Effort to paddle all of Lake George every month in 2021 went awry in February

By Bob Weinman, Special to The Chronicle
SECOND DISPATCH: Feb. 20-21, 2021

February was not warm. The darn lake froze…as did my goal to “paddle” it every month!

In his book Lake George Reflections, Frank Leonbruno includes a record of freeze-over and ice-out days. That, combined with records from the Lake George Association, indicates a 10 percent chance the lake won’t freeze.

That gave me hope. Irrational hope. But isn’t that the point of hope? It inspires you to be resilient, creative and a little wacky … like my friend Clint.

Clint is associate professor of Outdoor Education at SUNY Adirondack. He also owns a small farm where he keeps bees, tends trees and, when he’s free, backcountry skis.

Clint understands hope. A reflection on the SUNY Adirondack website from one of his students, named Sean, represents how Clint inspires his students:

“The memories that stand out most are of the hardships — and the lessons they taught. In scrambling up a hillside overgrown with brambles, we learned perseverance; in dealing with hypothermia on a cold morning skiing through the High Peaks, teamwork; in battling a headwind and driving rain for a whole day’s paddle on Long Lake, resilience.

“These experiences, while not strictly ‘fun’ or ‘pleasant’ at the time, represent nothing less than some of the most incredible and transformational moments in my life.”

Witnessing how Clint and his students cooperate with so many outdoor programs in our region, I realize how lucky we are to have such a unique and transformative program and mentor as the Outdoor Education program at SUNY Adirondack and Clint.

So, my goal to “paddle” the lake was “on ice.” I sent a text to Clint for inspiration. It said: “The lake. Frozen. I think I’ll ski it?”

Within a minute, he responded and after our five-minute call, I had a plan and gear list: skis, boots, sled, emergency PFD, emergency PBJ, chocolate and a block of cheese.

The currents near Mossy Point kept the ice too thin, so by 8:30 a.m. Saturday, Feb. 20 [2021], I skied off Tiroga Beach and into, I mean ON to the lake headed south. Three inches of new snow made the skiing pleasant, and I soon found myself approaching Flat Rock.

The lake is nearly 200 feet deep past this spot and there were no other tracks except the light prints of a bobcat, which gave me no confidence the ice could support me.

I slid my skis quietly, softly, nervously. The ice creaked and my imagination swirled with premonitions of dog paddling in ice cubes. An hour or so later, I entered the Waltonians and could see in the distance a carnival of tent shelters, four-wheelers, snowmobiles and frozen bodies sitting on five-gallon buckets hunched desperately over tip-ups. Ice fishermen understand irrational hope.

I stopped on a tiny island called Sun-kissed. It is nothing but a sloped, ice-scraped rock, a few trees and a striking view of the lake. Ditching my sled full of gear, I skied up, turned and managed a lively “schuss and geländesprung” down the short slope.

Near Hague, with many others on the ice, I began feeling confident. I recalled my childhood when my family and I skated Dunham’s Bay. My tongue would freeze to my jacket zipper.

Another time, my Uncle Mark and Auntie Sue took my brother and me snowmobiling to Long Island and Log Bay. We jumped pressure ridges. I thought of engineer and conservationist John Apperson skate-sailing by his camp near Turtle Island more than 100 years ago.

“I would love to do this again under a full moon,” I thought. Four hundred yards ahead, the high noon sun reflected off the ice. “Beautiful. That glimmer gives the illusion of open water.”

I skied past the last ice shelter and into the widest section of the lake. “Wow, that looks just like water.”

Another 100 yards. My lizard brain in denial. “What an illusion.”

Another 20 yards. “Hmmm, no ice fishermen out here?”

A gulp. A flush of blood and adrenaline. A sharp turn toward shore followed by a brisk but light trot to safety.

I managed on, between the open water and the dock bubblers close to shore. The day passed with wind, snow, sun and the steady step-and-slide pace of my skis over the tracks of four-wheelers, snowmobiles and lone coyotes. I passed lost, lonely buoys frozen in the ice, tilting their bald heads toward the sun in humble prayer for the bobbing waves of summer.

I spent a cold but comfy evening camping on Floating Battery Island, then rose early to ski past the Narrows and into the solitude of Paradise Bay.

A long-time ice fisherman named Perry with a warming shanty on Burnt Island warned me the ice was thin near Fourteen-Mile Island, so I skirted it, then tucked close to shore to Log Bay, where a sagging volleyball net, frozen in the ice, cast a shadow smile on the snow.

Encouraged by the sun, I skied up the short trail to Shelving Rock Falls. It had become a blue, translucent ice castle, and within its thin walls the waterfall still rustled. It was here that I broke into my emergency PBJ followed by a swish of coffee.

I skied back down to the lake and past Calves Pen, where daring divers had been replaced with ice slides and icicles.

A white bearded fella named Bill was there. As I approached, he ran to his tip-up and drew a large, 24-inch trout from the icy hole. We chatted a bit, while he humbly boasted, followed by a quick call to his wife, “Guess what, honey? We’re on the board. Twenty-four inches. Big, too! Looks like football! I’m comin’ home early.”

I headed on to Dunham’s Bay. I got home late.

•

Bob Weinman – Bob noun. A guy who floats

Copyright © 2022 Lone Oak Publishing Co., Inc. All Rights Reserved