Strawberry Island Adventure

The mighty Niagara River has fourteen islands. Are you surprised there are so many? Some of her islands are like luxury cruise ships--they're so big, developed, and separated from the water that it's easy to forget you're on an island. From south to north, they are: Squaw Island, Strawberry Island, Motor Island (also known as Frog Island or Pirate Island), Beaver Island, Grand Island, Tonawanda Island, Navy Island, Cayuga Island, Goat Island, Three Sisters, Green Island, and Bath Island.

On September 19th, the ultimate destination of Riverkeepers Robbyn Drake, Chris Murawski, and Robin Douglas was the beautiful Strawberry Island. Once over 200 acres, Strawberry Island was mined for gravel in the 19th and 20th centuries and has diminished to approximately 20 acres.

But first, how did we get there? We decided to launch from Broderick Park at the foot of West Ferry in Buffalo. We considered launching from the riprap into Niagara River, but we were solemnly informed by a local handyman visiting the park that the current there rushed along at 21 knots, leaving no room for mistakes at launch. Also, we could potentially have a run-in with the border patrol if we crossed under the Railroad bridge. So, we decided to launch in the Black Rock Canal and attempt to pass through the lock at the northern end of Squaw Island.

As we approached the lock, we couldn't see anyone in the lock office. Should we climb the ladder? Should we wait for a larger boat and tag along behind? Finally, I ventured to call out "Hello!" The sound seemed to echo off the metal barriers along the side of the canal and the chain link fence that seemed excessively precautionary at this leftover of the Erie Canal. An Army Corps employee finally emerged from the office. We asked if we could pass through the lock in a canoe. The answer was--no. Apparently, you have to have a motor on your boat for the magical "Open Sesame." We rapidly considered and discarded several motor improvisations for our canoe--get a straw and blow into the water? make motor noises? Oh, bother!

Now what? Portage half a mile over Squaw Island or return to Broderick? The portage seemed too laborious to our already growling stomachs, so after much debate and several fortifying snacks, we returned to Broderick Park, reloaded our canoe on the car, and headed to Ontario Street Boat Launch.

From the Ontario St. launch, we cut across the wide river towards Strawberry Island. I've only seen Strawberry Island from the bike path so far, but I've always thought the island exuded mystery and enchantment. I could imagine falling asleep on its shores and waking up a hundred years later like Rip Van Winkle. Its peculiar shape, with two arms reaching out into the river at the northern end, must embrace secret inland coves with fish and waterfowl living almost completely undisturbed by noisy, invasive humans. Its verdant vegetation could hide unique island animals living and evolving separately from mainland species. Or would we surprise an adventurous deer or coyote who swam across the river to explore its entrancing shores?

As we approached, we could see the trees favored by nesting cormorants. Their droppings had killed several trees on the shore and had given stripped boughs of one tree the appearance of outstretched bleached bones. There seems to be an undercurrent of cormorant resentment--they compete with anglers for fish and they did after all kill a couple trees. And how glamorous is a bird who throws up when they're alarmed? But I was struck with their dignity as they sat like an avian tribunal in their bone-tree and looked down to watch us paddle by, as if they were a sphinx or oracle charged with extracting a password from all who wished to pass or raining down an unmerciful death. They calmly watched us pass by, however--perhaps because we didn't have a motor?

We paddled around the island and entered a cove at the northern end. Chris climbed into a cottonwood leaning precariously over the water. The tree was more over water than land, as if it was pushed off the land by the mob of riotous undergrowth along the shoreline. The water was crystal clear and refreshingly cool. We found clams as big as my hand and as old as I am burrowing into the river clay. We picked them up to admire their size and beauty and carefully replaced them in the mud. Clams that wild and wise aren't meant for chowder.

We pulled the boat up on the beach and cut across the island on a small path. There were toads everywhere. I was afraid I would step on them. Robbyn and Chris had sharper eyes and would point them out every other step. A couple sunbathers lay on the beach on the southern side of the island. I gathered some small smooth pebbles, marveling that the gentle waves would eventually turn them into particles of fine sand. We returned to the cove and waded in the rich chocolate mousse muck that felt more luxurious than any spa treatment. Robbyn and Chris swam in the river and caught crayfish lurking under the rocks with the zebra mussels. Pirate Island loomed in the river ahead, shrouded in its own mysteries.

At last, we left to paddle across to our final destination, the Tonawanda boat launch. Had a hundred years gone by while we frolicked on the island? Not this time.