Great Gott, Black Islands

We drove along, happily chatting away with an entire sunny day of paddling ahead of us when I heard a little “thunk.” My foot came off the gas. Both bows still hung over the windshield, unchanged. But one of the tie-down ropes now dangled loosely, drifting down over the hood to the underside of the car, where it had previously been attached and taut. In the rear view, the tailgating dude was still right there, seemingly unaware of the his potential of being skewered by the pointy end of a Pygmy Coho-- a kayak-kabob. There was no room to pull over, but a turn-off loomed just ahead. We coasted toward it, watching the rope flop around until I turned, maneuvering the car off the road as carefully as I could... but the rope abruptly tightened and the bow jerked downward. I hit the brakes.

The rope had caught beneath the wheel, winding around it like a power winch, pulling the kayak down with it. I backed the car a few feet and Rebecca pulled the rope out, but the boat still angled downward. The roof rail had pulled one nut right through the roof, and ripped out of another. The clothesline we’d tied the stern with had snapped. Fortunately. Something had to give, and it could have been the boat -- in pieces, all over the road. We tied it all back together as well as we could and headed down the road... carefully. At Nate’s house, we added a strap around the whole thing, running it through the doors and inside the car. That held it. We proceeded to the launch.

The irony is that I’m extremely careful and worrisome when it comes to car-topping kayaks. The bow and stern lines, which are essential on a shorter roof, turned-out to be the weak link. So we’ll figure-out a system that can’t get beneath the wheels if it fails. In the meantime, well, I installed the rack myself, so I can fix it. More holes to drill, a little Bondo: no problem.

Later, we paddled out past the Bass Harbor Head light and followed the bar toward the meadowy north end of Great Gott Island. High tide had just passed, and a mild ebbing tide pushed us west. We paddled past The Pool on Great Gott and lingered in the narrows where the current had begun increasing.

Then we splashed around a bit among the rosy pink granite slots and ledges on the east sides of Little Gott and Black. We were eager to hear details from Nate’s five-star training trip to Scotland, which he provided in bits and pieces as we made our way to Little Black Island for lunch.

Nate had an afternoon commitment, so he headed back early, catching a few rides on the mid-tide waves over the bar. We hung-out for awhile on Little Black, just walking around, looking at the rocks and the big view of the open ocean.

We meandered back, making a big “figure-8” route: north around Black, south around the Gotts. The waves had settled-down over the bar by the time we headed back across, and we drove home without further mishap.

Searsport, Belfast, The Passagassawakeag

The really decent paddling days have been a bit scarce lately, but one morning we got over to Searsport and launched during a brief window of sunshine. Then, as we progressed along the coast toward Belfast, dark clouds moved in from the west, and below them, the dark curtainy wisps of snow squalls. 

It only made the day more dramatic. We paddled along the back yard of a neighborhood that we usually see from a very commercial strip of Route One: big houses with acres of lawn, old bungalows atop crumbling bluffs and colonies of motor court cabins. Rebecca sniffed the air. "Thai food," she said, and sure enough, there was Seng Thai far up the hill.

We wanted as much help from the tide as we could get, so we hurried through the harbor and passed beneath the old and new Route One bridges, and on up the Passagassawakeag River. The tide was already against us so we hugged the edges, looking for eddies and made our way upstream. Judging from the flow coming out of Wescot Stream, the flow was augmented by spring run-off.

We got about as far as we could get, to a forest where the river turned shallow and swift, and pulled up on the ice to eat our lunch.

We seal-launched off the ice and headed downstream. By now, the current had picked-up considerably, and we reached Belfast in half the time it took to get upstream.

If you live in some place with lots of big bridges and industry, paddling beneath the Route One bridge might not sound like such a thrill. But for me, I think of how many times I've driven across these places and looked down, wondering what it would be like to be down there on the water. Somehow, seeing it from the watery side of things just seems to complete the picture somehow, and paddling past the urban-industrial waterfront-- the factory that makes "distinctive potato products" and the wastewater treatment plant--  these geographic puzzle pieces come together in my mind.

What I'm saying is that paddling in a place just makes it better.

We meandered along the waterfront, checking-out the boats. Toward the mouth of the river, low swells came in from Penobscot Bay and, squeezing into the harbor against the outgoing current, grew steeper and closer together. A few miles south, those snow squalls still progressed across the bay. We pointed our bows east and headed back, bouncing over the waves with the smell of Thai food blending with the feel in the air of impending snow.

The Southwest Corner of MDI

At the launch in Bass Harbor as we got our boats ready, a fisherman rowed in and tied his dinghy to the dock. He saw our kayaks and told us “the seas are runnin’ big out there.”
    “We’re just heading up the shore,” I told him. “Staying in the lee... but thanks.”
    He looked at our boats. “I suppose that oughtta work.”
    I was grateful for the affirmation. It had been plenty windy lately, but that day it had died-down some, still coming from the east, and it seemed like a good day to follow the lee shore for a bit and get up into some coves at high tide. Still, I found myself looking out toward the islands, wondering. The seas looked flat enough - the classic lure of the offshore breeze that draws unsuspecting paddlers into quickly-changing conditions (see the latest Sea Kayaker).

We wove our way among the lobster boats in the harbor and followed the shore out toward Lopaus Point. The swell increased gradually. Out at Weaver Ledge, waves seemed to appear out of nowhere, stand up tall and explode onto the shallow rocks. We paused at the point, watching a few waves come in, but once we got around the point, all was calm.

The southwest corner of Mount Desert Island has plenty of private, oceanfront real estate, much of which is occupied by large homes. But there’s also plenty of undeveloped shoreline. We followed the contours of coves, meandered into a large salt marsh and ate lunch on a rocky beach. The sun came out.

We critiqued the architecture as we paddled. Rebecca leaned towards places with plenty of windows and porches, while I gravitated toward the occasional grandfathered boat shed or waterfront guest house- the more rickety the better. Nobody was home. Which made it easier to find a spot for our next break.

At Dodge Point, we turned around and headed back. We pulled out for a quick stop for the view at Rumell Island and hoofed it back to Bass Harbor, arriving shortly before sunset.