Around Isle au Haut

The sea is calm, the air clear, the distant hills sheathed in mild haze. On Crotch Island, the granite-cutting machinery hisses, blending with the chug of lobster boats- the tinnitus of greater Stonington that starts to fade as I cross Merchant Row. Diesel fumes waft from circling lobster boats not far off. After an hour, on Wheat Island, I take my first quick break- ten minutes- and soon I’m paddling along the east shore of Isle au Haut, below the hardwoods and steep dark bluffs just past Richs Point.


It would be easier, with so many miles ahead, to stay offshore, pointing my bow for the most distant headland, skipping the particular contours of the shoreline. But I’ve done that before. When you’re alone, it’s easy to make that snap decision- the slight turn of the bow that changes your course without really thinking about it- to get in close and follow the shore. It may take a little longer, but my mind is occupied- as much as it can be occupied, looking at rocks and houses, shifting my hips to make an occasional tight turn between rocks. Paddling further from shore is like driving on the Interstate, counting down the miles. Following the shore is more like taking a walk.


For a couple of miles I alternate between shore and ledges as a mild swell builds, occasionally amplifying into breaking waves over the rocks. The houses on shore become less frequent, as do potential landing areas. There are no people on shore, and only far-off lobster boats on the water. After about three hours of paddling, I round Eastern Head. To the south: open ocean, an oil tanker on the horizon. Ahead of me, the cliffy southern end of Isle au Haut curves inland and back out to Western Ear. If I paddled directly across, I’d cover almost two miles, but what fun would that be?

Instead I paddle about twice the distance, following the shore to where a dozen or so houses overlook Head Harbor. No one is around in the middle of this Wednesday in September; a quiet place on a quiet island. The hum of Stonington is worlds away. As I leave the harbor, there is only the sound of surf.

This shore is perhaps the crux of the trip: the farthest from Stonington, the most exposed to ocean swell, and the most spectacular. Because it is part of Acadia National Park, it is also the wildest. The cliffs look almost white in the afternoon sun. It seems right somehow that it takes some effort to get here. I’ve paddled maybe a dozen miles, with over a dozen more to go, and as far as I can tell, I’ve got the whole southern end of Isle au Haut to myself

But I need to think about getting back. I take a quick lunch break by Western Ear, gazing out toward Saddleback Light and Brimstone Island, and turn north. With the breeze and the swell behind me, this stretch goes by easily. And it’s a good thing. I’m feeling a little tired, and still have a ways to go, but I take a tour around Moores Harbor, simply because I’ve never paddled there before. I pause below Robinson Point Light for a snapshot, and ride the current through the thorofare, past town on the right, Kimball Island on the left.

On Kimball, some friends have finished work and I watch them get into the Nanatoo and cast off lines. A few moments later, they’re passing by, waving. I have just enough time to get back before sunset.

Bagaduce Falls - Flood Tide

From its mile-wide mouth at Castine, the Bagaduce winds inland, twisting and narrowing for eight miles until it squeezes beneath a bridge into a gap only fifty feet across, before meandering another three and a half miles inland. Often called a river, it is in fact an estuary, constantly exchanging its waters with the ocean, back and forth with the tide. It never empties at low tide. The incoming tide rushes upstream, finally overpowering whatever outgoing current remains, and and as it squeezes into the narrowing banks, develops quite a current, which is most obvious at the bridge between Brooksville and Penobscot. At its swiftest, the current piles up and drops several feet as it passes beneath the bridge, shooting out the upstream side where it develops a hundred-yard wave train, with bouncy, frothing eddylines flanking the upstream “V”.


Estimating the time of the tide change and peak current is a bit tricky. Basing our calculations on a 5:30 am low tide in Castine, we met at the bridge a little after nine on Monday morning. We expected the flood to have begun, but the current still rushed beneath the bridge, heading toward the sea. We were only a little off.

Waiting for the current to build: Peter, Nate, Barbara, Ed

The five of us gathered beneath the bridge and waited as the water went slack, and not long after ten, the current shifted inland and the flood tide began. Within fifteen minutes there was enough current to play in. Within a half-hour the waves were getting big enough to surf. So, the timing will always be subject to variables, probably tide height in particular, but that’s how it worked this time: slack tide at 4.5 hours after low in Castine.


It’s good to start at slack tide and experience the flow as it builds. That fluttery feeling in my stomach gave way to focusing on paddling, getting in and out of the current, getting a feel for it, finally getting on a wave that will hold you there and trying some turns.


Often, we’re trying to get onto the first wave. One way to do this is to paddle upstream, crossing the eddyline with your bow pointed as directly into the current as possible. You try to edge gently toward the strong flow in the middle, but if you edge or turn too much, the current grabs your bow. You might fight it for a moment, muscling out of it with a stern pry, but if you hang onto that for too long, you’ll flip towards the current. If all goes well, you float back onto that wave with your bow still pointing upstream and you take a few strong paddlestrokes to keep from getting swept over and voila; you’re surfing the wave!


I’m usually a bit surprised to find myself there, a calm spot with water rushing past all around. Now what? Edge a turn left, edge a turn right. Hold your paddle up in the air to flaunt it. Put the palm of your hand on the surface and feel the water rushing below. At some point, you discover you’re no longer on the wave, bouncing backwards over the wave train, bracing from one side to the other, looking for a way out so you can do it again.

We were all doing well, but after awhile, it felt like there was something missing. Oh yes, the feel of saltwater in my head. Somehow, after I’ve finally capsized, I feel even more comfortable out there. As the waves grew taller, the capsizing became easier, and each time I went over, I waited below the surface, getting my paddle aligned until I felt dark, solid water overhead, and rolled back up... and braced as the next wave sucked me up and over. When it all goes well, that’s part of the fun.


Fun, and exhausting. As the waves and the current grew, the eddyline turned wide and sloppy. Those big waves in the middle turned elusive with this barrier of whitewater guarding them. And if you did get on them, the water moved fast enough that it was hard to stay there. Hard work. I finally took a break, hating to miss anything, but it’s tiring and I needed a sandwich or two.


I got back out there as the current subsided, and we played on dwindling waves as they disappeared, about three hours after they’d started. We took a little paddle upstream and came back, just in time for the current beneath the bridge to go slack and change direction, nine hours after low tide in Castine. By the time we had our boats loaded on cars, the ebb was already running fast. There would be some waves on the downstream side of the bridge soon. Maybe next time.

Crockett Cove

I closed the gallery just after five. By quarter of six, I was in my sea kayak, heading west through the Deer Isle Thorofare, pointing roughly toward the trio of windmills on Vinalhaven. It was the day after Labor Day, and Stonington had turned quiet, the way it does every year about this time. For the past couple of months, town had been busy enough that I felt obliged to stay open most evenings. I’d paddled plenty, but it was mostly work, my other job- guiding at Old Quarry. But now, with daylight waning each day, the urgency to stay open and make money was giving way to an urgency to squeeze as much paddling as I could from the remains of this season.


At the end of the Thorofare, I passed the grey steel buildings of Billings Marine and followed the shore around the point. I paused. Ahead lay a considerable expanse of Penobscot Bay. The closest islands were already dark shapes against a moody swirl of grey clouds towering over the Camden Hills. A rosy strip of sunset peeked from behind the ridge. I would need to hurry. I hoped to get to the head of Crockett Cove, still three miles distant. I pointed toward Fifield Point and began paddling.


I hadn’t been on this side of the island for awhile, but was lured by the prospect of a sunset and Crockett Cove at high tide. Much of the mile-long cove flats-out at lower tides- one of those light green areas on the chart you need to hit at the right time. The south side is distinguished by a series of 1960s summer homes designed by artist Emily Muir. The houses feature plenty of glass and few right angles, perched atop pink granite cliffs that drop straight down to the water. Paddling beside the cliffs, catching glimpses of the houses atop them, I had to appreciate how rugged the shoreline still felt.


Further in, past Rabbit Island, past the tiny cottage on Sams Island, the cove opens to a shallow pond-like basin. The water here felt almost warm.. Towels were hung to dry on a dock railing. Mosquitoes hovered in the air. Just beyond the marshy head of the cove, a few cars went past, briefly visible through a break in the trees, their lights on.


I had driven past there countless times, sometimes glancing over for a peek at the cove. Long before that though- before there were roads on the island, the Wabanaki would have reached this spot, hoisted their bark canoes to their shoulders, and started walking. They followed the creek to Georges Pond, and another creek to Holt Pond, where they emerged on the east side of Deer Isle... not something I was ready to do, but it made me think of the layers of human habitation here over the years. In the 1800s, when porpoise oil became sought to fuel lighthouses, the Wabanaki made Crockett Cove a base camp for hunting porpoises. They hunted from canoes, bringing the porpoises back to the cove to be cut-up for the meat and oil. Maybe that’s why the porpoises around here don’t stick around to see if we’re friendly.


Back out at the mouth of the cove, present day inhabitants of a cliff-top house tended a grill, watching the color drain from the sky. I stopped and ate a Snickers bar before turning-on my lights. Across the bay, Vinalhaven made a thin line on the horizon- thinner than usual because of the tide. The moon- less than a week before full- gave off just enough light to navigate by as I made my way home.

Another evening, same neighborhood.

PS: A few weeks ago as I stood on the shore of Hells Half Acre with a group I was guiding and a guy paddled up and said "Are you the blogger?"

"Why yes," I said. "Yes I am." It turned out that he recognized me- and my boat- from the blog. Amazing. My anonymity was shattered, and suddenly the group I was guiding took a new interest. Was it possible they might end up in somebody's blog?

It's always a possibility, it seems. The guy in the kayak was Lawrence Pepper, and he would soon document his paddling experience on his blog: Each and Everyone. Check-out his website- it's beautiful. And, not long after running into us, he came across Baffin Paddler and Penobscot Paddles whose blogs I had already been following with keen interest. The archipelago was chock-full of paddle bloggers, all blogging about each other. Where is this all going?