Newbury Neck

It had been breezy all week, but the forecast for Friday looked good- just for one day before the wind picked-up again. So, continuing my exploration of Blue Hill Bay, I drove to Newbury Neck in Surry and set-out to paddle around the southern end.


The eastern shore of Newbury Neck is consistently settled, but spacious with grassy pastures spreading down to gravelly beaches. I paddled against the incoming tide, but managed to catch eddies close to shore, and made good time to High Head. I slowed-down to drift below the serpentine igneous bluffs, dripping with icicles. The land here may be all privately-owned, but the owner, who has a house on Burnt Point, has left much of the southern end of the neck untamed and beautiful.


A dark, massive front eased-in from the west as I rounded the southern end, connecting the dots with recent trips: Long Island, Blue Hill, Morgan Bay. I took a fifteen-minute break on Jed Island and spent the next fifteen minutes restoring feeling to my fingers with some all-out paddling.


Back at the car, I loaded-up, aware that it would probably be my last paddle of the year. It was a good way to end 2011 and think about the year to come. There’s always something new to find out there, always more to learn, whether it’s how best to maneuver the boat, or learning the lay of the land and sea. The more I discover, the more I feel almost overwhelmed by how much I don't know, by all the places on the chart that I haven't seen, and the more driven I feel to keep at it.


So, with such an obsession, who needs resolutions? Happy New Year.

Winter, One Day at a Time

As it gets colder, my paddling excursions become tinged with desperatation to make the most of whatever tolerable weather comes along. I check the forecast compulsively, watching for any window of opportunity. Lately, that's any day above thirty degrees, with winds mostly under ten knots. And since I've had a little more time lately, I've been car-topping the kayak to check-out some areas I don't have time to drive to in the summer, when I work more. Also, I try to choose a route that might be more sheltered from the wind than other areas.


One day I took a tour around Blue Hill Harbor, and out past Parker Point as far as Blue Hill Falls. I like all the nooks and crannies along this shore, many of which have perfectly-situated cottages- all pretty much empty this time of the year. It's impossible to paddle here without being wowed by- and maybe even a little jealous of all these century-old architectural fantasies. In one cove where the ice was building-up, I came to an impasse and had to retrace my route to get out.


Another day I took a spin around Morgan Bay, just east of Blue Hill. I ate my lunch at the head of the bay, in a sunny spot out of the wind, thinking "this winter paddling isn't so bad." But I arrived back at the launch after dark, strapping the kayak to the car with numb fingers, thinking "this winter paddling is nuts."


One day I headed up the Benjamin River, just seeing how far I could get, portaging over a couple of beaver dams until the ice stopped me. I ate my PB&J in a sunny meadow and headed back down the river to Eggemoggin Reach.


The late afternoon sun lit-up the shore as I paddled past until, at Billings Cove, that afternoon sun seemed to abruptly morph into an early sunset. I arrived back at the launch well after dark and cranked the heat in the car while I got out of the drysuit and loaded-up.


I wasn't expecting snow yesterday, but it was coming down pretty hard as I paddled in Union River Bay, along the shore of Newbury Neck. It was just a little colder than previous days, and I had to keep a quick pace to stay warm. The snow tapered-off as I followed the shore around Patten Bay to Weymouth Point, then rode the waves back across.


These have been good trips, yet I'll admit that I'm not feeling super-committed to winter paddling this time around (and it's not even winter yet). I have plenty of numb-finger moments: struggles with drysuit zippers or getting the sprayskirt onto the cockpit rim- things that would be easy in warmer weather. But I can't stand the thought of not getting out. I keep poring over charts obsessively, finding places I want to check-out, and at the same time, watching the weather and the tide charts, and some days it all lines-up. I may not paddle all winter, but it seems impossible to stop looking ahead for that next good day.

Long Island, Blue Hill Bay

I take my first break at a beach at the south end of the island, a crescent of sand curving out toward a small hub island, bristling with spruce trees. A pretty spot: a good place to walk around while I munch my PB&J, sip some tea and try to stay warm. I’ve been paddling for an hour and a half in the sunshine, sweating in my layers, but now the cool air is catching-up. I made the one-mile crossing from the South Blue Hill launch, and for the past few miles I’ve paddled against some mild current and wind, checking-out the shoreline with its deserted summer houses amid leafless hardwoods and occasional spruce.


Long Island in Blue Hill Bay is one of the larger less-developed islands around: 4.5 miles long by 2 miles at its widest- around 4,800 acres. The island is privately-owned, but Acadia National Park holds a conservation easement on it, so the public is allowed access to the unsettled portions... like the entire eastern shore.


As I’ve stood here on the beach, a huge front has moved-in from the west, and the first puffs of clouds start to obscure the sun. I launch and make my way around the southern end, past meadows with clusters of red-berried bushes and beaches, places I’d like to spend a little more time on a warmer day. With two hours until sunset and over eight miles to get back to the launch, I can’t linger, but, now that I’m headed north, the waves and current should give me a little push.


I’m wearing three thin layers of wool and microfleece beneath my drysuit, but my fingers, in thin neoprene gloves, have been numb and tingly for awhile. I try to envision some of that heat from my core pulsing-out to where I need it. Maybe it works. Or it could be that I just get involved with handling my boat as I let the waves turn me to follow the eastern shore. Or it’s the shore itself- I get a weird joy, discovering one wild beach after another, pocketed between arms of stone that I glide past. Whatever it is, at some point this paddle went from a bit of a slog- entirely too conscious of whatever progress I was making along a shoreline half-settled with summer homes, to, well, this.


I no longer notice my tingly fingers. Could be that they’ve warmed-up. Or I just don’t notice because there’s too much else to pay attention to. I don’t want to say I’ve lost myself to the moment. That would be a bit grandiose, and besides, once you think “I’ve lost myself to the moment,” well, that moment’s gone. It could be that the act of paddling and checking-out my surroundings has become more all-encompassing. I’m having fun.


To the west are meadows on another large island- Bartlett, and behind that, the small mountains of Mount Desert Island- nice background, but I’m mostly focused on my immediate surroundings. The shoreline turns steep with rocky slabs sloping down into the water. Occasionally, a cascade of fresh water pours down from the forest, falling over the ledges into the sea. I stop at one of these for another tea and sandwich break and admire how the creek has sculpted the stone.


There’s an entire other world up there in the forest, and I feel bittersweet to leave it behind- yet another place to spend warm days with plenty of sunlight. For now though, I have more time for paddling in the cooler, darker months. The sea has turned calm, and as I round the north end of the island, Blue Hill comes into view, rising over the town and the bay that are named for it. Here and there along shore, lights are twinkling on: time for me to turn on my deck light and get back to the launch.