Frenchman Bay to Stonington: The Last Stretch

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If you're just tuning-in, this post covers the last couple of days of a two-month meander along the Maine Coast.

After the last blog post, we paddled the last forty nautical miles, from Frenchman Bay to Stonington, to finish the trip in two more days. We still needed to stop in Bar Harbor for some groceries and one last water fill-up, so we followed the Porcupine Islands in, stopping first for a quick break on The Hop. The fog had just cleared and the sun shone through- a good day to see the mountains of Mount Desert Island rising before us, welcoming us back to our neighborhood.

The seas were still pretty lively though, and we paddled into a strong west wind. A big cruise ship lay at anchor in the near harbor, while an odd private ship dominated the water southeast of Bar Island. It carried a full-size sailing yacht on one side, ready to be lowered to the water. 

Later I learned that it belongs to a Russian oil guy – the word ‘oligarch’ is tossed around to describe him and his 90+ million-dollar toy, that also carries a large motor yacht on its stern deck, and a helicopter that transports a Range Rover. Apparently the ship is still there, still the talk of the town.

Despite the strong winds in our face as we made our way from one Porcupine Island to the next in the lumpy wind-against-current seas, we encountered a guided kayak trip led by one of the guides I’d trained in June. I’d already been thinking that if I were guiding, I’d be taking the more sheltered paddle along shore to Compass Harbor, but I was not surprised. They were flying along downwind, and when the guide said hello, he said they were just going to “peek around this island up here,” as if I might have some thoughts on his choices or the task he would now have of getting these people back to the launch against the wind. Of course I did, but after nearly two months of not guiding or teaching people, I just smiled, happy it wasn’t my job that day.

Tourists stood on the town beach, doing what tourists on beaches do: staring down at the wrack line, skipping stones and taking photos. One man was so engrossed in his attempts to skip a stone that his rock nearly hit me. We pulled our kayaks up and I went off to get water and groceries, plunged briefly into Bar Harbor tourist chaos. Is it possible, that among all these clean, teeming hordes in their new Bar Harbor sweatshirts congregating on the sidewalks seeming to not know where to spend their money next, that I felt a private smug satisfaction when they glanced at me wide-eyed and quickly looked away- that I secretly reveled in my three weeks with no shower grime and my sun and salt-streaked skin? It is possible. After our mostly-alone Downeast sojourn, this was a new, but not unexpected sensation; not really where I wanted to be, but a sensation just the same.

We ate our customary pint of gelato on the beach and continued on our way around the north side of MDI, eventually re-encountering that strong west wind and a current that, thanks to our taking too long in Bar Harbor, had turned against us. We ate lunch on Thomas Island and continued-on beneath the bridge, where slow-moving traffic was backed-up for some distance. That last stretch, with our campsite more or less in view, was a slow slog.

Which was why it was so great to arrive at our last campsite of the trip, a tiny state-owned island called The Hub, and get our camp set-up one last time. We arrived at low tide, and began the work of carrying our gear and boats up the steep rocky ledges. But we’d spent all this time getting better at it, and knowing this would be the last such carry of this trip, performed the task with momentous care. Yes, we wanted to get through this and finish the trip, but we also wanted to hang-on to the moment as much as we could. Though the sun had been gradually setting earlier each night, it had begun to feel like things were speeding-up, the days growing quickly shorter, and we knew that time would pass and this would soon be a vague memory. We stayed out on the ledges well after dark, watching for shooting stars and satellites, and finally, reluctantly, called it a night.

We decided to end the trip at Old Quarry and we spent that last day paddling, still mostly against the wind, down Blue Hill Bay to Naskeag Point, our route now overlapping with the previous segments of the trip as we followed Stinson Neck out to the Lazyguts and across to Sheep Island. With only a mile and a half left, we took a break on Little Sheep, an island we’ve visited many times, usually on the short guided‘family’ trips with kids. The day had begun hot – one of the hottest so far, but the sun had sunk low enough that with the wind I began to feel a hypothermic chill, and I added a layer for the final stretch.

We arrived at Old Quarry on one of their busiest days of the summer. The area above the ramp was a solid mass of uncleaned boats. Much of the staff had just left, returning to college, and the remaining crew had been multi-tasking all day. We learned that our small travel trailer, which we’d loaned for the summer, was vacant, so we carried our gear up to it. I checked my messages and found one from Vicki, who offered a ride to our car after she was done at the library. I called her and heard the background hub-bub of a post poetry reading crowd, and she told me she could pick me up as soon as the crowd left. I felt like I knew the quality of that background chatter well – the same chit-chat from a dozen years of art gallery events, with many of the same people. And I knew that a whole new challenge awaited us, that of returning to something akin to a ‘normal’ life after living this parallel fantasy out among the islands. It would not be easy, but that’s a story for another time.

Notes:

Much of the area we paddled in this stretch is covered in trips #8,9, 12, 13 & 14 in my guidebook AMC’sBest Sea Kayaking in New England.

I have a short article in the September/October issue of AMC Outdoors. It's about my first Instagram post while camping on an island, this spring, and the mixed feelings I had about it. Of course, since then, I've been posting quite a few photos on Instagram, as an easy way of letting friends know we haven't dropped off the map.

We’re now in Stonington at Old Quarry Ocean Adventures for maybe the next month or so. Stop by, say hi.

As we go through photographs from the trip, we'll be adding more to previous posts.

Freshmen

Before each academic year, College of the Atlantic offers an orientation trip to their incoming freshmen. These trips range from hiking on the AT, canoeing on the Allagash, sailing and - of course, sea kayaking. Mel  (former co-proprietor of Bar Harbor’s Carpe Diem Sea Kayaking) and I would each take a group - seven students and two student leaders in three tandems and three singles- from Stonington to Mount Desert Island. Her group favored a more sheltered northern route around MDI. The student leaders in my group, veterans of Patagonian sea kayaking with NOLS and teaching sea kayaking to kids at Rippleffect, hoped to lead our group around the wilder and more exposed southern end of MDI. Of course, everything would depend on the weather and the group.

We met Monday morning at Old Quarry and spent the afternoon practicing rescues in the pond. In between learning to pack gear, setting-up tents and making meals, the groups circled-up often, getting to know each other. That was the real point of the trip. The fireworks that erupted that night over Stonington Harbor (they followed the Flash! In The Pans performance at the Fish Pier) seemed appropriate somehow. This was a significant time for these students. For some, that night was the first they had ever been camping.

On Tuesday morning as waves of rain and fog swept through, we packed boats and launched.  The sky gradually cleared, but as we stopped for lunch on Saddleback Island, we had our eyes on tall ominous clouds growing in the western sky. Since the next day’s forecast called for strong winds, we’d decided to get across Jericho Bay while the getting was good. It wasn’t good for long; just as we started pulling our boats into the water, thunder rumbled in the west. We all looked at each other and I said “We’re staying here.” It pays to make lunch stops on potential camping islands.

We got camp set-up and the storm came through - not too bad, but had we left it would have caught us out in the middle of Jericho Bay. Everyone seemed content to be on Saddleback, especially as the sun came-out. Some of us hiked around the island. Later, we sat on the sloping granite slabs and ate dinner as the sun set and lights came on in Stonington.

We made our way to Bar Harbor over the next four days. We faced plenty of wind and waves as well as seasickness and other ailments, but the students’ spirits remained high, and they were patient - good at helping each other over the tough spots. They didn’t seem to care much where the route took us; it was all good. We camped at Hog Island, off Naskeag Point and on to Hardwood Island, where the owners gave us permission to camp above the beach. With forecasts looming for ever-increasing wind, our route shifted to the north side of MDI, and we made our way up through Bartlett Narrows and beneath the bridge to our last evening’s destination, Thomas Island.

 
We often played games as we paddled: “if you were a pirate ship, what weapon would you choose?” After everyone else had chosen deck-mounted machine guns or light sabers or whatever, I said I was a pacifist, just because my mind was on other things. We were, after all, in the middle of crossing Blue Hill Bay, with the tide picking-up against the wind, the waves growing steeper, and I really just wanted to get the group across. Of course, part of their goal was to distract their seasick friend.

One thing I like about teaching and guiding is seeing improvement- a change in people’s skills and confidence. This comes in many forms. The students who could barely make progress against the wind on Tuesday focused on their form, and by the end of the week had better forward strokes. On that last evening I vowed to myself to not nag about moving the boats above the high tide line. I wasn’t going to let the boats drift away on one of the highest tides of the month, but it was time for someone else to take charge, and sure enough, they did, pulling the boats up and tying them off to a tree. Some students took extra trips with me in the late afternoons, and it seemed clear that they’d discovered something that they might stick with.

On the last evening, the full moon shone on Cadillac Mountain, where headlights occasionally poked through the night. We finished dinner and sat around a candle. That pirate ship question came back again, and I was encouraged to choose a weapon. I thought about the sci-fi television I’d seen lately and the answer just came-out: “an FTL drive.” After a moment’s silence, someone said “a faster than light drive... not bad.” I felt I’d passed a test. 

On the last morning, I suggested to the student leaders that they could take charge on the water and I’d hang-back a bit. The directions were straightforward enough: keep Mount Desert Island on your right for about eight miles until you see Bar Harbor.

 

We paddled straight lines far from shore- the most direct route to get us there. At Hadley Point we ran into the other group- they were heading-out for a day in the Porcupines. I suggested to my group that if anyone wanted to, we could check-out the Porcupines as well, but they seemed focused on the destination: the comforts of their new dorm rooms- flush toilets, television and computers. For miles, we paddled along while the students played games. Gandalf or that wizard from Harry Potter? Beatles or Rolling Stones (I woke up for that one- the sole Stones supporter). On and on. Nautical miles had been replaced by highway miles, and the games made them go past. I pulled into the caves at the Ovens- spectacular cliffs dropping directly into the sea- and the group kept paddling, getting far ahead without once glancing back to see if they still had a guide.

But it felt good to round the corner into Frenchman Bay and to see the Porcupines spread-out to the south. The predicted strong winds peaked before we launched, and the rest of the day looked relatively mellow. We passed Hulls Cove and a few big old houses on our way into Bar Harbor- passed the old ferry dock, and there it was: College of the Atlantic with its steel pier and a little beach just waiting for us. One by one we landed, and began unpacking boats. 

I thought I would accept a ride back to Stonington, but my boat sat near the water’s edge, ready, too much to resist. At mid-day, I still had hours to get to a campsite that night, and I could take all of Sunday to get back home to Stonington. I got rid of my garbage, topped-off my water, accepted a gift of some leftover chocolate (very much appreciated) and said my goodbyes. Then I paddled back to Stonington. Another story.

Winter, One Day at a Time

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

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.