Category: Delaware River

Unsurprisingly, it was below 50 degrees and raining steadily when we woke up. We fought off the urge to sleep in again since we knew there was diner food and resupply to be had in Walton.

Despite the short distance into town, the paddling conditions meant we were pretty stoked to stash the boat at the edge of a church parking lot and hike into town for McDonald’s breakfast.

Four egg and bacon breakfast sandwiches and several large cups of VERY hot black coffee later, we got our hands on a newspaper and the corresponding weather report: not just rain, but highs in the 30’s with a solid chance of SNOW for the next THREE DAYS. (The next time Steve taunts the weather gods, I will straight up murder him and offer his organs up as an apologetic sacrifice.)

We sat in the fry-oil-scented warmth crippled with deranged, desperate laughter at the mid-May weather report until our limbs were fully thawed. The post-church-service crowd joined us in the restaurant. It was oddly satisfying to sit in a room full of suited adults and small children in dress clothes, decked out in rain gear with our paddles tucked under the booth, and clearly be having the best day out of anyone there. “Hey. Hey. Steve. What’s the weather for tomorrow?” “SNOW!” Helpless laughter. “Hey! What about the weather for the day after that?” “…SNOW!!!” “Hey, Steve, I’ve got a GREAT idea… let’s go CANOEING!”

After regaining our senses (and the feeling in our toes) traipsed through the town collecting some necessary goods. Stops were made at the grocery store, Dollar General (extra layers and a new TracFone- I’m now one step higher on the dirtbag scale), and of course the local liquor outlet because nobody dumb enough to go canoeing in the snow is dumb enough to spend the entire time fully sober.

After a few hours’ hard paddling through sleet and steady winds, we finally located a spot to pull over on the side of the Cannondale Reservoir. I had thought I had maintained my body temperature pretty well the entire time we were in the boat, but the moment I stepped out and tried to unbuckle my portage pack Steve noticed that my hands had stopped working and it was his turn to go into “OMG my paddling buddy is getting hypothermic” mode. I remember holding halves of a ratchet strap in each hand and staring at it thinking “I have done this every day for two weeks and I have absolutely no idea how this works right now”, then being bustled through basic tasks of “carry the portage packs up this hill” and “get in the tent and put on these dry things right fucking now”. Once I was stuffed in my sleeping bag eating peanut M&M’s I joked that Steve had used the situation to his advantage by making me drag the heavy things around under the guise of re-warming, but in all honesty I was glad he was there and noticed immediately I wasn’t okay.

We were in the tent by 5:30pm and had no real plans to leave for at least 14 hours, since the next day’s high peaked at 11am and 40 degrees.

While the only snow we dealt with was a brief dusting first thing in the reservoir, the fun weather phenomenon that we fought all day was wind. Nothing says “fun springtime paddling trip” quite like paddling directly into a blasting headwind across an open reservoir ALL GODDAMN DAY. It was all Steve could do to keep us moving in a straight line, so I was forced to maintain an unrelenting tempo if we wanted any forward motion whatsoever. Fortunately the sun came out, which slightly tempered the indignity of a constant icy mist blasting me in the face every time we crested a wave.

At one point Steve sarcastically asked if I was having any fun yet. I yelled back to him over the gale: “You know, my mother always told me that no matter how cute he was, or how funny, or how charming, I should NEVER say yes to anything a man asked me to do while I was in a bar. MAYBE I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO HER.” Laughing, he replied “YOU AREN’T SAYING THAT YOU AREN’T HAVING FUN!”

I managed one solid splash in his direction in between paddle strokes, but it did nothing to his shit-eating grin.

He wasn’t smiling so hard when we realized we’d landed on the wrong side of the dam for a portage, when we had to paddle back across the width of the reservoir, or when we were confronted with a 100-yard vertical climb up a rocky embankment to get to the road. Fortunately I have years of experience dragging heavy things through the woods up stupidly steep trails (thanks, Green Mountain Club!) so with some creative safety lines and a fair bit of stubborn brute strength, we hauled the boat and 200lbs of gear up and over the guardrail. After that, the five-mile portage down the highway into the town of Deposit felt like a cakewalk. We launched once more from the edge of someone’s lawn while a few locals eyed us suspiciously from the next porch over.

A mile or so downriver we started to lose daylight, so we pulled over at the edge of a sprawling lawn surrounding a charming log cabin with fishing paraphernalia decorating the porch. We knocked to see if we could ask permission, but ended up leaving a letter of thanks asking forgiveness for tenting on the edge of their lawn. If you read this, kind Deposit residents, thank you for your unwitting hospitality!

The last couple of miles into Hancock were uneventful and the weather was surprisingly not awful. We spent the morning dodging the odd boulder and comparing our favorite fishing cabins while trying not to piss off the numerous geese nesting along the banks. The most interesting thing we saw all morning was a goose perched on top of a lightning-struck tree that had been stripped of its branches; we had no idea how it managed to land there, and we have no idea if it ever made it down.

Latoya, Steve’s faithful FourRunner base camp, was waiting in the parking lot, so we stashed the boat and drove ourselves into town to hang out at the library until Steve’s parents showed up.

Few things are more awkward than trying to make a good impression on your paddling partner’s parents when you’ve been marinating unwashed and unshowered in the same outfit for two weeks on the river. Yes, total strangers who I would very much prefer to have like me, please hug me in a public library while I frantically apologize for the stank of swamp water filling your nostrils. Lucky for me, these people raised Steve and weren’t super fazed by our filthy heathen status. Even luckier, they FED US before driving Latoya back to safety in upstate New York. I’m not sure how they feel about me, but anyone who treats me to a beer and a burger is fabulous in my book.

Watching Latoya pull away was bittersweet. We no longer had our “mobile basecamp” to rely on and were well and truly on our own, which greatly narrowed our margin for error as we continued downriver. Since we’re idiots, that just made everything even more exciting.

Lacking anything more productive to do, we hiked back into town to replenish our liquor supply. The proprietor was kind enough not to judge us as we dumped the contents of a large glass bottle of whiskey into a series of smaller plastic bottles (safety third!) and trotted back down the road with a six pack of Busch tall boys in a paper bag.

Nothing says “professional river rats” like getting tanked on cheap beer at a boat launch on a chilly spring evening in celebration of the fact that you are officially untethered to the real world.

In a completely unexpected turn of events, we woke up at 8am to blazing sun and the roar of a weedwhacker from just outside our tent… because that’s exactly what you want as your alarm clock on a raging Old Crow hangover. Any disgruntlement the public works tech may have felt at our tent’s presence at the boat launch was clearly assuaged by the agony that his lawn care routine wrought.

It took us a little longer than usual to pack the gear, and we very nearly fell in the river trying to load the boat as we struggled to solidify our opinions on which direction was “up”. Steve threatened repeatedly to barf over the side over the course of our first hour on the river; very little paddling was done, and we mostly reclined on our portage packs with dark glasses and hats on trying to enjoy the sunshine while not letting it touch our eyes. Periodically we broke our hungover silence to yell obscenities at a gimpy duck who consistently outpaced us through the oxbows.

THIS was a day of paddling that normal people think of when you say “canoe trip”. Sunshine, light breeze, steady current with minimal rapids; it was so goddamn picturesque it hurt. We ate lunch in the boat with our feet kicked up on the gunwales, circling lazily in the eddies, discussing the finer points of fishing cabin architecture and watching predatory birds dive over the river. At one point we passed a multi-story treehouse and gave serious consideration to asking if we could move in.

This was the first day that I felt validated by my constant sunscreen application. Steve hiked his shorts up as far as they’d go in an attempt to bring some life into his pasty gams, and “regret” isn’t quite strong enough a word for the ensuing sunburn.

Steve managed to convince me that “jimmy” was the proper name for a ripple in the water that might be a hazard but turned out to be nothing, as opposed to “eddy” for the small circular currents. I’m not proud that it took me almost an hour to figure out he was completely full of shit. (I blame the hangover.)

Camp for the night was at a campground just above Skinners Falls. After chatting with a local guide who was convinced we’d make it through the Class 2+ rapids via “just stick right and send it”, we pitched our tent in the back corner of a closed-for-the-season campground. For the record, we tried super hard to reach the owners to ask permission to camp there overnight; if you’re reading this, we’re really sorry we couldn’t get a real reservation… BUT you will always have a special place in our hearts for leaving the water on in your public showers and giving us a chance to feel like real humans again.

We didn’t see a soul for the rest of the day, and couldn’t shake the feeling that we’d died in the flood and this was now our eternal limbo: paddling down a river into unknown territory, always a little cold and a little wet, and totally alone save for the odd prophesier.

Slept in again. It was warm! We were clean! We wanted leisurely coffee in the sun! Stop judging us.

We made the call to portage around Skinners Falls, which meant an extended portage down a very narrow footpath through scrub and poison ivy onto the ledges below the rapids. We prooooobably could have “stuck right and sent it” due to the high water levels, but it would’ve been a shame to flip and lose all our gear on the first truly warm day of paddling we’d had.

Due to the GLORIOUS weather, we alternated between lazily reclining in the boat and barreling headlong through the various class I and II rapids. Once we realized we actually had some skills, Steve got a little drunk with power and we started running… well, everything. Calm ahead, but handful of ledges on the opposite side of the river? AGGRESSIVE LEFT TURN, WE’RE GOING THROUGH! Standing wave? HIT IT! There seemed to be a lot more water coming in on my end of the boat than there was on Steve’s (I’m not convinced he was deliberately steering us through things that sent waves in my face) but aside from one or two tight spots in Cedar Rapids we managed not to swamp ourselves.

We spent the night in Pond Eddy at another campground/boat rental place that was still closed for the season. We strung a clothesline up for all our wet gear (correction: MY wet gear, since Mr. Stern was dry as a bone), picked the ticks that had been riding along since our portage off of our packs, and had the world’s worst camp dinner of chicken teriyaki flavored rice with budget-brand tuna. Barf. I made it halfway through my portion before admitting defeat and fighting back nausea for the rest of the night.

The big thing to come out of the day was that we named the boat: Blaze of Glory. Now we just have to make sure that whatever stupid thing we off ourselves doing, we go out in the boat. (Get it?)

Let’s just say the day began with the discovery of a tick in an incredibly unfortunate place and leave it at that.

We made the decision to scout out some of the more severe Class II+ rapids before running them, but then… managed to paddle through them before realizing what had happened. Apparently high water will really minimize those five foot standing waves.

High water will not, however, do much for submerged ledges beyond making them absolutely invisible from upstream. Noting whitewater crests on each side of the river, Steve steered us toward a glassy patch dead center of the Staircase Rift. Not seeing anything amiss, I calmly paddled forward… until I realized that the calm spot was the top of a substantial drop off a limestone ridge. The height obscured the roiling water below, and by the time I realized was happening there was nothing to be done but scream “BIG DROP! BIG! IT’S REALLY BIG!” in Steve’s direction and hope for the best.

As the front of the boat plunged downward, I heard Steve cackling like a madman. For a few moments the entire bow was underwater. I was half convinced that the rest of the boat going to flip on end directly on top of me and the last words I would ever hear would be Steve screaming “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!!”

Amazingly, the canoe remained upright and we leveled out below the rift. There were more than a few gallons of water in the boat. Most of them got thrown in Steve’s general direction as I bailed. Fortunately it had warmed up to a temperature befitting mid-May and the dousing did little to our spirits.

We pulled in for the evening at a lovely beachfront park in Milford, PA. We figured the best way to cap a sunny (and soggy) day on the river was with diner food, some cold beers, and a recharge for the few electronic items we had that still functioned. I attempted to take a photo of our diner meal for Instagram, but in the mere moments it took me to pull out my phone after the waiter set down the tray Steve had cleared the plate.

After we set up camp for the night, we realized we were sharing the (mostly) abandoned park with a very odd gentleman who rolled in on a bicycle and claimed he owned the bulk of the county. According to his story, he was embroiled in a massive legal battle with the state to get his land back, and we were totally welcome to camp in the park because technically he owned it all. Maybe we met some Pennsylvanian royalty. Who can say? Steve thought he was funny and weird, and I agreed; however, as a female who routinely travels alone, I couldn’t shake the “I’m not super comfortable sleeping in this guy’s immediate vicinity” feeling and startled awake at every rustling noise outside our tent. After a few friendly jabs (“Are you sleeping in your sports bra in case you have to get up and kick that guy’s ass?) Steve eventually conceded that some of us are right to be cautious around strangers since not everyone is blessed with being a 6’4” male with a huge beard.

No sign of our sketchy friend when we woke up. One can only hope he reclaims his rightful territory.

It turns out that all it takes to get us moving in the morning is the promise of hot breakfast sandwiches, even if we have to make a two-mile trek through the pouring rain to get them. (That and a completely deflated sleeping pad with a cracked nozzle. RIP, Big Agnes pool floatie.)

Steve got blessed by the waiter for ordering three sandwiches (“the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit… eat well, my son”), we picked up some aloe for the sunburn chafing under our rain gear, and then it was back to the river. There was no sign of the rain letting up, but we’d tented under a picnic pavilion so all our gear was dry and safely stowed inside portage packs and tarp.

A few hours’ paddling later, we spied a handful of boats a quarter mile or so downstream. These were the first people we’d seen out on the river yet, and we couldn’t fathom who else would be dumb enough to be canoeing in the pouring rain when it was 50 degrees. We theorized rowers; then scouts; then we got a little closer and saw a pirate flag and a few ropes being thrown between canoes. The party was five boats lashed together to form one huge Megaboat, stuffed to the gills with people, dogs, coolers, and piles of firewood and blasting classic rock from a waterproof boombox.

They offered us beer. We said yes immediately.

Sometimes your planned thirty-mile day by yourselves turns into a six-mile day with a whole pile of new friends. We lashed Blaze of Glory onto the end of Megaboat, passed our bottle of whiskey around, and reveled in being invited to an on-water party that was damn well going to happen regardless of the pouring rain. The Megaboaters asked us to lunch, so we crash-landed the whole shebang on an island and set up our tarp so their taco bar could be established in a dry spot. Evidently they found us charming, because they offered us a spot at their campsite for the night complete with beef stew, a campfire, and all the beer we could stand.

The bulk of the day passed in a cold, wet, happy drunken blur. Eventually everyone in the party made it to shore and into dry clothes, and we sat around swapping stories (and dog photos) at our first campfire of the trip. The Megaboaters were a group of friends from Philly who had been taking the same river trip every spring for the better part of a decade, and we were honored to be included in their party. It was weird to be in the company of so many people at once after two weeks of relative solitude, but we couldn’t have landed in a better group; they were all super cool, incredibly kind, and our night with them was one of the highlights of our trip.

Since we were in a camp full of other people, we woke up early. There was coffee, the fire was still going, and we were delighted to see that the sun was out. Spirits were high and Frank Sinatra was on the boombox.

Not only did the Megaboaters make us coffee, but they had brought a giant sack of breakfast burritos… AND they gave us all the ones they didn’t eat. Seriously, those folks were our heroes. I exchanged contact info with one of them in case we ran into trouble down the line (HI, GIULIA!) and Steve and I paddled off into the sunshine. There’s a pretty good chance we’ll never see a single one of them again in our lives, but I like to think that if we pay enough kindness forward it will somehow make its way back around to them as a thanks for their hospitality. The last we saw them they had split up the boats and were milling around in a small rapid, laughing and bobbing in five different directions down the river.

The current picked up substantially from that point on, which was a good thing since the wind did as well. We pulled over to wait out one small squall, but for the most part the day was clear. The biggest difficulty we ran into was trying to locate a campsite for the night. The river was lined with housing developments, country clubs, and RV campgrounds that were NOT particularly welcoming, and the quiet spots were riddled with poison ivy.

Eventually we cut hard across the river to land for the night on a wooded island; we nearly missed it fighting the current. We were relieved to find the area free of poison ivy, and tried to ignore the bullet casings and piles of bear poop scattered around.

Other than the fact that we ate nothing but burritos, the most remarkable event of the day was passing a log fully loaded with very large snapping turtles. We are no longer dangling any appendages in the river on paddling breaks.

Knowing we needed to meet my family in the afternoon, we were up and on the river before we’d even finished our first round of burritos for the day.

Foul Rift was the next major set of rapids, and we knew it was both well outside our wheelhouse AND a nightmare to portage. We pulled out in Belvidere, New Jersey and fought our way through a flock of pissed off geese to scout out a portage route through town. Several miles of railroad tracks and lawn-hopping later, we got a good look at the rapids (the general sentiment was “oh HELL no”) and then hiked back to the boat along the road.

Of COURSE the day we have to portage multiple miles through traffic was the one that’s sunny and swelteringly hot. Weirdly, the locals of Belvidere barely seemed to notice two sweaty river rats hauling an 18’6” canoe loaded with gear jogging down the side of their main drag; this only served to reinforce our working theory that we were dead, this was purgatory, and nobody could see us. We rationalized the Megaboaters by deciding they were lost souls who had died on a tragic group trip that now haunted quiet stretches of the river.

Sunburned, sweat-soaked, and tired, we put back to sea safely below the raging waters of Foul Rift. We had to put in some actual paddling effort, but we cruised through the last twenty miles to Riegelsville in perfect time to meet my Aunt Susan and Uncle Dick for the night. Their friends Bart and Catherine were kind enough to let us leave the canoe at their boat launch, and we had our first REAL night in the front country of the trip. I was pumped to visit family whom I hadn’t seen in a while, and they did not disappoint: hot showers, laundry, whiskey shots, cold beers, homemade lasagna and apple crisp, and a very mellow evening parked on the couch watching Antiques Road Show.

Sometimes getting stuffed to the gills on baked goods and passing out on a sleeper sofa after a hot shower is about as good as life can get.

Aunt Susan made us both call our mothers to reassure them we were still alive, and then we were treated to hot coffee and donuts while we made some other calls and sorted out our next few days of lodging from the couch. Uncle Dick delivered us (and our clean laundry!) back to the canoe and we pushed off under blissfully clear skies and full sun.

To our credit, we paddled pretty darn hard for the first ten minutes or so while our hosts watched us from the bridge (we want to look legit, after all) but then we did more or less the bare minimum of work for the rest of the day given that we were only paddling into Lambertville- a pleasant 25 mile day.

Just before lunch, we pulled up under the bridge in Frenchtown, NJ and I walked into town to find us river beers while Steve reclined in the boat to work on his “avocado tan”. I had a nice stroll, made friends with the baristas at the local coffee shop (thanks again for the ice water and the display of magic tricks!) and returned to the boat with spicy snacks and a couple of icy cold tall boys.

As miserable as the East and West Branches had been, I still hadn’t had any complaints (I’m big into type II fun) but ye gods, this was DELIGHTFUL. Sitting in a boat in the full sun in an ugly straw hat, feet kicked up on the gunwales, nursing a cold beer while lazily coasting downstream? That’s what normal people think of when they plan a canoe trip.

At one point we hit a small ledge, but casually ran the gap without me even dipping my paddle in the water (or putting down my beer). We realized shortly after that we had just rolled over the Lumberville Dam- supposedly one of the more intense sections of rapids- without getting a single drop of water in the boat. Or, you know, doing anything remotely physical. Good job, us!

We hit Lambertville around 4pm, sat around at the boat launch arguing about the tree species of central New Jersey for a while, and then it was Steve’s turn to walk the few blocks into town for more beers while I watched the gear and did some first aid on the open blisters I’d gotten from wandering around in wet shoes for two weeks. We ended up two more beers in before his college friends Annie and Peter showed up to take us in for the night, which made for a super fun ride to their house; Annie, Peter, and Steve piled into the cab of Peter’s pickup while I laid on my back in the bed holding down the boat. Safety third!

Annie and Peter had a gorgeous house in downtown Lambertville with a fantastic porch. Annie put together an amazing fancy snack tray, they invited over a few more Green Mountain College alumni, and we all proceeded to get VERY rum drunk while the guys played guitar.

As it turns out, Steve hadn’t been lying to me the entire time I’ve known him about his musical abilities. I have to give him credit: he’s way better than I thought he’d be given the colossal quantity of shit he’s usually full of. He does, however, have a small problem in that his volume is directly proportional to the number of drinks in his system. It’s a good thing the evening’s musical talent had actual talent, because we also had a substantial number of beverages.