4-day sojourn, Mid-coastal Maine

[gyork]

WARNING: Side effects from reading the following account may cause drowsiness, extreme somnolence, and, in some readers, REM sleep.

Day 1- Sat, 7.22, Mid-Muscongus Bay

Peter Brady and I planned to hook up for a day paddle, launching from Bremen Town Dock, he driving up from Amesbury to visit a friend, and myself departing @ 5:30 am from home in Hopkinton, NH. While I scurried around Portland for NOAA chart #13301 (none at West Marine; luck at Hamilton’s) and the requisite Amato’s veggie Italian sandwich, Peter celled me from Freeport, and we agreed to meet in Wiscasset, just before the bridge over the Sheepscot. We agreed to caravan to the Bremen Town Dock, but instead, with me in the lead, mistakenly turned down Town Landing Road (second “C” in HOCKOMOCK, on chart) to a large parking area and water access down a short, gentle grade to a mixed muddy/grassy launch. A high tide of ~9:44 melded well with our float plan of a loop paddle to Thief. We launched around ?11:15, with overcast skies, a gentle breeze, minimal wave action, and a forecast for heavy rain moving in late that afternoon. We ventured clockwise around Bremen Long I., a yurt perched at the NE point, and some tidal quickwater in shallows SW of green #1 day marker. At the S tip of Cow, a fog bank was approaching with an E/W leading edge. We expected the then-visible Thief to be obscured shortly, and She disappeared as we approached the half-way point to Nun #8. Peter and I independently predicted the 218 degree bearing from the red buoy, and by dead reckoning figured a 15 to 20-minute passage. [We reviewed the rules of correcting for declination; the acronym that I keep in my head, MTEL (“metal”) translates to “Map to Terrain, East is Least”. In this case “Least” is less, therefore subtract. One can also use “Map to Terrain, West is Best” (more, add), but MTWB doesn’t easily convert to a common English word. Using this system, everything else is opposite (TMEB, TMWL)]. My GPS would serve as back-up if needed, but the shroud lifted, and we landed at the rocky northern MITA site in 17 minutes. A sturdy picnic table welcomed us for a lunch of Amato’s sandwiches-roast beef and veggie-Italian. Rasberries were plentiful and juicy, chased with diners’ choice of Lindt truffles. We were a little dismayed to see TP scattered about an aborted cathole at one of the tent sites; I regret not bagging it up for disposal. We shoved off to unchanging weather, turned the corner and clockwised Killick Stone I. Our 30° course from here would keep Cow, Hog and Oar to port, and near Coombs Ledge we stopped to chat with a Portsmouth couple in kayaks. They were headed to Black from Round Pond for a night of camping. We guessed they would have little company, presuming the dozen-or-so distant paddlers in tandems to the east of us were outfitted day-trippers. Ospreys made their presence clear in a nest at ?Oar. We were seemingly circled by sentinel seals near Long I. Ledges, too far away to discern distinguishing features detailed in the MITA Handbook. By this time the rain was steady, yet ineffective in dampening our spirits. We landed in sucking (no coarse language intended) tidal flats, packed, and went our separate ways. I was happy to have spent this glorious day with new-found great company.

Total: ~5h, 11nm

Day 2-Sun, 7.23, Upper Muscongus Bay

I awoke happily to the sound of popping corn, but quickly recognized the heavy rain on my Walrus tent fly. It had rained heavily through the night, with a short abatement at 11pm Sat for a quick tent set-up, aided by low-beams on the Previa. My neighbors at Pemaquid Lake Campground tried unsuccessfully to entertain me until midnight, with not-so-talented beer belches and C&W accompaniment on the plugged-in boombox.

The rained stopped suddenly, and gradual brightening ensued, revealing all sorts of flying, crawling, and jumping insects that had sought refuge inside the fly (Where would they hide otherwise from the terrestrial torrents?). Today would be a lazy day paddling solo in the NW corner of Muscongus, launching from the deserted, voluminous public ramp on Dutch Neck Rd in Bremen (Delorme Gazeteer) around 11am, with an outgoing tide (H-10:43am, L-4:28pm), no wind, high 70s, and mostly cloudy skies with breaks of sunshine. As I paddled southerly, I was noisily greeted by a pair of osprey, high in their nest at the SE point of Dutch Neck. My first stop would be Havener Ledge, to check out the MITA campsite, then NW towards Havener Point. The islet east of the Point is no more; a causeway now accommodates the homeowners of this peninsula. I ducked into the small cove behind, and recognized the same foreign couple that had watched me launch earlier, combing the shore for treasures. The sound of rushing water came from a magical brook that had found its way through a crack in the ledge (second “e” in Havener, on chart), cascading down to the shallow, quiet cove. My quest for solitude was upon me, as the working fleet was either finished work for the day, or, more likely, obeying some Maine statute banning fishing on Sundays. Two sailboats and a single powerboat would be the only other traffic on the upper, smooth-as-glass Bay, yet this aloneness in no way equated with loneliness. I passed to port a sprawling estate beyond the Point, but found a more appealing house and outbuilding as I counter-clockwised Johnson, with beach and terrific views. Around Hardy, then a bearing (MTEL) to the hidden entrance to the mouth of Goose River. Long-term friends of my mother had recently built a house on the banks of the 0.6nm-wide tidal basin, and I was eager to guess which one might be theirs. I meandered up this tidal river and surveyed the situation SW of the *, where a 15-foot-wide rushing chute drained the basin. I summoned all the strength I could muster, and 50 strokes later had overcome the powerful effects of the peak tidal flow through this rushing channel. A beautiful pond for sure, but mariners were captive to the tide tables, as this would soon be a vast expanse of mudflats. My whistle blows didn’t pique any of the residents’ curiosity, but I would later find the Stanleys’ listing on-line (http://www.harborviewproperties.com/Default.aspx?tabid=82&search_id=187574&mls_number=803640). I rode the chute and meandered downriver, stopping at the point SW of the first “R” in RIVER (chart), where a high rocky bluff afforded me fine, distant views to Hungry, the only hint of civilization a moored sloop and lobster boat, half-way to the island. I lazed about, then explored for a distance the cleared trail that led from this lookout to someone’s home, surely. A light snack of Trisquits topped with Cabot extra-sharp cheddar would prepare me for an anticipated home-style meal at Moody’s. I disembarked none too soon, as barnacle-clad mussels were eager to add their signatures in the lowering water. A 210 heading would find me stroking about little islets, and passing twins Wolsgrover and Wharton to port. On to Hungry to survey the camp sites for a potential future adventure. I scavenged up a Tilley look-alike on my beach stroll, shoved off, and rode the tide to the ramp, where two aluminum john-boats pulled in behind me, both parties returning from a visibly-obvious successful day of clamming.

Another glorious day with a good friend.

Total: 7.5h, 10.2nm.

Day 3-Mon, 7.24, Upper Casco Bay

Ed lawson’s E describing “a remote possibility” of joining me for a day trip turned into the real deal, and we arrived within 2 minutes of one another at Land’s End, Bailey Island, at 10am, Ed traveling all the way from Laconia, and myself from a second night at the campground. I was without chart, and Ed graciously loaned me a photocopied/laminated plot of our destinations. We launched from the cove at 10:45; our first stop would be Jewell, for lunch. We met a bit of a chop and some decent swells “getting our paddles wet”, and we selected our water trail between the breaking waves. Beyond the surf we enjoyed the gentle swell and breeze, the near-cloudless sky, and comraderie. Ed worried that he had lost his strap-on deck compass, but would later find it safe in his locked car. I was confident, if ackward, using my $10 plate compass, and looked forward to the arrival of my recently-ordered Brunton70P. From afar, two large dome tents marked the presumed NE camp site on Jewell. As we neared the island, unfriendly breakers were crashing near shore. As we cautiously approached to scout the landing, it became clear that the breakers were arising from a natural breakwater to the cove. We timed the waves and scooted through the relative calm spots to a dry landing on a pebbly beach. Broad flatwater kayaks and people signaled these were “car campers”, having been deposited from a mother ship, probably at the anchorage on the NW shore. Atop a jagged rocky outcropping, we lunched on messy (“in a good way”, Ed declared) Italians (no ethnic slur intended), chips, cherries, and the habitual/traditional/non-nutritional Lindts. I wanted to take the short trail to the cove and reminisce. [[i had last visited the quiet anchorage nearly 30 years ago, by sail. This was our traditional first night stay on a Friday night, having set sail from Handy Boat, on our annual trip to Boothbay Harbor. Dad and Walter passed away much too soon-I miss them terribly, but tightly hold those vivid memories in my heart and soul]]. Back to the boats, a quick dip in the warm (?67F) water, and on to Bangs, between Cliff and Stave. By this time, as I recall, winds were out of the SW at ?10 knots, and the NE points of Cliff and Bangs were refuges from the 4-foot wave action. We paused at the latter, without landing, neglecting to explore the campsite around the corner. We spied the red nun in front of Upper flag and steadily paddled with the wind off the beam. Arriving closer, the beacon morphed into a bell buoy, which accounted for its visibility from afar.

At the tip of Haskell’s broad, second cove, we sretched our legs on the slippery, seaweed-covered rocks, before the final push across Merriconeag Sound. We fretted about the conditions of the surf at the take-out, but were pleased to find benign conditions at a near-low tide, Jaquish and surrounding islets/ledges providing a decent buffer from the chop.

Another spectacular day on the briny with a good friend!

Total: ~5.5 h, 11.5nm

Day 4-Tues, 7.25, Mid Casco Bay

My plan for this sunny day was a solo venture around my old stomping (?splashing) grounds. Not wanting to shell out the $20 for the NOAA chart, I stumbled upon a station in the camping section at BBLeans that allows one to print-your-own USGS topo map ($7.95-user sets margins). Though not a chart, there was sufficient detail to navigate. In retrospect I should have penciled in navigational aids that the topo printouts neglect. I set out from the boat ramp at Winslow Park in S. Freeport, where I had tented the previous night, and would stay one more. The forecast called for southerlies, 10-15, building to 15-20 in the afternoon. By launching at 08:45, I hoped to have some distance behind me before the breezes developed. Departing on an incoming tide (L-6:30, H-12:30) my float plan (should have informed the Park gatekeeper!) was to Circumnav Great Chebeague CCW, to Bangs, then back. The predicted south wind would make for fast transit on the return home. An uneventful, monotonous paddle to the Big Island was welcomed; I kept Lanes, Cousins, and Littlejohn to starboard, and the two Mosiers to port. As I rounded the NE tip of Chebeague (from the Yankeee “Aint she beeg!?) an unwelcoming blow suggested I stay away. I heeded the warning and decided to slowly edge along the lee of the big one, travelling SW. Not much action today on the shore-a solitary, sunbathing, middle-aged woman, two children swimming at a private, sandy beach, and a single ?passenger at the ferry landing. A threesome motored up nearby in an inflatable. “That’s where the dock will come off, on the top of that big rock” said the Bermuda-short/polo-shirt-clad ?retiree, pointing towards shore. I paddled lazily along the shore above gardens of seaweed, hoping to stretch the day out, knowing this was my last day on the water. As I rounded Indian Point, an old tar was maintaining the brightwork on his 35-foot sloop. This was a good day to stay tucked in, I thought, as I was quickly introduced to the combined forces of Notus and Aelos. The ~1.0nm crossing past Ricker Head and Chandler Cove would be a slog in these conditions, made worse by the extended freeboard of my barge “School Bus” and its 6’4” skipper. Yes, indeed, my tanker IS considered a small craft, so I would proceed cautiously, heeding the SCAs issued earlier over my VHF. The shallows between me and Ricker Point would be the testing ground, with escape routes to shore or retracing of my strokes. At Ricker Head the Island Ferry chugged in front of me, headed for the cove landing. Feeling confident, yet cautious, I decided the crossing was doable. I would realize only later that I had made the right choice. Aside from the risks of wave and wind action, I might have to deal with the outgoing ferry, whose captain would see me as a cheez doodle in the roily water. Paddling with vigor and determination, I cleared Deer Point at a good pace, and would direct my bucking steed towards Bangs. It was still tricky going, as the wind was 3 points abaft the beam. Speed was sacrificed for stability in the weathercocky Argonaut; I deployed the skeg to the “½” position. Sand Island (What else could you name it?) was kept to starboard, and I was soon coasting into the protected, more southerly cove on the long westerly shore. I semi-circled the cutout, and moved to the next more-protected cove, where I made landing. I carried food and accessories a stone’s throw to the eastern side, where previous visitors had erected a rock fire ring, surrounded by sturdy makeshift plank benches. One would serve as a cutting board for my tested-to-the-limit, 4-day-old, unrefrigerated Cabot brick, now separating into its oily and solid components. The appearance belied its taste, and I quickly dispatched 10 cheese-topped crackers down my gullet. After having sat for the past 3.5 hours, the easy chair was excess baggage, so I stretched my legs during a short walk along the shore, all the while looking intently for some flotsam treasure, but in the end disappointed by plastic bottles, caps, dodge and rubber balls, and leader-buoys. To the north of this meeting spot was a Stonehenge-like array of long flat rocks of various sizes, vertically wedged in cracks or stacked. Finding no campsite, I referenced the MITA Handbook, which indicated the tent sites to be at the previous cove. I kayaked back, unadorned, and was surprised to approach to within a few feet a duck-like bird (…don’t know much ‘bout ornithology..). No wonder-it had become ensnared in a rogue nylon net! At a depth of ~8 feet in my kayak, I would be in peril myself attempting a rescue, so I paddled back to the cove, donned my preserver, and sidled along the slippery shore back to the scene of the crime. Slowly and carefully, I dragged the seaweed-laden net towards me. Too fast, as the docile bird went under, like a bobber being teased by a fish. She surfaced, non-plussed, and I dragged her closer to the waist-deep O.R. My tethered, serrated Benchmade cut, in order, the squares around the neck, right, and left wings. Before I had a chance to stabilize the victim, she dove beneath the water, towards the partially –submerged net! Worried that she would become snared again, and seeing no sign of it surfacing to sea, I frantically pulled the heavy ~50x50 foot net to shore, in portions. Fortunately the beached net held no captive, save for the seaweed and heavy metal chains [Later, using a fold-up Delorme bird guide and google/images, my best guess is that it may have been a female pintail (Anas Acuta), but in the heat of the situation, I admit to not studying its form in detail.] Because the netting was still a potential deathtrap to marine animals, I balled it into a 5x4 foot mound, and unceremoniously buried the whole mess with heavy gravestone-like slabs, being careful to tuck in any of the exposed nylon. [brian, of the stewardship division at MITA would later relay information of the gravesite to Bangs’ steward, who intended to visit the island in 4 days.] Back near the kayak lay a black Hefty- I would jerry-rig this trashbag into a spinnaker as I sailed before the wind. Hard to know if this aided my progress; I covered the non-stop 3+ bumpy nm to the lee of the SW tip of Mosier in 57 minutes, with plenty of low-brace practice and a near dump in the now-sou’westerly15+ knots (Note to self: should have taken respite in the lee of Chebeague Point (half-way) to rest and HYDRATE). I split the Mosiers and made haste to the landing, sated with memories of the past 4 days.

Total: 7h, 13.2nm