Little Falls to Sylvan Beach: a last day afloat

I would be lying if I claimed that today's arrival is OK with me. These past several days travelling by boat have been such fun and so easy. I appreciate having a room where all our stuff stays; I appreciate being able to retire there when the company gets to be a little much; I appreciate not having to comply strictly to a schedule. And, all that ends first thing in the morning. But, we have today and my task -- and I did choose to accept it -- has been to engage the day. But, to risk a touch of melodrama, I have been aware that I've been doing some things I have liked so much for the last time.

This is the lounge shortly after 7:00AM, featuring the big, popular coffee urn and morning activities, like reading, checking e-mail, the jigsaw puzzle in the left front, the daily newspaper thanks to, Lisa, our early-rising cruise director,
conversation.

Our departure was leisurely, our travel distance less than 50 miles with four locks to negotiate.  Tal and I enjoyed another walk around the harbor, noting that all the watercraft we saw at nightfall had departed, leaving the dock empty except for the Grande Mariner. 

At Lock E18 shortly after we left Little Falls the canal parted company with the Mohawk, the river off on our starboard side turning into a meandering, fly-fishing stream beyond that point.  For the only time this trip we shared a lock with another vessel, the occupants looking not quite at ease with the situation.  Once the lift was done, the Irresistable moved out with haste and we didn't see it again.

I know those folks were silently pleading "close gate, quick, close the gate!"



And, I love the looming shadow cast by the bow of the Grande Mariner.

Railroad bridge and doors to Lock E19

The approach to Lock E19 looked ominous, boasting the lowest bridge we would encounter with a clearance today of 21 feet.  We proceeded under with care, the captain noting that all we would need was a train to take to the bridge at that moment, which would lower the bridge as much as an inch.  It was close.  We eased into the lock with a train crossing the bridge behind us.

Today's section of the canal is straight and on the industrial side in some places and remote-looking in others.  We passed viewing stands with waving locals, fishermen (and women) in the shade of bridges, dredging crews.  We encountered lowering clouds and rain, debris in the high water (a water heater being the most unusual item), wildlife.  I only left the deck for lunch and to begin packing.

Approaching Lock E21

At Lock E21 we locked through down rather than up, a mementous moment meaning that we were nearing Sylvan Beach.  It felt sort of odd, the disappearing from view rather than rising into view.  That sad sentiment was hard to shake, but I had help (see below).

Here's Tal doing his best to keep me cheerful! I can't resist that cute face.



So, like it or not, we arrived in Sylvan Beach for the night.  We docked alongside an RV park.  While our appearance was something of a novelty, when the park's residents learned the boat could be there from three days to a week, they were not thrilled, since the Grande Mariner blocks the view of the the water for some 85 feet.   It's hard to fathom that they didn't like it as much as I do!

The RV park residents prefer this to my boat?  Makes a girl wonder ...

Ancient faces

We left Flagstaff this morning just as the morning rush was ending and made good time on I-40. Truck traffic going east has been heavy so far. The trucks were sort of obnoxious at times, a couple of drivers running side-by-side, their speed dropping slowly but steadily over the miles, trapping traffic behind them. There was nothing to do about it, but try not to be irritated (yeah, right) and try even harder not to make any mistakes as the situation grew dicier.

For most part, though, it was a pretty day. I must say, too, that the train traffic more than made up for odious truckers. Since catching myself actually counting the cars of mile-and-a-half long trains and making myself stop it on the trip out, I contented myself with simply counting the trains themselves. Today's total? A whopping 16! Each of them very long with multiple engines at each end.

We arrived in Albuquerque late enough to check in to our hotel immediately. We have a room with a view of the Sandia Mountains. So very lovely.  The hotel is also close to the Petroglyph National Monument, our reason for the stop in Albuquerque, although a couple days earlier than planned. 

It was too late in the day to go to the visitor center and also to have time to take in any of the three major petroglyph sites, so we opted to walk in Rinconada Canyon, a 2.5 mile circuit along the base of the West Mesa escarpment of basalt boulders.  The petroglyphs were fascinating, maybe not as old as those at Capital Reef, but closer and easier to see.  And, these petroglyphs illustrate a continuity of culture which I found very interesting, as they were made not only by the ancestors of today's Native Americans, but by Hispanic clergy and sheep herders of the 1600s, as well as explorers moving through during the 1800s, and even modern-day graffiti artists.  This locale has been well-travelled over the centuries.

This is the view from the trail in Rinconada Canyon, looking east toward the parking lot and Albuquerque in the distance.  The petroglyphs are on the escarpment to the left.



Sadly, there are some who cannot leave
well-enough alone, bearing arms without
anything better to do than blow the surface
of the basalt and the art on it to bits.

We had an early -- and delicious -- supper across the street from the hotel at the Pueblo Harvest Cafe, part of the Indian Pueblo Cultural Center.  The dining space was breath-taking and the service superb.  Tal had blue corn encrusted chicken and it was my last chance for one more Navajo taco.  Oh, yum!

We're planning to head for home in a serious way in the morning.  Today has been a sweet and fulfilling culmination of a season of memorable travels. 

Counting cars

Albuquerque, straddling the Rio Grande, sits in a pass on the western side of the Sandis Mountains. As we passed through there yesterday and with the city shrinking in the rear view mirror, a landscape emerged in front of us that took my breath -- the northern edge of the Chihuahuan Desert and, way off to the south, trains. Long trains, purposeful and solitary. Trains moving in both directions -- east and west. (The intersection with the north/south rail route occurs south of Albuquerque at Belen.) Oh, wow.

Over the course of the 70 miles between Albuquerque and Grants, our stop for the night, those trains became much less distant. To my delight, I-40 crossed the tracks at some point and in Grants itself the rails ran between I-40 and the San Mateo Mountains which hover over the town. Also to my delight, our room was on the backside of the building which afforded us (namely me) a view both of the mesa during the late afternoon and early evening and of the trains -- which were far enough away that they couldn't be heard, actually, but their rumble could be felt distinctly.

I don't know when trains got to be such a big deal. It's been a long time, though. Most recently one of the perks of sitting with the gallery in Ridge Spring during the time I was a member of the art association was the frequency of the freight trains as they passed through town just across Highway 23. If there were no visitors when I heard horn in the distance, I'd step out on the porch of the old school building and wait ... and, yes, count the cars. It didn't dawn on me then, but it did last night -- when the train I counted (it was tough, but I limited myself to counting only that one) had six engines, three on either end, and 138 cars, that it's a pretty quirky, even obsessive -- thing to do.

Although very difficult to see, there are two trains meeting in this photograph, taken through the window of our hotel room. Both sets of engines are to the right of the utility pole.

In fact, Adrian Monk's face flashed through my mind like a pang, when, mindlessly, I started counting a second train travelling in the opposite direction, as though knowing the number of cars were a necessity. "My stars, am I starting to degenerate into a parking meter/light pole touching, sidewalk crack avoiding, closet rearranging, towel stack straightening, obsessing nut?" I wondered.

Starting?

*Don't know about Adrian Monk? Click here for a pretty impressive list of habits, obsessions and phobias.

A slow-moving train

We are in the car on I-81 already after a restful (but too short) night at a Holiday Inn Express in the vicinity of Harrisburg PA. Despite sleep -- in a bed larger than the footprint of the tent we used on the Allagash!, a morning shower and the use of a hair dryer for the first time in two weeks, it feels as though we never left the car. We travelled 540 miles yesterday and are looking at about 650 today.

The skies are overcast; the temperature is about 55 degrees. Perfect weather. The Pennsylvania countryside is as I remember it from our years in the Philadelphia area -- softly rolling with neat farms and sensational barns. I wonder if there might be a coffee table book on barns ... Anyway, the only thing marring the view is the privelence of double-decker billboards lining the interstate.

BUT, I'll not focus on that when I have a better view to savor in memory. The light is so soft and even this morning that details seem to leap forward toward one's eyes. When we crossed the Susquehanna River shortly after we got under way, Harrisburg on both sides of the river to my right, a long train, its boxcars colorful, commanded my attention. It was moving slowly eastward and was long enough that it completely crossed the river, the engines just passing out of my line of sight on one shore and cars appearing one-by-one from between buildings on the other.

Stopping to watch would have been such a treat. As it is, though, that train and Susquehanna will remain fused. And, I'll smile wistfully every time I think about it.