Paddling in his wake, through Adirondack waters

A tribute to Don Morris, paddling legend, devoted father

By Chris Morris

It’s a hot, sunny day in the summer of 1998, and I’m sitting in a baby blue Dagger kayak, floating in an eddy below a series of steep, technical drops on the Black River. I’m 13 years old and I took a hard pass on paddling this section. My dad is up there, somewhere, with his buddies, scouting the rapids and picking lines.

The minutes pass at a snail’s pace, but eventually, I see Dad’s kayak slip gracefully down the falls, pencilling the last drop. He surfaces, wipes the water from his face, and smiles. He can tell I’m bored — he’s gone up and down this section a few times — so he beckons me to follow. I paddle behind him until we pull to a rocky shore below a small waterfall, maybe 20 feet tall, but to me it might as well be 100. He pulls off his sprayskirt and starts dragging his boat through the trees. I follow.

After a short climb, he puts his kayak in the small brook that leads to the ledge below. With some trepidation, I drop in my boat and ready myself.

“Don’t worry, this is easy,” he says, adjusting his helmet. And with a wink adds: “Don’t tell Mom.”

Charles Donald Morris — Don to his family and friends, Dad to me — passed away on Dec. 16, 2024, after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease. He was 74. Throughout his life, Dad processed things like grief by taking to the water. For me, it’s writing. This is my attempt at paying tribute to a beautiful man, a devoted father, a loving husband, a brilliant mind and an expert paddler. Whether it was the guidebook he wrote for the Adirondack Mountain Club, his free weekly kayak lessons on Lake Colby for kids or his willingness to take anyone out on the water regardless of experience, he inspired countless folks to explore the woods and waters of the Adirondacks.

Don’s early years

Right up until his passing, Dad was a quiet, unassuming man. It took me nearly all of my 40 years to get him to open up about his early life. He grew up in a working class neighborhood on the west side of Miami. His father worked in construction, and his mom stayed at home. When he wasn’t running and hiding from his older sister and her friends, he was outside exploring the city or the nearby swamps. When the worst of the hurricane winds passed, he and his friends would use bed sheets and skateboards to sail through the neighborhood. In the backwoods, he’d encounter alligators, and he loved regaling my sister and me with tales of him running zig-zag and climbing trees to escape.

After finishing some schooling in Florida, Dad settled briefly in Nashville, Tennessee. There, he earned his Ph.D. in psychology at Vanderbilt, but if he were reading this, he’d rather have me tell you about meeting Neil Young, teaching himself to play guitar, taking LSD and getting kicked out of movie theaters and — far and away most importantly — falling in love with the outdoors. He hiked the Smoky Mountains, kayaked the Stones River — when he wasn’t in juke joints, he was outside. When the last of his schooling was out of the way, he went west to Yellowstone, Glacier and Yosemite, eventually spending a long stretch in Alaska. He had run-ins with grizzlies and swam with salmon.

By the late ‘70s, Dad made his way to northern New York, where he taught for a short spell at St. Lawrence University. It was here where he fell in love twice: with the woman of his dreams, Karen, and the woods and waters of the Adirondacks — in that order, to be clear. After marrying in Canton, my folks moved to the Adirondacks, laying down roots in Saranac Lake and raising two kids: me, and my younger sister, Kat.

Morris family adventures

My family lived outside, with Dad as our guide. In my earliest memories there are images of my arm dangling out the side of a canoe, my fingers tracing the water, my parents steering us toward some great adventure.

“We spent a lot of time in the St. Regis Canoe Area,” my mom recounted. “Those trips with him on Hoel, Slang, Turtle — that’s where my own love of paddling blossomed. I remember a trip out onto Middle Saranac. We got stuck in a terrible wind squall, the whole family. It was a scary situation, but I had tremendous faith in his ability. He could quarter through whitecaps while telling some of the worst dad jokes you ever heard. He was unflappable. When we were paddling with him, we were always safe.”

In my early teens, Dad taught me to roll a kayak on both sides, and without a paddle. He taught me to read rapids, and I followed him down rivers across upstate New York — the Black, the Moose, the Hudson, the Sacandaga — and even a few in Maine, including the Penobscot. Wherever he went, I followed.

Guidebook author

In Canton, Dad formed a close friendship with Paul Jamieson, something of a legend in Adirondack paddling circles. He authored “Adirondack Canoe Waters: North Flow,” a book many consider THE guidebook for Adirondack paddling. As Paul got older, he couldn’t get to the more far-flung rivers, and he definitely couldn’t navigate super-technical whitewater. Paul recruited Dad as his co-author, and he threw himself into the work of researching and writing about some of the wildest waterways in northern New York.

Dad’s writing inspired generations of paddlers. When I went to St. Lawrence University, I would frequently run into classmates who had his book on their shelves — they’d ask me about his adventures on the Cold River, or his runs on hairy sections of the AuSable. When I returned to the Adirondacks as an adult, I met folks like Jason Smith and Doug Haney — incredible paddlers in their own right — who lionized my dad.

Following in dad’s footsteps

After college, and perhaps naturally, I veered away from the things my dad loved most for a spell. I worked as a journalist, obsessing over political races, court cases, and sports. Then I switched careers and worked for nonprofits. Eventually, an old colleague — and current Adirondack Explorer staff writer — Mike Lynch steered me toward a job at the Northern Forest Canoe Trail. I took the position, helping write about stewardship work, paddling races, guidebooks, maps. One day, a few years back, I paddled a section of the Missisquoi River in Vermont, chronicling the character of the river shore, attempting to identify wildlife (I am forever hopeless at this), and doing my best to inspire others to check it out. And then I wrote another piece about paddling a section of the Raquette River. And then another about the Kennebago River. And it didn’t occur to me for a long while that here I was, again, following my dad downstream, making my small attempt at trying to inspire people the way he did.

Friends, family share memories

There’s so much more I could write, but I want to share words from some of the other folks whose lives he touched. My wife, Kaet, only got to know Dad in his later years, well into his battle with Alzheimer’s. I would often find the two of them huddled over one of his journals.

“He couldn’t read his stories anymore, but he would flip through to his favorites and I would read them aloud,” Kaet said. “Stories about his childhood shenanigans, grizzly bear encounters, drunken Tennessee escapades and little poems or lyrics about his beloved Karen. He was always excited to share his album from his trip through the Grand Canyon — especially the photo of him sitting on the privy. Whenever I picture him, he is always smiling that big, genuine, comforting smile. I really miss that smile.”

From the late ‘80s through the days before my dad moved into memory care, he paddled countless miles with Tom Dodd and Kim Weems, his close friends and neighbors in Saranac Lake.

“Alzheimer’s is a cruel disease to take away one of the finest minds we’ve ever known,” Tom said. “He should be with us now, paddling on Sundays, playing his guitar, and traveling with his wife. We will never forget his brilliant mind, his wicked sense of humor, his amazing paddling skills, his compassion, his love of the Adirondacks and his love for his family and friends. With every paddle, every board game, every camping trip and concert, we will always think of Don. The world was quite simply a better and warmer place with him in it.”

Doug Haney, of Saranac Lake, is an avid outdoor recreationist: a mountain biker, paddler, former chief press officer for U.S. Ski & Snowboard and now owner of Bike Adirondacks. Many of Doug’s early introductions to whitewater paddling were with my dad.

“Each trip was an education — on whitewater, Adirondack history and so much more,” Doug said. “Genuine doesn’t begin to describe his selfless character. His laugh was so kind and warm, it felt like a hug. I’m so grateful and thankful that so many others have learned, and will continue to learn, about Adirondack waters through his words.”

For those of us closest to Dad, some of our most precious moments came during short excursions on the water, right before his disease took paddling away. All of us — my mom, Dad’s friends — marveled at how effortless he made it look, even in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. By this point, the disease had taken everything from him — his memory, his guitar playing, his ability to form complete sentences, and many of the basic motor skills we take for granted. Yet, when he sat down in a boat, it was as if he were 30 again.

On many of those trips just before he moved into memory care, we were accompanied by my dear friend Brandon Devito, a trustee of the Northern Forest Canoe Trail and former guide. Brandon, unbeknownst to both of us for many years, got his crash course in Adirondack paddling from the “North Flow” book.

“For many summers, I worked as a licensed guide for outfitters and summer camps, and before I met Don, the Raquette River had turned into a slog for me,” Brandon said. “Being one of his favorites, Don got me to look at that river differently — to explore its flooded banks in the spring, take in the fiery reds of the silver maples in the fall, and appreciate the solitude of the river in winter. Now it’s one of the first waters I hit in the spring. I will always think of Don whenever I’m on the Raquette, or whenever I see the swift moving water of an approaching rapid.”

The wisdom my dad shared with folks like Brandon is the essence of what I’ll carry with me forever. To be still. To listen. To find beauty, joy, wonder and humor in the simplest of things.

“In his final years, when he couldn’t offer much in the way of conversation, he found endless joy on our walks up and down the Hudson here in New Jersey,” my sister, Kat, recalled. “Seeing the water would spark a fragment of memory. Whenever we stopped to look at the water, I could feel the peace and happiness in him.”

Last September, my dad and I took a drive to a park in Jersey. I didn’t know then that it would be one of our last outings together. During our walk, we stopped to look at a small rapid in a brook, and I told him that he used to paddle things like that in his sleep. He made a comical face of disbelief and told me I was crazy. A few quiet moments passed, and he spoke again, telling me, “You can do it.”

We love you, Dad, and we miss you. We’ll keep paddling in your wake and catch up to you one of these days.

Photo at top: One of Don’s favorite trips was his 2000 adventure down the Colorado River and through the Grand Canyon. His photo album from the trip was his most cherished possession right until the time of his passing. His daughter, Kat, keeps it close now. Photo provided by Chris Morris