A hastily thrown-together, nighttime kayak trip on the freezing-cold April water might seem like a recipe for disaster, but it turned out to be a great plan for an impromptu reunion.
I got together with some old coworkers from The Recorder for a moonlight excursion on April 9. Former features editor Adam Orth was in town to canoe in the River Rat Race with photographer Paul Franz — an annual tradition. While we caught up over a beer later that night, he floated the idea of a trip to Barton Cove the next day, and I jumped at the chance.
By the time Sunday evening rolled around, we’d amassed a good little flotilla. Sam Wood — also a former Recorder features and news editor — got on-board, as well as freelance photographer and writer Trish Crapo, with whom I’d spent many a Saturdays covering events when I was a reporter. Throw in some friends and significant others, and our fleet was eight strong by the time we set sail.
We hit the water at the last pink light of the fading sunset. The moon had risen about an hour before, giving us plenty of light to navigate the cove. Once we were out a ways, Paul reminded us all to look back at our launch site, so we’d know how to get back. The shore, separated from the driveway to the Barton Cove Campground by a strip of woods, was dark, but a couple of streetlights along the road would serve as our stars by which to navigate.
The stars themselves never really came out. The bright moon, combined with a slightly overcast sky, drowned out all but the brightest points of light above.
As we looked east, toward the moon and the kayak launch, a nearly silent prop plane passed between us and the orb. The pilot circled back a couple of times, and our perspective put the plane right in front of the moon on one of its passes.
“That’s a perfect picture,” Franz exclaimed.
I looked back. He was holding his paddle instead of his Nikon.
“If only I had my camera up,” he lamented.
Despite the 70-degree day, there were still signs of winter on the cove.
“Is that ice?” Orth asked, pointing to a stretch of white upriver.
We paddled to a smaller cove and, sure enough, found that the area hadn’t completely iced out. Everyone pulled up to the sheet of ice, where we took a break and talked for a while. A little farther up, another cove was also partially covered in ice. Here, Orth tried his kayak out as an icebreaker, approaching at ramming speed, then sliding up onto the ice and bouncing up and down to break through.
Afterward, some of our party started to head farther upstream, but Franz called them back before they reached the river proper. While Barton Cove itself was glassy and calm, the Connecticut River was raging, as seen by the cascade over the dam by the bridge.
Once we were all back together, we headed toward a gap between a small island and a larger one. But with the dam down, the water was low, and we decided not to chance getting stuck on the muddy bottom. Instead, we stopped to gaze at the sky again.
After soaking up the moonlight for a spell, we came to the unspoken agreement that it was time to get back to port.
Heading back to shore, all perspective was lost. My frame of reference became the moon, the silhouette of the far-off trees and the streetlights that never seemed to get any closer. It felt like I was merely treading water and going nowhere. That was quite alright with me, since getting back to shore would mean the trip was at an end.
Back at our vehicles, we all thanked Orth for talking us into the expedition. The way everyone was dragging their feet, it was clear that nobody wanted the night to be over.
Since Orth has been out living all over the United States — wherever his wife’s work takes them — we don’t get a chance to see him too often. Though he was in town for the moment, he was soon to set off for California, towing his new camper trailer across the country.
Then, Wood spoke up, suggesting that we all head to a local bar for a nightcap. It was already 9 p.m., and although I had to work at 6 the next morning, I couldn’t say no, so we all headed to Turners Falls to hang out just a bit longer. When we parted ways, we all agreed that we’ve got to get out on the cove again. And soon!
David Rainville is a former reporter and editor for The Recorder, who now works as a machinist. He enjoys hiking, kayaking, biking, and finding new ways to explore the outdoors. You can reach him at daverain82@gmail.com.