Category: kayaking

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Camden kayaking maine Maine islands paddling Penobscot Bay

Reaching for Robinson Rock: A Kayak Trip out of Camden, Maine

Halfway between Camden and North Haven is a rock that serves as a landmark and hazard for boaters.  On the chart, it appears as a squiggle – and it’s not really much more than that.  It would never  do for human habitation.  The biggest storms of winter nearly wash over it.  You could never grow anything there or build anything permanent.   It’s just a waypoint on the way to somewhere else.

It likely gets only a handful of visitors each year, if that.  It does have unsurpassed views of the Camden Hills and Penobscot Bay.   It’s a place that looks little different than it did 100 years ago – or 1,000.  It’s not even part of the Maine Island trail.  The guidebooks don’t touch it, as if it is too small and inconsequential to mention.  Google knows about it, but it doesn’t know much.  No evidence of humans or of human visits is easily found.  If you arrive there, it is probably by accident.

1.9 acre Robinson Rock is 4 nautical miles southeast of Camden Harbor and a little less than a mile south of Mark Island.  It has a couple of rough gravel beaches tucked between rocky headlands.  It has tide pools more than adequate for an afternoon’s contemplation.  It has a soft peaty soils and a rough green meadow of raspberry, burdock, and wild rose.  Harbor seals, sea gulls, cormorants, and nesting black guillemots call it (and its surrounding ledges) home.  Eagles, who frequently nest on nearby Mark Island, can be seen overhead.  Far off, the Camden Hills rise up like a distant country.  It’s a wilder place than we are accustomed to seeing this far up the bay.  The mighty Atlantic comes to call – and has left its mark – on the bedrock and in the beaches..  It feels more akin to the open ocean  than it does to most of the other islands of our bay, which tend to be wooded and garden-like in comparison.

As an IFW (Inland Fisheries and Wildlife) bird nesting island, it is closed to the public during nesting season, which extends from April 1 to the end of August.  Given the remoteness from the mainland, the exposure to  open water, and the inadvisability of embarking on long crossings once ocean temperatures drop, this leaves only a short window for visits.  Finding a day in September where conditions permit  a crossing is not easy.  Combine that with work and household schedules, and pulling off a trip to Robinson Rock is a rare feat and much treasured opportunity.

We had such a day a few weeks ago.  The bay was windless and glassy as we set out of Camden Harbor.  Even so, the wind came up during the day and by the time we headed back across on our return crossing, we had to battle a difficult beam seas during our entire trip.  The wind generally blows north or south (straight up or down) Penobscot Bay, making any east west crossing in a  a kayak dicey – and potentially dangerous.  I do not recommend taking the trip unless you are have been sea kayaking for a number of years, have made shorter crossings (such as Saturday Cove to Islesboro) in a variety of conditions, and are equipped with full safety gear including vhf radio, flares, extra clothing, and at least one partner with whom you have practiced various re-entry rescues.  A tent and a sleeping bag (in case of being stranded on the island due to a change in weather) would not be a bad idea.

If ashore on a fair day in September, with late summer sunlight spilling over the water, the rock , and the beaches, with a salt breeze coming up the bay and the cry of gulls and the boom of surf in the air, you will fully appreciate Robinson Rock is much more than a rock.  If caught up in the spirit of the place, you might even feel for a while that you could abandon all ties to the mainland and just live there like the seals and the guillemots.  But you know that as the nights get cooler and the sunlight wanes, the seals and “guilleys” will leave.  As you know you must.

For those of you out there contemplating a visit, just remember that the trip is difficult and a little risky.  Anyway, you probably have a lawn to mow or firewood to stack.  After all, Robinson Rock is just a rock.  It is four long miles from Camden Harbor, and all that raw beauty is almost too much to bear.

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Downeast Maine Great Wass kayaking Maine islands paddling

On the Water in Maine — The Best of Summer 2010


It’s not just our imaginations telling us it has been a great summer. According to the Boston Herald, Portland Maine has had 9 straight months of above average temperatures. The National Weather Service in Gray reports 10 fewer days of rain and 3 fewer inches of rainfall in June and July of 2010 versus those months last year.

The high pressure system that has hovered over the eastern U.S. for most of the summer has brought stifling heat elsewhere but has been a boon for Maine.

Which has made it more true than ever: Maine is the place to be in the summertime. And being on the water is the place to be in Maine.

This year, our kayak tours ranged from the Muscle Ridge Islands off South Thomaston to the Deer Isle Archipelago off Stonington — and many points in between. Our family trips extended as far east as Machiasport and as far north as Mattawamkeag.

Summer isn’t over yet, but the slide show features some of the best of our summer, with hopefully more to come.

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kayaking maine Maine rivers paddling whitewater

The Slewgundy Heater, the Golden Boulder, and Other Hazards

If there is a theme to this blog, it is that Maine is laden with hidden treasure along its coasts and rivers and within its forests and lakes.

So I was particularly interested to learn about a legend of the Mattawamkeag area. The legend has it that there is a gold-bearing bolder in the Gordon Brook woods near the Mattawamkeag River. The only catch is that the boulder casts a curse on those who try to find it.

We were too busy dodging rocks to spend much time looking for golden boulders as we paddled down the Mattawamkeag last weekend. The river, which runs up to Class V, depending on the time of year, was running at a very moderate  850 cubic feet per second, but it was still one of the more challenging rivers we’ve paddled.

We were staying at the Mattawamkeag Wilderness Campground, itself certainly right up there amongst Maine’s hidden treasures.  This clean, quiet, old-timey campground has spacious sites, several miles of river frontage, and is surrounded by a thousand acres of wilderness.  After moving our boats 100 yards upstream so we could run the Scatterack, the Class II rapid that fronted our campsite, we put in and began our adventure.  A fisherman from a nearby campsite voiced concern when he saw that we were heading off in sea kayaks.  “We know what we are doing,” I assured him.  I sure hoped we did.


We had paddled other Class II and III rivers in sea kayaks.  We had read everything we could about the river and had scouted the most difficult section the day before.  Still there is that element of doubt as you put in on an unfamiliar river.

The first mile was made up of easy whitewater and provided an excellent warm-up.  About a mile from the campsite the river goes around a big bend to the left before entering a narrow gorge, the infamous Slewgundy Heater.  The evening before, by lantern light, we had read of the graves of 7 river drivers that line the  Slewgundy.  We had also read of the man who was killed while canoeing Upper Gordon Falls a half mile below.

We were so focused on the hazards of the gorge itself that we were surprised by the strength of the rapids at its entrance.   Here we found a section of river with strong currents, large waves, and rocks that required quick maneuvering.  Then, at once, we were inside the gorge, and after a 3 foot drop, the river was strangely calm.  There we were in the narrow canyon, with the 40 foot rock walls above us and the roar of the river both above and below.  Beneath us and around us the river was tranquil, dark, and flat.

We took advantage of the calm water and eddied out  to scout the most difficult section of the whole river, which as just ahead.  After some scouting and more than a little debate, we decided on a route that would take us into a hairpin turn along the far right bank.  From there, we would need to reverse sweep to cut across the current to the right and then quickly turn left to line up for a final 3 foot drop.

Hearts pounding, we ran the drop successfully if not perfectly.  We were out into daylight.  Out of Slewgundy’s maw.

After a mile of easier whitewater, we came to Upper Gordon Falls, which is “bony” and requires a portage at medium water levels.  Below Upper Gordon, we stopped for lunch and to swim in the river, which in the 80 degree heat seemed unnaturally warm.  Then it was on to run Lower Gordon (a Class III drop with big waves).  Below Lower Gordon the gradient decreases and the river widens.  Acres of boulders are strewn about this widened riverbed, creating a different kind of challenge for the paddler.  A few smaller drops keep it interesting.  We paddled on, under the railroad bridge and then the Route 2 bridge, and then on to the confluence with the Penobscot.

Mattawamkeag means “at the mouth, a gravel bar.”  True to its name, the mouth of the Mattawamkeag is still marked by a gravel bar just a few yards north of where it flows into the Penobscot.  We floated at the confluence for a few minutes, testing the temperature of both rivers with our hands.  The Penobscot was several degrees cooler, we decided.

Rather than ending our trip there, we paddled the Penobscot 4 miles south to the boat landing in Winn.  After the thrills of the Mattawamkeag, we had anticipated the Penobscot would be flat and less interesting.  We were happy to find it was neither.  The river here is nothing like the deep somnolent river near Bangor and Bucksport.  It is lively and braided and shallow with rips and rocks and sections of whitewater.  The riverscape is interrupted with breezy park-like islands forested with oak and maple.  In the deepening afternoon shadows, we curled through Five Island Rapids and then paddled back into the sunlight and on to a second set of islands that marked our take out in Winn.

We were sorry to leave the river but we still had adventure ahead.  It was a 12 mile bicycle ride (4 on pavement, 8 on dirt) to get back to the campsite.  Then a 24-mile car trip (16 on dirt, 8 on pavement, you get the idea) to pick up the kayaks.  Then a 10:00 pm dinner at our riverside campsite and later to fall asleep with the river still in our ears.

We liked it so much, we were on the river by 1:00 pm the next day to do the whole thing again.

The story of the golden bolder seems to be a somewhat commonplace warning against excessive ambition and greed.  On another level, it seems to teach that there are undiscovered riches out there — that can perhaps be found and appreciated only by those who are happy to be there for the sake of being there, who are not seeking anything tangible from the experience, who are seeking only the experience itself.

Resources:
Mattawamkeag Wilderness Park Campground 
Gordon Falls on the Mattawamkeag (geology of the lower Mattawamkeag River)
Mattawamkeag River Stream Flow (river gauge)
Mattawamkeag Park to Open May 28 (BDN news article)

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kayaking maine Maine rivers paddling whitewater

Living it Up on the Dead: Kayaking the Lower Dead River

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kayak racing kayaking paddling whitewater

The Perfect Line

An imaginary line runs the length of the river. It winds around switchback turns and is stretched taut on the straightaways. At times it is exactly equidistant from the left and right banks. At times it curves only slightly to pass a whisker-width away from a rock. Other times, it swings wide to to the left to skim the edge of a wave train, slings far to the right to avoid bogging down in the shallows, or zigzags manically through a maze of rocks.

Finding and following that line — riding it — is the grail of the river racer. You can’t always see it, but you know it when you find it. And there is a certain joy when you do, when your muscle and the river’s muscle join forces, and your boat surges downstream

The line isn’t easy to find. It is even harder to hold. The very nature of paddling involves losing that line even as you find it. Each paddle stroke is to the left or right of the center line of your boat — and thus immediately needs to be balanced with the next stroke. A boat does not travel down a river like a car on a road. It tends to slide and skid through the turns. The river is a braided rope of currents each moving at differing speeds. Make the turn too wide and the current slings you and then pins you against the outside bank. Make the turn too far on the inside, and you can be bogged down an eddy. And then there are the rocks.

The dream is to fly down the river on a line, dodging rocks without getting off course, riding the current when you can. Every plant of the paddle will be perfect — and will keep you riding that invisible line. The trick is to avoid being pulled off course by currents. To stay straight through standing waves big as refrigerators.

Practice all you want and you will still not be prepared. It rains (or doesn’t rain) prior to the race, and the water level is a 2 feet higher (or lower) than you expected. Rocks you have never seen before poke their dark noses above the surface. Or the light is different — there is a glare on the water — and today you simply cannot see the rocks. Or maybe as you enter a round a bend to difficult stretch of whitewater, a canoe is there, in front of you, turned broadside to the current. A few had strokes to the left and you are paddling an unfamiliar line in a part of the river you have not paddled before.

A trip down a river is always an improvisation. One of the first things you learn is that it can’t be entirely planned beforehand. If there is a script, you will leave it. A lot of your time will be spent trying to get back to it.

Canoes and kayaks cut 130 lines down the Passagassawakeag River last Saturday, during the annual Passy River Race. None of the lines were perfect. But perhaps some of them were close. You get to the take-out and you want to make the run again. But you can’t return to the same lines. So you seek new ones. You go onward. This weekend, it will be the Soudabscook and the Marsh Stream. Then it will be the Kenduskeag, the East Machais, Machias, the Meduxnakeag, the Aroostook, the Union, the Sebec.

You start seeing lines in the water. You start seeing lines in your dreams. You are a river racer.

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kayaking sea kayaking

Top Online Resources for Sea Kayakers

For the diehard paddler there are two kinds of weather: weather that is good for paddling and weather that’s good for reading about paddling. The recent cold weather makes this a good time to expand your knowledge and to catch up on the latest controversies, innovations, and new developments in the world of paddling. Here are a few of our favorite kayaking resources:

Paddling.net The Advice, Suggestions, & General Help Forum on this site is a great place to get answers on paddling related questions. Other parts of P-Net (as frequent users have come to call it) also includes kayak reviews, trip reports, articles, photos, and links to manufacturers and outfitters. A great all-around paddling resource. Probably the best place to go if you are one-stop shopping for information on boats or paddling.

Kayakpaddling.net Got a technique question? You can read about it all you want. You can watch all the videos you want. But likely neither will be as helpful as the animations on this site. Holding the paddle, the forward stroke, the eskimo roll, and many other techniques are featured.

Sea Kayaker Magazine America’s top sea kayaking magazine has a useful website as well. Not all magazine content is available here, but featured articles and the ever-popular kayak reviews are included. Also included are links to kayak clubs, water trails, and an event calendar. Some good reading here.

Atlantic Kayak Tours The online “Expert Center” of this Saugerties, New York outfitter features an extensive set of articles on everything from gear selection to kayak repair to safety, navigation, and technique. The well-written articles are accompanied by photos, diagrams, and animations. A great resource — as useful and as in-depth as most kayak books.

The resources below are of interest to Maine and New England paddlers:

MaCKRO.org The website of the Maine Canoe and Kayak Racing Organization. You don’t have to be a racer to visit the site, join the club, or participate in one of the races. Canoe and kayak racing isn’t so much about racing as it is about developing a cameraderie with other paddlers and appreciating rivers, anyway. A current focus of the club is on promoting youth paddling and encouraging more people to try this sport. Included is a forum where you can get ask questions about paddling, get information on races, find a boat — or sell one.

Maine Island Trail The Maine Island trail association website provides information about this spectacular 375-mile water trail (America’s first) as well as about the organization. Included are articles about Leave No Trace techniques and boating safety. To travel the trail, you will need to join the club (and thereby receive the island guidebook). The website is your key on how to get information to do just that. Highly recommended for ocean paddlers.

Maine Bureau of Parks and Lands This site includes a searchable database of Maine State Parks and Maine State Public Reserved Lands. A great resource for those wanting to paddle wilderness lakes and ponds. Some of the reserved lands offer free camping.

GoMoos The Gulf of Maine Ocean Observing System provides real-time data of ocean conditions from buoys off the Maine coast. This site is a great compliment to NOAA forecasts and land-centric weather stations.

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kayak kayaking Maine rivers paddling St. George

Fall Whitewater and Other Well-Kept Secrets

The morning of November 29 started sunny and seasonally cool, with temperatures in the low 30’s. By 11:00 AM, there we were, paddles wheeling through the bright water, embarking on a trip that would include a heretofore unexplored stretch of our favorite Maine river. We had planted a vehicle in Appleton, some 10 miles away. Besides a few sentences in a guidebook printed 20 years ago and a quick perusal of the section on Google Earth, we had nothing to go on — which suited us just fine. Seeing something new, in essence, is what river travel is all about.

We put in on the St. George River in our usual spot in Searsmont. The water level at the put-in — several feet up over the “summer banks” proved to be an omen for good paddling. The river south of the Ghent Road bridge was fast, deep, and full of standing waves. The drop at Magog (usually considered a Class III) was fun and easy.

In the past, we’ve taken out at the Route 105 bridge– and looked wistfully on downstream, but this time, riding the swift current and with the late fall sunshine full on our faces, we were on our way down a wooded corridor that (if all went well) would bring us out at the Sennebec Road bridge in the center of Appleton.

The Class I-II rapids south of the Route 105 bridge transitioned into flatwater a few hundred yards below. Much of the rest of the trip to Appleton was flatwater, mixed with some easy Class I. At one point, an eagle soared high overhead. A beaver crossed the glassy surface in front of us, creasing the water with his wake. Stands of hardwoods lined the banks. Lazy trees extended far out over the water, their trunks just above our heads.

In a few places, downed trees formed strainers and thickets that we had to “river-whack” our way through. A hundred yards above the Appleton bridge, the current picked up and the rapids become a Class II. We took out above the bridge and then walked the bridge and the river, studying the drop and plotting our next trip in which we are pledged to “paddle on through.”

Previously I subscribed to the myth that whitewater season here in coastal Maine is limited to a couple of months in the spring. This year, beginning in March, we got out on the local rivers in every month but August. Even now, in late November, the water levels are high — and the water temperatures are warmer than in March or April.

In fact, the greatest “hardship” of paddling this time of year is that the southern trajectery of rivers like the St.George together with the low angle of the sun combine to light the whitewater like silver fire. This makes seeing (and avoiding) the rocks more difficult. But, especially for those who might feel sunlight-deficient this time of year, it is an easy hardship to endure.

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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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kayaking Maine rivers paddling

Maine’s Forgotten Rivers

Inaccessible by road. Difficult to access on foot. Hidden by sections of woods or bluffs. Curving through secluded woods near the center of town or winding through a patch of wilderness between towns.

Most often, these forgotten stretches are on the smaller rivers — the Sheepscot or St. George, rather than the Kennebec or the Penobscot. Take a look at these rivers today and it’s hard to imagine that they were once bustling corridors of commerce, trade, and industry. But testimonies to their history remain. Hidden in the underbrush along the St. George River in Searsmont are the remnants of a canal system designed to bring barges up to Searsmont. It’s hard to travel more than a mile along the Sheepscot or the Passagassawakeag and not come along the remnants of an old bridge or dam or mill.

And these forgotten rivers offer natural beauty and opportunities for recreation along with their history. A dozen miles north of Machias lies a pitch of whitewater known as “Great Falls” that is not written up in most river guides and is omitted from most whitewater canoe trips. A few miles south of that is the remnants of a canal system that was used in log drives. Beyond that, in Whitneyville, is another fairly spectacular set of waterfalls, viewable from the road, that somehow seems to draw little attention to itself.

Less than 10 miles west of there, the Pleasant River offers its own surprises. After miles of switchbacks and slow-water-meandering through the Great Heath and the blueberry barrens of Columbia, it quickens its pace through sections of picturesque Class II rapids as it descends to the village of Columbia Falls. These are a few sections of river I’ve been fortunate to explore by kayak this spring.

It’s a little sad that so many of our miles of rivers have been forgotten. Again and again, I am struck by the beauty that has been “lost” on so many of us. Once you get started and see the possibilities, exploring these little-known rivers is fairly addictive. If I don’t get my lawn mowed this weekend, it’s because I took out the Delorme Atlas again and have been lured off to explore yet another forgotten section of river.

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kayak racing kayaking Kenduskeag Maine rivers

Why I Love the Kenduskeag

Upwards of 500 watercraft and 1000 paddlers. 16.5 miles. Two portages. 10,260 strokes. 900+ calories burned. 1:50.08 all-time record (held by Robert Lang of New Brunswick. Date: Saturday, April 18.

I’ve competed in 5-K and 10-K road races, cross country races, xc ski races, and triathlons, but I haven’t found a form of racing I enjoy as much as kayak racing. I’ve paddled all kinds of rivers — and raced on at least a half dozen of them, but I haven’t found a river race I enjoy as much as the annual Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race.

Part of it is the number of canoes and kayaks involved — more than 400 on most years. Part of it is the length and difficulty of the race — 10 miles of flatwater followed by 6.5 miles of whitewater, made all the more difficult by fatigue. Part of it is the tradition — the race has been around for more than 40 years now, and the returnees each year include notables such as the Gumby boat (photo above) and Zip Kellogg, (photo below) who wears a coat and top hat and paddles much of the race standing up.

A combined flatwater / whitewater race such as the Kenduskeag is a triathlon in itself. The first event is the 10 miles of flatwater, which tests your physical and mental stamina and your ability to get in a groove with your paddling stroke. The second event is the whitewater, a combined test of strategy, skill, and pluck. The third event (actually interpersed with the second one) is the two mandatory portages, in which competitors stagger ashore in wet gear, and labor their way through crowds of park-goers and spectators, carrying their suddenly clumsy craft through the mud.

How to survive it all. How to go fast the whole time and still leave enough to get to the finish. How to keep focus through those inevitable moments when, disoriented by fatigue, you forget you are in a race at all — and it is just you, your boat, and that river shining under the spring sunlight.