Category: Maine islands

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Downeast Maine Maine islands sea kayaking

Litte Birds, Big Ocean: Paddling with the Puffins of Petit Manan

We rose at dawn and drove to a rocky beach south of Steuben, Maine. After carefully packing our kayaks with safety gear, food, water, and extra clothing, we donned the thick black wetsuits needed to paddle safely in 50 degree waters, launched from the rocky beach, and paddled south along Petit Manan Point. Even as we did so, we monitored the weather on the VHF radio, as this area is renowned for fog and turbulent sea conditions. The mainland slipped away behind us. The ocean yawned wide in front of us. With excitement and trepidation, we continued paddling south for two miles along the shoal that frequently provides some of the diciest sea conditions along the coast of Maine.

Manan means “island out to sea” in Micmac — and, amidst that landscape in which the mainland recedes in all directions, the name seems highly appropriate. The 120 foot spire of Petit Manan lighthouse provides a singular reference point amidst that big sea. We diverted our course to the west to trace the shoreline of adjacent Green island, our eyes alert for what we had come for. But there were only hordes of jeering gulls on the shoreline.

Then we moved onto Petit Manan itself, which is connected to Green, at low tide, by a series of bouldered ledges. On this island which has been called, “one of the most important seabird colonies in Maine,” we saw guillemots, cormorants, eiders, terns, and laughing gulls, but none of the little black and white penguin-cousins we had come for. We saw the puffin blinds used by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service naturalists to study and monitor the puffins. We scrutinized the rocky shoreline for sights of puffin nests. We scanned the sky and the water for puffins. And saw none.

By this time, we had circled three-quarters of the way around Green and Petit Manan. On this, our second trip out to the island, we had just about resigned ourselves to not seeing the puffins. Then we rounded the southern tip to the area of Petit Manan reef. Suddenly the sky was alive with Atlantic puffins torpedoing through the air as they circled from the cliffs to our left, swooped out over the the shallow waters of the reef, and then wheeled back toward the lighthouse. These puffin “wheels” I later read are common in puffin areas where gull predation is high.

We rested our paddles on our kayaks, marveling at the sight, and ineptly trying to take photos of the fast-moving birds. Puffin flight is best described as frantic. These foot-tall relatives of penguins have short wings and long stout bodies more adapted to swimming than flying. In flight, their wings, which flap at up to 400 beats per minute, are only a blur. The short wings don’t allow puffins to soar or float in the air. Instead, they dive-bomber through it at speeds of 40 to 50 miles per hour.

Seconds turned to minutes. The sun filtered more brightly through the clouds. Gentle green swells lifted and lowered us as they passed toward the cliffs. We pulled our eyes out of the viewfinders of our cameras and lowered them from the sky to the water. The tidal current had slowly eased us to the north. The water around us was suddenly, magically full of puffins.

Undisturbed by us, seeming to accept our presence, they drifted in groups, preening and puffing and dipping their heads beneath the surface. For a time, we were lost to the human world and joined the puffin one. There, as we drifted, it was possible for a few moments to forget that we were not puffins. To forget that the gentle sea that stirred around us was not our home.

Of Maine’s 4,000 islands and ledges, puffins nest on fewer than ten. Once they leave those nests, they spend up to five years far out at sea before ever returning to land. To say they live on the periphery of human civilization is an understatement. To spend a few minutes among these rare and marvelous birds is a privilege and a gift. Part of that gift is the reminder that beyond the human world lies a much larger one, of which both we and the puffins are just a tiny part.

Resources:
Maine Coastal Islands National Wildlife Refuges
Maine Birding.Net: Atlantic Puffin
Seabird Photography
Bird Fact Sheet: Atlantic Puffin

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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 maine Maine islands sea kayaking

Meandering Machias Bay (video)

Yellow Head lies like a sleeping dragon along the western shore of the bay.

What began as a on-water search for the petroglyph sites of Machias Bay morphed into as meandering tour of discovery of the magnificent rock formations of that bay.

After driving south from Machias past the Bucks Harbor Shopping Mall, we parked at unloaded our kayaks at Finn Beach. From there, on that rare calm and fogless morning, we paddled out of Bucks Harbor, past Bar Island, and then southwest along the cliffs to Howard Cove and Jasper Beach.  Along our route, bald eagles soared high into the blue sky above the sea arches and sea caves.

Jasper Beach is a magnificent 1/2 mile beach made up of multi colored quartz and naturally polished, purplish rhyolite stones.

After returning to the northeast and past Bucks Harbor, we continued on toward the sleeping dragon of Yellow Head and then on to Bare Island, Avery Rock, Salt Island, and Round Island. After exploring Larrabee Cove (still hunting for those elusive petroglyphs), we returned south to Bucks Harbor just in time to get off the water by sunset.

We’ll go back again to search for the 3,000 year old Passamaquoddy petroglyphs, but we were very happy to have found what we did.

(J4WZWGUEEKR2)


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Ray Wirth is a Registered Maine Guide and owner of Water Walker Sea Kayak, LLC. Comments and questions can be sent to ray@touringkayaks.com

Categories
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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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 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.

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Downeast Maine Maine islands Penobscot Bay

Guillemots: Clowns of the Sea

Black guillemots would be strong contenders in any competition for “clowns of the sea,” and perhaps even serve as proof that God has a sense of humor. They are a medium-sized black duck with white wing patches — and bright red feet. The inside of the guillemot mouth is bright orange. Legs set far back so they wobble when they walk, kinda like penguins. The habit of repeatedly dipping their heads (and tipping up their hind ends) when nervous. Awkward in flight, they fly low over the water with rapid wingbeats — when they fly at all.

Oh, and it bears repeating, they have red feet, which they trail behind them like oversized clown shoes when the take off. Taking off is difficult for them so they are more likely just to dive underwater to escape a threat. They are much better swimmers than fliers and can stay underwater for up to 2 minutes. They migrate not by flying but by swimming hundreds of miles. Related to puffins, guillemots get a lot less press. Ever hear of a guillemot tour? Guillemots don’t seem to mind the lack of notoriety though. Their motto seems to be: guillemots have more fun!

As part of my “critters of the sea” series, I’m featuring the black guillemot this week. I always enjoy watching these birds as they bob unconcerned on rough seas or go tails up and dive beneath the surface. Along the Maine coast, guillemots are sighted most often in pairs or groups of up to a dozen. They are most common in areas with rocky shorelines and access to open waters. On our kayak tours off Stonington, South Thomaston, and Jonesport, we almost always have numerous black guillemot sightings.

Guillemot (rhymes with spill-a-lot) chicks hatch from eggs laid in rocky burows on offshore islands. According to what I’ve read online from various sources, the chicks grow rapidly and soon enter the sea to evade predators such as gulls. They are one of the most commonly sighted Maine sea ducks — and can be sighted along much of Maine’s coastline during all months of the year. During the winter, at least some of Maine’s summer guillemot population migrates south to Massachusetts. Guillemots are pelagic, meaning they spend most of their lives at sea, coming ashore only to breed, yet they rarely venture far from shore.

The range of guillemots, which are sometimes called “sea pigeons,” is described on the National Audubon Society website: “Black Guillemots breed from eastern Canada south to the coast of Maine, then eastward at the fringes of the Arctic across Eurasia, reaching North America in isolated colonies in northern Alaska and the Yukon Territory.”

Nick Schade of Guillemot kayaks describes the behavior of the black guillemot: “When paddling toward a guillemot swimming on the surface, it will quickly duck it’s head into the water, looking to make sure it is safe to dive. It will dive with a quick beat of it’s wings to help it under. If you are close enough you will see the white wing patches flash as it flies through the water. If the bird chooses to fly instead of dive, it will run on the surface of the water until it can lift off. Then, with its red legs trailing out back it will typically circle around you at a distance of 100 ft for a couple revolutions.
If it decides you are no threat, it will land again. Otherwise, it will fly until it reaches a safe distance before landing,”

Information on the Black Guillemot in Alaska and how they are being threatened by reduced sea ice is here.

Resources:

National Audobon Society

University of Maine at Farmington

Wildbird.com

Allaboutbirds.org

Young black guillemot on Robinson ledge off Camden.(Photo by Ray Wirth)

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Ray Wirth is a Registered Maine Guide and owner of Water Walker Sea Kayak, LLC.

Comments and questions can be sent to ray@touringkayaks.com

Categories
Maine islands

Islands in this Economy?


At a kayak guides meeting several weeks ago, Dave Mention of the Maine Island Trail Association stated that the slowing economy has been good for many wild Maine islands. Last summer’s high gas prices undoubtedly contributed to the decline in island visits during the summer of 2008. The decline in visits, in turn, helped some fragile island ecosystems get healthier again after years of overuse.

Observations of our own consumption habits and those of our neighbors might likewise convince us that to the extent we are spending less and using less gasoline, these economic hard times might, at least, be good for the global environment. Paul Crutzen, an atmospheric scientist, has stated that the slowdown in the world economy will likely lead to a decrease in global carbon dioxide emissions. It’s hard to sense even small reassurance from any such benefit, however, when the reality is that due to the economic downturn, there are people hungry and cold today who were not hungry and cold a few months ago.

Additionally, lack of agreement exists about whether an economic downturn will benefit the environment and slow global warming at all. A recent Scientific American article notes: “Despite a slowing global economy, carbon dioxide emissions continued to rise in 2007 . . . jumping 2.9 percent higher than the last year’s total.” The United States and China were the two nations that had the largest increases in greenhouse gas emissions.

It remains to be seen if U.S. lawmakers (many of whom recently named tackling global warming as their #1 goal for next year) can keep their eyes on the global warming ball, while also working to right the ship of the economy. As stated in a recent Washington Post article, “It’s quite possible that the economic mess will work against emissions reduction efforts by making governments and businesses more skittish about spending money to develop and deploy alternative energy technologies or enact tough new emissions standards.”

It’s essential that we not set the world economy and the global environment at odds. Ultimately they are inseparable. In the long term, neither one can do well without the other. If a bad economy and lack of clean energy resources only results in relaxation of pollution standards and continued destruction of the world’s forests, and if atmospheric C02 levels continue to rise as a result, the pristine islands off the coast of Maine — and all of us, in uncountable ways — will also be impacted.

That’s the important lesson here, I think. Any islands of prosperity will not survive long, unless the world economy improves. Any islands of ecological health will not last unless the global environment is put back on the path to sustainability.

Categories
Great Wass kayaking Maine islands sea kayaking

Into a Land of Superlatives: Kayaking Great Wass Archipelago (Maine)

Four miles to the southeast of my place in Addison is Jonesport. Across the high arched bridge over the Moosabec Reach from Jonesport is Beals. And to the south of Beals, extending far out into the Atlantic, is the Great Wass Archipelago.

At the center of the archipelago is Great Wass Island, a wild island of high granite cliffs and subarctic vegetation which has more than 1500 acres land protected by the Nature Conservancy.

Several miles of trails allow hikers to explore the interior of the island as well as several miles of shoreline along the eastern coast. Kayaking is the best way to explore the entire shoreline — as well as the other 50 or so islands that make up the archipelago.

Quite simply, for the sea kayaking adventurer, no other place in Maine compares to the Great Wass Archipelago.

Kayaking Great Wass is not for novices though, nor for the faint-hearted. Tides are bigger here. Exposure to open ocean means the seas are bigger too. The fog is thicker — and the distances (between islands, and back to civilization) are greater.

I led a guided tour of the eastern side of Great Wass Island earlier this summer. The day started clear, but as we headed south, fog began to move in off the ocean. We traced the islands and ledges east of Great Wass, sighting seals, osprey, eagles, and eiders. As we reached Mink Island, the fog thickened, and we altered our plan, which had been to continue to the southeast toward the lighthouse on Mistake Island. Instead, we headed southwest toward Little Cape Point on Great Wass. After lunch on a beach between Little Cape Point and Mud Hole Point, we paddled into Mud Hole (a pleasant place really) before retracing our route along Great Wass and Beals.

Two more days of paddling are scheduled for August 14-15 — and we still have openings. Please see www.touringkayaks.com for more information.

Categories
Maine islands Penobscot Bay

Paddle ’til You Drop (Or Where a Guide Goes on a Day Off)

It had been a day set aside to do some work around the house, but when the forecast came in — temps in the high 80’s, sunny skies, 5 – 15 knot breezes out of the southwest, 0 percent chance of precipitation, 1-3 foot seas — it became clear that this would be an ideal opportunity to do what I call a “one day blast.” On a summer that is going by all too quickly, this would be summer’s summer. The goal was to be on the water at dawn and off the water at sunset . . . and to see what I could see.

After having some quality map time, scoping out places I hadn’t paddled yet, and reviewing the calculus of driving time and paddling time, a destination emerged, as if from the mist, Hurricane Island, off Vinalhaven Island, in the center of Penobscot Bay. Hurricane Island looked far, even very far, for a day trip. But remember, the weather was going to be ideal, and I wanted to paddle all day.

The rest of the story soon, but in the meantime, here are the numbers and a slideshow (below):


Hurricane Island by the Numbers:

36.1 Distance of trip (in land miles).
12.75 Total time of trip in hours.
3.5 Hours of sleep before the trip.
5:15 AM. Arrived at launch site.
5:22 Time of sunrise.
4.8 Longest crossing in miles.
4 Number of crossings of that length (round trip).
3 Sets of porpoises sighted.
3 Dozens of seals sighted.
2 Other kayakers encountered.
0 Other kayakers encountered on open water.
20 Islands paddled past (apx.)
5 Islands set foot on.
196 Photos taken
4 Applications of sunscreen
1 Gallons of liquid consumed.
2450 Calories consumed
1200 Estimated calorie deficit.
8.5 Time spent paddling in hours (estimated).
3 Attempted power naps on islands.
7.3 Maximum speed (mph).
2.8 Average speed of trip (including stops).
9.5 Hours of sleep after the trip.