Paddling Around Our Backyard, Part III

At about noon on the third day, we convinced ourselves that the wind was dying down, and that the waves, while still plenty wavey, were looking a bit more predictable. After the hour it took us to break camp and get packed up, the conditions looked pretty much as they had before, especially after we launched. We wanted to get to Marshall Island, but chose to avoid the quartering waves. We paddled directly into wind, and it was slow-going. A lobster boat motored past our sterns, apparently checking on our well-being. When the fisherman saw that I was attempting to take a picture, he probably concluded we were okay. Or crazy, stupid or all of the above. At our first opportunity, we landed.


On the morning of the fourth day, we were at the beach on Marshall Island (above). Since our original route was now out of reach, we chose to paddle around a few places we'd never been: north along Swan's Island, across Casco Passage and toward Naskeag Point. We stopped at small island for lunch and rolling practice. Over the past two days, we'd gone from wearing summer gear to drysuits, and suddenly we were roasting. Rolling took care of that; we were immediately chilled.


On the fourth night, camped on an island in Greenlaw Cove, we discovered that the scotch supply had run out. It was time to go home. Our last day would take us around the rest of Deer Isle.



We'd remarked every now and then that we hadn't seen any kayaks so far on the trip. Finally, on our last day as we passed beneath the Deer Isle - Sedgwick Bridge, we saw some other kayaks. Apparently, they rode atop cars, but as they arced over the bridge, the cars were not visible, creating the appearance of free-traveling kayaks coming and going from the island.



We savored our time passing beneath the bridge, and took way too many photos.



Rounding Little Deer Isle, we passed Pumpkin Island Lighthouse and the cottages of Eggemoggin, and into a strong southern wind that made the rest of the day slow-going. We took a central route, following the islands: Scott, Pickering, Bradford and Hardhead. After Hardhead, our progress was so slow that we finally angled toward shore, ducking behind Sheephead Island where we waved to some friends sitting on a back porch. We followed the shore to Barred Island, where we took our last break before heading into the Thorofare, back into Stonington where we'd begun.



The smell of fried food at the Harbor Cafe was almost perceptible at the ramp. Soon, we sat in one of the booths there, drinking cold beer, gazing at the chart laminated onto the table, thinking about the next trip.

Paddling Around Our Backyard, Part II

Our arrival at Brimstone Island had the feel of a pilgrimage. We've seen this island from afar, jutting from the ocean, and often wondered how it would feel. The name suggests volcanic, even demonic influences; the sort of place where you'd discover the portal that leads to the center of the earth or a different plane of existence. Indeed, it feels wild, but not quite so otherworldly as we might have thought.

From our usual vantage point in the Stonington archipelago, Brimstone appears set apart, larger than life. In reality, the 32-acre island rises 112 feet from the sea and shares the company of several lower islands. Dark, polished stones make up the beach, clattering like billiard balls when the waves toss them about. The grassy highlands rise gently skyward, purple asters blooming everywhere, while below, swells from the deep Atlantic hammer the encircling cliffs, ringing the island with white spray. From the summit, Vinalhaven seems almost close, while Matinicus and Criehaven are bumps on the horizon. A thick fog bank hung between us and Isle au Haut, where we were headed next.



We left Brimstone Island, heading into the fog toward Western Ear on Isle au Haut, a five-mile crossing.



We followed a compass heading directly toward Western Ear, a line that effectively separates the open ocean from the beginning of Penobscot Bay. We soon found ourselves in a wordless rhythm of bumpy, horizonless paddling. In the fog, there's little to lend scale to the scene, and it's difficult to tell how far one can see. You just keep paddling, keep adjusting for the compass, and hope you're going the right way. Finally, we heard a hooting sound, and the light on Saddleback Ledge came into view.


I felt immensely relieved to see the lighthouse; we were right on course, and had covered almost half of the crossing. Not long afterward, the profile of Isle au Haut appeared from the clearing fog; we were headed straight for Western Ear. By the time we rounded Isle au Haut, the fog returned, thicker than ever, accompanied by increased wind and waves. Our progress slowed, and it was getting dark, so we stopped short of our destination and made camp.



The weather forecast wasn't good: it looked like we might be stuck on this island for a couple nights. The next morning the fog cleared, replaced by strong winds and waves. We decided to stay put for awhile. Over the phone, Rebecca told us that Mt. Desert Rock reported 29-knot winds. We waited. Some fishermen came close to shore and gestured, shouting a question that could only be an inquiry about our well-being. We gave them the thumbs-up, and they motored away, splashing heavily through the waves.

Paddling Around Our Backyard, Part I

Most of the excursions I write about here, especially in the summer, take place before or after work. Last week, Rebecca minded the gallery for five days, and Todd closed the doors to his window shop so he and I could spend five days sea-kayaking. We chose a route that would take us in a loop around Stonington, around the edge of our usual paddling area, and a little beyond. If weather and conditions cooperated, we would go around North Haven and Vinalhaven, head across to Isle au Haut, Marshall and Swans Islands, and then around Mount Desert Island before heading home. We knew it was ambitious, and we hadn’t done too many twenty-plus mile days lately, but who knew when we’d get the chance again?

Above: the eight-mile paddle along North Haven's north shore. Not too many houses, not too many boats. Quiet. The Camden Hills are much closer here. Camden comes into view with the concentration of sailboat masts below Mt. Battie. Rockland gives the impression of distant urban sprawl, with the tower at the Dragon cement plant in Thomaston in the distance.



We camp on a small island near the west side of Vinalhaven. In the morning: fog. We paddle against the current, out past Heron Neck on Green Island.


We saw a lighthouse. We did all the quintessential Maine stuff.

Rolling Fog: now you see it, now you don't. Where's Brimstone? Out here somewhere.



Ah, there it is.

Foggy Trip To Bear Island

With Tropical Storm Hannah approaching, there's been a lot of talk about what weather we'll get and when, but early this morning, the bright, swirling colors were still at the edge of the Weather Underground map of Maine. Rebecca was still out at Bear Island, and I planned on paddling out to meet her and paddle back. At seven this morning, I headed out of Sylvester Cove into the fog.


Paddling alone in the fog can be almost surreal at times. The land I've left has disappeared quickly, reducing my world to two shades of watery grey: the undulating dark plane of waves and the drifting fog above. There's a lingering uncertainty in the back of my mind, fueled partially by the doubts expressed by those who knew I was going, partially by my own doubts... and partially, well, are those waves getting bigger? I've been over it on the chart: a two-mile crossing to Eagle, keep the compass just shy of 300 degrees. Okay, the waves are tossing me back and forth, so it's 270 to 300, which should be fine. After 25 minutes, I hear a bell, which should be the buoy I'm aiming for. I change course slightly and head toward the clanging.

After I've passed the buoy, I see land, but it isn't what I was expecting. For a moment, the world stops making sense, but I know I'm looking at the Porcupine Islands, at the southern end of Eagle, rather than the point with the lighthouse. That was the buoy with the bell, not the one with the gong. Oh well, this course works too, maybe even better. I make the remaining connections: along Eagle to a point, head west to Fling Island, then a straight line to Bear.



After meeting Rebecca, we reverse the course, or attempt to. We miss Fling and see a little more of Eagle Island than planned. We take a few minutes to look at the polished oval stones on a beach on one of the Porcupines. We eat some cheese and crackers left over from last night's gallery opening.



Then it's back across, aiming a little upwind to account for the waves pushing us north. Amazingly, we come out of the fog right at the red nun we were aiming for.

Bear & Hardhead Islands

It's one of those moments: we're at the top of an island, a chunk of rock that rises straight out of the ocean, softened on top by a lush tangle of low, wind-blown vegetation. In the back of my mind, I'm aware that, miles away in Stonington, there's a sign on my gallery door that says "Open in Early Afternoon." It's one-thirty. We hadn't planned on coming to this island, never mind landing and hiking up to the top, but here we are, and the feeling is overwhelming: the beauty and intensity of the place, as well as the fact that I'm able to be here at all, and will soon be sitting at my desk in the gallery, working. All I can say is "man, we've got it good here."



We'd cartopped the kayaks over to Sylvester Cove. Rebecca was loaded-up for a week out on Bear Island, where she's renting a house with a bunch of other women, mostly artists. Brighid and I used it as an excuse to paddle in a different neighborhood. Despite forecasts for 15-knot winds, gusting to 30, we pointed west, toward the light on Eagle Island, and headed into the wind.



It was certainly breezy. I took my hat off and tucked it inside my pfd. We passed Hardhead Island to the north, which looks awesome and otherworldly with its cliffs and lack of trees. It would be tempting to say "barren", but the top is thick with lush foliage.


We passed Eagle Island, with its lighthouse on the point. Butter Island provided a windbreak before we plunged into the wind again, passing through the Barred Islands and landing at Bear. Rebecca was the first of her group to arrive- the others were all coming on a powerboat. The island has been in the same family, which includes the likes of Buckminster Fuller, since 1903, and is occupied by family members and a few renters throughout the summer. We met the caretaker and a woman showed us around before Brighid and I headed back.


With the wind at our backs, the paddling was a bit easier. Despite my anxiety over getting the gallery open, Hardhead Island was too awesome-looking to pass up.

We hadn't planned on landing; it was hard to imagine with those cliffs rising out of the sea, but suddenly we were passing a perfect little beach. The island is state-owned, and closed during nesting season, which was just over. We landed and took a quick walk up to the top.

We paddled beneath the cliffs on the south side. Above us, a row of nests rested upon a ledge.

We saw no other kayakers on the entire trip. And no lobster boats: only sailboats and recreational powerboats. By mid-afternoon, I was back in the gallery, chatting with people about art, and Brighid was working at Old Quarry.