Butter and Great Spruce Head Islands

Great Spruce Head Island, Colt Head in the background

The seas looked calm on Monday- only 5-knot winds in the forecast, and warm air- above fifty even. Calm comes in varying degrees. There's "flat-ass calm," which is mirror-like, glassy. Wait, maybe that's "glassy-calm" or "calm as glass." Either way, on the calm scale, the seas were a notch or two above that, but were nonetheless the sort of calm seas upon which you could paddle across Penobscot  Bay.

Seals, west side of Great Spruce Head Island

I didn't have that thought until I took a break on a small cobble beach on the west side of Great Spruce Head Island. I'd launched from Sylvester Cove a couple of hours earlier and paddled out past Hardhead and along the southern shore of Butter Island before crossing over through the Barred Islands to Great Spruce Head. But there I was, half-way across the bay, looking over toward the southern end of Islesboro and the Camden Hills beyond- all looking fairly close. As cool as such an undertaking would be, I didn't have it in me to paddle thirty miles and get home late. I like meandering too much.

Southern Point, Great Spruce Head Island

Great Spruce Head Island was the summer home of photographer Eliot Porter and his brother, the painter Fairfield Porter, so for me, paddling past their haunts has the feel of a pilgrimage. Their island scenes are easily recognizable, even if the trees have grown-in over the past... I was going to write "fifty years," but the Porters spent their first summer on the island in 1912- a century ago. In his book Summer Island: Penobscot Country, Eliot Porter tells the story of how the island became a part of their lives. Through his photographs and stories, Porter describes getting to know his island and the people in the area, as well as excursions to other parts of Penobscot Bay.  He found Stonington to be "the most engaging today, and in many ways the most attractive..." of Penobscot Bay towns. That's good to hear, but as I read his book, I felt envious of his family's island. Fortunately, the family generously allows the public to land on what signs designate as a "privately-held nature preserve".

The view from Montserrat Hill, Butter Island, looking toward Eagle Island

Tom Cabot bought Butter Island back in the 1940s, and like so many of the islands that he bought and gave to land trusts or to the state, he shared it with the public. By the 1990s, during summer months the island often received over 150 visitors a day, and this use took its toll. And it made it tough to carve-out any private space when the family built a house on the northernmost hilltop. Caretakers had to call authorities to eject boatloads of campers who camped anywhere and cut-down trees to fuel their bonfires. At one point, Tom Cabot found a squatter living in a makeshift home built in a spruce thicket (something I would have done in my twenties... actually, something I did, but that's another story).

So now there's a designated public area on the east side of the Island. You can land on Orchard or Nubble Beach and hike up to the top of 150-foot Montserrat Hill, where a granite bench memorializes Thomas and Virginia Cabot. The view is probably akin to what may have been seen from many of these islands a hundred years ago, back when the trees were cut for fuel or lumber and sheep and livestock kept the grasses munched-down. For me, it was a view of my paddle home, out past Hardhead on calm seas back to Deer Isle.

Hardhead & Eagle Islands

On the west side of Deer Isle, there’s a beach in Sylvester Cove that, in the summer, has a sign that reads “No Kayak Launching”. There’s no sign there now, so the other day I launched there, followed the shore along Dunham Point, and headed-out to Hardhead Island. Snow came down lightly, and the far-off islands were now and again obscured by drifting grey clouds.  

Hardhead is a “bargain island”; it feels much more “out there” than it really is. A mile off Dunham Point, it’s a big hunk of dark rock rising straight out of the sea. Unlike its name though, it has a fuzzy crown, with tall, inviting grasses atop it, mixed with the usual thorny, drysuit-grabbing bushes. In the summer, the island is off- limits, due to bird nesting.

Hand in hand with its bargain island status though, Hardhead Island may beckon unprepared mariners from the relatively calm waters off Dunham Point out to an area that can quickly turn hazardous. It looks so close. But as the water in East Penobscot Bay moves north and south, Dunham Point and Eagle Island funnel that water into a mile and a half-wide gap and the currents increase. Add to that some significant fetch to the south, and the ingredients are there for some chaotic water.

 

 The only recent kayaking death off Deer Isle (the only one I’m aware of) happened in this area in 2006. Back in 1873, a pair of Eagle Island residents drowned here while going to Deer Isle for supplies. I keep this information somewhere in the back of my mind, reminding me to be aware of the tide and weather, no matter what it looks like out there.

 

After a quick hike up to the top of Hardhead, I paddled-on to Eagle Island, passing the lighthouse and following the shore to its calm, western side, where I followed wide pebbly beaches and pulled-up to eat my PB&J. Eagle has a long history of habitation, but is now reduced to one year-round family and a small community of summer residents. 

There are even some rental homes. At a little over a mile long and a half-mile wide, Eagle is just big enough to explore much of it on a good morning walk. Paths range over the island, connecting the broad beaches and rocky headlands. All of this is private property where I’ve never walked... but could if I rented a house there for a week sometime. And it’s in a nice neighborhood for paddling: Butter, Great Spruce Head, Bear Island... just a hop over to North Haven. Such are mid-winter fantasies. 

 

I followed the cliffy eastern shore, admiring the storey-high icicles dripping from the forest above. The snow was coming-down heavier now. I aimed for Hardhead and headed back across the bay. By the time I pulled up on the beach in Sylvester Cove, the islands were all obscured.