“The last thing I want to be is a lightning rod,” Katz said. He floated more than a hundred miles before renting a U-Haul, in Mechanicville, and driving home, dejected. Philip Katz, a sixty-three-year-old packaging entrepreneur, had launched a standup paddleboard in Burlington, Vermont, on Lake Champlain, and hoped, as he put it, to “see how much is left in my tank” en route to New York City. But the storms also thwarted the ambitions of a waterborne pilgrim who might have crossed paths more amiably with the determined canoeists.
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On the plus side, this augured fewer yahoos in powerboats to contend with as the Hudson narrowed, beyond Haverstraw. Rain and more lightning were in the forecast. Nearby, Wilkinson’s four-year-old son, Oscar, was strutting with a “He-Man sword,” as Ranco called it, that the paddlers had fashioned from driftwood they’d found beneath the Palisades. “Freddie’s wife said September 1st,” Ranco said.
A guest asked Ranco if the paddlers had a due date back in Old Town. Lawrence as far as Quebec City before hooking sharply right on the Chaudière a couple of portages, back into the Penobscot watershed, and Bob’s your uncle. Roughly speaking: turn left up the Mohawk River, at Troy, and push all the way to Oneida Lake follow the Oswego River to Lake Ontario, and then descend the St. Marcy”), and wondered how canoeists heading up the Hudson might find their way back to Maine. The host sailors, meanwhile, swooned over the visitors’ derring-do while occasionally noting their own feats (“I once hiked Mt. Wilkinson’s wife, Janet, and children were among the picnickers, having driven down from New Hampshire to check in on the group’s progress, and to belatedly celebrate Father’s Day. “One of the first things the Pilgrims did when they landed in 1620 was help themselves to a canoe to cross a river while they had some armloads of stashed corn that they had found in the sand dunes.” “I try to remind everybody that the canoe really is a Native American invention,” Wilkinson told a few Nyack sailors over a picnic dinner of sloppy joes.
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He invoked his ancestral language when mentioning a nickname for their vessel: “ Chi Jeckin Agwiden, or Big-Ass Canoe.” The crew included members of four nations of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy and one self-described “white guy,” Freddie Wilkinson, a professional mountain guide who is writing a book, for National Geographic, about the history of the canoe, from birchbark to big-ass. Ranco is a member of the Penobscot tribe. It was day forty-one of a uniquely looping voyage, a fifteen-hundred-mile circumnavigation of the Northeast that had begun in Old Town, Maine, on the Stillwater branch of the Penobscot River. Ranco, a forty-two-year-old carpenter when not afloat, was recounting this at the Nyack Boat Club, where he and the other paddlers had tied up for the night after a seventeen-mile ascent of the Hudson, from Inwood. Ate a lot of hot dogs and went to the amusement park.”
All these Russians are asking me who’s paying their tax. Soon, after a harrowing passage around Breezy Point, amid four-foot swells, they were at Brighton Beach. Undeterred, the paddlers proceeded west, eventually reaching Great South Bay, and paused at Fox Island, where a bolt of lightning struck the ground less than a mile from where they were huddled, beneath the canoe’s hull. Some of their gear-a pair of shoes, a VHF radio, a wampum sash worth several thousand dollars-now resides on the canal’s bottom. He went far right, zigzagging, and as he went by us he, like, hit the gas-you could see his bow go up.” The narrow canal frothed like an ocean, and the canoeists were sent swimming. “We kind of had a little game of chicken going.
“It was in our lane, on the left side of the canal,” Ranco said. A powerboat named Just Chillin’ appeared from around a corner. The speed limit on the Shinnecock Canal, in Hampton Bays, is five miles per hour, which a group of hardy paddlers in a thirty-one-foot canoe were improbably exceeding the other day, when “the shit went down,” as one of them, Ryan Ranco, recalled.
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