Phoebe Island

Every now and then the forces of the universe are in alignment: not too cold, not too much wind, we're not too lazy, and we don't have any commitments... and we get a chance to get out for a paddle. Yesterday was one such day, with a winter storm watch starting at three in the afternoon. We even had a hint of the sun glowing somewhere behind all the clouds. The photo above was taken just before noon. High noon is not so high these days.

The wind was predicted to increase from the east, so we paddled east, hoping to have it at our backs as we returned: Scott, Green, Sprout (above) onward to Camp (below); a route we've done enough to render it a classic.

A classic, and yet I never tire of it. Much of my paddling in recent months has been done elsewhere, researching the guidebook, and if we get a few nice enough days, I'll be paddling in Massachusetts instead. If you live in southern New England and you've ever casually mentioned that we should come paddle with you or crash on your living room floor, look out; I may be making good on those invitations before long.

But it truly is a joy to get out to the archipelago, even on such an otherwise dreary day. We followed the shore of Devil, on to Spruce, Millet, and Saddleback Islands. For some reason, we got it into our heads to have lunch on Phoebe Island. We hadn't been there in awhile, which is enough reason to want to go there again. Besides, we'd discovered that it is designated as a seabird nesting island, which makes it off limits in early summer.

As I paddled, I thought a lot about my current writing project: an introduction to the guidebook. Other guidebooks include all kinds of information in the introduction: everything from boat selection to personal essays. There's usually a short manifesto about whether or not routes should be rated according to skill level (they shouldn't) and possibly sections on Leave No Trace, safety, what to wear and just about anything else a kayaker might need to know. It's tough to know where to draw the line. After all, the point of a guidebook is to provide information about a place, rather than teach people how to kayak.

I think it ought to have enough information that someone who flies into New England from some other part of the world would know what to expect as far as climate, clothing, laws, the boats we use, etc, but not so much that a beginner is tempted to use it as a how-to book. I guess I'm just thinking out loud here, but I welcome ideas. I feel very privileged to be writing this book. I consider the guide not so much mine, or AMC Books' but as something that belongs to the paddling community at large in the same way that The White Mountain Guide belongs to the hiking community. And yet it's also an opportunity to further explore sea kayaking through writing, and let it take me where it will.

We ate a quick lunch on Phoebe Island, and as predicted, the east winds picked up in early afternoon, helping us along as we paddled back home.

Solstice

For about a month and a half leading up to the winter solstice, I start reassuring myself that it isn't long until the days start getting longer again. We try to take our afternoon walk (usually an evening walk) earlier and earlier, but we still end up walking home in the dark. Today, the shortest day of the year, we got out for a paddle just after lunch.

Even in the middle of the day the sun barely seemed to penetrate. The forecast had called for freezing rain and sleet, so we hadn't planned on paddling, but when the storm passed to the north we made a quick choice to head out. It felt good: air temps in the high 30s and not much wind. The weather has been wintery lately, but I've seen a few good paddling days come and go while I stayed inside, writing about paddling. Ironic perhaps, but there are worse things to do with your time. Still, it was too easy to get into the habit of not paddling, and I was itching to get out.

We followed a route we often embark on by tacit agreement, hardly talking about where we might go: head for Steves and take it from there.



We'd had about two feet of snow a few days earlier, but the warmer temperatures were melting it away. It lay thick and moist upon the granite ledges. Clouds hung around the hills on Isle au Haut.

We took a break on the south-facing beach on McGlathery. By then it was three o'clock, the daylight quickly draining away.

We saw plenty of tracks in the snow just above the beach, and when we paddled through the gap between McGlathery and Little McGlathery, a small deer watched us for a moment before bounding away. 

Lobster boats motored back from deeper waters offshore, lights on. Soon we were doing the same as a faint pink glow in the west suggested sunset. We made our way around the east side of Russ Island to make the shorter, lower traffic crossing over to Dow Ledge. Our winter walks often take us to Dow Ledge, where, at low tide, we can get about as close to the archipelago as possible without a boat. Today we got as close to Deer Isle as we could without walking.

Lobster boats were still coming back in the dark, and we made our way carefully through the mooring field east of town. Tomorrow, the days start getting longer.