Peter Colt Police Officer  |  Veteran  |  Author

You can’t blame the Rangers for being dubious. Photo by Rachel Parent

The park ranger looked at me, she was trying to find a nice way of asking if we knew what we were doing. It was her first time dealing with the Blackstone Valley Aquatic Recreation Society, a collection made up almost entirely of men old enough to know better than to do the stupid stuff we do. In her defense we probably looked nuts. We standing on a bridge over the Blackstone river, in Worcester, Ma. We were in the type of place where the public parking lots have signs telling you not to leave your car overnight because it will get broken into. From where we were there was no easy access to the river or maybe there was depending upon your perspective.

Our method was simple, run a rope through two of the scuppers (drain holes that run through hull of the kayak) and lower it down to the guys below. Then just pull the rope up. Two guys per kayak, two guys below.  Next came the dry bags filled with everything needed to survive for multiple days on a river that is, in parts, a gem of New England. We weren’t on one of those parts.

Getting the people down meant climbing over the bridge railing, climbing or jumping down to part of the abutment below. From there we slid, lowered, fast roped, take your pick, down to the remains of a footing for an older bridge that the new one had been built on. The whole, kayak, gear, people, process was actually easy, if you think about. Easier if you aren’t fifty-one and have a desk job like me but still easy enough.

The rangers were satisfied that we were capable, even if our judgement was questionable. We had explained to them that we had been doing this for thirty years on one part of the river or another. They seemed mollified. They had explained the hazards and the rules, then walked of to watch from a distance. Possibly debating the state of our collective mental health.  The rangers either for entertainment sake or out of a sense of public service always seemed to have a person watching us.

When the last of the gear was stowed we pushed off into the river for the 30th anniversary paddle. I have known many marriages and countless business that haven’t last that long. Somehow, in good weather or bad, with guys deployed or sick or just unavailable for thirty years. Sometimes there’s only been two BVARS on the water, sometimes we’ve had a virtual flotilla of canoes and kayaks.  There’s something comforting in that type of consistency.

I pulled off the river last night after two grueling days. The river was low and that meant dragging my heavy kayak down a lot more of it than I wanted to. In the process I got a little beat up and decided that five portages yesterday was a lot more than I had left in me. But three other guys were going on. Others are going to join in along the way. The plan, with a little motor portage, is for the rest to end up in the Seekonk river and paddle up into Providence on Monday.  It pretty ambitious but thirty years warrants something ambitious.