Bartlett Island

Rebecca and I met Nate and Peter in Pretty Marsh Harbor Monday morning, and found our way to the Bartlett Narrows launch, where we set off in a counter-clockwise circumnavigation of Bartlett Island. Three and a half miles long by one mile wide, Bartlett is one of the largest privately-owned islands on the Maine coast, and is home to a herd of award-winning cattle.



We didn’t see any cattle, only the more predictable seals & eagles, and a fleeting glimpse or two of a porpoise. With the wind from the northwest, we found some pleasant waves as we rounded The Hub and North Point, and enjoyed some contour paddling along the rocky west shore.




After mostly solo paddling over the winter, it has been a nice change to get out with a few other paddlers lately. It’s also a good excuse to check-out a different area. Peter had driven up from Belfast, while we drove an hour and a half each way.



Every time we extend our paddling boundaries, we see our coast a bit differently. From Stonington, Western Mountain appears as a distant profile that we simply refer to as “Mt. Desert”. As we paddled through Bartlett Narrows, I discovered a new context for my landmarks, and found myself seeking out others, like Blue Hill or the tower on Swans Island. It’s like putting together pieces of a puzzle, a process we continued after the paddle when we hiked up Beech Mountain and looked out over a maze of yet-to-be-paddled-by-us islands.

The Lake

For almost half the year, the lake is frozen. When the ice finally breaks-up, paddling in the cold, clear water is akin to a skier getting fresh tracks. It takes only a warm day and a brisk wind to transform the lake from rough, wind-blown ice to the movie setting of “On Golden Pond” with colorful buds dotting the shoreline, and snow melting from the nearby mountaintops. The loons, having spent winter on the ocean, arrive almost immediately. We arrived a few days after that.

We encountered few other people on our first excursions, paddling to the middle of the lake to circle the various islands, encountering mostly calm water. One evening we spotted a lone kayaker, who arrived at a campsite on Moon Island. We kept our distance though, paddling onward, not wanting to break the quiet spell.



By the weekend, the lake hummed with powerboats. Only a couple of hours from Boston, the lake is an easy destination for a huge population, many of whom value going in large fast circles more than well... going in not so fast circles.

I guess that’s what we do on the ocean, but on a lake, the inward circle-ness of our routes is more evident; you can only go so far. Granted, I’ve taken sixteen-mile paddles around the far ends of the lake, but you can still only go so far. Out of curiosity, I began paddling the perimeter shoreline in segments, but somehow didn’t sustain enough interest to keep at it. It is interesting to paddle along the shoreline of “McMansion Row,” checking-out the latest additions, but after awhile, it just becomes sad. And it’s amazing how long I paddled along the shoreline of summer homes and never saw another person.



We’ve seen the lake change from a fairly pristine, quiet lake, to... well, it’s still pretty nice, and after the weekend it turned quiet again. But once upon a time the cottages were built on large parcels back in the woods, in dark woodsy colors, and the water was the clearest around. For years, there was no public launch for motorboats. When a ramp was finally built, we watched the water clarity and the peacefulness swiftly decline. These new homes are built to be seen, as are the plastic zillion-horsepower floating phallic symbols that buzz around the lake, piloted by guys with backward-turned ballcaps who, after getting from one end of the lake to the other in no time, ask themselves “that was fun, what now?”



Ah, but who am I to point fingers, or phallic symbols? I mean, look at these kayaks! Our excursions were great- one thing we like about the springtime is the relative quiet. Even the soon to be overrun White Mountains provided me with several long hikes in which I encountered no other people. Snow and ice weeds-out the riff-raff, to be sure.

A Moment on Sparrow Island

It’s almost high tide when I approach Sparrow Island. Seagulls line the ridges and boulders, squawking up a frenzy as I paddle near, taking to the air when I land on the beach. This island belongs to the birds: a few acres of rocks and grass, rising to a desolate hilltop. Later in the season, when the birds are nesting, the island is off-limits to people, so I like to get my visits in when I can. I pull the kayak up on the sand and sit on my favorite rock- the one with the other boulder as a backrest.

Since the tide is nearly high, I only have a short time before the beach is under water. That’s okay; I’m only here for a quick break, so I can get to work for the afternoon. I eat my hard-boiled egg and some peanuts. I gaze out at the water, which still has that turquoisey hue above the sand... a cold water phenomenon that looks deceptively tropical. The sun feels good, even if the only exposed skin is on my face, still warm from the sun I soaked-in on yesterday’s paddle.



It’s good to be here. It’s less windy than forecasted, and yesterday’s strong winds have whipped-up a pleasant swell, which dumps rythmically on the sand. It would be a perfect time to play among the rocks, but I’m alone, didn’t bring the helmet... and for some foolish reason, I need to get back to town, where I’ll spend the afternoon at my desk in the gallery, working on taxes.

The waves are already rising. The kayak will launch with or without me, so I pack up quickly and climb in. I hate to leave, but I know that even an afternoon working on taxes will be improved by the moments I spent here. The work it took to get here will stay with me in that mild, satisfying ache from the exercise, the warmth of the sun still on my face.

More of the Bagaduce

It’s always tempting to call the Bagaduce a river, and maybe it is, since it says so on the chart, but it contains water from the ocean and flows two ways. At its mouth it is over a mile wide, winding inland for a dozen or so miles, narrowing down in spots to only a few hundred feet. There’s a lot of water moving through those narrow spots, and when the current gets flowing, it’s bound to get interesting. To predict the current though, it takes some careful observation and a good understanding of tides.

Nate did the math: Thursday morning, when the moon was full and the tide was coming in, there would be some pretty good current. If we hit it right, it would take us “upriver” fairly quickly, whether we paddled or not.



The current didn’t look that dramatic when we launched in West Brooksville. The river is big and wide there, like a lake. To the left- “downstream” is Castine and Penobscot Bay. We turned right, pointing toward Negro Island, and paddled casually, chatting, glad to be on the water. Then we noticed that we were moving very quickly. Ahead, to the right of Negro Island, a few riffles appeared increasingly significant as we drew nearer, and it was all we could do to paddle across the current to take a breather before we were swept past the island. That woke us up. Out came the helmets.

Back out in the current, we moved along quickly. At Jones Point, the first significant narrows, we found riffles on either bank, small forgiving stretches of whitewater where we could ease onto small, surfable waves and get the feel for the current. In South Bay, strong winds and wind-driven waves reminded us why we’d chosen this “inside” route today, but we were quickly across, taking a break near Pumpkin Island, where a bald eagle sat in a nest, its head just visible.



Our route ended at the bridge between Penobscot and Brooksville, where Nate had left his truck. The falls were running on the “upstream” side of the bridge and gave us the opportunity to play in the current and even practice a few rolls and rescues. The Bagaduce continues another three or four miles inland, but we’ll save that for another day.

Mouth of the Bagaduce

I met Nate at a crossroads in Brooksville, which for the moment, was busy. Two guys driving lawn tractors had stopped to refuel from jerry cans they carried in trailers. They were patrolling the roadsides for returnable bottles and cans.

We continued on to Cape Rosier, taking a few wrong turns, as is the norm whenever I’m in Cape Rosier. Then, after some messy driving through deep, muddy ruts, we discovered a pile of snow blocking the road. Instead of letting the afternoon get away from us any further, we chose to launch at the nearest somewhat convenient spot: Goose Falls.


Goose Falls is a small, freshwater stream emptying from Goose Pond, and depending on the flow and the height of the tide, can be a fun bonus to launching here. Nate got in and bounced over a few waves before we headed out.

With strong winds from the west, we sought calmer waters in the lee of Holbrook Island, the mouth of the Bagaduce River and Smith Cove. We paddled past Castine, dominated by the State of Maine, Maine Maritime Academy’s training ship, and into Smith Cove, where we checked-out the wooden, seaweed-draped skeleton of a shipwreck.


While it was good to get out of the wind, I think we both perked-up a bit when we returned to Penobscot Bay, paddling among rocks and waves along the west side of Holbrook Island. The afternoon gave me an appreciation for the paddling we can do from Stonington, without even having to spend part of the day driving, but of course it’s always interesting to check-out other spots. We’re scheming on an upriver trip, timed with the tides.

A Messy Tumble of Boulders

It starts at Sparrow Island. We’ve taken a break on the beach, with the seals swimming increasingly closer, poking their heads up for a look before splashing away. We’d stood on the grassy top of the island, enjoying the feeling of apartness that this treeless bump on the ocean inspires. Sparrow is one of the more “out there” islands with only open ocean between it and Saddleback Light, a bump on the horizon six miles away.


But we’re headed back into the archipelago, with all afternoon to explore. This is Nate’s first visit to these islands, and we hardly knew where to begin. We start paddling toward Ram Island, but something about the rocks just offshore seems worth checking out. It’s high tide and when the swell rolls-in, narrow passages appear among the rocks. If you time it just right you can glide right through. Or not. Nate makes it through a slot in the rocks, and I just have to follow. In fact, maybe I could fit through that even narrower slot: no room for a paddle, but if you get going and the swell takes you...

And look at that little wave that forms over the reef... almost surfable. When we drag ourselves away and point toward Ram Island, there’s eight or more seals gathered around, poking their heads up. I won’t assign them human expressions, but they’re suddenly very interested in us.


The distance we paddle along the shorelines of Ram, Hardwood and Merchant Islands only adds-up to a couple miles, but if you’ve ever taken a bird dog for a walk in a meadow, you know how they go back and forth, sniffing everything, and the dog probably walks three miles for every one of yours. That’s how it is when you’re compulsively looking for the next feature among the rocks. The shores of these islands are strewn with glacial erratic boulders, and at high tide, it’s a playground.

The glacier left a messy tumble of boulders beside Hardwood Island, and here we find a four-way intersection that can be paddled around and around, a different passage through the rocks each time. You have to try to time it with the swell, but inevitably, it sometimes catches you in an awkward position and you lose as much gelcoat from the sides as from the bottom of the hull. That scraping sound becomes a recurring theme.


Beside Merchant, Nate gets tossed about and left high and dry between two rocks, leaning heavily upon his paddle until another swell comes in... and lands him higher. I’m torn between wanting to take a picture and getting myself into position to help. There’s not much for me to do though, and the next swell removes him from his perch.


By the time we get to Gooseberry Island, we’ve become aware of the time and we have to cut down on all this dilly-dallying. The hour or so it takes to get back to the ramp feels like a bit of a slog... all that straightforward paddling you need to do to get somewhere. Sometimes, the distractions along the way are the best part.

Solo

Steves Island, 3/15/09

Lately, most of my paddling excursions have been solo. I would like to have companions, but the number of paddlers here is greatly reduced from October through June, when the water temperature stays below fifty, and especially in these winter months when it stays near freezing. To paddle in the winter, a kayaker needs adequate skills, gear and motivation. It isn’t for everyone.

When variable weather and schedules are added to the mix, it becomes obvious that I wouldn’t get out much if I didn’t go alone. Admittedly, I started paddling solo long before I had good self-rescue skills. Maybe I felt impatient when I couldn’t get others to go along, or maybe I just knew I would like it. My job sometimes requires me to chat with people from morning well into the evening, and at times I have become extremely worn-down by it. If I got out for a couple of hours in the morning by myself, pausing occasionally to listen to waves or the drip from my paddle blades, or to just drift and well... look at rocks, I discovered that I carried that calm with me through the day. I hung charts in the bathroom, and found myself lingering there, staring at the places I’d been, evoking them in my mind.

John Island, 3/10/09

I remember one of those first tentative trips out by myself. I hate to admit that I didn’t even have a chart. Or a compass. It was early on a summer morning, calm and warm. Because it was low tide, the stretches between islands seemed smaller. I paddled along the shore, keeping islands on my left, continually drawn on by the next island. I didn’t know the names of the islands or which ones were privately-owned or public. Maybe the newness and the lack of proper names in my mind added to the elemental feeling, the simplicity of it. I hardly thought about it, didn’t know where I was going; I just enjoyed it.

Then I heard waves breaking on the shore, and felt the lift of a swell beneath me. I had come to the end of the interior islands, and found myself beside a steep granite shore, strewn with glacial erratic boulders. Little stood between me and the bold open ocean. The swell lifted me up again, and I wasn’t sure if I should be nervous. I was nervous, and unsure of myself. The swells broke upon the shore harmlessly, but there was a lot of power in them.

Spruce Island, 3/17/09

Maybe that was the first time I consciously did what I now do automatically: ask “what if I capsize?” There would be no landing on that steep shore. Looking back, I know I should have turned around, because I didn’t have the skills to be there. But man, I wanted to be out there, paddling in that swell alongside that bold coastline. I went, and of course, it was magic. I returned home knowing that I had a lot to learn.