Paddle, Portage, Prosecco
An Amateur’s Guide to Surviving & Loving the Northern Forest Canoe Trail
Two years ago, I swapped my usual city-girl creature comforts (think: brunch, central air, modern plumbing) for a canoe, some breathtaking views, and 16 straight days of bug bites and body aches. I paddled 160 miles through the New York section of the Northern Forest Canoe Trail—a place National Geographic recently called “the Appalachian Trail of Rivers.”
Let me just say this upfront: I’m not what you’d call “outdoorsy.” I have a borderline codependent relationship with my hair dryer, a healthy fear of bears, and a physique best described as “Midwest sweater bod.” I had zero business signing up for this kind of adventure. My boyfriend and I had been dating for all of five minutes when he asked me to come along. Most reasonable people would’ve said no. I said, “Sure!” (as one does when they’re falling for a man who owns multiple headlamps, thrives in the wilderness, and thinks complaining is a sin). The trail wound through the Adirondacks: remote, breathtaking, and crawling with mosquitoes hell-bent on making me cry.
Vocabulary I picked up along the way:
Thru-paddling – canoeing for multiple days (or weeks!) and pretending that’s a normal thing people do.
Portage – French for “carry this stupid canoe and everything you own through mud, over roots, and across hills that defy physics.”
Zero Day – a day you don’t paddle. You shower. You cry from relief. You go to a laundromat and feel sexy again.
Lean-To – A three-walled wooden structure where you sort of sleep and definitely wonder if bears are nearby. Popular among hikers, raccoons, and couples trying to test the strength of their relationship.
I lived for the zero days: hot showers in a motel, cold Prosecco, sleeping on a actual mattress, and peeling off wet clothes like a molting cicada. The other days? A blur of paddling, picture-perfect mountain views, ibuprofen, and quietly whispering “this is fine” as I lost all feeling in my arms. There were also moments of pure joy: setting up camp beside still lakes, fire-gazing instead of screen-scrolling, waking up to loons and birds instead of phone alarms. We listened to John Prine & Townes Van Zandt when my phone battery allowed, and when it didn’t, the wilderness supplied its own soundtrack.
I really surprised myself with this one. There were no mirrors, no makeup, and no pressure to perform the more vain or superficial parts of life. As someone who grew up as a polished little ballerina, cheerleader, and student government girlie, that shift alone was transformative. I wasn’t trying to look flawless—I was just trying to keep mosquitoes out of my eyeballs and not tip the canoe. And honestly? It was liberating.
The Love Part
They call canoes divorce boats for a reason… if you're not in sync, someone’s getting launched. And we made it: through rapids, portages, and my occasional mosquito-induced tantrums.
He was the map guy and the outdoor expert. I was the snack-bringer and comic relief. I, on the other hand, froze any time he yelled, “Paddle left!” (Which one’s left again?) But somehow, we figured it out. And I’ve never felt more bonded to another human being... especially after he helped me through a full-on meltdown following a gnarly set of rapids.
The Deep Stuff
I brought a fresh journal, hoping to “find clarity,” “heal from burnout,” and “process my career trauma.” LOL. Instead, I filled pages bitching about my bug bites and writing love letters to breakfast sandwiches. Instant oatmeal got old really fast. I went on this trip searching for answers—and came home with more questions. I didn’t find myself or unlock life’s grand purpose. But I did find joy. I found resilience. I found out I can poop in the woods and make river water drinkable. I learned to respect—and even love—my middle-aged, able body and all it could do. And honestly? That feels like enough.
So Would I Do It Again?
Hell yes, I would. I’d bring better snacks. Maybe I’d even bitch a little less. I might even actually prepare and train my body. This trip didn’t change my life. But it did change me. I stopped trying to be flawless. I started trying to be present. That switch has stayed flipped ever since. When his Aunt Susan asked why I—a non-camper—agreed to a grueling river expedition, I told her:
“Because I love a challenge. And I was in love.”
Still am.
And now, two years later, I still catch myself daydreaming: When’s the next time I’ll get to carry heavy shit in the woods for fun? There’s something about that kind of exhaustion (earned, quiet, soul-shaking) that sticks with you. It was the adventure of a lifetime. The kind you don’t fully appreciate until you're back home, clean, rested, and suddenly aching to be out there again: muddy, wild, and completely alive.
