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Vermont
Public Television
Guideboat Memories
by Willem Lange
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ETNA, NH -- It was a May afternoon in 1958,
just 41 years ago -- one of those days that all of us experience now and then: a day when,
as if topping a ridge, a newly expanded world spreads out before us, full of things
undreamed of. I've never forgotten the scene. |
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The day had started prosaically enough. I'd been fired from a carpenter's
job for pretending competence I didn't yet possess, and had immediately
been rehired as a laborer at a mysterious place called "up t'the lakes."
Bill Broe, a grizzled old guide with a sort of Ronald Coleman
mustache and an impeccable green Jeep was to be my new boss. "Bring your toothbrush," he said, "and extra socks and
underwear, and a warm frock, and a rain jacket. We ain't comin' back out till next week, but you won't need
no food. There's lots of it
in camp." |
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We went
to his shop in the village and loaded his homemade trailer with bags of
concrete mix and asphalt shingles. A few miles out of the village, we let ourselves
through a locked gate and drove several miles on a private dirt road that followed a
crystalline
infant river.
Finally we topped a rise and started down the other side, and my world began to
expand. A slender arrow of a lake stretched
ahead of us between cliffs of solid Adirondack granite.
Below us, at its foot, stood a big clapboarded boathouse with an expansive dock. We pulled up and got out.
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"Go get
us the big gray boat on the bottom tier," the old man started -- "No,
wait. You've
never been here before. Let me show
you." He opened the door, and there
before us stood one of the wonders of the modern world: three tiers of priceless old
wooden Adirondack guide-boats. I might as well have
opened King Tut's tomb, but for the aromas of varnish and sun-warm spruce boards inside. The boats were arranged by owners; many families
had three, one above the other in their family color. |
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"You ever row one of these?" He could tell I
hadn't. "Well, let's load this one up,
and you can learn right now. But by god, boy,
watch your knuckles! The oar handles cross in
the middle, and I don't want you crippled up before we even get there."
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I could hardly believe how that boat, loaded with Bill
and me, several squares of shingles, our packs, and some fresh groceries, slid through the
water. Bill sat in the back, smoking,
indicating occasionally with one index finger or the other which way to bear. The long oars flexed as I pulled, sucked, and
snapped straight at the end of each stroke. In
about half an hour, Bill was nervously conning me through the rocks of the inlet, and we
unloaded at the start of the one-mile portage into the next lake, where there were more
boats. |
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For the
next year, those boats were an essential part of my new world. We used them as
transportation, like pickup trucks; but they were far more than that. They were as much a part of that pristine private
wilderness as the deer that looked up to watch us pass and the otters playing along the
riverbanks. I had favorites, and constantly tried to beat my old best
time for rowing the length of the lake. And then, suddenly, it ended. I got married, went back to school, moved away,
and started raising a family. But I never got
over wanting a guide-boat of my own. Trouble
was, I just couldn't afford it. |
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Then, just a year ago, I was browsing a small watercraft show at Lake
Fairlee in Vermont, and there it was: a gleaming, varnished boat hanging
in a pair of slings. I just
stood there, smitten, gazing like a kid at Joe DiMaggio and his wife, all at once. The builder saw me staring and asked, "You
ever seen one of these before?" I
nodded. "Take it for a spin."
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I don't sit down on a four-inch high seat quite as sprightly as I used
to, but once settled in, I remembered it instantly: the bending cherry
oars, the leap forward with the first stroke, the water going by
improbably fast. About halfway through the spin, I thought,
"I've been waiting forty years to get one of these.
I haven't got the time to make one myself. This
guy makes them, right here in Vermont. I
don't have any money to speak of, and probably never will.
But in just a few years I'll be too old and sick and stupid to handle one of these
things. The time has come." A couple of months later I scraped together the
deposit. |
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A week ago Friday the boat-builder rumbled up my driveway with my boat. It's painted, rather
than varnished, the way the originals were in the 1800s.
It's got a carrying yoke for portaging, and a lovely, curved folding seatback for
fishing. Just looking at it is a sensual
experience. If you've never seen one,
describing it won't help; its design dates from the days of the battleship Maine, and it's
got the same old-fashioned tumblehome stem and stern. |
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Three days passed
before I dared to experiment with moving it. During
that time I made a ramp for skidding it to the truck, a padded roof rack to carry it, and
a dock for launching it. Finally I took it
out for its first voyage. Still nervous, I
left the dog at home and my wallet in the truck.
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It's like fishing in an armchair. Lighter than a small canoe, it darts from place
to place, and at rest rocks gently from side to side with the rhythm of my casting. The seat of my pants is just about at water level,
so the trout come splashing to the net right beside me.
It's a wedding of two art forms consummated in the most beautiful of settings. And I can tell, this boat has been a constant
lesson to me. If you have a really special dream, don’t wait too long. ‘Cause,
let me tell you, you’re a long time gone. |
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Meet
Willem Lange
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