The Lower Bagaduce

Lately I’ve been watching the weather forecasts compulsively, but if someone asks me if it’s supposed to snow I’m likely to draw a blank. Pretty much what I get from it is the wind and temperature, which results in either yes or no: paddling or no paddling. The past week and a half has been a lot of “no” days, with some “maybes” thrown-in just to tantalize me and make me feel bad when I don’t go. Yesterday was one of those maybe days, but I thought I might find some semi-sheltered paddling in the upper Bagaduce River. The tide was even right to launch into the shallow waters off the Penobscot Town Landing.


Unfortunately, Winslow Cove was iced-in, so I drove down to the launch by Bagaduce Falls. The current squeezed beneath the bridge, frothing-up a formidable wave train, but at the next bend in the river, ice covered the entire surface. I sat in the car for awhile watching the standing waves. Occasionally a huge ice flow emerged, tossed about the crests of waves only to be abruptly pulled beneath. So maybe the upper Bagaduce is out of the picture for the next few months.


Fortunately, the road into Dodge Point was plowed (at middle right on the above chart) so I unloaded there at another of Brooksville’s town landings. I called Rebecca with a revised float plan and I was off.


I follwed the steep shoreline toward the head of Smith Cove, where pines clung to the tops of dark cliffs, dripping with icicles. The sun felt good on my face. It was a crisp, clear day- a bit cold, which meant I had to keep moving. I did- paddling around Smith Cove and out between Whites Head and Hospital Island. The current was picking-up, barely floating me over over the sandbar between islands. Across the river lay the Castine waterfront, dominated by Maine Maritime Academy’s training ship, the State of Maine.


As I approached the mouth of the river, a stiff breeze felt icy on my face, and a minor swell came rolling in from the northwest. I headed for Ram Island. The island is owned and managed by the Conservation Trust of Brooksville, Castine and Penobscot, and has a small campsite. I took a walk around the eastern island, but in the face of the northwest breeze, a chill quickly set-in. Good thing I’d worn an extra layer of long johns, but the feet and toes start to take on a chill that doesn’t go away. The best thing is to keep moving, keep the blood pumping.


I was going to head straight back to the launch, but after a few minutes of paddling I felt fine again, and I couldn’t resist crossing over to Castine to paddle alongside The State of Maine. By now, if I paused the current pulled me backwards. I paused for some photos of the ship, but there’s something intimidating about being next to- actually below- such a large vessel.


I crossed the river back to Smith Cove and paused at the remains of another large ship. The Gardiner G. Deering was a 251-foot, five-masted schooner. Abandoned in the 1930s and later burned, the ship is now reduced to a few skeletal, rockweed-draped timbers- just enough to give you some sense of her original proportions as you paddle through.

Back at the launch, I cranked the heat in the car and loaded-up as the sun set. I felt lucky to have squeezed a paddle into a rare window of good conditions. Well, "good" conditions when I lowered my standards because I could see it wasn't going to get much warmer... and when I sought-out a place with less wind. Good thing I got out; today looks much different.

Putting Together the Pieces

Lately I've been launching from Reach Beach, in Gray's Cove, on the northeastern corner of Deer Isle. A launch site can become a habit. I find myself in the car, and of all the places I could launch, I head back to the same one as the day before. Maybe it's more obsession than habit. It seems that every time I'm out paddling, I leave one place that I didn't get to- an island I didn't quite have time for, or an inlet I couldn't follow because the tide ran out. And at night, I pore over the chart, and if I can't picture the place in my mind, I can't wait to check it out.


Maybe it's a weird obsession, but I find it immensely satisfying when my route re-connects or overlaps with previous routes I've paddled, and somehow the big picture starts to click together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle... a multi-dimensional puzzle that somehow manages to include changes in tides and weather and even my own experiences.


Reach Beach is public, thanks to a conservation easement donated by a generous private landholder to Island Heritage Trust. There's often someone out digging clams on the mudflats or walking on the beach. You can park your car just off the road, at the top of the beach and, unless it's an hour and a half on either side of low tide, carry a short distance down to the water. For those three hours around low water, there's a bit of a carry through the mud.


It's tough to completely avoid the mud, so I just accept that occasionally I have a long walk. Like in this photo. Low tide and sunset happened at about the same time, so I had a good long carry. I've had to spend a little extra time cleaning gear in the evening.


Reach Beach gives the paddler fairly quick access to several distinct areas. One day I crossed the Reach and followed the Brooklin shore. The landmarks gradually become more familiar- the church steeple rising above the trees from the center of Brooklin or the snowy hills of Mount Desert. Sometimes Blue Hill pokes above the trees, and that that island with the cliffs has to be Hog Island. Eventually, a glance here or there lets you know in an instant where you are.


Another day I paddled among the islands off Stinson Neck, then crossed over to the islands off of Naskeag Point. Large rafts of eiders and longtails murmured not far away, while occasional shotgun blasts thumped in the distance. I'm not the only one with New Year's rituals.


One excursion at high tide took me for a tour around Greenlaw Cove, exploring Fish Creek and all the little nooks and crannies I could find. It was a foggy day, and it felt good to follow the shore, but those inlets add-up; that turned into a fifteen-mile day.


Of course, the more I spend my evenings staring at charts, the more creative my route-planning becomes. For a long time I'd heard of people portaging "The Carryover", a traditional canoe portage route into Long Cove. I thought I'd give it a try, so I set out at high tide, carried my kayak over the road and re-launched in Long Cove.


The ice was a little thick; I couldn't get through and had to turn back. I must have been in the mood to carry my boat, though, since I managed to portage the Sunshine Causeway, paddling around Stinson Neck.


Well, it's always good to leave something undone. The puzzle, it turns-out, can never be completed; it just grows.