Webb Cove, Whitmore Neck

We had a day off. The first part was spent catching-up on details that had been eluding us: emails, menu planning for trips, paying bills. We managed to get into town for the bank and the Post Office to pick-up a week's accumulation of mail. We could hear the usual activity downstairs in Old Quarry's office- the ringing phone, the occasional rising hum of customers crowding the front desk. Cars, many of them carrying kayaks, came and went from the parking lot. When we crept down our stairs and through the back of the office, we tried not to look at anyone or make eye contact. "Just keep moving," Bill told us. "Don't get sucked into the vortex."

But then, late in the afternoon, we managed to get down to the waterfront to go out for a paddle. We might have considered poling a canoe or padding a standup paddleboard, but it was windy, gusting in the high teens. Not too many others had gone out that day. But a pair of visitors were getting ready to launch a pair of open rec boats with wide cockpits and minimal flotation. I really just wanted to ignore them, but I had to ask "where you headed?"

What ensued was the usual such conversation that makes me not want to ask. "Just out to that point," the guy said, gesturing vaguely toward Buckmaster Point... and perhaps the islands that it leads toward. "We won't tip over, but if we do we'll just swim to shore." At least they weren't headed for Isle au Haut. In fact, with no charts, they probably didn't know what that high island out there was. Nor did they know where Webb Cove was, but I convinced them that it would be less windy there, and in fact we were going into Webb Cove to paddle in a calmer spot.

A short time later as we paddled into Webb Cove they passed us, headed back to the launch; they appeared to be having an ordeal. "It's windy as hell over there," the guy said.

It's so difficult sometimes to understand the perspective of others. We were soon out of the wind, following calm water at high tide. We carried over Oceanville Road and followed the winding path of water out into Inner Harbor.

We found some calm water.

I even took a swim. It was high tide, and the water had been warmed by the sun-heated mud. It felt great to jump in the water. We had been working a lot.

The cool thing is that part of my job is talking to people about kayaking, helping them plan their trips, answering whatever questions they might have. This used to happen to me a lot in the gallery, and there it only took me away from the real work at hand. Of course, now it's easy to get a bit burnt-out on it, especially when people are obviously not prepared and you try to drop a hint or two. We try to file float plans and get people to provide basic information- where they're going, where they'll camp. Some float plans might suggest that they're camping on Vinalhaven one night and Isle au Haut the next - no sense that land is private or that there are designated campsites. We might ask if they have wag bags, since so many people still don't seem to understand that they're expected to pack-out human waste. There is a lot to know and learn about getting into a kayak and going out for a camping trip, especially if you don't do much of either.

But we try to be patient with people, and when those "experienced" paddlers rent a boat, we might gently suggest that they use their paddle right-side-up. Or we might just let them go. Everyone is the hero of their own epic journey, whether they're going out for an impromptu night on Little Sheep Island or a well-planned two week paddling adventure. Or just a trip into Webb Cove.

We paddled around Whitmore Neck and took a break on Whaleback Ledge. We hit some wind as we came around the point, but it all felt good.

Herding Bunnies

While I try to keep what I share here positive, and I never want to share things about clients that they wouldn’t want shared, I also want to present a balanced and honest perspective. I don’t think most readers think all guiding or teaching kayaking is fun or easy, but I tend to write more about those better days. This is about a less-better day.

I’ve heard people refer to kayak guiding as “herding cats.” The thing about cats though, is that they are difficult to manage because they are independent and curious with a strong will of their own. I met a guide a few years ago who told me that you need to recognize who the “bunnies” are. She meant the passive clients who are along for the ride, and seem to forget that they need to paddle their boat to go forward, and that they need to make it turn, or perhaps stop before their momentum propels them up onto a ledge. They will just sit there in their boat, like a bunny about to be devoured by a predator, and watch it unfold, rather than do anything about it. I thought she was being a little cynical, but she was right. If your clients are in tandems, you don’t want a really passive person steering, nor do you want to put two passive paddlers into the same tandem (who’s going to make this thing go?).

Here’s how I spent two hours of my life.

Six clients, most of them children would occupy three tandems while a crowd of  adults, bristling with cameras watched them paddle away. With some of them, there was a language barrier, and this may account for our lack of understanding that the adults intended to send the kids off on their own (not gonna happen). Suddenly I was on guide duty. The weather was cloudy and breezy, a bit cool, with occasional rain spitting down. The forecast called for mid-teen winds with gusts, which hadn’t materialized - yet.

Rebecca got the crowd outfitted while I changed into my gear. As we went through the footpeg-adjusting process, it became clear that this was a challenging group- in their ability to pay attention and focus and perhaps even to understand English. And probably, there were some attitudes as well- after all, they came here to rent their own boats. The crowd of parents didn’t help with their distractions. Usually, I’m just relieved to get on the water. My job becomes more focused; get everyone headed in the same direction.

This was tough. One boat, a yellow one steered by a four and a half-foot-tall blond kid, did just fine. The others started going in circles and paddling into the shore rocks. I repeatedly demonstrated paddling backwards and returning rudder controls to neutral to straighten the boat. In this fashion, we proceeded along the shore, toward Buckmaster Neck. Before we got to the point though, as the wind and waves increased, and I towed a boat off of the rocks, I turned us around and we went in to Webb Cove. As we passed the ramp, I got Rebecca to come down and switch the paddlers in one boat, since one stern paddler just didn’t seem to get it, and kept slouching way down, slapping the water surface with his paddle instead of actually paddling.

We proceeded into Webb Cove. They’d wanted a two-hour trip and I still had an hour and a half to burn. I figured it would get better in calm water- maybe we’d see some wildlife. The wind was really picking-up by now.

But I could hardly get them to paddle. They were on a carnival ride, especially the boys in the red boat, and it sounded like it from the way they shouted at each other. In the calm water, I suggested to the two boys who were doing well that they switch with the others, so we might actually get somewhere. They looked at each other and said no, they didn’t want to be in a boat with the others. We proceeded very slowly into the cove- I’d take a few strokes and wait, watching the red tandem teeter precariously back and forth as the two teens exaggerated their stroke... and yet propulsion still seemed to elude them. The other boat would see us stop, and would follow suit- fifty yards behind us. When we were all together again, I pointed-out an eagle, but no one seemed to care since it was a juvenile and didn’t have a white head.

They all wanted to stop on an island, so we did. It was wooded though, with no obvious trails, and at high tide the shore was a bit sea-weedy. Yuck. I demonstrated that we could walk out to a ledge and have a look around, but they seemed content to stand beside their boats, as though uncertain hazards lay waiting on this island. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned that the former inhabitants were buried there.

By now the parents were in the office, seeing how the conditions had changed, asking if they should be worried. It took a lot to get us all pointed up the cove (into the wind) and I ended up towing the red boat and waiting for the other one, while reigning-in the boat that was doing well. I had to keep yelling “put your paddle in the water!” By now, a small crowd had assembled on shore, watching our glacial progress and documenting it with cameras with big zoom lenses. I wanted the boys in the red boat to save face and paddle-in on their own steam, so I gave them a quick pep talk on getting their paddles into the water and steering and released them from my tow. But they didn’t paddle and didn’t steer and I had to chase them down and re-connect before they were washed into shore.

We all landed, everyone survived. I overheard a mother in the office as she was told the new price that included the guide and she wasn’t pleased by the amount. Her son told her that the guide told him that he’d done really well. One boy said thanks and shook my hand. Other than that, they all went away without a word of thanks or an appreciative gesture. Imagine if they’d sent these kids out without a guide. I can’t imagine what they were thinking. But I was thinking that if guiding were like this very often, I wouldn’t be doing it. It’s part of the reason that we like to teach people and do longer and more challenging trips... since it tends to weed-out the bunnies. I changed my clothes and went back to work in the office.

Webb Cove in the Rain

Here we are again, finally, in Stonington. It’s a grey, rainy day, temperature in the mid-fifties, wind picking-up: a day much like some we had in Georgia in January. It’s not an inviting day to get out paddling, but my eyes keep wandering out over Webb Cove and I know how invigorating it would feel: the chilly water and wind, the waves bashing against granite. My mind wants to go, but my body says otherwise.

We arrived here at Old Quarry last night and moved the contents of our car into the apartment above the office. We’ve been making coffee and figuring out where stuff goes, looking outside thinking “should we paddle?” But I’m feeling worn-out, my limbs heavy and sore, a blister on my big toe still subsiding. It’s from the last week of play, and perhaps the last month of travel catching-up. We’ve been on a lake in New Hampshire, a family place where I haven’t spent much warm-weather time over the last dozen years. I was glad to be at the lake, and though it’s a nice place to paddle a kayak (and we did most days) I felt more inclined to hike in the mountains or try my newly-learned canoe-poling skills.

Actually, I spent more time there gardening, trimming brush on the point where, 25 years ago this August, Rebecca and I were married. I spent hours with loppers and shears, sometimes while standing in the water, trimming the undergrowth that was crowding-out the twisting mountain laurel with its snowy bunches of flowers. I’d tell myself I’d just cut away a few branches, and my focus would narrow into a meditative state: clip, clip clip, and onto the next. Hours would pass and I’d look out at the lake and the mountains and think “gee, I should go paddling.” Then I’d start trimming again. I guess, deep down, I’ve got some need to take care of a piece of ground. We felt it in Georgia, where I mowed the first lawn we’d had in 17 years, but resisted most urges to get into long-term landscaping. Rebecca and I have moved around a lot, but the point is the one piece of ground that we keep returning to.

But on Thursday I went hiking. I chose the Skookumchuck Trail trail because it ascends the 3000-plus feet to Mt Lafayette’s summit in 4.7 miles, rather than the more popular, but steeper trails that make the climb in a shorter distance. I wasn’t on top of my walking routine, and I’d hardly even walked up any hills since last fall. I imagined an easier walk, but in the first ten minutes of my hike, I knew that the summit, should I get there, would be hard-won. So I tried to slow down, pausing by the brook to take pictures of flowers. There was no one else on the trail.

I have hiked up Mt Lafayette many times since I was ten or eleven years old. The sixth-highest of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, Lafayette is the high point of the Franconia Ridge, a spectacular stretch of alpine tundra that drops steeply away to valleys on either side. Aside from the more gradual grade, the Skookumchuck Trail offers a less populated walk; only one other car was parked at the trailhead. After about three hours of quiet, solitary walking, I encountered the other hiker- a man a bit older than me who’d paused at timberline. We chatted for awhile and then I continued onto the ridge.

Lafayette’s summit was crowded. I ate my lunch, watching hikers arrive and pose for photos. I obliged a French-speaking couple who wanted pictures of themselves, but didn’t ask for the favor in return, thinking I didn’t need another shot of me on a mountaintop. Then I thought better of it and felt strangely self-indulgent and vain when I snapped a couple of selfies. After all, who knows when I might get there again?

The part I’m leaving out- and my excuse for including this story in the blog, is the pain. Going up that hill was hard work, and several painful spots had developed well before I reached the top. For the trip down, I used my trekking poles to reduce the impact on my knees, but a hot spot on my big toe officially turned to a blister that I felt with every step. It felt great to jump in the lake when I returned, but I knew I’d be feeling the hike for several days.

Add poling a canoe to the list, and it helps me, as I sit here looking out at the rain on Webb Cove, to inventory the various aches and pains. And it also helps me appreciate the efficiency of sea kayaking, perhaps explaining why it is a popular sport for so many of us who are realizing, bit by bit, that we’re not getting any younger.