Isles of Shoals

The Isles of Shoals had been on my radar for awhile, but I wasn’t planning on paddling there on Tuesday morning as I meandered New Hampshire backroads toward the coast. But it was a perfect day: not much wind, warm air, clear skies, and as I pulled onto 1A and headed toward Rye, I was shocked at how close the islands looked. I parked at Rye Harbor, called Rebecca with my plan, and launched. 

I paddled past the breakwaters at the Rye Harbor entrance and took the inevitable pause to look out at the distant islands and think “sheesh, that’s far,” but I didn’t pause for long. The sea looked about as calm as it might ever get, and with about six miles between me and the islands, I figured I’d best get to it.

What most people know about Isles of Shoals probably concerns its history, mostly from the late 1800s: a notorious axe murder on Smuttynose Island, Celia Thaxter’s salon of artists coming and going on Appledore Island. For most sea kayakers though, it probably stands out more as a challenging crossing. And also because there just aren’t a lot of islands off this stretch of coast, which is all exposed to the infinite horizon of the open ocean and whatever conditions that may bring. I paddled and paddled, trying to avoid pausing to wonder how far I’d come and how far I had to go. The islands slowly grew closer, the features more distinct. An old WWII concrete radar tower identified Appledore, and the grand old hotel-- classic white with a red roof stood-out on Star Island. I aimed for the lighthouse on White Island.

I encountered few boats during my passage: a whale watch boat that launched shortly after I did, a few recreational fishing boats and a handful of lobster boats. Far to the south, the blades of wind generators turned in the haze. I occasionally found a range on the sparse buoys, and determined that the current carried me a bit to the south, so I adjusted as well as I could. Finally, I approached White Island. Neighboring Seavey Island is separated by a sandbar, home to a noisy tern colony. Three people walked carefully around, inspecting nests. I went around the lighthouse, where a couple came out and waved.

I paddled around the east side of the islands. Despite the calm conditions, enough swell came in to keep it lively near the shore. Being alone and some seven miles out to sea, I stayed away from the rocks. Breakwaters are built between Star, Cedar and Smuttynose, and the shore on the east side is pretty rough, so even though I’d been in my boat for awhile, there was no stopping. On the north side of Appledore I found some nice slots with land-able cobbles but I kept moving, on around to the west side harbor, overlooked by the old radar tower and the buildings of Shoals Marine Laboratory.

I took a break on Smuttynose Island, but kept it quick. The wind was picking up and I didn’t want to push my luck. I took a quick tour around Gosport Harbor and past the Star Island waterfront, where workers were busy readying the conference center for its summer season. It would be nice to spend a little more time exploring sometime, perhaps even staying a night at the accommodations there. I headed across to Lunging Island where I paused and got my bearings. I could see the entire New Hampshire seacoast, from the Seabrook Station Nuclear Power Plant over to Portsmouth where the Picsataqua River Bridge arced above an otherwise flat landscape. Multiple cranes poked into the Portsmouth sky. Further north, Mount Agamenticus rose over the southern Maine shoreline. My bearing back to Rye Harbor almost matched the location of a few convenient cell towers, so for the next hour and a half, I kept my bow pointed at these. Once again, even though high tide had come and gone, the current drew me south.

Back at the parking lot, I felt tired but satisfied. As I loaded my boat and gear and made some coffee for the road on the Jetboil, recreational fishermen returned, trailering their boats, gathering around the beds of pickups to chat. I had a long drive back home, but I couldn’t help but follow the shore for a few hours, thinking about all the places I have yet to discover.

Great Bay, New Hampshire

At the launch, I thought I may have been a bit over-prepared for the environment.  I put on my usual gear-- the drysuit and neoprene mukluks, radio antenna and hydration tube bristling from my lifejacket, tow belt hanging from my waist. A couple arrived with rec boats, wearing the usual rec boat gear-- shorts and t-shirts and to their credit-- lifejackets. The woman approached and asked if I’d paddled there before.
    “First time here,” I told her.
    She looked at my outfit and seemed perplexed. “Well, do you know if there are any- um, dangers up the river? Like waterfalls or anything?”
    “I don’t think so. I’m sure you can avoid anything like that.”
    They went upriver with the incoming tidal current, and I went downriver, against it. I had the unusual feeling that the people in the pond boats were making the smarter-- or at least easier choice, but I had my plans. 

I followed a muddy bank, topped with emerald marsh grass bending in the breeze: spartina. As I rounded each bend in the shore, ducks emerged from the grass, panicked, noisily taking flight. High tension utility lines hung across the river, and high atop one of the poles sat an osprey nest. Soon, I paddled beneath a railroad trestle where the current against me increased, and I entered into what felt like a big lake, several miles across: Great Bay, a tidal estuary just west of Portsmouth, New Hampshire.
    I’d left Stonington at 5:30 that morning and driven south to pick-up my new boat: a P&H Cetus MV. I figured since I’d made the drive, I’d check-out some New Hampshire paddling. Only about 18 miles of the New Hampshire coast is exposed to open ocean, but the Piscataqua River stretches inland from Portsmouth Harbor and divides into a multitude of other rivers and inland bays. Great Bay has a long, contorted shoreline and is fed by three rivers, but it is shallow and when the tide goes out, the shoreline shrinks drastically, leaving vast expanses of soft mud. Which is why it seemed prudent to launch on a rising tide.

I headed up the Lamprey River, which narrowed as I proceeded, rocky banks towering with oaks and hickory trees, leafy and green. The contrasts between here and Stonington were already obvious. Here, it felt like summer, while Stonington seemed to have been in the same cool, foggy limbo for months. A couple of fishing kayaks bobbed down the middle of the river, each sprouting several jiggling rods that trolled the water far behind. A couple launched shorter boats from their dock. We fell into place beside each other and chatted a bit. They were headed upstream to Newmarket, where I arrived after a few more twists and turns. Here, the river is flanked by six-story mill buildings with a waterfall roaring over a dam between them, echoing through the brick and stone canyon. It was Memorial Day and a small crowd had gathered along the bank for a picnic.

Back out on Great Bay, I headed north along the shore, past an eagle refuge and on out to a pair of small islands where I found a group of 7 sea kayakers taking a break. I pulled-up on shore among them. They were from New Hampshire and Massachusetts, a group that gets together every now and then for a paddle. Several of them had been to Old Quarry and seemed to remember me- even knew about our island cleanup scheduled for Saturday. I asked about favorite places to paddle in New Hampshire. One man thought a moment and said “Maine.” 

I paddled with them for awhile, enjoying the company. We followed the shore of Adams Point until I realized I needed to head back. I’d been following the west shore, avoiding the brunt of the wind, but I wanted to check-out the shoreline along the Great Bay National Wildlife Refuge on the east shore. Much of this shoreline was lined with steep rocks, slapped by wind-driven waves. I felt pleasantly weary after not enough sleep and too many miles. The early evening sunlight lit the trees in golden light and my head filled with the sound of waves and wind.The boat felt like it was discovering, for the first time, its purpose.

From here until the take-out I paddled against a strong wind. I was tired and the wind slowed me down, but it felt good, and even better when I crossed back beneath the railroad trestle into the Squamscott River and paddled, once again, against the current to the take-out. There I met a guy who had gone upstream to Exeter. New Hampshire may not have a long seacoast, but I was discovering that there is much to explore.

I found a Chinese take-out place and returned to the campground. The forecast for the next day looked good, so I would take one more trip before heading home. I ate at a picnic table with the chart spread before me, pondering the possibilities until I could no longer keep my eyes open.

The Lake

After our wedding (over 21 years ago) Rebecca and I got into a canoe and paddled-off. A symbolic gesture, our excursion gave the guests the opportunity to gather on the shore and make some noise before they went home. It should have been a clean getaway for us, but we hadn’t really planned it. We paddled-off and disappeared around another point where we couldn’t be seen. It felt just like any other day on the lake, except I wore a white linen suit and a brand-new band of gold, which felt like it might fall off my finger at any moment. Rebecca wore a home-made wedding dress, and that din of distant music and voices belonged to our family and friends. We sat back, shaded by the tall pines, and rested our paddles on the gunwales. Rebecca turned around and said “what now?”

Indeed. We’ve asked that question many times since: what now? Sometimes we need to just paddle away with no chart to guide us and no destination in mind. We've lived a few places since then, but we always find our way back to the lake. A century ago when Rebecca's great-grandfather built a house here, there seemed to be a tacit agreement among property owners; houses were set back in the woods with dark, bark-colored shingles and green roofs that blended with the treetops. There were no lawns or paved driveways. You used to be able to paddle along the shore, hardly aware of the houses you passed. When you looked down into the water, it was so clear you could see fish swimming among the granite boulders twenty feet down.

Much has changed. There’s always been access for hand-launched boats, but at some point a paved public boat ramp was built with a big parking lot for all the people who want to buzz around the lake in the motorized vessel of their choice. And those powerboats brought hitch-hikers- milfoil and zebra mussels, not to mention the more predictable by-products of motorized humans. There are new houses, some that make a nod to those shingle-style predecessors, but there’s nothing simple, utilitarian or modest about these weekend retreats. The water is no longer so clear. We seldom see fish, but they must still be there, judging from the fishermen who endlessly chug around. 

I was lucky to have seen the lake before these changes. Rebecca has known it her whole life, and her connection to it runs deep. She and her cousins have returned there most years, no matter where they’ve lived, and during some “in-between” winters we’ve even called it home. We were all married there- parents, sister, cousins, friends... us- always out on the Point, usually on a wooden platform covering the campfire pit. Ashes are scattered there.

So, going to the lake is as much a pilgrimage as recreation. It is big enough that it takes a few trips to see most of it. We tend to head-out to discover what draws us-on: the islands, a series of ledgy points or the “river” through town to another lake. Mountains rise-up in the background, and we know the view of the lake from each summit.

At this point though, I only get to the lake in cooler, less-crowded months. Summer renters help cover the maintenance and exorbitant property taxes, and our livelihood keeps me in Stonington for the summer. Rebecca spends much more time at the lake, while I hesitate to leave Stonington, and miss it while I’m away. Actually, it’s not Stonington so much as the ocean around it- the archipelago and the islands from Penobscot to Frenchman Bays. When I return, I welcome the feel of a swell passing beneath the hull, the salt spray on my face, and the limitless geography of the ocean.

But it’s always good to get to the lake. I’m torn between paddling along shore and hiking in the mountains, but when the morning sun shines on the Point, you get the feeling that there’s really no better place to be, so some days we just enjoy being there. It’s the same way when we get out there in our kayaks. We were there last week, and several times we stopped paddling just to take it in. Eventually, one of us would ask “what now?” As with our wedding day, it didn’t really matter: pick up the paddle, move forward, enjoy being here.

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.