One Fall Day on Squam Lake 10/1/16

[prudenceb]

 

One Fall Day on Squam Lake

Saturday, October 1, 2016

 

 

 

Landscapes of one’s heart…  These are the places that draw us, most often the places where we grew up, or where we spent time when we were young.  Mine is the rolling, rock-ledged, stone walled, open fields of northeastern Connecticut (years later named “The Quiet Corner,” a nice way of saying that there is little to do or see there).  For a hundred years my family - a procession of maiden aunts, and then my father, and lastly my sister and I – owned a beautiful old falling-apart farmhouse – six bedrooms, one bathroom and an outdoor shower hooked to the side of a pine tree right outside the kitchen window, where interested parties could, if they chose, observe one’s morning ablutions – set on nine acres.  The house was called The Ledges, after the rock faces that rose up behind it.  It was an anchor for summer family gatherings until - tiring of repeated break-ins, maintaining a big old house that was always falling apart in one way or another, and spending time at a place where the main activities were reading, lawn-mowing and worrying about what would go wrong next – my sister and I finally sold it (sobbing at the closing as we bid farewell to this central piece of family history).

Ours was a small family, and we were at times parked with aunts and uncles – as cousins were parked with us – for summers while parents were off elsewhere in the world.  Our old house was such a repository.  And in exchange, I was packed off to Mt. Desert Island, where my aunt and uncle owned a small rough cottage on Long Pond.  Places of one’s heart…  Those times as a child on a lake in Maine, followed by yearly visits when I grew older made a deep impression, and if there is a secondary landscape of my heart, it is a New England freshwater lake surrounded by mountains.

Before I ever sat in a sea kayak, I viewed the ocean as a place to visit once a summer – where the salt water stung one’s eyes, and where (in the days before the invention of sun block) one acquired the kind of sunburn that made sleeping impossible and then peeled off in great sheets – and made one vulnerable years later to all kinds of skin cancers.  Of course that view changed, and now, in what is likely the last third of my life, the ocean is what draws me. 

I posted for an NSPN Odiorne trip for this past weekend.  It’s one of my favorite easy-(relatively)-to-get-to spots.  Lobster rolls (in the summer), rocks to play in, pretty and varying coastline, easy parking and launching.  The forecast called for strong winds from the north-northeast, and seas big enough for continuing the Small Craft Advisory that had been present for much of the week.  In other words, a challenging day that would turn our normal route into a windy slog for half the trip.  A suggestion was made to start in Rye Harbor, for a first half slog followed by a downwind return run.  I was ready and willing to do some version of the trip…

Until David Mercer passed on word that Dave Merriman was contemplating a Squam Lake paddle for the same day.  Squam – as in two-plus-hours-driving-each-way – Lake.  It made me tired just to think of getting there.  But then…but then…I saw that it wouldn’t be nearly so windy as on the coast, and I was tired from two rather intense days paddling out of Knubble Bay the previous weekend, and suddenly it seemed like a good idea.  A new place (I’d been there only once before), maybe an escape from the rain that had been  (blessedly) dogging the Greater Boston area for days.  So...yes!  So Odiorne got cancelled, and it was three of us – David, Dave and I – that arranged to meet at the Squam Lake Association boat launch for a 10 am BIB.  Propitious planning, as this was also the weekend of the three day NSPN Moon Island camping trip on the lake.  Gary – who was part of the camping group – was in touch about meeting up with us to paddle for the day.

And so I set out from home at 7 am for what started out as a very rainy drive north.  I can’t remember when I left the rain behind, but at some point along the wilds of I-93, the roads went from wet to dry, and it was only overcast.  Shortly after 9:00,we were preparing to launch at flat calm Piper Cove.

While I had seen little foliage on the drive up, the swamp maples along the shallow edge of the cove were, if not blazing, at least showing off some New England autumn style.

The water was still pleasingly (surprisingly!) warm, and we headed out of the cove toward the open water beyond.

We could see that the water ahead was mildly textured, and the cove’s flat calm gave way to wind from the north, strong enough to let us know it was there and that if it ticked up a notch we’d have to reckon with it.  But for now, we just enjoyed sitting easily on the lake.

In the distance, we saw the orange of the reflective tape on Gary’s paddle, and headed toward him as he came down to meet us from Moon Island.  It turned out Gary and David had never met.  How could that be?

Gary suggested that we head for the western shore and make our way north – where we might ultimately meet up with the rest of the NSPN camping group, which had left Moon Island for Five Finger Point, where they planned to land and hike up one of the Rattlesnake Mountains.  (Forget my knees, the name alone would have kept me at lake level!)  We agreed that hugging the shoreline would both make sense (offer shelter from the wind) and be the most interesting route.  All that high priced real estate to gawk at, many homes with kayaks stored on their docks.

And trees sweeping over the lake.

Bright colors.

Once we were settled into our route, paddling at a leisurely pace, stopping to take photos (and the boys did give me a lot of good-natured grief for so frequently whipping out my camera), and enjoying the clear, warm, sometimes sandy-bottomed water, I found myself feeling increasingly calm and at peace.  There was absolutely nothing to worry about…save for the occasional unseen rock that swiped a bit of gel coat from the bottom of my boat.  While Squam Lake itself was mostly new to me, the fresh water, deciduous trees -some red-leaved, the surrounding mountains (which had been entirely hidden by fog and mist on my previous paddle), the loons…all of this resonated with me in a way that the ocean coastline never can.  For the first of many times throughout the day, I aware of how deeply happy I was to be here on this particular day.  Rocky but gentle tide-free shoreline,

autumn in New England,

 

 

paddling toward and around little islands with kayak friends with whom I rarely share this kind of environment.

We reached the string of islands that stretch southeasterly from Carns Cove.  The wind had picked up more, but it was easy to tuck in the lee of the closely spaced islands…  Groton, Sheep (there is a Sheep Island everywhere we go, is there not?), Mink, Church Islands.

Loons and what-kind-of-ducks are these?

We landed at Church Island to stretch our legs and have a bite to eat.  While the signs on the island said that no picnicking was allowed, we reasoned that we were only re-fueling.  While the boys found a spot out of the wind to eat (and what island have I ever visited that offered pews to sit on?)

I continued on to the outdoor chapel that gives the island its name.  Church services have been held here every Sunday in July and August for many decades.

It was not hard to follow instructions to treat this space as a spiritual sanctuary.  My church-going days are well behind me, but I could easily imagine how peaceful a Sunday service would be where the “altar” is granite, and the view beyond the large cross made of birch is of lake and mountains.

After a half hour break, we walked back to the sheltered little cove where we’d landed.

In the time we’d stopped, the wind and – and I want to say sea state, but can’t – water had both kicked up dramatically.

David's new(ish) boat blended perfectly with the water

until he was buried up to his waist in waves and you couldn't see his boat at all.

We headed from Church Island to Merrill and then Long Island, where we again found shelter in the southern lee of this large island.  We poked along the shoreline, enjoying the little islands that popped up here and there

and after a brief consult

headed east for the Yards – a group of tiny islands surrounded by bare rocks sticking out of the water.

Not a place for a motor boat for sure - but a good calm spot for a contemplative moment... 

We poked around the Yards for a while, then raised the Rattlesnake group on the radio.  We agreed to meet somewhere along Five Finger Point.  The mile crossing to the north shore of the lake was the sportiest yet.  Indeed, the swell and waves were larger than anything we’d seen on the ocean in Maine the weekend before – even while we had struggled with strong winds from the north both days.

It wasn’t long before we saw the other group rounding a point to the east.

and met up with them to make a plan.

We decided to circumnavigate Hoag Island to the northeast.  And so we did.  The narrow passage between the point and the island looked like a calm river.  We emerged into Rattlesnake Cove, a view of one of the eponymous mountains across the way.

Paul

Sherri

Mike and Dave…

The water remained calm, protected as we were by shore and mountains from the north wind.  By the time we emerged back out onto the broad lake, the wind had dropped…and our promise of a speedy downwind run back to our launching point at the south end of the lake had disappeared.  The Moon group was ready to head back to their campsite, for what promised to be a most delectable potluck according to the verbal menu I was given.

David, Dave and I decided on a more easterly route, and so we said our farewells

and headed for home.  We didn’t dally on the way back, paddling at a good clip with slight beam seas – er, lakes.  As we neared Piper Cove, we felt the first rain that had fallen all day.  It lasted only minutes.

This was a long day.  An early start.  A longish paddle (David estimated 18 nm, although I think it was closer to his original estimate of 13 judging by my forefinger-length chart measurements.)  A (mediocre) meal at Walter’s Basin followed by a long and difficult drive home through rain that started up soon after I hit 93.  There wasn’t a shred of blue sky, a peek of sun all day.  It was windy and damp and cool.  But my experience of the day was of one of the most enjoyable and satisfying paddles I’ve had in some time.  An adrenaline-free day on a quiet lake where the gazzilionaires who own lakefront property have the class and decency to keep their high priced real estate subtle (in comparison with nearby Lake Winnipesaukee) and largely hidden from view, so that one’s feeling in the middle of the lake is of being if not in wilderness, at least far from the madding crowd.

As I reflected on the day on the long drive home, I thought of what had made it enjoyable:  the company (thanks to David, Dave and Gary!);  the pleasure of meeting up with other NSPNers at the end of the day (thanks Janice, Mike, Shari, Sherri, Elizabeth, Yong, Paul – and Peter, who dashed off after a quick hello as he needed to be off the water for some other obligation); the ease of it all – even factoring in a bit of wind-fighting; and paddling on unfamiliar waters.

Unfamiliar waters….?  Actually, no…  I have come to realize that what most deeply resonated in me was the deep familiarity of being on this “unfamiliar” lake.    Fresh water.  Hardwood trees.  Fall colors.  Everything there is about a lake, even a very large one, that feels different than the ocean.  The clean smell.  Absence of tides and currents.  And on this particular day – and I have heard otherwise of Squam, when north winds scream down the lake creating large waves – the ease of paddling there.

The deeply embedded landscape of my heart captured me for the day.  Which is not to say the ocean doesn’t continue to call – because it surely does.  The vistas (both physical and internal) that it has opened to me are without compare.  But one fall day on Squam Lake was like coming home – something you want to do every now and again, even as you prefer being out in the great wide world.

 

And for those of you who have read thus far, let me show you a few of the things that have created the landscape of my heart…

 

The Ledges (so elegant outside, falling apart inside)…

The ledges in the woods…

The small rough cabin on Long Pond.

 

 

 

I hope that you are all aware of your heart's landscapes, and hold them close - even if you don't often return to them.

 

pru

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[Dave M.]

Pru,

an amazing report, your best to date. And even though I did not have the Ledges and Long Pond experiences to reflect back on, i was brought to a place of nostalgia by the elegance of your prose.

thanks

dave

[cfolster]

Thank you for this report, your best so far.  You moved me to tears (of happiness).  It is a beautiful reminder of why we do this.

[NeXterior]

You seemed to enjoy the trip. the photos were amazing. thanks for sharing your insight