LOCALadk Magazine

Spring 2019 LOCALadk Magazine 21 LOCALadk It was late afternoon by the time we pulled into the dusty parking lot tucked away off of Route 30. The better part of the day had been spent driving, and our legs were stiff as we stepped out into the heat. Lowering our boats, we began to gather and fill our dr y bags in preparation. The plan for this trip was simple: explore a stretch of the Raquette River from Route 30 to A xton landing, spending a night at one of the many riverside campsites. Satellite images depicted an intri- cate maze of oxbows interconnected by shallow marshlands. But maps only tell you half the stor y, and so as we lifted our boats down to the riverbank we were quite unsure what the Raquette had in store for us. Pushing off the bank, we set off upstream. The paddle be- gan with a gentle turn followed by a long corridor cutting through thick forest. We were headed south, and the High Peaks Wilderness loomed on the distant horizon. Soon, I could feel my joints loosen, the car ride's stiffness had worn off, and I settled in to a rhythmic motion. Left, right, left . . . paddlers may know the feeling. It's a sense of one- ness, where each stroke becomes an extension of your arm, and you an extension of the river. The thick bush soon gave way to tall grass- es, and the tiny eyes of shy cranes watched us as we glided by. It wasn't long before we passed our first campsite, and were greet- ed by the comforting scent of a campfire and the low murmur of conversation. The sun, now low on the horizon, cast long shadows on the river. It was time to make camp for the evening. The next site we passed was va- cant, and so we pulled on to the sandy shore line and laid our boats beneath a sheltered canopy. The campsite was large —with room for several tents—and an open communal area with a firepit. We each found ourselves a sturdy tree and strung up our hammocks. Dinner was spent by the fire, as we watched the day's last light fade in the distance. A gentle breeze passed above us, and our hammocks rocked in tune with the swaying trees. The moon was out most of the night, its light reflecting against the water's surface. Morning came too soon and my alarm jolted us awake. As a photographer, the pursuit of light is one which often re- quires an early start. I let out a shiver as I stepped out of my sleeping bag. A cold mist had settled in over the night, and the first signs of light were appearing on the horizon. We quickly gathered our hammocks, repacked our boats, and set off into the darkness. It wasn't long before we came to a crossroad. On our left, was a wider and deeper channel, obviously the better traf- ficked of the two. On our right, was a shallower channel cut- ting through the tall grasses. Curiosity got the better of us; we scrapped the bottom as we pushed on to the right. A few minutes of struggle, and we broke free into deeper waters. By now, the sky was ablaze with pink and orange hues, and I knew there would be no better time. Quickly setting up my drone, I launched handheld. What I saw was a forgotten river, one that ran parallel to the Raquette, winding up through pristine untouched marshlands. We moved further into the water way, single file as the path was narrow, not quite sure where it might lead, but content with taking the time to find out. As we pressed on further, I couldn't help but feel like time had somehow forgotten this place. Skipped over and left to its own accord as the ever-changing world had passed it by. Upon our return home we would later find this offshoot to be a connection to Follensby Pond. Best known for the famed Philosopher's camp of 1858, Follensby Pond was where a group of prominent intellectuals, philos- ophers, and artists—including the likes of Ralph Waldo Emerson—had spent several weeks living off the land in a remote campsite. Soon enough though, the shallow waters and muddy riverbed would force us to retreat and continue our journey up the Raquette. By now the sun had fully risen, and cast great pools of light on the linger- ing mist. Paddling directly into the sun was akin to losing your sight, with only the faintest silhouette of the boat ahead, and the comforting sound of each paddle stroke breaking the wa- ter's surface to guide you for ward. The sun on our faces felt warm after the early morning start. The river itself had be- come a maze of offshooting streams and oxbows, each with its own stor y to tell, and adventure awaiting. Stopping only briefly for a breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, we made quick work of the final miles and soon found ourselves pulling into A xton Landing. I'm not sure what we had expected, but sometimes it feels good just to get there. We laid out our wet shoes to dr y in the sun and stretched out on the sandy bank, taking a moment to shut our eyes before the long journey home. As we drift- ed off to sleep, I could hear the distant sound of paddlers and children laughing as their own day began. I took one last glance back at the river and smiled to myself. A R i v e r P a d d l e Story and Photos by Nicholas Spooner-Rodie

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