Sea Kayak Stonington

Placentia, Black Islands

2012-02-18T11:24:00.001-05:00

With a forecast for an unusually calm day- hardly any wind and temps up to forty, Nate and I launched in Bass Harbor and paddled straight out to Placentia Island. Not long ago I read “We Were an Island,” by Peter Blanchard- the story of Art and Nan Kellam who lived alone on Placentia Island for 35 years. In 1949 Art left his job in the aerospace industry in California, and the couple bought the 522-acre island for $10,000- a little less than what they sold their home for. They made the two-mile trek to the island in a wooden dory, and built their home from the remains of a homestead that had been abandoned for nearly a hundred years.

We landed at a gravel spit and followed a trail uphill until we came to the remains of the Kellam’s home- just a foundation marked by a bronze plaque. The Kellams donated their island to the Nature Conservancy, who is letting it return to its natural state. They left the porch swing though, in the process of slowly rotting into the ground: a good spot to sit and ponder the Kellam’s time here.

As often happens, we progressed along Placentia's southeast shore without expectations and started having fun. I'd paddled past this shoreline before, but in the getting from Point A to Point B mode. I'm finding it harder to fully enjoy that "just getting there" approach. I like to move-in closer to shore. The experience of close contour paddling close-in is an entirely different experience from paddling even a hundred feet out. You experience a bit of the land as well as the sea (as Nate is doing in the photo above- there was much more water there just a moment earlier).

From a ways out, the shore often presents a unified band, but close-up, there's often plenty of depth to that band, and that's where it get's interesting. On Placentia, we found bluffs and beaches. Off the southwest tip, as the incoming tide built-up speed, we found an eddy that curled back on itself and the incoming swell. This whole group of islands is subject to strange, tough to predict currents as the tide moves in and out of Blue Hill Bay. After a break on Little Black, we proceeded up the east shore of Black Island where we found some nice slots in the pink granite shoreline (above and below).

With minimal swell, this was a fun spot. With a bit more, it might be tough to paddle so close to shore. I've been paddling along a lot of shoreline lately. After some places I think "that was interesting enough," but I know I may never return. Others, like this, I feel a sort of urgency to get out there and discover what it has to offer. The current and the conditions obviously make it a dynamic, quickly-changing place to paddle, very different from one hour to the next. In that photo above, just wait another twenty minutes and we could paddle through that slot. The chart lists tide rips north of Black, but at mid-tide we found nothing- we'll have to try it on a falling tide.

The Kellam's two-mile trip to Bass Harbor in their dory often took around two hours. Ours was quicker than that, but if there's one thing to learn from their example, it could be the merit in slowing-down. They took the better part of a lifetime to get to know one island, and I suspect that in the end, there was still more to discover. So these are notes from just a few hours in their neighborhood. More, I hope, to follow.

Lunch on Gooseberry

2012-01-28T10:08:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-13T10:33:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-10T11:32:00.000-05:00

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.

Newbury Neck

2011-12-31T16:24:00.005-05:00

It had been breezy all week, but the forecast for Friday looked good- just for one day before the wind picked-up again. So, continuing my exploration of Blue Hill Bay, I drove to Newbury Neck in Surry and set-out to paddle around the southern end.

The eastern shore of Newbury Neck is consistently settled, but spacious with grassy pastures spreading down to gravelly beaches. I paddled against the incoming tide, but managed to catch eddies close to shore, and made good time to High Head. I slowed-down to drift below the serpentine igneous bluffs, dripping with icicles. The land here may be all privately-owned, but the owner, who has a house on Burnt Point, has left much of the southern end of the neck untamed and beautiful.

A dark, massive front eased-in from the west as I rounded the southern end, connecting the dots with recent trips: Long Island, Blue Hill, Morgan Bay. I took a fifteen-minute break on Jed Island and spent the next fifteen minutes restoring feeling to my fingers with some all-out paddling.

Back at the car, I loaded-up, aware that it would probably be my last paddle of the year. It was a good way to end 2011 and think about the year to come. There’s always something new to find out there, always more to learn, whether it’s how best to maneuver the boat, or learning the lay of the land and sea. The more I discover, the more I feel almost overwhelmed by how much I don't know, by all the places on the chart that I haven't seen, and the more driven I feel to keep at it.

So, with such an obsession, who needs resolutions? Happy New Year.

Winter, One Day at a Time

2011-12-18T16:59:00.010-05:00

As it gets colder, my paddling excursions become tinged with desperatation to make the most of whatever tolerable weather comes along. I check the forecast compulsively, watching for any window of opportunity. Lately, that's any day above thirty degrees, with winds mostly under ten knots. And since I've had a little more time lately, I've been car-topping the kayak to check-out some areas I don't have time to drive to in the summer, when I work more. Also, I try to choose a route that might be more sheltered from the wind than other areas.

One day I took a tour around Blue Hill Harbor, and out past Parker Point as far as Blue Hill Falls. I like all the nooks and crannies along this shore, many of which have perfectly-situated cottages- all pretty much empty this time of the year. It's impossible to paddle here without being wowed by- and maybe even a little jealous of all these century-old architectural fantasies. In one cove where the ice was building-up, I came to an impasse and had to retrace my route to get out.

Another day I took a spin around Morgan Bay, just east of Blue Hill. I ate my lunch at the head of the bay, in a sunny spot out of the wind, thinking "this winter paddling isn't so bad." But I arrived back at the launch after dark, strapping the kayak to the car with numb fingers, thinking "this winter paddling is nuts."

One day I headed up the Benjamin River, just seeing how far I could get, portaging over a couple of beaver dams until the ice stopped me. I ate my PB&J in a sunny meadow and headed back down the river to Eggemoggin Reach.

The late afternoon sun lit-up the shore as I paddled past until, at Billings Cove, that afternoon sun seemed to abruptly morph into an early sunset. I arrived back at the launch well after dark and cranked the heat in the car while I got out of the drysuit and loaded-up.

I wasn't expecting snow yesterday, but it was coming down pretty hard as I paddled in Union River Bay, along the shore of Newbury Neck. It was just a little colder than previous days, and I had to keep a quick pace to stay warm. The snow tapered-off as I followed the shore around Patten Bay to Weymouth Point, then rode the waves back across.

These have been good trips, yet I'll admit that I'm not feeling super-committed to winter paddling this time around (and it's not even winter yet). I have plenty of numb-finger moments: struggles with drysuit zippers or getting the sprayskirt onto the cockpit rim- things that would be easy in warmer weather. But I can't stand the thought of not getting out. I keep poring over charts obsessively, finding places I want to check-out, and at the same time, watching the weather and the tide charts, and some days it all lines-up. I may not paddle all winter, but it seems impossible to stop looking ahead for that next good day.

Long Island, Blue Hill Bay

2011-12-04T11:08:00.006-05:00

I take my first break at a beach at the south end of the island, a crescent of sand curving out toward a small hub island, bristling with spruce trees. A pretty spot: a good place to walk around while I munch my PB&J, sip some tea and try to stay warm. I’ve been paddling for an hour and a half in the sunshine, sweating in my layers, but now the cool air is catching-up. I made the one-mile crossing from the South Blue Hill launch, and for the past few miles I’ve paddled against some mild current and wind, checking-out the shoreline with its deserted summer houses amid leafless hardwoods and occasional spruce.

Long Island in Blue Hill Bay is one of the larger less-developed islands around: 4.5 miles long by 2 miles at its widest- around 4,800 acres. The island is privately-owned, but Acadia National Park holds a conservation easement on it, so the public is allowed access to the unsettled portions... like the entire eastern shore.

As I’ve stood here on the beach, a huge front has moved-in from the west, and the first puffs of clouds start to obscure the sun. I launch and make my way around the southern end, past meadows with clusters of red-berried bushes and beaches, places I’d like to spend a little more time on a warmer day. With two hours until sunset and over eight miles to get back to the launch, I can’t linger, but, now that I’m headed north, the waves and current should give me a little push.

I’m wearing three thin layers of wool and microfleece beneath my drysuit, but my fingers, in thin neoprene gloves, have been numb and tingly for awhile. I try to envision some of that heat from my core pulsing-out to where I need it. Maybe it works. Or it could be that I just get involved with handling my boat as I let the waves turn me to follow the eastern shore. Or it’s the shore itself- I get a weird joy, discovering one wild beach after another, pocketed between arms of stone that I glide past. Whatever it is, at some point this paddle went from a bit of a slog- entirely too conscious of whatever progress I was making along a shoreline half-settled with summer homes, to, well, this.

I no longer notice my tingly fingers. Could be that they’ve warmed-up. Or I just don’t notice because there’s too much else to pay attention to. I don’t want to say I’ve lost myself to the moment. That would be a bit grandiose, and besides, once you think “I’ve lost myself to the moment,” well, that moment’s gone. It could be that the act of paddling and checking-out my surroundings has become more all-encompassing. I’m having fun.

To the west are meadows on another large island- Bartlett, and behind that, the small mountains of Mount Desert Island- nice background, but I’m mostly focused on my immediate surroundings. The shoreline turns steep with rocky slabs sloping down into the water. Occasionally, a cascade of fresh water pours down from the forest, falling over the ledges into the sea. I stop at one of these for another tea and sandwich break and admire how the creek has sculpted the stone.

There’s an entire other world up there in the forest, and I feel bittersweet to leave it behind- yet another place to spend warm days with plenty of sunlight. For now though, I have more time for paddling in the cooler, darker months. The sea has turned calm, and as I round the north end of the island, Blue Hill comes into view, rising over the town and the bay that are named for it. Here and there along shore, lights are twinkling on: time for me to turn on my deck light and get back to the launch.

Herrick Bay, Flye Point

2011-11-30T18:22:00.006-05:00

At the Naskeag Point launch, fishermen unloaded boatloads of lobster traps, stacking them on the pier while I readied my kayak nearby on the beach. The overcast sky was dark for mid-day, and though the air temperature hovered up around fifty, a cool breeze blew from the east, accompanied by small, but persistent waves. If I hadn’t gone to the trouble of getting all loaded-up and driving there, I might have easily decided that the sea didn’t look too inviting, and found some warm, dry place to spend a less eventful afternoon. Thanks to other commitments and a trip to the Midwest though, I’d just gone three weeks without a paddle, and I was itching to get out.

As I paddled into the waves and wind out toward the point, I felt a bit sluggish- such hard work after the weeks off. I focused on a clean stroke, and it didn’t take long to fall into the familiar cadence. I rounded the point and made some turns between the rocks, letting the waves do some of the work: nice and splashy, salt water on the tongue. It felt good to be paddling again.

I followed a shoreline of crumbling bluffs topped by a few small camps, finally curving into Herrick Bay, where the wind and waves diminished. Much of the time when I paddle in developed areas, I end-up checking-out the houses, which in more and more places seem to be large and seasonal, designed to look impressive - the sort of places featured in those magazines selling a fantasy Maine lifestyle.

I usually go for their smaller counterparts, which end-up being guest houses or boat sheds. I liked the neighborhood around Herrick Bay. Largely undeveloped, the dwellings tended to be humble, including a small travel trailer, a couple of yurts and the sort-of falling-down equipment sheds that I could almost imagine living in- if I could just find room for the art collection.

But the surroundings make-up for diminished wall space. The view changes at low tide though, when much of the head of the bay flats-out. At high tide, it felt like a lake.

I did find some art though, on the Crabtree Seafood barge, beached in a cove. I liked how the artist depicted the fishermen harvesting crabs from the crab trees. This is why it pays to paddle into every cove: you never know what you’ll find.

As I paddled out to Flye Point, the wind and waves had greatly diminished, and I followed a series of ledges out to the Flye Islands, where, just an hour after high tide, a swift current had begun to funnel through. About a mile off the point, I came to the Blue Hill Bay Lighthouse and drifted there for a few minutes as the western sky began to show hints of sunset - at three-thirty in the afternoon. With a little help from the current, I dug-in for the paddle back to Naskeag Point, arriving at the launch as the sky turned dark.

Westport, Massachusetts

2011-11-08T20:13:00.003-05:00

photo courtesy of Osprey Sea Kayak Adventures

About half-way between Fall River and New Bedford, Massachusetts, a few miles south of the Interstate and Route 6, the Westport River winds about eight miles inland until it narrows to not much more than the length of a kayak. Beside it is a small, weathered-shingle building, flanked by racks of kayaks. Early on Saturday morning, Nate and I went in and met Todd Wright, who had taught our Instructor Development Workshop in June, and Carl Ladd, the owner, with his wife Samantha, of Osprey Sea Kayak Adventures. We were there, along with Mike, a college student from Vermont, to be assessed as ACA Level 3 Instructors.

Scoping-out Horseneck Beach

Soon, our assessors told us, our six practice students would arrive and the three of us would take turns teaching on the upper Westport River. We would be assessed on our personal skills, group management and teaching ability. The students would be real, with varying levels of experience, lured there for a free lesson. There was no set agenda- the three of us instructor candidates would need to figure things out on the fly, according to what we could observe as our student’s needs and abilities.

I’d like to say I wasn’t a bit nervous. For all the work we’d been putting into this, I should have felt confident, but we were responsible for a lot of material. As we’d driven down from Maine on Friday, Nate and I quizzed each other on everything from weather forecasting and navigation, to teaching theory and the history of the American Canoe Association. We had been doing some teaching at Old Quarry, and sometimes a practice session with friends, but we knew that we still needed more practice. In recent weeks, most of my paddling was aimed at getting ready for this weekend. Maybe you saw me- out among the islands talking to myself, demonstrating the components of strokes to invisible students.

Visible students are way better. Instead of just explaining and demonstrating, for instance, the sculling draw, you can look at what the student is doing and think of several ideas that might make the stroke actually work: loosen your grip, face your work... and think about how that shaft angle works. When the boat suddenly begins moving sideways toward yours, it’s an “Aha” moment and you both feel like you’ve accomplished something.

The tough thing is figuring out how to get students to discover something on their own. And as instructor candidates, we were no different in that respect; we keep learning a bit more about teaching. We’ve seen our students’ eyes go blank when we know we’ve talked too much. And I think we’ve figured-out that the forward stroke is better coached in bits and pieces than taught all at once. We’ve learned that beginner students can be easier to teach than the ones who have been picking-up habits from their friends for years, and that one of the biggest obstacles to learning is believing that there is nothing to learn.

On Sunday we went down to the mouth of the Westport River, where we could introduce current, rocks and surf. It was a logical progression, taking those skills we’d worked on the previous day and applying them to more demanding conditions. At one point, our students climbed up into the grandstand seats- a big hump of rock called The Knubble- to watch us demonstrate our rescues and rolls in the waves and wind. My favorite part came at Horseneck Beach as we- the instructor candidates- waded out into the breaking waves to hand-launch our paddle-less students into the surf, finally letting them graduate to paddles to do it on their own.

At the end of the day, our students were our first assessors, telling us what worked and what didn’t (and their reactions were overwhelmingly positive) and then Todd and Carl gave us individual feedback- what we’re doing well, what we need to work on, and the news that we had passed. This was a great relief. For the six-hour drive home, Nate and I continued the feedback, as well as our ideas for teaching at Old Quarry. In the back of my mind though, I looked forward to getting out for a paddle that wasn't work, in which I could think about none of these things, only the feeling of moving my kayak through the water as well as I could.

Moonlit Nights

2011-10-12T11:32:00.008-04:00

We had a few especially warm, sunny days that just happened to coincide with the holiday weekend, and I was stuck at work. From my window in the gallery, I saw kayaks atop cars and out beyond the harbor, wet blades flashing in the sun as if to call my attention to them. And of course, everyone coming into the gallery remarked on what a nice day it was, just rubbing it in. Beneath it all, you know there aren’t many days like that left before it turns cold and stays cold for the next seven months or so.

But the full moon was approaching. The best nights for a full moon paddle are the evenings before full, when the moon is already in the sky after the sun goes down, so it never really gets dark. I finished work, got my gear together and launched a little before sunset. I paddled out to Steves Island, and paused for a moment as the disappearing sun turned the western islands into silhouettes. I turned on the light suction-cupped to the deck behind me, strapped on my headlamp, and continued on a very familiar route, out around McGlathery Island.

It helps to know the route well. It’s not so hard to recognize the shapes of islands and know where you’re headed, but it’s good to have some idea of where the ledges are, and when you see the lights of an approaching boat, to know that you’re out of the channel, out of its way. I eased into the darkness as I followed the south shore of McGlathery, and began navigating by the sound of waves on the rocks, and maybe even the feel of the water beneath the hull. I waited among the ledges for a lobster boat to pass, listening to its hum turn into a roar. Bright lights lit-up the deck where the sternman hosed everything down. Then it was gone, bound for the lights of Stonington, and with no other boats approaching, I crossed the channel, toward the dim outline of Ram Island.

It was a holiday weekend to be sure. A couple of miles away, the Haystack School glowed as it does on summer nights, and someone had a couple of lights on over on Devil Island. A lone sailboat was anchored near Camp Island. As I passed Russ, I smelled campfire smoke. A pair of campers, marked by their headlamps, moved between the campsite and the water’s edge. Metal pots clanged against rocks.

The next evening, I paddled out past Crotch and Sand Islands and watched the sun go down before pointing west. I paused at each island, wondering, as it grew darker, how dark it would finally feel, but I kept going until I landed on the sand at Sparrow Island. From there on, I found my way by moonlight: listening to the waves crashing on nearby rocks as I approached Scraggy Island, landing on the ledges beneath Mark Island Light, finally aiming for the flashing green light at the entrance to the Thorofare. The moon lit the high cirrus clouds and sparkled on the water. It’s tough to describe it without the word “magical” coming to mind. Everything is just the same as in the daylight, but it feels like another world. When I returned to the ramp, it was hard to believe I’d only been gone two hours.

And then Monday afternoon, at the end of the holiday weekend when gallery traffic had slowed to a trickle, I closed the door, got my camping gear together and headed-out to Wheat island. I’d thought I might get out and paddle in the moonlight, but it was enough to wander around the island on foot, the moon casting my shadow on the granite ledges, and listen as the wind whipped-up the waves, lapping ever higher as the tide rose. I sat and drank my tea. I could see a handful of lights in Stonington, a couple over on Vinalhaven, as well as the red flashing lights from the tower on Swans. Over on Mount Desert Island, an occasional headlight flashed from atop Cadillac Mountain.

The next afternoon in the gallery, after I'd spent the morning paddling, visitors commented on how nice the day was. I could only agree, but the nights weren't so bad either.

Around North Haven

2011-10-01T08:03:00.008-04:00

I woke up in my sleeping bag. The sky was lightening already. I’d left the fly off the tent, so I could drift to sleep beneath the stars, and now across East Penobscot Bay, where the Mark Island Light had flashed all night like clockwork, the horizon clouds were turning pink. The seas were calm, the air warm for late September, and I had all day to paddle around North Haven.

I felt lucky to be there. Rebecca was taking my place in the gallery for a few days, and the weather just happened to be perfect. I’d pitched my tent atop a grassy bluff on Little Thorofare Island with asters blooming between the rocks and a view so sweeping I wanted to just sit and stare. Not for everybody, judging from the MITA logbook- the steep, rocky banks are a bit tricky. I had unloaded my kayak, hauling gear up in mesh duffels, then shouldered the boat up to my perch.

Getting around North Haven would take a minimum of 18 nautical miles, and I figured I’d check out a few coves as well. It would be a big day. I ate my oatmeal and launched. When you know you have a long way to go, it’s tough not to start off with an almost frantic pace, thinking of the destination more than the scenery at hand. This is especially senseless when the destination is the place you’ve just left, but I settled into a quick rhythm, soon passing Mullen Head, Marsh Cove and the bluffs below Oak Hill, the northeast point of the island.

To the north, with the Camden Hills and Islesboro as a backdrop, schooners tacked back and forth across the bay. I followed the shoreline: dark bluffs rose directly from the water with an occasional stairway poking down from the woods to a cobble beach. After a couple of hours, I paddled into Pulpit Harbor, following the shoreline past well-kept old homes all the way to the end, which at high tide had the feel of a farm pond surrounded by grassy meadows.

I continued along the coast, dipping into the coves and harbors along the way, and the hours and miles went by. I would think about how far I had to go, forcing myself to focus on a fast and efficient stroke, only to be distracted by the usual stuff: rocks, the perfect cottage- often the guest house on a larger estate, and sunbathing women whose curves, on second glance, transformed into sensuous limbs of driftwood. I rounded the southwest end, pointing toward the next mansion on a headland.

Finally, halfway into Southern Harbor, my hull ground to a halt on a sandbar and I sat for a long moment before getting out for a stretch and a Snickers. I was tired and had miles to go. Instead of following every remaining inch of shoreline, I took a more direct route for town, landing at the North Haven town dock. I walked into town. I bought an ice-cream cone at Coopers and walked, following the road out of town. Everyone who drove by waved like they knew me.

I found the trail and walked uphill across a field, through some woods, and emerged at a rocky protrusion called Ames Knob. I stood and marveled at the view, watching the comings and goings in the Thorofare until I had a strong desire to be back in my kayak, headed back to camp, where I arrived just as a couple of schooners anchored nearby for the evening.

As I made dinner, I realized I felt tired, not only from a 24-mile paddle, but from all I had seen. It was a lot to take in- even the small details, like the lack of tire tracks on North Haven's quiet streets. And learning, once again that the more I see, I understand how much more there is to be seen. I would get to a bit more of it the next morning, at high tide when I paddled into some inlets that are otherwise inaccessible, but I still feel like I'm just getting to know the place.

Around Isle au Haut

2011-09-25T13:29:00.004-04:00

The sea is calm, the air clear, the distant hills sheathed in mild haze. On Crotch Island, the granite-cutting machinery hisses, blending with the chug of lobster boats- the tinnitus of greater Stonington that starts to fade as I cross Merchant Row. Diesel fumes waft from circling lobster boats not far off. After an hour, on Wheat Island, I take my first quick break- ten minutes- and soon I’m paddling along the east shore of Isle au Haut, below the hardwoods and steep dark bluffs just past Richs Point.

It would be easier, with so many miles ahead, to stay offshore, pointing my bow for the most distant headland, skipping the particular contours of the shoreline. But I’ve done that before. When you’re alone, it’s easy to make that snap decision- the slight turn of the bow that changes your course without really thinking about it- to get in close and follow the shore. It may take a little longer, but my mind is occupied- as much as it can be occupied, looking at rocks and houses, shifting my hips to make an occasional tight turn between rocks. Paddling further from shore is like driving on the Interstate, counting down the miles. Following the shore is more like taking a walk.

For a couple of miles I alternate between shore and ledges as a mild swell builds, occasionally amplifying into breaking waves over the rocks. The houses on shore become less frequent, as do potential landing areas. There are no people on shore, and only far-off lobster boats on the water. After about three hours of paddling, I round Eastern Head. To the south: open ocean, an oil tanker on the horizon. Ahead of me, the cliffy southern end of Isle au Haut curves inland and back out to Western Ear. If I paddled directly across, I’d cover almost two miles, but what fun would that be?

Instead I paddle about twice the distance, following the shore to where a dozen or so houses overlook Head Harbor. No one is around in the middle of this Wednesday in September; a quiet place on a quiet island. The hum of Stonington is worlds away. As I leave the harbor, there is only the sound of surf.

This shore is perhaps the crux of the trip: the farthest from Stonington, the most exposed to ocean swell, and the most spectacular. Because it is part of Acadia National Park, it is also the wildest. The cliffs look almost white in the afternoon sun. It seems right somehow that it takes some effort to get here. I’ve paddled maybe a dozen miles, with over a dozen more to go, and as far as I can tell, I’ve got the whole southern end of Isle au Haut to myself

But I need to think about getting back. I take a quick lunch break by Western Ear, gazing out toward Saddleback Light and Brimstone Island, and turn north. With the breeze and the swell behind me, this stretch goes by easily. And it’s a good thing. I’m feeling a little tired, and still have a ways to go, but I take a tour around Moores Harbor, simply because I’ve never paddled there before. I pause below Robinson Point Light for a snapshot, and ride the current through the thorofare, past town on the right, Kimball Island on the left.

On Kimball, some friends have finished work and I watch them get into the Nanatoo and cast off lines. A few moments later, they’re passing by, waving. I have just enough time to get back before sunset.

Bagaduce Falls - Flood Tide

2011-09-14T07:53:00.006-04:00

From its mile-wide mouth at Castine, the Bagaduce winds inland, twisting and narrowing for eight miles until it squeezes beneath a bridge into a gap only fifty feet across, before meandering another three and a half miles inland. Often called a river, it is in fact an estuary, constantly exchanging its waters with the ocean, back and forth with the tide. It never empties at low tide. The incoming tide rushes upstream, finally overpowering whatever outgoing current remains, and and as it squeezes into the narrowing banks, develops quite a current, which is most obvious at the bridge between Brooksville and Penobscot. At its swiftest, the current piles up and drops several feet as it passes beneath the bridge, shooting out the upstream side where it develops a hundred-yard wave train, with bouncy, frothing eddylines flanking the upstream “V”.

Estimating the time of the tide change and peak current is a bit tricky. Basing our calculations on a 5:30 am low tide in Castine, we met at the bridge a little after nine on Monday morning. We expected the flood to have begun, but the current still rushed beneath the bridge, heading toward the sea. We were only a little off.

Waiting for the current to build: Peter, Nate, Barbara, Ed

The five of us gathered beneath the bridge and waited as the water went slack, and not long after ten, the current shifted inland and the flood tide began. Within fifteen minutes there was enough current to play in. Within a half-hour the waves were getting big enough to surf. So, the timing will always be subject to variables, probably tide height in particular, but that’s how it worked this time: slack tide at 4.5 hours after low in Castine.

It’s good to start at slack tide and experience the flow as it builds. That fluttery feeling in my stomach gave way to focusing on paddling, getting in and out of the current, getting a feel for it, finally getting on a wave that will hold you there and trying some turns.

Often, we’re trying to get onto the first wave. One way to do this is to paddle upstream, crossing the eddyline with your bow pointed as directly into the current as possible. You try to edge gently toward the strong flow in the middle, but if you edge or turn too much, the current grabs your bow. You might fight it for a moment, muscling out of it with a stern pry, but if you hang onto that for too long, you’ll flip towards the current. If all goes well, you float back onto that wave with your bow still pointing upstream and you take a few strong paddlestrokes to keep from getting swept over and voila; you’re surfing the wave!

I’m usually a bit surprised to find myself there, a calm spot with water rushing past all around. Now what? Edge a turn left, edge a turn right. Hold your paddle up in the air to flaunt it. Put the palm of your hand on the surface and feel the water rushing below. At some point, you discover you’re no longer on the wave, bouncing backwards over the wave train, bracing from one side to the other, looking for a way out so you can do it again.

We were all doing well, but after awhile, it felt like there was something missing. Oh yes, the feel of saltwater in my head. Somehow, after I’ve finally capsized, I feel even more comfortable out there. As the waves grew taller, the capsizing became easier, and each time I went over, I waited below the surface, getting my paddle aligned until I felt dark, solid water overhead, and rolled back up... and braced as the next wave sucked me up and over. When it all goes well, that’s part of the fun.

Fun, and exhausting. As the waves and the current grew, the eddyline turned wide and sloppy. Those big waves in the middle turned elusive with this barrier of whitewater guarding them. And if you did get on them, the water moved fast enough that it was hard to stay there. Hard work. I finally took a break, hating to miss anything, but it’s tiring and I needed a sandwich or two.

I got back out there as the current subsided, and we played on dwindling waves as they disappeared, about three hours after they’d started. We took a little paddle upstream and came back, just in time for the current beneath the bridge to go slack and change direction, nine hours after low tide in Castine. By the time we had our boats loaded on cars, the ebb was already running fast. There would be some waves on the downstream side of the bridge soon. Maybe next time.

Crockett Cove

2011-09-10T13:49:00.013-04:00

I closed the gallery just after five. By quarter of six, I was in my sea kayak, heading west through the Deer Isle Thorofare, pointing roughly toward the trio of windmills on Vinalhaven. It was the day after Labor Day, and Stonington had turned quiet, the way it does every year about this time. For the past couple of months, town had been busy enough that I felt obliged to stay open most evenings. I’d paddled plenty, but it was mostly work, my other job- guiding at Old Quarry. But now, with daylight waning each day, the urgency to stay open and make money was giving way to an urgency to squeeze as much paddling as I could from the remains of this season.

At the end of the Thorofare, I passed the grey steel buildings of Billings Marine and followed the shore around the point. I paused. Ahead lay a considerable expanse of Penobscot Bay. The closest islands were already dark shapes against a moody swirl of grey clouds towering over the Camden Hills. A rosy strip of sunset peeked from behind the ridge. I would need to hurry. I hoped to get to the head of Crockett Cove, still three miles distant. I pointed toward Fifield Point and began paddling.

I hadn’t been on this side of the island for awhile, but was lured by the prospect of a sunset and Crockett Cove at high tide. Much of the mile-long cove flats-out at lower tides- one of those light green areas on the chart you need to hit at the right time. The south side is distinguished by a series of 1960s summer homes designed by artist Emily Muir. The houses feature plenty of glass and few right angles, perched atop pink granite cliffs that drop straight down to the water. Paddling beside the cliffs, catching glimpses of the houses atop them, I had to appreciate how rugged the shoreline still felt.

Further in, past Rabbit Island, past the tiny cottage on Sams Island, the cove opens to a shallow pond-like basin. The water here felt almost warm.. Towels were hung to dry on a dock railing. Mosquitoes hovered in the air. Just beyond the marshy head of the cove, a few cars went past, briefly visible through a break in the trees, their lights on.

I had driven past there countless times, sometimes glancing over for a peek at the cove. Long before that though- before there were roads on the island, the Wabanaki would have reached this spot, hoisted their bark canoes to their shoulders, and started walking. They followed the creek to Georges Pond, and another creek to Holt Pond, where they emerged on the east side of Deer Isle... not something I was ready to do, but it made me think of the layers of human habitation here over the years. In the 1800s, when porpoise oil became sought to fuel lighthouses, the Wabanaki made Crockett Cove a base camp for hunting porpoises. They hunted from canoes, bringing the porpoises back to the cove to be cut-up for the meat and oil. Maybe that’s why the porpoises around here don’t stick around to see if we’re friendly.

Back out at the mouth of the cove, present day inhabitants of a cliff-top house tended a grill, watching the color drain from the sky. I stopped and ate a Snickers bar before turning-on my lights. Across the bay, Vinalhaven made a thin line on the horizon- thinner than usual because of the tide. The moon- less than a week before full- gave off just enough light to navigate by as I made my way home.

Another evening, same neighborhood.

PS: A few weeks ago as I stood on the shore of Hells Half Acre with a group I was guiding and a guy paddled up and said "Are you the blogger?"

"Why yes," I said. "Yes I am." It turned out that he recognized me- and my boat- from the blog. Amazing. My anonymity was shattered, and suddenly the group I was guiding took a new interest. Was it possible they might end up in somebody's blog?

It's always a possibility, it seems. The guy in the kayak was Lawrence Pepper, and he would soon document his paddling experience on his blog: Each and Everyone. Check-out his website- it's beautiful. And, not long after running into us, he came across Baffin Paddler and Penobscot Paddles whose blogs I had already been following with keen interest. The archipelago was chock-full of paddle bloggers, all blogging about each other. Where is this all going?

Paddling Home in the Dark

2011-08-22T14:41:00.003-04:00

As I paddle home in the dark, phosphorescence streaks my bow wake, blending with the reflections of stars so it feels like I’m hovering someplace between water and sky. I feel my way along by the solid catch of paddle blades and the dim, familiar shapes of ledges. Out at the anchorage by Hells Half Acre, maybe a mile away, a dozen or so mast-top lights mark the sailboats beneath them, but otherwise, all is dark. It feels good to know my way; I’ve been making this commute often enough.

It has been a long day of guiding. In the morning, Jake and I took a group of nineteen to Green Island, returning to the ramp at Old Quarry where hordes of visitors massed toward the water’s edge as if to flee some natural disaster on shore. The tandems from our morning trip were immediately put back into service. Nearby, a couple of rented canoes rafted-up together, their occupants sitting on the gunwales, ignoring Bill’s warnings to be careful.

Jake and I each had groups waiting for us, and it took some herding to figure out who went with whom... after which we determined we didn’t have enough boats- every single boat was out. Then Nate returned from his three-day trip and we grabbed his kayaks. After figuring who went in what cockpit, we adjusted footpegs and as I did a pre-trip briefing, noticed one of the canoes, now swamped, the occupants swimming for shore. Jake and I looked at each other and shrugged; what did they expect?

My group- nine people, including some kids- wanted to go to that quarry on Green Island, so back to Green I went, where for the second time that day, I stacked kayaks on the beach to make room for more as other groups arrived. On the way back, we stopped by Hells Half Acre, and back at Old Quarry, found the shore covered in a maze of returned boats, waiting to be cleaned.

But I had a sunset trip- a couple and their two kids. Sure, they’d been sea kayaking, the father told me, nodding toward the kids- “but not since they were born.” Getting to Hells Half Acre before dark seemed a long shot, but he seemed driven to get to the island. I could understand. We probably should have turned back, arriving just after sunset- just enough time for a quick photo before turning around. Fortunately, the wind helped push us back.

A hectic day, to be sure, following on the heels of several such days. The day before I’d spent the morning instructing a group in the pond, before taking them out for the afternoon, co-guiding with Jessica. It had poured down rain all day, but near the end of our trip, the rain cleared and we stood atop Little Sheep Island, gazing out at a rainbow over the islands. “It’s moment’s like these,” Jessica said, “that make me look around and think I’ve got the best job in the world.”

Different rainbow, different place & year... but otherwise the same

Paddling home in the dark, I round Indian Point to see the trio of winking red lights atop the windmills on Vinalhaven. At the house on the point, light spills from the windows onto the shallows and ledges. Inside, a television flickers. I could use a day or two off from paddling, even if it means sitting at my desk at my other job. I feel pleasantly worn-out and my brain a bit fried, but it feels good to focus on a clean stroke, and to think, as much as possible, of nothing.

Are We There Yet?

2011-08-12T12:19:00.005-04:00

A few snapshots:

“How far is the island with the swimming quarry?”

I’ve heard this many times already, probably from just about everyone in the group- ten teen-agers and their two college-age counselors. It’s hot, yes, but these kids have an inordinate desire to go swimming. It even seems to outweigh their patience with learning the finer points of a good forward stroke... the very thing that will propel them to the island with the swimming quarry. It’s starting to sound like the “are we there yet?” chorus we plagued my parents with from the back of the station wagon. And like my Dad after hundreds of miles of hot interstate, I’m getting a little snippy.

“What swimming quarry? You believed me? I made that up.”

We’re on the second of three days together. Days- not nights; I leave the group (organized by Apogee Adventures) on an island to camp, returning in the morning to take them paddling. This is my second trip with Apogee and, despite their preoccupation with swimming holes, I’ve had fun paddling with them. Their real focus though, is on community service, which translates to cleaning-up islands. By the end of both trips, we will have picked-up over four nautical miles of shoreline on six islands. That’s a lot of Chlorox bottles. Later, MITA volunteers in skiffs would pick-up our many stashed garbage bags.

For me, the island clean-ups are a good excuse to walk some shoreline- something I don’t do nearly enough. For the kids, it’s an opportunity to discover rocks to jump from into the ocean, which they do again and again. But it’s not the fabled island with the swimming quarry. When we finally get to Green Island, the dip in fresh water feels like a reward; the kids have all earned it.

Meanwhile, Rebecca has an island to paint. She’s been commissioned to do a painting from someone’s family island- a place they’ve spent summers for years. So we’ve been paddling out to this island to see it at different tides and different times of the day. It would have been a nice assignment on any island, but it doesn’t take Rebecca long to see why the place feels so special to the family: the erratic boulders, spruce-topped cliffs and intimate coves. We feel fortunate to be invited to spend time there since we’d paddled past many times, but never landed. One day we stop there for lunch, admiring a new perspective of the archipelago. Rebecca stays to work on drawings while I paddle-on to Old Quarry to guide a trip.

A couple of hours later, I take the group past the island and pause to wait for lobster boats to pass in the channel ahead. A woman waves to us from the island. “My wife,” I tell the group, but they think I'm joking. When I further explain why she's there- that, at that moment anyway, her job is to hang out on an island and draw, while mine is to paddle around with them, it sounds even more implausible.

These are some of the things I get from guiding: a walk on a shore I’m usually too busy to walk on, and a look at our surroundings through the eyes of a visitor. And that island with the swimming quarry? It’s only about a mile from where we’ve lived for eight years, but I never took a swim there until a group of teenagers dragged me along.

Moonlight on Steves Island

2011-07-16T16:51:00.003-04:00

A couple nights ago, I pitched my tent out on the granite ledge on Steves Island. I’d closed the gallery, eaten a quick dinner and packed my gear. I ran into Peter at the launch- we’d paddled together the previous evening, watching for thunderstorms, returning to Stonington in a downpour. He watched me pack- it goes pretty quickly when you’re only out for one night- and helped me carry my kayak down to the water.

Since I’ve been guiding a lot lately, I often find myself concentrating on my forward stroke- in slow motion. On one hand, I hope to set an example: “check this out- this is how it’s done.” It’s easier to understand if you see it unfold slowly- and that way no one gets left behind. Some people pick it up pretty well.

Steves Island, 6/7/10

When I get out on my own, especially after a long day in the gallery, it feels like I’ve been cut loose. It starts out slow- I focus on the feel of it: paddle loosely-gripped, blade fully-submerged, rotate the torso and the paddle follows. One blade slices out of the water and the other blade slices in as the torso unwinds. It’s a good feeling. Soon, the pace picks-up: short, quick strokes, a meditative rhythm with the byproduct of forward propulsion.

Soon, I drifted beside Steves Island. I thought of going further, but the little beach on the west side of Steves looked inviting, and the granite boulders were starting to catch that pinkish end of the day light. I set up the tent out on the flat granite ledge- not the designated campsite, but I would leave less impact there, and besides, with the nearly full moon just coming up, I wanted to be out in the open.

Steves Island, 7/14/10

I brewed a cup of tea and sat atop a granite promontory with a paperback. Far to my right, the lights of Stonington began to wink as the sun lowered. Far to my left the moon began making a long, wavery reflection across Merchant Row. I read a few Updike stories, finally clicking on the headlamp as mosquitoes came humming about. The stories continued in the tent until I could read no more, and lay back to take in the aura of moonlight overhead in the mosquito netting. The first lobster boat groaned past at exactly four o’clock.

In the morning: a quick dip in the chilly water, drying off after on the sun-warmed granite... the paddle home. I opened the gallery a few minutes late: the beginning of another hectic day that lasted well into the evening. Somewhere in the back of my mind though, is an island where it is still peaceful; every now and then it helps to go there for real.

One of these days, I'll get a new camera, but for now I've included a few shots from the archives.

Another sad footnote: yet another rec boat fatality off MDI last weekend. Read the story here.

Damariscove Island - ACA Instructor Development Workshop

2011-06-20T13:19:00.007-04:00

I’m paddling beside Todd and Nate along the steep, rocky east shore of Damariscove Island, heading south into the wind and waves. We’ve been staying uncharacteristically far from the rocks, trying to stick close together. The wind and surf hiss and grumble- a constant backdrop of chaotic noise.

Todd, in charge of the group for this leg of our journey, frequently motions for the others to pull in a bit closer, unsure if maybe one of our instructors has put them up to something. Then we notice the other Todd - Todd Wright, our instructor trainer, putting on his helmet. We give each other an enquiring look; what could this mean? At the very least, it seems like a good time for everyone else to pause and put their helmets on too. Sure enough, Wright soon paddles into a turbulent rocky cleft and capsizes. He ends up floating in the water beside his boat, with waves bearing down on him.

This is the last of four days of instruction, intended to put us on the path toward attaining American Canoe Association (ACA) instructor certification. We started the week by driving down to Popham Beach on Monday for some time on our own in the surf. I felt a little tense until that first capsize in the waves. Suddenly you’re upside down, getting pummeled with no idea which way is which... except your paddle finds its way to the surface and then you’re up, bracing into the next wave, paddling back out for more. Seawater drips from your nose and ears. A little trial by fire and confidence-building was a good way to start, since the next four days would be humbling.

On Tuesday, in the calm, tidal water at our campground near Boothbay Harbor, we spent hours going over strokes. The focus was not to be dogmatic- fitting into one way of doing things, but to consider core principals of efficient, effective and safe paddling and analyze how our strokes worked or didn’t work. It would be tough to say that a little dogma doesn’t creep into the process; after all, there is a right and a wrong way. Previously, we all thought we put plenty of torso rotation into our forward strokes. Not so. I switched to a high-angle paddle, and, after a little coaching, found my new forward stroke (that I will be indefinitely refining).

At the same time, we looked at ways of teaching, taking turns at various lessons. Each time, we gave feedback to the presenter and then our instructors showed us ways to better involve the students. In addition to instructors Todd Wright and Peter Casson, we were joined that day by John Carmody (check-out this photo of him in the current Canoe & Kayak Magazine) who we’ve all taken instruction from before. One other student, Brian, joined us from Vermont.

As the week went on, we gradually took on more challenging conditions. On Wednesday we launched from East Boothbay and paddled out around the ledges at The Thread of Life. For Thursday and Friday we were joined by Anna and Tully, students from St. Michael’s College, who could be our “guinea pigs”. Thursday we were at Popham, learning how to launch beginners into baby waves, then practicing rescues out in the tide rips on the Kennebec. We did plenty of rescues and towing. The lessons never stopped.

On Friday, against a strong breeze, we headed out to Damariscove Island. There’s plenty to say about the place- the history and its stark wildness, several miles out to sea, but for us, the island was another paddling exercise- a place to navigate to, to tow people pretending to be seasick to, and to get around as a group.

After he capsizes, Wright hangs onto his boat and waits for help. Todd D directs the rest of the group to point into the wind and wait, then from a safe distance, directs the rescue. Nate is right there, instructing Wright to flip his boat over and push it out. While Nate pulls the boat over his deck, draining the water, Wright is told to swim out, using his paddle to propel himself out of the impact zone to the bow of Brian’s boat. As Wright continues to kick, Brian backs away to Nate, who has Wright’s boat ready. Nate is drifting close to the rocks though, so Todd moves in, clips on and starts towing as they get the swimmer back into his boat.

The crowd goes wild!

On the drive home, we’re all feeling pretty exhausted- and maybe even a bit disheartened to discover, once again, that we have much work to do. We are undoubtedly more knowledgeable and prepared than we were on the drive down, but as always, we can use more refinement and practice.

Thanks to Nate Hanson for the photos.

On a sad note, a sea kayaker died yesterday off Hancock Point. From this article in the Bangor Daily News, it looks like a familiar story: an "open-cockpit" kayak (whatever that means) and strong offshore winds.

Follow-up on the Hancock Point accident here in the Bangor Daily News.

Somes Sound

2011-06-08T08:56:00.007-04:00

Somes Sound cleaves Mount Desert Island nearly in half. At four miles long and about a half-mile to a mile wide, it is considered to be the only fjord in the eastern United States. To those who have experienced some of the worlds bigger fjords, it may not seem so fjord-like, but it has the defining characteristics- a U-shaped valley ground away by a glacier, and a deposit of sediment at its mouth that impedes the flow of water from adjacent seas.

Rebecca and I launched in Manset. The area is still fairly quiet. Boatyard workers were busy launching fancy boats for soon-to-arrive summer residents, but boat traffic was sparse as we crossed Southwest Harbor and headed for the sound. It doesn’t look like much as one approaches it- a narrow opening flanked by hills. We’d planned it so we could ride the tide in and be at the northern end by the time the tide turned.

We stuck to the west shore, passing the cliffs below Flying Mountain that drop straight into the water, following the shoreline into Valley Cove where the banks rise nearly seven-hundred feet in under a quarter-mile to the surrounding mountaintops. We encountered a few hikers, but we otherwise had the place to ourselves, lingering beside the waterfalls. A tourboat arrived, the passengers pointing cameras at the waterfall as a guide's voice buzzed from little speakers- a hint of the crowds to come in just a few weeks.

A tailwind picked-up as we headed further-in, quickly whipping-up whitecaps and giving us a push. This wasn’t in the forecast, and we worried a little about fighting it on the way back. For the moment though, we moved right along and the banks turned gradual and settled. We passed Halls Quarry with its houses and a boatyard and coasted past Bar Island into Somes Harbor, where we found a vast grid of empty mooring balls that will soon tether a fleet of recreational vessels.

Tucked behind Sheep Island, a few tents were pitched on the platforms at at the Mt. Desert Campground, some atop granite bluffs, one with a kayak pulled ashore. It’s about as idyllic as a drive-in, commercial campground can get- not all easy sites to launch from, but the sites, shaded by red pines and cedars, sit atop pinkish granite that dips right down into the water. We zig-zagged back up the sound, stopping for a break from the wind in Sargent Cove, and heading back into Valley Cove for another look at the waterfalls in the evening light, with the tide lower by a few feet.

At Flying Mountain, a bald eagle sat on a branch of a scraggly pine atop a cliff, stoicly enduring the taunts of an osprey and some crows. The wind died-down to almost nothing. (Later, I checked the weather buoy, which registered very little wind, so perhaps the wind was only in the sound, funneled down between the mountains. A little current helped push us out of The Narrows, and back toward Southwest Harbor.

New MITA Islands!

2011-05-28T12:27:00.005-04:00

It was the first sunny, clear day we’d had in who knows how long, and I was spending it at my desk at work. I kept thinking “I should get out in the kayak,” but things kept coming up and the day went by like they all do, with me wondering where all the time went. At lunch though, I picked up the mail and found my new 2011 Maine Island Trail Association guide. I had put off renewing my membership... since it required money that I hardly had, but I knew it was worth it.

My trip in the Keys helped me appreciate the importance of MITA. Florida is developing The Florida Circumnavigational Saltwater Paddling Trail, but it is far from a reality. I camped in some not-so-legit spots, and at one I had to clear away the garbage to make room for my tent. And then I wasn’t so sure the surf at high tide wouldn’t force me to climb a mangrove tree to stay dry.

I flipped through the guide book without any expectation of discovering anything new. But there in the Deer Isle section I discovered two additions: small islands, each with a campsite. One is state-owned, one on private land. I won’t divulge their location- you’ll have to get your MITA membership- after all, that’s what makes it possible. In Florida I would have gladly paid the membership price for a couple of dependable places to camp, especially out on some pristine island.

At the end of the day, I rounded-up my gear and headed-out to the nearest new island. I arrived near sunset and set-up my tent in the trees, just above an expanse of granite ledge. I cooked my dinner as the sky grew dark, and watched the lights of Stonington turn bright as I ate. On a distant shore, a campfire flared-up. The air was cool and clear, but it felt like someone had flipped the switch from winter to summer.

In the morning, since I was already out there, I would have a whole other adventure as the fog rolled back in. For the moment though, it was enough to be out on this island. If I’d stayed at home, the evening would have gone predictably enough- probably dominated by a screen with images, words and sound, connecting me to the rest of the world to the point of not knowing where to focus. Instead, I had taken just a small step away- enough for a fresh perspective. Our town looked small and festive against the night. I watched the stars and listened to the waves lap against the granite.

My other living room is a MITA island.

Marshall Island

2011-05-25T12:58:00.007-04:00

I guided over the weekend. Both days were on the chilly side, a bit foggy and breezy, water temps still down in the mid-forties. We got the clients suited-up in dry suits, and, other than a bit of seasickness, they had a great time. At the beginning of a trip, I sometimes feel a little overwhelmed by all that I would like to show the clients in the few hours we have. But on each trip this weekend, it took only a half-hour of paddling before someone paused, looked around with a huge smile and said, to the effect “ I can’t believe how great this is- I’m doing this again.” That’s when I know why I’m guiding.

As we returned to Old Quarry on Sunday, Nate stood on the shore, leaning over his kayak as he finished packing. I said goodbye to my clients, picked-up my duffel of camping gear and repacked for phase two of the weekend. Nate and I had until Monday night. We’d decided on Marshall Island, a large public island on the east side of Jericho Bay.

Paddling against a mild headwind, we made our way first to Enchanted Island and took a lunch break on the ledges, avoiding the usual beach where several seals were hauled-out. Actually, there were seals everywhere- often mothers with pups following close behind, and it was difficult to avoid them. As we ate our lunch, they occasionally popped their heads from the water nearby and got a good look at us. From Enchanted we made a three-mile crossing over to Three Bush Island, in the lee of Marshall. We thought we would stop there, but a bald eagle sat atop the single bush-like spruce, so we kept moving, following Marshall’s pink granite coastline south.

We paddled in close to shore on gentle seas, weaving in and out of the rocks, occasionally rising or falling on a small wave. The rocks sloped up to a forest interspersed by grassy meadows. A couple of deer perked up when they saw us and bounded away. Gradually, the seas increased and we took more care picking our route until, at Lower Head on the southern end, the swell came unobstructed from the open ocean, occasionally rolling a few bigger waves at the steep pink headlands. If I were writing this with certain publications in mind, I might say the waves rolled toward us like big bowling balls aiming to knock us down, but that really didn’t occur to me at the time. They were really just nice gentle swells. Nate, paddling his new P&H Delphin caught a few beautiful rides. Unfortunately, my waterproof camera isn’t working, so you’ll just have to take my word for it.

We camped at Sand Cove, where there’s a few tent platforms a couple hundred feet up in the woods. Admittedly, I wasn’t eager to leave the boats and lug our gear up into the woods. The idyllic camping spot would be overlooking the beach, right next to my kayak. I like to camp right next to my boat- it serves as animal-proof food locker, gear storage unit, camp furniture... and I like to look out of my tent and see my boat there. But it worked-out fine. Maybe it’s a land trust way of doing things- hiding the traces of man so the island appears unpopulated as you cruise past. We finished dinner late, in the dark, gradually pulling-on all our layers as it grew cool.

According to the MCHT website, at 985 acres, Marshall Island is the "largest undeveloped island on the eastern seaboard" with seven miles of shoreline. We had it all to ourselves. It seemed like a good day for a walk, so off we went, following the trail north through the forest, occasionally popping out atop the rocks where the views took in the south end of the Swans Island archipelago. Dark basalt dikes filled-in cracks in the granite, like the one above, pointing off toward Ringtown Island. The woods were busy with migrating birds and we managed to identify a couple of the more common warblers.

Black & white warbler

Heron Island

We made our way to the north end and walked up the hill for a look at the overgrown airstrip. In the 1980s, the island was owned by developers, who hoped to create an exclusive subdivision, reachable by air or sea. When that didn't work out, the bank auctioned the island to owners who never developed it, finally selling it to MCHT. Of more immediate interest, just west of the airstrip is a freshwater well, with a well-maintained pump.

Ringtown Island

We walked around most of the island, which took us about four hours. By the time we returned to Sand Cove, the wind had picked up out of the south. We paddled along the trails we had hiked only hours earlier, but now the seas had grown- too big for playing in the rocks... and big enough to need to get back across Jericho Bay before the tide turned.

In the lee of Halibut Rocks

Again, we faced a three-mile crossing, but this time we had strong beam wind and waves from the south. A third of the way across, we rested in the lee of Halibut Rocks, then pointed for Phoebe Island. It was wavy out there, with occasional sets of big ones rolling through: dramatic, but not so hard to negotiate with plenty of sweep strokes. I wouldn't have gone out there if we didn't need to, but it helps to be paddling alongside someone you've practiced plenty of rescues with and you know you can count on. At some point, my mindset shifted from vague worry to... a sort of calm satisfaction. Two-thirds of the way across we paused and looked around: steely-grey churning sea, the sky a few shades lighter. We could see waves breaking on Phoebe Island. Isle au Haut cut a distinct profile through the fog; other islands were reduced to distant smudges above the waves.

"Nice," Nate said, and I could only agree.

Fog Island

2011-04-25T07:35:00.002-04:00

Nate was up for a paddle yesterday. I hadn't been out since we'd returned from Florida, and honestly, my excitement level was not that great. We'd been in warm weather and water long enough to get used to it, and it seemed like a lot of work to get out in a kayak here. I've been glad to be back in Stonington... sort-of. Okay, I'm lying. We returned home to a pile of bills, we've had some nasty weather, and I've been working to pay for that gas we burned to go south. The Opera House has even been closed for renovations. If you ask people around here how their winter was, they tend to just break down in tears.

But as I got my gear ready, I felt that familiar anticipation. A thick fog hung over the harbor, and as we launched, it began to thin enough to reveal the dark shapes of the nearest islands. We went in and out of rolling fog, out to Steves, and on past Wreck, where just enough swell was coming in to make it interesting among the rocks. It was low tide, and at Round Island we found a series of granite slots where the swells grew into small waves.

I've paddled past this spot so many times, I told Nate, but never quite like this.

"How's that go?" he said. "You can't step into the same river twice?"

True, and it is true of the ocean as well. But I was starting to re-appreciate why I love paddling here so much. It can be drastically different each time. There is always more to discover.

The fog banks lingered in the distance as we followed the shore of McGlathery Island on to Gooseberry. A couple of miles away, Fog Island stood out clear and inviting in the sunshine, so we headed for it. The marine forecast had called for 4-6- foot seas, which unsurprisingly, we didn't encounter in the archipelago, but out beyond Fog, the swell came in bigger, straight from the south. The sunshine went away.

After lunch, we made our way back: Popplestone Ledge, Southern Mark Island, Enchanted Island, Phoebe Island. It seemed we found a different feature at each spot, like challenges in a miniature golf course... except these usually involved steep dumping waves and solid granite. As usual, Nate pushed harder than I did and got his share of rolling and bracing practice. The seals watched from a distance. It started to rain.

Contrast is everything. And here, it often seems like we can get a lot of it in one trip. Fog, rocks and waves, sunshine, rain... the infinite variables that make every paddling excursion unique: I'm missing the sub-tropics a little less than I was two days ago.

Beaches, Bugs & Books: A Leisurely Paddle in the Northern Everglades

2011-04-15T10:37:00.009-04:00

The horseflies were biting, but then again, so were the lizards. It was the first afternoon of a six-day paddle around the northern end of Everglades National Park, and we were doing our best to set the tone for a leisurely, relaxing trip. We sat in our lounge chairs on the coarse sand beside the river, reading our books, but there were these distractions: a few bugs and... every time we looked up from reading, those lizards seemed to have moved closer. Definitely, the lizards were moving-in. And they were staring intently at my foot. Before I could blink, one lizard made its move. It darted and attacked. I felt nothing more than a thump against my foot, but the lizard, having retreated to a safe distance a few feet away, had a mouthful of horsefly. The lizard crunched the horsefly in its jaws and gulped it down. Then it cocked its head and looked at me, as if to say “got any more?”

This would be our last trip in the Everglades before heading home. We wanted to camp in a few places we hadn’t been, and get in some beach time before getting back to our usual life. Our route would take us on a loop starting with a few days on the inside, followed by a meander among the Ten Thousand Islands.

We paddled up the Lopez River, spent the first night there, and followed the familiar markers through inland bays for much of the second day’s paddle. We spent our second night at the Sweetwater Chickee. We’d been in Florida for nearly two months, and that afternoon experienced rain for the third time. As long as the thunder and lightning stay in the distance, a chickee is a nice place to be for a storm. You’ve got a roof over your head and a good vantage point to watch the dramatic clouds sweep past.

We headed down the Chatham River and then camped on beaches in the Ten Thousand Islands: New Turkey Key, Pavilion Key and Tiger Key. We were pretty relaxed about it, favoring quality time on the islands over mileage. The days were getting hotter- in the high eighties, and each afternoon a line of dramatic clouds swept in from the mainland, threatening thunderstorms, but never shedding more than a few drops of rain. We spent a lot of time walking around and looking at things: shells, trees, birds, the distant line of the horizon over the Gulf.

There were others camped at Pavilion Key, and we met some. They were there for a rendezvous of the Water Tribe- the group responsible for the Everglades Challenge race from St. Petersburg to Key Largo in sea kayaks and various other small, non-motorized craft. These were just about the first real sea kayaks we'd seen during our entire time in Florida. They even wear life jackets and sprayskirts.

On our last evening at Tiger Key, we sat on the beach, consciously savoring our last sunset over the Gulf. It was hard to leave, and really, we could have stayed longer. It cost very little to be there, but the meter kept ticking on our home in Maine, and we would be returning to a pile of bills and responsibilities. But we told ourselves we were returning to a good place, and we missed the solid granite of our islands. We would need to return home with an increased resolve to make the most of it, to enjoy it as if we were only visitors. Which, any way you look at it, is ultimately the case.

I awoke before sunrise to see the horizon blurred by fog. We haven’t seen much fog in Florida, so it felt like a sneak preview of Maine. The air and the sea were still and quiet. I went out for a photo and the no see-ums descended, my skin burning with their bites. I dove back into the tent and waited for sun and wind to drive the bugs away. It’s worth mentioning that the bugs were always a presence, but usually, as long as we got our cooking done before dusk, we could wait-out the worst swarms inside the tent. Our last morning there was the one exception. We needed to launch in time to avoid paddling against the current, so we packed quickly, skipping our oatmeal, enduring the bugs until we were on the water where a breeze kept them away.

After a few hours of paddling we were back in Everglades City. Two days later we were back in Stonington amid a heavy rainstorm, our tans beginning to fade, the itch of bug bites subsiding, all of it already feeling distant and dreamlike. But the next morning as the sun sparkled on the water between Stonington Harbor and Isle au Haut, those familiar islands- all granite and spruce- looked very solid.

Boca Chita Key to Key West: A Few Snapshots

2011-03-28T11:58:00.004-04:00

I sat beside the lighthouse, watching the sun set between a nuclear power plant and a small mountain made of garbage. Eight miles of Biscayne Bay lay between me and that silhouetted shoreline where I’d begun paddling that morning after launching from Biscayne National Park headquarters. I’d followed the wild, mangrove shoreline north a few miles toward Miami, before taking an abrupt right turn across the bay. A couple of hours later, I could see the lighthouse on Boca Chita Key. I paddled toward it.

I was at the start of a trip I’d been dreaming about. I’d read as much as I could, and stared at the charts for hours on end, trying to anticiapate what I would find in each area: where to camp, the dangers and the sights, how the currents flow. I wanted to paddle the entire chain of the Florida Keys, north to south, a distance of about 150 miles, and since Rebecca was busy with her artist’s residency in Everglades National Park, I would do it solo.

I’d visualized that first day’s crossing for too long. I’d gone to the park headquarters and looked across. From the second story I could see the dim outline of Elliot Key across the bay, but from kayak height, all I could see was that aqua-turquoisey water surface stretching away to infinity. There were vast shallow areas that were a hazard to go around, but also a refuge from larger boats. I had my gear ready for a couple of days before the winds let-up enough to go for it. All that fretting paid-off; I followed my bearings exactly to the markers and found my way across without a hitch. That night at Boca Chita Key I sat in the dark, gazing at the city lights, savoring even the power plant, which would be a constant landmark for the next couple of days.

I established my routine by the third day: get up in the dark, launch at sunrise, and paddle 21 to 24 miles to my next campsite. I got a little lost in Jones Lagoon, a shallow patch of mangroves encased in islands; maybe not a good idea with a full day ahead, but I’ve started to enjoy the contrast between ocean paddling and poking around skinny water and overgrown passages. Later, I passed the exclusive Ocean Reef Club, a gated community that takes up the entire northern end of Key Largo. It was a fitting welcome to the populated portion of the Keys: huge houses with huge powerboats coming and going from the canals. The club emanated a constant din of children’s voices, splashing and distant motors. I drifted in among a family on short kayaks, the wife admitting nervousness about the channel up ahead, where someone’s personal mini cruise ship was motoring in. The husband snapped at her while the kids drifted into the wake of the large boat. I half-expected that, at any moment, someone would point at me and shriek, like in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”, revealing the intruder in their midst. It was a feeling that would linger. The surprising thing though- and I found this throughout the Keys, was that, just beyond such a heavily-developed area, the mangroves began, and for the rest of that day I passed only a handful of houses before I found a campsite on an island.

The next day, to avoid some of the wind, I headed into Largo Sound and rode the current through the Adams Cut to the bay side. Here, I passed beneath Route One, which would be a presence all the way to Key West. For a few moments, I had a hint of what road-based visitors to the Keys experience: the hum of traffic, a billboard advertising a fireworks shop, and oh, by the way- it’s all for sale.

But the antidote is a short paddle away. Just off of Dusenbury Creek, I went into a section of mangrove tunnels called “The Grottoes”. There, in the leaf-filtered sunlight among the gothically arching prop roots, I found a stretch of calm, quiet water- a temporary respite before following the remaining, mostly built-up Key Largo coastline.

Later in the afternoon, I rode the current in Tavernier Creek back to the ocean side, and found another campsite that I shared with some wood rats. I woke a couple of times to discover one of the rats crawling up the mosquito netting above my head. It’s also worth mentioning that at these less-established, not so legit campsites, I tend to watch the rising tide with a little anxiousness. After all, it’s the full moon- just how how high will the water rise?

Plantation Key, Windley Key, Upper Matecumbe Key... private homes, motels & resorts, boat rentals, helicopter rides... One mile after another, I paddled, keeping the Keys on my right. As the day wore on the waterfront crowded with more people: couples in lounge chairs staring out at the sea, kids, spring-breakers... bikinis, drinks, big fishing rods, short plastic boats. Kiteboarders zipping out across the waves, occasionally taking to the air. It unrolled on my right as I paddled past, all entertainment for the solitary paddler. Ate lunch on Indian Key, walking the paths among the ruins of a former town.

By now, I’d become accustomed to sharks and rays passing beneath. At first I noticed small sharks in shallows, and occasionally some larger ones that circled around indifferently below. The rays undulated gracefully, taking-off abruptly when I approached.

One of the best deals for the paddler in the Keys are the primitive sites at Long Key State Park, which are held each day specifically for kayakers arriving by sea. Eight bucks gets you a sheltered platform with a picnic table, bathrooms and an outdoor shower... which you’ll need if you arrive at low tide, as I did. It’s a long, muddy carry. That night I sat and sipped my tea with the sea lapping calmly just below, sparkling beneath a full moon. Before dawn, one cruise ship after another hummed past on the horizon, headed for Key West.

The weather forecast for my sixth paddling day called for northeast winds picking-up in the afternoon. It also happened to be a day that would take me across some fairly open water south of some long bridge spans. The tide flows between the bay side and the ocean, squeezing through the gaps to create some strong currents and potentially dicey paddling, especially if the wind works against those currents. I’d begun thinking of the Seven Mile Bridge as the crux of the trip, potentially the most difficult section. If I made it that far, I ought to make it to Key West.

I made the Long Key Viaduct crossing first thing and progressed until mid-morning, when the wind increased, pushing me along, one hotel beach after another, guests looking up to see me surf past, until ahead lay a three-mile open stretch: the Vaca Key Bight. I tethered my paddle to my wrist, and headed across. It was a bit rough, but not rough enough to call it a day.

At the end of Boot Key, the Seven-Mile Bridge stretched away to the horizon with no end in sight. I could see my destination though: Molasses Key, where I would camp, over four miles away. I had little sense of what conditions lay ahead, so I plunged ahead, and it got rough. The waves behind me grew, and soon I became sadly aware of my kayak’s limitations. The boat was heavily-loaded, with over four gallons of drinking water in the cockpit. I was riding a little low. It’s one thing to ride waves in a following sea, but another when those waves start slipping over the coaming, pooling in the lap of my sprayskirt, slowly filling the cockpit. There wasn’t much I could do about it. With one hand I’d pull the skirt up and get the water out, but within a minute I had another gallon of water in my lap. I watched the bridge to gauge my progress. A large sea turtle surfaced and gazed at me for a moment before disappearing below, into its element. I could feel the added water in the boat making it less responsive. Somewhere in the middle, where the current was probably greatest, I found myself in a mogul field of waves. I focused on staying upright; forward progress was a luxury I could hardly think about.

But I got through it. I stayed focused on Molasses Key. Behind it, more land became visible, and eventually I could make out individual trees, and then I passed into a shallow area. I took a long drink of water and rested before paddling in to find my campsite.

I stayed on Molasses Key for two nights. As promised, the wind continued to pick-up: 25, 30-knot gusts. Thunderstorms threatened, mountains of high clouds building and passing by. A couple of powerboats anchored offshore, but the people in them never waded-in. I finished my serious book before lunch and began on the thriller. I made coffee and strolled around the small island, walking out over the ancient coral, surveying my little world from different angles. The wind hissed through the trees, weaving its sound with the flow of traffic on the bridge, a mile away. A double semi-truck of Coca-Cola heads for Key West, followed shortly by an identical red truck heading north. I’d watch the bridge and just space-out, finally breaking free, as if from hypnosis.

Maybe the isolation on Molasses Key was responsible for my choice to head to a KOA Kampground for my last night. After another long day of dodging the wind, I got into somewhat sheltered water and the usual pattern of overly-developed stretches alternating with wild mangroves. I was tired, and the prospect of a hot shower, dinner at a restaurant, a swim and a soak in a hot tub sounded good. Besides, the camera and cell phone batteries were almost shot.

Shortly after arriving, I wished that I’d just gone to the primitive site and stayed in my own, unshowered world. “It’s quiet compared to last week,” people told me, since spring break was winding-down. But it still felt like a tailgate party where the main attraction is warmth. A nearby trailer cranked classic hits all afternoon (which I found myself enjoying) and the shirtless guys with bandannas on their heads stood around with tightly gripped beers over their bellies, comparing tattoos or sunburns. I had a talk with a nice guy who really just wanted to talk about his hometown in Illinois, and when he finally figured out that I’d paddled there in that kayak, offered me a marguerita. Sorry, no, don’t drink, I had to say, as if confirming that I truly was from a different planet.

Freedom lay just beyond the mangroves, but few could see it. I slipped out quietly before sunrise and paddled the rest of the way to Key West. I got to the end of the island and turned back, waiting for Rebecca at the Southernmost Point, a large painted buoy on shore, where visitors took turns having their picture taken. There is nowhere to land nearby, so I drifted in the small waves, watching occasional person-sized sharks swim by below, until finally Rebecca appeared at the fence and waved. It was my turn for a picture.

9 days (1 weather day) 8 nights, about 157 nautical miles.

Hangin' With The Spoonbills

2011-03-11T13:20:00.003-05:00

Just east of Flamingo is a large, shallow bay. Five miles across, the bay gently curves about two miles into the Snake Bight area before dipping into another bight. It’s a popular spot for birds, maybe because it is only a foot or two deep, leaving the fish and crabs little room to hide. Huge flocks like to congregate on the exposed mud flats, and in the branches of mangroves along its banks.

On our first foray into the bight, we paddled-in at high tide and ran out of water. The tides and the muddy bottom are hard to predict around here. One foot of water on the chart might really be four inches or none at all if the wind is blowing the water away, or if the mud has shifted. We paddled-out quickly, not wanting to end-up slogging through the mud on foot.

For our second excursion into the bight, we followed the straight line of a man-made channel into the bight. It doesn’t look like exciting kayaking, but it’s nice to be able to dig your paddle into water, rather than mud. Every hundred yards or so stood a marker with a bird on top: anhingas, laughing gulls, the occasional osprey that took off, skimming the water surface with its claws. Small fish jumped from the water again and again. In the distance, a fisherman stood on a lone skiff, poled by a man standing atop a platform. Flocks of wading birds massed in the shallows and mud flats.

At the end of the channel, we paddled around a stand of mangroves with bird poop-speckled leaves, and that unmistakeable aroma of birdly domesticity. We saw ibises and egrets and such- the usual suspects for this area. Wonderful to see, of course, but also visible along just about any canal in southern Florida. We beached ourselves in the mud for an in-the-cockpit lunch break.

As we sat quietly, we noticed a flash of pink feathers in the mangroves up ahead, and then another. A moment later, several of the birds flew out around us, winging around in a circle before settling again into the mangrove branches: roseate spoonbills.

A little over a hundred years ago, it had become fashionable for women to wear feathers or entire wings on their heads. (“Excuse me Miss, but you have a dead bird on your head”). Plume hunters in the Everglades and Florida Bay killed as many birds as they could, making obscene profits until, predictably, the birds began to disappear. The roseate spoonbill has the fortune- or misfortune in this case- to have bright pink feathers. By the 1930s, the species was hunted almost to extinction, down to only a few birds in Florida.

We finished our lunch and drifted quietly past a bend where dozens of the birds were perched atop the mangrove foliage. They are strange-looking birds to be sure. They get our attention with those bright pink feathers, but the spoon-shaped bill seems like a remnant from a prehistoric age, or a cruel joke played by nature. I’m sure we look funny to them too, but they didn’t seem to mind us drifting by at a distance.

It’s funny how we feel lucky to see one species of bird more than another. Is it because we don’t see pink birds very often? Or the unusual bill? Or maybe it’s because we nearly lost the chance to see these birds ever again. Either way, the spoonbills held our attention for a long time, until it started getting late and we headed back to Flamingo, pointing our bows into the sunset.

Greetings from the Everglades

2011-03-04T16:29:00.005-05:00

From the road, all one sees is a pool of dark, shallow water beneath a canopy of thick foliage. It goes back maybe fifty feet before disappearing around a bend, if not disappearing altogether, but the presence of other parked cars suggests that maybe this trickle of muddy water actually leads somewhere. This is the beginning of the Hell’s Bay Canoe Trail, a marked route through the Everglades leading to the Hell’s Bay Chickee. Rebecca and I were headed out for the next two nights.

Our paddles churned up the muck, coloring the water to a black bean soup hue. We got around that first bend- a very tight turn- and the liquid path continued, one turn after another. We passed through numerous mangrove tunnels, often six or eight feet wide, with only inches of water beneath our hulls. And then we’d burst into an open area where the grasses and palms hissed in the wind- wind that mostly passed overhead. This is a good spot to paddle on a windy day. We’d had plans for a more ambitious four-night trip around Cape Sable and Whitewater Bay, but the forecast called for strong winds that would have made the paddling a chore at best.

We had been in Everglades National Park for a week. Rebecca is the Artist in Residence, which basically means the park gives her a residence and... yes, she’s the artist in that residence. After about three weeks here last year, we saw so much potential- paddling-wise, and art-wise, that we knew we had to come back and spend even more time. Rebecca’s focus is on painting, drawing and printmaking, but our kayaks get us out to places that relatively few people get to, let alone artists.

The Everglades is an often-misunderstood place. For generations, it was seen as a wet wasteland, useful only if it could be drained. Against all odds, it was drained. It’s a long, convoluted tale of human-centric folly, and at one point it seemed that the Everglades chapter was near its end, with entire species of plants and animals on the verge of extinction. Most of the national parks were established to protect places of grand, obvious beauty, easily seen and appreciated by their visitors. The attraction of the Everglades is subtler than other parks. Everglades National Park was the first of its kind, established to protect a threatened ecosystem, which might not be so tangible from the driver’s seat of an RV. Even from the cockpit of a kayak, it takes some effort to see the big picture.

You could say that the Everglades has a PR problem. And it isn’t because alligators aren’t cute.

After a couple hours of following a twisting watery path, we emerged into a series of small bays, arriving at the Pearl Bay Chickee in late afternoon. A chickee is a platform built on stilts above the water. There’s an outhouse and a roof with just enough room to camp. It’s also a pleasant place to while away what’s left of a sunny afternoon: reading, painting, enjoying the luxury of a hot cup of tea in the wilderness.

We ate dinner as the sun set, finally retreating into the mosquito netting shell of our tent, where we listened to lapping waves and the occasional splash of a fish or a wading bird. In the east, Miami lit the eastern horizon. a pinkish glow that was beautiful in its own way, even if it is a constant reminder of the human sprawl that nearly rendered this place obsolete.

It’s hard to describe our next day’s activities without useing the phrase “hanging-out”. That’s just what you do on a chickee. There’s nowhere to walk, but the twenty or so feet to the outhouse. Sure, we could get into the kayaks and do some exploring, but the view from the platform feels like a privledged one, and an unusual perspective for Rebecca to paint from. We watched birds, and an otter that, of all the little mangrove coves for miles around, chose ours to hunt for its breakfast.

Finally, we packed-up and paddled another couple of hours to get to the Lane Bay Chickee. Here we left the established canoe trail and struck off to navigate for ourselves, finding passages between mahogany and cypress hammocks and mangrove-lined bays. The navigating is a bit imprecise, with the chart only generally representing what we see. Often, an “island” is really a group of mangrove trees that probably weren’t even there when the chart was last updated. Still, it’s all we have to navigate by, so we follow along carefully, and try not to panic when nothing seems to look as it should. Aside from tricky navigating, our mileage would have been that of a short day paddle at home, but that’s okay; it gave us plenty of time on the chickee, which, after all, is why we’re here.

Fresh Tracks on Green Island

2011-02-06T09:28:00.004-05:00

Wow- sunshine, temps in the lower thirties and not much wind. Not only that, but several feet of fresh snow on the ground; I had to get out. I also wanted to make the most of the snow, so I strapped my old snowshoes onto the bow and headed out.

Last weekend we'd gone to Mount Desert Island for some cross-country skiing in Acadia National Park before our late afternoon pool session with the kayaks. The skiing was amazing- miles of groomed trails on the carriage roads. Most winters lately I've been content to skip those other, non-paddling winter sports, but the snow this winter is too good to miss. We were worn-out by the time we got into the pool, but still managed two solid hours of rescues and rolling and such. The repeated practice is crucial, especially if one is paddling in winter. It's been a few months since I dipped my head in the ocean.

In the summertime, this would have been a typical after-work paddle: out around Steves and McGlathery and back. This time, as I passed Green Island just after high tide, I found myself lingering beneath the big rocks where caps of snow melted in the sunshine.

If you ignore the heaps of cast-off granite blocks and the fishing debris, the islands usually feel fairly pristine. Add a fresh coat of deep snow, tracked only by animals, and it feels almost primeval out there. Beside the pure white, the blueness of the sky and sea is punched-up to its bluest levels, and the spruces embody the meaning of the word "green". As I drifted I had this feeling that I often have while paddling- that I could hardly believe my good fortune. And I could have just as easily not gone paddling: stayed home to clean the apartment or something. So the apartment remains messy and I've had at least one moment when I consciously feel privileged to be seeing what I'm seeing. A moment like that now and then helps get one through the more mundane times.

The wind picked-up as I went around McGlathery Island, and soon, a long front loomed in the western sky- the next storm. By the time I landed on Green and strapped the snowshoes onto my kayaking boots, the sunlight had drained from the sky, and it felt like more snow could come any time.

I chose Green because it has a well-maintained trail, thanks to Maine Coast Heritage Trust and its volunteers. Without that, most of the islands have blown-down trees and undergrowth that could be pretty tough-going on foot- let alone snowshoes. I followed a loop trail through the woods, pausing at an overlook above an old quarry. As I took-in the view: a slightly higher perspective of familiar islands in the foreground, Mt. Desert in the background, it occurred to me that I'd never even hiked that trail before. It's probably less than a mile from where we've lived for nearly eight years, and I'm only just now getting there.

Amazing. And there's still plenty more I haven't seen.

The Lower Bagaduce

2011-01-21T12:32:00.008-05:00

Lately I’ve been watching the weather forecasts compulsively, but if someone asks me if it’s supposed to snow I’m likely to draw a blank. Pretty much what I get from it is the wind and temperature, which results in either yes or no: paddling or no paddling. The past week and a half has been a lot of “no” days, with some “maybes” thrown-in just to tantalize me and make me feel bad when I don’t go. Yesterday was one of those maybe days, but I thought I might find some semi-sheltered paddling in the upper Bagaduce River. The tide was even right to launch into the shallow waters off the Penobscot Town Landing.

Unfortunately, Winslow Cove was iced-in, so I drove down to the launch by Bagaduce Falls. The current squeezed beneath the bridge, frothing-up a formidable wave train, but at the next bend in the river, ice covered the entire surface. I sat in the car for awhile watching the standing waves. Occasionally a huge ice flow emerged, tossed about the crests of waves only to be abruptly pulled beneath. So maybe the upper Bagaduce is out of the picture for the next few months.

Fortunately, the road into Dodge Point was plowed (at middle right on the above chart) so I unloaded there at another of Brooksville’s town landings. I called Rebecca with a revised float plan and I was off.

I follwed the steep shoreline toward the head of Smith Cove, where pines clung to the tops of dark cliffs, dripping with icicles. The sun felt good on my face. It was a crisp, clear day- a bit cold, which meant I had to keep moving. I did- paddling around Smith Cove and out between Whites Head and Hospital Island. The current was picking-up, barely floating me over over the sandbar between islands. Across the river lay the Castine waterfront, dominated by Maine Maritime Academy’s training ship, the State of Maine.

As I approached the mouth of the river, a stiff breeze felt icy on my face, and a minor swell came rolling in from the northwest. I headed for Ram Island. The island is owned and managed by the Conservation Trust of Brooksville, Castine and Penobscot, and has a small campsite. I took a walk around the eastern island, but in the face of the northwest breeze, a chill quickly set-in. Good thing I’d worn an extra layer of long johns, but the feet and toes start to take on a chill that doesn’t go away. The best thing is to keep moving, keep the blood pumping.

I was going to head straight back to the launch, but after a few minutes of paddling I felt fine again, and I couldn’t resist crossing over to Castine to paddle alongside The State of Maine. By now, if I paused the current pulled me backwards. I paused for some photos of the ship, but there’s something intimidating about being next to- actually below- such a large vessel.

I crossed the river back to Smith Cove and paused at the remains of another large ship. The Gardiner G. Deering was a 251-foot, five-masted schooner. Abandoned in the 1930s and later burned, the ship is now reduced to a few skeletal, rockweed-draped timbers- just enough to give you some sense of her original proportions as you paddle through.

Back at the launch, I cranked the heat in the car and loaded-up as the sun set. I felt lucky to have squeezed a paddle into a rare window of good conditions. Well, "good" conditions when I lowered my standards because I could see it wasn't going to get much warmer... and when I sought-out a place with less wind. Good thing I got out; today looks much different.

Putting Together the Pieces

2011-01-08T08:51:00.007-05:00

Lately I've been launching from Reach Beach, in Gray's Cove, on the northeastern corner of Deer Isle. A launch site can become a habit. I find myself in the car, and of all the places I could launch, I head back to the same one as the day before. Maybe it's more obsession than habit. It seems that every time I'm out paddling, I leave one place that I didn't get to- an island I didn't quite have time for, or an inlet I couldn't follow because the tide ran out. And at night, I pore over the chart, and if I can't picture the place in my mind, I can't wait to check it out.

Maybe it's a weird obsession, but I find it immensely satisfying when my route re-connects or overlaps with previous routes I've paddled, and somehow the big picture starts to click together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle... a multi-dimensional puzzle that somehow manages to include changes in tides and weather and even my own experiences.

Reach Beach is public, thanks to a conservation easement donated by a generous private landholder to Island Heritage Trust. There's often someone out digging clams on the mudflats or walking on the beach. You can park your car just off the road, at the top of the beach and, unless it's an hour and a half on either side of low tide, carry a short distance down to the water. For those three hours around low water, there's a bit of a carry through the mud.

It's tough to completely avoid the mud, so I just accept that occasionally I have a long walk. Like in this photo. Low tide and sunset happened at about the same time, so I had a good long carry. I've had to spend a little extra time cleaning gear in the evening.

Reach Beach gives the paddler fairly quick access to several distinct areas. One day I crossed the Reach and followed the Brooklin shore. The landmarks gradually become more familiar- the church steeple rising above the trees from the center of Brooklin or the snowy hills of Mount Desert. Sometimes Blue Hill pokes above the trees, and that that island with the cliffs has to be Hog Island. Eventually, a glance here or there lets you know in an instant where you are.

Another day I paddled among the islands off Stinson Neck, then crossed over to the islands off of Naskeag Point. Large rafts of eiders and longtails murmured not far away, while occasional shotgun blasts thumped in the distance. I'm not the only one with New Year's rituals.

One excursion at high tide took me for a tour around Greenlaw Cove, exploring Fish Creek and all the little nooks and crannies I could find. It was a foggy day, and it felt good to follow the shore, but those inlets add-up; that turned into a fifteen-mile day.

Of course, the more I spend my evenings staring at charts, the more creative my route-planning becomes. For a long time I'd heard of people portaging "The Carryover", a traditional canoe portage route into Long Cove. I thought I'd give it a try, so I set out at high tide, carried my kayak over the road and re-launched in Long Cove.

The ice was a little thick; I couldn't get through and had to turn back. I must have been in the mood to carry my boat, though, since I managed to portage the Sunshine Causeway, paddling around Stinson Neck.

Well, it's always good to leave something undone. The puzzle, it turns-out, can never be completed; it just grows.

Christmas Paddle

2010-12-27T11:07:00.004-05:00

On our calendar for December 25th, Rebecca had scrawled- in ink- “go kayaking”. No doubt we were hoping for a repeat of last year’s calm day on the water. It may be a little weird to make an appointment, but if we didn’t, chances are that we would end up with something else on the calendar, and we would find ourselves chatting with someone, probably about kayaking, wondering why we weren’t paddling.

As Christmas wishes go, this seems a modest desire, but the weather forecast wasn’t promising. As I bopped around the kitchen to my once-yearly listen to Dave Brubeck’s Christmas album, the north winds began subtly diminishing. By the time I had a casserole ready to go in the oven, it was obvious: time to get the gear together. I put the casserole in the fridge.

We paddled away from the launch. The air temp hovered in the mid-twenties and the sun slipped behind the clouds. We would need to keep moving to stay warm. “Where to?” we asked, but our bows were already pointed toward the sloping profile of Steves Island.

Funny, how often we head for Steves without thinking about it. It’s two miles away- maybe a half-hour paddle if you’re going non-stop, like we were. Maybe because the island is state-owned, and because we’re its “island adopters” for MITA, we feel some sense of ownership (as obviously many other people do). Maybe ownership isn’t the right word- try “stewardship” instead. We’d thought we might stop and pick up garbage- I could see some of the usual fishing debris, but it was cold enough and late enough that it made more sense to keep moving. We stopped short of going around the island, not wanting to disturb the huge raft of ducks on the south side. We headed around St. Helena and back toward town.

When we arrived back at the launch at sunset, we paused. Stonington was about as quiet as we’d ever seen it. There were no boats moving about the harbor, and the town felt subdued, lights coming on in windows here and there. Usually we don’t paddle much in the harbor. It is the domain of fishing boats, probably far more dangerous than anything else we might encounter in our kayaks. But it was so calm and quiet, we had to check it out, following the piers right into our neighborhood. I hovered in the water just across the street from our building, below the lit-up Christmas tree on the deck at the Seasons of Stonington restaurant. A couple of cars chugged past. In the front window of the gallery, a light came on, triggered by a timer, spotlighting Rebecca’s most recent close-up of a lobster boat bow.

It was high tide, so we were able to maneuver among the ledges, over toward Green Head. There were lights on in a few houses, and strings of Christmas lights strewn in the bushes and trees. Framed in a bright window opening, a woman stood at a kitchen counter. Most of the windows though, remained dark. Somewhere, a dog barked. The quiet was overpowering. We drifted awhile among the lobster boats, our toes and fingers beginning to turn numb, and headed back in. A casserole awaited at home.

Oh yes, since it’s Christmas, I should expound on finding something spiritual in nature. You know- the obligatory bla bla bla about what the holiday means to me, being a transcendentalist in the tradition of Emerson and Thoreau. Hmm... let’s not. Let's just say it was awesome, as it is every day, and leave it at that.

"I Really Like This Place"

2010-12-21T13:47:00.005-05:00

On Sunday I launched from Causeway Beach and headed south. It’s funny how sometimes I look at the chart before the trip and get all kinds of big route ideas- the distances covered, the islands circumnavigated, but after about forty-five minutes of non-stop cardio, that all goes out the window. Sunday was sunny, thirty-ish, calm. I had all afternoon.

Pickering Island lay ahead and I looked forward to cruising along its long crescent-shaped beaches, which, with the low winter sun, looked cool in the shadows cast by the spruce forests. Around me, the surface roiled gently. The tide was going out, just about mid-tide now, and it surprised me how much current squeezed through these small islands and ledges. I paused to let it turn me here and there. Maybe that’s when everything slowed down.

My bow pointed toward a ledge- a small island really- a hump of stone rising from the sea. So I paddled over to it. A crow cawed at me and flew away. Maybe at a lower tide I could find a landing here and climb up, but for now I felt content to drift past.

I came to a beach on a small island and got out for a look around. Privately-owned with a conservation easement managed by the Nature Conservancy, the island’s public access status is perhaps a bit ambiguous... but not in December. I tramped through the snow, up though grassy meadows to a bluff overlooking a broad expanse of Penobscot Bay. I kept saying to myself “I really like this place... wow, I really like this place!” True, I say that about all the little islands, but for a moment there, I fell for this one.

I followed the shoreline of Pickering Island around and headed over to Crow Island. This five-acre island is state-owned, and was once even on the Maine Island Trail (check out this article by Dave Getchell Jr. in the May 1989 issue of Backpacker Magazine).

Eagle nesting may account for its current exclusion from MITA, but again, that’s from April through August. Of course, I couldn’t help looking around and thinking about where I’d put my tent: in the meadows, beneath the stands of spruce, overlooking the pocket beaches where the smooth stones clattered with every wave- one could hardly go wrong. Again, I caught myself saying “I really like this place...”

I crossed back over to Deer Isle, aiming for Heart Island, and as a nearly full moon rose above my bow and the sun fizzled into the clouds on the horizon behind me, I followed the shore back to the causeway.

Icicles

2010-12-13T18:39:00.008-05:00

With the ups and downs our weather brings us this time of year, I end up checking the forecast compulsively, watching for windows of opportunity. There wasn’t much wind on Friday, but it sure felt cold. I didn’t get out, but as usual, wished that I had. It helped that on Saturday the air temperature was forecast to rise into the 30s, with not much wind, and possibly even some sunshine. Once again, I headed over to the ramp in Bucks Harbor, this time, heading southeast, down Eggemoggin Reach.

The shorelines of Brooksville and Little Deer Isle are separated by Eggemoggin Reach, only a mile or so across, but each shore is distinctly different from the other. On the Brooksville side, the settlement is concentrated mostly into one area, from Norumbega, an old enclave of summer cottages overlooking Deadmans Cove, to Herricks. The rest is fairly wild. Low cliffs rise directly from the water, topped by scrubby, twisted pines.

Of course, there are layers of history here, visible if you know where to look. A sheltered cove known as “The Punchbowl” was apparently an Indian village, and its mud covers the remains of a trading ship that was destroyed and burned, killing all aboard. There’s still tension between locals and People From Away, but maybe a little less extreme.

The sun came out as I crossed the Reach. This stretch of Little Deer Isle shoreline is thinly-settled, with plenty of forest between most of the houses, and an overall gentler, less cliffy shore than the one across the Reach. I pointed toward the one section of low, overhanging cliffs, and as I neared it, I remembered that there sometimes is a reward for getting out in the colder weather. In this case: icicles.

Forward progress stopped. I drifted and marveled: totally unexpected. A gift.

Soon, I stopped long enough to eat a sandwich, which was long enough for my toes and fingers to turn numb. I paddled hard for Thrumcap Island and heated-up again.

I stopped there to check things out- the nests on the rocks, a nice view up the reach toward the bridge, a desolate grandeur so close to home- and I could imagine whiling away a warmer afternoon here. But my toes were numb. So I got moving and warmed-up as I headed the two miles up Horsehoe Cove, returning with a little push from the current.

A half-hour after sunset, I paddled into Betsy's Cove. In the dim light, the water surface below the ramp had a dull sheen. I plowed into it and came to a stop. Ice. I paused for a moment, just to savor the scene: a winter evening in a New England town, yellow light from occasional lit windows, thin crescent of a moon overhead, and somewhere, the crunch of tires over ice and snow.

I'll admit that when we get a little cold weather, I complain a little like most everyone, and lately I've been remembering how nice it was last winter in the Everglades. But would I completely give up one for the other? Can't have everything, I guess. This is where I am now. I backed out of the ice and found my way around its edges, back to shore.

Cape Rosier

2010-12-06T18:45:00.006-05:00

With the forecast calling for some wintry weather for the week ahead, the weekend looked okay: air temps in the the 30s with light winds out of the north. It’s all relative. Knowing it would soon be colder and stormier, I decided I’d better make the most of it, so on Saturday I drove to Brooksville and launched at Betsy’s Cove town launch in Buck(s) Harbor.

If you paddled directly from Bucks Harbor to Blake Point, you’d go just over three miles, but the southeast shore of Cape Rosier is indented with coves reaching far inland, multiplying the paddle-able shoreline to over twelve miles. I launched just after high tide, so my timing was off, but I was eager to check-out Horseshoe Cove. This narrow finger of the sea stretches over two miles inland, with a zigzag about half way in.

The half-hour paddle to the mouth of Horseshoe is past surprisingly unpopulated shoreline. Condon Point is undeveloped (and for sale- hey land trust people). I knew I was paddling against the flow, but it wasn’t obvious until the cove narrowed in front of Seal Cove Boatyard. I dodged the current, following eddies where I could, rounding the corner into the zigzag, where I encountered a constriction creating a tidal rapids.

I got out and watched it for a bit and ate the first of my sandwiches. Definitely a spot to check-out at other tides. And there’s more than a mile or more still to go upstream. I headed back out just in time though, scraping along the bottom just south of the boatyard.

The mouth of the cove is marked by Dog Island, a small island connected to the mainland by a sandbar at lower tides. Next is an area called “Barneys Mistake”. I’m not sure who Barney was, but I would guess his mistake had something to do with the numerous ledges here. The cove is looked over by a few residences, closed for the winter. Actually, that can be said for pretty much all the shoreline in the area- all privately-owned with discrete cabins that have been there for generations.

I paddled as far as Bakeman Beach, then headed back via Spectacle Island and the Thrumcap, arriving back as it grew dark.

On Sunday, I picked up where I left-off, launching at Bakeman Beach, which is owned by the town. I parked just off the road, at the top of the beach and headed west, out around Head of the Cape. Here, I felt the wind in my face and paddled into small wind-driven waves that collided with the steep, rocky shore. This would obviously be a committing section of shoreline, so I took a moment for a reality check, considering the risks versus my preparedness.

Reality check out of the way, I followed the shore north. A couple of obvious bailouts stood-out, predictably in Ames Cove, Orr Cove and the coves approaching Harborside. The grey sky spat out sleet and snow, sometimes veiling the shores of Islesboro, Dice Head in Castine, and in the distant north, Sears Island and Cape Jellison. I ate my sandwich on Holbrook Island, beneath the watchful gaze of a bald eagle, and headed back the way I’d come, arriving back at the beach just before dark. I saw no other boats underway all weekend. It’s been fun to car-top the kayak to other launches, paddling unfamiliar shoreline, connecting the dots with previous trips. But now, with the kayak and the car obscured by snow, I may want to put the boat away for a few days.

We just watched a video about Andrew McAuley’s 2007 fatal attempt to kayak from Tasmania to New Zealand. A very sad, but amazing story. You can watch it for free here.

Around Little Deer Isle

2010-12-01T10:58:00.005-05:00

Yesterday I cartopped over to the causeway between Deer Isle and Little Deer Isle, parked in the sand and launched just after low tide. I pointed south, toward the distant windmills on Vinalhaven, and paddled out past Carney Island. My plan was to go around Little Deer Isle- roughly an eight-mile circumnavigation- and return to the north side of the causeway when the tide was higher, carrying my kayak across the road to my launching point.

I thought I’d stay close to Little Deer Isle, but as I paddled past one closed-up summer house after another, I kept looking out toward the islands to the south. My bow wavered like a compass needle until finally it pointed me out to the little islands, un-named on my charts (listed as "Bar I." on my 1949 chart). After the first pair, attached by a sandbar (A-frame cabins on east end) I came to a small islet, more of a treeless ledge with some grassy vegetation on top. But just enough beach was exposed for me to land and have a look. I don’t know why I like these treeless, forlorn spots so much. Maybe because they’re small enough and so wild and exposed that they will always be overlooked by most, and remain wild. In warmer months, the island obviously belongs to the birds, as evidenced by the abandonned nests atop it. But in winter, hey, this place is mine; just one of a few perks to paddling in the cooler months. Actually, it wasn’t bad for the last day of November: not much wind, air and water temps in the mid-40s. Beneath my drysuit I wore three thin layers of merino wool and fleece. I was plenty warm.

I took another short break on Sheep Island, which is managed by Island Heritage Trust. The island has a dramatic rocky bluff on its southern side, and some clearings among the spruce, probably thanks to its former role as a sheep grazing island. Now though, most of those clearings and trails are overgrown with spiky, drysuit-snatching vegetation, so I kept my exploration to the shore rocks.

I kept close to the LDI shore the rest of the way: into narrow Swains Cove, and along the northwest shore. Here, a few rustic cabins still perch above the bluffy shoreline, but never far from a pocket beach where one would launch a kayak. These places don’t have docks that can be seen from outer space or any of the other amenities that so many summer “cabins” now have. The only thing wrong with them is that none of them belong to me. And they are a vanishing breed. As they get sold for the high value of their land, they get knocked-down and replaced by places with luxuries like insulation, indoor plumbing and places to land helicopters. There are some plusses to the real estate slump.

And of course at the northwestern tip of Little Deer Isle there’s the charming community of Victorian “cottages” in the village of Eggemoggin. It is always picturesque to paddle between these shingled fantasies and the Pumpkin Island Light. As I rounded the last point into Eggemoggin Reach, the bridge came into view. I followed the shore, still checking-out the houses, but there’s something about seeing the bridge... and the impending sunset at 3:57, that makes you step up your pace, and soon I was back at the causeway. At the higher end of the tide (which had not yet reached my car) it was a short carry across the road.

Bar Harbor Surf

2010-11-07T15:44:00.008-05:00

On Saturday morning I car-topped the kayak over to Mount Desert Island. A storm had just come through, and big seas were predicted, so Nate and I met at Seawall, which is exposed to the south, and had a look. The seas were indeed big. Massive waves broke over the ledges and pretty much everywhere. We were hoping to do some surfing. I tried to imagine myself out there: hmm, okay catch that HUGE wave and- oh, slammed down hard only to be grabbed by a wave coming from another direction and then... rocks. I looked at Nate. He said “Let’s check-out Bar Harbor.” Phew.

We launched from the bar at high tide. There was plenty of swell, but not good surfing waves; maybe it would improve as the tide dropped. We headed out to the Porcupine Islands. The seas felt big, but the wind had dropped to almost nothing, and the swells came in with plenty of space between them. Near the shore though, occasional rollers exploded, sending white spumes high into the clifftop trees, and rebounding waves that collided with incoming swells. Patches of foam drifted over the water surface where we hung-out, just watching.

Rum Cay, which is often a good spot to have a break and catch some surf, was utter chaos. Waves wrapped around the small island and collided thunderously at the leeward end. Between the cay and the ledge, the waves came through steep and confused. I paddled clear of it and watched as Nate tried to skirt along the edge to where the waves started to break. He climbed the face of one tall wave coming through until I thought he would be capsized backward, then he pushed over to the other side. I felt for my towbelt, trying to imagine a rescue in this mayhem, but he reappeared now and then, always upright. Of course, if you capsized, the waves would just push you out the end, into calmer water. Then I realized the current was pushing me from that calmer water back into the breaking waves. Nate made it through a couple of times and, looking a bit beat-up, said “okay, that’s enough.”

We took our time on the way back, meandering first around the north side of Burnt Porcupine Island, where the conditions felt more akin to normal and we could make some manageable turns among the rocks without fear of being pulverized by a wave out of nowhere. But we were soon drawn back out to the drama of the big seas and the cliffs, even if all we could do was sit and watch from a distance. It was an awesome thing to be near.

When we returned to the bar, the tide had dropped and beautiful, slow-moving waves rolled-in. We started catching them, and they were perfect: not too steep, rolling in gradually, losing steam before hitting the bar. It seemed they could hold that “always just about to break” moment forever, giving us plenty of nice, long rides- plenty of time to work on turns. Sometimes a set of big ones would arrive and give us a tumble. I looked down at my bow getting buried in the trough and suddenly I was underwater, feeling the wave pass by overhead as I set-up for a roll. I came up and saw Nate doing the same, looking around until he saw me. I don’t know why, but we were both laughing. For an hour or two, it was magic.

Nate had parental duties to return to. It might have been hard to leave, but the waves cooperated, dwindling as the tide dropped, exposing the sandbar so a woman in a long red coat could walk her golden retriever out to the island.

Popham Beach

2010-10-27T16:41:00.005-04:00

Over the weekend, we took a couple of classes with John Carmody of Sea Cliff Kayakers: surf on Saturday and navigation on Sunday. Rebecca and I met Nate at John’s house in Boothbay Friday night and pitched our tents at “Camp Carmody”. The weather wasn’t looking favorable for good surf at Popham Beach, but we reasoned that one way or another, we’d get out there and learn something. This would be my second class with John, who has since become a BCU Level 5 Sea Coach. That's John (below) in a Delphin with Seguin Island in the background.

Saturday turned out to be windy from the northwest- the wrong direction for good, wave-building swells, but we found a spot on Popham that was somewhat sheltered with occasional sets of small waves rolling in. This was new to Rebecca, so she started out working closely with John while Nate and I went out and played around, getting the feel of a P&H Cetus MV and the new Delphin. Within a half-hour, I noticed Rebecca handling herself in waves far more confidently than ever before.

This might not seem like such a big deal, but there have been times when we’ve found ourselves in waves or needed to launch or land in surf, and I found it far easier and less intimidating than Rebecca did- only because I’d taken a surf class and had a little more practice. So all these classes add up to some time, money and effort, but it’s tough to put a price on the result.

As the day progressed, John critiqued our performance on the waves, giving us suggestions after every couple of runs, as well as more detailed discussion when we took breaks on the beach. Much of it comes down to more effective flatwater skills- edging, stern rudders, braces- and having the presence of mind to apply them in the waves at the right time. Then there’s positioning yourself on the wave and maintaining the right speed to stay on it. The small waves were good for this sort of practice.

Carmody photo

On Sunday, we were joined by several more students for the navigation class. We’ve had a little navigation instruction, but it seems there’s always something new to learn. One of the students, Ed, is a beginning paddler seeking expert advice from the very start. I had to admire his foresight. As with all of this instruction though, what we really need now is more practice.

Sullivan Falls

2010-10-15T14:34:00.009-04:00

We’re lucky here in Stonington that launching usually involves walking over to the ramp, getting the boat out of our storage area, and going. I have to admit though, that on those rare days we car-top the kayaks to another launch, I enjoy that first part of the day: driving along, listening to some music, getting a coffee and a snack at the Blue Hill Coop. Yesterday, after a rosy sunrise portending today’s nor’easter, I drove off the island, admiring brilliant foliage in the sunshine. There was some traffic, but in no particular hurry, I got out of it atop Caterpillar Hill, where I paused to admire the fog hanging in the valleys, and Penobscot Bay spread-out, just like on the chart I spend too much time poring over.

Sullivan Falls lies at the head of Sullivan Harbor, which lies at the head of Frenchman Bay. The harbor narrows into a river-like passage, which is then further constricted by a peninsula jutting from the north shore, blocking three-quarters of the “river”, constricting the current to a width not more than a couple-hundred yards. As the tide comes in and goes out, the ocean squeezes into this slot, accelerating the current and causing standing waves to develop. The current reaches a crescendo at mid-tide, then tapers-off until slack tide, which is almost imperceptible as the currents continue to roil. Then the current changes direction and begins building speed once again, with an entirely new set of waves and features.

I met Nate at Sullivan Falls during its mid-tide ebb, with enough current running through to get the butterflies low in my stomach to start fluttering. Soon, Peter and Leif arrived from the Belfast area, and we were all on the water, cautiously peeling into eddies, getting the feel for the current while Nate traversed the wave sets, and caught a nice ride or two. Nate recently spent some time at Sullivan during the Downeast Sea Kayaking Symposium. Peter and Leif were new to paddling in tidal currents. I’d taken a class with Mark Schoon at Sullivan Falls three years ago, and had played a few times in Bagaduce and Blue Hill Falls. Still, I haven’t done it enough to feel at ease with a strong current and big waves.

We cautiously made forays into the current, and bit by bit, those intimidating waves in mid-channel began to look more manageable. We parked behind a ledge and took turns trying to get onto the wave. It’s tricky. You need to keep the bow into the current with just enough angle to ferry sideways, but not so much that the current spins you around. And if it does, you need to brace on the downstream side- opposite our usual instincts to brace into the waves. It helps to be committed, to know that you really do want the current to suck you down into that gully and up onto the face of that roaring wave.

My first few tries lacked commitment, and I watched as I slipped past the wave, and into the messy, but manageable turmoil below. But I edged closer each time. Finally- maybe after the wave had diminished sufficiently- I was on it, edging sideways, watching spray erupt from my bow. Over the roar, I heard encouraging sounds from the guys nearby. It felt good. It was easier after that, and soon we were all riding the quickly-shrinking wave, finally paddling back and forth over the spot where it had been, like we were dancing on its grave.

While we ate lunch, we watched for the current to turn- about two hours after low tide, and hurried back out as a new set of waves formed. The waves looked small from shore, but by the time we paddled onto them, they made smooth and shallow corrugations- easily surfable. We all got on that front wave as the current began to build, surfing side by side, occasionally bumping into each other, but reveling in the relative ease it took to ride. You could fall off the wave and pause in the current below before powering back up onto it. It felt magical. And I could take photos while on the wave.

That probably lasted for an hour as the current built until finally we could no longer power ourselves onto the leading waves. I felt exhausted. We played around some more in a couple of other spots, but our energy was mostly used-up. It’s worth mentioning that there were the expected capsizes and rescues, all of which went well, but seemed more difficult to carry off with finesse as fatigue set-in.

The drive home was as much a treat as the morning commute: a quick stop at the L.L. Bean outlet, a coffee from the usual gas station and a new CD to listen to as I drove toward a sunset of tall, billowing clouds.

Here's a blog called Penobscot Paddles, written by someone who paddles in some of the same spots we do, as well as a few places I hadn't thought of yet (like the canals in Bangor)- lots of fun.

Where It Takes Us

2010-10-05T20:47:00.006-04:00

Over the weekend, I took a group of college students on an overnight sea kayaking excursion among the islands west of Mount Desert Island. The students had planned the meals, bought and packed all the food, and even handed me a bag of home-made gorp as we packed our kayaks at the ramp.

You never know how a trip will go, even if you’re paddling alone. Add another paddler, another boat, and the variables begin to add-up. How will the personalities emerge? How well will they manage on the water? As the group grows in size, the variables become exponential. I’ve only guided a handful of trips so far, from 2 to 22 paddlers, and I’ve started to see the patterns emerge. I’m learning as I go along, tweaking the way I demonstrate a forward stroke, stressing the “let’s stay close together” part of my pre-trip briefing. No matter how much I ask people to stay together, there’s usually a few times on a trip when it feels like I’m trying to herd cats. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time messing with rudders and pedals.

We launched and took a quick spin around the cove to get a feel for the boats. Most of the students had never been in sea kayaks, but they were quick learners, and didn’t seem too concerned by the wind and waves we faced as we headed out. Soon, I paused and gave them a choice: head around an island, or over a sandbar with breaking waves. I have to admit, I was surprised when they all pointed toward the sandbar, and let out excited whoops as the waves hit their bows. One tandem even got stuck, but no worries; they tried again and made it. That seemed to break the ice: we were having fun.

The wind died-down after lunch and we made our way up the coast, finally taking a break on a small, state-owned MITA island, where everyone stretched out on the rocky ledges in the sun. I found one of the student leaders reading the MITA sign, realizing the island’s camping potential (two campers max). It would have been nice to stay there, but the group was very tuned-in to the leave no trace, low impact approach and readily suggested that we continue on to the private island where we had permission to camp.

The night was cool and clear, dark and starry. To the north, the sky over Ellsworth glowed faintly. Cooking was an involved affair with two stoves, plus my Jetboil keeping water going for hot chocolate and tea. It took a long time. But what else would we do with the evening? And everyone was having fun, eager to help-out. Breakfast went the same way.

To be sure, guiding is quite different from the paddling I’ve known, but it is also a new way of experiencing things. I keep finding myself looking at the scenery, wondering what the other people see, and it makes me see it in a fresh light. Should I point things out, give names to the features, try to let people see what I see? Yes, sometimes, and sometimes it seems best to just keep quiet, or hand over a chart when a question arises. Discovering things for yourself always seems more meaningful than having it handed to you.

Once, I found myself getting ahead of the group. They were singing, a chorus of mostly female voices, young and light, airy. The song sounded vaguely familiar. I pulled in among the rocks to slow down and let the group catch up and I listened as lyrics emerged: “Any way the wind blows, doesn’t really matter... to me...”

The singing continued as we drove back to the college in the van, towing a trailerful of kayaks. I’ve often wondered why exactly I was getting into guiding, but occasionally it becomes obvious that it can take you some places where you couldn’t go on your own.

Kimball Head

2010-09-28T15:24:00.001-04:00

Yesterday the winds came from the southeast, so Nate and I thought it would be a good day to spend some time in the lee of Isle au Haut, paddling around Kimball Island. It was getting toward high tide as we paddled out, pausing for awhile among the boulders off Hardwood Island. At that point, the seas were fairly calm, with only an occasional small swell rolling in among the boulders: good conditions to practice without the consequences that bigger waves bring with them. The boulders offer a maze of pathways. You can glide into one and quickly shift direction as other avenues present themselves. Sometimes a small wave breaks and you need to choose to either ride it out, turn into it, or risk getting pushed sideways, probably into a rock. We tend to spend a lot of time doing some fairly extreme edging to make tight turns.

We took a quick break when we arrived at Kimball Island, then headed around Kimball Head. For the most part, the seas were still fairly calm, but it doesn’t take much to make things interesting among the rocks. We found a small wave that we surfed in a few times, always ending with a 90-degree turn at the end of the ride, just before the wave hit the rocky shore. We backed into a few slots, and basically just paddled around, looking for trouble. Nate demonstrated the fine line between rock gardening and “amphibious paddling” when he frequently ended up on a ledge with no water beneath his hull. This continued on around to Marsh Head, just before we headed north through the Isle au Haut Thorofare.

Of course we were having fun and stayed out there longer than we should have. Nate had parental duties to get to at home, so the last five or six miles were fairly straightforward “let’s get home” paddling with a 15-knot beam wind. We wished we could have temporarily transformed our boats into long, straight racing craft to make the slog a bit quicker, but given the choice, we’d still go for our sporty, turny craft most days, since they take us into places that longer boats just can’t go. It started raining before we arrived back at the ramp- a cool, soaking rain, which only seemed to immerse us in the elements that much more.

Eggemoggin, Swans, Frenchboro-Long Island... Part II

2010-09-12T11:07:00.000-04:00

Pond Island to Pond Island

I awoke in my tent. Outside, the salt marsh had returned to its grassy incarnation- only water here and there. The previous night felt like a dream. We had a laugh over it as we ate breakfast, but for awhile there in the night, nothing had been certain as the dry land around us disappeared.

We would spend the day heading east through Eggemoggin Reach, and if we had time and energy, across to the islands north of Swan’s Island. We crossed over to Pumpkin Island Light and paddled along the north shore of Little Deer Isle at high tide, where we discovered a stone arch just big enough to paddle through. As we paddled along the Sedgwick side of the Reach, we encountered far more sailboats than we usually see in the archipelago. The Reach is famous among sailors, who seem to favor the middle of the channel, far from the details of shore. And the details along shore? Pastoral, old salt water farms. Tangled trees in overgrown orchards dropping wormy apples onto the shore. Boatyards, fancy homes, rustic cabins... all the usual stuff we find ourselves looking at while paddling in more ‘civilized’ environments. We began to feel sleepy.

On Sellers Island we met a man in pajamas, just unloading his kayak... a process that accelerated as we approached. We assured him that we were only stopping for a break, but he seemed to want us to stay. We told him we were headed to Pond Island- a different one from our previous night’s Pond Island. “No, no,” he said, “You don’t want to go there. Mosquitoes will carry you away.” Nor did he think any of the other islands were particularly good ideas- on one he’d encountered a bear. He seemed almost disappointed that we were sticking to our plans. “I don’t snore,” he added as we pushed away from shore.

There were indeed mosquitoes on Pond Island, but we ate dinner out on the ledges where a slight breeze kept them at bay. We had only a couple hours of daylight before retreating to the tents. I stayed up for awhile, going over charts as Bass Harbor Head Light flashed red in the distance.

Pond Island to Big Baker Island

In the morning fog we made our way to Swans Island. For awhile, we avoided the southwest wind by paddling in the lee of the island, finally hopscotching southeast past the Sister Islands, where turbulent waves had formed. It seemed too soon after high tide to be merely the result of tidal currents, so we thought the waves had been formed by the strong winds funneling through against the current. As we paddled across the gap, Todd marveled at the brilliant light on Great Duck Island. As we looked, the eastern Sister quickly obscured Great Duck- were we moving backwards? At about that time we noticed the waves- big waves- getting closer to us- we shouted over the roar, realizing that the current was pulling us into a tidal race.

(...tune in next time for the conclusion of our story...)

Todd smiled. “Wanna go in?”
“No,” I paddled as hard as I could, not pausing until I was well out of the current’s grip. Maybe it would be fun to play on sometime, but it didn’t look inviting then. Todd pointed out that we’d probably just ride it backwards or capsize and get spat-out on the other end. Yeah... and your point?

We kept going. We had more challenges to face. We’d wanted to get to Frenchboro-Long Island for a long time. The 2500-acre island has a small fishing village at Lunt Harbor on the northern side, but the rest of the island is wild, mostly protected by Maine Coast Heritage Trust, and exposed to whatever the open Atlantic sends its way. Rich’s Head juts out to the southeast, connected only where two large coves pinch inward. We took a break at one of these, Eastern Cove, and took a peek at the conditions on the other side. It looked... a little rough maybe, but do-able. Once we went around the head, the shoreline would turn steep and rocky, with little opportunity to bail out for several miles.

For the moment though, we marvelled at what a wild, gorgeous place we were in: grassy, boulder and spruce-strewn meadows overlooking vast coves on either side. We would have been happy to stay there and check-out some of the island’s ten miles of trails, but unfortunately, camping isn’t allowed.

As soon as we rounded the end of Rich’s Head, it was obvious that the next few miles would keep us on our toes. Swells rolled in from the south and crashed thunderously against the pink granite shore, rebounding out to where we bobbed up and down. We moved a little further out. And the fog came in, so when we rounded the next point, the top of the island was obscured. I had little sense of scale; were those cliffs? Were we looking at trees? A lobsterboat motored past, lost from sight every time we descended into a trough.

Of course, in most of the photographs (when I had the presence of mind to take them) it appears that we’re paddling on a nearly calm sea. It feels as if you should be able to point the camera anywhere and it would somehow capture some of this, but later we could almost start wondering if it were all a dream. The weather buoys put the waves at that time in the 4-5-foot range- not exactly monstrous, but still something to contend with. Maybe it’s time to get into video.

We pulled in for a quick look at the town, but didn’t have time to disembark. The fog had come in thick and we needed to navigate through it to find our way to our campsite on Big Baker Island.

Big Baker Island to Stonington

On Thursday, our last day, we continued our survey of the Swan’s Island shoreline, checking-out the town of Minturn and Toothacher Bay, where we had lunch at Fine Sand Beach as it became submerged by the extra-high tide. On Marshall Island we visited the beach at Sand Cove, before embarking on the swelly, four-mile crossing back to Fog Island, at the edge of our own archipelago... our home.

It had been a good four days- five days for Todd. We'd explored places just beyond our usual paddling range, and even discovered something new on our own island (if Little Deer Isle counts as such). In some ways, trips like these seem to make us feel a bit more at home right where we are, knowing better what lies just "over there", demystifying those areas of our charts that we'd stared at for so long, wondering... Which is what I've been doing again the past few days. Every time you discover something new, you become aware of how much more there is to see. How will we ever find the time?

Pond Island

2010-09-11T17:46:00.007-04:00

Monday morning. A half-hour after launching from Stonington, I paused at Andrews Island and looked out across East Penobscot Bay. The tide had just peaked an hour earlier, and I could barely make out the bluffs on Babbidge Island, my target for the three and a half-mile crossing. I took a bearing and began paddling.

A day earlier, Todd had done the same, but faced a fierce headwind and confused swells- remnants of Hurricane Earl, which had lost steam as it hit the cold water of the Gulf of Maine. Fortunately for me, I faced minor wind, brilliant blue skies and a low, pleasant swell as I crossed. Far off, a few lobster boats circled as they hauled traps.

Burnt Island

This would be the first of four days out in our kayaks- possibly longer for Todd. Our itinerary was flexible, subject to the weather and our whims. Half-way across the bay, I paused. To the south, Brimstone Island rose from the horizon. To the north lay the archipelago spread out between North Haven and Little Deer Isle. As I came nearer to North Haven, the current increased, pushing me south. On the other hand, the forecast called for increased winds from the southwest, pushing us north.

Colt Head Island

I met Todd on the beach at Calderwood Island, and as we had a snack, decided that, with the increasing winds, we should head north. We paddled along North Haven, took a break on Burnt Island, and out into the area- the archipelago between North Haven and Little Deer Isle that really needs its own name. It’s a nice neighborhood; we passed the Fuller’s (as in Buckminster) Bear Island, the Porter’s (Fairfield & Elliot) Great Spruce Head Island, as well as the Cabot’s Butter Island. Not that those people had any effect on our paddling experience. By then, the wind had picked up, and we did plenty of sweep strokes in the following seas.

The campsite on Pond Island

That night, on Pond Island, we made the mistake of camping in a spot that wasn’t the designated campsite. By the time we landed, the winds had picked-up considerably, and we found a spot out of the wind behind a beach rose-covered dune, on the edge of the salt marsh that gives Pond Island its name. Perfect. As it grew dark though, I stepped in water where I hadn’t remembered it before. I didn’t think much of it until later, when I noticed the formerly grassy area was now reflecting the stars. “Todd,” I said, “I think we have a problem.”

Since it was one of the highest tides of the month, we weren’t quite sure how high it would go. And on the other side of the dune, the high tide would be augmented by wind and waves. We pulled the boats up as high as we could, took the tents down, and waited for high tide. Bioluminesence lit the water like clouds of tiny fireflies. Over on the mainland, we recognized familiar landmarks like Caterpillar Hill, lit now and then by headlights passing over its ridge. The water rose until we had maybe three or four feet of sand between it and the beach roses. We marked its progress with sticks, until finally, it began to recede. Then, we stretched out as well as we could in our sleeping bags- no room for the tents- and slept beneath the stars.

Later, when it began to lightly rain and the water had receded, we put the tents back up, leaving glowing footprints in the sand.

A Guide's Progress

2010-08-27T01:16:00.005-04:00

You’re probably wondering about that story that began on this blog back in early May- when we began training to be Maine Sea Kayak Guides. It has been a longer story than I anticipated. We took the class, as well as the first aid classes, finally scheduling the exam in mid-July. We’d studied plenty- we thought- and left at five one morning to make the two and a half-hour drive to Augusta. It didn’t go as well as we’d hoped. We both did well on the hour and a half written test, but failed the oral exam. On the navigation section, Rebecca neglected to mention one word- magnetic, and wasn’t allowed to proceed further. I didn’t cover enough material on my pre-trip briefing.

We didn’t feel too bad about it- plenty of people fail the first time or two. It’s supposed to be tough. It should be tough. We scheduled a re-take and continued studying. We practiced the pre-trip briefing again and again, which could take over twenty minutes if they don’t cut you off. This time, we scheduled the exam for an afternoon. We felt ready.

Hypothetical scenarios make up much of the exam. You’re essentially role-playing with the examiners. We stare at the chart as they throw us into these situations where things go wrong, and they’re waiting to hear what they think is the right answer, and how we go about problem-solving. They interrupt us frequently, asking questions, often incredulously: you’d do what? It’s hard to tell if they’re just trying to make you doubt yourself and not stand your ground, or if there’s really some other thing you should be telling them.

As far as we can tell, the examiners may have never been in a sea kayak in their lives. They’re Marine Patrol and Inland Fish & Game people. So it seems they’re waiting to hear very particular things from us that qualify as correct answers. Theoretically, the candidate has plenty of paddling experience and can actually perform these rescues that we demonstrate with model boats, but there is no practical, on the water part of the exam, and it is possible to lie about your experience, talk the talk and sound convincing enough without ever having paddled a kayak.

We’ve paddled a good deal more than a lot of other candidates, and we had a difficult time. In the end though, we both passed. We have our licenses- even patches and decals that identify us as Maine Guides. For now, mine are magneted to the refrigerator door.

But maybe the real test came two days later when I had my first chance to guide a trip out of Old Quarry. A detailed description would sound pretty much like one of the scenarios from the exam: a group of nineteen clients in ten boats led by a co-guide and me, wind & waves, a client’s broken paddle... For a few moments, as the events seemed to unfold in slow motion, I could almost hear the scenario in my head, like a hypothetical exercise devised by a sadistic examiner... the tandem with the broken paddle lolling in the surf zone off the point. And I could hear my response. I clipped on and towed them away from shore, gave them my spare paddle, blew my whistle to round-up the others. This scene may have inspired half the group to re-think their desire to head out into the waves off the point, and the other guide took them back while I took four tandems out to Russ Island. As conditions grew worse, Old Quarry’s power boat, The Nigh Duck, arrived and took us back. As far as I could tell, the clients didn’t seem to think any of this was out of the ordinary, and had not only a good time, but an adventure. It’s certainly a new adventure for me.

More Evening Trips

2010-08-19T13:24:00.003-04:00

We see a lot of kayaks atop cars lately, and a few out on the water, although not while we're paddling. The few times we've been out lately have been in the evening when we see a handful of people camped on islands, and some of the more popular anchorages crowded with sailboats, but it's otherwise fairly quiet. That photo above was on the southeast shore of McGlathery, a favorite destination for a quick evening paddle.

Those evening paddles are becoming even quicker though, as the days turn shorter. We may want to start getting up earlier for some morning paddles, but I'll miss the evening trips: the lack of fishing boats, the quiet, and returning home afterward with nothing to do but relax in a hot bath, washing away the salt water.

Lately, a few visitors to the gallery have revealed themselves as readers of this blog, which is cool, but also makes me feel like I ought to post some snapshots even when my adventures have been less than epic- just to keep the blog going.

In real life, I hardly know what to say to other paddlers, unless they're asking for route ideas or my favorite places to camp. And even then, I feel cautious until we've dropped the appropriate hints about paddling abilities and respect for potential hazards. I sometimes worry that readers of the blog might assume, because they read about it here, that they should try some of the same things without being adequately prepared. I've blogged about our lessons, training & practice, but I don't regularly mention it- or all the gear we carry to be safe. Probably anyone who bothers to read this blog understands this, but it still seems that people often think of skills and gear as optional- only for "serious" paddlers, rather than anyone who intends on staying near shore and not getting wet, but is inclined toward self-preservation.

Recently the Island Advantages ran a story about a local woman who went paddling with someone who was not prepared, and what they went through after she capsized on a lake in calm, warm conditions. Check it out here.

Not everyone is so lucky, as one of my posts from last December addresses.

The upcoming Fifth Annual Downeast Sea Kayak Symposium in Bar Harbor is a good opportunity to improve your paddling skills- whether you're advanced or a beginner. Maybe we'll see you there.

Around Isle au Haut, Saddleback Island

2010-08-03T22:35:00.009-04:00

I had Monday off. High tide was sometime after four a.m., which made it a good morning to head out to Isle au Haut. Todd got a babysitter and the weather looked good. We launched at 6:20. Two hours later we were passing the Robinson Point Lighthouse (above). The "around Isle au Haut in a day" trip has become one of those things we need to do at least once every year. If we paddled as much as we really wanted, I think it would be more like once a month.

We're always keeping some of these excursions in mind, but for a 25- or so- mile day, it's a good idea to have a few recent longer paddles under the belt. I hadn't done an over 15-mile day since mid-June, but I'd paddled fairly consistently and felt in good shape, while Todd has managed to guide a few times a week. You reach a point where you just say if we don't go now, we never will. We probably weren't as prepared the first times we did this trip.

Isle au Haut is a big island, so it's easy for us to check-out something new every time we go around. This time we pulled into the Seal Trap, a long narrow inlet on the western shore surrounded by wild, ledgy outcrops and scraggy spruce forests.

We headed out to some ledges marked on the chart as "The Washers". That seemed a good name for a rocky formation where waves wrapped around and met each other in the middle. As low tide approached, we were able to ride a few waves as they funneled through the rocks. Then on to Western Ear Ledges, where we've played a couple times, but were a different animal this time, with some fairly large waves forming and meeting in the middle. As I watched Todd get tossed by the clapotis, I suddenly felt a bit timid and opted to watch from the edge. Sometimes you just don't feel it, and maybe it's an instinct to listen to. Later on, on the east side of the island, just after I'd removed my helmet and strapped it on the deck, I botched a surf landing among some rocks and ended up getting pummeled beneath my boat. Just a few scrapes to show for it- and some cracked gelcoat. I somehow must have instinctively ducked-in to protect my head. Lucky.

As we crossed Merchant's Row, we both remarked that we felt pretty good, considering. We felt the pull of town like gravity, increasing as we drew closer. Todd had to get back for the babysitter. If I'd gone closer, the gallery and a half-dozen important things would have vied for my attention. Forget that: I had my camping gear stashed in the boat. I saw a few people on Steves Island, and I preferred to be alone, so I turned-off and headed for Saddleback Island.

After I set-up the tent, I lay back on the warm granite ledge and snoozed for a bit. I did some reading, took a swim in the little cove with a sandy beach and dried-off in the sun. Then I took a walk around the island.

It's funny how often what I'm showing in the gallery seems to reflect upon what I'm experiencing outside the gallery. The forested interior of the island seemed to present me with one woodsy vignette after another, much like the ones hanging in the gallery now.

After dark, the Haystack Mountain School of Craft, a couple of miles away, lit-up like a small city. I awoke early, after more sleep than I'd had in awhile, with a lobster boat puttering not far away. I paddled home and got to work on time.

Here's a link to a kayak blogger who was attacked by a great white shark on Monday. I'll take a botched surf landing in the rocks any day.

Evening Paddles

2010-07-08T20:01:00.012-04:00

For awhile there, we could count on a few hours of evening paddling before the sun set, but lately we've had to turn the lights on a little earlier. Summer goes by so fast. We always start out thinking this year will be different. We'll get out more, take one day off a week and spend it paddling, take an occasional overnight- you know, do all the stuff our summer visitors get to do. But there's always more work than we will ever have time for, so every hour of paddling feels like time stolen from the things we're "supposed" to be doing.

The funny thing is, as soon as you get out there, that whole world back on shore feels a bit less urgent, and it feels like this- out here, paddling- is far more significant. This is one of the biggest conflicts of our current way of making a living. We work so much during the nicest paddling times (I think maybe I've mentioned this before, once or twice). But we do have a goal, which is to buy ourselves some quality time in the off-season, when we can paddle here and in warmer places.

Those evening paddles are nice though. We seldom see lobster boats... maybe a sailboat or two arriving late to an anchorage. The air temps are usually just a little cool. And, even though we see plenty of kayaks out beyond the harbor during the day, we almost never see anyone else out paddling in the evening.

Some weeks are better than others. With no openings to get ready for, we might be lucky and get out three times or so. Other weeks, there's too much going on, or the saddest circumstance, when I'm so tired at closing time that I can't quite summon what it takes to get out there, and later I look out and see my mistake. Oh well. We also took my sisters and my niece out for an afternoon paddle. And I shadowed Todd last week on a guided trip, and taught a bunch of young kids at the pond at Old Quarry yesterday. Aside from learning to guide, these experiences have allowed me to see our archipelago through the eyes of others, and it looks more amazing all the time.

A few links here:

After my "Up the Downeast Coast" article came out in Ocean Paddler Magazine last month, I received an email from Etienne Muller in Ireland, who also sees some nice paddling days go by while he works in his art gallery. Over the past thirty or so years, he's built sixteen boats, including some gorgeous strip-planked kayaks. Check them out at his website. If you haven't seen Ocean Paddler Magazine, I'd suggest ordering a copy from their website. It is a beautiful and inspiring magazine- not too many ads, printed on nice, heavy paper, gorgeous photos. It will never end up on the recycling pile.

I'd also like to congratulate John Carmody on becoming a BCU Level 5 Sea Coach, one of the few who have attained this distinction in the United States. We took a surf class with John last summer and hope to get back for more sometime this year. Canoe and Kayak Magazine also mentioned his Socratic teaching method in a recent issue.

And this is only peripherally kayak-related, but for anyone who doesn't understand how important it is for us to stay out of the way of lobster boats, here's a story in the Bangor Daily News about a recent accident off Schoodic Point, in which a lobster boat collided with another lobster boat, resulting in one death.

(Oh, and this post is dated for July 8- twenty days ago, because that's when I started it. That's just how it's been lately.)

Heading "In"

2010-06-15T16:24:00.005-04:00

Yesterday wasn't a promising day for a paddle: fog, rain, potential for thunderstorms and more fog. But I had the day off, and finally decided I'd head somewhere. So at high tide, I followed Hatch Cove into the calm, protected waters of the Inner Harbor. I've attempted this circumnavigation of Oceanville a couple of times before, but have been thwarted by lack of time, lack of water, and ice.

This time I had all day. Sure, I'd go around Oceanville, but why not also head up into Holt Mill Pond? The pond separates Stonington from Deer Isle, and getting into it requires a high enough tide as you paddle beneath the Route 15 bridge. I've often driven over the bridge and wondered what it would be like to check it out. I passed a few houses discretely built up in the woods, but farther in, the shoreline was purchased by the town and is managed by Island Heritage Trus t. I followed it to the end, where several creeks meander across salt marshes to the edge of the forest. Following them requires some tight turns, and some backwards paddling to get out. A couple of deer watched me try to find my way.

I exited the pond and headed past Warren Point, into Southeast Harbor. I didn't have any big plans, but curiosity got the better of me, pulling me onward toward all these areas I'd never paddled. I aimed north, toward an area called "Deep Hole", a popular "hurricane hole" for sailboats. I paddled against a mild current through the thorofare, checking-out all the houses, many of them large and fairly close together. Despite feeling a bit hemmed-in by civilization, I didn't see one person here- not at any of the houses or the boats kept moored in the channel. I found myself thinking "this will be different in the summer," only to remember that it is more or less summer.

Same with Deep Hole and Long Cove, although I did see some cars on the road. I'd always admired this area from the road; about time I saw it from the watery perspective. I ate my sandwich on a small island, and rode the increasing current back out, along the shoreline of the Tennis Preserve (another IHT-managed preserve which I'd previously seen from the trail).

I was getting a bit tired by then, and headed home, focusing on a good, clean stroke to make those last miles go past. They added-up- 17 miles, by my calculations. Not bad for a lot of puttering around on the "inside".

The Antidote for Civilization

2010-06-11T15:27:00.005-04:00

I've been making that transition from wintery spring paddling to what passes for summer around here. Water temps are still high 40's, low 50's, so I'm still wearing the drysuit. We've had the usual mix of fog and rain with cool temps, as well as the occasional crisp, perfect day. Like today. And here I am in the gallery. That's the real transition: not working as much, with a lot of marginal paddling weather, to working all the time on gorgeous days.

We had a few good days in the end of May, like the day at Blue Hill Falls with Nate, as well as a few of our usual excursions around the archipelago. This week I met Ernst and Max and we took a trip out around some favorite spots. I'd brought my camping gear, so after they headed back to Old Quarry, I set up camp on Steves Island and spent the night there.

Maybe it felt a little odd at first. With several hours of daylight left, I set up the tent within site of my home, two miles away. At first I felt a familiar restlessness- the caffeinated anxiety I feel much of the time at home and work (for me, there's little difference between home and work). What do I do now? But there wasn't much to do. First I picked up all the garbage I could find- part of my "Island Adopter" role for MITA. Mostly fishing-related trash, of course (and I include beer cans and styrofoam cups in that category).

Then I sat and read and wrote until the sun went down. I had dinner in there somwhere as well, which didn't take much time. Occasionally, I got up and walked the perimeter of the island, which takes five minutes if you don't get distracted. I watched the sun set, and heard, over by Russ Island, a cannon shot from a schooner, followed by another. I sat on the rocks, reading until Stonington's lights winked in the darkness. Then I read by headlamp, finally crawling into the tent when I began nodding-off. Uneventful, yes, but I never would have slowed-down so much at home. I would have always been looking for that next thing that needed to get done. In the morning, I paddled back and opened the gallery on time.

Last night I considered camping again, but instead opted for a couple hours of flat-out, not-stop paddling on calm water, covering as much distance as I could before returning at sunset. One night calmed my mind, another got my blood pumping. Both somehow make the day job a bit easier to handle.

Five Days Around Vinalhaven

2010-05-17T15:10:00.013-04:00

Vinalhaven, only about six miles across Penobscot Bay from Deer Isle, remains about as elusive to most Deer Isle residents as a distant continent. You can get there from here, but it requires either crossing a broad stretch of ocean in your own boat or driving a couple of hours to Rockland to take the ferry. We’re usually content to vaguely identify it as part of the dark mass of land along the western horizon, merging with North Haven and the Camden Hills. Last fall though, our sunset vista was altered by a trio of newly-constructed windmills on Vinalhaven, each standing nearly four-hundred feet tall, and the island crept further into our consciousness. When Todd and I made time for a five-day kayak excursion, we decided to take a closer look at Vinalhaven.

The weather on Monday wasn’t great for the crossing: northwest wind in the mid-teens with higher gusts. Air and water temps in the mid to high forties. From the time we nosed out of the Thorofare until we pulled into Seal Bay, my boat weathercocked enough to keep me sweeping and leaning the entire time- an exhausting -and I hate to admit it- not terribly enjoyable paddle. Todd did better in his Solstice (even with the rudder removed). The five gallons of water I carried in the cockpit may have contributed to a problem with load distribution, but there wasn’t much I could do about it once we were underway.

A cold, wet, tiring paddle, but other than that, pretty good. Nothing that a little miso soup on the Jetboil couldn’t cure.

Highlights:

-Little Hen Island: our first campsite, in Seal Bay. Mostly out of the wind on a night with frost warnings in the mid-thirties. At night, beyond the trees, the red lights of the windmills winked rythmically.

-Hugging the shore in a clockwise circumnavigation. Checking-out the coves and inlets on the way into town, where we tied-up at the public dock and ate ice-cream.

-Camping for two nights on an island west of Hurricane Sound, ambiguously referred to as Spectacle Island. Half the island was removed in the most destructive quarrying activity we’ve seen, but we camped in a less-touched, idyllic spot with a huge view of Pen Bay and the Camden Hills. Despite the cold, I slept with my tent flap open so I could see the lights of Camden and the clear points of stars above.
-A day trip around the White Islands and Little Hurricane Island, where we found just enough swell to make for some excitement among the rocks and waves.

At one point, I was stranded about as high and dry as I’ve been- a balancing act until a big wave set me free. Todd reached for the camera, then thought better and went for the tow belt, but I was out of reach. Toned it down a notch after that.

-The windmills, surprisingly big and close, again and again.

-The Basin, a large inlet surrounded by wild, protected land. The tide goes in and out of the basin through two small openings which develop strong currents with standing waves and boils. We went in, committing ourselves to a couple hours of exploration before the current reversed direction. Inside, we paddled among islands of glacial erratic boulders, watched over by ospreys and eagles. A small baby seal, only about a foot and a half long, swam right up to my cockpit whimpering like it was looking for its mother. Cute as it was, I kept paddling.

-The Fox Islands Thorofare. Wow. Impressive real estate. Hundred year-old summer residences overlooking an obstacle course of mooring balls, which I assume will soon be tethering all sorts of recreational vessels.

-North Haven. We peeled our drysuits down to our waists and took a walk through town, which felt quiet and friendly. People looked at us, but not in the “what the heck are you wearing?” sort of way. Almost everyone said hello. Had a coffee at Waterman’s Community Center and the friendly woman there was happy to answer all of Todd’s questions. Interesting, how the people on these different islands so close together develop such different social habits.

-Calderwood Island. A large land trust island managed by Maine Coast Heritage Trust. From our campsite on the east end, the water and microwave towers in Stonington were clearly visible, but still far enough to feel like another world. Five days, fifty miles, plenty of hanging-out on islands: a fairly relaxed way to start a not-so relaxed summer.

Guide Training

2010-05-04T15:45:00.006-04:00

We met upstairs in the new classroom building at Old Quarry Ocean Adventures. There were seven of us: Rich MacDonald, our instructor, and six students. The goal, over six days of instruction, was to prepare us for the exam to become registered Maine sea kayak guides. Every spring, outfitters up and down the coast need to fill positions for kayak guides, and candidates of varying levels of experience take these crash courses to get ready.

The "husky" tow

It’s mostly classroom work, covering a lot of material, but the heart of it is safety, and in partcular, how to safely take groups of inexperienced paddlers out on the ocean. The exam consists of written and oral components. For the oral exam, three examiners from Maine Fish & Wildlife ask the applicant to demonstrate, among other things, proficiency with navigating and chart reading, wildlife identification, and the ability to communicate calmly and logically under pressure.

The crux of the exam seems to be the “lost person scenario” in which the candidate is given a hypothetical crisis. The candidate verbally goes through every step of the process, from taking care of the group and calling the Coast Guard to conducting the search. There aren’t always black and white right answers, but there are a lot of ways to fail. A calm, confident demeanor is key, as well as verbally accounting for every step of the process, including the logic behind every decision. Plenty of candidates fail this part of the exam on the first attempt... which might be a good thing.

Our class got out on the water as well, starting with some rescue practice on the pond, and some towing practice on Webb Cove. Then we paddled out to Hell’s Half Acre and spent the night.

While we paddled and camped, we worked on guide skills. Camping and camp-cooking skills take some effort to be good at it, and everyone comes to it with their way of doing things, which gave us all a chance to learn something new from the others. In particular, I think we were all impressed with the chocolate cake Rich made in his Outback Oven. Take care of your clients’ stomachs and their hearts are bound to follow.

Rich is an ornithologist, which has brought him to some unusual places, including gigs, with his wife Natalie, as naturalists on cruise ship excursions arranged by Garrison Keillor. In 2002, he and Natalie embarked on The Gulf of Maine Expedition, paddling around the Gulf of Maine, from Cape Cod to Nova Scotia. This year, Rich and Natalie are opening The Natural History Center, a shop and guiding service in Bar Harbor.

So I’m now much better at recognizing the difference between an eider and a guillemot. We also took a walk around the island, looking into tidepools, turning over rocks, learning about the creatures and plants that we often don’t notice.

So why do I want to guide? I keep learning that the sea kayak is more than just a vehicle to take you out on the ocean from place to place. It can be a practice and a pursuit that gives one direction in a bigger sense. I’ve never known what direction it might be taking me, but I’ve learned to say yes to the opportunities that come up, trusting that it somehow makes for a richer experience.

The Potomac

2010-05-04T14:00:00.004-04:00

One thing about taking off on a long trip; when you get back, it feels like you'll never catch up on everything, especially as new adventures begin. Though it's been nearly a month since we stopped in Washington DC on our way back from Florida, I wanted to post a few snapshots from a paddle we took with Peter on the Potomac River.

More and more, I'm starting to enjoy the varied places that sea kayaking takes us. In this case, it took us to a place inland from the ocean that isn't often associated with sea kayaking. We probably would have done our best to avoid DC, like we do most cities, had Peter and Marilyn not invited us to stop and visit. Actually, we have a lot of friends we would like to visit in DC, but since we had our boats, and their offer included a paddle on the Potomac, we couldn't resist.

We launched near the Pentagon and crossed over toward the Mall amid tour boats and a floating restaurant, but after that, traffic on the river was amazingly sparse. We paddled along the grassy riverbanks amid cherry blossoms with the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial looming in the background. About once every minute, our conversation was interrupted by the roar of a jet following the river as it descended toward one of the DC airports.

People on shore took notice. We paddled past the Kennedy Center and Georgetown, where diners at an outdoor cafe called out to us almost desperately, wondering where to get kayaks and where to launch. We were joined by the sculling team, the coach leading the way in a powerboat, barking out instructions. Peter pointed-out the Georgetown Canoe Club, where he'd gone to dances as a teenager.

We stopped for lunch on Theodore Roosevelt Island, an amazingly large piece of wild forest right in the middle of the city, then paddled back through a creek, which despite several bridges crossing overhead, was another corridor of wildness, busy with turtles, great blue herons and other wildlife. Meanwhile, government helicopters whisked back and forth overhead, punctuated by the roar of jets over a steady background hiss of traffic. I felt grateful for this backdoor view of the city, which, despite what appears as chaos, has a calm heart flowing right through it.

The Keys, More Everglades

2010-04-21T21:15:00.007-04:00

We had vague plans to meet Peter and Marilyn in the Keys, which remained vague after we left Everglades National Park and tried to catch up on three weeks of email in a parking lot in Homestead. Either way, we were headed to the Keys with no big plans. After spending our first night at John Pennekamp State Park in Key Largo, we were pulling out onto Route One and noticed a car with kayaks approaching from the north: Peter & Marilyn. We pulled into the parking lot at an adult video store (one of the many fine cultural attractions popular in the Keys) and decided to go for a paddle.

We followed a canoe path from the park out into a channel, where we chatted in between the roar of jetskis and powerboats. We found our way back into the canoe trail, which had the feel of a theme park attraction, busy with kids and families in rented sit-upons. Still, it was fun to follow the narrow paths and see where they brought us, practicing our edging to make tight turns. I found myself wishing we had something like this back home.

In the Keys, we spent only a little time paddling, and were seldom out of earshot of Route One. The State Park campsites, where $43 a night buys you a slot between RVs that run their air conditioners constantly, can be reserved eleven months in advance, so we knew that every park was completely booked before we arrived.

Still, we kept getting lucky when we would inquire about cancellations. $43 is a bargain in the Keys, and the most unspoiled places there seem to be in the parks. If you want to car camp and hang out at the beach, it’s not a bad deal. The water is clear, turquoisey blue, and some of the beaches, like the one at Bahia Honda, are covered with fine sand and only a few Portuguese man of war jellyfish. The sharks don’t eat tourists that often, and there’s more scantily-clad beach babes on almost any stretch of beach than I have ever seen in Maine. Of course, like Maine, Florida is a popular haven for elderly beach babes. Spring break was happening somewhere, but we never did see any of those girls gone wild.

We had been spoiled by the Everglades, and it didn’t take long for us to decide we’d seen enough of the Keys for now. There’s nothing like a visit to the galleries of Key West to reinforce our opinion that the gallery scene is far better in Stonington, Maine. We headed back to the Everglades, where the $16 a night campground with cold showers had begun to feel like home. And people didn’t stare at my bug bite-covered legs.

We took some day trips, hiking and paddling and going to every ranger talk we could. Since it takes some real effort to get out and see the wild areas of the Everglades, many park visitors show up at the Anhinga Trail, the one-stop shopping solution to seeing the Everglades. It’s like a zoo. The alligators stroll onto the wheelchair-accesible paths, and people get their worried-looking kids to pose in front of them, seeming to forget that gators can run as fast as a horse. But the alligators just hang-out, smiling for the camera. After awhile, visitors seem almost bored by it, like something seen on TV.

Before we left, though, we had one last excursion: a couple of nights out at Cape Sable beneath the full moon. For the last month we’d hardly been anywhere for two nights in a row, and we’d loved this beach so much we wanted to go back and just hang-out for a day. Time to finish those Travis McGee novels and vegetate a bit, and go for long, long walks on the beach. Time to break our ‘no shell collecting’ vow, and one last chance to work on that tan before we would fade to our usual pale selves.

Despite a group of “troubled youths” that chose to camp amazingly near us on such a long beach, we put in our beach time as occasional teary youths strolled past with counselors who talked non-stop, using the word “respect” rythmically. Okay, this was surreal, but we just smiled. Thanks to scenes like this, we could confidently skip our visit to the Dali museum. The weird thing was that I kept noticing they were making these kids do exactly what we did as a fantasy vacation. Hey look, now they’re writing in their journals while someone plays flute, now it’s time for a forced march on the beach. Oh my god, not paddling into the wind again!

It made me wish I’d been so lucky as these troubled youths. Then it occured to me that I had been. In high school, I took part in an outdoor education program that got me out canoeing, backpacking and rock climbing, all while practicing lightweight, low-impact camping. It’s hard to imagine what I would have done without it. So, while it would have been nice to be alone, I imagined that for at least one of those kids, this might have been as formative an experience as “Project Exploration” had been for me. If it weren’t for that experience, this blog might be called “Jetski Stonington”.

We had some time after they left, and despite a growing east wind that we’d have to paddle into, we stayed on the beach as long as we could. A large crocodile patrolled the shore, perhaps searching for a place to nest. The growing waves slapped the beach rythmically. We finished our novels, caught-up with the journals and sketchbooks, and finally just stared out at the horizon. We knew the next day would find us on I-95, headed north, that in another week we’d be cleaning the sand out of our gear back home. If bug bites and sunburn helped me hang onto this feeling, well then, bring it on.

The Everglades

2010-04-16T21:43:00.015-04:00

In March, Rebecca and I strapped the kayaks onto the car and drove down to Florida. The kayak excursions deserve a bit more space than I want to give them in the blog, so I’ll just hit upon some highlights. Similarly, last fall I blogged a synopsis of my trip with Todd from Stonington to West Quoddy Head, but a detailed account will appear in Ocean Paddler Magazine. I’ll let you know when it comes out.

The heart of our trip was a fourteen-day, 170-mile excursion through the Everglades. To do this, we drove for four days, arriving in Flamingo, in Everglades National Park, where we stayed in the campground for a couple of nights while we prepared. It’s amazing how many people want to talk to Rebecca about her kayak (and how few want to talk to me about mine). The usual conversation: “yes, she built it, from a kit, a Pygmy Coho, mahogany plywood, seventeen and a half feet, they say it takes eighty hours but...” Well, we meet a lot of friendly people that way, at gas stations and rest stops, all the way to the campground.

Our route: week #1 in red, week #2 in yellow

For the first week we paddled along the Gulf coast, up to the northern end of the park at Everglades City. This area was what attracted me to paddling in the Everglades: the long undeveloped stretches of beach on the Gulf of Mexico. I was certainly more comfortable with the open ocean than with the thought of what lay “inside”: the maze-like paths through the mangroves teeming with creatures capable of eating people.

Ever feel like this?

Well, that was my impression, and the pythons had been in the news a lot lately. It seemed only a matter of time before a twenty-something-foot python swallowed a seventeen-foot kayak, complete with kayaker and gear. They were, after all, eating eight-foot alligators. We could have also worried about the sharks in the Gulf, or maybe those nasty South American drug dealers with chainsaws we’d seen in “Scarface”. But why worry? We’d survived nearly two-thousand miles of I-95 and the horrors of the multitasking SUV drivers.

We camped at the beaches along Cape Sable, then dipped into the Little Shark River for our first taste of the mangroves. It was a good taste- just enough to ease some of our uneasiness and get a feel for navigating among the many confusing channels of the delta. I hadn’t given much thought to the mangrove trees, viewing them more as a weedy obstruction- something difficult to paddle or walk through. But these were forests of tall, majestic trees that had adapted to grow where others couldn’t, and paddling among them was to float upon a watery forest floor with arching support roots echoing the shapes of the canopy overhead.

We encountered few other people. Our first three campsites coincided with those of Joel Beckwith, a kayak guide for Florida Bay Outfitters, and two German women. Joel spends his summers in our stomping grounds, guiding on Mt. Desert, so we had a lot to talk about, like his 500-mile Sea of Cortez expedition which you can check-out on YouTube.

After six nights on the “outside”, we paddled in to Everglades City, where we replenished our water supply and obtained our wilderness permit for the return trip to Flamingo. Now we were committed to “inside” paddling and all it entailed: long breaks to photograph wildlife, the occasional powerboats zipping by on the Wilderness Waterway, and easier conditions than on the ocean.

As much as we wanted solitude, the few people we met made for a more interesting time: a pair of canoeists at Lopez River, a group on a motorboat-assisted guided trip at Darwin’s Place, a father and son at Harney River Chickee. The group took us along on a pre-dawn excursion in the powerboat to watch thousands of birds make their morning commute from Cannon Bay out toward the Gulf. The father and son recounted various paddling trips, making it seem there would never be enough time to do all the paddling there is to do.

We returned briefly to the “outside” to camp again at Highland Beach, which was a favorite spot on the way up. Our first visit had been solitary and quiet, punctuated by long walks on the beach. This time, a group of powerboats had anchored off the shore, and at night, their bright lanterns and bonfire were hard to miss.

The “Nightmare” route is a passage from the Broad River to the Harney River through a tangle of small creeks that run dry at low tide. Before, I thought “no way”. I didn’t relish the idea of mosquitoes and spiderwebs and whatever else might be hanging off those low-hanging branches. But my attitude had changed. It’s funny how something shifts from being scary and intimidating to being more fun than you could have imagined. A small alligator (we’d seen a lot of them by then) greeted us at the entrance, and we spent the next several hours making tight turns, ducking beneath branches and trying to keep track of our location on the chart.

Our last three nights were spent at chickees, small roofed platforms with just enough room to pitch a tent. They make for clean camping- none of the sand and dirt we’d been living in, but made it a challenge to stretch one’s legs. Aside from a lunch break on a small shell mound, we didn’t walk on actual land again until we pulled up at the boat ramp in Flamingo.

We took our time for those last few miles in the Buttonwood Canal. It all seems so immediate while you’re there, but you never know if or when you’ll be there again. Suddenly, that shower you’ve looked forward to for two weeks doesn’t seem so important, and even those ice cream bars at the marina can wait. Before you know it, you're back home with thousands of photos to go through, struggling to explain what it was like in brief conversations, and scheming ways to get back out there.

Spruce Island, Hatch Cove

2010-01-23T09:15:00.006-05:00

Air temp: mid-twenties, water still in the upper thirties, and the sun is nowhere to be seen. By most accounts, it looks like a gloomy, mid-winter day, but the fact that we’re out paddling takes away the gloom. It feels good to get out. We take a familiar route out around Spruce Island on very calm water, pausing, of course, to glide through the granite gateway just off Buckle Island

Back in at the launch by dusk, we don our thick neoprene Ninja masks, just to see how the the water feels. Cold on the face, but otherwise, not bad. I’m wearing two base layers, a fleece and a wool sweater beneath the drysuit.

It’s good to try out this stuff close to the launch. I discover that my Folbot needs some additional outfitting to really be safe out there. Nate, a glutton for the cold, rolls again and again

One trip I’ve held in reserve for a windy day “outside” is the trip around Whitmore Neck (Oceanville) which is actually an island connected to Deer Isle by a bridge spanning Hatch Cove. Oddly, the only time I’ve attempted this trip is in January, when not only do you have to get through Hatch Cove at high tide, but you can only hope that the ice won’t be too thick.

Rebecca and I get there a little after high tide, surprised at the current running beneath the bridge. Ahead, our way is blocked by a large patch of ice. It looks solid, but today I'm paddling my ice-breaking kayak, so I plunge-in, clearing a path. This is actually weirdly fun- something I have to do at least once every winter.

Ice paddling is time-consuming though, and hard work. So we don't have time to get around Whitmore Neck. It's good to have a few routes that remain elusive.

A Christmas Paddle

2009-12-26T15:14:00.003-05:00

December had been a slow month, paddling-wise. There was the usual weather: wind, some snow... more wind, which provided us with a good excuse to stay in. Combined with doing some repairs to my usual boat, an Impex Diamante, this lapse in getting out got to be a habit. When I took my boat out to start the repairs, I put my Folbot Cooper together, but I haven't paddled it much, and taking an unfamiliar boat out into uncertain conditions... well, bla bla bla. Excuses.

Christmas day came along, and having no big plans this year, and having abandoned many of the other traditions associated with the holiday (those lights hung in the gallery window are "winter" lights) thought it would be nice to get out for a paddle. The weather cooperated, giving us some of the lighter winds we'd felt for a month.

The air temperature hovered around 30 degrees, while water temps are still up in the mid 40's- pretty decent paddling weather if you're dressed for it. The Folbot felt a bit strange, but it turned easily, and wasn't that much slower than Rebecca's Coho. It felt a little weird to have small waves pass beneath the membrane, like waves in a waterbed, but probably only because I'm unaccustomed to the skin on frame feel of these boats.

We paddled out around Steves and St. Helena Islands- not a big trek, but good just to get out there. And who knows, maybe we've started a new Christmas tradition.

Another Rec Boat Fatality

2009-12-17T08:48:00.008-05:00

On Sunday, November 22nd, while we were paddling around the Cranberry Islands, Monica Estes, 56, launched her Old Town Otter from the public launch at Manset, less than three miles from where we launched. Little else is known about what happened next, but two days later her boat washed ashore, followed a day later by her body. Her life jacket was found inside the kayak.

As is often the case in the death of a solo paddler, we know very little about what happened to her, but we read between the lines of the reports that surfaced. I become morbidly anxious to gather any details I can from what little the newspaper accounts offer, but two significant details stand-out: the type of boat she paddled, and the PFD- stashed inside of the boat instead of worn. There’s no mention of cold water gear or any other safety considerations, which probably translates to lack of all of the above.

We don’t want to be disrespectful to the victim, but we wonder what happened, and we want to prevent it from happening to us or to others. The circumstances are similar to the death of Susan Wakelin off of Deer Isle on September 11, 2006. Wakelin, 65, took a brand-new Old Town Otter out for a short coastal paddle. To her credit, she wore her PFD and left plans with family, who notified the Coast Guard when she didn’t arrive on time. Beyond those precautions though, she wore no cold water paddling gear or a sprayskirt, and carried no other safety gear (VHF radio, flares, cell phone in a waterproof container, etc.).

Old Town’s web site has this to say about the Otter: “Comfortable, stable, lightweight and affordable, the Otter is Old Town's solution for family water fun. Its superior design tracks better and paddles easier than others in its class.” The site makes no claims about where the boat should or should not be used. At just under ten feet long, with a 28.5” beam, the boat is unlikely to be quick, but its beaminess and flat bottom are sure to make the paddler feel stable, as though capsizing just isn’t possible. If it does capsize, the lack of any built-in floatation makes it unlikely that a solo paddler would be able to reenter the boat. Most likely, one end fills with water, while the other end points straight up out of the water. For maybe $100, the boat could be equipped with bow and stern flotation bags, but the struggling paddler would still be dealing with a large volume of water in the boat.

Perhaps the most dangerous aspect of the Otter and other similar rec boats, is that it is built and marketed to people who want to get on the water easily, with little commitment to learning skills or even basic safety precautions. I’m guessing that the salespeople don’t disabuse them of this approach. The boat is priced at just over $300, so the financial commitment to having proper gear is also de-emphasized. One could easily spend more on basic safety gear than on the boat. The sense that the boat is so flat-bottomed and beamy gives buyers the idea that it will never capsize, especially if they plan on staying close to shore and returning should the conditions turn rough.

When we launched that morning, the seas were fairly rough, even for experienced paddlers. Winds were probably in the 15-knot range. There were waves... all coming out of the north, while the incoming tide came from the south: a recipe for bumpy conditions. For us, this was fun, but we took it seriously. We plotted a course that took us first into the wind until we neared the shore of Great Cranberry Island, then let it take us downwind. Contrary to the newspaper’s claim, and the weather forecast, the conditions became calmer in the afternoon. Those photos of us (in the last blog entry) in fairly calm seas are in the middle of the crossing back to Seawall. The shots of us surfing, are taken within a few hundred feet from shore, so paddling close to shore (as rec boat enthusiasts inevitably plan on doing) is not always the calmest, safest place to be. Those waves would have easily capsized a rec boat.

How could the deceased paddler have stacked the odds more in her favor? For less than $100 she could have carried a VHF radio. For under $30 she could have carried flares. And she would have carried both of them in her PFD... which of course she should have been wearing. The newspaper didn’t say what clothing she wore, but for $150 she might have worn neoprene or a wetsuit, which could have bought her some time in the water before hypothermia disabled her. Even in the summertime, the water in this area rarely rises ten degrees higher than the water in which she died. I have no idea what skills she possessed, but anyone who paddles should learn rescue techniques, and anyone who paddles alone should learn self-rescue techniques.

In addition to the circumstantial similarities of the two deaths, they each might have been prevented had even one safety measure been followed. And perhaps more to the point, once anything went wrong, there was little hope for either victim, since neither had any options for helping themselves.

Maybe it’s really pretty simple: plan on capsizing. Some people assume that they will eventually end up in the water, while others assume that they won’t. The ones who prepare for capsize stand a better chance of survival than those who don’t.

To read the Bar Harbor Times article, click here.