THE NEXT DAY. SYLVAN BEACH, ON ONE IDA LAKE, NEW YORK. 7 AM EST. THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30, 2025.
It was still snowing
heavily. They’d found kids’ sleds hanging in the attic space, and
each of them pulled a sled-load of canned goods. Their muscles were
already aching by the time they had tossed the sleds in and loaded
and launched the canoes, paddling along the lakeshore to the canal
entrance; slush an inch thick floated on the lake’s surface, and on
the canal.
All that day, they
paddled to each successive lock dam, unloaded and portaged the
canoes, sledded their packs and supplies down to the canoes, and
resumed paddling; Jason guessed they were spending twice as much
time portaging as paddling, but in the empty, dead country around
them, they didn’t want to abandon the supplies that only the canoes
could carry.
It was still snowing
as it began to get dark, less than twenty miles beyond Oneida Lake.
At the public access where they stopped, Larry said, “Now that we
know whole armies of Daybreakers might come by, I don’t think we
can risk a fire tonight.”
They pulled the two
canoes almost face-to-face on a ground cloth, threw a camo tarp and
some loose brush over the top, and crawled under to wolf down a can
of beans and a can of salmon each; huddled as closely as they
could, they went to sleep.