Paddled the length of Lake George, monthly for a year

By Bob Weinman, Special to The Chronicle

I blame my auntie for the idea. She is just a hint over 70 years old, and every month in 2020 she shared a photo of her sitting in her kayak in Lake George. Wind, rain, sun or snow, there she was sitting in her little kayak.

Pretty cool, I thought, so I copied her. I added one extra twist. After paddling the length of Lake George in January 2021, I decided that I wanted to paddle the length of the lake every month in 2021.

I paddled the length of the lake for the first time in 2010 in memory of two paddlers, Peter Snyder and Stephen Canady, who had died in separate accidents on the lake just a few weeks apart.

The community around Lake George seemed so divided in the debate about who was at fault and if paddlecraft and powerboats could coexist on the lake.

I paddled the lake in the middle of that summer to promote the idea that even in peak tourist season we could coexist. We just needed to explore how we can all float together with each other and with the unique natural environment the Lake supports.

A friend helped me come up with the idea of LOVE the lake. L-Leave it wild, O-Observe safe boatin’, V-Value everyone’s way to enjoy the lake, E-Ensure the lake stays healthy for the future.

Every year various friends and family have joined me for all or part of the paddle, and every year we have tried a different month or a different type of paddlecraft.

Each time I travel the lake at the slow pace of a paddle, I learn something new, find a new special spot, or meet a unique person or animal. My relationship with the Lake just gets deeper every time. Pun intended.

2021 marked the 12th year of this personal tradition, and it started with paddling the lake in January for the first time. Good paddling, bad swimming. It was during this rather lonely paddle I thought of my auntie’s challenge, and I decided to mark the 12th year by paddling all 12 months.

I finished my 12-month journey on December 20th, just before winter solstice, paddling the Lake north to south.

I want to share the journey with you in short excerpts over the next 12 months of 2022. Hopefully my reflections will stir up your own reflections and stories of why you LOVE the lake and the community, both wild and human, that lives around it.

Paddle 1: Jan. 17-18, 2021

Alone in the dark on Uncas Island, I stood in my underwear balancing with one foot in the snow.

“I should do this fast,” I thought to myself as I quickly changed from my wet paddling clothes into dry clothes for camping.

It was January 17, 2021, and I was paddling the length of the Lake from Lake George Village to start of La Chute in Ticonderoga.

Getting a late start at 3 p.m., I arrived at Uncas Island in the dark. The temperature had dropped below 30 degrees Fahrenheit.

After changing my clothes, I wanted to set up my tent, but the hatch to my kayak was frozen shut. I pounded it with my cold hands, I tried prying it with a stick, finally I sat on it. Either it was the heat from my bum or the weight from my body, but the hatch finally came free. Thirty minutes later, with tent up, and chocolate bar and cheese in my belly, I slid into my sleeping bag and covered my head.

A Barred Owl in the distance sang to me, “Who cooks for you?”

“No one!” I shouted from within my bag, “but you can stop by tomorrow morning and fry me an omelet!” No answer from the owl, but minutes later a family of coyotes on Tongue Mountain expressed their interest in an early breakfast.

In the morning I was greeted by a pair of loons who sang to me. My improvised response, sounding something akin to a laryngitic loon was not returned.

While the world reeled with the COVID pandemic, I, was self-isolating with owls, coyotes and loons. I performed my morning routine of coffee, Clif Bars and a quick trip to the outhouse; then tucked my camp gear into the kayak and slipped into the water. Black Mountain stood before me, snow-capped and sun-kissed while a strong wind at my back kindly nudged me forward.

“This,” I imagined, “is how Lake George was hundreds of years ago”. I drifted by many islands, some large with rock outcroppings rising sharply from their shores; others so small and vulnerable with a single tree or shrub desperately holding together the loosely stacked stones of their miniature continent.

All the docks had been pulled, allowing access only for small paddlecraft and the ‘wildlife’ they transported. Ice encrusted the rock shores and hung like chandelier strands off the branches of juniper and cedar shrubs.

I drifted by Hatchet Island and let out a howl which echoed off the cliff bands above Five Mile Point.

At Slim Point, a narrow peninsula guarding Silver Bay from the south winds, I landed and climbed out of my kayak to stretch my legs before the final push pass the weather exposed stretch between Scotch Bonnet Island and the cozy huddle of the Waltonian Islands.

The day is short in January and as I began my final sprint across the deep waters under the shadowed slopes of Anthony’s Nose, I could feel the sunlight escaping below the horizon, and with it, left that small sun-dependent cheer that sustains me.

Arriving near the bridge crossing La Chute at twilight I pulled my kayak onto the dock of a new friend who allowed me to store my car in his driveway. A neighbor from across the narrow outlet asked how the paddling was, and we both agreed that in January the swimming is poor, but the paddling is possible. I pulled my kayak across the snow-covered lawn and loaded it onto my car.

With the car heater on, my shivering finally subsided. As I drove away, I contemplated my plan to paddle the lake every month this year. “Well,” I thought, “I’m sure February will be warmer.”

Bob describes himself as “Bob — noun. A guy who floats.”

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