FOREST AND STREAM 
879 
Journeyings At Home 
This Little Description of a Trip from the Doors of the Office, Almost, 
Show the Possibilities Open to the Canoeist 
By Earl I. Fisher (A. C. A. 6512). 
S O much has been written about canoe trips in 
out-of-the-way places and through wild country 
and consequently our gaze has become so far 
focused that we probably lose sight of the interesting 
points of our own near-by streams. The paradoxical 
Chesterton once said you can hold a penny so close to 
the eye that the whole universe will be blotted out, 
and by the same token, one can become so far-sighted 
as to miss the possibilities lying underfoot. 
I will grant that the best way to view the beauties 
of the Hudson Valley is from the deck of one of the 
fast Hudson River Day liners. When scenery is held 
before your attention for a day or two at a stretch 
it becomes somewhat monotonous. It does not unfold 
quite rapidly enough on the Hudson to warrant this 
trip by canoe for its scenic effects. 
However, the problems of wind and tide, and the 
ever-changing color scheme preclude the possibility of 
an uninteresting trip, and according to Stevenson, “the 
world is so full of a number of things, I’m sure we 
should all be as happy as kings.” This was plainly 
demonstrated on a trip I once took from Inwood, New 
York City to Peekskill. 
Our Battalion of the National Guard was to shoot 
on the rifle-ranges on Monday, so permission was ac¬ 
cordingly sought and granted to paddle up the river 
instead of going by train with the rest of the company. 
Special stress was laid upon the fact, however, that I 
must be on line at Peekskill at roll-call Monday 
morning. 
Starting about nine o’clock Saturday evening from 
Hermit’s Point on the turn of the ebb tide, I made 
Piermont just as some distant clock struck twelve. 
Traveling by canoe at night has always a fascination, 
for distances slide along so rapidly and mysterious ob¬ 
jects loom up and melt into darkness all so silently. 
But to break this awful pall of silence at the end of 
this mile-long pier required a lot more nerve than 
one would imagine, especially as I was alone. Mem¬ 
ories and stories of murders and drownings and 
haunted houses kept shoving and crowding for rec¬ 
ognition, but by balancing as much nonchalance as I 
could assume against that feeling of eeriness I guess 
I didn’t appear so awfully scared. 
A comforter on the floor of the canoe which I pulled 
up over the rocks served as a cot. Just as I was com¬ 
posing myself for a slide into slumberland, some dog¬ 
gone big thing got up and started through the tall, 
dry grass nearby. Let me tell you that in spite of 
the fact that I knew there was nothing there to harm 
a person, the hair on top of my head began to rise, 
and things got all mixed up inside of me. Whether it 
was a mad dog, or a lion or a cow that might come 
over and bite me, and whether it was coming or go¬ 
ing, were vital questions. However, it went away. 
Early the next morning a multitude of crows perched 
themselves on the big sign “Not for sale, B. Hughes, 
America” at the end of the pier, and began to dis¬ 
cuss political questions. One fellow surely must have 
caught the strains of a banjo from some source, for he 
strutted about, looking his fellow-creatures in the eye, 
exclaiming “Blank?” “Blank-blank.” Maybe he was 
swearing, but I didn’t blame him, for sleep was out 
of the question for both of us while that infernal 
racket continued. 
’Long about ten o’clock a light breeze sprang up 
just at the change of tide, and things looked good for 
a getaway. . , , 
A few miles north of the pier a flock of perhaps 
thirty hell-divers were enjoying their morning sun¬ 
bath. They allowed the canoe to approach quite close. 
Outlying sentries seemed to warn the flock of danger, 
flying low over the heads of their fellows when _ it 
is time to move. In this way those nearest the point 
of danger are the first to leave, while those farthest 
away are the last to leave. They were evidently tired 
out from a Saturday night soiree, for a few miles 
further along they again took to the water for a quiet 
siesta. They apparently thought to tire me out, for 
every few miles they stopped to rest, though the latter 
flights grew shorter and their sentries more alert and 
uneasy. 
Finally they flew high, and about four miles north 
turned sharply to the left, flying directly over Nyack. 
Two of the flight however, dropped down at this point, 
probably to act as guide-posts to the one lone laggard 
who swam just a few hundred feet ahead of my canoe. 
Then followed one of the cleverest pieces of bird- 
strategy I have ever witnessed. Probably if such 
writers as Ernest Seton Thompson hadn’t awakened us 
to the reasoning power of animal life it would have 
passed unnoticed. 
This one hell-diver allowed me to come quite close 
and then rose in a series of short flights, each succeed¬ 
ing flight becoming shorter and shorter. I noticed, 
too, that his direction was gradually changing from a 
northerly course around to the east—in a direction 
opposite to that taken by the main flock. He now 
flew about thirty feet ahead of the nose of the canoe, 
just out of paddle reach. Finally I appeared to tire 
of this chase, and quit paddling, so he dug down in 
his bag of tricks and trotted out the broken wing 
stunt. He tried to fly, and for all the world had the 
appearance of a wounded bird beating his wings in a 
futle attempt to rise. I fell for this trick and paddled 
fast to overtake him, but by a supreme effort he man¬ 
aged to draw away each time I neared him. By this 
time we were going almost due east. Finally he dove, 
and at a point directly on the course we had been 
pursuing his head appeared above the surface for air 
about three hundred yards distant. I turned and 
started toward him, but this time it must have been 
a whopper of a fetch, for I couldn’t locate him after 
a half hour’s search. 
Above Rockland Light the Hudson opens out into a 
big wide stretch called Tappan Zee, better known 
among the campers as the “Tap.” Here on a rough 
day one can find water that very nearly equals that of 
the ocean when it is “Mowin' some.” One very windy 
day a few years ago I saw a tug-boat beating into a 
wind-storm on the “Tap.” Monster waves broke over 
its deck and slapped up against the windows of the 
pilot-house, ten feet above. The spray of the waves 
was caught up and carried along parallel to the sur¬ 
face of the river, greatly resembling a miniature rain¬ 
storm being driven before the wind. 
Conditions this day were all favorable. The wind, 
running with the tide, kicked up sharp high waves, 
some of them apparently twenty-five feet from crest 
to crest. To catch the down-hill side of the wave, 
and be shot along three or four hundred feet at fifteen 
miles an hour and into the next wave is royal sport. 
One would not dare to touch the water with a paddle 
at this rate of speed, for the chances of having it 
snapped or of being thrown out of the boat are too 
great. It is almost impossible to “keep her straight” 
running ahead of the waves, as she will invariably 
yaw either to the right or left. There were times 
down in the trough when nothing but water and sky 
were visible. You can seem to catch these waves just 
right only about half a dozen times an hour, but when 
you do, you are amply repaid for your patience. 
Eighteen or twenty miles of this sport seemed about 
as long as a walk around the block. The fun was so 
great that I passed by Croton without stopping. Up 
near Peekskill the wind veered ’round to the east, and 
it blew so strong that I had difficulty in escaping from 
being blown through the cut in the hills where the river 
turns just north of the town. Captain Jones owns a 
boat-house just under the railroad bridge, and he 
allowed me to store my canoe until the following week¬ 
end. 
The next Saturday afternoon, another chap and I 
started down the river, and made Croton Beach just 
at dusk. There are times when the Hudson compels 
your love and admiration. The hour between sunset 
and twilight is when she appears at her loveliest. The 
sunset colors are deepening into darkness, while on 
the other shore a gray-blue veil spreads over the shore 
and trees, blotting out detail, and rendering the mass 
but faintly discernible. There is no line of demarca¬ 
tion between trees and sky, and the darker body is 
felt rather than seen. A river liner passes and its 
waves break along the shore, the delicate white tracery 
greatly resembling the peep of a white petticoat at the 
edge of a dark green dress. The barking of a dog 
in the distance sounds as it might be from another 
world. The hum and bustle of the day is hushed, and 
we feel almost capable of attuning our ear to some¬ 
thing apart from our daily existence. 
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