First Night

Posted On July 23, 2024

There’s always something magical about that first night in camp.

Our family’s first foray into camp came a bit later than usual this year. That was in large part due to the upper locks rebuild, but also in part simply because of how our effort to make camp reservations worked out. Regardless, considering Hurricane Beryl’s regional impact, that confluence of factors proved rather fortuitous.

Other than during hurricanes (or as it turned out, tornados) it generally doesn’t much matter to me when I camp. Though at this point in life, I readily admit a strong preference for skipping blackfly season.

I normally meet my brother Ray in camp after rowing down Middle Saranac Lake via the South Creek canoe access in my Zen Boat. This year, however, since our now adult families weren’t joining us and for the most part it would be just a two brothers camp, we decided to link up at Lower Saranac’s NYSDEC boat launch and simply ride up to our Middle Saranac Lake campsite on his pontoon boat together.

Our weather was good that morning. The day’s skies were clear, the sun hot and bright, though once we cleared the lower lake’s river channel onto the open lake across from Bluff Island, winds whitecap whipped the water with some pretty good force.

This would be our fifty second year in camp, but my first trip up and through the DEC’s newly renovated upper locks. It was actually Ray’s second, as he had conducted a scout recon mission several days earlier.

There was one boat ahead of us as we made our approach.

There’s a pair of new lock tenders on duty. The one I met that day introduced himself. If I remember correctly, his name is Randy. He was very engaging and friendly. His demeanor reminded me in many ways of the previous long time lock tender, Margaret. Except, of course, for the beard. Basically, Randy came across as a bearded version of Margaret. Which, as any who ventured through the locks during her tenure there well knows, is a very high compliment.

The new upper locks operate in very much the same manner as the old upper locks did; a simple process of, (in the correct sequence, of course), closing and opening two sets of gates and wickets.

My brother Ray has over half a century of upper lock operating experience under his belt. He’s been up and down through those locks more than anyone I know.

I did note that the DEC also hired a new crew of lock tending assistants. I wonder what today’s rate of pay is for a lock spider.

I also took note of the fact that replacing the upstream docks was apparently, at least at this juncture, not part of the 1.6-million-dollar upgrade project. I must admit, that both disappoints and perplexes me.

From the locks, Ray & I navigated our way upriver to Bull Rush Bay. My heart always skips a beat when we round the bull rushes and our familiar friend, site 63, first comes into view. The water is extremely high this year after all the precipitation we’ve gotten. Ray was able to drive the boat right up to the beach, where we quickly tied it off to a tree and, under the supervision of his dog Pepper, began the process of unloading coolers, camp equipment and gear and setting up camp.

One of the first things we noticed was a huge shoreline debris pile right behind the big site 63 rock, making said rock access difficult. That’s an annoying camp inconvenience because that rock is both Bull Rush Bay’s best photo shoot site and its prime shoreline sittin’ rock. My brother & I mused and debated as to whether the debris mound’s origins were natural or otherwise. We still aren’t quite certain. Maybe it was put there by a bigfoot.

The second thing I immediately noticed was the presence of several of Bull Rush Bay’s signature phenomena, sometimes referred to as lake balls or larch balls. I haven’t seen any of them there in a couple of years. When my brother and I were younger, we used to find them there regularly. The ones we found back then were perfectly round. The ones I spotted as we pulled into camp were less round and more oblong.

My brother and I always thought they were some sort of water bug nest, but every time we opened one up, there was never anything resembling a bug in it. I have since learned that they are naturally formed by the back & forth shoreline motion of waves. Only a few select U.S. lakes have them.

Once the boat was unloaded, while Ray organized gear and set up our camp kitchen, I set about cleaning ashes out of the fireplace. Every year when we get into camp, the fireplace is full to capacity with burned out tin cans, the charred remains of half burned poplar logs (Why do folks insist on burning poplar? It doesn’t burn worth a crap & there’s so many better options literally just lying around.), debris and ashes. I swear we are the only ones who ever bother to clean it.

Before they built the new lean-to, there used to be an old metal garbage can lid in camp. It came in handy for many things; keeping firewood dry, as a camp chef Dutch oven, bear dancer’s drum, and firepit cleaning ash carrier. My brother feared that it would get discarded as part of the lean-to rebuild, so he took it home for safe keeping. Once the new lean-to was finished, he returned that garbage can lid to its rightful place, where it had sat for nearly fifty years, beside the Bull Rush Bay fireplace. What’s the very first thing that happened? Of course! Some wanna be outlaw made off with it! So, for Christmas that year, I bought Ray and I each a new garbage can lid. It’s now standard Monroe camp equipment.

Once those tasks were complete, and after we retrieved the picnic table from its rather curious migration, Ray & I agreed it was time for a lunch break. Pepper wholeheartedly agreed. (Pepper also voted for some serious camp tennis ball throwing.) Ray’s human version of camp lunch and my survivor’s version are quite different.

My version of “camp lunch” is the same one I’ve “eaten” three times a day for the past fifteen years: 2 cans of prescription Osmolite 1.5 cal., fortified with my own non-prescription rocket fuel coffee concoction via G-tube.

I’d ask folks to let that sink in for a moment. The same meal, every meal, three times a day, for fifteen years, without hope or option of there ever being any deviation. I have long since forgotten what human food even tastes like. So, if I sometimes come across as a bit “off” in demeanor, or perhaps to some even insane, that may not be an inaccurate assessment. When cancer stole my ability to consume human food, along with that it took from me a large part of what it means to be human.

Be that as it may, once lunchbreak was over, my brother and I set about completing our two remaining first day in camp tasks: setting up tents and gathering firewood. As it is with many things we both do, my brother’s concept of “tent set-up” and mine are quite different. My brother has an eight-man Coleman taj-mahal tent, complete with dog vestibule, clearly designed by non-camping engineers with no concept of what it’s like attempting to set up such a thing in Middle Saranac Lake’s constant state of windiness.

However, after we each took several turns at inventing new tent words, we somehow managed to get the damned thing upright. I think for Christmas this year, I’m going to buy my brother a two week stay at Coleman’s tent set-up school.

By contrast, my little stakeless 4-man (really 2 man- whatever size tent they tell you it is, unless you are camping with someone you REALLY like, divide that in half) mountain tent went up in fifteen minutes. No special tent words required, and it only made effort to set sail once.

Another thing we both noted was the unusually large amount of fallen pine limb debris lying around camp.

To us that was an indication that not many people had been in camp this year before us, which made sense, due to the weather and locks being closed. So, while we did go out and harvest several nice dead and down hardwood cooking logs, we agreed that our evening fires, at least for the first few nights, would consist of burning primarily debris wood.

So, after a swim in water that was both unusually deep for July and bathwater warm, that’s just what we did. As we watched a rain heavy cloud bank roll in, my brother Ray, Pepper and I sat enjoying our first night in camp’s fire.

Ray’s scouting trip intel sources reported recent incidents of beer guzzling, cooler stealing bears raiding middle lake camps. As a result, Ray & I had come into camp fully equipped with our array of bear horns and ammonia (a family Forest Ranger friend’s recommended addition to our anti-bear arsenal). We built several scare bear away “bear bombs” (tightly bound bundles of pine boughs to throw on the fire when a bear comes around). I even did a bear dance. Ray and I agreed, however, that while it is smart to ALWAYS camp assuming there’s a bear around, we neither saw nor sensed any imminent signs of a bear raid. We both suspect that Ray’s intel source simply liked telling bear stories.

I had intended, as is my custom and preference, to sleep first night in the lean-to. The mosquitos however, had voracious appetites so I eventually abandoned that plan in favor of my way easier than my brother’s to set up 4-man that’s really a 2-man tent, where shortly after occupancy, I fell asleep to the pitter patter cadence of raindrops.

The next morning dawned hazy promise. The water was post-rain mirror calm.

My brother Ray says the right half of First Island is Second Island, but the two halves are connected. Second Island is actually a small rocky island (which my brother calls “Rock Island”) not visible in the above photograph, sandwiched in a channel between First and Norway Islands. (Note to self: add map reading camp after tent set-up camp to my brother’s Christmas list.)

One of Ray’s work friends, John, drove all the way from New Jersey and came in early via the walk-in at Ampersand where he and Ray linked up. John and Ray went out fishing whilst I took in my morning meal. Once they came in and ate some breakfast themselves, all three of us went back out.

Ray had an up close and personal encounter with a pair of eagles perched on Second (Rock) Island and had spotted what he thought was a new eagle’s nest on his scouting foray a few days earlier, so we checked it out. We didn’t encounter any eagles, but we did see the new nest. The one they used last year is a couple hundred yards away on the mainland, so we’re not sure whether there are two active nests now, or the same nesting pair simply built themselves a new one.

Ray & John hadn’t had any success catching much anything but small perch earlier, so, Ray and I put our combined hundred years’ worth of fishing knowledge heads together and, given the warmer than usual waters, picked what we thought might be a good deeper water spot. Then I set John up with one of our go-to jointed Rapala color combos.

The results speak for themselves. We put John on the fish.

Sometimes it pays to have a pair of Adirondack outlaw brothers as fishing guides.

Once we finished fishing, Ray wanted to take John down through the locks to the Lower Lake and show him Bluff Island. Since I had to go out at some point that day anyways for a scheduled doctor’s appointment the next morning, I packed my go bag and after Jersey John’s jumpless Bluff Island tour, the two of them dropped me back off at the DEC boat launch.

From there I donned sunglasses and began driving home. The skies above me were clear, blue and bright. Then I reached the outskirts of Harrisville, where a forebodingly dark bank of clouds loomed before me and quite suddenly, they weren’t. I was in the process of removing my sunglasses and studying the sky, when my cell phone buzzed. It was my wife calling.

“Where are you right now?!”

Her voice sounded odd. Not to mention her greeting.

“Uhh…I’m on the outskirts of Harrisville. Why?”

“Well, you need to get off the road NOW! Your mother and I are in the basement due to an imminent tornado warning. One already touched down in Sackets Harbor and then in Pamelia.”

“Holy Crap! I just noticed the skies getting dark. Well, I’m okay for the moment. I’m gonna just keep on driving for now. I’ll keep my eyes open. Thanks for the warning.”

From that moment on the weather went downhill in a hurry. As I passed through the village of Harrisville, the winds whipped into a howl and the rain came in spasmodic torrents. I drove with one eye on the wind blowing trees overhead, one eye on the skies, and one eye on the lookout for down powerlines or flash floods on the road.

At one point I did pull off and stop momentarily, but the wind was blowing so hard, I decided I actually felt safer when I was moving. I knew the storm was heading east and I was heading west, so, not having any tornado experience, I decided to do what I do during whiteouts and just keep moving forward slowly hoping to eventually drive out of it. I later learned that I was driving through the northern rim of the tornado and storm Rome got hit with. Things did not let up until I reached Fort Drum.

Once I got home and in the house, I called my brother. He and John had returned to camp. I gave them a heads up and recommended they stay there. They weathered the storm for the most part unscathed. I don’t know what’s going on with the weather this year. I’m just glad I was able to experience the magic of one more first night in camp.

Even if I did have to dodge a tornado to get home.

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Until Our Trails Cross Again:

ADKO