Downeast August Adventure 8/14 - 8/21/2021

[Joseph Berkovitz]

People: Joe Berkovitz, David Mercer, Janet Lorang, Prudence Baxter

Locations: Western Bay, Eastern Bay, Englishman Bay, Great Wass Island, Jonesport

I think it may have been Prudence and I who came up with the idea of a long, substantial Downeast Maine island-camping trip about a year ago (maybe two?), along with others who had been involved in a 2018 trip to Iceland. The trip slowly took shape over a number of months in the spring and early summer. The roster of people kept mutating, but the location was a constant: we were drawn towards the area of Jonesport, Great Wass Island, and Roque Island with their associated island chains and bays. The idea was to explore and enjoy a new area, without the pressure of getting from A to B by date C. We would leave plenty of time to make plans suited to whatever each day might bring.

This was an area that I had wanted to visit for a long while. The Great Wass archipelago and its satellite island chains in Western, Eastern and Englishman Bays looked strange and other-worldly on a map, at least to me. They hung together in odd curvy shapes, enclosing irregular sheltered bays and coves. The landmass as a whole stuck way out into the Gulf of Maine with exposed south-facing coastlines. There was reputed to be a lot of fog and swell and current here. While adjacent areas (particularly MDI and the Bold Coast) offer superb coastal paddling with a similar degree of exposure, the Jonesport area was notable for its many islands. There were lots of them, and they seemed to have very individual personalities. We wanted in.

The planning required some care. There are few islands open for camping in this part of the Maine Island Trail. Some of those felt a bit too close to the mainland to offer the remote experience we were looking for (Doyle, Daniels). Others seemed to have too few viable campsites (Halifax). Yet others could not be reliably reserved (Stevens). Some (Ram, Cross) were far enough away that they would require us to move camp more often than we wished to; we wanted to use 2 or 3 campsites at most, so that we could explore the area in unloaded boats most of the time.

In the end, the route planning boiled down to this: we would reserve Norton Island for the first 5 nights. This would guarantee us a nice campsite to the west of Jonesport, one well offshore but also easily reachable after driving up on the first day of the trip. We could then relocate further west to Stevens Island, if it was both superior and unoccupied. Either choice would let us access the western and central parts of the region for several days. Finally, we would journey across Moosabec Reach and Chandler Bay to the more distant and exposed Halifax Island, well to the east. We were able to reserve Halifax for the final 2 nights of the trip, the maximum stay allowed since it is a USF&WS refuge for threatened species of seabirds. Crossing the region from west to east would also let us stop in Jonesport resupply water for the end of our trip; we were not confident we could pack enough water for 7 days in our kayaks.

The tidal situation was imperfect, driven by the dates we were able to travel. The currents actually ran contrary to most of our west-to-east movement (this area mostly floods to the east and ebbs to the west, driven by the Bay of Fundy). However, we were confident we could work the eddies and time our journeys to avoid any outright battles.

One final piece of the planning puzzle was parking and launching. Janet researched a bunch of options, both free and paid. In the end we all felt the most comfortable with one particular choice: the Jonesport Shipyard. We were happiest paying local people for their help and facilities, rather than leaving a bunch of cars in a church parking lot. And it turned out to be very well worth it.

Day 1, Sat. 8/14: Jonesport Shipyard to Norton Island (3.5 nm)

Janet and I drove up early this morning, hitting the road at 6 am. (Well, that was when Janet picked me up; actually, she had to hit the road earlier than that.) We headed up the coast with a number of breaks, easily making it to Jonesport a little after noon, which had been our goal. We stopped to get lunch at one of the few open convenience stores. Their crab roll sandwich was good. The store also stocked a combo of Trump 2024 hats and stun guns, placed together in a display at the front, perhaps anticipating that one would want both items conveniently on hand in some future scenario.

We moved on to the shipyard, where Prudence and David had already arrived (they had stayed overnight in Machias) and were beginning to pack their boats. It was clear right away that the shipyard had been a great choice. The people were very friendly and easygoing. They had potable water, bathrooms, showers, laundry machines — although we really only needed the first two. We were able to drop all the boats and gear by their all-tide ramp and then move the cars to a parking area, leaving the keys with them. If you are going island camping, this is a first-rate jumping off point.

(When we arrived, a metal tripod was set up blocking the ramp. A white-haired gentleman rolled up on a motorized cart, moved the tripod out of the way, smiled, and spoke to us. "This is my boat ramp, and you're welcome to use it. You can talk to the people in the shipyard office about parking." It was a kind reminder that access to the water here is not to be taken for granted, and that the shipyard's business depended on local rightsholders and landowners.)

We packed the boats with what seemed like a pretty astonishing load. I believe I had nearly 90 pounds of cargo, the largest component of which was the 16 liters of water in dromedaries stashed in my cockpit. Others were in a similar range. Freeboard was not generous.

Our wary gaze out to Moosabec Reach revealed banks of fog with various bits of Beals Island peeking through across the strait. We could make out the bridge to Beals in the distance. Fortunately, our initial paddle would be mostly a matter of island hopping, with crossings within the limit of visibility. We expected sudden rain showers from a cold front that was expected to come through and then clear everything out for the next few days (a previous NSPN group in the area had just endured nonstop dense fog for their entire stay, which we were grateful to avoid). Thankfully the forecast didn't include any big wind or sea conditions. We launched into the murky overcast somewhat around 1:30 pm. We crossed the Reach next to the bridge for best visibility with boat traffic, and also because the bridge piers gave us a place to stop safely if someone came through fast. Even though slack was not far off, we noted that the ebb current under the bridge was pretty swift; Moosabec Reach really gets constricted there and a lot of water was moving through smartly. Once past the bridge, we didn't notice much current.

Onwards we paddled to East Sheep I. (the unexplained absence of a West Sheep was noted a number of times) and then to a long, thin finger projecting from the NE of Norton Island. Norton, which borders the southwest end of Moosabec Reach, is a very sizeable island. Its north side hosts a compound of buildings that constitute the Eastern Frontier Educational Foundation's writers/artists' residency program. 

We continued around to begin paddling through the narrow channel between Pomp and Norton Islands. Then two things happened simultaneously: 1) the skies cut loose with a huge torrent of rain, and 2) the clouds partly cleared, with the sun shining brightly. We were suddenly in a world of sparkling jewels, one for each raindrop hitting the surface of the water as we trolled past the rocky shoreline of Norton: pure, joyous, undiluted trail magic.

The rain stopped again suddenly, and it seemed as though the overcast returned almost immediately. We knew we were looking for a large glacial erratic boulder on the shoreline that distinguished our campsite—and 1/2 mile later, there it was, just as expected, sitting on a flat rocky shelf with a small cove and sand beach just north of it. We landed on the beach and unpacked our boats in what was to be our new home for a while, finding that there seemed to be only 4 viable campsites in the woods adjacent to the shelf. Well, there were indeed 4 of us, but Janet's site was in a sort of mini-gully and looked like it might develop a puddle if the rain continued. At this point we were collectively less than thrilled with the campsite as a whole. The fog was returning and mosquitoes were coming out. The patch of woods devoted to tenting was dense and a little cramped. Before changing out of paddling gear, we did a short excursion further around the island to see what it looked like, then came back to the site and our "home erratic".

We set up camp as the fog set in once again, denser than before. Looking out from our slice of coastline the one visible island disappeared, leaving a blank canvas, a kind of gray Rothko painting. We ate dinner on our flat rocky shelf—which was starting to seem convenient—while a small swell lapped at its edges.

An interesting sliced-bread vein of rock sliced through our patio:

We still weren't totally convinced about this spot. But despite the gloom, more trail magic was on its way. The fog gradually began to dissipate and reveal one island after another. The first to appear was neighboring Hardwood, which Prudence fell in love with (only to abruptly reject it later in favor of younger, hotter islands). Sinuous tendrils and wavelets of fog wove themselves through the view. Blue sky quietly crept into the picture. The moon appeared, as a muted sunset began to play hide-and-seek with the fog. I walked to a private little stretch of shoreline near my tent to hang up some wet clothing, and as I looked up at the moon, a searingly bright meteor etched a trail from the moon downwards towards the horizon leaving a bright green afterimage on my retina. It was one of the last of the Perseids meteor shower which had peaked 3 days ago during a stretch of cloudy weather. This hanger-on, this one procrastinator was the only Perseid I was to see this year, but it was a very good one. No others appeared. We slept soundly.

Day 2, Sun. 8/15: Sand Islands (9.1 nm) and Island Hike

When we woke up the next morning, the cold front had replaced our muggy fog with bright, crisp weather and a fresh westerly wind. We could now see the entire landscape to our south and west. To our surprise, Cadillac Mountain on MDI loomed in the distance, 37 nautical miles away; it was to remain a presence throughout the trip whenever conditions allowed us to see it.

We were also on a lobster superhighway. Some faction of the Jonesport/Beals lobster fleet loudly chugged through the nearby channels from 3 am onwards. The traffic let up in the early morning.

The change in the weather seemed to alter our feelings about our campsite in a positive direction. With the oppressive fog gone and the wind dispelling what few bugs there were, we were starting to appreciate the setting much more. The flat rock ledges were a convenient front porch for our campsite and gave us a superb view to the southwest. They were much cleaner to sit and cook on than a sand beach (although we had a small one of those, too). Facing out into Western Bay, there were only a few distant signs of civilization on Moose Neck to our west. And the large glacial boulder was both interesting to look at and an obvious marker to shoot for when returning. Janet moved out of the gully (which had not flooded) and found a much nicer and more private spot tucked further back in the woods, which she christened "my annex".

We decided to head out in the direction we could see the best, and explore the main island chain in Western Bay starting with Stevens, then Drisko, Toms, Inner Sand, The Sands, Outer Sand and ultimately Stanley Ledge. Our first challenge was simply to launch on the expanse of low-tide rockweed in front of us. What had been a tiny sand-beach cove turned out to be just the top 10 feet above a long, shallow bed of slippery seaweed-covered boulders stretching out to the waterline. We had a 13-foot tidal range to contend with, and this was perhaps the only clear disadvantage of the location. Boats were moved cautiously, and in due time made it onto the water. We were excited to begin exploring with Stevens looming up ahead:

The crossing to Stevens was only 1.5 nm and went by quickly. When we got there the tide had dropped enough that we were not interested in repeating a slippery scramble on the northwestern beaches, one of the two primary landing points on Stevens, so we continued down the chain. At some point we settled on doing figure-eights around the islands, switching between the east and west sides of the chain each time we came to a gap, so that we would be assured of seeing the entire shoreline of each island. Stevens, the Driskos and Toms all looked like typical midcoast islands of spruce and pine on granite ledges. Toms had particular charm in its small size, rustic buildings and several distinct chunks of land with tiny bays in between.

When we got past Inner Sand, The Sands supplied a surprise. This MITA island is an extensive low-tide sand beach that is piled up around some very small rock ledges. At high water (which it wasn't) only the tiny ledge tops remain above water. These ledge tops admit perhaps one tent, perhaps zero tents, depending on the tide cycle. It was very striking and the beach looked luscious. We deferred landing until our return when the water would be somewhat higher, and continued around Outer Sand. Conditions were perking up as we entered the open waters of the Gulf of Maine proper. Outside Outer Sand was a final feature that was not an island: Stanley Ledge. This turned out to incorporate a very enjoyable deep-water surfing spot, with long swells coming in and standing up on a submerged ridge. We played there for some time, trying to catch just the right wave as the water level slowly changed, altering the spot's underwater profile.

When we were done with that, we returned via the dynamic rock gardens off the southern and western cliffs of Outer Sand Island, winding around and eventually landing on the curving, gentle Caribbean-like beaches of The Sands, protected by Inner Sand to the north and Outer Sand to the south. A palm tree would not have been out of place visually, but we had only barren rocks. There was a brisk cool breeze and we used the rock ledges as a windbreak to eat our lunch, while the water slowly rose to the peak of the sandy ridge where we had dragged our boats. I quickly verbally claimed The Sands in the name of the Empire of Spain, in a vain and dated tribute to the ghosts of colonialism. None of us knew about other colonial ghosts being exorcised at the same time, but on a different continent. At the exact moment when we were ready to leave, our boats started to signal their own readiness by beginning to float.

We got into them and paddled back along the chain. Strangely, from the distance of our campsite on Norton we could never see The Sands as more than a slight bump on the horizon, although up close at low tide it is very prominent.

On our way back we stopped in the eastern side of Stevens to check out its other main landing site, a protected cove. This cove turned out to contain a gorgeous and substantial sand beach sloping all the way down into the water, with no rockweed boulders, terminating in a wild hedge of beach roses. That seemed promising. We landed and checked the campsites out. There appeared to be room for three tents in the woods near the cove (described as capacity 6 people in the MITA guide), adjacent to some very damp-looking areas thickly overgrown with ferns. The northwestern "group" site, described as holding 12 people, turned out to be a square clearing in a grassy area capable of holding about 4 tents in very close proximity. We decided we would pass. We liked the setup at Norton Island better with its smooth rock ledges and drier-looking forest and annex, even if low tide was a pain in the butt.

We returned to our campsite more or less at high water. Then three of us took a walk around the entire island. Some of this was on a trail that ascended to higher ground in the interior, then wound through mossy and grassy lower-lying bogs. Brightly colored mushrooms abounded.

We then circled back to hike the rocky shoreline around the eastern and southern shores to our campsite. It took a surprisingly long time as the trail dipped and swooped to follow the many ins and outs of the shoreline, followed by scrambles on small headlands where the beaches were interrupted by higher granite ledge. We found a more extensive sand beach area in the southeast that would be nice for swimming, but it was pretty far from our campsite. Eventually we found our way back to our "home erratic" and had dinner. The sunset was clear this night and energetic waves beat against our ledge in the dying light.

Day 3, Mon. 8/16: Great Wass and Mistake Islands (17.3 nm)

We awoke to another bright day. The wind this day was to start in the north and progress to a brisker SW wind in the afternoon at 8-10 kt. This was perfect for a trip over to Great Wass Island Preserve and Eastern Bay: the north wind and ebb tide would help us down, and the SW and flood tide would (at least in part) help us back, as Eastern Bay floods to the north unlike most of the area.

We were not sure what we would find over at Great Wass but we knew what the estimable Michael Daugherty had told us to expect in his excellent guide to sea kayaking in New England: exposed ocean bumping into big cliffs. That sounded good. The sea state was calm over at our camp, as usual. But we expected we'd see more active conditions over at Great Wass, just as we had at Outer Sands but more so: Great Wass sticks out the most of any landforms in this area.

This time David and I experimented with sliding our boats directly down the rockweed off our campsite's ledge, avoiding most of the messy cautious scramble over slippery boulders. It did work, although it's hard to say if it was any faster. We headed over by way of the Ram Islands (based on the unusual name, I'm going to make a crazy guess that rams were kept on these islands long ago). Around this time we noticed another large landform to the left of Cadillac Mountain, and wondered what it could be.

The northern part of Great Wass is settled and has houses, but the southern part is the wild Great Wass Island Preserve. Past Three Falls Harbor, human evidence disappeared from the shoreline and the land began to become higher. As we finally rounded the southernmost extremity of the island at Pond Point, large swells rocked the water back and forth, filling and draining the many coves over kelp-covered ledges. We were in a different world.

On Janet's recommendation our first visit was to The Pond, which is in no wise any sort of pond. Rather, it is The Mother of All Tidepools. At high water this is a substantial shallow cove, connected directly to the ocean. At low water (which is when we arrived), it becomes a 150-acre tide pool separated from the ocean by a kelp-covered reef through which water from The Pond drains out in many small rushing streams.

Looking down into any of these streams reveals a colorful Atlantic microworld of plants and animals. The whole spectacle was indescribable and took my breath away, it was so completely unexpected. We got out of our boats and waded through the streams, transfixed.

Next it was on to a traverse of Red Head, the ocean-facing pink granite cliffs of Great Wass. These cliffs are deeply fissured and cut with slots, a few of which extend hundreds of feet deep behind the rocks in twisting channels to emerge elsewhere on the shoreline. Next the cliffs themselves, the swells carried us up and down and sideways in dramatic, graceful sweeps. A kayaking dream sequence unfolded as we slowly worked our way along this headland, stopping at many places to explore or play. Along the way we met a friendly bunch of five female kayakers celebrating the 60th birthday of one of their number, and floated and talked with them.

Reaching the end of Red Head we looked across the opening of Eastern Bay towards Moose Head Light on Mistake Island. A narrow tidal channel between Mistake and neighboring Knight Island would be a good lunch spot, and returning from there would allow us to ride the flood back up Eastern Bay and see some more islands, so we opted to go for the 2.5 nm crossing to Mistake. The tidal channel at low water was a sort of sandy ramp running up to a high point and then inclining back down the other side. It was not easy to access the top of Mistake Island from here, where a boardwalk could be seen traversing a raised bog. This trail connects to a boathouse, but reaching the boathouse from our side of the channel turned out to be an arduous wading and clambering expedition on which I decided to pass. It was quite hot and sheltered here, and not all that attractive at low tide, but we were hungry, so lunch was eaten! Perhaps more exploration on Mistake would have been in order, and that will have to wait for another trip. The lighthouse was impressive though:

After lunch the water was still a long way from flooding our narrow channel so we worked our way back to the outside of Knight, crossing over to a large and apparently featureless vertical granite ledge on neighboring Steele Harbor Island. Reaching the rock face, we were surprised to find a long slot running for much of its length between the cliff and an adjacent rib-like ledge. We paddled through this enchanted, sheltered environment...

...and then headed up Eastern Bay via a chain of islands, including two completely different Green Islands less than two miles apart (did no one notice a problem when they were named?). Then up to the bay's northwestern corner, where the narrow Pig Island Gut allowed us to enter Beals Island's Alley Bay adjacent to the Reach. This gut is well marked although almost invisible until you enter it, and it sees very heavy boat traffic since it's an important cutoff to reach the town of Beals from Eastern Bay. We were careful to stay out of the tiny channel and keep our eyes peeled.

A couple of us wanted to resupply water and we stopped at a public ramp in Beals to see if we could find some. The local folks were very friendly but indicated, no, the nearest water was in Jonesport across the reach. Well, we could handle that: across we went, back to the shipyard, to fill up some water bladders. The flood current on the north side of the reach was considerable, and we did our best to dodge it as we returned to our camp following our refill stop. On the way back, we took the opposite, southeastern way around our island to complete our water-borne survey of its shores. The closer we got, the more the wind picked up. It was nice to return to our home erratic after a pretty epic paddle and eat dinner on the rock.

Day 4, Tues. 8/17: Western Bay Ramble (7 nm)

This day dawned cooler and with noticeably more haze and moisture. Winds were calm and forecast to remain out of the south under 8 knots. David elected to stay in camp this day; the rest of us de-camped after breakfast with a short trip in mind: heading to the southwestern patch of Western Bay where the aptly named Tibbett Narrows affords navigation past the headland of Moose Neck.

We headed past Stevens once again, this time taking a right and heading for Plummer Island where Janet performed some acrobatic model moves.

Then on to another Green Island and another Ram Island. On this latter Ram, we got out and attempted to take bearings to a number of visible landmarks including Cadillac and the abovementioned Mystery Mountain to its left. It was still not obvious what Mt. Mystery could be although from this angle it seemed to align with what I thought was Schoodic Head. We also viewed an odd nearby island called The Ladle, which did strongly resemble an upside down ladle whose steep-sided 80-foot-high circular spoon shot upwards abruptly from the water. It would be cool to paddle to this ladle some other time.

We then sought out a lunch spot, as we progressed back towards Stevens and Norton. Ultimately we passed by Duck Ledges, a tiny spot of an island with a tiny 540-square-foot house on it. No one seemed to be home and the surrounding ledges were disconnected from it and mostly covered in rockweed, though with a smattering of gravel in places. We took advantage of one such smattering and landed there for lunch. While researching the public/private status of the island, we determined that the house and entire island were in fact for sale: $339,000 and it's yours. Read the real-estate listing.

We briefly considered pooling our resources to buy it as a paddling outpost, but further consideration (combined with a lack of super-crazy spending money) dampened our zeal. The island is really, really small; at high tide (or worse, in dense fog) the house would almost feel like a prison of sorts. Landing on the ledges would be really problematic except in the calmest conditions at high water. It is no doubt the right place for the right person, and we were not that person. Do let us know if you wind up buying the place and we'll come back and visit you, possibly bringing you a beer.

We returned home via Hardwood Island, on which some substantial land-clearing and possibly house-building project was taking place. Back at our site, the fog returned once again bringing us a damp evening and more mosquitoes. However, there was a silver lining: the mosquitoes appeared not to have finished mosquito school, and perhaps had never even cracked open a textbook. They were slow and incompetent and easily dispersed. If only the mosquitoes later on our trip had been more inclined to party, less inclined to study...

Day 5, Wed. 8/18: Crumple Island and Red Head (13.2 nm)

The fog cleared overnight to overcast skies. At least, it was still not raining and had gotten much less damp.  Our plan was to go back to Red Head and spend more time exploring its spectacular cliffs and slots without the additional overhead of crisscrossing Eastern Bay. We would also head south to Great Wass via the secondary island chain of Browney, Fisherman and Crumple Islands, exploring the outside cliffs and ledges of Crumple.

On this morning the kayakers we had met previously at Red Head paddled by to say hello. Right after that we left around 8:45 am and headed for Outer Ram, then for Browney where we stopped for a brief break on its north-facing gravel beach. On the way we saw seals and porpoises. When we got to Fisherman we started hearing a distant, plaintive, singsong howl. Someone (I forget who) thought it was David singing to himself, but David denied it and in any case one suspects his singing would have been more tuneful. No, it was seals on the ledges around Crumple Island, their voices carrying impressively.

Much of our morning was taken up exploring the spectacular ledges and dynamic waters around Crumple Island (which boasted three small homes) and to its west the trio of Seal, Green and Curlew Rocks. Even though the conditions we had seen along the way were small, the water here seemed wild, untamed, choppy and swirling. Gray and harbor seals were everywhere, generally objecting to our presence. We did our best to avoid them but they slid off the rocks and followed us around, popping up and glaring at us.

Crumple Island itself had at least one spectacularly long slot penetrating the steep cliffs of the island and going far back towards the back yards of the houses. It was a preview of the other long slots awaiting us on Red Head, where the rock gardening conditions were truly perfect on this day with virtually no wind and a substantial long-period swell. We played and pondered and made our way into and out of many nooks and crannies. A large bald eagle viewed us from the top of a ledge as we went by, then took off. Eventually we had an incident (thankfully inconsequential) when David got hit by a larger swell that penetrated into the very last (and very narrow) slot on the headland. Not much energy was able to make it in there, and it was really one of those slow-motion low-impact mishaps; he was able to push his boat out of the back of the slot where it connected to protected water, and get back in by himself. The rest of us were positioned at either end ready to help, but we weren't needed.

We returned via Slate and Ram islands under what were now sunny skies. Light sprinkles after dinner sent us to our tents to fall promptly asleep after a great day on the water.

Day 6, Thu. 8/19: Move To Halifax Island (11.8 nm)

Early fog this morning lifted with the arrival of the sun. An amazing fogbow appeared.

For some of us the mood remained somber because of a mysterious visitation we had endured during the night. All of us (except for Janet, safely tucked away in her annex) had been woken in the middle of the night by a loud series of repeated snorts, that sounded as if they were only several feet away. Which, perhaps, they were, seaweed-covered ledges suitable for seals being located immediately below our perch at the very early morning's low tide. While I muttered to myself, "what a noisy seal!" and went back to sleep, Prudence apparently entered some kind of Stephen King monster netherworld. At various later times in the trip, we concocted fragments of various horror-genre plots involving Norton Island, pinniped/wolverine hybrids, ghosts of frustrated writers or artists who had committed suicide at a retreat session, etc. etc.

We had targeted an 8:30 am high-water departure from our site for our final days on Halifax Island, and the group seemed to naturally find its way to being prepared at almost that exact time. This unconscious synchronization was one of the happy aspects of our trip together. We left via the south and east sides, saying goodbye to our home boulder, headed for Jonesport. Again we traversed Moosabec Reach next to the bridge, this time finding the ebb current the strongest it had been yet and requiring an aggressive ferry angle to reach the large eddy near the north bridge footing. Eventually we found ourselves back at the shipyard a third time, to resupply water and dispose of trash—things we all needed to do at this point. (The shipyard charges a reasonable $2 per kitchen-size trash bag.)

We exited the shipyard via the narrow channel east of the breakwater and ran along the north of Moosabec Reach in order to stay out of the opposing ebb. Our next, brief stop would be at Kelleys Point, a MITA campsite on the mainland that lies at the very eastern end of the reach. This property is not a commercial campground, but offers camping to MITA members only by advance permission and is documented in the 2020 MITA guide. Janet hopped out of her boat (having previously called the owners) to take a look around for future trips. She reported the site seemed like a great spot, with some amenities like potable water freely available. It certainly affords a great jumping-off point for exploring the area if island camping isn't your thing, or if the group is larger than would fit on one of the island sites.

We moved on. From Kelley Point we had options to cross Chandler Bay west-to-east by a couple of indirect routes touching on Mark Island or Ballast Island. Looking out at these islands, we decided to just hoof it directly across Chandler towards our destination: the more easterly group of islands surrounding Roque Harbor, at the mouth of Englishman Bay. Our route took us to the entrance into a narrow passage called the Thorofare, that lies between Little Spruce, Great Spruce and Roque Islands. This passage was invisible until we were quite close. Once inside the passage, we felt like we were in some kind of gateway leading into a different realm altogether.

The rocks were dark, sharp-looking and clearly a species apart from the light-colored granite we had found everywhere so far. When we exited into Roque Harbor, a new kind of view greeted us: this body of water is enclosed on three sides by large Roque Island with its expansive crescent of fine sand beach, and on the fourth side by a chain of islands including Double Shot, Anguilla and, easternmost, our new campsite Halifax.

The stunning Roque Island beach was our lunch stop. This is one of a very few large Downeast beaches composed entirely of very fine sand top to bottom, continuing as sand underwater for a good distance. Except for the island vegetation, it would not look out of place in the Carolinas or the Caribbean. The beach is divided by a marker that sets off a private area to the left from a public-welcome area to the right. (The entire island is owned by the Gardner family dynasty of Boston, who maintain it in a mostly wild state.) A number of cruising sailboats were anchored in the harbor and a family had motored over to the beach in a couple of small rafts. A strange and inviting little paradise overall.

Time was moving on and we were concerned about the onset of the remnants of Tropical Storm Fred later in the day. We did not want to set up camp in the rain. We set off to Halifax via another snaking route through Lakeman Harbor off the eastern arm of Roque, emerging about 1 mile opposite Halifax. We could see at a glance how different Halifax was from its neighbors. Instead of a dense thicket of spruce atop ledges, it consisted of two distinct parts joined by a bar. To the east was an extensive low plateau of mostly level bog with sparse trees scattered throughout. To the west, a small, high (100 feet?) knob of grasses and trees surrounded by high cliffs dropping to the water. 

We arrived quickly, finding the landing on the north side of the bar quite easy with a well-defined gravel route in between slippery ledges. We surveyed the gravel bar, the only area in which camping was allowed. We had been a bit worried about what we might find, after David noticed earlier in the week an online description of Halifax which noted that storm erosion had reduced the number of tenting sites to only two. However US Fish and Wildlife didn't bring this up with me when I reserved the site for a group of six, so I felt that something would probably work out. What we actually found was this: a tiny groomed area of flat gravel big enough for only two tents, delineated by logs, set within a larger area of the bar incorporating both grass and brush (not at all good) and un-groomed small rocks (not quite as bad). Our campsite at ground level:

The mosquitoes here were a different breed entirely from those at our initial site, having not only completed mosquito high school but gone on to graduate and even postgraduate studies in bloodsucking. Prudence and David shared the groomed site, and Janet and I mostly hand-groomed some of the rocky area by removing the largest and sharpest rocks from where our tents would go. The result was still bumpy but would allow tired paddlers—which we were—to sleep.

While Prudence and David set up camp and took a breather, Janet and I engaged in a hike completely around the high grassy and mossy knob of Halifax, a feat we deemed "circumknobigation". The footing was at times dicey, requiring scrambles up and over small headlands. The views of the islands in every direction were incredible.

We could clearly see the radio antennas of the Cutler Naval Station on the Bold Coast, what I believed to be Eastern Head, and what may have been Grand Manan far off in the distance. Blueberries, raspberries and blackberries were found, and were eaten. We got an aerial view of our camp:

We also had a chance to appraise the location of the gravel bar, located between two coves. The one we had chosen to land in faced Roque Harbor—which was why we had chosen it—while the other, larger one faced open ocean to the south. At the low water of the present moment, a large ledge blocked the south-facing cove and spray was coming up over it. An ominous fringe of mares' tails-like clouds approached, perhaps signalling the arrival of Tropical Storm Fred.

We retired to our tents to escape the voracious bugs, wondering what weather the night would bring, and whether the ocean-facing cove would decide to extend itself onto our bar. A south wind was blowing and was expected to strengthen, although only to 10-12 knots. The strand lines on both sides seemed uncomfortably close to the bar.

In the actual event, we received a steady pour of rain from maybe 9 pm until 1 am or so, and then a strong but brief torrent. The wind never picked up much, but early in the evening at high water it sounded like waves were right next to us on both sides of the bar, much louder on the ocean side. Slightly unnerving. But in the morning, there was no evidence the water had come any further than the bar's edge.

Day 7, Friday 8/20: Roque Harbor Islands, The Brothers, Pulpit Rock (11.7 nm)

Thick fog laid heavily on Halifax Island this morning, the first true pea soup of our trip. In the wet early morning, most of us tried to stay in our tents as late as possible in an attempt to avoid losing more blood to the locals. There was no lobster superhighway nearby: it was quiet, a world away from Jonesport.

Our paddling today was divided into two chapters. Chapter one was improvised to work in near-zero visibility, and saw us handrailing westwards down the inside of the island chain towards Great Spruce Island, with three short but compass-guided crossings between the islands: in general, the next island was invisible from the one we were departing. These crossings were notable because the strong ebb current out of Roque Harbor (exiting strongly to the south in these gaps) was opposing incoming swell from the remains of Fred, or perhaps from the start of Henry which was somewhere off the mid-Atlantic. There was no wind to speak of. The resulting conditions in each island gap were something a bit like a tide race, but more graceful and powerful. Swells entering the gap on the outside stood up and rolled through the gap in a heightened shape, without breaking, gradually lowering and fanning out as they encountered the slower current inside the islands. Crossing one of these gaps was fascinating to me, with the swells pushing one inside and the current pushing one outside. In larger conditions this could have been a serious danger, but the sea state was perfect this morning. The visual aspect of the crossings offered a striking illusion, with the water on the outside appearing to impossibly slope downhill towards the quieter water inside. At the same time the water surface was visibly moving in the other direction, from the inside to the outside, ascending the illusory incline. It left one slightly disoriented and vertiginous.

We reached the Roque Harbor side of Thorofare again, this time from the other direction, turned around, and returned to Halifax. After a brief respite and snack, Janet, Prudence and I commenced chapter two. Our plan for this leg was to paddle the remaining north shore of Halifax to the eastern end and then, visibility permitting, go out to The Brothers, a pair of exotic-looking islands in open waters a little over a mile and half southeast of Halifax. We were not concerned about actually finding the islands in dense fog, but we did not know how strong the crosscurrent would be during the crossing and had missed the short window of making the trip during slack. But it didn't matter: when we got to the end of Halifax, we could see The Brothers and intervening Green Island, partly visible through wisps of fog. This would be more than enough visibility to figure out the right ferry angle, if we needed to.

Reaching the Brothers Passage, which is between [yet another] Green Island and The Brothers, we found it an empty place, sheltered by The Brothers. Janet observed that the islands looked like a landscape type we had never seen in Maine, and reminded her of western Ireland. I thought so too. They were bright green and verdant but treeless, shot through with ledges and cliffs. The islands are supposed to harbor nesting razorbills, terns and puffins, but we didn't see many birds; perhaps it was a bit late in the season. We made our way around to the outside of the Brothers where we were greeted by spectacular high cliffs and energetic swells. We took our time to enjoy the conditions and move slowly along the shore, finding places to take in the show, and sometimes participate actively in it.

After making our way completely around the Brothers, we landed on the protected inside at the junction between East and West Brother where there is a cobbly beach of sorts. While East Brother is off limits, West Brother can be hiked and has a Fish and Wildlife cabin which was unoccupied at the time, tied down with guy wires to prevent it from meeting the fate of its older sibling shed lying in ruins some yards away. We made our way up to the shed but the area was very overgrown and hard to walk in, so we descended back to the cobbly beach for lunch.

Our final stop of chapter two took us to Pulpit Rock, a lonely chunk of high rock to the west of The Brothers surrounded by seals and swells. A rhomboid piece has cracked away from one corner of this small island, creating a fanciful podium that doubtless inspired the name:

To our delight, a long high-walled slot completely bisects Pulpit Rock and could be entered with some care from the east side. Janet and I went entirely inside the rock, but due to low water we could not make it through to the other side. The view from inside and the feeling of being enclosed by the rock was pure sea kayaking magic.

Our paddling day ended with a return to Halifax marked by views of the island chain through wisps and strands of fog.

We paddled the remainder of its shoreline, this time on the rougher outside. We capped things off with an entrance into the ocean-facing cove going past (and, partly, over) the ledges at its opening, followed by one last circuit past the cliffs of the "knob".

Day 8, Saturday 8/21: Return to Jonesport (7 nm)

Saturday was fairly calm, with an eastern wind that would help us back to Jonesport. The fog had dissipated entirely. We left at mid-tide and returned via the narrow Thorofare, more or less retracing our steps to Jonesport but minus the detour to Roque Beach. The current in Chandler Bay was again minimal, perhaps because it is something of a dead-end and has little of an east/west axis. We again passed Kelley Point and made our way past the breakwater to the Jonesport Shipyard, to land and unload. It was a quick and uneventful departure from Halifax overall.

Arriving around the same time as our group was a gentleman who had been sailing up from Kittery the past few weeks in a 19-foot open Caledonia Yawl named the "Howdy". He had decided to get off the water before TS Henry weighed in the following day. We talked to him for a while, curious about how he made out in an open boat. He had quite a system worked out, involving popup tents inside the boat, and quite a lot of gear. You can read more about his lifestyle here: https://www.cruisingworld.com/story/destinations/sailing-and-camping-east-maine/

Packing up did not take long, and Prudence had a dinner appointment in Cambridge, so we put ourselves back together relatively quickly and said our goodbyes. A group hug reminded me of what I already knew: this had been a really great trip with great people, a perfect adventure on the water. One of the very best.

Who knows what's next?

Edited September 5, 2021 by Joseph Berkovitz
assorted copy edits

[Joseph Berkovitz]

Photo credits for the above are mostly due to Prudence. I took a few of them though, including this one:

[Dan Foster]

Very cool to see your group's experience on some of the same islands we visited just a few days prior. The low tide pools at The Pond sound amazing! We had no idea what was below us when we entered around high tide for lunch and to escape the seas outside.

I'll second your report that the NW "group" site on Stevens holds far fewer than the 12-person capacity listed in the guidebook. The two group camping trips I did last month ran into space issues on nearly every MITA/MCHT island we visited, despite being under the recommended camper numbers. NW Stevens takes the cake, though. I'm not sure what the solution is, but I'd love to see more accurate descriptions or photos of the spaces available for camping before planning a group camping trip.

I'm inspired by your week-long adventure. I hope I can join you all on some of these longer camping trips in 2022!

[gyork]

I was ready to jump on the cottage listing. Alas, where would I park School Bus?

We would have liked to have been drawn to this area, but the densest fog was our companion when paddling in the neighborhood that day.