my lines through the whitewater on the fly without pausing to scout the river), dodging rocks and bouncing through some pretty decent wave trains. Mid-morning, elated, I stopped for a a quick break on a gravel bank by the river. I heated up some water for coffee and made up a few breakfast burritos with egg, mashed potato, cheese, and left over bacon. The fall colors were vibrant and I took my time sipping my coffee, glad to just be out experiencing this all. I was still warm and dry.
I was paddling yet another stretch of white water in this region when up ahead I noted that the river was becoming decidedly “splashy”. To the left and right, the river appeared to be choked with large rocks, but I could see a promising line zagging right up the center. I cut hard to center, just barely avoiding getting swept into the rocky teeth to my left. Up ahead, a giant boulder loomed, the current sweeping around it to the right, and past that the river cleared again. As I came around the rock though, a deep hole gaped in front of me. Crap! The back side of the hole was too steep!
I had just enough time for these thoughts to float across my mind and then I was dropping in. As predicted, the hole rolled me. I kept a grip on the paddle as I exited, and side stroked toward the overturned boat. Past the last of the rocks, I was able to right the raft, porpoise back inside, and paddle toward shore.
I quickly took a status check. I had all of my gear, my raft was full of water, and I was soaking wet. It felt like my dry suit had completely filled with water, the legs bulging like overstuffed sausages. One of the pitfalls of an ultralight drysuit without a latex neck gasket, I noted. It had been good enough to deal with splash, but not submersion. I stripped it off and dumped it out. My clothes underneath were soaked, so I swapped out my wool top for a backup fleece I had brought in the event of, well, this.
It was then that I noticed my phone, which had been tucked inside my drysuit, inside my shirt, in a plastic baggie, in a life proof phone case. There was water inside the baggie, and when I took the phone out, I could see water sloshing inside of the case too. Not good. That had been one heck of a soaking.
There’s not much to tell about the rest of the day. It was overcast, raining at times, and I was feeling chilled. Past this point, there were no major rapids, or at least none that my fuzzy memory can recall. My itinerary had called for one more day of paddling, but I was ready to be done. Taking advantage of the current, I paddled hard, not stopping for breaks. I was determined to be off the river by nightfall. The day passed in a blur of suffering. Then, as light began to fade, I saw a sign. “Danger! Exit the river! Impassible waterfall ahead!”
I knew that waterfall! I had driven past it so many times on my way to Lake George, had even envisioned what it would be like to attempt it in a packraft, not that I ever would. I had made it!
The Upriver Café in Hadley, where I had counted on eating, was closed, so I sadly continued onward. Without my phone’s navigation to guide me, I had to pull out the old atlas from the back of my car, squinting in the darkness to make out the tiny names of the backcountry roads I needed to get back to the highway. Along the way, I found an open pizza and burger place with an upscale menu and gorged myself on hot French onion soup, artisanal burgers (yes, pleural) on brioche, and fries with gravy.
Spending a week eating dehydrated foods does strange things to your insides, and following up with a proper food binge doesn’t really help the situation. I finally made it back to the highway, the car by this point full of toxic fumes. In my mind’s eye, I can see myself sitting in that car, enveloped in a cloud of sickly greenish gas that rose to the rooftop. I drove real carefully, not wanting to have to roll down a window and explain that Dutch oven situation to an officer.
As I drove, I reflected on the trip, probably the most fun I’ve ever had in the backcountry. I realized that the early misery had set the stage for the exhilaration that followed, and the suffering at the end, well that was just the price you had to pay for the experience.
Epilogue:
Trips like this one have earned me a great deal of consternation over the years. “You do that alone? It’s too dangerous!” When I reflect on the pictures I took or the thoughts I recorded though, I feel an incredible sense of gratitude. These sorts of experiences are like money in the memory bank. Someday, when such endeavors are beyond me, I imagine I’ll be able to sit back in my rocking chair and smile, reflecting on a life well lived. But not yet.