Cedar River Homecoming
I’m sitting in a canoe in the middle of Cedar River Flow, hoping it won’t capsize. Not just because it’s loaded to the gunwales with backpacks and other camping gear, but because my 92-year-old father is in the stern, and he’s six-foot-four and not quite as steady as he used to be.
We put in at Wakely Dam a few minutes ago and are heading upstream—our destination, a primitive campsite on the western shore, where my brother Joel and his son Gareth plan to meet us. They are hiking in with the rest of our stuff on the Northville–Lake Placid Trail.
It’s a perfect day for paddling—sun, high clouds, a light breeze, but no chop. It’ll be even more perfect if we can get through the weekend without an accidental dunking. Not that I’m afraid of anyone drowning, but because it would prove my 89-year-old mother right that Dad’s too old for this sort of adventure. And if Mom wins that argument, what kind of leverage will he have left at home?
The canoe wobbles, and I brace myself. No worries: Dad’s just decided to take off his life jacket (too constricting) and his shirt (too hot). Soon we’re on our way again, gliding past a rocky spruce-covered
