Headwaters Lakes of the CT River were wintery even in May
We set off on the Connecticut River on May 10th after having visited the headwaters still coated in
ice. Our first time carrying the voyageur canoes (Chaga and Kasha) to the water on our shoulders
was rough; luckily, we only would get better from there). We packed our boats and looked downriver
in nervous anticipation, for the water was shallow, fast moving, and littered with rocks. How
maneuverable were these boats? How quickly would we be able to react in whitewater, which we
had never worked through in this group, in these canoes, in these shallows? We tried our best, we
really did, even as snow floated down from the heavens and the icy water flowed quickly around us.
We would jump out of the boats at what felt like terrible screams and moans of our vessels as they
brushed rock. It was simply not paddle-able for our wide and heavily loaded boats up there in the icy
mountain stream, and while none of us liked walking thigh (or even chest) deep in frigid water, the
sounds of hulls scraping and ribs protesting were far worse and remain ingrained in all of our
memories. Eventually, our feet and toes would go completely numb and our teeth would chatter
against each other. We would, if possible, run around on land while a few would walk the boat
through the water.
Eliza beats the cold mornings with winter layering systems
After our first portage, though, the weather and water warmed up significantly, and staying warm
became a worry of the past. With each portage, the river became wider and warmer, and the seasons
changed in accordance with our movement south and time’s progression onwards through May. You
would not believe our joy and delight in the arrival of spring – the bees and butterflies, warm days,
fiddleheads unfurling into ferns, flowers blooming, trees no longer bare but green instead! We
feasted our eyes on the new world as we paddled, and feasted our bellies on fiddleheads, ramps,
morels, trout lilies, violets, dandelion greens…
Pele, Audrey and Sydney beat the sun with summer layering systems
As we journeyed down the river we read a translation of the Odyssey by Emily Wilson. It was
exciting to read a more modern rendition of the epic, and the first English translation by a woman,
while on an Odyssey of our own. We spent morning or evening blocks in a circle reading to each
other, in meter if willing. Often we would paint, carve spoons, brush and braid hair, or repair clothing
while during class. We broke into groups for some of the chapters, dividing so that each of the groups
performed a skit of their chapter. The stage was ready: the dirt floor cleared, benches laid out, and
show-time snacks distributed, when from up above the luring call of a train sounded. Within a split
second we were up and running to the tracks to watch the beautiful creature click-clack past us. We
returned to the show energized by the locomotive encounter. Each group brought humorous energy
into their acting and the results were epic – all I want is to see Katarina masterfully embody
Polyphemus, the Cyclops, again!
Audrey as a spirit of the dead, and Julia as Odysseus, at our Railroad Theatre
Katarina, aka Polyphemus the Cyclops
Sometimes we found strange parallels between the Odyssey we were reading and the Odyssey we
experienced. For example, one day we rounded a tight turn in the river –and all of a sudden the
movement of water was crazy, trying with all her force to swing us this way, then that way, then
straight into a vertical rock wall. Both boats ultimately made their way through Charybdis, but the
second crew breached against a standing log and someone lost a paddle in the whirlpool, swirling
around for minutes before it escaped.
Some whitewater action!
Similar to Odysseus through all his travels, we received a lot of hospitality and met a bunch of
interesting characters on our way down the river. Earlier in the trip when the water and air were
still cold enough to be uncomfortable, we had stopped along the bank to eat some snack and warm
up our bodies with squats. Across the river a lady emerged from her house, walked down to the
bank and began enthusiastically squatting in time with us. We “helped her get her leg exercises
done!” Another day we met two brothers who, after seeing us, ran to their car and quickly drove
away. Half a mile down river we saw them again: and again they disappeared. Eventually they
asked us how far we were going and Rachel called back to them, “200 miles south!” They quickly
agreed to meet us there, and we passed them a few more times until we reached our camp for the
night. Towards the end of our river leg when we were looking for a spot to sleep near Ascutney, we
met a corn farmer by the name of Ellsworth who kindly offered us a place in his shady field and
even mowed it for us and drove our water canisters up and back down from the spigot so we
wouldn’t have to lug them ourselves. We felt as if xenia was still practiced in modern times, even
without the fear of Zeus’ wrath hanging above our heads.
Sarah at dinner
From Ellsworth’s property we crossed the river and hiked five miles to the Weathersfield trailhead
where we met up with Rodger Haydock, an amateur geologist who had been volunteering his time to
teach semester geology from all the way back when semester first started. He is an amazing teacher
who knows so much about (seemingly) everything. Rodger also happens to be an incredibly fast
hiker, perhaps due to his trail building work. In any case, we had to work hard to keep up with him.
As we climbed we would stop every once in a while to continue our lesson about Mount Ascutney
and the surrounding area through the visible rock formations and vegetation around us. In between
stops we would get to hear all about Rodger’s adventures and method of acquiring so much
knowledge – he worked as a camera assistant for many years with NOVA to film scientists, explorers,
and activists. He always took the extra step to ask questions from the people he was meeting and
became inspired to learn more about geology. So, while we hiked with the intention of learning local
geology, we also learned a lot about WWI and Cold War history and became inspired to live lives full
of learning, exploring, and giving back to the community.
On our walk back down from Ascutney, we stopped at a house to ask for water. There was a man
outside working in his garden and the hose was on so we deemed our likelihood of success high.
Jerry Davis, as he turned out to be, was more than happy to let us use his hose to fill up on water. In
exchange we told him about Semester and the adventures we’ve been living. He happened to work at
a sugarhouse, and after inquiring on whether or not we fry up pancakes on expedition, he offered us
a quart of that magical syrup. The next morning we made pancakes and enjoyed the generosity of a
to-be-well-remembered stranger.
Travel down the Connecticut River rolled along, reaching Bellows Falls where we had to do our
longest portage yet of 1.5 miles. Luckily, Kroka came and picked up all the gear we would no longer
need for the last few days of expedition. Among other things, food boxes went which meant we no
longer had gear to tump.
Tumping is a fun way to carry big heavy gear (usually boxes) for long distances. Jo, an expert tumper, taught us how to tie together makeshift tumplines using NRS straps, how to lift the box up with a partner, and how to correctly place the strap across your head, and how to hold your body as you walk so that you don’t injure your spine. Tumping can be a bit painful or uncomfortable, especially if it isn’t done right; however, it sure beats trying to carry heavy gear by hand, long distances.
Julia tumping a heavy food box in the snow at our put-in
So, we didn’t have gear left to tump. In fact, all we had left were 14 partially filled packs, four paddles
(the lightest ones), and our two voyagers. After the 1.5 miles through Bellows Falls we paddled (well,
four of us did) down our last stretch of the Connecticut River before reaching the mouth of the Cold
River (more like a Tepid Stream). Because the Cold River is pretty shallow and it hadn’t rained in a
long time, we had to completely empty our boats and walk them up the river, lifting them up over
shallow and rock-littered spots. We couldn’t continue for long like this as soon it became impractical
if not impossible to carry the boats up the slippery, fast moving, shallow river. So we took out, flipped
Kash’ and Chag’ onto our shoulders and began the last and longest of the portages.
Elijah, Rachel, and Kai release the human dam a convenient waterfall along the river
The decision to carry the boats back to Kroka was made by the whole group. Past semesters who
have that have gone up the Cold River have had water levels high enough to walk the boats up
further up the river. We were presented with the option of backpacking back to base camp without
the boats, but something seemed wrong about it. None of us particularly love carrying the boats as it
is a physically demanding painful business that also tests emotional fortitude. Figuring out ideal boat
groups is difficult, for if you aren’t positioned correctly and matched to the right height, you’ll either
end up getting crushed by the weight or someone else will suffer in your place. But we looked around
at each other and knew that we were capable of sending it – and so we did. We needed a final push:
to prove the strength of our group to ourselves, to carry the boats that had carried us. It all just made
sense. The 12-mile portage back to Kroka tested us for sure, but no one regretted it for a second.
Sydney, Julia, and Rachel portage Chaga up the road
Coming down the final hill to Kroka, now no longer blanketed in white, felt unreal. No: it must have
been a dream, all of it – the Green Mountains, Canada, the news of the pandemic, the ocean, the river,
the long road home to where it all began. The sounds of cheering and pots banging reached us and
we replied with song and drumming on our boats as we marched into the driveway past the welcome
party and to the boathouse where we could finally put our guides of the past five weeks down to rest.
Odysseus came home to Ithaca after years of travel only to leave again, thirsty for more adventure.
We too already yearn to be afloat again – seeing what’s out there in the world and how we can be a
part of it.
~Yours truly, Oddtree
