After Work on Millet, Around Isle au Haut

On Friday, I spent my first day in Old Quarry’s new downtown shop, or as we call it, ‘The Outpost.’ It was a quiet day there, with occasional people trickling in throughout the day, buying t-shirts and browsing the odds and ends we have for sale there.

But Rebecca had a morning trip, and since her boat was already packed and she had no other work for the rest of the day, she headed out on her own and texted me that she’d ended up on Millet Island, suggesting I join her after work. I hurriedly closed the shop and back at Old Quarry, got my gear together. It was almost six by the time I was on the water, but I aimed toward Millet and focused on keeping a brisk pace that reminded me of the post-work paddles I took during our first years of having the gallery in downtown Stonington. I’d shoot out into the islands with a breathless cadence, exorcising my storekeeping frustrations, and by the time I felt myself buoyed by a mild swell, my mind felt cleansed, my anxieties momentarily set aside. As I approached Millet Island, I saw Rebecca standing with her sketchpad near the water, and I paddled up to her casually and said “hi.”

We didn’t have a lot of time before it would start getting dark, but even an hour out there is a gift. I took a swim. The sun still felt warm enough to lie on a slab of granite to dry. We sat with cold beverages and ate chips and watched the sun lower over the Hells Half Acre neighborhood. We reminded ourselves that this was always out there waiting; we merely needed the time and the motivation to get out there. As we paddled back to Webb Cove, fog drifted back in, lit brilliantly red by the sunset. I left my boat packed, since I had a full day trip the next morning. All I knew was that I had a couple who wanted to go to Isle au Haut.

It turned out that they not only wanted to get to Isle au Haut, but to the southern end of it – not a small trip by any means, but they assured me they’d been taking paddles at home, working up to it, and in a tandem they were at least powered by two paddlers. We arrived at Steves Island 30 or 40 minutes after launching – a brisk pace – and we explored for a few minutes to let some fog drift past before heading across Merchants Row.

The pace continued and I sensed that we might actually get to the southern end, which we did finally. The tides were in our favor, with low tide at around one. The weather was calm, the fog had cleared, and the seas were small, so it seemed crazy to not take advantage of it. Of course, by the time you get to Western Head, you may as well continue with a circumnavigation. We’d gone a little under twelve nautical miles, and it would take just over twelve to get back via circumnavigating.

Of course by that time my clients were pretty worn-out, but there wasn’t much choice but to dig in and get ourselves back… which we did. I had to radio the office to expect us late, promising to punch out at my usual time instead of my actual guiding time, nearly four hours beyond what I could get paid for on a full-day trip. Perhaps this isn’t sustainable as a business model, but at least I got to paddle around Isle au Haut, which is better than sitting in a shop all day.

Notes

More information about these trips may be found in Trips #14 and #15 in my guidebook AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England.

Care to join me on a more epic full-day paddle like this one? Call Old Quarry (207/367-8977) and tell them Michael sent you.

Breakfast on Mistake Island

Eleven of us paddled along the narrow ribbon of dark, calm water near the shore of Knight Island, shepherded by a young woman who, mindful of the seals hauled-out on a ledge a quarter-mile distant, was trying to keep us quiet. As we pulled into the cove where a sandbar bridged the gap between Knight and Mistake Islands, I saw what I thought would be the best landing spot, a small crescent of gravel untouched by the southeast wind funneling between the two islands and over the bar. We were looking for a place to cook breakfast. I hoped that our leader, who’d been taking her turn for the last mile or so, would also recognize the calm spot. The air felt cool and damp, and the breeze added a rawness that might easily induce a hypothermic chill. It was our last day on the water together though, and I felt determined to take a back seat and see what unfolded. 

The leader seemed to mull it over and then called to the guy who happened to be in front of the pack. She told him to go ahead and pick a place to land… delegating, but also leaving it to chance. He paddled ahead, and just when I thought he’d land in the windiest spot, paused and headed-in for the calm spot. I doubt that anyone but my co-instructor noticed this tiny victory, but I felt immensely relieved- not just that we would land our kayaks in the lee, but that the group seemed to be learning something, improving. In general, they learned quickly and I often felt impressed when we saw a dramatic increase in abilities or judgment. Recognizing both the existence and the importance of finding a spot out of the wind on a raw, cool day may not sound like a big deal, but the more I teach paddling, the more I realize that I take some of these more subtle skills for granted. And these subtle skills, which are often just the myriad tiny choices we make again and again, all day long, can add-up, not to overdramatize – to life or death.

We were on the third morning of a camping trip in the Jonesport – Great Wass archipelago. We’d been camping on private islands that the company had permission to use, but for our last morning, the group had decided to start the day with hot drinks and save breakfast for a more picturesque spot. This seemed a good idea to me. So much of what we did out there felt like work – training for a job these new guides would soon be doing. I hoped they would experience some of the joy of discovery that many of us feel while paddling, that thrill of finding our way among new shores to find places with an otherworldly feel. It’s that joy, I think, that fuels our desire to take it seriously, to invest in learning and improving.

Moose Peak Lighthouse, our goal for the morning, and what would undoubtedly be the visual highlight of the trip, beckoned, down at the south end of the island, a reward of sorts.

After we get accustomed to our own paddling process, it’s easy to take for granted all the things we learn to do in a particular way. Like whether or not we fling our paddle up on the beach like we’re ridding ourselves of something we’ll no longer need, now that we’re on land. Or whether we drag boats over the rocks and barnacles or if we carry them. Do we take our paddle apart and tuck it inside the cockpit where it won’t float or blow away or get stepped-on? Do we set-up the cook stove at the top of a sandbar where it is subject to the wind we were trying to avoid, or do we find a spot lower down? Do we dress for the water temperature or do we paddle in shorts and a t-shirt? Do we stroll bare-footed on a remote shore that bristles with sharp-edged shells, broken glass, urchin spines and barnacles? Do we put-on a warm hat and an extra layer when we stop for a break on a cool, blustery day?

These things are akin to hearing someone call a chart a map, or suggest that we’ll be paddling at ‘knots per hour’ rather than knots – it hurts our ears, but after pointing it out once, maybe twice, you just figure that people will need to learn on their own. Maybe it’s not that big of a deal. Or maybe they’ll find their own way of doing things that will work just fine. Or maybe they’ll just get lucky and never find themselves in cold water in inadequate gear, unable to get back in their boat or to reach the radio they’ve stowed inside a drybag in a hatch. Which is what happened just about a year ago now when a guide and client died off of Corea. 

After that happened, despite the Maine Association of Sea Kayak Guide’s and Instructors’ press release that essentially stated that the ocean is a dangerous place and bad stuff happens, a lot of noise was made about improving standards. But as the summer wore-on and the temperature went up, everyone got so busy that they seemed to forget about it. Over the winter we practiced most weekends at the Bar Harbor pool, but you don’t see too many other paddlers there, let alone guides, practicing any rescues. Lately, Nate has had a few takers for his Risk Management classes, but they tend to be the usual suspects, the paddlers and guides who already take it pretty seriously and train for the inevitable mishaps- and like me, probably find that kind of stuff fun. The Coast Guard and Marine Patrol have been checking for guide licenses, PFDs, whistles and the ubiquitous orange ‘If Found Contact’ stickers inside of kayaks, but I don’t know if they have much to say about people wearing inadequate gear in sub-50-degree water.

I can’t always tell exactly how chilled people might be, but by the time we wolfed-down our oatmeal, a few people had lost interest in seeing the lighthouse and wanted to get back on the water, I suspect, so they could start moving again and get warmer. But they waited while the others hiked out to the lighthouse, and seemed relieved to get moving again when we returned.

At some point during our ten-day class, I was asked if most guides, after getting their licenses, kept learning and practicing to improve their skills. I would have liked to have given a more positive answer, but I told them that the usual pattern seemed to be that getting their license was usually the beginning of a long, downward slide into complacency, that they begin to assume that since they’ve been lucky so far, they’re doing something right. And I suspected that this pattern helped account for two deaths a year ago. I admitted that this was not an opinion that would win me any friends, especially in the guiding community.

While many paddlers with far more paddling miles behind them, and perhaps less training may lack confidence, that guide’s license seems to instill some with a confidence that can quickly turn dangerous. I was hoping that my candid answer might have a sobering effect, that it might urge my students to treat the license as the beginning of a long path toward learning more and becoming safer. And I hoped, if my students became chilled because they were underdressed and had to wait while the rest of us walked to the lighthouse, that it would be a learning experience. Only time will tell. 

I haven’t found how Mistake Island got it’s name, but one might easily assume that someone made a mistake there once, and odds are, something bad happened as a result. But for us, it was an idyllic spot for breakfast, and perhaps the climax of the trip, before we made our way back out to the take-out.

Notes:

For more information about this area, check-out Route #6: The Great Wass Archipelago in my guidebook, AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in NewEngland.

We're now in the process of preparing for our summer trip, and we'll be leaving... pretty soon. The 'to do' list is two pages long.

Two A.M. on Harbor Island

The sound of the waves woke me. Or it may have been the effect the sound of the waves had on my bladder: a gradual awareness that I’d need to climb out of my sleeping bag and pull-on my shoes. I’d pitched the tent on the soft, mossy ground just above the granite ledges, and from where I lay I could just make out the dim outlines of the kayaks twenty feet away, and beyond them, the dark ocean, the looming shapes of islands and the sparkling lights of Stonington three or four miles away.

The waves were a little closer than I’d anticipated. We’d carried the kayaks up the granite incline, far beyond the reach of rockweed and the dark, slippery patches of algae, and put them down, all in a row at what appeared to be a good height for a night with a nearly twelve-foot high tide. 

Earlier, I’d sat with the others out in the fading evening light with my back against a big driftwood tree. Some were drinking wine, remnants of the pasta dinner that one of the cooking groups had provided, and I was having my usual tea (which is akin to setting an alarm clock for 1:30 am, just before high tide). It was one of those quiet interludes in a trip when all the work is done, when we’re no longer teaching or questioning the group about which of their leadership methods is working and which are not, and the conversation bounces around the group, recounting experiences, learning about where the others have been and where we’re going. As the lights in Stonington became more pronounced and the voices of our friends became heavy with the wearying weight of a long day, the seals joined our conversation. They called-out in dog-like groans that sounded like questions. They may have been directed at us: who are you? What are you doing here?

Someone had a penny whistle, and he responded beautifully: clear notes, slow enough to avoid an obvious melody, but intentional enough to sound like a response. It seemed to satisfy the seals. They continued to linger down below, chatting as we had been, but perhaps resigned to accept our presence there. It was time for bed.

Later, when I awoke to the sound of nearby waves, I checked my phone, which I’d plugged into a battery for the night: about a half-hour before high tide. I pulled on a jacket and stuck my feet into the vestibule to get my shoes on, and stepped down the ledge to the row of kayaks. The highest waves were just beginning to lap at the sterns, so I pulled each boat up a few more feet. They were tied-up, of course, but I preferred to avoid seeing the kayaks actually begin to float and getting bonked-around by the waves.

Twenty minutes to high tide. The crescent of the waxing moon, just past new, lay to the west, just below the trees. Stonington’s lights were the brightest feature, while off to the northeast a dim glow in the distant sky marked the location of Mount Desert Island’s towns. Aside from that, a couple of blinking lights on buoys helped give shape to the night. Of course I always bring a few lights with me on trips, but it can be surprising how seldom I use them. I had my headlamp in my pocket, but didn’t find a need to use it even once. When I’d check my phone for the time (or to post a photo on Instagram, which I’ve just begun to experiment with) the light shone blindingly bright, cancelling, for a moment, my ability to see much else around me. But most people seem inclined to use headlamps fairly liberally, and as I stood there watching the tide crest at the sterns of our kayaks, a light came-on in a tent and bobbed down to the boats to check them, followed, a few minutes after I’d returned to my sleeping bag, by another: a good omen, I felt, for our leadership students, since it seemed that their internal clocks, or perhaps their bladders, were also becoming better-attuned to the nuances of tide.

Notes:

This was the culmination of day 3 of Pinniped Kayak’s SeaKayak Leadership course, based at Old Quarry Ocean Adventures. The course is meant both for aspiring guides and those looking to improve their skills at planning and leading sea kayak excursions, whether alone, with friends or family or more organized trips. 

As I’ve pointed out in the group management section of my guidebook, AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England, the need for leadership skills sneaks-up on you, whether you’re planning on guiding or leading or not. Learning these skills intentionally is far preferable to learning them the hard way – by trial and error – which are often the trips we read about in the news. 

We were camped on Harbor Island, at a MITA campsite along the edge of Merchant Row. You can learn more about this area in AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England, Trips #14 and #15. 

The Stonington Archipelago

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When we launch from Stonington with a full day of paddling ahead of us, the difficulty lies not in finding a good place to paddle, but in narrowing the choices down to the narrow path we will actually take, knowing that no matter where we go, we’ll be forsaking some other perfectly awesome destinations. It’s a good problem to have.

M, new to the Maine coast, wanted me to show her around the Stonington archipelago. She’s a very fit paddler with a good forward stroke* so we could have gone just about anywhere, getting out to far-off targets like, for instance, the Spoons, but we opted instead for the approach I outline in my guidebook, AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in NewEngland… a route plan that I first wrote about in an article in Sea Kayaker Magazine in 2009 called “The Archipelago Arc.” The idea is that you can paddle out 2 or 3 miles to whatever island you would like, and then arc around the edge of the archipelago, maintaining the 2-3-mile radius so that you always have approximately the same distance for the return trip.  There’s the “inner” arc and then the “outer” arc that crosses Merchant Row and winds through some of the islands on the Isle au Haut side.

Or you could mix it up a bit for a hybrid inner/outer route, which is what we ultimately did. With a little wind from the southeast, we decided to go counterclockwise, heading first toward Penobscot Bay, with a vague plan of meandering through the islands back toward Jericho Bay, and getting a push back to Webb Cove at the end of the day from the southeast wind. We set-off toward Indian Point like so many of our trips begin, but with a whole day ahead of us.

In a way, such a trip – a full day off Stonington with one paddler – is my dream trip, and I felt very lucky to have it, especially after a busy week in which I’d guided or taught in Bar Harbor, Southwest Harbor and Sullivan Falls as well as multiple trips from Stonington. Most days had involved some rescues (instructing and otherwise) and plenty of uncertainties about the weather and the capabilities of my groups. I felt tired and a bit beat-up, and I’d started imagining the calendar ahead and how, as much as we love the summer, the slower pace of autumn would be welcome. But the prospect of a full day paddle among some of my favorite spots helped me summon some energy for yet another long day. 

We took our first break on Green Island, largely because it seemed I would be remiss to not show M the quarry pond that many of our half-day trip clients are keen on swimming in. I enjoy swimming in it as well, especially after a long paddle, but for many of our visitors it is all they see of the archipelago, since a swimming stop there, especially with a bunch of kids, takes up all the time that would be spent paddling among other, perhaps more interesting islands. Green also tends to represent the western limit of our half-day trips, so it felt good to paddle onward from there, out between Crotch and Sand Islands into the eastern edge of Penobscot Bay, where we meandered among islands thick with gulls, terns and seals. To the south, the horizon loomed large, with Brimstone Island bumping above it just south of Vinalhaven. It seems that everywhere I paddle I’m reminded of all the places I haven’t been to in awhile. 

We’d stretched the western end of the arc out to Sparrow Island, five nautical miles from Old Quarry, and now began a meandering path back, which brought us to Ram, Hardwood and Merchant Islands before we took a lunch break on Nathan, sitting on a sunny granite slab, warm in the lee of the island. I made instant coffee. We chatted. We fueled-up for more paddling: Pell>Bills>Gooseberry (another break among  glacial erratics spilled over the shore like marbles). McGlathery>Spruce>Millet> and another break on Phoebe.

The “arc” part of our journey had taken us about eight nautical miles. Now we had a little over three to get back to Old Quarry, passing the campsite on Saddleback where I waved to the group I’d advised about campsites the previous evening (it looked crowded there – at least two groups with multiple tents). One camper, who sat on a rock a short distance from the campsite played “Yankee Doodle” on a penny whistle, a tune that maddeningly stayed with me as we paddled toward the lowering sun, re-entering the usual territory of half-day trips, Bold and Grog Islands and that last stretch along Buckmaster Neck toward the busy-ness of Old Quarry. The office at Old Quarry had been trying to reach me, perhaps to remind me that “full day” trips are only 6 hours, rather than nine or ten, but my radio had accidentally skipped down a channel and I’d been blissfully off in my own world, where a full day is whatever I can squeeze out of it.

It's worth mentioning that, though in some ways the Stonington area gets a bit busy with paddlers in mid-summer, we saw only one other kayak on the water all day, far in the distance. It helps to get away from town.

In my guidebook, AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England, The Stonington Archipelago is Route #14. This is a good example of how you can take that basic route concept and expand it to suit your desires and the day’s conditions. If you would like to join me on a more involved learning journey to some truly outlandish places, there's still room for another paddler or two on the Downeast Journey I'll be guiding from September 6-10.

*You might notice that I very seldom have praise for anyone’s forward stroke. Rebecca recently remarked that the best forward stroke she’d seen lately was done by the nine-year-old girl she’d just taught (it seems nearly impossible to get anyone who has already been paddling to improve much, the first step in the process being acceptance of one’s need for improvement and the will to do the work). This is a diatribe I will save for another day, but this aside is merely intended to point out the rarity of guiding or teaching someone with a decent enough stroke. Which is not to say that this stroke couldn’t use work – we are all constantly trying to improve or at least maintain the efficacy of this commonly misunderstood skill.

Around Swans Island in Four Days

We floated just off Devils Head, a granite bluff on Hog Island, at the edge of Eggemoggin Reach, a dense white wall of fog between us and our destination. R held the radio up to his face and made the call: Sécurité Sécurité Sécurité,: attention boaters in the east end of Eggemoggin Reach. We’re a group of 5 kayaks crossing from Hog Island to White Island, estimated crossing time, twenty minutes, standing by on one-six.

We paused, we listened: nothing. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.” Or I might have said “let’s boogie,” which I often seem to say in such situations. So we did. We boogied, but at that moderate pace that enabled us all to stay close together as we made the crossing. We were all following our compasses, but D paddled just ahead of the pack, the chief navigator who made it easier for us to follow the bearing without bumping into each other.

This was the fourth and last day of our around-Swans Island journey, a trip organized through Pinniped Kayak, and though I hadn’t exactly planned for this fog, it was, in a way, a good thing. I wouldn’t have been heartbroken had it lifted, but it enabled us to work on navigation and communication in a way that gave us immediate and obvious feedback… or consequences. 

The four paddlers in the group had come on this trip not just to have a guide, but hopefully to go home with some improved skills as well. They’d all had some previous instruction and experience, and at times I found myself wondering what they most needed me to teach, which were usually subjects provided more by the environment than any agenda. A four-day journey doesn’t lend itself as well to nit-picky strokes and maneuvers development as well as it does to overall journeying skills.

At every juncture I tried to put the route planning and decision making into the hands of the group. We had an overall plan: try to get around Swans Island, camping along the way on three probable islands. On the first day we left Old Quarry and took our first break on Saddleback Island, hoping to get across Jericho Bay to our first campsite on Marshall Island. But the winds blew in the mid teens, gusting into the low twenties – blowing with the flooding mid-tide current, but still likely to create some lively conditions for a 3-plus-mile crossing. Like the fog though, this was an opportunity for decision-making and for paddling in rough water that one might not venture into without the safety net of an instructor.

We could have taken the easier downwind ride northward. I would have been fine with that, but the overall consensus pointed us toward Marshall Island, so off we went, and soon found ourselves amid some considerable ups and downs. I’m sure we each have our own mental picture of what it felt like in those waves. At first, the skills learned in calmer water might be difficult to muster – the edging and efficient sweep strokes to keep from turning too much into the wind, the degree of skeg needed to avoid weathercocking. A couple of schooners blew toward us from Isle au Haut, sailing wing on wing, straight downwind, passing behind our sterns. We tried to stay close together without colliding, keeping a heading toward the northern end of Marshall Island, where, after an hour, we landed.

So we got the bumpy crossing out of the way, and that evening I think everyone felt some sense of relief and accomplishment as we ate our dinner and watched the sunset. Each evening we were treated to a display of shooting stars, as the Perseids meteor shower drew near, lying back and watching the night sky until we could no longer keep our eyes open. 

On Tuesday we wound through the islands south of Swans and made our way to Frenchboro Long Island, where we ate our lunch before heading to our campsite on West Sister Island. On Wednesday we followed the east shore of Swans up to Casco Passage and through the Black/Opechee group of islands before heading across the north end of Jericho Bay, to our campsite for the last night. 

As always, I often felt challenged to get people to focus more on the moment than the destination, which is more difficult when you have some miles to cover to get to your campsite. But that last evening after we’d made camp, I offered to go for an additional paddle around the island we were camping on, and half the group joined me, while the other half, a bit cold and tired, took a well-deserved break.

The distance around the island wasn’t much more than two miles, but we took our time, following each contour of the shore: around rocks, beneath bluffs and boulders, picking our way in empty boats through the mist and fog. Despite the miles we covered in the overall trip, and despite the challenges we’d overcome to get places, these moments were certainly the most peaceful, and perhaps most representative of why I paddle in the first place: the joy in maneuvering a boat well, the quiet connection to a place, those moments where your head empties of all the choices and chit-chat, narrowing-down to the path you’ll paddle among a winding, rocky passage.

As often happens on the last day though, the focus on getting there becomes heightened. We made a couple of foggy crossings and after the fog cleared, took one last break on the Lazyguts before heading back to Old Quarry for lunch.

Swans Island is Trip #13 in my guidebook, AMC’s Best SeaKayaking in New England. This version of the route is suggested as one of the alternatives, launching at Old Quarry Ocean Adventures in Stonington, rather than Naskeag Point, and focusing more on the surrounding islands than on Swans. We camped on Maine Coast Heritage Trust Islands (Marshall, West Sister and Hog). 

I have one more journey on the Pinniped calendar this year: The Downeast Journey, September 6 through 10. There may be space for one more person.

Here's a photo of me, courtesy of Rob Sidlow. Yep, that's a toilet and a tarp lashed to my stern deck.  

Cranberry Islands Figure-8

Occasionally someone asks me if sea kayak guiding is fun, and I shrug and say “most of the time.” Like any job, some days are better than others. But some days are even better, more like going for a paddle with a friend or two. It helps sometimes if I get to paddle someplace where I don’t get to go every day. It also helps if I like hanging-out with the people I’m guiding or teaching.

On a previous trip, J had been out to the Porcupine Islands and this time wanted to do something around the southern end of Mount Desert Island. The weather was warm and perfect, so for this trip through Acadia Park Kayak Tours, we met at the launch in Northeast Harbor and headed out of the harbor, where I felt pleasantly distracted by the sensual curves and gleaming varnish of the well-kept boats drifting on their moorings. Some of those boats are called, I think, ‘picnic boats’, and it says a lot about the idyllic lifestyle that goes with them – to have such a beautiful (and pricey) vessel meant only to take you out on picnics. But we had our own picnic boats, and a whole day out among the islands ahead of us.

We paused below the lighthouse on Bear Island and crossed over to the giant osprey nest near the west end of Sutton Island. We had talked about following the shore of Sutton and taking the shortest crossing over to Little Cranberry, but J was paddling well and the day felt calm and warm, with only a handful of powerboats out to worry us on our crossings. So we headed straight across to Great Cranberry and followed the western shore, which feels mostly undeveloped despite a few homes tucked into the trees. At the south end, the open ocean lay before us with the Duck Islands appearing closer than they really were, nearly four miles south. Swell rolled-in toward the rocky shore, lifting us before it broke into white waves over the ledges, and I watched J to make sure she was comfortable; she wore a huge smile and said she loved it.

We took a break and checked out the MITA island and the view of the MDI mountains rising over the Cranberries. It’s one of those views that is a bit stunning at first and you keep taking pictures and staring, just trying to take it in. I thought about the last time I’d camped there – it’s been a couple of years – and promised myself to get back and camp there again before long, since you almost need to sit there for a long, quiet period to take-in such a magnificent landscape.

We switched boats – J wanted to learn to maneuver better, so I took the Tsunami and she took my Cetus. Again, her smile was almost immediate, as if she’d been let in on a big kayaking secret (yes, those boats and paddles are worth every penny). I’ll admit that I often take good kayak design a bit for granted, since I generally paddle nice P&H kayaks (I mostly paddle a Scorpio at Old Quarry). And when I hear paddlers blaming the boat for their own inability, I tend to take it with a grain of salt – the boat is usually a small part of the equation, especially when we’re comparing kayaks with similar designs that were meant to be paddled without a rudder. But if I’d started with a big plastic ruddered boat with a pronounced keel, I think I would have either needed to switch to something more maneuverable, or I wouldn’t have progressed as a paddler. And perhaps this is why a lot of paddlers find it hard to get out of the “point A to point B” mode and discover the pure joy of tooling along a shore, maneuvering the boat as if we’d morphed into more aquatic creatures.

We headed north through The Gut and pulled-in at the beach beside the town landing. We’d hoped to eat lunch at the Islesford DockRestaurant, but sadly it’s closed Mondays and Tuesdays, so we had more usual fare (pb&j) on the beach. The restaurant is in its last season, and I’ve never eaten there… it seems that everywhere I go I come up with reasons to return – soon.

Having gone around Great Cranberry, it seemed a good idea to now head around Little Cranberry, which we did, paddling along the northern shore where some fine old “camps” have stunning views of MDI. It’s tough not to think that jeez, maybe when we sell the foreign rights and the film rights to the guidebook, maybe I can buy one of these places… and a picnic boat or two with matching colors. But I didn’t ponder my color choices for long, since I’d been watching for thunderstorms, and now some very major, dark clouds began gathering over Mount Desert Island.

We kept an eye on the clouds as we proceeded around the island, cataloguing the places where we might get out to seek shelter. The clouds stayed north until we were headed to the lighthouse on Baker Island and the storm clouds began pushing-out through the mouth of Frenchman Bay, rolling toward us. We turned back and settled for a Figure-8 around the two big Cranberries.

We were getting tired by then anyway. Or at least I was. I kept watching J for signs of fatigue that never seemed to materialize. By the time we landed back in Northeast Harbor we’d paddled nearly sixteen nautical miles – farther than most of my guided day trips. We’d had the tidal current with us most of the time, and a couple of miles might have been augmented by our fear of thunderstorms, but still, not bad.

If I had the time (or if anyone did, for that matter) it would be fun to systematically go through my guidebook and paddle all fifty routes. I am working on paddling them all again, but my approach is a bit more haphazard, mostly dependent on where I get to guide and teach people (perhaps in a month or two when things slow down I’ll get to choose paddling excursions a little more selfishly). But this was yet another approach to Route #10 in my guidebook, AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England.