Ironbound Island

It was a calm day off of Bar Harbor, just a mild swell as we paddled three miles directly to Ironbound Island, on the other side of Frenchman Bay. We didn't have any big plans; we thought we'd get out there and meander back through the Porcupine Islands. As soon as we arrived at the southern end of Ironbound though, we noticed that the mild swell was making some big splashes when it hit the steep, rocky shore.



Some days are all about paddling some miles, others are all about the distractions you find along the way. Oh boy, I love those distractions. We paddled below the cliffs, winding our way among the rocks, letting the swell lift us and drop us. Sometimes you maneuver into an interesting spot and that unexpected big wave comes in. Sometimes the water beneath you just...



... goes away. Fortunately, many of the ledges are padded with seaweed.



Sometimes there's not much to do but wait for that next wave to come and get you.




But hopefully, when it gets you, it doesn't really get you.

Here's a link to the Southern Maine Sea Kayak Network Message Board, where there are some interesting thoughts about seal-kayaker relations.

The Group of Seven: Naskeag to Swans

As the crow flies, Naskeag Point is about seven miles from Stonington, and not much more if you paddle there. A few days ago though, Rebecca and I strapped the kayaks on the car and drove there, which took us the better part of an hour. We were meeting Peter (see Bartlett Island) and a few other friends we hadn’t yet paddled with. Nate had chosen instead to work on his sailboat. It was a good day for scraping paint on a sailboat: bright and sunny, temps in the high 60’s, not too much wind. If I had a sailboat to work on, or a lawn to mow, that’s what I would have done, but since I don’t, there was little to do but go kayaking.



We met Peter, Barbara, Kim, Karen and Jim, making us a flotilla of seven. Like any blind date, you find yourself checking the others out: what sort of boat they’re paddling, what they’re wearing, in short, do they look like they know what they’re doing? This time, the answer was very obviously yes. We’d met Barbara at a pool session, where she’d been practicing Greenland rolls, which she also teaches. Karen is the proprietor of Castine Sea Kayak Adventures, while Kim was once a guide and instructor at Sea Kayak Georgia. Jim is the owner of Rose Bicycle in Orono, and trains for riding 300 miles in a single day.

Having become accustomed to the simplicity of solo paddling, I have done very little kayaking in a group. If I were to learn anything from the day, it might be something about the dynamics of group paddling. Should a leader be appointed? No one seemed to want the job, so we would govern ourselves loosely; we were all captains of our own boats.

Karen established who had what safety gear- we all seemed to have phones, VHFs and some emergency supplies. This enabled us to split up if anyone wanted to go faster or farther than the rest. It was a day off for all of us though, and we took a liesurely paddle across Jericho Bay, chatting as a mild tailwind pushed us toward Opechee Island.



How do you paddle in such a group? We usually kept a fairly tight formation, since we seemed to have a lot to talk about. I occasionally looked around to see that we were all accounted for, only to see that the others were doing the same.



After a long lunch break on a small, ledgy island, we wound our way among a group of small islands off of Swans Island. Our only uncertain moments came when we all seemed drawn toward different islands, but eventually we ended-up moving in the same general direction.


At the mouth of Casco Passage, where the swell from the west hit relatively shallow water, we enjoyed a wavy, turbulent crossing, which was perhaps the highlight of my day. As we returned to Naskeag point, we all seemed to have a bit of energy still, so we went around Harbor Island and reluctantly called it a day.


Did I learn anything about group paddling? I was certainly inspired by other paddlers, whether by graceful Greenland technique, elegant handling in waves or the ability to non-lead a group of leaders.

Postscript: it turns out that we did have a leader; I just didn't know it. I guess that's a skill in itself.

At the End of the Day

I close the gallery at five. If I don’t dilly-dally too much (food, sitting down & saying “gee I’m tired,” etc.) I can be on the water by six. Maybe earlier. Sunset is at 8:15, and twilight lasts at least a half-hour, maybe more. And now the moon is full. So I have at least two or three hours for evening paddles, and lately, I’ve been making the most of that time. One evening I did a ten-mile loop, George’s Head to Saddleback Island, returning at sunset past three schooners anchored off Hell’s Half Acre. Another evening’s route circled some western outer ledges and Ram Island, with seals trailing just behind for miles. Last night I went around McGlathery and Gooseberry Islands, returning as the full moon rose.

I feel very lucky, but admittedly, there are moments when I lament that I don’t have more time. As I rounded Scraggy Ledge, the water surface was calm, and I’d spent the last four miles paddling in a comfortable, quick rhythm, not thinking about much, and there, miles away, Saddleback Light rose up from the horizon like a challenge. The far end of Isle au Haut was right there. I knew I could do it... if only it weren’t nearly dark and instead had a day ahead of me.


I guess the funny thing about this is, how obsessed I’ve become. I’m vaguely aware sometimes that my perspective of the importance of sea kayaking versus all other things has shifted. At some point, I came to a conscious realization that there’s almost nothing I would rather be doing with my evening than getting out in the kayak. Yes, there are movies and other events at the Opera House, and yes there are invitations to potlucks and other social events. Once upon a time, I liked to keep the gallery open into the evening. If I stay on shore for these things, I often end up talking to people about kayaking, all the while wishing I were out there instead.


This is hard to explain. Trying to rationalize it makes me feel like a convert to a weird religion watching as your listener’s eyes glaze over. Eventually, you try to avoid those conversations. And what’s a good way to do that? Just go paddling instead.

Snapshots

May 24, Stonington Harbor. Rebecca gets out her camera to shoot some lobster boat bows. She uses these photos as reference for paintings. These close-ups of boats at the waterline started in 1998, in Greece, and in a way, are a big part of what brought us to Stonington. While she moves among the boats, taking pictures, I practice rolls. The water is in the high 40's now- much more tolerable than when it was in the 30's. A porpoise moves around the harbor, exhaling rythmically.



May 29, approaching John Island. Fog. Nice. And then off of Sand Island: some rocks, some waves.





May 22, Buckle Island. We've taken a bunch of photos at these rocks. I expect we'll take many more. And I think we've had this same sunset before as we paddled back into the Thorofare.


Lately, we've had a lot of nice after-work paddles. We don't get onto the water until after six, and usually get back by 8:30 or so, a little after sunset. I had a nice run there for a bit, not missing an evening. It was going so well, I almost felt bad about it, as if maybe there's something else that I, as a responsible grown-up ought to be doing, but I quickly got over such feelings, reasoning that you just have to get out there while you can. When it rained, we paddled in the rain. When it turned windy, I chalked it up to good practice. But then came the last four days... four dry days: social events, marginal weather, a movie, a meeting, work, cleaning the apartment. How is it that I sometimes lose perspective and let these things interfere with paddling? The kitchen floor is gleamingly clean, but you don't want to read about that, do you?

Bartlett Island

Rebecca and I met Nate and Peter in Pretty Marsh Harbor Monday morning, and found our way to the Bartlett Narrows launch, where we set off in a counter-clockwise circumnavigation of Bartlett Island. Three and a half miles long by one mile wide, Bartlett is one of the largest privately-owned islands on the Maine coast, and is home to a herd of award-winning cattle.



We didn’t see any cattle, only the more predictable seals & eagles, and a fleeting glimpse or two of a porpoise. With the wind from the northwest, we found some pleasant waves as we rounded The Hub and North Point, and enjoyed some contour paddling along the rocky west shore.




After mostly solo paddling over the winter, it has been a nice change to get out with a few other paddlers lately. It’s also a good excuse to check-out a different area. Peter had driven up from Belfast, while we drove an hour and a half each way.



Every time we extend our paddling boundaries, we see our coast a bit differently. From Stonington, Western Mountain appears as a distant profile that we simply refer to as “Mt. Desert”. As we paddled through Bartlett Narrows, I discovered a new context for my landmarks, and found myself seeking out others, like Blue Hill or the tower on Swans Island. It’s like putting together pieces of a puzzle, a process we continued after the paddle when we hiked up Beech Mountain and looked out over a maze of yet-to-be-paddled-by-us islands.

The Lake

For almost half the year, the lake is frozen. When the ice finally breaks-up, paddling in the cold, clear water is akin to a skier getting fresh tracks. It takes only a warm day and a brisk wind to transform the lake from rough, wind-blown ice to the movie setting of “On Golden Pond” with colorful buds dotting the shoreline, and snow melting from the nearby mountaintops. The loons, having spent winter on the ocean, arrive almost immediately. We arrived a few days after that.

We encountered few other people on our first excursions, paddling to the middle of the lake to circle the various islands, encountering mostly calm water. One evening we spotted a lone kayaker, who arrived at a campsite on Moon Island. We kept our distance though, paddling onward, not wanting to break the quiet spell.



By the weekend, the lake hummed with powerboats. Only a couple of hours from Boston, the lake is an easy destination for a huge population, many of whom value going in large fast circles more than well... going in not so fast circles.

I guess that’s what we do on the ocean, but on a lake, the inward circle-ness of our routes is more evident; you can only go so far. Granted, I’ve taken sixteen-mile paddles around the far ends of the lake, but you can still only go so far. Out of curiosity, I began paddling the perimeter shoreline in segments, but somehow didn’t sustain enough interest to keep at it. It is interesting to paddle along the shoreline of “McMansion Row,” checking-out the latest additions, but after awhile, it just becomes sad. And it’s amazing how long I paddled along the shoreline of summer homes and never saw another person.



We’ve seen the lake change from a fairly pristine, quiet lake, to... well, it’s still pretty nice, and after the weekend it turned quiet again. But once upon a time the cottages were built on large parcels back in the woods, in dark woodsy colors, and the water was the clearest around. For years, there was no public launch for motorboats. When a ramp was finally built, we watched the water clarity and the peacefulness swiftly decline. These new homes are built to be seen, as are the plastic zillion-horsepower floating phallic symbols that buzz around the lake, piloted by guys with backward-turned ballcaps who, after getting from one end of the lake to the other in no time, ask themselves “that was fun, what now?”



Ah, but who am I to point fingers, or phallic symbols? I mean, look at these kayaks! Our excursions were great- one thing we like about the springtime is the relative quiet. Even the soon to be overrun White Mountains provided me with several long hikes in which I encountered no other people. Snow and ice weeds-out the riff-raff, to be sure.

A Moment on Sparrow Island

It’s almost high tide when I approach Sparrow Island. Seagulls line the ridges and boulders, squawking up a frenzy as I paddle near, taking to the air when I land on the beach. This island belongs to the birds: a few acres of rocks and grass, rising to a desolate hilltop. Later in the season, when the birds are nesting, the island is off-limits to people, so I like to get my visits in when I can. I pull the kayak up on the sand and sit on my favorite rock- the one with the other boulder as a backrest.

Since the tide is nearly high, I only have a short time before the beach is under water. That’s okay; I’m only here for a quick break, so I can get to work for the afternoon. I eat my hard-boiled egg and some peanuts. I gaze out at the water, which still has that turquoisey hue above the sand... a cold water phenomenon that looks deceptively tropical. The sun feels good, even if the only exposed skin is on my face, still warm from the sun I soaked-in on yesterday’s paddle.



It’s good to be here. It’s less windy than forecasted, and yesterday’s strong winds have whipped-up a pleasant swell, which dumps rythmically on the sand. It would be a perfect time to play among the rocks, but I’m alone, didn’t bring the helmet... and for some foolish reason, I need to get back to town, where I’ll spend the afternoon at my desk in the gallery, working on taxes.

The waves are already rising. The kayak will launch with or without me, so I pack up quickly and climb in. I hate to leave, but I know that even an afternoon working on taxes will be improved by the moments I spent here. The work it took to get here will stay with me in that mild, satisfying ache from the exercise, the warmth of the sun still on my face.