When riding the Housaionic, you must keep both eyes on the road. 



Foldboating: East 



by Robert Hodesh . . . paintings by Sascha Maurer 



JAM not much of a white-water man myself which is one of the 

 reasons I prefer to do my foldboating on some of the more 

 patient rivers of the East. I won't argue against the "rough- 

 string" boating on western rivers the roar, the speed, and the 

 sharp edge of danger and I have learned on springtime streams 

 in the Berkshires, lollapaloosas like the Housatonic, that white 

 water "doth spice the dish." But tell me the months are June 

 through October and offer me a choice. I'll take the low road. 



Once I put my boat into the Connecticut River at Wethers- 

 field, and for two hours I floated down between the green fields, 

 planted mostly in tobacco, partly in potatoes. On either side the 

 meadows slanted upward, to be punctuated here and there by 

 the clusters of houses and elm trees that are the towns of New 

 England, with a white church spire to authenticate the scene. 



I would have wanted no other kind of river there, for on no 

 other could I have left my responsibilities so completely ashore. 

 Had the scenes I was witnessing appeared by chance beside the 

 Salmon in Idaho, or the Rogue in Oregon, or the Colorado, I 

 would have enjoyed them at my peril, for scenes like these can 

 cause one's thoughts to wander, and in a mountain torrent an 

 absent-minded foldboater might wander upside down. 



What I want in a foldboating river is a chance to call my own 

 shots. When the prospect on the Connecticut appeals to me, I 

 want to slow down or haul over and tie up for an hour beneath 

 a willow tree. I can't imagine doing this on the hot-rod rivers 

 of the West. They will exhilarate you, but once you're in them 

 they won't let go of you until they're good and ready. I don't 

 often get pooped out on eastern streams that aren't going over 

 three miles an hour, but when I do I can make for shore and 

 relax. 



This sedentary attitude, of course, makes me more of a tourist 



White mater and quiet water await the foldboater in Quebec. 39 



