A Borrowed Cabin

By Monday, it seemed clear that the tiny island we’d planned for Tuesday night’s campsite would get hammered by 30-knot winds out of the east, and at high tide, those waves would be coming pretty close. That’s when I remembered that a friend had graciously offered the use of his cabin on an island close to Isle au Haut. It seemed a good time to take him up on the offer.


After a 3-hour paddle in the rain, Nate, Rebecca and I arrived at the cabin. It took a little tidying up: removing the bird’s nest from the stovepipe, and relocating a few spiders. It had the feeling of a place where someone has spent a lot of time in quiet contemplation: stacks of good books among feathers and rocks gathered from walks, kerosene lamps with crumbling wicks, a bottle of Jim Beam with only drops left. A painting leaned casually against the wall, as though it had been painted from a chair at the kitchen table and put aside in the most convenient place. It featured the view from the cabin, looking down past the tall grass and granite outcrops to the cove with its tiny island and the thorofare, the steep profile of Isle au Haut rising in the background.



We carried the gear from our boats up to the cabin, then went out for a paddle around the island. The air temperature was dropping from the 40s down to the 30s, but we were comfortable as long as we kept paddling. We found some ledges with unpredictable, washing machine currents, and waves breaking in multiple directions. Nate and I goofed around there for awhile, while Rebecca took photos. Seals watched from a distance.


The wind picked-up considerably. We paddled into it as we finished circling the island, and it was hard going, but good knowing that we had a place out of the weather just a short distance away, and that we’d gathered enough fallen spruce to get a fire going in the woodstove.


After dinner, by kerosene lamp and candlelight, we found the backgammon board and played a couple of games. When we went outside for some air, we were amazed at how quiet and sheltered it was just outside the cabin, while down by the water, the wind howled. The air felt cool and clear, the sky thick with stars


In the morning, the wind still howled. Rebecca decided to stay on the island and do some painting, while Nate and I left to paddle around Isle au Haut. Again, it was hard going, paddling into the wind, but only for a couple miles before we were sheltered in the Burnt Island Thorofare, and shortly after in the Isle au Haut Thorofare.


Beam winds and seas kept us on our toes along the eastern side of the island. At Western Ear, we had a short break, seeking shelter behind a boulder from the strong, cold winds before we got back out on the water and warmed-up with some aggressive paddling.



We found a little rock gardening in the wind-driven waves before heading across the south end of the island to Eastern Head, where the gentlest swell provided us with some low-key, very enjoyable maneuvers among the rocks.


By the time we rounded Eastern Ear, I was feeling pretty spent, and could have benefitted from Nate’s practice of eating a Snickers Bar every hour or so. We’d hoped for a little push from the current, but the last few miles were a slog.


Rebecca had a small fire going in the woodstove. She’d spent a quiet day reading and painting from the hillside below the cabin. We got out of our wet gear and sat down for a cup of hot tea as it turned dark.

Rebecca Daugherty: Field, Trees, Isle au Haut, oil on panel, 7" x 5"

On the return trip, we paddled into a stiff headwind again, arriving back in Stonington around mid-day, in time for Nate to go pick his kids up at school. As is often the case, the strong northwest winds we’d paddled into were barely perceptible from Stonington, and it felt strange and oddly anticlimactic to return home and open up the gallery for a few late afternoon customers.

Stonington to West Quoddy Head

Take me to your leader, we come in peace

I’m going to keep this brief. Todd and I just took a longer than usual trip up the coast. Visitors to the gallery sometimes find me with charts spread out over my desk, but in the weeks leading up to our departure date, I had a whole new set of charts to study, and the anticipation of the trip kept me busy as gallery traffic slowed down. Before we left, if anyone asked, we said that we had eight days to paddle up the coast and see where it took us. Our hope though, if weather and conditions cooperated, was to make it to West Quoddy Head, in Lubec, the easternmost point in the United States.

A long journey begins with one paddlestroke

We left Stonington on Wednesday, September 16th and camped that night on Big Baker Island, just off of Swans Island, a short first day to get us started. Our route then took us around the southern end of Mount Desert Island, through the Cranberries and into Frenchman Bay. Along the way, we paddled along the shore of Acadia National Park, where probably thousands of people were scattered along the shore at the popular sites. We were the only ones on the water... except for the tour boat and cruise ships.

Burnt Coat Harbor Lighthouse, Swans Island

In the early hours on Friday, we rounded Schoodic Point as the wind and waves picked up, and made it to an island just off Corea, where strong winds grounded us until Sunday morning. It was a good place to be stuck. We spent our time exploring the granite ledges, reading and listening to the weather forecast, wondering when we could continue. We ate pretty well, too.

We were on the water before sunrise on Sunday morning, which got us around Petit Manan Point in calm conditions, and gave us a long paddling day to make up for lost time. We saw a lot that day, islands that had been intriguing on the chart, but in real, 3-D life, just blew us away: the cliffs of Jordans Delight rising vertically from the ocean, the tempting rock gardening around Shipstern Island, the forlorn lighthouse out on Nash Island. The waves and wind kept us working hard. After nearly 30 miles, we made it to Halifax Island, not too far from Machias, a gem of an island with beautiful views.

The Bold Coast

We would have liked to meander a bit more slowly the next day, but the weather looked good for Monday, and was forecast to deteriorate by Tuesday. It looked like it would be our only chance to paddle the Bold Coast and get to West Quoddy Head, so we got up early again and went for it. We’d heard a lot about the Bold Coast, about the lack of bailouts and its exposure to bold ocean swells and strong currents, so this was a greatly anticipated stretch of paddling. We were lucky to catch it on a relatively calm day, but it was far less wild and wooly than I’d imagined. After a 33-mile day, we approached the striped lighthouse at West Quoddy Head just after sunset, gratefully pulled along by a powerful, river-like current.


I’ve been feeling a bit worn-out since we returned, but it’s a good kind of worn-out. I immediately became pulled back into my land-bound concerns, returning to my usual anxiety that I’m not paddling enough. Looking at the satellite images of the Maine coast with Deer Isle pretty close to the middle, it's hard not to think “why not a trip to Kittery?”

More Lessons

When we tell people that we’re going for yet another paddling lesson, some look at us oddly and ask “But why do you need a lesson? Don’t you already know how to paddle a kayak?”

The simple answer: “We go to learn from someone who does it a lot better than we do.”

Todd in The Keyhole

There’s much to learn, and if you want to do it well, it can take a fair amount of instruction, coaching and practice. And in more extreme conditions, those skills can make the difference between having a wild, adrenaline-fueled good time and... well, a not so good time. Like a lot of things, the more you put into it, the more you get out of it, and the process of learning becomes its own reward.

Michael off Rum Cay

This last week, Todd, Peter and I spent two days training off of Bar Harbor with Mark Schoon-Rice of Carpe Diem Kayaking. Todd and I have been taking classes with Mark for nearly two years, while Peter has been at it for awhile longer. We’re working toward the British Canoe Union’s (BCU) Three-Star award, which is given for proficiency at a long list of skills. Last week we went for a day of tune-up instruction. Yesterday was to be our assessment, but lacking the necessary wind, we opted for another day of instruction, focusing on paddling among rocks and ledges.

Peter off Rum Cay

It was an auspicious day to be paddling in Frenchman’s Bay. Hurricane Bill had just passed by amid much concern, its storm surge dealing a glancing blow to the area. The previous day, a number of people were swept from the rocks at Thunder Hole, resulting in the death of a 7 year-old girl. We headed out as workers attempted to piece back together floating piers and knocked over pilings.

Our fearless leader, Mark.
Below: 4 seconds later

Among these snapshots from our lessons are the ones that exist only in memory, choice moments that leave strong impressions. Many of mine took place under water. If I had snapshots of those moments, they would be of the gauzy light above, and the chaos of bubbles amid churning water, but it’s more the feel of the paddle in your hands, trying to tell if you’ve got it right, and the sense that this roll is coming together or not. We each experienced a moment well above the waves too: bow dug into the bottom, the wave pitchpoling the boat.

Todd... Rum Cay

The swell was too big for us to safely get into some of the choice rock gardens, and when we surfed, we learned to let some of those bigger waves pass. Maybe this is the essence of continuing one’s education: teaching yourself humility and perspective, because if you don’t, it is likely that, sooner or later, the ocean will.

More Puffins

Once again, Todd and I loaded our kayaks aboard the Nigh Duck, taking Old Quarry Ocean Adventures’ puffin watch out to Seal Island, with Captain Bill Baker. We had a perfect day this time: eighty-degrees, not much wind, a little hazy, but no real fog. Sixteen passengers boarded the boat, and as we motored through the archipelago, Todd and I fielded one question after another, updating our postion on the chart, identifying the islands, and, as we entered deeper water, pointing out the porpoises and birds.



Looking down at the chart, passengers inevitably asked “so where are we going?”
I pointed to a place well off the chart, beyond Isle au Haut. Finally I got out a bigger chart and watched their eyes widen when they saw how far we were going.

As on our last trip to Seal Island, Todd and I were playing it by ear, waiting to see what the conditions were like before committing to a plan. As we passed the end of Isle au Haut, the low bump of Seal Island appearing on the horizon, we had a pretty good idea that this was our day: the conditions wouldn’t get much better than this. We began to see puffins about half way across and large pods of porpi. (If that wasn’t plural for “porpoise” before, it is now). By the time we disembarked, Todd and I had decided we would make the crossing back to Brimstone Island, returning along the east side of Vinalhaven.


Seal Island was far quieter than two weeks before. Where the rocky shore had previously teemed with puffins, razorbills and terns, we now saw groups of gulls and cormorants. The puffins floated on the water surface, taking to the air when we approached, circling us again and again. Soon they will leave the island, living on the open ocean until they return next spring.



With far smaller seas than on our last visit, we paddled close to shore, exploring the fissures and cliff faces along the exposed southern side. We met up with the Nigh Duck and confirmed with Captain Bill that he could leave us there. Waving goodbye to our fellow passengers we were on our own (and soon to be snapshots in various vacation albums).



Finally, we pointed our bows to 10 degrees and began paddling. Eight miles away, Brimstone Island lay obscured in a haze. A mild swell occasionally lifted our sterns, but the paddling remained easy. Occasionally, a gannet or puffin circled around as if curious about these strange little craft so far from shore. After an hour, we rolled to cool off and took a break, dangling our legs out of the cockpits to stretch out. We did the same after two hours, and each time a large grey seal surfaced nearby and stared at us for what seemed a long, thoughtful moment.



Finally, the quiet gave way to the crash of waves on Little Brimstone Island, where large rafts of ducks swarmed the water surface, emitting a sound not unlike the hum of a large, restless audience. We had arrived.


After two and a half hours, it felt like waking up. Now there was shoreline. Now there were rocks. We paddled among them, finding the slots and passages, the mild swell lifting and dropping us. Finally, we found a small beach on the south side of Brimstone, and took a break beneath the steep, rocky hillside.



From Brimstone, it took us less than three hours to get back to Stonington. We rode a strong current along the east shore of Vinalhaven, covering nearly six miles in the first hour. After Stoddart Island, we pointed toward Mark Island light and the water tower in Stonington, making a five-mile crossing via the Brown Cow to Mark Island, where we took one last break, savoring that “exhausted, but you know you’ve made it” feeling.



Well, that’s one way to paddle 25 miles on a Sunday in August and never encounter another kayak. Thanks to Old Quarry for getting us out there.

Isle au Haut Rocks and Ledges

On the Nigh Duck, we had a foggy ride back from Seal Island, disembarking in the calm water at Duck Harbor. We paddled south through the fog, following the shoreline toward Western Head. The swell that had seemed mountainous out at Seal Island came in a bit more gently here, which turned out to be good for rock gardening, especially as the tide fell, exposing a maze of boulders and outcrops.


It can take awhile to really get into the rock gardening groove. We came to some ledges, which were now and then getting pummeled as the swell came in and turned to a breaking wave. Todd waited, timing the waves until one took him over some rocks. I did the same. He tried it in another spot, but didn’t quite make it, managing to back off before getting stranded atop the ledge. This was okay, but... I don’t know. It was like doing the white man’s overbite boogie on the dance floor at a wedding for a relative you don’t really know. Except instead of just looking stupid, you’re worried that maybe that dance floor, which is hard and covered with barnacles, is going to bite you in the face.


“Should we move on?” Todd was already on his way. I followed. Soon, we were going around Western Ear, among some familiar rocks. Again, we looked for the fun spots. We paused before a passage among some rocks. Last time, we’d waited for a wave to come in and buoy us across. This time we waited until a much bigger wave came in and broke violently, crashing into the rocks and rebounding into the next crashing wave. We backed off.


I’m not sure how it happened, but eventually the pathways became evident, the process more akin to skiing powder through trees and moguls. The waves can either knock you around, or put some space between you and the rocks, pointing you where you want to go. For a short while, it was magic. The cliffs rose above us, topped by vague stands of spruce in a thick fog that made the rest of the world feel very far away.


The fog remained thick as we paddled back along the east shore of Isle au Haut. Attentive to the the contours of the shoreline, we noticed details that we’d only seen before from a distance. As the tide rose, the current picked-up, and we made good time, dead-reckoning through the fog.


We paused on the south side of the Stonington Thorofare, and Todd did a securitay call on the VHF, warning other boats that we would be crossing in the fog. As usual, no one replied, so we followed our bearing into the fog. We didn’t hear the boat bearing down on us. My first clue was the look on Todd’s face when he glanced to the side. I started paddling hard even before I looked to see the shape of a large fishing vessel coming straight for us. “Fisherman’s Pride” was clearly legible on the bow- the biggest fishing boat around.


We were quickly out of the way, breathing hard. Todd got back on the VHF and did a radio check. Someone in Stonington Harbor said he was coming in loud and clear. He hailed the Fisherman’s Pride, asking if he’d heard the radio check. After a moment, a voice came on “I heard you but... it was muffled.”

So, if you’re doing a securitay call in Stonington Harbor in the fog, especially in the evening, make sure and say “Calling all mariners... including the Fisherman’s Pride” and maybe you’ll be heard.

Seal Island

The Atlantic Puffin (puffinopolous atlanticus)

Seal Island lies 7 or 8 miles south of Isle au Haut, off on its own, but in the same general neighborhood as Criehaven and Matinicus. That is to say, it’s out there. Mention Seal Island to someone who knows about it, and they’re likely to mention the puffins. The island is one of the few Maine nesting grounds for the Atlantic Puffin, as well as Arctic and common terns, guillemots, eiders, great cormorants and razorbills. To me, that translates to a lot of cool birds that I’ve never seen before out on a wild island far from anything. And all of this is maybe twenty miles from Stonington.

It’s an unlikely destination for most kayakers. A former Navy bombing target, the 65 acre island is closed to public access due to the possibility of unexploded ordinance; one might land there in a pinch, but you might risk more than gelcoat damage. From the southern tip of Isle au Haut, one has to cross at least seven miles of open ocean at the mouth of Penobscot Bay. The seas are likely to be rough, and there’s always that chance of encountering a supertanker or container ship. So of course, Todd lies awake at night thinking about doing it.



We decided to take a short cut. Enlisting the help of Old Quarry Ocean Adventures, we strapped our kayaks onto the stern of the Nigh Duck and joined their birdwatching trip to Seal Island. The trip began at high tide, in scattered fog. Our captain, Eric Johnson took us close to the islands in the archipelago, occasionally pointing out a porpoise or an osprey nest, and we chatted with the other passengers. Some were paddlers staying at Old Quarry, and it seemed obvious that they would have liked to have had their kayaks along as well. But this was a first: a chance to try out the motorized-paddling Seal Island excursion for Old Quarry. If it works, it could become a regular event.

The wild south shore of Seal Island

As we motored up the west side of Isle au Haut, the swell picked up and some passengers broke-out the dramamine. Todd and I watched the swell and waves. He wanted to do the crossing back. I was less enthusiastic, but was ready to go for it if the conditions were right. Unfortunately, the fog thickened as we ventured beyond Isle au Haut, and we only knew we were approaching Seal Island because the GPS told us so.


We pulled into a calm area on the north side of the island and Eric cut the motor. The birds squawked and shrieked, filling the air around us as they dove and circled. There were the puffins, near-mythological creatures suddenly everywhere we looked, just as clownish and weird-looking as promised by the guidebooks. We quickly unloaded the kayaks and just like that, were paddling along the shore of Seal Island.


On shore were a small cabin and a few tents for a few people who spend summer on the island, monitoring the birds. We paddled along the shoreline taking pictures, while the Nigh Duck hovered further offshore. Clearly, if you want to take photos of the birds, the kayak greatly expands the opportunities. We were torn though, between paddling and the birds. We didn’t have a lot of time.

Puffins and razorbills

We paddled around to the southern side where the swell increased. The island monitors looked up briefly from their work. A group of puffins let us venture briefly among them before taking off, circling around to land somewhere else. Ahead, the shoreline turned more vertical, cliffs rising in the fog, and we paddled on into a steep swell and confused seas where the waves rebounded from the cliffs. We paddled only far enough to get a taste of the wild southern side and turned back. The Nigh Duck would not follow us here, and the birds were concentrated on the eastern end, where we returned for a few more photos.


In the dense fog with bumpy following seas, the crossing back to Isle au Haut would have been more challenge than we wanted, so we climbed back aboard the Nigh Duck, strapped on the kayaks and headed back. This gave us the opportunity to be dropped off at Duck Harbor and venture into Isle au Haut’s rocky headlands after relatively little paddling.

But that’s another story. To be continued...

Adopting an Island

Often, on our evening paddles, without giving a lot of thought to our destination, we head straight out on a route that takes us first to Steves Island. There, after two miles of paddling, floating among the boulders on the south end, I like to pause and catch my breath, deciding where to go next. It’s a good place to pause. I’ve found myself admiring the island more and more: its pocket beaches and boulders, some with spruce trees growing on impossibly thin soil. From a distance, Steves’ profile is distinct, the trees tapering in height toward the prevailing winds of the southwest. That’s what you see before even getting out of the boat, and the island is so small, you can see quite a lot of it from the water.


Steve’s is state-owned and part of a network of islands managed by the Maine Island Trail Association, which maintains a network of publicly accesible islands, some with campsites. While the organization relies on membership dues and donations, most of the work is done by volunteers. One such opportunity is the Adopt an Island program. Island adopters regularly visit their island “as casual island caretakers and ambassadors of responsible recreational use”.

Peter and Marilyn are stewards for Rock Island, a natural choice, since they can monitor the island from their home with a pair of binoculars, and they enjoy using its beach to practice rolling. They obviously enjoy doing their part to look after the island. As I took my breaks off of Steve’s, I started thinking maybe this was something we could also do. So we signed-up as stewards of Steve’s. I was surprised no one else had already claimed the island; after all, it is very popular, and a short trip from Stonington.



A few evenings ago, Rebecca and I made our first visit as island stewards. A sailboat was anchored off the north end, where a family was camped, but the other campsites were empty, and mostly clean. I picked up a tiny amount of garbage... the most egregious in the form of a plastic bottle. Even the beaches were free of man-made debris. According to law, we left the washed-up lobster buoy there. Apparently, the people who camp in Steves’ four campsites take pretty good care of the island. So this gives us a good excuse to get out of the boats and spend a little more time on an idyllic island, as well as a chance to give back a little for all the enjoyment the islands provide. If it goes well, maybe we’ll adopt even more.