prudenceb

Have fun everyone. I will be with you in spirit. Cathy, write a great trip report with pictures, please! pru

I'd bump this one again, getting lost in the shuffle! pru

Although I don't have an answer to your question, just wanted to welcome you as a new member of NSPN! pru

TV news just said they'll be a "security zone" on the river starting at 10am, with violators subject to arrest, and that includes kayakers. Looks like there will be friendlier places to be on the water tomorrow than the Charles! pru

I bet security will be as it was for the fourth of july - no one will be able to get close to the duck boats on private craft. I would imagine they'd have that part of the river blocked off... pru

I have apologized to Josko for posting inaccurate info. I stand by my original post that I felt just fine being led by him! pru

Glad you're back out on the water, Rob! pru

Just returned from another weekend being a teabag for John Carmody's 4* assessment. Conditions were challenging - very windy and wavy. I am thrilled to report that NSPN batted a thousand: Bob Levine, Kevin Beckwith and Josko all passed! I had the pleasure of being led by both Kevin and Josko, and from a personal perspective can say that they both did a wonderful job leading. Thank you both for helping keep a smile on a my face (well, at least most of the time, anyway)! Congratulations to all! pru

I have twice had the pleasure of being rescued in real conditions. In both instances, getting the heck out of there quickly was the order of the day. Thus, in both cases, I flipped my boat upright, and did a heel hook rescue to get back in without first bothering to empty out the boat. In the first instance (thank you, Lorrie! during your 4* assessment!), I was towed out of the danger zone and frankly can't remember how we then got the water out of the boat. In the second (thank you, Christopher!), I paddled my water -filled (and somewhat unstable!) boat to shore and got out and emptied it. Both times, I was - as Gene mentions above - back in the boat quickly. This was particularly important in the second instance, when I wasn't wearing the warmest clothing for going for a swim. And to address Cathy's original post - I could never have pulled myself up seal style on the back deck to accomplish the rescue... I remember being able to do that years ago, especially when dressed in a nice buoyant neoprene outfit, but as I reach a more tender age, the heel hook sure is easier/faster/more efficient. pru

Thanks to everyone for your comments and concern. Gary, thanks for the letter to the local rag (or website!). And I did send a letter to the Chief of the Yarmouth Police thanking him for their help and efficiency, and specifically naming Officer Lucas. I continue to be honored to be part of the very exclusive NSPN Tire Warehouse Meetup Group! pru

When you're packing at home, put all of the filled dry bags that will go in the rear hatch in one (Ikea) bag; put all the stuff that will go in the foward hatch in another. (And a third for the day hatch... - or squeeze it into the bag of rear hatch stuff.) Makes it MUCH easier to load up at launch site - the job is halfway done. And in line with separating tent poles from tent, put sleeping bag in a soft-sided dry bag and don't close it until you've squashed it into the hatch. A lot of people have trouble fitting a sleeping bag in compression sack into their hatch. Easier if you let the soft bag take whatever shape it needs to get through, then close up the dry bag once it's all inside. pru ps - a lot of this stuff is what Warren and I tried to cover in our New to Kayak Camping trips this year. He has written an entire manifesto on poop management, another thing that is absolutely required when camping on Maine islands...

I'm planning to send a letter to the chief of police in Yarmouth expressing thanks for all their help. pru

Hi Deb - are you asking for help in getting Bob listed as paid? If so, I'll do what I can. (And believe me, we want to see this get easier for everyone!) pru

At a recent meeting of the NSPN Board of Directors, we noted that membership numbers are down. I am writing on behalf of the Board to encourage those of you who are currently unpaid members to either change or update your membership to paid member status. We are aware that some of you have made (repeated) good faith efforts to pay the small annual membership fee of $15 but have run into problems attempting to do so. Many of you may know that we are in the process of making major changes to our club website, and computer glitches may have interfered with your attempts to pay up. (Even a member of the BOD had trouble with this recently!) If you have attempted to pay the dues but have been unable to, please leave a message on this thread and we will help you resolve the problem. And if you haven't, please do join up and become full-fledged members of NSPN! The fee is pretty small and the benefits are spelled out on the website. It has been great to see new members becoming involved with the club in the past couple of years, and we'd like that to be the case for you, too! pru (prudence baxter, nspn board member)

NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED: NSPN Annual MITA Cleanup at Bangs and Crow 10/11-13/2013 Saturday was quite windy; the northeast wind was stirring up whitecaps on Potts Harbor. Shortly after pulling onto the beach – the landing spot for our planned Saturday lunch at the restaurant at Dolphin Marina – on the second day of our three day garbage cleanup trip to NSPN’s MITA stewardship islands, we had a mildly unpleasant interaction with a youngish lobsterman who was standing with two companions next to his truck at the top of the boat launch, sucking down a Twisted Lemonade. As we stripped out of our dry suits to put on more suitable – well, slightly, anyway – clothing for a restaurant meal, he initiated a “conversation” with us in a mildly slurred voice about the dangerous weather conditions out there, the wind against tide, our unpreparedness to be out in it, how he had had to rescue “a lot of you people” in the past…and so on. “I’ve made my living on the sea for 35 years,” he said, leading me to think he must have started working in utero. There was an ugly cast to his expression, and his words conveyed only hostility, not concern. Our responses to him were mild and sparse. The restaurant on the other hand was lovely in every way. I’d seen it once before from the outside and assumed that it would be a mediocre tourist trap kind of dining spot. It exceeded all expectations – from the clean and light decor to the artwork on the walls to the specific design of the wrap around windows providing a spectacular view over the water. And the food was pretty darned good as well! We ordered up fried clam rolls, flatbread pizza, haddock plate, haddock sandwich, and fish chowder. All were delicious choices, but as I had discovered last month on the Cobscook Bay trip, I really don’t have much of an appetite in the middle of a paddling day, and the richness of my fabulous chowder was too much, and I ate only half of it, and passed on the accompanying blueberry muffin for the boys to eat. Regretfully eying the waste of my meal, I said, “I wish sometime we could have a nice meal after we’re done paddling, rather than when we’re in the middle of it.” Be careful what you wish for. Although Rob Hazard, Gary York, David McCaleb, Roger Turgeon and I had launched from Sandy Point Beach at Cousins Island in Yarmouth at around 10 am the day before, the real trip didn’t begin until Saturday night at around 10 pm. This was several hours after Gary and Roger had built the warming fire at Bangs Island around which we had sat all evening, talking about the day, the successful trash cleanup that had taken the whole morning and which had been rewarded with the restaurant meal, and the many other this’s and that’s that come up when one is relaxing at the end of long day. As it was past my bedtime, and I had worried about the ability of my rapidly failing knees to safely convey me in the dark across the rocky outcropping that had to be passed to get back to our campsite, I had just made the journey successfully. Gary - who had been on the phone with his wife and had apparently just discussed the call with the other guys, all of whom were still huddled around the fire, determined to burn up every piece of driftwood we’d gathered - called out, “Pru, I have good news and bad news.” The good news was that Bob Cornell, who had been planning to join us but had never arrived, was safely at home (as we had assumed), having set out that morning from Cousins, only to find the conditions too sporty – read: unsafe – for a solo paddle out to Bangs. And the bad news? It flashed through my head that Gary would tell me that the Red Sox had lost the first game of the ALCS against the Tigers. No: Bob had emailed Gary, whose wife had read just him the email, that when he arrived at the parking lot at Cousin’s on Saturday morning, he discovered that the driver’s side tires on all of our cars were flat. He had made a report to the police, and been told that he was not the first one to have done so. Two days later, safely back home, it is hard to conjure the gut punch that this news conveyed. I had been tired and looking forward to another good night’s sleep on my grassy tent site, listening to the waves of the incoming tide rushing up onto the rocky beach. First reaction: What the #@&%!! That was all the information we had at the time. Had vandals just let the air out – best-case scenario – or had they slashed the tires? (From my years working in the court system, while I wished for the former, it was hard to believe that it would be anything but the latter.) And what else might they have done? And who did it? And why? Why us? As much as I wanted to rejoin the group – all thoughts of being lulled to sleep by the hush of the waves now vanquished – I didn’t want to have to scramble back across the rocks to join them. Instead, I stood where I was and we called back and forth about what to do. But what was there to do? Nothing. There are people who when not in a position to take action to deal with a problem are able to put it out of their heads until such time as they can. I am not one of those people. We knew so little. What we did know was that we would be returning – as we had originally planned – to Cousins the next morning. But how would we figure out how to get tires fixed/replaced in Yarmouth, Maine on a Sunday of a holiday weekend? I went to my tent, got into my sleeping bag, and lay listening to the waves and the varied sounds of island raccoons chattering to each other as they made repeated efforts to breach our defenses to get at our food – which was by now safely secured in our boats. (Although tell that to Rob, who the next morning found the edge of his rear hatch thoroughly gnawed but fortunately sustaining only cosmetic damage that did not compromise the seal on the hatch.) And I listened to the sound of the helpless thoughts going round and round in my head. The afternoon’s hostile lobsterman. Tales of tensions between local fishermen and kayakers. Four cars with Massachusetts plates (“Massholes”) and one from New Hampshire. All with kayak roof racks. In the dark, when everything always seems bleakest, it seemed clear that we had been targeted. And if the damage had been done on Friday night – whatever that damage was – what might happen overnight tonight? And was it just tires or was there more damage unseen? Glue in locks? Keyed cars? Spray-painted vulgarities? And anger at the awful irony of being targeted as kayakers when the reason we had been parked where we were was that we had been performing service cleaning up junk – much of which no doubt originated on fishing boats. And I thought of another group of friends that I knew was out paddling this weekend, and thought, “I wish I’d gone with them.” What would we do? How would we handle the logistics? Would a tow truck take a car with a kayak on it? If not, how would we secure the kayaks when the cars were towed away as they likely would need to be? All five of us had damaged vehicles; there would be no one left to watch the boats… And so on… And dark thoughts about the perpetrator(s). And more dark thoughts about the perpetrator(s). And so on. And so on. And on… And then all the logs must have been burned because I heard the murmured conversation of the boys returning to their tent sites. I called out to Gary, “How about calling the police in Yarmouth just so we can find out what we’re actually dealing with?” Gary responded that they had discussed that and decided not to. And so the night passed, filled with anger and worry about what had happened and anxiety about how we’d deal with it. I mostly unsuccessfully tried to calm my mind by thinking how – in the greater scheme of things – slashed tires measured up against other misfortunes and disasters that can happen on a kayaking trip. After all, despite my worries about my knees, I hadn’t fallen, and no one else had either. There were no broken bones or split heads. No harrowing rescues or hypothermia. Our boats hadn’t floated away in the night. What we had to deal with would only be money and inconvenience, right? But in the middle of the night, when one is lying alone in the dark, the strategy of thinking of worse events is of only limited success in calming one’s mind. And then somehow it was morning. Grey morning, but morning. Calm (praise be!). It turned out that Gary had changed his mind and had indeed called the police and been told that the tires were indeed all slashed. We had been holding out faint hope that Roger’s car, which was not parked next to ours, might have been spared. It hadn’t been. The new plan was to launch by 8:00. Although none of us felt particularly cheerful, there were some smiles and jokes. I was very aware – not for the first time – that the main thing that was making the situation tolerable was not having to go through it alone. We were all in it – whatever it would be, and we would soon find out – together. While it was overcast, it was a pretty morning nonetheless. Without eating breakfast, we packed up. I borrowed Rob’s phone and called AAA to alert them to the situation and to tell them that in a few hours we would be needing tow trucks to deal with five cars. The woman with whom I spoke was in Portland. Brita’s (“like the water filter”) response was so sympathetic I almost wanted to cry. She said she would start a ticket and notify her supervisor and the dispatcher. She also said she would look up tire repair places that might be open on Sunday. I said I’d call again when we got back to Sandy Point. And so we paddled back on calm seas with the faintest hint of a following breeze. North from Bangs, we rounded the northern tip of Great Chebeague. There were flocks of birds that made whistling sounds as they lifted out en masse at our approach. Eiders? Guillemots? We talked back and forth about what had happened. Having had a restless night to work myself up, I was increasingly convinced that it had happened because we were out of state kayakers. Which would make the vandalism a kind of hate crime. And that perception – even knowing that being targeted as an out-of-state kayaker is not on a par with being targeted for the color of one’s skin, or sexual orientation, or religious beliefs – made me angry and sad and helpless in equal parts. And the irony of this happening on the one trip of the year that was not a pure pleasure trip…well, that was never far from my mind. It’s your islands, your trash we came to clean up! The one thing I didn’t share as we paddled was all the worry I had that there would be more damage to our cars than would meet the eye, and that unpleasant surprises lay ahead. There was enough collective distress that it didn’t seem right to burden anyone else with my fears, although others may have had them too. It was a quick trip. We made the last turn and could see in the distance the high bridge connecting Cousins Island to the mainland. Cars drove across. I fantasized that the #$%$# vandals were in one of those cars, watching us approaching the beach and laughing. We landed. We started emptying our boats and started the first of several trips to get everything across the beach and up the long uphill path to the parking lot. I walked carrying one heavy bag and my paddle. And then I was back at the parking lot. Parked there was a Yarmouth Police cruiser. And how nice was it to see the officer standing outside his cruiser awaiting our arrival? It was really really nice. And so the awful emotional tide that had been flooding since the night before started to ebb. Officer Lucas, fresh of face, one year on the job after serving in the army, greeted each of us with a handshake, smile, sympathetic words and report forms to fill out. And as we quickly discovered, there was no damage to any of our cars beyond the clearly slashed tires. Officer Lucas told us that this was the first such vandalism event at the Sandy Point parking lot that he was aware of. He was of the opinion - although he explained that he was not the investigating officer - that it was most likely teenage boys out for mischief that had caused the damage; he did not think that it had anything to do with our license plates or kayak racks. An older man in a red pickup truck arrived and approached us. It turned out that he had been the one who was the first of several people to report the vandalism. Walking his dog first thing on Saturday morning, he had first passed Rob’s car – whose tires were impressively squashed. He told us he thought to himself, “Oh, man, that guy is going to be upset when he comes back.” Then he saw that the tires on Gary’s car, which was parked behind Rob’s, were also flattened, and mine…and David’s across the road…and Roger’s in a little turnout beyond ours. He called the police. He had returned this morning with an air compressor to help us out in case all we needed was air to fill the tires. Over the next hour and a half, every dog walker and bicyclist and person pushing a baby stroller who came through that lot as we fetched gear and loaded boats and filled out police forms couldn’t have been nicer. All expressed shock and surprise; one man said that it made him feel ill. As we soon found out, even before we had arrived, Officer Lucas had the situation totally under control. He had already been in contact with AAA himself. Two flatbed trucks were on their way from Portland. He had established that Tire Warehouse, less than ten minutes away, was open all day and he had notified them of our mass-slashing event so that they would be expecting us. There was nothing that any of us needed to do but flow with the plan! I can’t tell you – but of course I am trying to right now – how wonderfully reassuring this was. The Yarmouth police had stepped in and were taking care of our group. The first of the sparkling white flatbed tow trucks with red and blue “AAA Northern New England, Portland, Maine” logos pulled in to the lot. Then a second. The two drivers, both local, were young and friendly. And sympathetic. (This is not a quality I have seen in abundance in big city tow truck drivers, by the way…) They started loading our cars onto the trucks. We all thanked Officer Lucas profusely for his help, and each of us in turn hopped into the cab of the truck transporting our kayak. And thus began the three trip shuttle to the tire store. We arrived in pairs at the tire store, then milled around the parking lot waiting until we were all there. Gary deemed us the Tire Store Kayak Meetup Group. And the guy at the tire store: He was really nice, too! He assessed each of our cars, establishing that three of us would need to have all four tires replaced, although only two were slashed; while two of us would only need to have the two done. Some tires were in stock; some would have to come down from Lewiston. It was going to take a while for a tire place without a lift and only two guys working that day to deal with all of us. So…about that wish to have a nice meal after rather than in the middle of a paddle? Granted. As it turned out Pat’s Pizza, one of Gary’s favorites, was right around the corner. It was just after noon and none of us had eaten at all that day. And so we repaired to the sports bar for pizza and beer. Where we heard another bit of bad news from the night before: the Sox had indeed lost the first game of the playoffs as I had feared. (But, oh, what a comeback they made Sunday night after we had all returned home!) We suggested a pool to predict when the last car would be ready to roll. The prize for the winning time would be the glory of being a winnah! – while the rest of us would be losahs! 4:15, I said. 3:30, said Gary. 5:15, 5:10 and 4:30 were the next three guesses. We all agreed that Gary with his sunny 3:30 optimism would be the clear loser. He won. Before our meal was over, we got a call that three cars were ready, and the other two were in process. So. Final tally: Five paddlers. Five cars. Ten slashed tires. Sixteen new tires purchased. A total cost of over $2200. Yes, it was painful to end up spending $600 for a new set of tires when my old ones had only 11,000 miles on them. And for others of us, having to replace two, let alone four, tires was a not insignificant financial burden. And it had been inconvenient for all us to a greater or lesser extent. But we were all safe. No one had been hurt. Two MITA islands were a lot cleaner for our efforts than they had been when we arrived. But the intense anger and feeling of victimization had, I think for all of us, substantially dissipated as a result of how well we were treated starting the very minute that we got back to the scene of the crime. I believe now that it was stupid teenagers who did the damage. That it was just our unlucky day to be there when kids with beer on board decided to engage in some mischief. That we were not targeted. That it was not some spiritual brother/cousin/son of Saturday’s unpleasant lobsterman who had gotten us. Our experience with Officer Lucas, the two AAA tow drivers, the young man at the tire store, the man who originally reported the vandalism and returned on Sunday morning to help us out, and the bicyclists and walkers with their shock and sympathy – all really helped overwhelm the senseless and stupid act perpetrated by the lads who will likely never be identified. Lessons learned: Despite beliefs to the contrary, there are indeed things that duct tape, marine epoxy and aqua seal will not repair. If genuine sympathy were air-filled unvandalized tires, we would have been able to roll right out of that parking lot on our return. If you have to have your tires slashed, make sure you have it done in Yarmouth, Maine. And most importantly, choose your group wisely. I can’t think of a group that I would rather have shared this experience with than the one I was in. Thank you Gary, Rob, Roger and David! Memories of some kayaking trips blur into memories of others. The 2013 NSPN MITA cleanup trip will not be one of them. This was an outstanding trip. Money aside (and that is not trivial), this was a vivid and special experience. Those don’t come around all that often. In a weird way, I’m glad to have been a part of it. And I may even get around to doing a Part I trip report, which will cover our lovely two days of paddling when we were innocent of what was to happen, and what did happen. pru

Glad to see you'll be with us, Roger. If there's a big mud flat, all the better that we'll have more strong men to do lots of heavy lifting! See you tomorrow! pru

Again, I'll repeat that it's great you guys got out there, and that in facing conditions that were beyond what you wanted to be in, put safety first, made a plan, and executed it to perfection. Well done! pru

I'm glad to see that L2 folks are getting out on the water and having a good and safe time! This is the best time of year for sure! pru

Wish I could join you on this beautiful day but already have afternoon/evening plans. The story of the drowning is incredibly sad. I have often worried seeing people crossing this deep pond all by themselves. And have worried a bit when I've swum there by myself along the edge, which drops off so sharply. But a drowning can happen in a few feet of water. So sad... pru

I'm always happy to camp on Jewell and if we were to get there on Fri to set up camp, we'd likely have the run of the place. pru

I'd like to join to paddle and pick up trash. Going out on Friday is just fine. II would vote for going out mid-morning on Friday. Would we launch from Cousins? pru

Indeed Shari and her excellent cookies were there on Sunday morning - my apologies for the error. I have edited and corrected it in the trip report!

Downeast to Midcoast – Nine Days and Three Journeys on the Maine Coast September 13-22, 2013 I was very fortunate this season to be able to say an enthusiastic “Yes!” to every suggested trip, and with only a small amount of trepidation about whether I could really do so much paddling, signed on for a medley of Cobscook Bay, Vinalhaven and Muscle Ridge – all of which would occur, one after the other, north to south, over a nine day period at the very end of astronomical summer. The short version: at Cobscook Bay, four of us paddled to Lubec through the boiling waters but not the reversing falls and had a nice lunch there. At Vinalhaven, two of us paddled around the island, and had another day and a half of noodling around. At Muscle Ridge, up to 12 of us actually made it to Muscle Ridge, and all who set out on Saturday for a return trip there actually made it back despite the rather sporty following seas. At all three venues, we had a wonderful time at camp. If anyone is interested in reading more, and seeing some photos, read on! COBSCOOK BAY September 13-15, 2013 I left for Maine on Thursday afternoon, September 12, in rain, thunder and lightning for my first night’s destination at a friend’s empty summer cottage near Schoodic Peninsula, a convenient stopping point on the way to Cobscook Bay State Park - where I was to meet up with Peter, Christopher and Warren for two days of paddling in the “boiling waters” of Cobscook Bay, not far from the Canadian border. I had never been north of Schoodic, and so was excited on Friday morning to set out under cloudy skies. Route One as it heads up to and through Machias can seem a lonely place, but it was a lovely drive with reddish hints of the changing season and very little traffic. We all managed to find each other at the vast state park. Peter, his wife Bonnie, and their two completely amusing dogs, Huggie and Skye, had set up camp (well, Bonnie and Peter had; I don’t think the dogs provided much assistance) in a big site with a lean-to, and by the time we arrived, they – and Christopher - had also set up a nifty tarp over a picnic table nearer the water. Peter had told us that in his opinion, Cobscook is the best state park in Maine, and I would be hard-pressed to disagree. The sites all comprise a mini-environment, many with water views, and are private and quiet. You mostly can’t see your next-door neighbor; just as it should be! Warren was tired out from his long drive and elected to stay at his campsite on Friday afternoon. It was hard to fault the choice; he had a site to die for, up on a small bluff overlooking Whiting Bay. Peter, Christopher and I set out to scout what would likely be the beginning of the longer trip planned for the next day. We hoped to get up near Falls Island, on the west side of which are the famous (infamous?) Reversing Falls. I had informed Peter that my main goal for the trip was to return from it alive, and I was happy to give the falls a wide berth. We set out from the long all-weather launch near the campground on a flooding tide at around 2 pm – after spending some time ascertaining on the chart where we actually were. This proved to be a valuable exercise given that it turned out that we weren’t where we thought we were, and would have been in the soup if the fog that ultimately descended had forced us to navigate our way back. It was overcast and cool. Because it was only going to be a short paddle, I decided not to wrestle with my dry suit – even with the water in the low 50’s. Mistake #1. We headed north along Whiting Bay on calm seas with no current. On turning east at Crow Neck, we saw and felt the first current coming around the bend. We eddy hopped along the shore. I struggled a bit against the current to get around one small headland. Finally, we could see Falls Island, and could see and hear the sound of the rushing water on the north side of the island. We were able to make it around several small headlands before I sat back and watched Peter struggle mightily to get around the final one, at which point I announced to Christopher, who had hung back with me, “If Peter is having that much trouble getting around, I won’t be able to.” Peter ended up re-joining us, and we decided to ferry across the current to Falls Island, land on a beach down and around the corner from all the noisy water, and see what we could see. As it turned out after we got across and landed, we couldn’t see much without bushwhacking across a headland. Observing that there was quiet water along the southwest shore heading to the noisy stuff, we decided to get back in our boats and approach the rushing current that way. Peter sidled up to the current. Christopher called out that that there was a seal playing in the rushing current, cresting out of the water. By the time we got near, the seal had disappeared. Peter hung by the rapids, and it was pretty clear he was longing to jump in and play. But fog was beginning to roll in and it was time to turn for home. Rather than return to the relatively quieter current down near our original ferrying site, we decided to cross right from where we were, closer to the falls, in front of an exposed rock ledge. I followed close behind Peter with some apprehension, the level of which shot up when I saw Peter power across the eddy line and immediately spin 90 degrees to the right. No choice but to follow. My maneuver did not have Peter’s grace or control, however, and as I low braced into the turn and the boat spun, I failed to regain my edge fast enough, caught another eddy, and immediately found myself upside down in the mildly roiling water. I clearly remember looking at the green water all around me, considering for a moment trying a roll, and then moving quickly to the thought, “Nah, gotta get out of this boat!” And so I very wet-exited, managed to hold onto boat and paddle, and was promptly rescued by Christopher, who was floating nearby. Although I wasn’t dressed for the swim, there’s nothing like adrenaline to keep you warm, at least in the short run. Out of the soup, we crossed back to Crow Neck, where I got out of my boat and emptied it of water. Peter calmly produced a thermos of nice hot tea, and fortified with hot liquid and a dry boat, we continued on our way, with fog more rapidly descending. We made it back to the launch in foggy good order, loaded up the boats, and returned to camp. It is on occasions like this that it is nice to have access to plenty of hot water! The water in the camp shower house could have been a bit warmer, but it did the trick. We all gathered at Peter and Bonnie’s camp for a lovely supper, prepared by them, of a nice hot multivegetable stew. Topped off with wine and an assortment of chocolate, brownies, blondies, hermit bars and lemon oatmeal bars supplied by others. I slept restlessly, thinking about my swim and wondering what the currents would throw at us the next day. Saturday morning dawned cool and overcast. We again gathered at Peter’s for breakfast, where not all the dogs were up. Skye mostly ignored us, transfixed as she was by the small chattering squirrels that might have been enjoying torturing her. Having learned my lesson from the previous day’s adventures in water sports, I armed myself in dry suit and helmet –I do have the capacity to learn from some of my errors – for the day’s planned paddle to Lubec and back. We launched at around 8:30, planning to ride the ebb to Lubec, about 10 miles away, and then await the turning tide to ride back to the launch. We repeated the beginning of yesterday’s journey. The water by Falls Island wasn’t running as loudly as it had been yesterday afternoon. We paddled around Crow’s Neck, going east until we saw the end of Falls Island across the channel, then crossed and rounded. We started encountering the first of the very squirrely conditions that would characterize the next phase of the trip. While there were no waves, the water was far from quiet. Boils and whirlpools formed in front and around us. Eddy lines appeared and disappeared. Attempts to avoid any give boil or whirlpool were pretty useless as nothing stayed in place for long. This was the most active water I’d ever paddled in, and John Carmody’s “paddle paddle paddle” mantra kept going through my head even as the boat was turned this way and that as we crossed between Fox and Mink Islands. The water continued to be quite active as we passed between Leighton and Denbow Necks, but when we finally emerged into Cobscook Bay proper, everything calmed down. Christopher paused to do some rolls and to show off the “Good Morning Gloucester” stickers on the bottom of his boat. As had been the case the afternoon before, we saw and heard many loons, many of them immature. Peter has a very good loon call – a low whistle – and so he cried back and forth to them. We saw no more seals, however. There was also a notable lack of boat traffic. Very few lobster buoys and almost no lobster boats. We did see what we thought was a big salmon farm on Seward Neck, but didn’t go closer to investigate. Lunch called. Passing through Cobscook Bay, on the north side of Seward Neck, Christopher took a line down the middle, and caught the current and zoomed ahead of us. We could see Lubec in the distance and a distinctive island in front of it that so perfectly formed a half oval, it looked like a boiled egg sliced lengthwise, laid on its flat side, covered with rocks but not trees, and set down in the ocean. Peter remembered – and had told us repeatedly- that the all tide launch in Lubec was a long one – hundred yards? quarter mile? three miles? But when we got there, while it was indeed a long ramp to accommodate the huge tides, it really wasn’t that long. And so we lugged the boats up the ramp and onto the grass. Christopher posed for some pictures. He is planning to be a model for Cliff Bars, I think. Cohill Inn is the only restaurant in town, and when we entered a bit before noon, the place was empty. We were greeted by an exceptionally friendly woman, who turned out to be both chef and wait staff for that moment.Dressed as we were: me in dry suit tied around my waist, Peter in long underwear covered over by his top, Christopher hooded in his tuilik, and only Warren changed into normal dining clothes, we made quite a quartet. We asked if our dress were acceptable. The woman laughed, said, “This is Lubec; sometimes I come to work in my pajamas!” and pointed us to a table by the window. Soon another group arrived, and taking the table next to us, fixed their gaze on Christopher’s interesting apparel. One elderly gentleman in particular kept eyeing him, as though Christopher were a space alien. I wish I could have whipped out my camera and memorialized the look. It was priceless! We fortified ourselves with haddock chowder and fried fish – and some also had a creamy, frothy, brown beverage – and after an hour we pushed off to catch the slack tide so that when it really began running, we’d have it outrun. The trip back was mostly uneventful. Peter and Christopher serenaded us with Tom Lehrer tunes, the lyrics of which both of them knew by heart. It was calm and peaceful going back cross Cobscook Bay. The clouds were breaking and there was blue sky low on the horizon. The squirrely stuff reappeared, particularly when we chose this time to choose to go around the north end of Mink and Fox Islands, as we had not on the way out. There was a slight drop and an eddy, but after a shaky moment, I stayed upright, and hitting the channel by Falls Island earlier in the tide cycle than we had the day before, the roar was not quite so loud, and the white froth current was not extending as far out past the island. As we turned into Whiting Bay, the sky, which had begun to clear, opened up – and we were rewarded with crisp bright mid-late afternoon light, with a clear feel of fall. There was no wind at all as we landed. The boats at harbor reflected the light. My dry suit was completely dry. The day’s armor had worked! We had another lovely supper (spaghetti and sauce plus leftovers of the stew), the preparation of which by chef Peter included some moments of drama that one dog in particular found quite alluring. Our 20 mile day made for a good night’s sleep. Warren was up at 5:30 for his long drive home. An hour and a half later, both Christopher and I, who had adjacent campsites, were up. The day was clear and bright. I took some pictures of the area – wild flowers and weeds blooming everywhere, apple trees laden with fruit, and the sky bright clear blue. We had a leisurely breakfast at Camp Peter and Bonnie - where Christopher scarfed down the first peanut butter and jelly sandwich of his life (!) (despite initial dubiosity, he liked it, too!) – and we helped them clean and pack up. The dogs did nothing to help – although Huggie might have said he assisted by doing some ground cleanup. I was in no rush to be anywhere, and when Christopher suggested that we drive to Mahar Point, the overlook on Leighton Neck that allows a perfect view of the reversing falls across from where we’d been yesterday, I enthusiastically agreed. We disturbed an eagle feasting on a squashed porcupine. He flew to the top of a small tree, and sat there, undisturbed by our presence, imperious. At the overlook, we parked and walked a small path to the rocks overlooking the falls. O.M.G.! From above, the water closest to us was a distinct moving landscape of eddy lines, boils and whirlpools, forming and dispersing, reforming, appearing out of nowhere. The course the water took was completely clear. The current, running north, was dramatic. If I had seen what we were now seeing before I’d gotten out on the water, well… Christopher said that the fluid area of boils and whirlpools was pretty much like what we had travelled over the day before. As we got ready to leave, we saw a group of dry suited paddlers preparing to launch from lower down on the point. We went over, and as must always be the case in the small paddling fraternity, instantly recognized one person: Peggy from Minnesota, whom I’ve met twice at different paddling venues. She was with a club from Chicago that makes annual trips to the area. We watched them launch and had front row seats as they found a little eddy as the current was quieting down, and they formed a circle and made repeated turns: low brace, high brace, no brace, no paddle… While I am sure that Peter would have lusted to be with them, and Christopher as well, I was completely happy to observe them from above, under the warm sunny sky, from solid ground. We hoped to see the eagle again on our way back, but the dead porcupine was free of scavengers when we passed. One third of my adventure down the coast was complete. Two days, twenty-something miles, one swim. Not bad. Thank you, Peter, for arranging the trip, and Christopher and Warren for being such good traveling companions! VINALHAVEN September 17-20, 2013 After a stop at Jasper Beach in Machias, which has beautiful shiny brown rocks, I headed for Blue Hill, where I stayed with a friend for two nights – with a side trip by car to Stonington, where everything was a lot quieter than it is in the summer. On Tuesday morning, I was up early once again, heading for the ferry terminal in Rockland, where I was to meet Gary, who wanted to complete the journey he started with Rob last May, when they ran into some foul conditions and were limited in what they were able to accomplish. Because time was limited – we both had to be at Muscle Ridge on Friday morning – we elected to take the ferry over. This turned out to be a very good decision. We had no problem getting onto the 10:30 am ferry, with both boats and all of our gear jammed into my car. On Vinalhaven, there was free parking not far from the ferry terminal, and a public launch between the parking lot and the LL Bean bait operation to the left. We were very fortunate in being offered by a colleague of Gary’s a camping spot on a private island not far from the town. We paddled a half hour or so to get to the appointed spot, at which point and started searching for some place to land. Which, as it turned out, there really wasn’t. Well, of course there was, but…oh!...what a spot: Worst. Landing. Spot. Ever. A sliver of tide-dependent beach leading to a steep jumble of seaweed covered rocks. That first day, we – well, really Gary – unloaded the boats and struggled up with our bags and we set up camp. As bad as the landing was, the campsite was delightful – an expanse of open and sheltered places with grass and evergreen needles. Fire rings set on rock ledges inland with supplies of dry wood. What we decided was a pizza oven made of cobble and mortar from the sea. All located right on the major superhighway for the lobster boats as we were to discovered early the next morning. We had lunch (delicious sopping oily subs from Amatos that Gary had picked up on his way up), before pushing off again for a late afternoon jaunt on the still water. We went over to the little archipelago to the west of Vinalhaven that is made up of Crane, Lawry’s, Cedar and Spectacle Islands. No waves. No wind. The little area was nicely protected. Hurricane Island is to the south, and Gary was particularly focused on visiting it as his wife had spent time there in her younger years, babysitting for the children of an Outward Bound doctor. We started over, but the wind picked up a bit, as did the seas, and we decided to save the trip for a day when we had more time. We returned to our island as the sun was sinking. The moon was rising opposite directly across from our campsite. Then we – well, really Gary – muscled the boats one gingerly step after another up the same seaweed boulder slope until they were on flattish land, sterns jutting over the jumbly rocks, bows in a field of weeds, and amidships blocking our walking path. And finally, supper in the dark – well, really light - as the moon, two days from full, cast shadows on the ground, and we didn’t need headlamps to see. We watched the moonbeams dancing on the water, listening to the quack of a duck whose black shape we could make out against the white beam, and observed completely straight contrails of Europe-bound jets lit by reflected moonlight. Gary’s plan all along had been to do a one day circumnav of Vinalhaven. I was a bit daunted at the prospect, having done the same trip many years before over the course of a few days. We decided it would be best to do it the next day, leaving Thursday for exploring other areas that we wanted to see. Not knowing exactly how long the trip would be – something under 20 miles – we agreed on an early start. No need for an alarm clock. The lobster boats were our wake-up call. So many went by that I was convinced when I got up that I would see a continuous line, a veritable parade, of boats heading for their day’s work. And so we – well, really Gary – wrestled the boats back to shore, and were on the water to start our counterclockwise circumnav on the button at 6:11 am. Starting at the southwest end of the island, and avoiding the ongoing train of outgoing lobster boats, we paddled past Carvers Harbor and then around the exposed but mostly calm southeastern edge of the island, and then we turned northeast, not exactly hugging the coastline, but certainly taking advantage of every sheltering island to the east. We could see the Brimstones in the distance. The tide was high enough that we were able to scoot through all the green openings on the chart that we wanted to. Other than birds, there was no sound, no lobster boats on this side of the island. We particularly enjoyed the stretch after Calderwood Point, where the lane between Vinalhaven Island and Smith, Stoddard and Browns Islands, as well as some smaller ones that weren’t named on our charts, was intimate, with interesting things to look at close by on each side. And then we turned west and south again, threading among the numerous small islands south of Penobscot Island. Gary and Rob had paddled this area in the spring, and Gary said that there had been many, many yachts moored. Now there were only a few, including a rather large one named Deer Dancer out of Littleton, Colorado. I called up to ask the man how many people have asked him whether they sailed directly from there to here. “Lots!” he said. We stopped at Hay Island, a public MITA island, where we encountered a large group packing up camp. They hailed from Connecticut, NY and Alaska and had hired a guide to introduce them to the area. We spoke with them only briefly. While we had already been on the water for three hours, they had apparently barely finished their breakfast and had just turned to taking down tents and so on. They were preoccupied with their own activities, and didn’t seem much interested in speaking with us, so after a very quick break (ah, restrooms in poison ivy patches!) we continued on. This area, hemmed in on all sides by land, felt like a lake. The opening between Penobscot and Winter Harbor to its north was passable when we reached it, so we went on through, and took our second short cut – this time under the bridge separating Calderwood Neck from the rest of the island. Luckily there were directional signals to tell us where to go, although Gary is not always one to follow directions. It seemed that blue was the color kayak that one should have in this area… Finally, the inland feel gave way to the clarity of being on the ocean again, as we paddled out past Seal Cove to our left, and saw North Haven up and across the channel ahead of us. We crossed over, and pulled onto a small gravelly beach to the left of a large ramshackle building in the shape of a ship. It was clearly private property and I was concerned about landing without permission. But a man came walking from the parking area next to the ship-house, and we called out to him, asking if we might stow our boats there briefly while we walked into town and back. After a bit brusquely ascertaining that our destination was the ferry terminal (clean public restroom!), he granted us permission, and we walked into town. The nice sandwich shop/ice cream store was closed on Wednesdays but we ate on the deck anyway. Our stop in North Haven was brief, and within less than an hour, we were launched once again, paddling west through the Fox Island Thorofare. I was drawn to a lovely power boat and paddled to it, understanding when I saw its name why I had felt compelled to go there: Ursa = Bear. It was about one in the afternoon when we turned the final corner at the northwest tip of Vinalhaven, and headed south – into the wind - for the run down the side of the island back to our starting point. The rest of the trip back was a bit of a slog at times although once again, as soon as we could find an island to tuck behind, we did so. We went to the east of Ledbetter Island into a large protected area that I subsequently found out is called Hurricane Sound (Hurricane Island lies due south). We stopped at an unnamed island for Gary to do some geocaching. After a fair amount of scrambling, he found the loot – a rather annoying and disappointing haul that included a cigarette and lighter. Because these seemed in poor taste to leave for kids to find, I removed them. It had been 37 years since I held a cigarette! (I did not light it, although the lighter was operational.) And then another stop at a second MITA site nearby, Ram Island. We signed the logbook, walked around, took some pictures, and resumed the journey. Out beyond the protection of Ledbetter, we were into the wind once again, and had no further protection from the wind and waves until we reached The Reach north of Greens Island. From there, it was not far to home. It was 4:11 pm on the nose. Exactly a 10 hour day, done at a leisurely pace. We – well, Gary –surveyed our Worst. Landing. Site. Ever. – for some time. I finally asked Gary what he was thinking. It turned out that his engineer’s brain was in focused use; come to think of it, I think I heard the gears in there turning. Finally, he spoke. Gary the engineer had come up with an alternate landing plan that involved short tows, lengths of wood, and minor construction. And so we landed and stowed the boats. Well, Gary stowed the boats. I watched in awe. Were it not for our wish to keep our campsite private out of respect for the owners who allowed us to use it, I would be able to give you a slide show of Gary at work. But ultimately the process was completed – after no small effort on Gary’s part – the boats were stowed safely away, and we were both on land. While Gary insisted that he had enjoyed the problem-solving challenge, it did not look like the least bit of fun from my vantage point! We shared our food rations for supper, as a raccoon had found his way into Gary’s food stores. It was Trader Joe’s Indian dinner to the rescue (thank you, Warren, for the intro!). Our long day was well rewarded with a hot supper, wine and chocolate. And again, the moon, one day now from full, on water that was calmer than the night before. Thursday was a wonderful day without structure. A map of our travels would be tangled ball of string – starting with a trip to The Basin, the deep large almost land-locked area on the western side of the island. We hoped the tide would allow us to take two shortcuts to get into the Basin. Did we succeed? The Basin: A big lake with lobster buoys. Bald eagles. Beautiful rocks. Small islands with birch trees shed of their leaves even though it was still summer. Sumac. We poked around the whole shoreline, marveled at the depth readings on the chart (100+ feet deep in spots). And then scurried out before the tide really started pouring out. We coasted out, noting eddy lines and some confused water. And then we crossed over to the little archipelago we’d visited our first afternoon. Approaching it from a different point, it all looked different. More beautiful rock ledges, with folds like an elephant’s skin. Gary wanted to head further west to the White Islands before a final stop at Hurricane Island. We were astonished to find out there an entire rock ledge that had been quarried. From a distance, it looked as though an ancient civilization had built a Stonehenge out in the middle of the ocean. But it was only an abandoned quarry, which from the outside did not show its secret; it was just a rocky island. And after a stop at an MCHT island whose name Gary couldn’t remember, and where I managed to fall flat on my face in the water as I exited my boat - even though it was the most beautiful, easy and inviting landing spot we’d seen since we arrived at Vinalhaven. Gary snapped a picture while I laughed. Then after another quick exploration (Gary being an inveterate explorer!), we were finally off to Hurricane Island. But before we exited the White Island archipelago, we saw another paddler, a woman in an open cockpit boat we greeted us in a friendly fashion. She was apparent out for a paddle from her mother ship: the 67 foot Deer Dancer out of Littleton, Colorado that we’d seen two days before. Finally at Hurricane Island, we landed on the dock, walked up the plank, signed in at the open guest station, and followed a beautiful grassy road to the quarry on the south end of the island. It was a beautiful and mysterious place. In the afternoon light, shadows revealed what appeared to be doors into the center of the rock face and deep on into the island… I managed to lose my glasses. Gary managed to find them. And then, a crossing to Greens Island, and a paddle through confused water to the lighthouse at the southern tip, and then back to the town of Vinalhaven. We got out where we had launched two days before, ascertained that the car was still there, and then went and had a perfectly wretched meal at a local restaurant. As much as we had been looking forward to a nice seafood dinner, Gary’s fried clams were leaden, and my crab roll was served on a hamburger (rather than hot dog) bun - of all the indignities! It was past evening when we launched yet again, and our final half hour paddle to camp was done almost in the dark. The full moon rose over the town and continued upward to provide light for the rest of the trip and for my final scramble up the big steep slippery rocks - without a headlamp. By now I was familiar enough with the route that careful placement of feet led to an incident free trip up to flat land. And Gary played engineer with boats, planks and ladders – and got everything tucked in for the night. By this point, both of us were about as fried as Gary’s clams had been, and it was not long before we turned in. On Friday morning, we were up at five, on the water a little after six with the rising sun, paddling back to the town, stopping along the way to chat with passengers on a cruise schooner (who pronounced the accommodations somewhat…uncomfortable, and the food…totally wonderful). And then the first ferry of the day passed us by, and we headed back to the launch by the LL Bean facility for the last time. On the way, we were greeted one last time by a seal that must hang out at this spot 24/7. And were in time to be second in line for the ferry ride back. On the ferry, we sat on some life-preserver lockers, swinging our legs and facing the stern as the bright sun shone on us, and the wake of the ferry streamed out behind. On the way to the next chapter: Muscle Ridge. Vinalhaven: Did I mention that there are three large windmills on the island? We found that every time we turned a corner, they were in front of us. Both Gary and I were left convinced that the windmills are actually not stationary, but rather mounted on rails that traverse the island, and moved every half hour or so just to confound whatever mariner wants to use them for navigation or orientation… And did I mention that we managed to hit on the most spectacular three day stretch of the summer. Day and night skies were absolutely cloudless. Indeed: find a cloud in any picture; win a prize! And did I mention that at the end, we had to agree that the true name of the island is Vinalheaven! Thank you, Gary, for arranging this very special trip. And we wish that Rob could have been there with us to complete what they started in May. SECOND ANNUAL NSPN MUSCLE RIDGE WEEKEND September 20-22, 2013 As some readers may remember, the First Annual NSPN Muscle Ridge weekend was a great success – despite the pouring rain and that we never made it to Muscle Ridge! We all determined that we would succeed this year! After a quick stop at the Atlantic Baking Company for an excellent breakfast treat, I followed Gary for the short hop to the Lobster Buoy Campground in South Thomaston. There were some earlier arrivals waiting for us there, and after setting up camp, ten of us set out in windless, almost eerily calm conditions for an afternoon paddle. Gary, Roger, Shari, Bob Cornell, Barry, Cath, Beth, Kyle and I were joined by Ted, a man we met at the launch who with his wife Sheila had been staying in their giant RV (biggest one they’ll allow into a national park!) at Lobster Buoy for a month. Ted had four beautiful handmade boats on a rack by the water, is a proficient paddler and Maine Guide, and was a fun and worthy addition to our band of paddlers. South from Waterman Beach under the bridge to Sprucehead, and then a crossing to Graffam Island – at which point we had to whisper in awe, “One year later, we finally made it to Muscle Ridge!” The conditions – unlike last year – couldn’t have been more welcoming, although I did hear one person mutter that he would have prefered at least a bit of bounce on the water… We stopped at a beautiful beach on Bar Island, east of Graffam, for a rest photo ops and for the irrepressible Beth, a swim (of course!). After a bit more wandering, we headed back, aiming for the target on Sprucehead. Some headed directly back from there, others of us stayed offshore to paddle by Tommy’s Island – where the summer resident horses had apparently been removed a week or so before. There was a quiet sunset view. That night, the festivities commenced. A potluck, to which we invited Ted and Sheila (who contributed a delicious four bean salad), featuring Sushi (courtesy of Bob) Chili (courtesy of Shari) Oatmeal cookies (ditto) And apps, wine, a campfire, laughter, conversation that went on well past some of our (mine!) usual bedtimes. By Saturday morning, there were four more arrivals: Bill, Robin, Katherine and Janice. The other arrival was the first not-great weather of the week. Thick fog. Which lifted briefly: And descended once again. And at this point, my camera battery pretty much died, so what happened for the rest of the day will be memorialized with words and the photos of others. Determined not to let Muscle Ridge defeat us for the second year in a row (even though we had, as Gary put it, “kissed” the archipelago yesterday), we set out in wind and fog for a day which would see us wend our way through most of the islands of Muscle Ridge. Roger was good enough to log it on his handy app, and I will leave it to the reader to determine by what means of transport he made it from island to island: http://app.strava.com/activities/83966270 Hit the button that says “satellite” and you can really enlarge and zoom in on our day! We crossed first to Dix, one of the larger islands in Muscle Ridge, which is owned by an association of families that have set up a walking path around the island. Follow the path in the direction it points you (as we did not – which led to our getting directionally challenged and ending up walking down lanes that are not part of what the island has opened to visitors) and you will pass through fields with apple trees and goldenrod, by quarries, with open vistas to the ocean surrounding. In the course of our ramble, we ran into two of the homeowners, accompanied by Australian shepherd dogs and a border collie named Tippie who if left to her own devices would have herded us wherever she wanted us to go. From the owners, we heard some of the history of the island. I didn’t get the year, but when quarrying was at its peak, 2000 people lived on the island, 1200 of them in two 600 person dormitories, now long torn down. Granite from the island was used to construct post offices in New York and Philadelphia, and trimmings for the Metropolitan Museum of Art among other places. One of the owners told us that Muscle Ridge got its name from the efforts expended by the men who rowed each weekend from the island to Rockland. (Although as the name Muscle Ridge is variously spelled “Mussel Ridge,” there may be more than one derivation.) The owners were very generous with the beauty of this special environment, and we appreciated their willingness to have visitors by boat walk the path they’ve created. We then rounded High Island to the northeast, and stopped for lunch on a sandy beach on Birch Island. From there, we zigzagged to Camp Island, down through the passage between Andrews Island and The Neck with a favoring tide, and emerged into the calm basin between the two. Then onto Hewitt Island, where we tucked into the large cove on the northwestern shore, and finally a decision to round Pleasant Island, where we ran into our first strong headwinds and lively seas. And from there, through some narrow-ish rocky passages to the east side of Bar for a quick stop before the long open channel crossing to home. Some specific memories from our perambulations: being serenaded by a loon for the whole crossing between Hewitt and Pleasant Islands; a flock of seagulls rising from the rocks as we approached, lit by the finally-emerging sun into a storm of confetti. And then, the crossing back to our launch. Starting in a gratifying manner with a nice tail wind and modest seas, it was pleasant to be pushed along; it would be a fast three plus mile crossing. But then a bit further along, the seas rose behind us, the group got separated into two pods, and more than one person thought “Isle of Shoals” as we roared along on following seas. Some of us later related being hit by beam seas and almost broaching, but everyone managed to stay bow forward and upright, and the two pods split Tommy’s Island and ended up back on the beach at about the same time. I was particularly proud of Robin’s efforts – we paddled close together, she in a CRCK rental (a Boreal Baffin), in seas larger than any she’d seen before – and made it with aplomb back to the launch. Others of us had a bit of desire to collapse against each other in relief when we were finally back. Amazing how even two to three foot following seas in a strong wind can make you feel that you’re being chased by giants! That night, Kyle, who is a local, directed some of us to the Slipaway for a lovely restaurant meal (where we also celebrated Kyle’s birthday), while others (Robin, Cath, Barry) left for home, or ate in their tent in the cold and wind (Janice and Katherine). More than one of us felt the ground swaying as we walked to the restaurant… We were all too tired for any festivities Saturday night. I awoke on Sunday morning prepared for the drive home, but on arising at 6:30 to – ahem – use the facilities, was greeted by a most astonishing sky. Rather than ambling over to the bathhouse, I jumped into my car and roared (much faster than the posted 5 mph limit!) down to the shore to catch the show before it was over. And hoping that my camera might have a tiny bit of juice left… The only other person up was Janice, and we stood in the howling wind watching the sunrise. It was one of incredible moments that happen now and again on a trip. The last of us – Gary, Roger, Katherine, Beth, Janice, Shari and I – sat at a picnic table and huddled into the wind, eating a cold breakfast – unable to light up any stoves for the coffee addicts. We took turns guessing at the wind speed as even gustier periods came and went. Gary’s anemometer showed wind speeds gusting over 20 kts. No one greatly regretted that we wouldn’t be paddling that day. And so by 9:30 am, the 2nd Annual NSPN Muscle Ridge trip, which had achieved its goal as the first had not, was over. Shortly after I hit the road, the skies opened once again – a perfect meteorological bookend to the beginning of my trip nine days earlier. Thank you Gary, for arranging Muscle Ridge, and everyone who participated. It was a great group! And as for my trip as a whole, three words pretty much sum it up: Amen to that! pru

It is indeed SUNDAY september 29 - gear swap, if anyone is interested, to precede. pru

I'd second an encouragement for folks - particularly people who are relatively newer to nspn - to join us. The meeting is fun, the paddle is mellow, and the seven day forecast - if there really is such a thing! - is calling for a lovely day! pru