Gliding Through History and My Own Home on the Erie Canal 

When my friend, Erik, first floated the idea of a self-piloted voyage along the Erie Canal, I did the math. From my apartment in Rochester, New York, I can drive west to the town of Spencerport in 21 minutes, 17 should the traffic lights cooperate. If heading east, I can make it to Pittsford in ten, though I usually stop at Wegmans en route, which tacks on another 30. The village of Fairport, meanwhile, requires 25 minutes behind the wheel—practically a road trip by Western New York standards. 

When traveling by boat, however, that collective time frame falls overboard, increasing from around an hour to exactly three days. The Erie Canal stretches for 363 miles between Albany and Buffalo, but our particular tour would begin in Macedon, east of Fairport. There, we’d set out on a 41-foot boat rental via Erie Canal Adventures, which, for three-day trips, suggests docking in Pittsford, Spencerport, and, on the way back, Fairport. 

That trajectory meant I’d be sleeping mere miles from my own home, embarking on my first-ever—and, realistically, only—floating staycation. 

“I’m in,” I texted Erik, who, similar to our fellow Erie Canal passenger, Richard, also lives in New York, about five hours south. Adding more math to the mix, we coincidentally set our departure date for August 5th—the exact day I’d moved to Rochester two years prior—though a more significant number underscored our cruise. The Erie Canal in 2025 was celebrating its bicentennial, so we would travel not only through my own personal geography but also through a wider, broader legacy of 200 years. 

The Canal’s Legacy

Christened as an engineering marvel, the Erie Canal underwent construction between 1817 and 1825. Once completed, it eased access between the Great Lakes and New York City, positioning the latter as the country’s predominant port. In turn, the canal played an integral role in aiding not only the transportation of goods and people but also the development of places along its path; it’s the reason Rochester became one of the United States’ inaugural boomtowns, earning the alias, “The Young Lion of the West.” 

Finding Regional Niches

I didn’t know any of this—not even the Erie Canal song, which locals learn in elementary school—when I moved to Rochester for a relationship. At the time, my perception of Western New York was limited to the buzzwords: lake-effect snowstorms, Kodak, and Rochester’s infamous (and drunkenly delicious) garbage plates. 

Since then, I’ve carved out my regional niches; I root for the Buffalo Bills, don’t need a menu at Bar-Bill Tavern (the best chicken wings around), and can find Susan B. Anthony’s grave in the sprawling, scenic Mount Hope Cemetery without glancing at a map. 

Yet there’s a difference between knowing a place’s spirit and feeling like a place is yours. Much like the Erie Canal emerged for a particular purpose—to connect fragments of New York— Western New Yorkers typically have specific reasons for being here. Their origins may not date back 200 years, but, outside of the student population, most Rochestarians I know live here because they’re from here, or their families are from here, or they—like me—have some other personal and specific connection tying them to this particular place at this particular moment.

All that is to say: Unlike transplant-heavy cities like Los Angeles or Washington, D.C., Rochester is deeply rooted in roots, and I, two years into a 14620 zip code, didn’t consider myself a Western New Yorker. That is, until I drifted down the Erie Canal, sharing the imprints of the version of Rochester I’ve constructed. 

Behind the Wheel 

Our trio started our journey with a thorough boating orientation—none of us had ever driven a boat—before receiving the keys to our three-day home. I wasn’t driving, so I focused on the in-between jobs: tying ropes, calling for lock access, and scouting out prime docking spots. 

In the interim, I took my perch on the boat’s stern. Unlike my friends, I didn’t care about the nautical nuances of operating the vessel. (I learned but can no longer remember which direction refers to starboard.) What I cared about instead were more personal logistics: How many times had I driven on the overpass we were gliding beneath? How often had I waited for boats to pass under the Fairport Lift Bridge? How can this canal catalogue 200 years of national history but also mark the hyper-specific two years of my own life? 

As we, indeed, waited for the Fairport Bridge to lift, I didn’t find my answer so much as I found the familiar. “That’s my favorite cafe!” I shrieked, pointing to canalside coffee shop, Clementine, where I frequently nurse seasonal lattes while gazing at boats identical to our rental. “And that’s the best library, and that’s the yoga studio I go to sometimes.”

I singled out these mundane landmarks of my habitual experiences like they were world monuments or celebrity sightings, thrust into the idiosyncratic role of both tour guide and tourist. The journey showcased the best of the canal to my friends, while, for me, it began to mold a new vantage point, reinvigorating my excitement for the relics of my routine, letting me claim them as my own. 

From Pittsford to Spencerport

After passing beneath the Fairport Bridge, we continued to Pittsford and docked early, sipping a Finger Lakes Riesling while a live band performed across the way. For dinner, I directed my friends to Pittsford Farms Dairy—the same ice cream parlor the Bills visit during training camp—where we scooped up shortbread cookies and a half-gallon of milk. “You’re so lucky you can drink this whenever you want!” Erik declared, only half-joking, after we’d returned to our boat’s bow to savor the dairy’s admittedly high-quality milk. (He’s not wrong; I always keep a carton in my fridge.)

The next day, we poured that milk in our coffee and set off for Spencerport, crossing through locks and eventually approaching the turnoff for Rochester. We wouldn’t dock in the city—it wasn’t on our suggested itinerary—so we drifted past the Genesee River, where I could just make out the path of my favorite running route. “I think that’s my Costco!” I told my friends, with a newfound, apparent glee for the bulk grocer. “And that’s definitely REI.”

Lingering in the Canal’s Contradictions

As Erik slowed the boat so I could confirm the whereabouts of these chain stores, we lingered in the canal’s contradictions. The waterway no longer operated with the commercial prowess of its heyday, but that’s not to say it didn’t function as a present-day archive. For me, the Erie Canal, now predominantly used for recreation, had generated something of a parade route, stacking my own—albeit thin—layer of memories atop its 200 years of history.

That night, in Spencerport, a rainstorm foiled our plans for a leisurely bike ride, so after grilling burgers, we settled into the bow of our boat. With no pressure to do or see anything, we split the last of the Pittsford Dairy cookies and listened to the storm, immersed in the canal’s rhythm.

Fairport Fanfare

On our return route to Macedon, we docked in Fairport and embarked on our trip’s last quest: a bar crawl. I insisted we go to Lulu Taqueria—the evening manifestation of Clementine cafe—for margaritas and nachos. Then, we ventured out to experience the village’s surprisingly robust nightlife. We delighted in the cowboy-cool campiness of Country Roads, sipped bourbon cocktails at Iron Smoke, and found the speakeasy nestled inside Main and Vine. 

To cap off the night, there was still one milestone, dating back to 1918, that we hadn’t yet conquered—one that not even the canal’s 19th-century engineers could’ve envisioned. Around 11 pm that Thursday, we strode down the footpath parallel to the morning’s boating route until we reached TJ Ryan’s Hideaway Hots for a Rochester classic: the love-it-or-hate-it garbage plate.

Prior to that night, I couldn’t tell you the last time I’d ordered one, but there, on the canal, I became the plate’s most impassioned ally, vouching for its integrity as the ultimate catch-all of hot dogs, macaroni salad, fried potatoes, and meat sauce.

Picture the person you know who would most hate this hodgepodge of textures and temperatures, and that’s Richard. But the canal had charmed all three of us, and, at my prodding, he ordered one. After one obligatory taste, I expected him to slam down his fork. But then, a canal miracle. 

Richard took another bite, then another, carving out a sizable dent in the dish that’s come to encapsulate Rochester: “You know, I didn’t expect to like this,” he told me when the mound on his plate had shrunk to a flat line. “But this is actually quite good.” 

Plan Your Own Erie Canal Odyssey

To self-navigate along the historic Erie Canal, rent a summer houseboat with Erie Canal Adventures. You can reserve a boat that sleeps between two to four people for anywhere between three days to a week or longer, depending on your ideal itinerary. Longer excursions, for instance, may stop in Buffalo or Seneca Falls. 

And, as evidenced by my trip, you don’t have to have boating experience. Renters partake in an obligatory three-hour orientation, during which you’ll practice driving your boat, going through locks, tying knots, and all other logistical necessities. 

Alternatively, if you’re short on time or don’t want to drive your own boat, you can book a range of summer canal tours. Pittsford and Fairport operators, such as the Sam Patch and Colonial Belle, run a multitude of themed cruises, from sunset rides to historic lock adventures. 

 

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