The Lake

After our wedding (over 21 years ago) Rebecca and I got into a canoe and paddled-off. A symbolic gesture, our excursion gave the guests the opportunity to gather on the shore and make some noise before they went home. It should have been a clean getaway for us, but we hadn’t really planned it. We paddled-off and disappeared around another point where we couldn’t be seen. It felt just like any other day on the lake, except I wore a white linen suit and a brand-new band of gold, which felt like it might fall off my finger at any moment. Rebecca wore a home-made wedding dress, and that din of distant music and voices belonged to our family and friends. We sat back, shaded by the tall pines, and rested our paddles on the gunwales. Rebecca turned around and said “what now?”

Indeed. We’ve asked that question many times since: what now? Sometimes we need to just paddle away with no chart to guide us and no destination in mind. We've lived a few places since then, but we always find our way back to the lake. A century ago when Rebecca's great-grandfather built a house here, there seemed to be a tacit agreement among property owners; houses were set back in the woods with dark, bark-colored shingles and green roofs that blended with the treetops. There were no lawns or paved driveways. You used to be able to paddle along the shore, hardly aware of the houses you passed. When you looked down into the water, it was so clear you could see fish swimming among the granite boulders twenty feet down.

Much has changed. There’s always been access for hand-launched boats, but at some point a paved public boat ramp was built with a big parking lot for all the people who want to buzz around the lake in the motorized vessel of their choice. And those powerboats brought hitch-hikers- milfoil and zebra mussels, not to mention the more predictable by-products of motorized humans. There are new houses, some that make a nod to those shingle-style predecessors, but there’s nothing simple, utilitarian or modest about these weekend retreats. The water is no longer so clear. We seldom see fish, but they must still be there, judging from the fishermen who endlessly chug around. 

I was lucky to have seen the lake before these changes. Rebecca has known it her whole life, and her connection to it runs deep. She and her cousins have returned there most years, no matter where they’ve lived, and during some “in-between” winters we’ve even called it home. We were all married there- parents, sister, cousins, friends... us- always out on the Point, usually on a wooden platform covering the campfire pit. Ashes are scattered there.

So, going to the lake is as much a pilgrimage as recreation. It is big enough that it takes a few trips to see most of it. We tend to head-out to discover what draws us-on: the islands, a series of ledgy points or the “river” through town to another lake. Mountains rise-up in the background, and we know the view of the lake from each summit.

At this point though, I only get to the lake in cooler, less-crowded months. Summer renters help cover the maintenance and exorbitant property taxes, and our livelihood keeps me in Stonington for the summer. Rebecca spends much more time at the lake, while I hesitate to leave Stonington, and miss it while I’m away. Actually, it’s not Stonington so much as the ocean around it- the archipelago and the islands from Penobscot to Frenchman Bays. When I return, I welcome the feel of a swell passing beneath the hull, the salt spray on my face, and the limitless geography of the ocean.

But it’s always good to get to the lake. I’m torn between paddling along shore and hiking in the mountains, but when the morning sun shines on the Point, you get the feeling that there’s really no better place to be, so some days we just enjoy being there. It’s the same way when we get out there in our kayaks. We were there last week, and several times we stopped paddling just to take it in. Eventually, one of us would ask “what now?” As with our wedding day, it didn’t really matter: pick up the paddle, move forward, enjoy being here.

Lunch on a Ledge - SKS After Five Years

Five years ago, on Saturday, April 14, 2007, I posted the first installment of Sea Kayak Stonington, titled Launch. It featured a few photos of Todd and me getting ready to launch at Colwell Ramp. My drysuit was brand-new, bright mango, and behind us the faded red Colwell building still stood on heavy timbers over the water, yet to be torn-down. I’d had my sea kayak- a goldenrod-yellow Impex Diamante- for about a year and a half, but I’d been paddling obsessively- without long gaps from one excursion to the next, for less than a year.

That first blog post included a few snapshots and details of a trip out into the Stonington-Isle au Haut archipelago. In one shot, I’m floating in the water just beyond the ramp, wondering how I’m going to get the camera from Rebecca. Behind me, Todd is doing the sort of edging that, at the time, I could only aspire to. My paddle is huge, its blades feathered at different angles- to create less wind resistance went the theory, but most of the time we just avoided such wind.

With that in mind, I thought I’d take a commemorative excursion out among some familiar spots. The day looked to be a bit breezy, so I kept my ambitions mild and headed-out for Steves Island. I landed and did my usual litter patrol. The island probably had few if any visitors since the last time I walked its shore last month, but I found a pile of the usual plastic bottles, styrofoam cups and the remains of crumbling foam buoys. The wind had picked-up, whitecaps from the southwest rolling in with streaks of spindrift, so I launched and aimed roughly toward Hells Half Acre, figuring the wind and waves would do much of the work, and my return to Stonington would be mostly sheltered by islands.

As I approached Bare Island, I passed a ledge-y islet, and it occurred to me that, though I’ve paddled past it many times, I’d never landed. It was low tide and the landings were easy on the non-wavy side, so I stopped and had a look. It seemed bigger than I’d expected, especially at low tide. If you were desperate for a place to camp, you could at least find a bivvy ledge here. Bare Island, maybe a hundred yards off makes a meadowy backdrop, and you get a little glimpse of Stonington framed by Spud and Potato Islands: a slightly different perspective of some familiar sights. 

A short paddle brought me to another ledge, just north of Coombs Island. Again, I’d been past it many times, but usually intent on getting somewhere else. I landed for lunch -  PB & J, and a Thermos of hot tea. I sat just barely out of the wind, enough to feel warm in the sun. Sitting there on a ledge where I’d never landed before - only two miles from home, made me think. In the early days of this blog I often exclaimed how one could paddle in the same place again and again, but that it could continue to reveal new sights. Lately I’ve been doing a lot of car-topping to less familiar areas, driven by the joy of discovery. And it is a joy: getting the lay of the land and sea, letting the geography etch itself into my consciousness. (Or something like that). But in a way, discovery, newness- appreciating where you are - is a state of mind. 

A few days ago a visitor came into the gallery and asked, a bit skeptically, if we still “saw” our surroundings. In other words, "sure, it’s pretty here, but after awhile does it get to be the same old, same old?" I quickly replied that yes, we do still “see” our surroundings here. That’s more or less Rebecca’s job as an artist, and it’s tough somehow for those paddling excursions to turn into the same boring commute.

You’d think, the closer I paddle to town, the harder it would be to find new spots. I stopped at Hells Half Acre and aimed back for town. Just past Camp Island, focused on Russ Island ahead, I was going past the big ledge... and I had to stop and have a look around. Again, my first visit. Within sight of town and Old Quarry. 

Sea Kayak Stonington began as a group project, an extension of the logbook we left in “the clubhouse”- the storage area a group of us share at the launch. Also, the blog on my art gallery’s website had started getting infected with paddling snapshots. In the early days, Todd responded to posts and to other people’s comments, usually under a pseudonym, but the blog never really worked as a group endeavor. We weren’t much of a group. The “clubhouse” turned-out to be just a place to store boats, and the logbook more of a way to figure-out who had been there. Sea Kayak Stonington became my own personal logbook.

I didn’t know why I wrote these trip descriptions and posted them online with photos, but it seemed to motivate me to paddle and write and try to understand it all better. Maybe there isn’t a lot to understand about sea kayaking, or the ocean, or a guy slowly realizing that most of his life is probably behind him and looking for some way to navigate the rest of it. But the experience feels richer when I spend some time revisiting my excursions and thinking about them- even to try to see the whole endeavor from someone else’s eyes. Of course people write to connect with other people, and I’m sure that’s part of it. I occasionally hear from readers, which is cool. But most of the writing is akin to the paddling: solo, quiet, meandering- not looking for anything deep or meaningful, but once in awhile it feels like I’m right there at the edge of something. It makes a few ripples and disappears.

Paddling, guiding, teaching and blogging: where's it all going? I wrote a few thousand words more than I'm posting here, but it was a few thousand words too long. I start-out headed for lunch on Steve's Island and I find myself somewhere I've never been before- a place I hardly knew existed. I trust my selfish instincts best; as long as it's fun, I'll keep at it

Around Mountainville and Stinson Neck

Circumnavigations get my attention, just as, oddly- routes that involve portages. I've tried this one a couple of times before and failed- always thwarted by something: ice, tidal currents, mudlfats, cold, motivation... There's no perfect way to do it without encountering one of these obstacles.  Stinson Neck is an island connected to Mountainville by a causeway, while Mountainville is almost another island, connected to the east side of Deer Isle by a narrow strip of land called The Carryover. The Indians were big on carrying their canoes where possible and, as much as I prefer paddling my kayak rather than carrying it, staring at these old routes inspires me to want to follow in the Indians’ footsteps. At least for a few steps. Then I really want to be paddling my kayak again.

Aside from ice, which is gone now, there are two potential obstacles to plan for on this route. First, you need to cross the Carryover at high enough tide, since the head of Greenlaw Cove flats-out for a half-mile. Second, avoid paddling against the current, especially in Brays Narrows, where Long Cove drains-out to Southeast Harbor. Beyond that, unless you plan on spending the day waiting somewhere for favorable currents (and there are some nice spots to do that) you’ll paddle against it some, and need to carry through mud somewhere. I compromised by leaving Grays Cove at high tide, crossing the Carryover about an hour later, and riding out through Brays Narrows with a little current behind me. On my way there, I saw some gulls and dogs.

It had been windy from the north/northwest, and I chose this route partially to avoid the wind. The first stretch was pretty bumpy and wet, but once I carried over into Long Cove I paddled on fairly sheltered water. I cleaned the salt spray from my sunglasses and continued.

Island Heritage Trust is responsible for several public access areas along the way. Aside from Gray's Cove, there's also Campbell Island and Shore Acres Preserve, both in Greenlaw Cove. Polypod Island, where Southeast Harbor, Brays Narrows and Inner Harbor all come together is a good spot for a break. This time though, I hugged the shore, checking-out the coves on the Mountainville side, including the southernmost cove, which is enclosed in IHT's Tennis Preserve, occupying most of the point jutting out into Southeast Harbor. I paddled a little further and took a break at a small beach tucked out of the wind in a tiny, south-facing cove. The sand here is a brown- almost orange hue, like the granite bluffs nearby.

It really felt like a beach day, but I had to keep moving. Not only did I have an end of day commitment, but the longer I took, the more mud I would slog through back at Grays Cove. I went across to the southern end of Stinson Neck, passing the Haystack School and the Lazygut Islands, and took a detour up into Conary Cove. The current was against me, especially where the channel narrowed beyond the lobster pound. It took several tries, but I finally pushed myself upstream.

I couldn't go far- the upper reaches of the cove were quickly draining, and I rode the current back out before I could be trapped. 

The current was generally against me along the east side, but I stayed close to shore and avoided most of it. As I paddled I started thinking that this route might work well by launching in Stonington or Old Quarry. That way you could hit the Carryover at high tide and never need to paddle against the current. These mental breakthroughs tend to hit me when I've been paddling against the current and wind for awhile... and again while I'm slogging through the mud back at the launch. Only a five-minute mudwalk with my boat on my shoulder, but enough to build character, I'm sure.

Tinker, Bar, Trumpet & Ship Islands

A half-hour after setting-out, it occurred to me that I was going the wrong way. I’d launched from Naskeag Point in Brooklin, bound for the Tinker Island group. I’d passed the usual waypoints on the crossing, aiming for the pair of southwest boulders on Pond Island when I thought “wait a minute...” I paused to have a look at the chart on my deck.

Those arrows weren't drawn on it yet. Too bad; I felt a little confused. I’d planned for high tide at noon and light winds out of the north. I’d get pushed north up Blue Hill Bay, to the north end of Tinker where the tide would change and began pushing me south. Beautiful. Love it.

But then it occurred to me that I’d read the tide chart wrong. I shouldn’t even admit this. It isn’t the first time. I’m starting to think of it as “navigational dyslexia.” East is west, high tide is low tide... Usually it lasts a few moments until I figure it out. I did figure it out the night before, but instead of choosing a different destination, I decided.... I don't know- something that didn't make sense. Low tide was at noon, not high tide, and anyway I forgot all about that when I launched and just pointed out toward Smuttynose. One way or another, I was destined to paddle against the current some of the time. Maybe this had been the case all along, but it’s worse when you think you should have known better.


The Tinker Island group islands all occupy the same ridge of shallow water, dividing Blue Hill Bay roughly in half. Bar Island, my first destination, is mostly privately-owned, but the southern end, along with Trumpet and Ship Islands to the south, is part of the Coastal Maine Islands National Wildlife Refuge. Most of the refuge islands are off-limits due to seabird nesting from April 1st through July. This was the last day of March, and just offshore, seabirds lined-up in droves, ready to stake a claim. I still had half a day before the stampede, so I got out and had a look around: broad beach, eroding bluffs with grassy meadows above, dotted with occasional spruce. My eye was easily drawn to Western Mountain on Mount Desert Island, just a few miles east.

I went around the island, barely crossing the bar at low tide, and followed Tinker’s western shore up to Sand Point, where I stopped for lunch. Tinker was occupied before the American Revolution and the population grew to over 40 inhabitants in the 1840s when a shipyard operated at Sand Point. It’s been a century since anyone lived there full-time, but there's now a summer residence on the southern end. Maine Coast Heritage Trust owns the northern half, maintaining a couple of campsites, like the one at Sand Point. It’s a nice spot, with views past the lighthouse to Isle au Haut. 


While I ate my lunch I watched the effects of the tide change as the northbound current began pushing against the southbound wind, developing a chop with whitecaps spread across the bay. I paddled around to the east side, where the going was a little easier and made a figure “8,” crossing back over the bar to the other side of Bar Island. I knew I was running out of time- I had to volunteer at the Opera House at six, but when I saw some “FOR SALE” flags, I just had to stop and imagine where I would put my cabin. I’d need to look at my financial papers when I got home (the still-unchecked lottery ticket from Friday night) but this would do.

By now, the northern wind had shifted around to the south and picked-up considerably. I made quick stops on Trumpet and Ship Islands, verifying that they were ready for the birds to inhabit, and headed back across- four or five miles against the wind and waves. I willed myself to not look at my watch, to not think about how late I would be.

This is why I don’t like to make commitments. I paddled straight toward the sun, which turned the distant islands and growing swells into dark silhouettes. I focused on my immediate surroundings, on keeping a clean forward stroke, and eventually made it back to Naskeag Harbor. An hour later I stood in the ticket booth at the Opera House, stretching-out those sore muscles.