This is the second entry in The Commuter Chronicles.
I have been writing about how I have been getting to and
from work as a bike commuter (and sometimes as a runner) in order to exercise
more and pollute less. This entry explores how I deal with riding in the
darkest, coldest times.
Thick frost on the glass frames darkness, a streetlight, the
mountain of plowed snow across the street.
The phone says it’s 7 degrees outside. My body says, no way
in hell, I’m biking through this to work. But then I think about how I’ll answer
the question waiting for me when I walk in the door: “How did you get here today?”
Thirty-six hours have passed since the last flakes fluttered
out from the monster blizzard that pile-drove its way into Connecticut. The
roads are cleared — sorta. Just don’t count the 100-foot patches of compacted
snow. Also, ignore the frozen canyon walls the plows left behind and the buried
margins that leave a non-existent gap between the bike and traffic lanes. I sip my coffee, and I factor in the extra
time I’ll need to take the less-trafficked back roads. I unseal the
handwarmers.
Visibility
Learning to deal with weather has been the most consistent, and interesting challenge I’ve faced as a New England bike commuter. It is a challenge I relish. I have learned new ways to dress, and to anticipate what my body will need exerting itself on a freezing January morning versus a June afternoon. I dance with the changing seasons. Those who encase themselves in climate-controlled vehicles, complete with headlights and seat warmers, are sitting it out.
In the sun’s absence I rely upon technology for seeing and
for being seen.
There’s a bicycle light, a $60 gadget, and literal pale
imitation of what the sun provides for free. Other than the bike itself, it is
the most expensive item in my bike commuting arsenal. For years, I used either
a cheap headlamp (not so comfortable when combined with a helmet) or a rechargeable
flashlight attached to my wrist with rubber bands. The latter, was actually,
better than the headlamp, but remained a consummate pain in the neck.)
Note to people just starting bike commuting: you absolutely
don’t need a bike light if you want to save the money. It sure is nice to have
one, though. I’ve found that lights that were perfectly serviceable for a night
hike simply don’t cut it for a bike ride, where the faster speeds require a
brighter beam to see the road ahead. Now that I have a stronger light, I pedal
with more confidence, and find myself hitting the brakes less cruising down
hills.
I still haven’t bought myself a similarly high-end taillight,
for the excellent reason that I am cheap. I usually rely on a blinking solar
lantern that I have rigged off the back rack and a red blinking wrist band.
Neither of these will help me be seen better in daylight, though I do wear
bright colors to help me stand out.
Dressing warm, dressing weird
I begin the roll down the crunching street by the headlight.
Orange glow pools along the southeastern sky; stars, then planets dissolve in the
flood of dawn.
The frigid air stings the exposed flesh around my eyes. I’m dressed
for the cold ride, though not in comfort. My body is encased in a menagerie of
equipment, including kayak gear. These include a neoprene balaclava hood, designed
to keep me warm in frigid water immersion.
The hood is thin enough to fit easily under a bike helmet,
but it still creates a bombproof layer against the wind.
Pogies are another piece of kayak equipment that has served
me well biking. Also made of neoprene, pogies wrap around
a paddle shaft and create a toasty pocket for the hands. They fit
imperfectly around bike handlebars, but they buffer the wind, and work well with
mitts and handwarmers.
Then there is the surgical mask. Not only do these tragically
politicized symbols of pandemic times protect against airborne viruses, they also
can take the edge off a brutal draft. I’ve only worn surgical masks on the
coldest days. I accept the fact that it will be half-frozen and ruined by the
end of the ride, but it is a cheap item to replace. I generally ride with masks
that have reached the end of their useful lifespans. One disadvantage: fogging makes
it impossible to ride with both glasses and mask on, so I end up stowing the former
item in my fanny pack.
I can steer a bike competently enough as a two-eyes and accept
crappier eyesight in exchange for feeling in my cheeks.
Moving from head to torso, my garments are more conventional. I have a flashy neon windbreaker over a puffy layer. Warmth, plus visibility. I don’t always wear the extra reflective vest, but do today, due to the reduced margins and dangerous driving conditions.
So far, the few cars on
the roads have passed slowly and left ample room. Here and there, the tires crunch
over fresh snow, and I stay in low gear. Nothing has stopped me yet.
The snow pants I wear are almost overkill. I can feel sweat
beading on my legs as I crank the biggest hill, but I am infinitely grateful for them as wind whips around me when I swoop down an accompanying grade.
Footwear turns out to be my biggest gear mistake. My slides,
perfect for dressing and undressing quickly, are simply not up to six miles of
riding in the coldest conditions, even though I am in my warmest socks. I scold
myself for not wearing boots as the stinging wind lashes helpless toes.
Door to Door to Door
By the time I reach the last uphill, I am happy for the
warmth of effort.
The back wheel spins out on an icy drift. Clenching teeth, I
hold the handlebars in place and inch my way past.
I crest the hill and the destination is in sight. I think of
all the days when I’ve ridden my car and my coworkers tell me, “Of course you
rode in. You can’t ride your bike in this!
I hope someone asks me today. I’ll let them know the score.
The beams of sunrise play through the spectral winter
branches. I almost feel the warmth. There are hints of spring, in spite of the obscene
cold. Earlier in the year, it was still dark when I got to work. The bird songs seem new and decadent to me. I crouch down
for the final descent.
The parking lot is empty. I don’t bother locking my bike,
but key myself directly into the building and pull out my phone. Of course,
there was an email — sent out about the time that I was taking my bike down the
apartment steps – explaining that the poor road conditions have bought everyone
a day off.
I stomp around until I get some life back into my extremities.
I climb back into the saddle, going home. Woodsmoke, lit DayGlo orange from morning light bright, billows
up from a chimney. I ride along the frozen Mystic River
where plates of brine ice have shattered up against the rocks in lucent piles. I feel my brows
frozen too. At least my legs are still moving.
I think about warm blankets.
“
Enchantment One
Awareness of large predators is, apparently, one of those
basic instincts that has dulled for me over time. It took me almost a minute for
me to grasp the significance of the large gray form, close along the roadside with
fangs bared.
My distracted, 21st century mind was focused on my
friend Phil, who I was convincing that we weren’t lost, that I had been in
these woods a hundred times. I could get us to our destination easily. We had just
stepped off the trail to a gravel road, an obvious shortcut (or was it?) in the
middle of Pachaug State Forest. Middle afternoon was giving way to late. The
February sun was still a couple hours away from checkout, yet there was a menace
to the shadows pooling beneath hemlocks, those skeletal woods where no birds
sang. Bare deciduous trees afforded fractured views of the gray hills, and long-abandoned
farm walls. There was plenty of landscape to go around. At over 26,000 acres,
Pachaug is Connecticut’s biggest state forest.
Even, as I pondered exactly where in those 26,000
acres we might be, my attention zoomed in toward the foreground, the spot right
behind Phil’s feet.
“Uh, Phil, you might not want to turn around right now,” I
said.
Of course, he did exactly that. The creature was right out
of Grimm’s fairy tales, an Eastern Coyote, sprawled out dead. A wound in its
side hinted at a mortal injury. Perhaps it had met a speeding ATV earlier. Another
distracted mind.
“Whoa! Of course, I’m going to check this out!” Phil exclaimed.
We were on a short overnight doorstep adventure. We had
started from our homes in Mystic and pedaled our bikes into North Stonington,
about an hour’s ride, so that we could camp out at a nearby lean-to and hike
around. Phil, a longtime friend, has climbed in the Andes and Himalayas and is
no stranger to the extremes. This adventure was a meant to be a simple getaway
however, not an epic
It had been months since I’d spent a night outdoors. Although
I had taken brief requiems biking and hiking in nature, I hungered for a larger
pilgrimage, a pilgrimage where I could take a break from distracted thinking
and contemplate small enchantments. Such wonders included the coyote corpse,
grotesque, beautiful, and a reminder of the wilderness character that never
left our state.
Eastern Coyotes are, in fact, hybrids, between coyotes and wolves
– the thinking goes, and
so it was unsurprising to see resemblance between the Canis latrans
specimen at our feet and the scourge of Little Red Riding Hood. Attacks on
humans are vanishingly rare. Yet, buried instincts had surfaced at last. The coyote’s
broad muscles and sharp teeth gave me pause.
The corpse made a fitting ambassador to Pachaug, which has
always seemed a little strange, to me, a little dark. The many fens and hollows
lie beneath towering, schist escarpments, thrown together, as if by sorcery. Small
family graveyards lie moldering beneath snags.
Enchantment Two
 |
| Ice stalagmite in Bear Cave |
When I was a kid, my dad and I spent many trips wandering these
woods looking for Bear Cave in North Stonington. Before the Internet heyday,
there was far less information than there is now. We got lost plenty of times. Eventually,
we found Bullet Ledge, a ship-like bulwark of fractured rock that rises above
the trees. Halfway up the ledge, we found an opening.
Back at the coyote, I mapped a rough sketch of how I could
get back to the cave. My mistake had been following a reroute on the
Narragansett Trail, which missed the cave, apparently. Instead, we followed the
road, in what I hoped was the right direction. I made an informed guess at an
intersection, and in another 20 minutes we were back on course.
It was Phil’s first time inside the cave. I always enjoy
taking newcomers up the steep path up Bullet Ledge and then casually stopping
next to the cave opening. Much like a dead coyote, it’s very easy to miss. Once
upon a time, Phil had heard, there really had been a bear inside the cave. A group
of natives led a colonist to the spot – so he could shoot it dead.
We clambered inside, where there was the familiar musty
darkness, tiny dribbles of groundwater percolating from the top of the hill. The
cave goes in 30 feet or more. It was nothing new for me, However, I was most
taken by some of the ice formations at the cave mouth. Icicles were utterly
smooth and clear. Low afternoon light struck orange fire within the crystalline
enchantments. An icicle stalagmite was perfectly symmetrical, clear, and
balanced, with utter improbability, on a narrow base. It was an elongated teardrop.
It was an alien shrine.
 |
| Phil emerges from Bear Cave |
 |
| Camp |
Enchantment Three.
We hiked swiftly back to the shelter where we’d left our
bikes. The wood we gathered earlier waited by a fire pit. We were on a ridge,
and I could see miles in all directions, including still frozen lakes and
swampland, out to the surrounding ridges. In the last six hours, we had only
seen one family out hiking, one off-roader. It wasn’t a bad record for
Connecticut.
As the sun lowered, we coaxed wettish twigs into sullen
flame, and then cheered as the fire blossomed over the larger branches.
Phil graced me with a beer. I balanced a pot of creek water
on a grate to make couscous dinner.
Outside, the twisting morass of trunks and forest branches compressed
to a two-dimensional print against orange horizon and darkling blue. Planets
emerged. Stars winked into existence. Well-being trickled into my restless mind.
To fill completely, I’d need more time. A lifetime.
Owls boomed from distant trees. I smiled at the night.
Enchantment Four
The dark blue and gathering orange framed the branches again. I enjoyed seeing the last night’s show repeat itself, but in reverse.
Woodpecker staccato Boodooboodabooop! Badabadapop! resonated
through the forest. Small chirping birds raised their voices at last.
Fungus on a cut log made a soggy Christmas wreath.
Phil and I talked about the owls we’d heard last night. After
I conked out, he claimed to have heard some coyote yips as well – at least it
sounded that way. After a while he hit the radio, and why not? I wanted to hear
the latest about the troop build ups.
Wolves everywhere. Circle the wagons.
I raised a fire on the embers of the last, brought water to
a boil. We drank our coffee, packed the bikes, and rolled out.
Photo: Farrah Garland
Note:
This is my first entry in the Commuter Chronicles.
In the coming weeks, I will be writing about how I have
been getting to and from work as a bike commuter (and sometimes as a runner) in
order to exercise more and pollute less.
While this may seem like a step away from much of the adventure
writing that I typically post, I have also found that the bike commute serves
as a daily mini adventure, an adventure that presents challenges and rewards, an
adventure that connects me with the surrounding nature and community in
Southeastern Connecticut.
This first post will discuss ways in which routine helps
me to get out the door faster and better prepared for the world. Some future
topics that I will explore include, dealing with challenging road conditions, managing
sweat, how bike commuting has changed my relationship with work, bike repair,
and why I think small choices remain relevant in our era of big problems.
I hope you stick around and enjoy the ride!
As of a few months ago, I began taking my bicycle into my
bedroom. We’d entered a new phase in the relationship.
It is not that I love my steel-framed diamondback hybrid so
much that I can’t bear to be apart, or that I want its graceful lines to be the
first thing I see when I wake up in the morning. Ours is a marriage of convenience.
The bike takes me to work most days. It needs to be ready to
go, with nary a dilly, even a dally. I have 6-miles of road to cover door to
door. I have to be in the building, professional, and presentable, by 7:30am. Assuming
that I don’t want to get up at an egregious hour, mornings will require tight
choreography, not me stumbling down to a freezing basement to pick at the combo
lock with numbed fingers.
The fact that I keep the bike in the room is only one of a series
of morning habits that I follow in order to get on the road quickly over the
years. Mornings vary, but I generally get out the door 40 minutes after I wake
up. I now go down a checklist, and I have organized my apartment to facilitate
speedy egress.
This is no easy feat considering my abstract-random
personality and corresponding aversion toward structure. “Life hacks” and other
self-optimization strategies often seem like Trojan horses from the work
worship culture. Nonetheless, I hate getting bogged down by poorly shuffled gear.
The motorless commute succeeds for me, not only because I am committed to decreasing
my impact on the environment; it succeeds because I have planted that
commitment in a larger ecosystem of habits and routines.
Habits are more powerful than principles. One need only look
at how New Year’s resolutions go askance. The toughest habits to break, tend to
be “low friction,” according to psychologist Anne
Wood. This means that they only require a few easy steps. If I wanted to stop
wasting time on the internet, it would be much harder to break the habit, if time-wasting
sites were just a click away (this is a hypothetical example, obviously.) The
vice is practically frictionless. Driving also has low psychological friction. I
need only get in the car and turn the key.
Biking to work, with its many steps, is high friction. Sure,
you could just get dressed, hop on the bike, and roll out – if you like
jeopardizing your paycheck. Arriving,
clean, and professional, at the end of the ride, involves steps that driving
doesn’t require. These steps include packing work clothes, loading a bike rack,
checking the weather, and dressing properly for the conditions. All of this is long
before I start pedaling up the first hill.
So how is it that I choose not to spend an extra hour
beneath the covers when I wake up in the early morning dark? Why don’t I just drive
to work with everyone else? My answer is that I reduce friction. Preset routines
are like oil on the bike chain. They enable me to glide through my morning with
as few steps and as few decisions as possible.
Here are some strategies I use.
·
The Checklist.
I have a laminated checklist on the door telling me what to do throughout the morning. At one point, I would have thought that it was infantile to remind myself to brush my teeth or gather The Trinity (my keys, wallet, and cellphone.) from the bedside. I have finally accepted the truth: I can forget almost anything. This is especially true when I am groggy or feeling rushed in the morning. I make this easier by putting key items in exactly the same places, the night before. I feel much less anxiety, and move faster in the morning, when I know that there is a hard copy on the door to guide me right.
·
Workout Pajamas
Sleeping in workout clothes has been a common trick for the morning exercise crowd. It not only helps get things moving quickly; it also spares me the cold shock of changing clothes in a chilly room. I drape my riding jacket over the handlebars, so that I can slip right into it, along with my helmet and fanny pack.
·
The Fanny Pack.
The keys, wallet and cell phone go into a forward-facing fanny pack. The dorkiness is severe. However, I prefer this to the discomfort of cycling with all that stuff in my pockets. The fanny pack also allows me to drop keys and mask somewhere quickly when I lock my door. When I inevitably question whether I have forgotten one of these crucial items, I can spot them quickly without patting or digging.
·
Packing, Charging Ahead of Time
It is easy to load my bike up ahead of time when I keep it in the room with me. I make sure it is packed with all the clothes, food, and equipment that I could want. Putting things on the bike rack is preferable to using a backpack because I am less liable to sweat. I also have recently invested in a rechargeable handlebar light. It’s great, but also a hassle attaching and detaching the thing. Since the bike is already inside, however, I can just use an extension cord to charge the lamp in its place.
·
Pre-made breakfast
The fastest way out the door would be to
grab a Clif bar or a banana with no cooking. However, speed is not my only goal.
The pleasures of hot coffee and warm oatmeal are vital motivations on a cold
morning. I economize time by pouring out my instant oatmeal ahead of time, along
with peanut butter, raisins, and instant coffee on the side. All the water I
need is already waiting on a hot plate near the bed. I just plug it in. I can finish
last-minute chores while the water heats. (Pro-tip: Pour the instant coffee before
the water boils. It not only saves time on the stovetop; it will also be ready
to drink sooner.)
·
Slides over Sneakers
Yes, I’m lazy to the point that I would rather slip into my shoes than tie and untie them. This is also helpful when I get to work, and I have to change pants again.
· Gear at Work
I try to leave as many supplies as possible
at work. Often, I bring extra clothes or provisions in on days when I have to drive,
due to weather or other circumstances. I don’t have much space to store goods
in the building, but I have found that I have room to stash rolled-up dress
shirts, freeze-dried coffee, and meals. In a previous model of the bike
commute, I had arrived to work early and breakfasted in the breakroom. It
seemed to work out just fine. Unbeknownst to me, however, my early arrival had
been triggering a silent alarm — and a police department visit. This went on
for weeks until I discovered what was happening. My employer did not encourage the
arrangement. I now eat breakfast at home.
Following these routines may make mornings easier, but based
on the number of steps involved, you can see that they are far from frictionless.
These procedures have added value to my life in other ways, however, including helping
me become a better planning. For a long time, I have seen procedure as stifling,
antithetical to the fun creative person I perceive in myself. Over the years,
however, I have recognized that procedural minds have a talent for getting
things done. By borrowing their systemic mojo, I add value to my own unconventional
ethos.
Unfortunately, many of the lowest-friction routines in this
country also hurt the environment. It is easy to drive to our jobs, purchase pre-made
meals, and remain disengaged from public life or personal responsibility.
Politics, societal inertia, and commerce have put the least
psychological friction around driving and the most friction around all else. Creating
a community that welcomes non-drivers requires far more coordination than my
morning routine. It requires people working together to create research, interviews,
arguments, laws.
We are half-awake and have barely pulled the covers off. We’ll
be hard-pressed to get to work on time. A checklist is a good place to start.
It’s 2:30 AM. My fists are clenched. My mind paces like a confined animal. I have a fervent wish to go back to sleep, but I keep going back and back and back to the missing notes. Days’ worth of notes. Meticulously organized, cited, vanished.
Ah, Microsoft Excel, how I trusted you. I came to you a
supplicant. Reams of notes needed to be cited, they needed to be organized
chapter by chapter. My head was heavy with information. An orchestra of ideas squawked
aimless and out of tune. You promised to take up the stick and get the unruly
band into marching formation. Sure enough, with the help of your firm
administration, I mustered information into columns. Section by section, the
mob became a legion, matching colors, a uniform purpose. There were plenty of
unruly folk, still some cuts to be made, and plenty of additions to the ensemble.
What mattered most is that we were moving together.
And yet, by the end, you were the Pied Piper. You led the march
to the precipice.
I won’t recount the dry language you used to describe the
loss. This would be less maddening if you had said something along the lines of
“I screwed up” or “I got bored, so I torched everything you were working on.”
Well, libraries burn all the time. I would not be the first
laborer to pile up fruits, only to watch them molder and go to the flies. Bodies
and Microsoft files succumb to corrupt inputs. This is the way of our world.
I resent the lost hours, however. I am entitled to that
selfishness. It has been a long battle making music out of noise: the noise of
doubt, the noise of distraction, the noise of other obligations. Right now, the
lattice of order has fallen. The clatter reverberates through the halls of my
mind.
I’m about to turn back over and try for sleep. Some other
day, I may wrangle that cacophony and teach it to play sweet music. For now, I
will settle for silence.
 |
| Waves from Tropical Storm Henri approach Rhode Island's Charlestown Breachway |
Quick Stats:
Start/stop: Ledyard, Connecticut
Farthest point out: Narragansett Rhode Island
Elapsed
adventure time: four days, three,
nights.
Total distance
paddled: 86 miles
Total distance
portaging, jogging, walking, biking: 22 miles
Total distance: 108 miles.
Key terms: Doorstep adventure, kayak wheels, tropical storm, kayak surfing, William Butler Yeats, breachway, climate change, connection, disconnection, The Extended Mind, seal, dorsal fin.
Click here for an interactive map
The nose
of my fiberglass sea kayak met the fist of the furious ocean.
A hard rain
pocked holes in the whitecapped waves. To the right, the Rhode Island beachfront
was a pitched battle where looming giants toppled into angry froth. On the left
lay thousands of miles of open water. The tropical storm was yet days away from
landfall, but it made its presence known.
I was
three days into my self-supported, kayak doorstep adventure from southeastern
Connecticut into Narragansett Bay. I had only recently beat a path through the surf
to get offshore. Sanctuary lay only a few miles ahead in sheltered Ninigret
Pond. Paddling those miles would test the limits of my skill.
For all
the adrenaline that had marked my surf launch, I was surprised to find lethargy
creeping in. The agitated water left no stable frame of reference, leaving me exhausted,
disoriented, disembodied. The drifting sensation was even more frightening than
the waves.
I started
bellowing songs, then reciting poems at top volume. (No need to be embarrassed;
no one on shore would hear.)
The words
of William
Butler Yeats fit:
“Turning
and turning in the widening gyre…”
That
would be the storm, I thought.
“Things
fall apart; the center cannot hold.”
Apocalyptic
words resonate with our times. Unsurprisingly, many writers have wedded Yeats’s
themes of gathering chaos and subjugation to current events—i.e. the
fall of Kabul.
Disaster piles
on disaster. We’re left feeling
disembodied, as psychically disoriented as I felt discombobulated by the
churning sea. It is as if we were only seeing a movie about terrible events unfolding,
with no part to play except to watch.
I felt
helpless rage at the western wildfire smoke that dimmed New England skies. Here
was more evidence that we are far from in control; we can hold back neither
fire nor rising water. Things have fallen apart. The gyre will carry us where
it pleases.
We have
only entered the outside circle of the sizzling hell that climate change has prepared.
Yet, instead of slamming the brakes, many are stomping the gas pedal. Come heat
wave, come storm, come fire, they’ve got a full tank, AC and places to go. The
highways are jammed again; the sky full of planes, carbon trailing in their
wakes.
The need
to connect with nature is, in fact, much deeper than the vapid pursuit of
selfies. Nature is linked to our profoundest, most spiritual selves. This is not
cliché, but science. I have encountered some of the most persuasive arguments
for this truth via Ann Murphy Paul’s recent book, The Extended Mind. Paul’s
research shows that people who experience awe, perhaps a waterfall or double
rainbow, exhibit greater empathy and willingness to help others.
Critically,
the book pointed me to the three-day
effect. This principle holds that nature’s greatest psychological benefits
tend to accrue to those who can get out in nature for three days or more — ideally,
while disconnected from electronics. Nature, to paraphrase Edward Abbey, is not
a luxury; it is the foundation of a good life.
The
fundamental question: How can we fulfill our need to connect with nature
without harming it?
My
compromise has been the doorstep adventure (see above definition.) I accept the
added effort and time dealing with traffic, as well as other irritants I’m
trying to escape.
Not only
would I ditch the car, I would have to find campsites on a heavily developed
shore.
Despite
these obstacles, the four-day trip presented an opportunity to utilize the three-day
effect and still have one day left over. I intended to detach from noise and
make fresh connections with nature. However, although I eliminated the car, I
couldn’t eliminate the pavement. This created conflicts with some of the very
systems I sought to escape — roads, crowds, noise. I hoped that four days would
nonetheless provide lessons and renewal.
 |
| Launch in Old Mystic |
Part
II: Conviction
So, who is
willing to roll a 16-foot sea kayak down four miles of asphalt while dodging
traffic in 90-degree heat?
It’s a
rhetorical question.
It was Day
0 of my doorstep adventure: Preparation.
I had to
roll the kayak from Ledyard to Old Mystic on a makeshift cart. Here, my future landlord
has been kind enough to let me store a boat near the river. Ledyard was still
the doorstep, still the official starting line. I wouldn’t a roof rack to get
the kayak to the water; but would experience every mile with my body.
“That’s
just ridiculous,” a bystander told me as I wheeled the boat past houses.
“Thank you
for your opinion,” I replied.
The
morning of August 17, I left Ledyard by bicycle for an easy ride into Old
Mystic. Here I loaded the kayak and eased it over a seawall to the head of the
river.
The stress
of trip preparation floated off my shoulders as I started paddling with the
ebbing tide between rows of marsh grass. The favorable current carried me into downtown
Mystic. From there, I entered Fishers Island Sound, and then skirted Little
Narragansett Bay for Napatree Point in Rhode Island.
Blue skies
were dappled with wispy mackerel scale clouds. These made beautiful, undulating
reflections on the silky seas. Such clouds also meant that fair weather had an
expiration date. There was a tropical storm brewing to the south. I would be
ending the trip just before it made landfall.
Protected
water met open ocean at Napatree Point. The area is in fact, one of the
passages between Long Island Sound and the Atlantic. An outgoing tide tussled
with incoming swell, provoking mild waves into sharp breakers.
I was
hungry for excitement. I deliberately steered the boat over a shallow sandbar. I
carefully watched a building wave on my left side, only to have a different
wave break on my right and carry me for a sideways ride through chest-deep
froth.
I had no
sooner caught my bearings when I was startled by an enormous splash beside the
boat. The water writhed with baitfish.
Swift
along the bottom swam the striped bass; some of the bass were the length of my arm,
all harassing and snapping at their prey.
Thrash!
Bite! Bite!
Sets of
teeth lunged for the surface, setting more terrific splashes.
I moved my
hands closer on the paddle to keep my fingers out of the water.
Beyond
Napatree the horizon was wide open. Block Island was a gray smudge, 10 miles offshore.
On my
other side, lay the wealthy beach enclave of Watch Hill, guarded by a
lighthouse at the end of a peninsula. I wove through a rock garden as big waves
crashed. There was the nearby Ocean House hotel—a sprawling, Victorian-era
spectacle of sweeping balconies and turrets, done up in sunny yellow paint and
ivory trim.
You also may
have heard of singer-songwriter Taylor Swift. She owns Holiday House, on an
adjoining hill—featured in her song The Last Great American
Dynasty.
The hot
weather drew bustling crowds to the sand. The sounds of hooting swimmers and laughing
kids drifted over the roar of surf. I could practically smell the sunscreen. Watch
Hill Beach was thronged, as was its eastern neighbor, Misquamicut.
Farther
east, crowds dispersed. I startled a bevy of black oystercatchers, distinguished
by pointed orange bills. A loon, in its less familiar gray and white colors, floated
in the water nearby and reproached me with a warble.
I reached
the East Beach Campground at around 2:30. My shoulders were already sore from
about 19 miles of paddling. How I looked forward to watching dark waves roll
onto shore through the flames of a driftwood fire!
No such
luck.
This
campground, along with the nearby Charlestown Beach Campground, were reserved
only for RVs. It sure was a scenic place to run the generator and admire the
rising, acidifying ocean.
I don’t
blame the state of Rhode Island specifically for its doorstep-hostile set of
policies. It is just one more example of how systems prioritize automobiles at
the expense of simpler forms of recreation. There was a logic to it. RV-ers, with
their need for hook-ups and sewage pump outs, were bound to spend more money
than dirtbag tent campers.
Plus, there
were hordes of these high rollers in rolling boxes, a base which started growing fast amid
the pandemic. If an occasional oddball with a tent felt put out, it wouldn’t
hurt the bottom line.
I was not
entirely out of luck, however. I could still paddle another seven (uggh!)
miles followed by a two-mile portage up to Burlingame State Park.
 |
| Ninigret Pond as seen from shore |
I would paddle
into Ninigret Pond, one of several vast salt ponds on Rhode Island’s coast.
These are separated from the ocean by glacier-created barrier beaches. Ponds
and ocean are no longer as separated as they once were; now they connected by breachways,
built in the early- to mid-20th century. The breachways are essentially
trenches cut through the beaches and fortified by riprap. The breachways let boat
traffic in and out, along with ocean water. The ponds are now much saltier than
they had been in the past, changing the ponds’ unique
ecology.
The tidal
currents at a breachway can get strong enough to send a paddler backwards. My
luck was in today because the flood tide was with me. I shot through the
opening like a canister in a vacuum tube.
The breachway
carried me into Ninigret Pond. Ninigret, named for an Eastern Niantic sachem from
the 1600s, is three and a half miles long, Rhode Island’s biggest salt pond. Its
shallow, murky bottom is an important resource for birds and sea life. The
Ninigret National Wildlife Refuge lies on the north shore.
Several
fishing egrets dawdled in the shallows near the breachway in a receiving line. There
were also plenty of speedboats and a shell fishing fleet, crab traps on their
roofs. The boats buzzed in and out from a marina on the west side of the pond,
where I planned to land.
I pulled
up to an underused corner of the marina and spent a few minutes reassembling my
makeshift cart. Finally, I began trundling the boat toward the campground. The
route took me along the busy Boston Post Road, against a current of speeding
vehicles. The divided highway forced me to go a quarter mile out of my way
before I could cross at a traffic light. It’s ironic how roads meant to connect
us to places can also separate us from them. Even with the breakdown lane, it
was profoundly uncomfortable having speeding cars zooming feet away. After
that, it was an uphill climb to the campground.
The sites
were almost exclusively taken up by RVs and pull-behind campers. One of the
tenants treated the neighborhood to a curated selection of ’80s power ballads.
This on top of the hour of pulling the kayak along roads had me in a hostile state
of mind. Could there be no peace?
I relaxed
somewhat as I set up the tent and prepared dinner, satisfied to have the parts
fall into place. I wasn’t camped under a tarp, which meant that I was actually glamping.
Flavored ramen topped the evening menu, garnished with kale and tomatoes (both home-dehydrated,
both home-grown) cooked over an alcohol stove. The weather was too hot for my
sleeping bag, so I stretched out on top.
 |
| Camp at Burlingame |
Part
III: Surf and Meditation
I started
rolling the kayak down the road to Ninigret at sunrise.
I launched
at 8:00, just in time to catch the outgoing tide. I enjoyed a fast ride through
the breachway. Opposing waves produced a chaotic churn of two- and three-foot
breakers: the perfect play zone. I took the first of many goof-off sessions that
day, riding waves and getting soaked.
I ended by
letting the current carry me offshore, then rejoined the eastbound ebb. The
waves were only a foot or so high, but were stacked higher at surf spots. I was
about a stone’s throw off the beach when one freak wave sent me on a bouncing
ride into the shallows.
I passed several
long breaks outside the village of Matunuck.
“It’s like
the West Coast of the East Coast,” according to the surfing megadatabase Surfline.com.
I tried surfing
in a couple different places, but the best fun lay farther east. Here, a guy on
a stand-up paddleboard took swooping, graceful rides on belly-high waves. My
sea kayak took to the surf like a kid’s toboggan on a hill. The rides were
ridiculously long, perhaps a hundred yards. Unlike most other breakers that would
pivot my boat sideways, here I could keep the boat pointed straight as an
arrow, racing over the shallows at top speed. With some waves I finished with a
dirty lean and brace in whitewater. It was a fun ride from start to finish.
West Coast
surfing indeed! I couldn’t think of any comparable breaks since my time in
Washington years ago. They were some of the best rides I’d had, period.
The
paddleboarder and I traded waves and were soon calling rides for each other.
“Get this
one, man!”
“Go! Go!
Go!”
“Nice one!”
Paltry tenting
options along the coast had forced me to plug in a low-distance day. Although I’d
initially been bitter about this, I now appreciated the fact that I didn’t have
to hurry to a far-flung Point B. Horsing around on beautiful waves was as good
a way to spend the day as any other.
Finally, I
left the fun for Point Judith, where I would camp for the night. A large series
of breakwaters create the vast Harbor of Refuge here. North of this lay Point
Judith Pond — another salt pond guarded by a breachway.
Docked fishing
vessels at the state pier bristled with steel rigging, radio antennae, and exhaust
stacks. Some were up to three stories tall. If the sleek yachts in Newport were
Maseratis, these were tow trucks — pulling up nets of flopping protein with the
drum winches on their transoms. Point Judith’s commercial fleet brought in more
than $63 million dollars-worth of seafood in 2018, making it the 11th-ranked
fishing port by value in the United States, according to the National
Ocean Economics Program.
There was
a faint, but ever-present fish smell. One of the largest (and homiest) ships
featured a painted SpongeBob and Patrick, leaping into the air for a high five.
The fisherman’s
Memorial Campground was conveniently located just off the water. I pitched tent,
then got back in the kayak.
I
continued east out of the Harbor of Refuge and into open ocean. I passed the
Point Judith Lighthouse, turning north into Narragansett Bay. The rocky point
below the light acted like a giant magnifying glass, bending the waves together
until they stacked up and curled over into appealing breaks. There could be a
fun ride here, but that surfy siren song ended with a face full of granite.
I opted
instead to travel further off the coast and let attention wander. I would paddle
for about another hour and a half before I turned back.
Dappled,
bulbous, waves shifted in psychedelic mirror, symmetrical, random-seeming, a
patch of blue here, the clouds there, the winking sun. Each element remixed,
swirled together: first in large swatches, then diminishing to points as my eye
tracked to the horizon. Here were the patterns that bring out the best in human
nature, according to The Extended Mind. The lines were soft about the
edges and colors muted. Shapes repeated, but there was no rigid order.
These
patterns pass through our minds like a calming hand. They smooth the fuzz of
electric noise, the atomized pops and screeches of intrusive thought. Branches
sway in a breeze. A swell approaches shore. A maestro summons a final flourish
from the players.
The wave closes, the hand shuts, then…shushhhhhh.
Part IV:
Reckoning
I awoke
the next morning to a cherry-red sunrise and brisk south wind, signs that foretold
challenges on the water. The Weather Service validated my suspicion. Block
Island Sound would deliver a stiff south wind, intermittent rain, and two- to
four-foot waves kicked up from the approaching storm.
Such conditions
may not seem huge on paper, but consider that a four-foot wave will come to
about the height of a sitting paddler’s head. Meanwhile, every class of waves
was bound to have some standouts.
“Individual
wave heights may be more than twice the significant wave height,” the Weather
Service notes.
I was glad
to have a comparatively short trip ahead of me between my current camp and final
camp back at Burlingame. The open water section of the itinerary would consist
of 6.5 miles between the Harbor of Refuge and the Charlestown Breachway leading
into Ninigret Pond.
Flags snapped
at their poles as I started paddling. Dark spoils flew across the surface.
The south
wind had already enlivened the protected waters with sharp waves. I paddled
cautiously into the ocean to meet the heavyweights.
The coast
of Matunuck roiled with giants, tripping over the ledge, collapsing into whitewater
thunder trains. Even though I steered well clear, there were several rogues breaking
further out, threatening to roll me up in a salty barrel roll.
A dark
band of rain approached from the west.
I really
needed to pee.
My usual
technique of peeing from my boat was a nonstarter. Conditions demanded that both
hands remain on the paddle as opposed to being occupied, uh, elsewhere. The
alternative, landing amidst huge breakers, had its own hazards.
I eventually
spied a potential opening by a riprap wall. The boulders protected an RV park
from the sea fury and also absorbed enough wave energy to make for a (slightly)
softer landing at an adjacent stretch of beach. I took a wild ride, leaning into
the froth. The boat hit the sand. I lurched out of the cockpit and pulled the
boat high up the beach, away from the melee.
I quickly flipped
the boat next to a dune fence and relieved myself in the cover of the riprap. It
started raining. Rather than get back out in the sea wilderness, I decided to visit
the streets of Matunuck.
I walked
into a funky seaside hangout: low-slung shacks, beach taverns on pilings, and more
than one lot full of RVs and trailers. The rain started dumping. The only thing
that held my interest was a coffee stand in a surf shop parking lot. I half
ran, half waded to the window, where a small awning provided paltry, but
effective shelter.
I paid the
young woman at the counter nine bucks, money well spent, for a mocha coffee
with oat milk and a toasted bagel with peanut butter and jelly. The peanut butter
was silk smooth. The raspberry jelly, dark rich with tang, could only have been
procured from a Black Forest faerie cabal. Rain pounded on the roof, and wind
lashed the side of the stand. It couldn’t touch me. I ate slowly within my
blissful eddy. The rain tapered and then, with my last bite, ceased.
The surf
launch was no easy matter.
Waves
battered the hull before I could snap spray skirt into place. By the time I pulled
it over the cockpit, the boat turned sideways. I almost lost the paddle, then
flailed wildly. To steer the boat away from the rockpile. A new breaker reared
up, slammed me across face and chest. Inches from the rocks, I paddled
desperately to meet the next wave. The nose climbed, then splashed to safety down
on the other side.
The gear
beneath my decklines was an unruly mess. I realized that the waves had knocked
a water bottle overboard. Surely it was Davy Jones’s water bottle now. Yet, lo!
I turned around and saw the blue plastic rolling forlornly in the shallows.
I took a backwards
surf ride into the beach, impressed that I didn’t end up eating sand. I secured
the bottle and punched my way out for the next round.
The next
miles were a game of saltwater football. Surprise breakers detonated left and
right. The water would mount, and I would either speed up and slow down to
avoid getting caught.
The
nastiest surprise breaks formed hundreds of yards out and crashed all the way to
the beach in a line drive. Such assassins tended to gather in certain areas but
only trigger every fourth or fifth wave. At first, I steered around such
places; adding distance to the trip as I paddled long distances to get around.
Then they started becoming more and more common.
The long
break zones in front of me became so common that I stopped trying to avoid them.
I would simply sprint across the foamy water as quickly as possible before the
next monster barreled in. It might have seemed that the best option was just to
paddle into the deeper water further offshore to stay safe. Unfortunately, I
was hemmed in by reefs. The waves were even taller, offshore, more explosive.
It was exhausting trying to process the chaos, to respond to different bumps and jolts, to stay focused on keeping the boat upright. My frame of reference was slipping. This is when I started singing and reciting poems.
The
Charlestown Breachway was supposed to be my doorway to the calm water in
Ninigret Pond. Instead, I found a dragon’s mouth. The current was still ebbing
too hard to fight. The breachway entrance was a permanent froth-zone where
stalling waves boiled and raged.
Once
again, I needed to make a beach landing. I got lucky in that this time I
grabbed one of the smaller waves, pulling the boat up before the bigger
siblings could roll in to pound me.
The
Charlestown RV Park offered a potential portage to calmer water beyond the
breachway. The other option was to wait out the tides and shoot the breachway
when the ebb current had abated. I decided that I wanted to walk the jetty
above the breachway to scout conditions.
The view
was unencouraging. The ripping water extended out for a quarter mile or more.
The two most likely outcomes of an attempt would be a flipped kayak or a
shattered one. An angler stood on the far point, casting a rubber baitfish into
the churn. The biggest waves blasted us with spray.
“Look at
that!” the angler called.
I looked
out just in time to spy a harbor seal, moving easily through the pandemonium,
in search, no doubt, of disoriented fish to seize.
Despite
the grim conditions, the current was softening. I decided I would wait out the
tides, then launch back into the surf and try to paddle my way in. I waited for
about an hour. Then I made my move.
The
opposing current was strongest in the first 50 feet of breachway. Incoming
waves squeezed the current against the wall. I surfed some of these, gaining a
kayak-length of progress with each ride. Finally, I cut right in order grab eddies
off the riprap.
I slowly edged my way back into Ninigret Pond. The egrets were in the same place I’d left them yesterday, wading in the still water.
See Footage of The Sea vs. Charlestown Breachway
Dinner at
Burlingame was more ramen, and the last of the kale and sundried tomatoes. My
neighbors in the RV had a generator roaring, air conditioning, and some ’80s
arena rock to boot. The diesel scent eventually wafted to my picnic table, and
I realized that it really bothered me.
This was,
after all, the third day, and I was supposed to be now benefiting from the
three-day effect, that I’d read about in The Extended Mind. The noise pollution
from the nearby site was clearly taking away from the introspection and
exhilaration I’d felt earlier. I now felt the jaw clamped down and a tide of
negative thoughts rushing in.
I decided
to practice what Anne Murphy Paul describes as environmental
self-regulation. In other words, I decided to take a hike. It was near twilight,
and the bugs had redoubled their assaults. An ablution of pure DEET put a stop
to that. I put a headlamp in my pocket and walked down the road.
I soon took
a nearby trail into the woods, which greeted me with a chorus of crickets, the boom
of an owl in the canopy. It felt more relaxing than it had any right to be. It
was too easy. Looping ruminations melted off, especially after I stopped
beneath some sprawling oaks to contemplate their branches against the darkening
sky.
 |
| The good life in a pot |
Part V:
Landfall
I started
the last day of my doorstep adventure by rolling my kayak to Blue Shutters
Beach. The new route was only slightly longer than launching at Ninigret Pond. It
would save me miles of paddling on the way back to Mystic.
The
forecast called for the same wave heights as the day before, uh-oh! but
lighter winds good! The first look from the beach showed me a far
mellower coast. The air was clear enough that I could see the offshore windmill
towers near Block Island. Fishers Island looked so close that I initially
thought that it was part of the Rhode Island shore.
A group of
skim boarders stood atop the steep beach face, threw boards down the swash,
jumped on, and whirled around to catch rides from the next waves.
My kayak launch
was less graceful. The sharp waves broke close to shore, leaving little time to
prepare skirt or paddle. A longshore current spun my bow to the left — just in
time for me to get a breaker to the face. I almost went backwards, then fell
through to the other side, climbing over the next wave an instant before it
dumped.
It was Easy
Street after I crossed the surf zone. I let
the waves roll under me and aimed well offshore to Watch Hill lighthouse.
As I
passed Misquamicut, however, the sight of a gray fin sticking out of the water
made me jolt.
I
discerned a large, dim form below the surface, scarcely moving, yet pointed at
my boat. It than disappeared only to reappear a moment later. Unlike porpoises I’ve
seen, this did not blow air at the surface.
I later
concluded that the fin almost certainly belonged to an ocean sunfish,
a species frequently mistaken for sharks because it has smooth gray skin and a habit
of swirling its dorsal fin at the surface. Ocean sunfish are giants; they can get
up to 1,000 pounds. Fortunately, these giants choose jellyfish over human
flesh.
By 11, I
was back at Napatree point, on the threshold of Long Island Sound. The ebb current
was going strong, stacking the oncoming waves into tall overhead curls. I would
have to fight the tide through Fishers Island Sound and all the way up the
Mystic River: miles of effort under the hot sun. Before that, I thought I was
due for one last tango with the sea.
I steered
the boat back over the shallows, waiting to ride.
The wave
tripped over the shoal and fell apart into an anarchy of froth. The kayak nose
plunged into the trough. The boat turned sideways, then spun around. I rode the
beast until it tamed.
The second
oncoming break caught me less prepared. In the ensuing rush of water and
adrenaline, I connected to the paddle; to the boat; to the water; and through each
of these, to years of paddling experience.
I was
connected to every mile that I had rolled a kayak against traffic. I could
trace a story from doorstep to Napatree Point and I could remember the effort I’d
felt along the way.
I feel
connected the waves now, as I write these words and reflect upon how much
poorer my life would be without rare moments of wild joy.
I surfed
backwards head above the froth. I wobbled, but somehow, on this ride, I landed
upright.
I want to
own such moments, to be able to summon them at will, but connection is shared
not owned. It is the opposite of consumption, where we take something so we can
use it solely for ourselves.
Burning
gasoline is a prime example of consumption. It is a handmaiden to disintegration
of our environment. Consequently, the burning fuel divides our spirit from the
natural world that should nourish it. Gasoline is connected only to a system
that tears poison from fractured ground. Drivers in steel cocoons feel
disconnected from the consequences billowing out of their tailpipes, but they cannot
change the fact that the carbon dioxide behind them rips our children from
their future.
Because of
consumption, we now face a future filled with rising waves, with fire and storm.
A menace approaches the Gulf Coast as I’m writing. The Category 4 hurricane threatens
to take lives and shatter others. I am connected to what happens there by
water, by asphalt and atmosphere. The fuel we burn is connected to their fate
as it is to ours. Our journey winds around the axis of climate change. It is
the wheel that binds and crushes us.
At what
point do we collectively fling aside the gas pump with horror and disgust?
At what
point do we decide that cheap vacations aren’t worth the destruction that
trails tailpipes and airplane wings?
How can we
prepare for the long, dark ride ahead if we won’t even try to turn the boat in
the right direction, acknowledge our peril, or work with others to patch the holes?
As the
world falls apart, we must find better ways to join.
