Great Bay, New Hampshire

At the launch, I thought I may have been a bit over-prepared for the environment.  I put on my usual gear-- the drysuit and neoprene mukluks, radio antenna and hydration tube bristling from my lifejacket, tow belt hanging from my waist. A couple arrived with rec boats, wearing the usual rec boat gear-- shorts and t-shirts and to their credit-- lifejackets. The woman approached and asked if I’d paddled there before.
    “First time here,” I told her.
    She looked at my outfit and seemed perplexed. “Well, do you know if there are any- um, dangers up the river? Like waterfalls or anything?”
    “I don’t think so. I’m sure you can avoid anything like that.”
    They went upriver with the incoming tidal current, and I went downriver, against it. I had the unusual feeling that the people in the pond boats were making the smarter-- or at least easier choice, but I had my plans. 

I followed a muddy bank, topped with emerald marsh grass bending in the breeze: spartina. As I rounded each bend in the shore, ducks emerged from the grass, panicked, noisily taking flight. High tension utility lines hung across the river, and high atop one of the poles sat an osprey nest. Soon, I paddled beneath a railroad trestle where the current against me increased, and I entered into what felt like a big lake, several miles across: Great Bay, a tidal estuary just west of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
    I’d left Stonington at 5:30 that morning and driven south to pick-up my new boat: a P&H Cetus MV. I figured since I’d made the drive, I’d check-out some New Hampshire paddling. Only about 18 miles of the New Hampshire coast is exposed to open ocean, but the Piscataqua River stretches inland from Portsmouth Harbor and divides into a multitude of other rivers and inland bays. Great Bay has a long, contorted shoreline and is fed by three rivers, but it is shallow and when the tide goes out, the shoreline shrinks drastically, leaving vast expanses of soft mud. Which is why it seemed prudent to launch on a rising tide.

I headed up the Lamprey River, which narrowed as I proceeded, rocky banks towering with oaks and hickory trees, leafy and green. The contrasts between here and Stonington were already obvious. Here, it felt like summer, while Stonington seemed to have been in the same cool, foggy limbo for months. A couple of fishing kayaks bobbed down the middle of the river, each sprouting several jiggling rods that trolled the water far behind. A couple launched shorter boats from their dock. We fell into place beside each other and chatted a bit. They were headed upstream to Newmarket, where I arrived after a few more twists and turns. Here, the river is flanked by six-story mill buildings with a waterfall roaring over a dam between them, echoing through the brick and stone canyon. It was Memorial Day and a small crowd had gathered along the bank for a picnic.

Back out on Great Bay, I headed north along the shore, past an eagle refuge and on out to a pair of small islands where I found a group of 7 sea kayakers taking a break. I pulled-up on shore among them. They were from New Hampshire and Massachusetts, a group that gets together every now and then for a paddle. Several of them had been to Old Quarry and seemed to remember me- even knew about our island cleanup scheduled for Saturday. I asked about favorite places to paddle in New Hampshire. One man thought a moment and said “Maine.” 

I paddled with them for awhile, enjoying the company. We followed the shore of Adams Point until I realized I needed to head back. I’d been following the west shore, avoiding the brunt of the wind, but I wanted to check-out the shoreline along the Great Bay National Wildlife Refuge on the east shore. Much of this shoreline was lined with steep rocks, slapped by wind-driven waves. I felt pleasantly weary after not enough sleep and too many miles. The early evening sunlight lit the trees in golden light and my head filled with the sound of waves and wind.The boat felt like it was discovering, for the first time, its purpose.

From here until the take-out I paddled against a strong wind. I was tired and the wind slowed me down, but it felt good, and even better when I crossed back beneath the railroad trestle into the Squamscott River and paddled, once again, against the current to the take-out. There I met a guy who had gone upstream to Exeter. New Hampshire may not have a long seacoast, but I was discovering that there is much to explore.

I found a Chinese take-out place and returned to the campground. The forecast for the next day looked good, so I would take one more trip before heading home. I ate at a picnic table with the chart spread before me, pondering the possibilities until I could no longer keep my eyes open.

Guide's Class

At Old Quarry, the culmination of our 6-day class for aspiring sea kayak guides is a camping trip out to the islands. This year Nate and I taught the class and we were fortunate enough to have along a willing pair of practice clients, who we treated as we would treat any customer.  The fact that they were a pair of journalists on assignment for Maine Magazine added yet another angle, putting our students on the spot, yes, but what better way to learn than to guide actual clients?

For the previous four days of the class, which occurred over two weekends, we had spent time in the classroom and on the water, covering much of what one might need to know to be a sea kayak guide: everything from group management to rescues and weather. In addition to teaching practical skills, we were also preparing our students for the Maine Guide licensing exam.

Our clients, Sandy and Frank, arrived on Saturday morning just as we finished in the classroom. We equipped them with drysuits and dry bags and we all gathered down at the launch to pack. One important part of guiding, for the exam and in real life, is the pre-trip briefing. This is akin to the spiel that a flight attendant delivers before take-off, imparting a few important details, like what to do if you capsize or get separated from the group. We had our students deliver the pre-trip and we headed-out.

 
When we guide, the trip belongs to the clients and we try to provide them with the experience they want, as long as we can do it safely. So when we’re guiding student guides, we want them to learn how to best communicate with the clients; how to keep them safe without diminishing their sense of freedom and discovery. It is a learned skill that evolves with practice. So, at the very start of the trip when we embarked in the opposite direction I expected, Nate and I conferred: just go with it, we decided, see how it works out. But when we started into the channel with a lobster boat headed our way, we cut-in and suggested we wait for the boat to pass.

We ate lunch on Hells Half Acre and continued. With occasional pauses for quick lessons, we made our way out past Millet, and on to our destination on Saddleback. I watched our guests, wondering if this felt like fun, as any guided trip should, or if it just felt like a lot of work. I guessed it fell somewhere between the two, but the bonus for our guests was that they were learning much more than they otherwise would- skills that most paddlers don’t learn until they decide to guide other paddlers.

We arrived on the island and set-up camp, choosing a rocky outcrop above the water for our dinner area. One conflict I have with guiding overnight trips is balancing my personal, minimal approach with what others expect. My dinner is usually made by boiling water. I make an insulated mug of tea that will last me all evening, then I heat some ready-made packets. Last week I had pad thai one evening and an Indian lentil dish over rice the next. I’ve always been quite satisfied with this. Dinner takes about 20 minutes, 30 tops. There is almost no clean-up. This allows me to spend my time paddling or exploring... or perhaps just sitting out on the rocks with a book, enjoying the sunset.

With a group it is always a more cumbersome process, partially because it isn’t very cost-effective to do otherwise. Also, we want to impress. And our dinner that night was impressive: a stir-fry and rice combo with choice of tofu or chicken. Certainly tastier than my instant dinner packets. While dinner cooked, we sat on the rocks, ate Goldfish and chatted. Sandy asked a lot of questions, while Frank shot numerous photos with at least two cameras; now they were working.

I woke up early and took a walk. I watched the sun rise and did my stretches. I’m not always an early riser, but I prefer to be up before others on a group trip. That span of time for myself seems to make it easier the rest of the day to accept that it is no longer my time. I returned to camp and found Nate making coffee. We sat for a long time, talking about what we thought was going well and what wasn’t, what we needed to focus on for the last day of the class. In six days, we couldn’t possibly cover everything. We would need to let the students go and trust that they would layer this instruction with more practice, study and experience. Some would be taking the guide’s exam within a month or two, and while their success or failure reflected upon us, we cared far more that they were confident and able leaders... all of which began with their own personal skills.

The others gradually awoke and drifted toward the smell of coffee. Nate made French toast. We launched mid-morning and made our way back, stopping at one more island for lunch. I was impressed with our guests. Sandy, concerned that she might not keep up with the group, had focused on learning a good forward stroke, and it showed. And when we paused before crossing the Deer Isle Thorofare-- our last such crossing of the trip, Frank spoke-up, suggesting that it might be a good place to take a range to ensure we didn’t drift sideways with the current. Everyone laughed; after all, this was the guide’s role, but he was right. Accordingly, our guide for the crossing lined-up Humpkins Ledge with Indian Point and away we went.

Weskeag River, Owl's Head, Muscle Ridge Islands

I landed on a large island just off Owl’s Head and pitched my tent in a meadow overlooking a cobble beach and a vast, open stretch of West Penobscot Bay.  Seven or eight miles across the water, the trio of wind generators stood on Vinalhaven, blades slowly turning, red lights blinking-- much as they appear from Stonington, nine miles further west.

As the crow flies, I was only about 17 miles from home, but I’d driven three hours to launch on the Weskeag River in South Thomaston, and paddled another three hours to get to this island: maybe not the most efficient way to get here. En route though, I’d paddled the west bank of the Weskeag and followed the shoreline of the town of Owl’s Head, past a lot of unfamiliar territory: a different corner of Penobscot Bay, but still part of our overall neighborhood.

In general, this part of the bay is far more populated than the east side. For much of the Owl’s Head shore, I paddled past shoulder to shoulder cottages, most of which seemed unoccupied. Near Holiday Beach though, at a house with a trimmed green lawn and cars in the driveway, a man stepped out onto the porch. He shouted, “You’re the first one this year!”

I made it to the lighthouse and bobbed in the waves below for a bit, taking pictures. Situated high upon a rugged rocky headland, Owl’s Head light is the epitome of lighthouse quaintness: waves crashing below, wooden walkway zig-zagging up the hill. It looks much as it did in the 1800s, but is still a significant navigation aid to those entering Penobscot Bay.

After dinner, I sat in the grass drinking my evening tea, when I noticed several ticks crawling up my pant legs. I quickly went back down to the rocks and shook-out my clothes. For the rest of the night, I made speedy trips through the grass to my tent.

I woke early and spent the next day meandering out through the islands of Muscle Ridge. Compared to the Stonington archipelago, these islands are far more exposed to the open ocean and whatever it sends your way. Even on a calm day, swells often rolled-in from multiple directions, creating some chaotic spots.

The islands of the north end are spread-out and either privately-owned or occupied by dense bird colonies, so for the most part, I stayed in my boat. Then, as I approached the denser part of the island group, each island I came to, ready for a pit stop, was either occupied by seals or nesting osprey. 

I finally beached on Dix Island, which is private, but signs welcome visitors to walk the perimeter trail. I didn’t have time for a walk, but I ate my lunch on the beach, amid cast-off hunks of black and white granite from the island’s defunct quarries. The afternoon felt warm, with cirrus clouds drifting high overhead, forming into “mackerel scale” cirrocumulai, signaling the imminent passing of the high pressure system that had given us such clear weather for the last week. It seemed prudent to return to the shelter of the Weskeag for the evening. I needed to anyway, since all the MITA islands out there were closed due to osprey nesting.

I circled a few more islands before heading out around Andrews Island. Despite a relatively small swell, the steep granite shore roared with surf. I could imagine a fun day playing here with friends, but for now I kept my distance.

 The wind had picked-up from the southwest, and since the current in the Muscle Ridge Channel can be significant, I waited for slack tide to cross back to the South Thomaston shore-- about 2.5 nm, stringing my route along some small islands until I returned to the mouth of the Weskeag and found my next campsite. The next morning I was up early-- in time to launch in the sunshine before a new front moved-in, and I paddled back up the river to the launch.