Lock 33 is a welcome sight after the 2.5 hour haul from Spencerport!
For eastbounders, the canal experience has changed. The canal no longer feels like a man-made waterway that was carved through the landscape. It now flows along as if it was pretending to be a meandering river. The lock is also the last line of defense between the Genesee River and the protected part of the canal. There always seems to be quite a bit of floating debris near the lock entrance.
Is the Loch Ness Monster about to emerge from that swell?!? (Or maybe “Champ”, The Lake Champlain Monster?) We’re just below Lock 33. The turbulence is caused by the underwater discharge outlet that empties the lock. The exposed pipe in the abutment above is the drain for the spillway that allows the canal’s pool level to be controlled.
I wouldn’t have thought about fishing in that turbulence, but the fisherman in the photo said he was having a good day.
All kidding aside, the canal is a thriving, robust fishery. During our cruise we saw hundreds of people on the banks and in boats, and everyone we talked to reported limit catches. Bass, pickerel, walleye, and panfish are plentiful.
We know that some of the best bass fishing in the state is at the north end of Cayuga Lake, which, along with just being on the boat, is one of our destinations. And where is our fishing gear? In the garage at the house, of course — exactly where we left it instead of packing it in the car.
Locks 33 and 32 are nearly identical. We had to wait a few minutes for the upbounders to exit, which gave us just enough time to stop at the wall for a quick doggie walk.
The lock operator asked how far we planned to go today. We said we were planning to overnight at Fairport. A few minutes later she told us she called ahead and Fairport was full. We said we’d keep an eye out for an alternate stop along the way and contact the Fairport Bridge when we got within radio range.
These double guard gates just west of Pittsford have arrows on them. According to a lock operator (who was kidding!), they were put there because some boaters try to go over the gates instead of under. Truth is, they sometimes leave one down and the other up. If you’re running at night and don’t see a reflective arrow, you would know to use the other channel. If you don’t see any arrows, it’s probably a good idea to stop and investigate with a search light.
Somewhere near Pittsford there was some maintenance being performed. I promise you, the only use of Photoshop was to create the magnified insert.
I don’t have any pictures of it, but the fixed bridge that limits the air draft between Albany and Buffalo on the Canal is west of Pittsford, just around the bend. It’s a train bridge, and the clearance is listed at 15.5 feet. We cleared it by just a few inches with our air draft of 14.3.
Boaters have told stories about filling the bilge or dinghy with water to lower their boats, but the best one I’ve heard was from a regular cannaler on a boat named Tranquility, who reported that the lock operators lowered the pool of this section of the canal by about 8 inches between locks 32 and 30 (there is no lock 31) so she could pass under that train bridge. It took only a few minutes to lower the pool a foot or so, and less than that to fill it. The boater was told he had about 45 seconds to pass under it.
Bushnell’s Basin is our fallback if Fairport is full. It’s within walking distance of several stores and restaurants, and the facilities are beautiful.
The photo was taken from the salon helm. It rained on & off that day — sometimes in buckets — and I alternated between the flybridge and salon.
As we approached the lift bridge from the west we saw an opening on the north wall before the bridge. It was better than the prospect of a 45-minute jaunt back to Bushnell’s, so it became our new fallback. We preferred to be east of the bridge on the south wall. The facilities are on that side and there’s a nice grassy knoll on which Fender T. Dog could take aim and let loose.
I remember the VHF call to the bridge operator:
Me: “Fairport lift bridge, this is No Losses eastbound …”
Lock Op: “No Losses, this is the Fairport Lift Bridge. Go ahead, Captain.”
Me: “Is there any space on the wall east of the bridge? I was told you were full for the night.”
Lock Op: “You’re in luck, Captain. Several boats left about fifteen minutes ago and there is plenty of space on the north side.”
Me: “Excellent! We’ll request passage under the bridge, someone to wash and wax the boat, catering for three hundred people, and a marching band to greet us.”
Lock Op (laughing): “Roger that, Captain. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime I’ll have that bridge up for you in just a couple of minutes.”
And so he did. The space we grabbed was closest to the bridge on the north wall. Mia didn’t really want to stay here because of the noise. The 100 year-old bridge is an engineering marvel, but it announces its every move with loud warning bells and the squeaks and groans of age. The sump on the north side was leaking, so the large, loud pump turns on every couple of minutes and spews a waterfall into the canal through its three-inch pipe. The steel deck amplifies the sound of every car and truck, and this is a very busy street. There are also hinged metal plates that protect the deck. They clang twice with each car or truck that crosses.
Mia pointed out a 20-foot cuddy that was taking up 40 feet of frontage on the south wall. She said it looked like the boat was only there to pick up passengers. The captain of that vessel had started his engine and was receiving guests. As he pulled away from the wall we turned and headed toward his vacated space.
7:30 p.m. A very long day. The lines were soon secured, and Mia connected power as I took Fender T. Dog for his overdue walk. He beelined for relief.
I won’t attempt to list all of the services and amenities that are available at Fairport Landing. Specialty shops are everywhere. People are friendly. A band played at the gazebo on the north side.
Boaters with dogs are welcome at the wonderful canalside eatery on the north towpath, east of the bridge. (Sorry, didn’t get a photo.) The owners keep a large ceramic bowl filled with water right next to the towpath for thirsty dogs. It was over 90 degrees at noon on the day we visited. Without being asked, the waitress brought Fender T. Dog a dish of complimentary ice chips. He thanked her with a $2 tip under his dish. The ice cream shop is a hugely popular destination.
The walkways next to the walls in Fairport are main thoroughfares for locals and tourists. We kicked back and drank a couple of docktails on the aft deck to people-watch. Mmm … Home-made slushy margaritas!
Politically Incorrect Version: A balding, harried-looking man walked past us with a purpose. Two steps behind, as if by design or command, his wife followed. To say that she was not attractive would be generous and polite. Now, Mia and I have never won any beauty contests. But at least we don’t break mirrors and cameras. The margaritas were obviously clouding our judgment: Mia and I looked at each other and giggled. I said, “She was only walking two steps back. If that was my wife I’d make her walk a half-block back. She’s a halfa-blocker.”
Our giggles escalated into laughs. Mia said, “Can you imagine waking up with her next to you on a boat? No place to hide!”
I said I’d sooner sleep in the bilge, or maybe make her ride in the dinghy at the end of a 200-foot tow rope. I’d have her pretend she was driving the dinghy. If someone saw me I would yell, “Call the police! She’s chasing me!”
Politically Correct Version (Sort of): A self-assured woman who obviously knows what she wants from life walked past us with a purpose. Two steps behind, as if out of a deep-routed respect for his confident spouse, was her Adonis of a husband, dressed to please his Misses. However, to say that something was missing from his aura would be generous and polite. A mental challenge, perhaps, tell-tale indicated by a stream of drool coming from the right side of his closed mouth?
Now, Mia and I would never make fun of anyone’s shortcoming. But the margaritas were obviously clouding our judgment: Mia and I looked at each other and giggled. Mia said, “He was only walking two steps back. If that was my husband I’d make him walk a half-block back. He’s a halfa-blocker.” I stuttered and started to say something about me being Mia’s husband, but discretion (and fear) won out and I kept my mouth shut.
Mia continued, “Can you imagine waking up with him next to you on a boat? No place to hide!”
I said the pillow would be soaked. “I would make him get off the boat and walk all night along the towpath. If someone saw him I would yell, ‘Call the police! He’s stalking me!'”
Ahem. Sorry about going that far off topic.
In 2010, Fairport was the end of our eastbound journey. The next day we turned around to head back to Tonawanda.
In 2011, since we were about to push on eastbound into heretofore unexplored territory, we considered this to be the real first day of our vacation. The pace would be slower and more relaxed, if such a thing was possible.
I again woke up before Mia and took Fender T. Dog for his constitutional. When Fender and I returned Mia presented me with a cup of weak coffee and said, “This is the last of it.”
With urgency, I thought:” What about tomorrow morning?!?!” Then I remembered we were living life at 7 miles per hour: “No problem. We’ll keep an eye out for a supermarket within walking distance.” If either of us had remembered our exploration of the area twelve months earlier, we would have gone to the convenience store across the street from the facilities and bought some coffee. But it wasn’t meant to be.
We took turns visiting the facilities. Me for a military Triple-S, and Mia for … whatever ladies do behind closed doors. (I have a feeling it’s the same thing, but none will admit to a Triple-S.)
While she was gone I went through the engine and systems checklist, ran the blower, and warmed the engines. We were under way at 9:45, excited about the new sights we would see around every corner.
About a half-hour later we hit the No Wake Zone in Wayneport. You can see why if you look closely under the bridge: The shores of the wide waters here are lined with summer homes, each with its own boat docks. If it’s not against the law, no wake in this area is a matter of courtesy.
It’s sprinkling now with the approaching clouds promising heavier rains, so I covered the flybridge and moved to the salon. The flybridge has an unobstructed 360° view. The salon helm requires more focus and concentration. Worse, I had never operated the boat from the lower helm for more than a minute or two to make sure everything worked. At that helm, I can’t see aft unless I duck my head and look through the bottom of the rail cover. Front, port, and starboard views are interrupted by stanchions, window treatments, screens, a column, and a steady drip in my windshield sightline from the flybridge overhang.
I was proud of myself for noticing at the end of last season that the windshield wipers needed to be replaced. I was really proud of myself for remembering to replace them before this trip!
PS: It also rained here on the return trip. A steady downpour.
PPS: It’s a bit disconcerting to find out that the Wayneport Road bridge has had its weight rating downgraded to just 16 tons. That’s usually a sign that it’s about to fall in the water. Not only that, but the next bridge in Macedon at Canandaigua Road has been deemed unsafe and closed to all traffic!
On the return trip, we were enjoying a nice relaxing cruise through a section of narrow rip-rapped channel between Wayneport and Fairport. It was pouring rain, but we were comfy-cozy and dry in the saloon.
A boat has the same mechanical, electrical, plumbing, and HVAC systems as a house. In our case, the boat also has twin 350 GM engines and propulsion systems. One thing you can count on during a long trip: Something will fail.
With no notice, the port engine decided to quit. Anyone who has a boat with twin screws knows that operating on one engine is a challenge. The drag from the port prop combined with the thrust from the starboard screw turned us to port, and the rudders had to be swung nearly hard a-starboard just to keep us in a straight line.
A quick look-see and sniff in the engine compartment revealed no leaks or gasoline vapors. I tried to restart, but the engine would have none of that. I throttled-down on the starboard and figured we’d limp to Fairport where I could make some repairs. Throttling down meant even less control, but I didn’t want to spin the feathered port prop too fast for fear of damaging its transmission.
Although system failures can be expected, what happened next proves the adage, “When it rains, it pours!”
With severely limited control, I was fighting the rudder and the approaching storm’s wind to keep the boat in the center of the channel. As we approached a bridge, which narrowed the channel even more, a huge service barge and tug came around the turn! The tow was bearing down on us — consuming almost the entire channel — and No Losses was squarely in the middle of it!
I heard the tug’s horn sound five short blasts. The warning signal! There was no stopping the tow in time, and it was running the full ten miles per hour.
No Losses’ rudder was already hard to starboard, and she wouldn’t come around to turn towards the bank! I shifted into reverse and gunned it. She came about with her bow aimed toward the rip-rap. I shifted to forward and gunned it again. Her bow turned to port, but we managed to get a little closer to shore. Three more shifts & guns got her far enough to the side of the channel so we were out of danger, but it was a close one! As the tow passed, the captain screamed nasty things — things I cannot repeat here.
But we weren’t out of the woods just yet. No Losses’ starboard side was now dangerously close to the rip-rap, and her only working engine was in danger of having its prop damaged by the rocks. Worse, the three-foot wake from the tow was fast approaching!
I threw the engine into reverse and gunned it. The bow nearly hit the rocks, but she came about and started inching back into the center of the channel. That’s when the wake hit, sending us back toward the rocks!
It all happened over the course of maybe one minute, but it felt like an hour. After I settled down, I called the Fairport bridge operator, told him what happened, and asked him to call the captain of the tow to offer my explanation and apologies. He did exactly that. Needless to say, I didn’t get any pix or video of this near-miss. I was a little busy with other things.
Strangely enough, a second attempt to start the port engine fifteen minutes later was successful. It gave us problems several more times on the return trip, but continued to run until we got home.
As it turned out, we picked up some dirty gasoline from a marina on the Cayuga and Seneca Canal. The photo shows a new carb filter next to the one I pulled when we got back to our home marina. I also siphoned five gallons of “phase separated” ethanol sludge out of the port fuel tank. The gasoline we bought was supposed to have been ethanol-free. I wound up having to change the spin-on filter/water separator and the screen filter two more time to get rid of the sludge in the fuel line.
Back to our eastbound trip: The Fairport lift bridge is the last of the early 20th-century engineering marvels you’ll have to pass under. From here on, it’s locks. Lots of locks.
After passing the Erie Canal Adventures’ home base (which, by the way, is a great fuel stop for both gasoline and diesel), Macedon’s Lock 30 is about an hour east of Fairport.
The lock operator took a liking to Fender T. Dog and gave him two treats, which were gone in seconds.
Macedon is also home to the preserved ruins of the Enlarged Canal’s Lock 60. We didn’t stop to see that one, but Enlarged Erie’s Lock 59 was coming up just past Lock 29.
At 110 by 18 feet, the locks on the “Enlarged” canal don’t seem big enough to have carried all of the traffic and cargo that passed. This lock has been preserved to give you an idea of the scope.
In fact, the original canal was only 40 feet wide and four feet deep!
The Aldrich Change Bridge in the Pal-Mac Aqueduct County Park has been restored to show how the mule teams changed from the towpath on one side to that on the other without having to be untied and re-tied.
Mules were tied to a rope that was tied to the bow of the boat. The mules go up the ramp on the right and across the bridge. The boat doesn’t go under, so the ropes stay on the same side of the bridge, hanging over the railing closest to us as they cross. The mules go down the other ramp and take a hard left turn as they continue to tow the boat under the bridge. The same thing happened for boats coming from the other direction, except the boat goes under the bridge first. (And the telephone pole wouldn’t have been there back in the day!)
Next up: This beautiful little harbor at Palmyra. We didn’t visit any of the tourist offerings. We did, however, mark it on the GPS for an overnight stop on the return trip, which is exactly what we did. Depth is a consistent 7 feet in the harbor with ample power and water. The facilities are up the hill in a pavilion, and they are very nice. The town is a five-minute walk and has a Family Dollar, a liquor store, and a couple of restaurants. In typical small-town fashion, they roll up the sidewalks very early. The “Muddy Waters” eatery is the building at the top of the ramp. It looked like it could be a good breakfast joint. It wasn’t open in the evening, and we left the next morning before it opened so we couldn’t sample their wares.
We decided to stop at Newark for lunch. The south wall has both low floating docks and a concrete wall that was the perfect height for No Losses. No power or water on that side, however. The much higher north wall has the facilities, and there is a section of floating docks as well. We forgot all about walking to a store (100 yards away!) for tomorrow morning’s coffee.
One of the most interesting highlights of this stop is the mural work under the Veteran’s Bridge. It depicts life on the canal in 1825, and at a glance you’d think the people were real. The mural winds its way from one side of the bridge abutment to the building next to the bridge. All of the blocks on the walls are painted, and you have to get very close to realize that the stairway is real!
We spent an hour here relaxing. Fender T. Dog stretched his legs and investigated foreign aromas that only he could smell.