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.

Putting Together the Pieces

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.

Icicles

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.