As the waters cool, the days shorten, and my schedule transitions from guiding to teaching, my relationship with the water changes too. I look longingly over the bay as I cross the bridge to East Belfast on my morning commute. I hurriedly squeeze in an afternoon paddle between a meeting at school and picking up the kids. Paddling trips are shorter and closer to home. The place where I put in is more likely Belfast Harbor or Pitcher Pond rather than South Thomaston or Stonington. The equinox is a great time to reflect on the summer that was. Days like today give hope that there is a little more of it still left.
Summer started cool, with temperatures on June 24 topping out at 57 degrees. July made us believe in global warming all over again, with 12 days of temps above 80 degrees, and 25 days of at least partial sun. August was more of a mixed bag, but there were still a good number of sunny days and an influx of tourists. Suddenly everyone wanted to get out on the water — today!
Irene brought wind, waves, and rain — and hastened many to pull their boats out of the water. The nice thing about kayaks is that they’re easy to put back in.
Three kayakers lost their lives in Maine waters this summer. One was wearing a life jacket. Two were not. Thousands and thousands of others paddled Maine’s lakes, ponds, and rivers without mishap. Still, an emergency bill is being introduced in the Maine legislature that would make wearing (and not just having) a life jacket a requirement for all those kayaking and canoeing in Maine waters.
I’d rather see an effort to get more paddlers to wear their life jackets through education, not legislation. Do wear your life jacket and be mindful that waters are not as warm as they were a month ago. Paddle safe and enjoy!
Our end-of-summer slideshow has become, for us, a seasonal rite. We hope you enjoy it. A big thank you to all who joined us on our tours. And to those who didn’t, just remember, we can’t put your photo in the slideshow unless you come paddle with us.
If you were to view the Baker Island Dance Floor through the lens of a time-lapse camera, you would see that there is a dance going on — one that has taken place over centuries.
Calm bright summer days bring a relative flurry of activity. The dancers most often arrive quietly, in small groups. Mixed among them are those who will only sit. There are, however, usually a few who will dance. They feel the wind, scan the horizon, and listen to the waves breaking on the rocks — as if to internalize the rhythm; and then, although no band is playing, they pantomime a few steps. Sometimes it is a solitary person who rises and stands in the sunlight on that shelf of brilliant pink granite, at the brink of the broad Atlantic, who then steps out an impromptu waltz with the sea.
By the time you reach there, you have crossed four miles of ocean. Perhaps the seas have been rough. Maybe your passage through the Cranberry Islands has been slowed by fog. After landing your boat on the rocky shore and clambering up through the sea weed zone, you hike for twenty minutes — up through the meadow, past the old farmhouse, to the lighthouse and then down a narrow trail that at times seems to go nowhere, and then you arrive at this place to which people have been coming for hundreds of years for picnics and dancing.
The dance floor is what you have come for. Photos don’t do it justice. You have come a long way for this and have probably been to many granite shorelines in your time, so you come with some skepticism that this will be anything special. And then the trail opens out to the dance floor and you forget all of that. It’s a lonely place, an awe-inspiring place, a wild place. You feel like you are on the edge of something — and you are. Sky, rock, and sea dwarf all that is human, including human thought. You get pushed out of yourself. It’s hard to know what to do. At the dance floor, the suggested activity is to dance.
Some who arrive there do so as a result of being lured by the brief description under “Unique Natural Features” in the Delorme Atlas. Some learn about it by reading kayaking or cruising books. Others come via boat tours out of Northeast Harbor. Still others come as part of organized groups. Penobscot Paddles describes their own recent trip to the Baker Island Dance Floor in their blog here. Ten years ago, a group of 26 social dancers gathered there for a dance that was recorded in a series of photos. Read about it and view the photos at http://www.cranberryisles.com/baker/dance.html The 2001 event was a re-enactment of sorts of events in the 1800’s, when Cranberry Islanders first began using Baker Island for picnics and dancing.
It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that Native Americans did some dancing there as well.
Baker Island is about four miles south of Mt. Desert Island and is the outermost of the five islands that make up the Cranberry Isles. Settlers were living on the Cranberry Isles by the early 1760’s. The island has a 43-foot lighthouse situated at its center that is now nearly obscured by trees.
The southern tip of Isle au Haut, between the rocky islets of Eastern and Western Ear, is an otherworldly place of rock, ocean, and sky. Along with the southern shores of Monhegan, Matinicus, Schoodic, and Great Wass, it is among the most exposed places on the Maine coast. Kayaking this remote stretch of coastline is not for the untrained or faint-hearted.
Sea conditions last Saturday (July 30) were settled enough for us to give it a try, and try we did. On the day before, we had paddled out of Stonington under grey and somewhat ominous-looking skies. We dodged south around Scott, Green, and St. Helena Islands, seeking protection from the stiff headwind when we could find it. Steve’s Island, a favorite, was occupied by a group of kayakers, so we pushed another mile across Merchant Row to Harbor Island, a BPL Island that is also part of the Maine Island Trail, where we set up camp for the night. After a night full of rain and wind, we set off the next morning for a 20-mile circumnavigation of Isle au Haut.
As we paddled south between Burnt Island and Isle au Haut, the fog thinned, the wind eased, and our spirits lifted. The forecasted day of blue skies and light and variable winds seemed to be materializing after all. The winds from the night before were still present in the form of a storm swell that rhythmically rolled in on us from the east.
The eastern coastline of Isle au Haut is cliff-lined, rocky, and varied. Well-maintained homes and estates are interspersed along its shores. A procession of ledges and islands line the horizon to the east. These ledges and islands provided welcome protection from the storm swell. As we neared the high cliffs of Eastern Head, swells were converging from two directions — from the southeast and the southwest — making for confused sea conditions and difficult paddling.
“Sure Thing!” Setting off from Stonington Harbor
View to the northwest from Harbor Island
Wild roses on Harbor Island
Gravel beach at Harbor Island
Mt. Champlain on Isle au Haut rises in the distance.
Paddling along the cliffs of Eastern Isle au Haut.
Isle au Haut, eastern shoreline
Isle au Haut, southern coastline
Cove on the southern coast of Isle au Haut
Rocky shoreline along the western shore of Isle au Haut.
Rounding the basalt cliffs of Western Ear.
Cliffs of Western Head, Isle au Haut
From along the trail southwest toward Western Head
Cliffs of Western Ear, Isle au Haut
Coastline of western Isle au Haut
Sunset near Hardwood Island
near McGlathery Island
The southern coast of Isle au Haut
We shot the passage between Eastern Head and Eastern Ear. Swells whose crests rose above our heads raced toward us. Powered by adrenaline, we dug our paddles in and pushed up over the wave crests. With0ut a doubt, rounding the southern part of Eastern Ear was the most challenging part of the trip.
The seas there were steep-sided, confused, and — counting the refracting waves off the cliffs — now coming from three directions at once. Occasional guillemots marked the water. Occasional lobster boats marked the horizon. Other than that, it was just the two of us, the distant cliffs, and the big sea. Out there, in that wild and foreign environment, the smell of the sea sharp in your nose, the sunlight bright in your eyes, and the swells lifting under you, the very planet seems to palpitate, to hum, and to roar. Your senses are so wide awake, it is as if you can hear the earth’s heartbeat — and your own heartbeat too.
The southern coast of Isle au Haut
We stayed far offshore to minimize the effects of the refracting waves and paddled steadily across Head Harbor, looking for a beach where we might land or a shoreline where we might get some relief from the waves. By this time, the seas seemed less dangerous, but paddling still required our full attention. A moment of inattention and a capsize in these cold waters was not something we wanted to deal with.
At last, we made our way west-northwest into a somewhat protected cove and landed on a rough cobbled beach.
After lunch and a short hike along the shoreline cliffs, we launched our kayaks and paddled around Western Head. By then, the winds had calmed and the storm swell had diminished. The waves out of the southwest were still large enough to keep us from getting too close to the cliffs. The tide was too low to allow us to shoot the passage between Western Head and Western Ear, so we rounded the ear and turned north into progressively calmer conditions.
The afternoon light dramatically highlighted the cliffs of the wild shoreline north of Western Ear. We paddled on happily, feeling assured that the most difficult conditions of the day were behind us. The sky was blue; the sun was friendly and warm. We loitered among the ledges, watching seabirds, taking photos, and gazing at the cliffs.
We paddled into Duck Harbor to replenish our water bottles and quickly check out the campground, which I had not visited in several years.
As we moved north from Duck Harbor, we felt both a sense of haste (the day was waning) and leisure (the light was beautiful, the water was calm and increasingly glassy).
We crossed past the western edge of Kimball Island, paddled east along Kimball Head, and then swung north toward the southern shoreline of Merchant Island. The subtle “huff” of a harbor porpoise is something I heard several times without being able to confirm it. And then we started to see them, repeatedly breaching the quiet water as they worked the ledges for fish. We spent a entranced half an hour moving among the breaching porpoises while they moved around us.
By now the sun was nearing the horizon. It was time to make a push for our campsite on Harbor Island. We rounded the western shore of Merchant, paused to watch the sunset, and then returned, tired, hungry, and happy to our campsite.
The kayaker launched from Hancock Point and was found near Hulls Cove. His kayak was found further south near the Porcupine Islands.In a tragic accident during a honeymoon trip, a kayaker died of accidental drowning in the waters of Frenchman Bay last Sunday.
The purpose of this blog post is not to judge the decisions made by this kayaker or to determine exactly what happened but rather to learn from the incident so that other kayakers can avoid this type of accident in the future.
Sunday, June 19 dawned brilliantly sunny and clear. Visibility was a near perfect 10 miles. The 7:00 a.m. air temperature was listed at 59 degrees. The surface water temperature in Frenchman Bay was 58 degrees.
The young man involved in the incident, Eric Hogan, 28, of Webster, Massachusetts, left the shore of Hancock Point in a sit-on-top kayak, wearing only shorts and a life jacket. The lightness of his attire together with the reported fact that he and his wife were planning to leave their vacation cottage that day, seem to indicate that he only planned a short trip. The perfect visibility must have made the mountains of Acadia appear almost close enough to touch.
Waking up in Belfast that morning, I noted the stiff wind blowing and immediately decided that, for me, it was likely not a paddling day. However, weather records in the Bar Harbor area indicate winds of less than 10 mph at 7:00 a.m. The wind direction was from the WNW, which means if he launched from the east side of Hancock Point, he would have been in the lee of the wind and might not have felt it until he had paddled away from the shore. Even if he launched from the southern end of Hancock Point, he may not have been fully aware of the sea conditions, since — when looking out over the water — it is easy to underestimate waves that are not breaking straight onto the shore.
Low tide on Sunday morning was at 8:08 a.m. The tide is listed as 0.5 feet below “normal,” meaning it was a lower than average tide. At 7:00 AM, the tidal currents when move in and out of Frenchman Bay were nearly slack. Although there would be no clouds or rain that day, that early morning stillness was truly “the calm before the storm.”
By 8:15 a.m., the wind was coming out of the northwest. This may have pushed the kayaker further offshore and made it more difficult for him to return. Average wind speed increased to 12 mph, with gusts up to 21 mph. At shortly after 9:15 a.m., wind gusts of up to 25 mph were recorded in Bar Harbor. By this time the tidal currents that push north up the bay and ultimately west through the Mount Desert Narrows would have begun to increase. When tidal currents are in direct opposition to waves, as they were this day, it results in a rough steep-sided seas. By this time, wave heights at the Eastern Maine Shelf Buoy south of Mount Desert Island had increased from 3.0 to 3.8 feet.
Likely sometime between 9:00 and 11:00 a.m., Eric Hogan’s kayak was capsized and he was not able to get back aboard. Perhaps it had already capsized several times. One feature of sit-on-top kayaks is that unlike standard (“sit-in”) kayaks, they do not take and water and cannot swamp. Following a sit-on-top capsize, a paddler need only flip the kayak upright, clamber back aboard, and resume paddling.
The combination of the wind and wind-blow spray as well as the waves sloshing up onto his kayak undoubtedly started to lower Eric’s body temperature. If he had already capsized one or more times, this would have lowered his body temperature further. When the body gets cold, hands and feet start to lose dexterity. Next, arms and legs begin to lose strength. The mind also slows down. Coordination is lost. Judgement becomes clouded.
On one of the capsizes, Eric may not have been separated from his boat or paddle or both. Or, his arms may no longer have had the strength to pull himself back aboard.
At around 11 a.m., after his wife reported him overdue in returning from his outing, police and emergency response personnel began searching for him. Hogan was unresponsive when the Coast Guard found him floating off Hulls Cove around 1:30 p.m.
For the vast majority of people, kayaking is a relatively low risk sport that enhances health and provides a lot of joy. A study of paddlesport deaths in Maine shows that there were 12 kayaking deaths in the years 2000 – 2007, four of which occurred in ocean waters. However, even one death is too many. Following are some guidelines for reducing the incidence of this type of accident in the future.
1. Wear a life jacket, but also understand its limitations. Although the life jacket does not ensure survival, it does extend survival time when swimming in cold water.
2. Choose a kayak appropriate for the waters you are paddling. For paddling in cold waters, kayaks with enclosed cockpits and sealed bulkheads (provide reserve flotation in case of capsize) are recommended.
3. Leave a written float plan indicating where you are going and when you intend to return.
4. Dress for air AND water temperatures. When paddling the Maine coastline, this may mean wearing a wetsuit or dry suit. When it is summer on the land, it is still spring on the water.
5. Listen to weather forecasts. Winds of more than 12 mph may be too much for beginning paddlers. Winds of more than 18 mph may make conditions unsafe for intermediate paddlers.
6. Be prepared for changes in weather. Dramatic and unexpected weather changes will eventually affect all outdoor adventurers.
7. Study charts. Know the areas you will paddle. Understand the effects of tides and currents. Stay along shorelines as much as possible.
8. Carry a waterproof/submersible VHF radio and/or a cell phone in a waterproof pouch.
9. Practice self-rescue and assisted rescue techniques. Take a class to learn these if you have not done so.
10. Paddle in a group when possible as doing so increases your ability to successfully handle an accident or other unexpected situation.
11. If paddling alone, be more conservative in your decisions regarding all of the above
12. If you are unsure about any of the above, strongly consider going with a guide or more experienced paddler.
*Weather and sea condition data are from Gomoos.org and Wunderground.com
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.
Story has it that the Union River takes its name from the fact that when the area was surveyed by Samuel Livermore in the late 1700’s, the river ran right down the middle of twelve newly formed towns.
Nowadays, the upper part of the Union is in the middle of nowhere — and that is just fine with us.
The West Branch of the Union, north of the Airline Road, is billed as Hancock County’s “finest” whitewater run. We ran it last Saturday for the first time, and it didn’t disappoint.
After a 50 mile drive from Belfast to Amherst via Bucksport and Dedham, we pulled over alongside Tannery Falls (just off the Tannery Loop) and unloaded our bicycles, which we would use later for our return to the put in. We took a close look at the falls, which though rated “only” a Class III looked fairly gnarly. Would we run the falls or take out above them? We reserved that decision for later. According to the Zip Kellogg’s canoeing guide, if exposed dry rock is visible at Tannery Falls, the river is too low to run. If the falls have the appearance of a raging river, it advises, “Don’t try to paddle the river.” The level looked closer to raging than to dry, but “raging” — we decided — is somewhat a matter of perspective.
We drove 12 miles north to Great Pond via Aurora and the Great Pond Road. After passing through the tiny village of Great Pond, the road turns steeply downhill to the Great Pond Recreation area (formerly Dow Pines), a military-owned campground (open year year; includes cabins and yurts as well as tent sites) that allows public use of their beach and boat launch. The 375-acre recreation area borders the entire southern edge of Great Pond and also extends south along the western shore of the Union River.
We launched our kayaks from the sandy beach and headed south through a bay that gradually narrows to the mouth of the river. Great Pond is largely wild and undeveloped. Kellogg comments that it is particularly beautiful in the fall, as the the pond is in the center of a bowl of hills and the surrounding slopes have plenty of hardwoods.
Although some sections of the river are not far from roads, The West Branch of the Union provides a sense of wilderness and seclusion. We sighted no other paddlers, and only a few fishermen during our 11 mile river journey. The area is rife with wildlife, however. Hundreds of ducks as well as hawks, deer, turtles, blue heron, cormorants, beaver, and wild turkeys were among the wildlife we encountered.
Tannery Falls.
Tannery Falls: view from the western shore.
Hell Gate
4th Falls
Captains Roll
Tannery Falls.
Tannery Falls.
Union River, West Branch
The paddling was outstanding. The river is larger and has stronger currents than most of our midcoast rivers. That plus the seclusion and our unfamiliarity with the river made us a bit conservative. The river has sections of flatwater, frequent stretches of rips and easy rapids, and a few stretches of challenging whitewater (strong currents and decent sized waves). Most notable are the drops. The West Branch has multiple small pitches of a few feet in height. It also has four larger ones, with names like “Hell Gate” and “Captains Roll.” Kellogg recommends scouting these drops and we emphatically concur.
The importance of scouting was reinforced by our experience at one of the earlier, easier drops. Without scouting it beforehand, we lined up to take the drop at Bog Dam rapids “right of center,” just as the guidebook suggested. However, immediately after taking the drop, I was spun and nearly capsized by a mossy green sleeper rock. Leslie, who had been following close behind, backpaddled to avoid my boat, never saw the rock, had her kayak pushed far up onto it, and was spun before finally capsizing. (See all the action in the video below).
Partly due to the time factor (it often takes longer to scout and then go back upriver and run a rapid than to simply portage it), we opted for short portages around the three major drops and took out above the fourth. This was a recon mission — and for that day at least, just being in the vicinity of those falls provided plenty of adrenalin.
Those pitches are not easy to get out of your head. I’ve been seeing Hell Gate in my dreams and am itching to head back up there and give it a try.
A week ago, the fact that the St. George River Race was just three weeks off seemed incongruous. Snow was waist deep along the driveway, woodpile and picnic table were still hidden. Small hills and gullies were beneath a uniform blanket of white. It seemed likely paddlers would have a tough time finding the St. George River, never mind paddling it.
With the rains of last week, everything changed. The new concern is that the melt will come too fast rather than too slow. The seasonal landmark that the St. George River will be open by the last Saturday in March now seems like a good bet.
For those who haven’t paddled these rivers before, entering one of the local river races can be intimidating. But anyone thinking about it should keep in mind that there are always novices among the field and that for many racers it is more a rite of spring, a social experience, or a chance for a good workout rather than a serious competitive endeavor. Additionally, these races (and the clinics beforehand) actually provide an ideal opportunity for less experienced paddlers to learn a river. Unlike other days, on race day, there are rescue personnel at the danger spots, plenty of other paddlers around to learn the river from, and plenty of opportunities to hitch a ride back to the start.
More than 3 dozen paddling races will be held before the leaves turn in October. The first four races leading up to the Kenduskeag are:
1. St. George River Race: 11:00 AM, Saturday, March 26. 6 miles. For paddlers: The St. George is mostly Class I and II and is a great race to begin with. Apaddling clinic is offered the afternoon before the race. See the race: Spectators and river vultures typically gather at the start on Route 131 near downtown Searsmont, on the Ghent Road Bridge, and at the finish on the Route 135 bridge. River fact: At high water levels, this river can be easier to paddle as the drop at Magog is smoothed out and there are fewer rocks to avoid. Contact: Waldo County YMCA.
2. Passagasswakeag River Race. 11:00 AM, Saturday, April 2. 6 miles. For paddlers: The Passy is just a wee step up from the St. George in terms of difficulty. As with the George, apaddling clinic is offered the afternoon before the race. See the race: The Rollerson Bridge on the Poor’s Mills Road is the most popular spot from which to watch this race. River fact: When the water is high, the river offers a short cuts where savvy paddlers can leave the main course of the river and cut through the woods. Contact: Waldo County YMCA
3. Soudabscook Stream Sprint & Race. Saturday, April 9. 9:00 AM and 12:00 Noon, Saturday, April 2. 2 and 8 miles. For paddlers: Stronger currents and several Class II and III drops make the Soudabscook is a step up from the two earlier races. Scouting the river beforehand is essential. Several portages are involved. See the race: Several places off the Emerson Mill Road and the Papermill Road in Hampden. River fact: Soudabscook means “sloping ledge.” As with many rivers, this river was named for a predominant feature at the river mouth — in this case, where it joins the Penobscot. Contact: Additional information is at www.mackro.org
4. Marsh Stream Race. Sunday, April 10. 9:00 AM and 12:00 Noon, 1 and 8 miles. For paddlers: Like the Sou, the Marsh Stream offers challenging Class II and III ledge drops and the currents can be strong. Scouting the drops beforehand is essential. Several portages are involved. The race course is sometimes shortened in years of high water. See the race: Several locations along the Stream Road in Winterport are ideal for watching paddlers negotiate drops. River fact: The Marsh Stream race course includes a portage around Flatrock Falls, which is considered Class V. Contact: Additional information is at www.mackro.org
“Wandering re-establishes the original harmony which once existed between man and the universe.” –Anatole France
The once billowy snow has hardened into something that more resembles rock. The noonday perch of the sun is beginning to show some ambition. Daylight length is up to 10 hours and 49 minutes, and “length of visible light” is up to a democratic 11 hours and 48 minutes. Traveling through the woods on warm afternoons, at intervals where spring streams will later be, I hear rivulets of water gurgling under the snow.
This week at least, the paddle leans in front of the skis in the corner of the mudroom. The more insular world of woodstove and woodpile and backwoods trails holds its own attractions, but those attractions have paled. I am looking less for a covering of new snow and more for days with light winds and ample sunshine — days to get out on the water.
It is important to remember, though, that as the land begins its slow slide from one season to the next, the cold wet mass of the Atlantic acts like a parking brake. Penobscot Bay water temperatures are now a mere 34 degrees F — 4 degrees colder than a month ago — and still dropping.
Minnesota Sea Grant provides us with the sobering fact that, without a dry suit or wet suit, functional survival time in water of such temperature may be less than 15 minutes. I wear a dry suit. I go out only on calm days. I stay close to shore.
I’ve paddled three times in the last ten days after going an uncharacteristic two months without paddling. This time of year, paddling out onto Belfast Bay can feel like a lonely act. But it also feels like joining something. Currents bring flotsam and jetsam from afar. Sea ducks whirl about. Seals move like hidden fleets of submarines beneath the waves. The sky is big and the bay mirrors its color. The sun is doubled and re-doubled again and again on the surface of the water. Belfast Bay widens to Penobscot Bay which widens to the Gulf of Maine which widens to the Atlantic. Possibilities for wandering are limited only by time and imagination.
One who appears short of neither time nor imagination is Aleksander Doba, a 64 year old paddler from Poland, who recently — with very little media fanfare — completed an unsupported solo kayak journey from Africa to South America. It was only the 4th successful kayak crossing of the Atlantic and the first “continent to continent” crossing. Doba’s 3,345 mile crossing took him 99 days, also making it the longest open water journey in a kayak. Canoe & Kayak Magazine has posted an online article detailing the expedition that also includes photos of Doba’s specially designed 23′ x 36″ kayak.
Doba is ashore right now, but he wants to keep paddling. The United States is next on his list. Maybe, one day in the future, we’ll see him riding the tide into Belfast Harbor at sunset.
The proverb, “A year of snow, a year of plenty,” has a basis in the agricultural truth that a deep snow cover protects plants and trees from the cold and can thereby boost the following growing season. For those who like to snowshoe, ski, snowmobile, ice fish, or enjoy the snow in other ways, the benefits come much sooner.
Plain and simple, this is the best (purest, deepest, softest, whitest, longest lasting) snow I can remember in Waldo County. In the Eskimo language, it is muruaneq, soft deep snow. Or in the Inuit, maxtla, “snow that hides the whole village, or simply tlapa, powder snow.
According to NOAA maps, Maine is currently covered by 6 to 30 inches of snow, with the average depth being about 20 inches. That’s enough snow to fill Sebago Lake (deepest and 2nd largest lake in Maine) 14 times.
The snow water equivalent of our current snowpack averages about 3 inches statewide, which is — in itself — enough to fill Sebago Lake twice. Melt all that snow and you have 1.8 trillion gallons of water. Bottle and sell those gallons for a dollar apiece and you could run the state budget for 200 years. That’s a lot of snow.
But you can’t sell the snow, of course. And t least some of us wouldn’t want to. For those who cross country ski, snowshoe, or snowmobile, waking up after a snow storm is the equivalent of waking up to find our houses magically, overnight have been transported to the shore of a massive and breathtakingly beautiful lake. Recreational opportunities that did not exist a day ago now beckon at our doorsteps. What previously seemed private is a vast public commons. Where travel was previously limited is a vast network of pathways. For all it’s uses, including just for the view, the “lake” becomes the center of our day.
Little River Community Trail, after a recent snowstorm
I am fortunate to be able to access the Little River Community Trail (and nearby network of ski and snowshoe trails) from my back door. Currently, most of the trails are tracked and gorgeous. The skiing doesn’t get better than this.
If a person’s wealth were based on the miles of cross country ski trails leading from their backyard, some of us would be feeling wealthy indeed. Better yet, in this case at least, it’s easy to share the wealth. Hoping to cross tracks with you soon!
Three men dip their paddles into the calm waters of the remote lake and move their canoe up a relatively small inlet. The year is 1903. The lake is Grand Lake, a gateway into the unmapped and untraveled wilderness of Labrador. Their plan is to canoe and portage their way 600 miles west and north to Northwest Post on the Hudson Bay, a heretofore unattempted journey. They do not realize it, of course, but a mere 2 days and 40 miles into their trip, they are making the journey’s most pivotal decision — one that will lead beyond failure to disaster — and for one of them, death by starvation.
Great Heart: History of a Labrador Adventure by Davidson and Rugge is an account of this journey, as well as of two subsequent journeys through the wild interior of Labrador by canoe.
One thing that strikes me is their decision to head upriver from the inlet without more fully exploring the northern end of the lake, which in fact has three other major inlets. One of these is the Naskapi, the river they had intended to take. But it was approaching mid-July in the short Labrador summer, and their journey had already been delayed by several weeks. The river they had chosen seemed to fit their map and the vague descriptions from local trappers well enough. In the next few days, as they paddled farther, the river became unexpectedly shallow, steep, and rocky, forcing frequent portages.
Had circumstances been different, they might have re-thought their route. Instead, they continued on for 60 days and 150 miles through an impossible landscape of steep hills, wide swamps, and thick forests. In mid-September, after almost uncountable miles of portaging their heavy gear, they spent several days windbound on a lakeshore and finally turned back. By this time, their food supplies were exhausted, the rough country had torn their clothing to shreds, and they were dangerously thin from physical exertion and a lean diet. Temperatures were dropping; game and fish were more scarce. Their retreat became a race against winter and starvation. Two of the men managed to make their way back to the starting point. The third, Leonidas Hubbard, the leader of the expedition, died of a combination of starvation and (likely) hypothermia.
The title of this post intends no disrespect toward members of the Hubbard Expedition. The mistake they made could have been made by any of us. The information they had told of a river leading out of the northern end of Grand Lake. The first river they came to was that river — this was the conclusion they leapt to. The maps of the time were made up largely of blank spaces when it came to interior Labrador. When the map did not conform to the territory they saw in front of them, they mentally willed the territory to conform to the map.
Their story has lessons for all of us who venture into the unknown, whether it be taking a back road to cut across town, guessing left at a fork in a hiking trail, or guessing right at a confluence of two rivers. Their refusal to turn back, despite mounting evidence that they had taken a “wrong turn” followed stages many of us are familiar with.
First, there is absolute belief that we have chosen the correct route. During this stage, any signs to the contrary are ignored. If the map has led us to expect a river and we find a stream, we stretch our mental construct such that it becomes a “small river” and continue. In the second stage, our denial deepens. We begin to have doubts, but we keep on, telling ourselves if we go just a little farther, the landmarks we were anticipating will appear, and the visible landscape will begin to conform more closely with our expectations. Stage 3 involves accepting that we probably have taken a wrong turn. Not wanting to retreat, we bargain. Just go a little farther, we coach ourselves, and we will have more complete proof that we are in the wrong. Stage 4 involves certainty. We know we are wrong. But we have come so far already that turning back has a significant cost. Better to keep going and hope for a stroke of luck. Maybe we will yet come out of this better than we have a right to hope.
Most of us have been there. Most of us will be there again. In this era of Google Earth, it is more tempting than ever to think that map and territory are one in the same. The map is not a physical thing though; it is a mental construct. It is what we can hold in our heads. The territory is something altogether different. And that is why we go there. We go to have our preconceptions shattered. We go to have better maps.
Great Heart is a story about human stubbornness; it is also a tale of ambition and courage. Most of us who seek adventure in the outdoors will be able to see ourselves making the same decisions made by these men, and that is part of what makes this journey so gripping.
