Into the headwind, we paddled down some light rapids under a broken bridge.
I threw up. My stomach felt disgruntled. I didn’t want to eat.
Spots of rain came and went, but the wind persisted against us. We’d planned to wrap things up after only one more day of paddling, which meant we had a surplus of energy bars. I laid off the trail mix and stuck with the bars, they seemed easier on my system, if only slightly.
I paddled weakly.
We arrived at Lake Failon, and stuck close to the southern shore where the wind blew weakest. At the far end of the lake we found a small resort town, and pulled up on a beach. Above, a column of smoke rose to the sky, and the fire’s owners invited us to warm ourselves and pitch our tent on their lawn.
They also gave us a ride to the local hotel, where we might find wifi and a shower.
They didn’t believe we’d kayaked from New York. Seven or eight wilderness Canadians (or tourists) sat around, and looked at us. Clearly, they thought we lied.
“We paddled up the Hudson, to the Champlain Canal, to the Richelieu, to the Saint Lawrence, to the Saint Maurice, to the Gouin Reservoir, to the Megiscane, to here, and tomorrow is our last day. We’ll take out at the train tracks just beyond the rapids.”
They believed us. We got to use the shower and the wifi, and the owner of the hotel even gave us a lift to scout out the rapids and potential portages.