Voyage on the Connecticut (page 10)

 

 Bellows Falls marked the transition to a more urbanized New England, but on the river, it still felt amazingly rural. Even at Springfield, Massachusetts and Hartford, Connecticut the buildings and freeways extended for only a few miles before trees began again.

 Just above Hartford, Connecticut I came to the breeched Enfield Dam. I pulled out a mile above this obstacle and asked the locals in the parking lot whether it was runnable. The guidebook said not to do it, but the portage was over two miles, an almost impossible challenge for me. Having received mixed opinions at the parking lot, I began a hike to the dam to see for myself. On the way, I came across the open doors of the Thompsonville Fire Department. I thought, Who should know better what’s safe? The fireman I asked wasn’t a kayaker, but he phoned upstairs to a fireman who was. The report: “It’s doable; just keep to the left.” I decided then and there to trust Authority (for the first time in my life) and go for it. As I approached the dam, the roaring sounded like Niagara Falls, and I rued not having examined this hazard with my own eyes, but the fire department proved to be a dependable guide. The passage was ridiculously easy, with nothing more than fast water in the left side channel I followed.

Throughout the trip I’d been able to find clean, peaceful and private places to camp, but on my next-to-last night, at a spot on the river just north of Middletown, Connecticut, it looked like this record of undisturbed camping was about to end.

I had selected a fine spot: a sandy spit on a peninsula alongside an incoming creek, no houses in sight. Walking along the shore at dusk, just before retiring, I noticed hoof prints in the mud. They were much too large to be a deer’s, and I wondered what animal made them. The only hypothesis that came to my mind—reflecting my mindset formed by hiking in the mountain wilderness of Idaho—was moose.  

The night was passing uneventfully, the only sound being the church bells half a mile away striking the hours, when, at about three AM, I heard the splashing of a big animal crossing the brook to my peninsula. Was this my moose? Peering out the flap of my tent I saw the silhouette of a cow. Well, that’s no problem, I thought. Then I thought some more: don't cows travel in herds? Why is a solitary cow wandering about? I looked at the animal more closely. This cow had meaty, husky chest muscles; it also lacked udders and had that other thing below its stomach. Ye gods, it's a bull! I'm camping in a bull pasture!

 

Back to First Page • Next Page >