Lunch on Gooseberry

 

Dick and Kale met me at the ramp in Stonington. Temps hovered around freezing with a breezy north wind, but the sun on my face felt warm. The breeze gave us a push as we paddled toward the sloping profile of Steves Island.

 

I hadn’t paddled here in awhile. Lately I’ve preferred to car-top elsewhere, getting better acquainted with areas I don’t know as well, a satisfying process as I stare at the chart and see the pieces coming together. The satisfaction deepens when you return and see those places at a different tide, or in different weather, and your experience with a place starts to take on layers, informed by what happened each time you were there. 

A few weeks ago, paddling around Bartlett Island off MDI, I remembered how a group I had guided there started singing. As I paddled, the song came back to me- not the popular rock band’s version, but the students paddling their kayaks version. The song drifted through my head as I slowed to stare at tall icicles dripping down the cliffs. Then, below those icicles there was movement, and a coyote took a good look at me before loping off into the woods. And so another layer was added to my experience of the place.

 

 

But in the Stonington archipelago, my adopted backyard, there are enough layers of experience that they all blend together. I've paddled certain routes enough that it sometimes feels like a routine evening stroll, my mind wandering among my thoughts as much as the landscape.  Other times, it’s all still new. Having someone else along adds a whole new dimension. We paddled to some favorite spots: the tiny island paradise of Steves, McGlathery with its boulders perched on sloping slabs of granite, and on to Gooseberry, where we took a break. Out of the wind, with the sun on us, we felt plenty warm.

Meandering into the wind back toward Stonington, we hopscotched in the lee of islands: back to McGlathery, over to Spruce and on toward Hells Half Acre. Wherever we stopped, the beaches looked inviting with little to visually suggest that it was January. In colder months as the water cools, the algae thins-out, and the water turns clear... inviting even, if you weren't moving just to stay warm.

Despite the name of this blog, I sometimes wonder how long I can keep writing about paddling around Stonington and keep it interesting, at least for myself. One way is to get out of Stonington and then return. I like Thoreau's often-quoted statement from Walden: "I have traveled a good deal in Concord...". A case could be made that experience is experience, that it is just as rich to travel in small circles and get to know your backyard as it is to make an extended journey. I love reading accounts of extended journeys, yet I often read with a skeptical eye when the author claims more than he should about a place he glimpsed for a tiny fraction of its (and his) history.

There are too many variables: the tide, the weather and season, and perhaps most importantly- what's going on in the author's head. I think I've been skimming over the surface in these dispatches, and maybe that's all I will ever do. But when we land on some of these islands, or when I let the waves toss me along their shores... it's hard to describe the feeling. I walked among the sun-warmed boulders on Gooseberry and felt something bittersweet, that I loved it so much I didn't want to leave. I could only express this to my friends by saying something like "I really like this place." For now, I'll just leave it at that.

The Union River

A few days ago, on a day forecast to be not too cold, but a bit blustery, I met Nate and John in Ellsworth for a trip up the Union River. Nate happens to live right at the mouth of the river, so we launched from his back yard and headed upstream.

 

We were a little late for high tide, so we paddled around -and sometimes through big sheets of ice that had loosened in the current and drifted downstream. We found eddies along the shore that helped carry us along. It is a surprisingly woodsy stretch of water, considering the shopping plaza sprawl not far away. And, thanks to a denser fish population, the river is probably a more dependable place to come across seals and eagles than out among the islands. 

When I think of Ellsworth, my first image is of the gauntlet of commerce one passes through en route to Mount Desert Island or the Down East coast. It's the place we put up with if we feel the need to go to a big box store, but there is also a nice old, lesser-traveled downtown with a great theater, shops and restaurants. So, arriving through the city's back door on the Union River is a reminder of why all that civilization ended-up there in the first place. It's a small miracle that most of the river is fairly undeveloped. Even in town, there's stretches of forested shoreline with granite outcrops rising out of the water. Past the public ramp is an solid stretch of industrial development: the water treatment plant, an oil tank farm, and a hodge-podge of buildings turning their backs to the river. There's been some efforts for the city to buy some of the waterfront to take better advantage of the river, but it's a slow process.

The current increased as we made our way around a bend and passed beneath the bridge. I've driven over the bridge countless times, and I've always glanced down at the river, wondering what it would be like down there. Now I know: it's better than being up there.

Just upstream from the bridge we came to a rapids. Nate paddled as far up into it as he could, surfing on a wave or two, but it wasn't passable.

Even if it were, we wouldn't get past the Leonard Lake Dam just upstream. But it made us think about warmer days, portages, following the river to its source. We ate our lunch on a park bench, just below the library, and paddled back downstream.

Hardhead & Eagle Islands

On the west side of Deer Isle, there’s a beach in Sylvester Cove that, in the summer, has a sign that reads “No Kayak Launching”. There’s no sign there now, so the other day I launched there, followed the shore along Dunham Point, and headed-out to Hardhead Island. Snow came down lightly, and the far-off islands were now and again obscured by drifting grey clouds.  

Hardhead is a “bargain island”; it feels much more “out there” than it really is. A mile off Dunham Point, it’s a big hunk of dark rock rising straight out of the sea. Unlike its name though, it has a fuzzy crown, with tall, inviting grasses atop it, mixed with the usual thorny, drysuit-grabbing bushes. In the summer, the island is off- limits, due to bird nesting.

Hand in hand with its bargain island status though, Hardhead Island may beckon unprepared mariners from the relatively calm waters off Dunham Point out to an area that can quickly turn hazardous. It looks so close. But as the water in East Penobscot Bay moves north and south, Dunham Point and Eagle Island funnel that water into a mile and a half-wide gap and the currents increase. Add to that some significant fetch to the south, and the ingredients are there for some chaotic water.

 

 The only recent kayaking death off Deer Isle (the only one I’m aware of) happened in this area in 2006. Back in 1873, a pair of Eagle Island residents drowned here while going to Deer Isle for supplies. I keep this information somewhere in the back of my mind, reminding me to be aware of the tide and weather, no matter what it looks like out there.

 

After a quick hike up to the top of Hardhead, I paddled-on to Eagle Island, passing the lighthouse and following the shore to its calm, western side, where I followed wide pebbly beaches and pulled-up to eat my PB&J. Eagle has a long history of habitation, but is now reduced to one year-round family and a small community of summer residents. 

There are even some rental homes. At a little over a mile long and a half-mile wide, Eagle is just big enough to explore much of it on a good morning walk. Paths range over the island, connecting the broad beaches and rocky headlands. All of this is private property where I’ve never walked... but could if I rented a house there for a week sometime. And it’s in a nice neighborhood for paddling: Butter, Great Spruce Head, Bear Island... just a hop over to North Haven. Such are mid-winter fantasies. 

 

I followed the cliffy eastern shore, admiring the storey-high icicles dripping from the forest above. The snow was coming-down heavier now. I aimed for Hardhead and headed back across the bay. By the time I pulled up on the beach in Sylvester Cove, the islands were all obscured.