Owasco and Home

It felt good to be in my own bed last night. The familiar sweet sound of waves lapping outside, my toothbrush resting crossways on a glass in the bathroom like it always does, my C-Pap machine happily whirling away, keeping me oxygenated, and not a worry in the world about thunderstorms, bugs in the tent, or where I left my glasses. Today I can write on my laptop from my desk; the scrawl in the journal is over, too.

 

All is in order, comfort reigns, security has returned.

But oh, how I miss you all. I miss the ambiguity of what will come next: the unknowns of the lakes and people ahead and even the ability of this aging shell to take on another day on the water. Today I’m conflicted as I go about nesting in my place because the gift of the self-absorbed adventure that I’ve given myself over the last thirteen days has ended.

But before I get too cosmic, let’s finish this thing up, OK? 

Yesterday at 8-ish I left Buzz and Gretchen of Skaneateles and the groaning board of their breakfast tray for the municipal ramp at Owasco which leads to a long sea-walled channel to the lake; a rather extravagant affair for a modest body of water, it seems, but it pointed the way south and I enjoyed a rather calm circuit of the lake. 

I’d heard that Owasco takes the brunt of a lot of agricultural runoff and expected a brownish hue, but the water was delightfully clear, especially the water in the river running north - and my lap around Owasco was a final reminder to expect the unexpected here in the Finger Lakes. I took my time at first, getting a little wistful, knowing that Owasco was my last outing of this trip, but when I reached the south end a brisk wind began to build from the north (of course) and I pushed myself hard to get back before having to face another Skaneateles Upwind Marathon. 

By mid-afternoon I’d loaded the car up with reckless imprecision, knowing that I’d have the luxury of deconstructing and sorting through the detritus of thirteen days of Mini living in the privacy of my own yard, ….which I did this morning. Folks, I’ve taught eighth grade boys long enough to know what the end-of-the-year locker clean-out ritual is like: the discovery of food, clothes, books, and momentos long forgotten, all of it compressed like layers of sediment at the bottom, Cheese Curls stuck to bundled blue blazers like trilobite fossils and, in one case, a Thanksgiving Turkey leftover so disturbingly well preserved that the boy was tempted to…to…but urgently dissuaded from…..well, you get the idea.

My car was little better than an eighth grader’s locker. I’d suffered a massive McDonald’s Vanilla Milkshake explosion in Auburn several days ago, and that needed special attention. The jacket I’d worn to the funeral on the 14^th had arrested most of the flow, thank God, and various discarded shirts, shorts, Nature’s Valley wrappers, and yes, an unfinished half of a sub (Italian) took care of the rest. 

I drove the whole menagerie down to the carwash to flush any remaining invasives from the nooks and crannies of my boat and gear and in doing so rediscovered the Joy of The Foaming Brush. Gentle Reader, if you want evidence of American Exceptionalism at its best, visit the Hoffman Car Wash in Queensbury, roll the selector dial to “Foaming Brush,” and prepare to forget- if temporarily- any worries you harbor of drought, fires, the Chinese, Putin’s obstinancy, or the Republican Party’s mystifying fealty to a fraud. 

 

I turned the Foaming Brush loose on everything: the hull, the interior, my rowing hardware, my life jacket. If Peg had been with me, I’d have taken off my shirt.

So here I am, thirteen days and 315 rowing miles later in deep gratitude and debt to a score of folks I didn’t know two weeks ago, and in deeper appreciation and better enlightened regarding the extraordinary work of stewardship, protection, and preservation of New York’s lakes. 

I think I have another essay or two in me before I wrap this thing up. Is anyone interested? 

Writing therapy being what it is for retired teachers, I’ll write it anyway, so look for at least one more post in the next day or so. And if anyone has any questions, post ‘em in ‘Comments’ and I promise that I’ll respond as best I can.

But to at least preempt the answer to The Elephant in the Room’s question about “favorite lake,” I’ll just say – emphatically - that every person I met on his trip lives on his or her favorite lake, and not one of them is wrong. Where you make your memories and with whom, where you learned to swim or had your first beer or raised your family, these memories fashion the chemistry of “best lakes” for each of us regardless of mussels or weeds or nitrogen. I rowed past thousands of people enjoying life on their favorite lakes, and who am I to argue? 

Now this Lucky Boy is going to take a late afternoon swim in his favorite lake. I wish you could all be here.

Love,

Al