Spring Trip
Granted, El Nino had given us a mild winter. But it was still winter, or at least winter like - March. The wind was blowing and whipping the trees back and forth as I stood at the sliding glass door and watched. The howling and whining could be heard throughout the house.
OK, I had done the ice breaker on the Passaic, but that was three months ago and since then I hadn't been canoeing at all. Though I essentially hang up my paddle during the winter, I still like to get out once a month or so during some of the breaks in the weather. But it hadn't worked out this year. So I stood there until my fiancee, Love Muffin, could take it no more.
"Would you quit that howling and whining! You will get to go paddling next weekend. That's when the Flat Brook trip is."
And so it was. The next weekend was the last before the opening of fishing season in New Jersey. It was the weekend I traditionally lead the trip on the Flat Brook. This is a time when the water is generally high, the weather generally acceptable, and the fishermen at home. Because the Flat Brook is the premier trout stream in the Garden State, we basically consider it off limits during the fishing season. Later on in the summer it is usually too low.
The weekend came. The weather was not too promising, it was overcast and there was a thirty percent chance of rain. It was a little nippy, but no matter.
Driving the shuttle on this trip is a heart swelling experience. The valley between Wallpack and Flatbrookville has to be the most beautiful place in New Jersey. Just being there makes me feel good. Looking across the wooded vale to the Kittatinny Ridge, upon which the Appalachian Trail runs, I could see numerous white spots, cherry trees or maybe dogwoods, in bloom. The buds on other trees were merely a red or yellow tinge when seen properly against the light. The leaves needed more time. Some of the underbrush had leaved out, gathering its light before the mature hardwoods set them in thick shade for the summer.
The shuttle I organize is usually run in a somewhat screwy fashion. Some meet at the put-in, others meet at the take-out. And we drive back and forth and get all the boats upstream and most of the cars downstream. Maybe next year I'll insist everyone switch hats in between or something like that just to further complicate it. Actually, it works out quite nicely.
The usual suspects were there: Glenn, Kurt, Kent, Kevin, Bob and Sally, Jed drove up from South Jersey again this year, Rich Wolff and his wife joined us, as did Roger, and of course Linda and I. Eleven boats, twelve people.
The Flatbrook is much like the streams I grew up with in New England: it runs through Stokes State Forest which is a hardwood forest and is mostly undeveloped, so even after a rain, it runs clear. It is class I, with a number of spots where the required maneuvering would rate a class II, and because it is small there are always some trees down across the brook, particularly in the upper half.
The beaver population seems to be increasing and they have been industrious at taking down more than their share of trees. Amazingly, with all the trees the beavers took down, none landed across the river.
Being lead boat for much of the time, Linda and I got to see one beaver, several deer, some turkey, and many ducks. A pair of mergansers staying fifty yards ahead of us piloted us down stream for at least two miles. Another male when startled by our canoe, provided great entertainment. He made a running start across the water, trying to generate speed enough for takeoff. But the only direction in which he had a good runway was diagonally towards us. As he flapped and ran he came closer to us, and we came closer to him. He had misjudged! We were only ten feet away and he still wasn't airborne. He gave a mighty flap of the wings, but his right one plunged into the water. It was sort of a half cartwheel he performed and judging by its lack of grace, it had to be an accident. The right wing hit the water, the left wing when up in the air, the tail went up, the head went under, then the rest of him followed. He disappeared underwater and stayed there, probably from embarrassment.
We talked of the great blue herons, how they always fly downstream, how we feel guilty chasing them further and further downstream during trips; they never seem to know enough to swing around and get behind the canoes. Rich suggested that perhaps if we went out at night, we would find the great blues, under cover of darkness, hiking back upstream.
Our traditional lunch spot is a short hike from Buttermilk Falls and after lunch we always walk to the waterfall to see or photograph it. There was plenty of water, more than I ever remember, gushing over it this year. A stairway had been built along side of the falls during the last year. While we agreed that the stairs distracted from the beauty of the falls, it was the first year anyone actually walked up to the top. The stairs had been built with a cooperative effort of the National Park Service, the Appalachian Mountain Club, and some New Jersey Prisoners.
There is one good play spot on the Flatbrook. The river flows over an old dam and there is a decent surfing wave created below it. We ran the dam one by one, everyone being very courteous not to crowd behind each other above the drop, then to get into the eddy and out of the way after running it. But after the last boat came over, there was a mad charge five canoes abreast trying to assault the wave. All were defeated, most by each other during the first attempt. They tried again. Almost, but no one made it. For about fifteen minutes many failed attempts were made to get up on that wave. If I were a braggart, I would now write of how I managed to get on the wave twice, but I'll skip that part.
I'm not so cool though; I got all munged up at the takeout where the river becomes quick and rocky. I got myself sideways and onto a rock and couldn't even push off with the setting pole. We were three feet from shore and stuck. Then, disgusted and tired of my foolish attempts to nudge us off, my hero, Love Muffin, got out and pulled us safely to shore, without me having to get my feet wet. Can I pick 'em, or what?
As is the custom, after the trip many of us stopped at the Walpack Inn for a drink and dinner. It is a great place, I understand some people actually drive out from New York City to eat there. The little old fellow who plays the piano is still there. The waitress had said he was ninety-three some years ago, but I've lost track of how far back that was. His trade mark is his cigarette with four inches of ashes suspended from it dangling over the ivories as he plays his old tunes.
It was fun.