Categories
Downeast Maine maine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Categories
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.

Categories
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)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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
Penobscot Bay sea kayaking

Seals but not on Seal Island. Flat Island Still Flat:


An early season paddling trip to Flat and Seal Islands, off Saturday Cove, Maine.

During the next few weeks, I’ll aim to focus my posts here on some of the critters (winged, on foot, or afloat) that you might expect to encounter if you explore the Maine coast by kayak.

Last week I paddled out to Flat Island and Seal Island from Saturday Cove (Northport, Maine) for this first time this season. The tide was calm and the bay was flat — perfect conditions for sighting seals in the water. Midway on my crossing to Flat Island, I spotted at a distance a cluster of activity. Approaching closer, I found that it was a group of 3 sea gulls as well as several seals that kept resurfacing in that area. Must have been some good fishing in that spot.

As I approached Flat Island and began to circle it, I sighted more seals, both ashore and afloat. I paddled slowly, giving the island a wide berth, so as not to disturb any resting seals. In several instances, seals surfaced near my kayak, popped their heads high out of the water to get a good look at me, and then rather calmly dipped back beneath the surface.

In all, my informal count came to 21 seals on and around Flat Island. (Disclaimer: some seals may have been counted more than once if they followed me as I circled the island). This seems like more than in recent years.

Overall, the Maine harbor seal population is said to be doing very well, having increased from just 4,600 in 1973 to more than 28,000 today. Prior to 1972, harbor seals were hunted due to being a perceived threat to the fishing industry. In the first half of that century, Maine and New England’s harbor and gray seals were nearly hunted to extinction as a result to bounty policies. However, scientific studies have not shown seals to have a negative impact on fish stocks. The Marine Mammal Protection Act of 1972 protects seals and other marine animals from hunting and various forms of harassment.

Harassment of the inadvertent kind is a big issue for boaters as resting seals are often alarmed by the sight of kayaks and will leave their resting spots to go into the water. If this only happens once or twice a day, it probably isn’t much of a problem, but if it happens repeatedly or occurs during pupping season, it adds a lot stress to the seals and can negatively affect their survival.
I’ve wondered about migration of harbor seals, which seems to be a subject of debate. According to at least one source, “our” harbor seals actually have dual residency. Jim Murtagh, states that Maine harbor seals are not Maine residents exclusively, as many of them winter on Long Island Sound and then migrate back up to Maine early each spring to give birth to pups.

Anyone who sights a stranded or injured seal can report it to Allied Whale at College of the Atlantic in Bar Harbor.

Resources:

http://www.marinemammalcenter.org/learning/education/pinnipeds/harborseal.asp

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harbor_Seal

http://www.mita.org/learn/history/seals

Google Map of Flat Island

http://www.touringkayaks.com/blog2/2008/05/paddling-to-islesboro.html

http://www.paddletrips.net/sealisltrip.htm

Categories
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.

Categories
kayak racing Kenduskeag Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race

Kenduskeag Canoe Race: Slower but Still Sweet

Heraclitus tells us that we cannot step twice into the same river. As far as I know, Heraclitus wasn’t a paddler, but he probably would have agreed that you can’t paddle the same river twice either.

Those who raced along the Kenduskeag Stream for 16.5 miles between Kenduskeag and Bangor yesterday found a river very different from the race day river of recent years. One paddler said it was the lowest level he remembers on race day for the last dozen years or so. Pretty ironic to have such low spring river levels following a winter in which we had so much snow. A Bangor area total of 0.00 inches of rain during the 10 days prior to the race pretty much explains it.

A low river level meant the Kenduskeag Stream was full of rocks of all shapes and sizes, many of them mean and pointy looking, that few of us had seen before. It meant that the current, which gives as much as a 2 mph boost to paddlers some years, was non-existent. It meant that even when you could maneuver around the rocks, you could frequently feel your boat speed drop as the hull bogged down in the shallow water.

By my calculations, the Kenduskeag “felt” about 4 miles longer than it did two years ago, in a year of high water. The bottom line is that it’s difficult or impossible to meaningfully compare times from year to year.

But “times” isn’t what it is all about, anyway. It’s about time — having a good time on the river. It’s about the celebration of spring, the awakening landscape, and the melting of all that snow. Although I train for the race, have a specialized kayak, and possibly take it more seriously than most, one of the things I look forward to most about the Kenduskeag is the beauty of the spring river as it unfolds toward Bangor. I look forward to the camaraderie, the spirit of adventure and optimism that is shared among the participants. Race day was a gorgeous sun spattered spring day. A great day to be on the river.

Nearly 1000 paddlers and 510 boats were involved in this year’s race, an all-time record for participation. It was the 43rd annual Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race, which is the largest race of its kind in New England.

Kayaker Trevor Maclean placed 1st overall with a time of 2:17.58 minutes. Kayaker Robert Lang of Rothesay, New Brunswick finished 2nd overall with a time of 2:22.45. Jeff Owen of Orono and Steve Woodward of Cumberland finished first among canoeists with a time of 2:29.08.

I brought a plastic sea kayak to the start, just in case stream levels had dropped as much as some had feared. But I decided to keep to my original plan and stay in the K-1 (long racing kayaks) category. I would paddle the same kayak I had used the two previous years, a 17.5 foot, 19 inch beam somewhat tender-hulled Ruahine Swallow.

The K-1 (kayak long) class was more competitive this year. In addition to 11-time winner Robert Lang who won the division last year, it featured Trevor Maclean who has competed in world championships in kayaking, and Bryan McCarthy of Hope, Maine who has paddled in U.S. Olympic trials competitions.

Michael Alden photos / Used with permission.

Lang started in the set of 5 paddlers that started one-minute ahead of my group. Maclean started in a set a couple of minutes behind. I knew that the river current wasn’t going to give many free rides and that it would therefore be especially important not to go out too fast. But Bryan McCarthy (who started in my group) went out hard — and I followed him.

As the race unfolded, it seemed more and more likely that the battle for 3rd place in the K-1 division was between me and Bryan, who was maintaining a strong pace fifty yards ahead. Trevor Maclean had blown by both of us in his ultra-narrow flatwater boat. Robert Lang, who had apparently started fast, was nowhere to be seen. Since Lang is a longtime Kenduskeag veteran, it seemed unlikely that we would be able to catch him on the lower part of the river.

The 10.5 miles of flatwater above Six-Mile Falls was almost unrelenting flatwater. I was a bit overdressed (2 ml farmer john wetsuit) for the air temperatures and drank all I could from my Camelbak to try to avoid dehydration and cramps. I was working hard to stay with Bryan, trying to be as efficient as possible with my paddle stroke, sneaking little breaks by drafting behind canoes for 5 seconds at a time before passing them.

At times I would close the gap a bit, but then Bryan would pull away again. It was still 50 yards. We seemed pretty well matched in the flat water, but I wasn’t going to close the gap there, it became clear to me. My best hope was that I could make up time on the portages or in the whitewater.

Below Six-Mile Falls, the river reverted again to flatwater, interspersed with short sections of shallow, rather technical whitewater. At that point in the race, when you have been paddling hard for two hours, it is difficult to summon the will or the strength to make a major move, to pass someone who is paddling at the same pace you are paddling. I continued to pass other kayaks and canoes, but Bryan remained elusive, just ahead of me.

Then I got stuck sideways on a rock for about 15 seconds in a particularly shallow section of whitewater.

My portages went well. I made up some time there. On the last portage, with just a half mile left in the race, I put my boat in a bit further downriver from Bryan. He wasn’t yet underway, but then moved past me as I fastened my spray skirt. Then I was off, to somewhat recklessly crash through the waves at Shopping Cart, skitter through the final section of shallows, and then dash through the canals to the finish, with Bryan still agonizingly within reach — and out of reach.

I didn’t have quite enough to catch Bryan yesterday. But next year the Kenduskeag will be a different river. And I’ll be a different paddler, if I keep working at it, a better one.

Categories
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.

Categories
Kayak Race kayak racing kayaking

A Week on the Passy: From Winter to Spring

The photos in the slideshow above were taken while paddling a 5.5 mile section of the Passagassawakeag River 7 times during the 8 days period of March 29 to April 5, 2009. The photos are arranged geographically, moving from west to east, along the river, rather than by date taken.

It may not be a large or famous river. It’s certainly not the longest. It might, however, be the river with the longest name: Passagassawakeag. sixteen letters, ten of which are “a” or “s.”

Passagassawakeag. Learn to pronounce it fluently and you can impress both locals and visitors alike. The origin of the river’s name has been variously translated as place of ghosts, sturgeon river, clear fish river, and place for spearing sturgeon by torch-light.

Whatever it was named for, the Passy is a fun and beautiful river. One well worth getting to know. Paddling friends and I marvel at the fact that more people don’t get out on this river. Compared to downhill skiing for example, it costs less, is closer to home, and requires no more skill or expertise than running an intermediate slope on a big mountain.

The section of the river featured in the photos is the same one used in the annual Passy River Race, this year held on April 4. The put in is near the Littlefield farm on the Savage Road in Waldo. The take-out is a few hundred yards short of the intersection of the Rount 137 and the Shepard Road. Several miles of flatwater interspersed with sections of Class I, II, and III whitewater are found on this varied section of the Passy.

For their first trip down the Passy, those unfamiliar with the river and those new to paddling should seek to to with an experienced paddler.

Categories
kayak racing kayaking whitewater

Whitewater Dreams

This can be an anxious time of year for midcoast Maine whitewater paddlers. Although whitewater paddling opportunities statewide continue throughout the spring and summer, the season here is short — and the midcoast whitewater racing season is even shorter, focused on the period last week of March and the first two weeks in April.

The local whitewater race season opens with the St. George race on March 28, continues with the Passy Race race on April 4, and concludes with the Marsh Stream race on April 4.

Snow on the ground is money in the bank that can lead to good paddling when it melts later. A fast melt due to unseasonably warm termperatures or heavy rains is like spending all that money at once. A slow melt due to cold temperatures and a lack of rain leads rivers to remain low or even frozen. And that’s the situation we are in right now.

According to NOAA charts, the average snow depth in midcoast Maine is 10 – 12 inches. In the woods as recent it is still more than that. The water equivalent of our snow cover is 6 to 8 inches. So there is plenty of “money” in the bank — and the makings of a great whitewater season.

However, the rivers seem a little slow to open up this year. The average flow (9 year mean) for the Ducktrap River for March 17 is 75 cubic feet per second. In comparison, the present flow on the Ducktrap is about 25 cfs.

The St. George and Passy River offer relatively easy whitewater, most of it Class 1 and Class II interspersed with sections of flatwater. For this reason, they are great rivers for those eager to get into the sport but without much canoeing or kayaking experiene. Information on the St. George and Passy Races is available from the Waldo County YMCA website.

The entire Maine canoe and kayak race schedule is at www.mackro.org/ MaCKRO (The Maine Canoe and Kayak Racing Organization) sponsors a 10-race whitewater, or “downriver” series, and a nine-race flat-water series. Mackro has a goal of bringing more young people into the sport. This year has developed it’s equipment loan program and has expanded categories / awards for young and first time paddlers.

“We’re trying to pull off some really nice awards, including nice championship sweatshirts, gift certificates … and only those people — new members and youth — who do at least five of those races can have their names put in a drawing for an Old Town Canoe,” Jeff Owen, club president, says in a recent Bangor Daily News article. Owen goes on to say that some races are sponsoring high school divisions, and others have begun offering prizes to children even younger than that.

For me, paddling in the St. George, Passy, and Kenduskeag Races has become a yearly ritual and a marker of spring. This is the best time of year if you are a midcoast Maine paddler. There is nothing quite like entering a stretch of whitewater with the sunlight sparkling on the river and the snow still deep in the woods.

Sure there is mud in the driveway and frost heaves in the roads. But those won’t be getting much of my attention. I’ll be out running the rivers, enjoying the snow all over again, as it melts and makes its way to the sea.

Categories
Acadia Downeast Maine

The Right Place in Time: Skiing Acadia National Park

When John D. Rockefeller, Jr. started building the 57-mile network of carriage roads on Mount Desert Island in 1913, I am quite sure he did not have cross country skiing in mind. Long, long before that, the island’s incredibly varied geologic history, including periods of erosion and sedimentation, plate tectonics, volcanic eruption, and glaciation, shaped the dramatic landscape that we see there today.

As beautiful as Acadia National Park is during the summer, it is no less majestic in the winter. Acadia is famous for it’s juxtaposition of mountains and sea. Throw snow into the mix and you have something even more amazing.

Make it several feet of pristine white snow that stretches right down to the water’s edge, miles of groomed trails (thanks Friends of Acadia), no entrance fee, free parking, and it is probably the best cross country ski value in North America.

All those factors combine to make it a very special place for skiing.

After making the drive from Belfast, we pulled into the Hull’s Cove visitors area. A ranger recommended the groomed trails in the Jordan Pond area. By that time, we were eager to minimize driving and maximize skiing, so we split the difference, drove to Eagle Lake, found a place in the nearly full parking area, and headed out along the western shore of the lake.

Along Eagle Lake, the trails were tracked but not groomed. Nothing to complain about for those accustomed to Waldo Country snowmobile trails, snowshoe trials, and just plain bushwacking. On the Jordan Pond section of the trail (see map below), we were treated to something seldom found in midcoast Maine: groomed tracks for both classic and skate skiing.

The tracks had iced over in the mid-afternoon shadows — it was a long sweet ride down the graded trail to Jordan Pond.

Next, still on groomed tracks, we headed down a long hill with tight turns toward Lower Hadlock Pond. The trail continued good on past Upper Hadlock Pond — and then became less groomed at some point. The winter quiet of Aunt Betty Pond was compelling, but so we were also getting increasingly hungry, tired, and cold — and eager to close our 15-mile loop by continuing on through the diminishing light back to the Eagle Lake Parking area.

Day 2 featured skiing into Sand Beach after Parking at the end of the Schooner Head Road. After skiing on the beach itself, (we are not the first to try this out), we headed out along the footpath that leads from Sand Beach to Thunder Hole and then on to Otter cliffs.


Resources:

National Park Service: Acadia / Skiing

NOAA Snow Depth Map (updated daily)