Cycling Trips
- U.S.
East Coast
- Maine to
PA
- The Edge of
N.J.
- Fahrradtour
Canada
- Skiing
Whistler Mtn.
- Canoeing
Wilderness
Lakes
Europe +
- Exploring
Heidelberg
- Bad Luck
In Germany
- Trolley
Adventure in
Milan
- A Week In
Israel
New Zealand
- Volcanic
Vistas
U.S.
North
- Remote
Alaskan
Roads
- Navigating
the 1,000
Islands
U.S. West
- Miserable
Hawaii
- California
Redwoods
- Omaha
Surprises
- Summer at
Tahoe
Even More
-
Recent
Travels
- My
Quest For All
50
States
- About
Bob
The St. Lawrence can be an angry river, pulling ships and helicopters to their dooms. But its islands hold a thousand mysteries.
ALEXANDRIA
BAY, N.Y.--Like a swarm of angry hornets the speedboats
bore down on us, the drone of their powerful motors
amplifying until it shook the air.
Our fishing lines forgotten, we watched uneasily as the vessels--several dozen it appeared--rounded an island and came straight at our boat. Overhead, keeping pace with the lead craft, a news helicopter sliced through the air, not 20 feet above the choppy water.
We had been warned of the speedboat race, but hadn't figured we'd encounter it. The St. Lawrence River was wide here in the heart of the Thousand Islands region; we'd be fine, we thought. Now, however, we seemed to be right in the middle of the course.
The speedboats came nearer, and as they did, to our
relief, they veered left, cutting around a marker we had not
seen. The helicopter, however, ripped through the air
directly above our heads before racing around another island
and out of sight. Within a few minutes, the boats had
followed, the buzz of their motors fading just as their
wakes began to toss us to and fro.
We had barely settled down, however, when our ship-to-shore radio crackled to life with some unexpected news. The helicopter had crashed. The eager pilot had come too close to the water and the craft had spun out of control, sinking into the depths.
Our captain shook his head. You shouldn't take chances with the St. Lawrence, he said. It was more dangerous than it looked.
Had I not heard the radio report myself, I might have dismissed these words of wisdom. How could the Thousand Islands region, an area of such breathtaking beauty, be unsafe? It was not an easy notion to digest.
My knowledge of the Thousand Islands, prior to this trip, had been limited to what I'd seen in brief glimpses from the towering Thousand Islands International Bridge on my way to one Canadian fishing trip or another. Every time I gazed down into the shimmering St. Lawrence at the speed boats racing between scores of tiny islands--some barely bigger than the cottages built on them--I dreamed of one day joining those boaters and weaving a course of my own through that watery fantasyland.
So when my dad, Jim Neubauer, suggested taking a weekend excursion to the Thousand Islands recently, I realized that day had come at last.
The Thousand Islands region comprises a 40-mile stretch of the St. Lawrence River, beginning near its source in Lake Ontario. Running up to seven miles wide in spots, the river holds far more than 1,000 islands--some only small points of rock, some many miles long.
We
set out from the Philadelphia suburbs on a Friday morning
and, after a six-and-a-half-hour journey, we passed under a
gateway welcoming us to Alexandria Bay, known locally as
"the heart of the Thousand Islands." In search of fishing
licenses, we took a drive around the bustling town, passing
an abundance of small snack and souvenir shops, as well as
numerous restaurants and night clubs.
Just a few blocks from the bait shops and bars, however, the town reverted abruptly to a residential area, with weathered Victorian homes, churches and grocery stores.
We discovered the aptly named Scenic View Park on a bluff overlooking the river and relaxed on a picnic bench there while we enjoyed our picnic dinner. Sea gulls floated on the gentle breezes while speedboats raced back and forth across the water, launching into the air off of each others' wakes.
From our rocky perch we had an exhilarating view of the renowned Boldt Castle on nearby Heart Island, its stone towers jutting above the treetops. One of the most picturesque sights on the river, Boldt Castle had a touching history. In 1900, George C. Boldt, a proprietor of the famous Waldorf Astoria, started work on a full-size replica of a 120-room Rhineland castle. It was to be a gift for his wife, Louise.
Four
years later, with more than $2.5 million invested and work
well under way, tragedy struck. Boldt's wife died. Work on
the castle was halted, and Boldt never returned. For 73
years the castle sat untended and overgrown until 1977 when
the Bridge Authority acquired the property, subsequently
restoring and improving it.
Today visitors routinely stroll the island's brick-paved walkways and meander the castle's refurbished corridors. Inside, historical exhibits, including one on the lives of George and Louise Boldt, examine the history of the Thousand Islands region.
Even for those who don't own boats, getting to the island--in fact, getting out on the river in general--can be accomplished in a number of ways. Crafts of all kinds, including jet skis, can be rented from places like O'Brien's and Aqua-Mania in Alexandria Bay. In addition, charter boats from several companies ply the waters, offering both personal and public tours of up to three hours. Imitation Mississippi paddlewheelers from Uncle Sam Boat Tours are a common sight, weaving a course amongst the islands, their faux paddlewheels turning while loudspeakers detail the history of various sites.
As for us, we had chosen to hire one of the many local fishing guides for our own personal speedboat tour of the river, hoping to land some of the monster muskellunge for which the St. Lawrence was so famous. To meet our guide, we rose early the next day and waited on the docks of the River's Edge Resort Hotel, a posh-looking place with nearly as many boats tied up on its docks as there were cars in its lots. The morning was overcast and the river was quiet. Only the occasional wake of a passing boat rippling against the dock broke the stillness.
|
Our boat, the Cobia II, rounded the bend right on schedule, and Captain T.J. Fenzel, a cheery, bespectacled man, helped us aboard. He set a course for the Thousand Islands Bridge, and we cut through the water along the southern edge of Wellesley Island, which stretches for about 10 miles. |
 My dad, Jim Neubauer, fishing the waters of the St. Lawrence River. |
Dozens of smaller islands crossed our path, some barren and rocky, some densely wooded. One island, occupied by a large, Victorian house, was connected to a smaller, neighboring island by a white, arched bridge. Another isle was so small it held just one house and one tree.
Some of the larger islands held farms, parks, golf courses, even whole towns. Wellesley Island had two state parks and several golf courses, not to mention the oft-visited showpiece community of Thousand Island Park, ornamented with dozens of colorful Victorian homes.
Our guide proved a good source for more than just fishing spots. He enlightened us with the history of the islands we passed, telling us of fires that had claimed homes on some islands, and of people that lived on other islands year-round. He pointed out one small island that was so precious to the couple that owned it that, when they divorced, they divided it in half and continued to spend their summers there, politely ignoring one another.
We
drifted over several popular fish hangouts, pulling up
scores of small bass, perch and northern pike. Though we got
none of the anticipated monsters, we kept enough for a meal.
Speed boats and barges passed us as we floated silently
along with the current. Several tour boats splashed past,
history lessons booming from their loudspeakers.
Captain Fenzel pointed out one island from which he said all of the stone for Boldt Castle was cut. It was taken, he said, from the center of the island, and as a result, the island is now barren in the middle with trees growing only around its edge.
Other islands, he added, once served as stops on the Underground Railroad--final stops, it would seem, since the safety of Canada was within spitting distance. Indeed, the densely wooded islands, with their countless coves and inlets, have a long history of sheltering pirates, fugitives and prohibition-era smugglers. Sixties activist Abbey Hoffman, fleeing U.S. drug charges, reportedly laid low on Wellesley Island for a while.
My mind wandered as we threaded our way through this archipelago, captivated by the many secrets these islands held, fascinated by their haphazard splendor.
It was then that we first caught the sound of the approaching speedboat race and watched its participants roar past us. The news from Fenzel's ship-to-shore radio sobered us, and we spent a tense few minutes wondering about the fates of the copter's occupants. Finally the word came in: all three passengers had escaped alive. The copter had gone under.
Years ago, Fenzel told us, a freighter had run aground not far from where we floated. It had sunk right to the bottom, hundreds of feet below. Later, he added, divers had tried to get to it, and they were sucked below by the tremendous current. They never resurfaced. The river, he repeated, was not as harmless as it appeared.
As our day on the river drew to a close, we headed back to Alexandria Bay, threading our way between islands and buoys and passing under the majestic, five-span Thousand Islands International Bridge. We slowed down--at the Coast Guard's insistence--as we passed the site of the copter crash. Only its blades showed above the water.
Other islands came into view. On the rocky shores of one stood the tall, white Rock Island lighthouse. A wooden shack perched on another, its owners watching us from their front porch, looking very relaxed, and perhaps a tad smug, as they surveyed the view fortune had given them.
Feeling almost as fortunate for our brief glimpse of the amazing panorama, we swung past Boldt Castle one last time, rounded the bend and headed for shore.