Month: August 2009

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Downeast Maine Great Wass Island Camping Jonesport kayaking Maine islands The Sands

Sleeping on a Tide Table: A Kayak Trip to The Sands, off Jonesport, Maine

” . . A smidgen of ledge and sand that lies between Inner and Outer Sands Islands. But it’s a beautiful smidgen,with Petit Manan Point in the distance to the west and Great Wass Island a looming presence to the east . . . It is open to any weather, and the highest tides sweep right over the island. It’s a nice place to visit when the seas are calm. –Dorcas Miller, Kayaking the Maine Coast

The Sands is an enchanting place, little more than a sand bar, about 10 miles south-southwest of Jonesport, Maine. It’s a Bureau of Public Lands island visited by seals, seabirds, the occasional plucky kayaker and not much else. The panoramic views. The openness to the sky. The fineness of the sand. The spectacular remote location with Inner and Outer Sands islands nearby and the mountains of Acadia and the Camden Hills visible in the distance. The closeness (and vulnerability) of the island to the tides — all make it unique, and endearing. I have visited The Sands a half dozen times over the last half-dozen years and have had it in the back of my mind that one day I would camp there.

In mid-August, a span of 4 days off, settled weather, light winds and an enthusiastic paddling partner each pushed the window of opportunity open a bit further. A little voice spoke to us, and the voice said, “Go for it.” A pre-trip examination of tide tables showed that we were due for some of the highest tides of the year, which would make camping on The Sands even more dramatic — and, if the seas were not calm, foolhardy.

According to the charts, we were due for the highest tides of the month, perhaps the highest of the year. (See this link for an explanation of why some tides are higher than others). The height of the tide in Jonesport on August 20th was forecast at 14.3 feet , at least 2 feet above the average. The forecast called for continuing settled whether, a clear night, and nearly windless conditions, which would be ideal — and necessary — for camping on The Sands.

We put our fully loaded kayaks in at Indian River at the top of the tide and rode the retreating tide south out along the eastern shore of Crowley Island, much of which is owned by the Pleasant River Wildlife Foundation. Our route then carried us past the Goose Islands, Duck Ledges, Hardwood Island, Stevens Island, Drisko, and Inner Sands.

On Stevens Island, we saw (and smelled) the decaying carcass of a 30 to 40 foot whale . Comments in the Stevens Island logbook (Stevens is a BPL Island and part of the Maine Island Trail) identified the carcass as that of a right whale and indicated it had been the for more than a month. Later I read online that right whales are a precariously endangered species — as stated by RightWhale.org “the world’s rarest, large whale, continues to face many problems on its slow road to recovery.”

Arriving on The Sands at around 4:00 PM, just after absolute low tide, we trekked up the intertidal zone to the highest point on the island — a vertical rise of approximately 16 feet. There we examined the rings of seaweed that served as footprints of recent high tides. If they proved to be an accurate indicator, our island would shrink to little more than 45 feet x 15 feet at the time of high tide, about a half hour before midnight that evening.

The weather was calm and the sunset was spectacular. This was reassuring. I will admit to feeling a tad anxious as the moonless night deepened and the dark ocean drew closer. Before zipping myself into the tent, I re-checked the kayaks. Earlier I had secured the hatches and cockpit openings, made sure paddling paddling gear was ready for use, and tied the kayaks to our tent. If the wind picked up or the tides were higher than predicted, it might mean abandoning the tent and sleeping bags — and making a midnight headlamp-illuminated paddle to nearby Inner Sands Island. The bouldered shoreline there would make for a difficult landing, especially in the dark, but that was the fallback plan.

We retreated to our tent by 10:30 PM or so — and listened, as only one on such a small island can listen, as the tide crept closer and the constant cacophony of gentle surf approached from all sides. We were still awake at midnight when the surf began to slip back, away from us. We did not look out but slept assured that we had remained dry through the advance of the tide and that our island was now growing larger again.

We woke to thick fog. The forecast of increasing winds and unsettled conditions meant our hope to spend more time on The Sands — and to explore the islands to the south and southeast would have to wait for another time. (As it happened the first waves from Hurricane Bill would reach that area in less than two days.) After packing the boats, we island-hopped our way back to Crowley Island, navigating largely by compass, as visibility in the fog was less than 1/4 mile. We returned up the west side of Crowley Island, which is largely privately owned and rockier than the eastern shore.

The trip was — through both conscious effort and fortunate happenstance — carried out in a happy harmony with the tides. We put in at the top of the tide and rode the retreating tide south to The Sands. We set up camp and cooked dinner and then retreated to our tent just as our island shrunk to it’s smallest dimensions. We woke the next morning to an expanded island, breakfasted in the same “kitchen” that had been washed clean by the last night’s waves, and then launched as the tide reached within a dozen feet of our kayaks. Our trip north through the fog was slowed by the dropping tide. We reached the bridge to Crowley Island just in time to avoid becoming hopelessly marooned in a sea of brown mud.

Some would undoubtedly think such a trip needless at best and foolishly dangerous at worst. Why do it then? A place like that certainly opens up your senses. Perhaps also because the experience of sleeping on a sand bar just a few feet above the tide puts us back in touch with the truth that our survival does depend on the fine balances in nature. The reality is that in our lives as individuals and in our survival as species, we live daily on the brink of survival and on the brink of calamity. That brink, that edge where the tide comes in and engulfs dry land, can be a frightening place — but also a beautiful one.

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Downeast Maine maine

Wonders of the World: Storm Waves at Acadia and McClellan Park

The power and beauty of storm waves pounding the cliffs at McClellan Park in Milbridge on Sunday afternoon was an incredible sight. One of the wonders of the world, to be sure.

It occurred to me — as I stood watching people as well as waves — that someone could be swept off the cliffs and die, right there in front of us, and that I and the few dozen others who lined the cliffs would be helpless to do anything about it. McClellan Park could put up a few ring buoys for just such a circumstance, I supposed. I also realized that the prospect of getting a buoy out to a victim and of a victim surviving the force of the waves on the cliffs was very slim.

I was one of those who stood atop rocks that had recently been wetted by spray. I was one who was politely warned by others of that fact. I did remain watchful, ready to move further up the cliffs, however. My kayaking experience has taught me to watch distant as well as near waves and has made me graphically aware of the simple fact that some ways are bigger than others. The possibility of a unexpectedly large wave, a 9th wave or rogue wave, was very real.

At intervals during the few hours I spent there on the cliffs, there were children and dogs who scrambled below what I considered the safe zone — their parents seemingly grossly unaware of those simple facts about waves.

After returning home to Belfast, I was saddened to learn that a girl had been killed and more than a dozen injured by a storm wave at Acadia National Park that afternoon.

I was also saddened to hear that due to the storm swells there were calls to close sections of Acadia National Park — and to realize that, following this incident, park officials may be more likely to close cliff and beach areas during future storms.

One girl died on Sunday afternoon, there are important lessons in that. But ten thousand people (estimated) stood atop the cliffs of Acadia and watched a sight they will never forget. I can understand the decision to shut down access to cliffs during a storm. But I also realize that Maine has 3,000 miles of coastline and waves nearly every day of the year. You can’t shut it all down. The opportunity to watch those storm waves is not one I would easily give up.

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Downeast Maine Great Wass Halifax Jonesport Maine islands Roque Island sea kayaking The Brothers

Journey to the Center of Pulpit Rock: A Sea Kayaking Daytrip Out of Jonesport, Maine

After completing the 100 mile drive from Belfast, Maine, I launched at noon from Kelly Point Campground in Jonesport. I paddled east-southeast past Virgin Island (no virgins sighted), The Nipple (still rising spectacularly from the sea), and the high cliffs of Mark Island. I then swung nearly due east (magnetic) toward the dark cliffs of Pulpit Rock.

Two years ago, on return trip from Halifax Island in the late afternoon light, I watched transfixed as a half-dozen eagles repeatedly tried to raid seagull nests on Pulpit Rock — and were repeatedly outmaneuvered and driven off by the gulls. My plan today was to paddle past Pulpit Rock to The Brothers, a geologically unique and astoundingly photogenic pair of islands I had visited twice before, and then to Halifax Island, one of my favorite islands on the Maine Island Trail.

On the marine chart, Pulpit Rock is a squiggle of dark ink. I hadn’t paddled close to it in the past and didn’t know if it held anything of interest. In my mind, it would be little more than a mile marker on my 6.5 mile paddle to The Brothers.

Who knew Pulpit Rock was not just a ledge but an island? Who knew the island was split in two? Who knew the sea surges in and out the narrow corridor of the split? Who knew you could paddle in there in a small boat — and emerge later unscathed?

I had spent most of the past hour in kind of broad-minded introspection. The big sea and big sky of Downeast Maine never fails to do that for me. I had been mulling (with more curiosity than anxiety) over the life decisions I had made in terms of work and career — and had probably been a bit negligent of my surroundings.

As I paddled along the cliffs of Pulpit Rock and then noticed for the first time that Pulpit Rock was split in the middle and that one could (maybe) paddle into the split, my previous questions — and the kind of mind that cared to ask such questions — were all but forgotten. More than forgotten, they was erased as if they had never been asked.

I took a deep breath and followed the surge of a wave into the passage between the two halves of the island. And then, there I was in a private sea at the center of Pulpit Rock, itself a miniscule crag in this small swath of the Atlantic. The sun high overhead, the cool sea breeze, the dark rock, the birds, the green-blue waves. Was Pulpit Rock whirling around me, or was it just that the waves were whirling my boat? At once, I was right where I was. Right where I was supposed to be. And there could be no questioning of any series of events or life-decisions that had brought me right there, right then.

And that was when I looked up to see the razorbill auks nesting on the cliffs above me. They and the gulls and the cormorants (sequestered in separate areas) seemed to eye me with a mixture of disdain and bemusement. I paddled through to the southern part of the split for a view of the Brothers and then back north and then south again. Waves rhythmically surged through the passageway, rising against the high rock walls. I kept to the center of the channel and made sure to anticipate the waves so that I was not pushed up against the cliffs.

After snapping a last few photos from the cockpit of my kayak, I paddled back out of the split and then continued east toward The Brothers. The wind had increased and sizeable swells rolled in from the southeast. Razorbills swooped low over my kayak. Groups of black guillemots wheeled overhead. Rafts of eiders scuttled away from ledges as I approached them. Sea and sky veritably pulsed with life — I paddled on and felt very much a part of it.

Arriving at West Brother, I swung to the south and had to keep well off the rocky shoreline due to the swells. I paddled east along West Brother and then past the dramatic red cliffs of East Brother. A bit weary by now of paddling in those seas, I was glad to round the northeastern point of East Brother and tuck in along the protected northern shoreline.

After taking a break in the quiet waters between East and West Brother, I headed north between Green Island and Green Ledge. Not quite willing to leave the area yet, I maneuvered my kayak up a channel between rocks and clambered onto the slippery bladder-wrack-coated rock of Green Ledge. Green Ledge proved to be a great vantage point to look south toward The Brothers. I slipped once on the seaweed and fell into a crack between rocks, getting wet to my waist in the process. Sobered by the fall and mindful that even at mid-tide large waves roll right over Green Ledge, I got back into my kayak and paddled north to Halifax Island.

After the wildness and exposure of Pulpit Rock, The Brothers, and Green Ledge, Halifax Island (a BPL island) often seems to be a quiet green oasis — and it seemed so today. The afternoon sun was warm on the rocks, and as I climbed the hill on the western side of the island, I looked for blueberries and songbirds. A few butterflies floated about. Warmed by the sun, the wild roses poured all their scent into the afternoon air.

Islands such as Halifax make me think of the journey of Ulysses and his men — and of the beautiful goddesses they reported seeing on some of those Mediterranean Islands. I’ve concluded that maybe the green islands themselves were the goddesses. Struggling for long over a cold dark sea could lead one to feel that it was so. It’s certainly easy to fall in love with them — and to want never to leave.

After a late lunch (4:00 PM or thereabouts) on Halifax, I paddled west past Anguillia, Double Shot, Great Spruce, and Little Spruce. Large groups of sleepy seals lined the ledges off Anguillia and Double Shot. I then headed east for the 2.5 mile crossing across Chandler Bay to Kelly Point and Jonesport.

Later that evening, I ran a string around a chart and tallied up the days nautical miles as 17. What I saw in those miles I’ll carry with me long after the summer green has faded from those islands.