MOHAWK - Discovering the Valley of the Crystals Copyright 2002
Chapter 12 - Tributuaries
Schoharie Creek - Burstonsville to Mill Point
Discovery: Canoe Trip From Hell
June 26, 2003, 90's, Sunny
There were clues. The forecast called for temperatures in the 90s. Breakfast at Denny's was a half-hour late. I got lost driving to the launch site. . . and our guide didn't show up.
This was my show, so it was up to me to scout the
river to locate launch and takeout sites and determine the condition of
the water. Was it high or low, clear or muddy? My original plan called
for a 5-mile run from Lost Valley to Mill Point, but at Lost Valley I discovered
almost as many posted signs as there were trees. Consequently, our launch
site and the trip were extended three miles upstream to the public access
site at the Burtonsville Bridge.
I studied a topo map of this 8-mile section of Schoharie
Creek, noting that a few contour lines crossed the river, indicating a
considerable drop, but no significant rapids. Only about a mile and a half
of the river could be seen from the road, so I relied heavily on information
provided by good friend, Ron Kolodziej from Amsterdam. He said he had canoed
this section before and had few problems: mostly walking the canoe over
rocks where the water was shallow. He had provided a similar assessment
for our run from Mill Point to Schoharie
Crossing and it was right on the money.
We started out fat, dumb and happy . . . Bob, Dave and Ron G.
This time would be different. Ron would be with us, guiding all the way
. . . if he didn't have the closing on a house that day. It had already
been rescheduled several times. If all went according to plan, it would
be Ron Kolodziej and Bob McNitt in one canoe, Dave Hamilton and Ron Gugnacki
in another, and Dale Janes and I in the third canoe. If Ron K couldn't
make it, Bob would go it alone in his sport kayak.
We met Bob and Dave at Burtonsville---a half-hour
late. Bob had the kayak with him. Ron K. couldn't make it, but left a message
that he checked the river and we should have no problem canoeing that section.
Regardless, we put on life vests.
Bob had a thing for boulders.
It was already pushing 85 when we launched at 10:15.
At 10:25 Bob and his kayak collided with a boulder in the middle of the
first rapids and went over. He pulled the water-filled craft to shore,
emptied it and was back on the river in just a few minutes. . . . minus
an ultralight spinning outfit.
Bob is an experienced canoeist, but relatively new
to kayaking. I guessed his misfortune had more to do with lack of kayaking
experience than river conditions. After all Dale---with almost no canoeing
experience---and I were negotiating rapids, dodging boulders and
even making a few casts for bass. Dave and Ron G. hadn't even had a close
call.
The
river was not high but it was cloudy. It got clearer as we progressed downstream.
Some stretches were easy canoeing and there were plenty of runs and pools
below rapids where we caught a few smallmouth bass.
Dale and I led the way into another rapids and were
almost through when the canoe ran up on a submerged boulder and swung sideways.
When it slipped off it hit another boulder and we went over. Water poured
into the canoe, filling it in seconds. My pack was tied in the canoe, but
Dale's floated away with a paddle and cooler. The top came off the cooler
and a sealed bag of Wergin's hotdogs and another of rolls bobbed along
in the current. Bottled water, fruit drink and beer went to the bottom.
(Photo by Dave Hamilton)
While Dale and I hauled the swamped canoe
to shore to dump out the water, Bob passed us in the kayak and gathered
up the floaters. He discovered a lure hooked to Dale's pack and followed
the line to my ultralight spinning outfit. When I got to shore I had a
plug hooked in the back of my shirt. It was attached to my other fishing
rod. Lucky!
We had recovered most of our gear, but my pack had been under water for
several minutes. Although they were inside nylon cases inside a nylon pack,
cameras and binoculars were soaking wet. Dale's pack was almost full of
condiments for lunch. Fortunately, they were in watertight bottles. His
fishing tackle was wet but safe in the fishing vest under his life vest.
For the next hour or so Dale and I were somewhat
subdued, hardly appreciating the lush vegetation, cutbanks, boulder fields
and rocky cliffs. More leery of rapids and underwater boulders, we
walked the canoe through stretches of rough water. Although soaked to the
skin, we felt the 90-degree heat and relentless sun. We were starting to
think this might not be fun.
wet and bleeding "boss" of the expedition.
(Photo by Dave Hamilton)
We passed through Lost Valley around noon, noting
the easywater canoeing and the cliffs on one side and riverside homes and
camps on the other. A beautiful stretch of river. A half-hour past Lost
Valley we beached the canoe on a shaded rocky shore, back-dropped by second-growth
trees. A good place to build a fire, cut some forked sticks and cook hotdogs.
While Dale unloaded condiments---three kinds of mustard, ketchup and sweet
and sour relish---I started cutting hotdog roasting sticks. When the others
arrived they gathered wood and started a fire.
Left to right - Keesler, McNitt, Gugnacki and Janes. (Photo by Dave Hamilton)
When I reached up to cut the third forked stick from a shoreline tree,
blood ran down my arm. I had cut a dime size chunk from the side of my
thumb. I wrapped it in a wet handkerchief, but it wouldn't stop bleeding.
A tissue wrapped with duct tape finally stemmed the flow.
Dave found a 2X4 for a table. Dale lined up condiments.
Ron spread out chips and dips; Dave fruit and veggies; Bob Oreo cookies.
With roasted hotdogs and cold drinks we had a streamside feast at the bottom
of the gorge. As if to mark the special occasion, rocks at the bottom
of the fire exploded, throwing sparks in all directions. Fireworks!
During lunch, I spread the contents of my pack on
sun-warmed rocks, paying special attention to the 35mm and digital cameras.
They were both wet, but there was no water inside the lens. With some tender
loving care they might survive.
After lunch, with everything loaded in the canoes,
we continued downstream, somewhat renewed. Again, Dale and I took the lead.
After a few minutes of paddling I noticed blood on my canoe paddle. The
bandage had sprung a leak. Another bandage of duct tape, this time wrapped
around most of my hand, stopped the flow. That's when they started calling
me "Old Silver Thumb."
We were extremely leery, hugging the inside bends
to keep from being sucked into the fast water at boulder-strewn outside
bends. This tactic may have saved us from serious injury. After passing
the remnants of an old power dam and running a rapids without incident,
we heard rough water ahead. At first we thought it was the sound of rushing
water reverberating off the cliffs, but soon discovered a series of one-foot
ledges that we easily walked the canoe through. Below the ledges was a
stretch of flatwater, but we hugged the inside bend anyway. When the stream
noise jumped up a few decibels, I yelled for Dale to paddle for shore.
With only a few feet to spare, we beached the canoe . . . at the top of
a 3-foot waterfalls that had no plunge pool.
While Dale fished the run below the falls, I headed
upstream to warn the others. I walked to where I could see the old power
dam . . . and waited. Around 2:30 Bob came into view and I waved him to
shore. He told me Dave and Ron had hit a rock and gone over. With water
up to their chests, they pushed and pulled the swamped canoe from the rocks
and worked it to shore. During the process Ron wrenched his back and arm.
He also lost a tackle box and dunked his cell phone and binoculars. Dave's
camera took a bath. As before Bob picked up the floaters.
We walked around the waterfalls and crossed to the
left side of the river where we lined the canoes and kayak through
another rapids---slipping and sliding on algae-covered rocks. Ahead we
could see a wide bend where giant boulders were stacked along the bottom
of a cutbank. The water was too fast and full of rocks to paddle across,
so Dale tried to walk the canoe to the other side, but had to give up at
the halfway mark and return. We had no choice but to the climb up and over
boulders to line the boats through the rapids.
Ron could barely walk his back hurt so much and
his arm was swelling. When we stopped to rest, I gave him a couple of pain
pills. My thumb was starting to bleed again, so we re-wrapped it. We were
so hot and tired we launched as soon as we saw some open water.
All went well for about 10 minutes. Dale and I headed
for the inside bend on the opposite shore but the current pulled us into
another rapids. For awhile it looked like we were going to make it through,
but the canoe ran up on a submerged boulder and turned sideways. Before
we could get out of the canoe it slipped off, turned on its side and jammed
against boulders, crossways in the current.
Dale and I rolled out of the canoe in waist deep
water and tried to pull it loose. It wouldn't budge. The river poured in
and curled out; our tied in gear rolling in the agitated water. The cooler
and a paddle floated downstream.
For what seemed like 15 minutes we pushed and pulled
the canoe. It wouldn't move. We tried turning it over. It wouldn't
budge. At one point I suggested that I get downstream and pull one end
while Dale pulled in the upstream direction at the other end. Perhaps we
could twist it loose. Dale quipped. "Yeah and what happens to you if the
canoe comes loose?" Duhhh?
For awhile it looked like we would have to leave
the canoe. But, without rhyme or reason we grabbed each end of the 16-foot,
kevlar canoe and pulled. The force of the river pushing downstream into
the canoe and our upstream pressure at each end, literally bent the canoe
in the middle. The warped---temporarily shorter---canoe slipped off the
rock at my end . . . and threw me in the river.
Dale hung on to the canoe and yelled "Paul are you alright?!"
I yelled back, "I'm fine. I'm fine. Stay with the canoe."
Buoyed by a life vest and pant legs filled with air,
I floated feet first through the rapids. Although my butt and feet bounced
off rocks---reminiscent of tubing---I was not injured. In fact for the
first time all-day I felt great.
Looking downstream at my "fat" legs and oversize
wading shoes, I started laughing. I imagined I looked like a clown bobbing
along in the current. Turned out all anyone else could see was my wide-brimmed
straw hat. For awhile they didn't even know I was still attached to it.
Calm water lifted me to my feet and I waddled to shore to help Dale with
the canoe. It was 3:45.
As soon as we had the canoe ashore and empty of
water, Dale started walking downstream to find the paddle and cooler. I
told him to "forget about 'em." I had more paddles and I didn't like that
cooler anyway. But he was adamant.
We were less than a mile from the end of the trip,
but all we could see ahead was boulder-strewn fastwater. While Bob was
lining his kayak through the rapids, he discovered a trail leading up to
a road. He suggested calling it quits. There was no argument.
Ron's back and arm were feeling much better, so
he and Bob headed for the downstream vehicles on foot. Dave started unloading
gear from the canoes and I went looking for Dale. Fifteen minutes later
I found him walking upstream on the opposite side of the river. He waved
the paddle. He was almost to the bridge when he saw the paddle floating
along the opposite shore. He swam across the river to retrieve it. Adamant!
It was only a short carry to the road, so we hauled
the boats and gear up the bank and had everything roadside when Bob and
Ron got back around 5 o'clock. I volunteered to drive Dave up to the Burtonsville
Bridge to get his vehicle. I headed south toward the bridge. Dave very
calmly said, "I think they said this road is a dead end." In short order
I discovered they were right, turned the Jeep around and waved at the jeering
crew as we went by. I will forever be known as the guy who doesn't know
his thoroughfare from a dead end, or something like that.
We were ready to head home at 6 o'clock. We had
lost a cooler, fishing rod, tacklebox plus food and drink. My cameras and
binoculars went through the "washer" twice and were not likely to recover.
Dave's camera, with only one dunking, had a chance. Ron's cell phone
was kaput and his binoculars were soaked. We had been dumped, beaten and
battered. It was, without doubt, the canoe trip from Hell.
Ron's parting comment cut to the quick "Now,
he said, "you have something interesting to put in your book."
Epilogue
The house closing was postponed . . . again. Ron Kolodziej still insists he has canoed this stretch of the Schoharie "several times." After repeated messages from us doubting Thomases and a Special Award from Dave, he also reported, "Two years ago a couple of nuns from St. Stan's School in Amsterdam canoed the stretch from Middleburgh to the Mohawk to celebrate their Golden Anniversary in the nunnery. They had to be near 70 years of age when they did it." How can you stay angry with a guy like that?
Bob wrote a song commemorating the event. Give a click.
Dave's camera and film survived. He "created" a photo to commemorate the event. Give a click.
My thumb is healing nicely. Both cameras were too wet and dirty to recover.
Ron was right. I did have something interesting to put in my book.
Follow the path of this discovery trip by clicking on
Mohawk
Valley Maps: by Maptech.
Type Burtsonsville select New York, press GO!
Use margin arrows to follow the Canoe Trip From Hell.
