prudenceb

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

There is a more recent - and truly thrilling - book written about this adventure. Not only does it tell the story of the failed Hubbard expedition, but of his wife's return some years later to find out what happened. Fabulous fabulous book! - Great Heart the Story of a Labrador Adventure. You can buy it on amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Great-Heart-Labrador-Adventure-Kodansha/dp/1568361688 pru

Thanks, Peter - nothing like potentially life-saving feedback to a trip report! So my next question - repeated from the report - is where the heck is the best place to pitch a tent on an island in a thunderstorm?? pru

Sebascodegan Island Circumnavigation Labor Day Weekend 2013 It is a bit hard to write about this trip, following as it does Warren’s inspirational account of his San Juan Island journey, and on returning home watching TV coverage of Diana Nyad’s totally awe-inspiring 110 mile swim from Cuba to Key West – at age 64! I note that both Warren and she had the same message: Live Your Dream. But I need to remind myself once again that dreams can come in all sizes, that not everything we do can, or should be, 110 miles long, that we cannot set records every – or most likely any – day, and that even a more “ordinary” trip can have its moments of small magic. And such was the case for the not-far-from-home, not awe-inspiring trip to northern Casco Bay that Warren, Dave and I took this weekend. This was Warren’s fourth – or was it fifth? – trip to this area, but Dave’s and my first. We launched from Bethel Point on Saturday morning at nine, planning for a counterclockwise circumnavigation of Sebascodegan Island that would take place over two days, with a first night to be spent at Merritt Island, and the second at Little Snow in Quahog Bay. I worried a bit about whether we’d be able to get spots on these popular islands given that we would not be the only ones wanting to mark the last hurrah of psychological summer. It was overcast when we started – and had been raining when I left home at 5 am – but as the day progressed, it became warm and, for a time, sunny. We headed south to Cundy Point. It was – as has been the case for most of my trips this summer – calm with seas predicted to be no more than 1-2 feet, and we would experience those, if at all, only when rounding the southern tip of Sebascodegan. But there really was nothing to speak of in the exciting water department, and we paddled along, listening to tales of Warren’s northwest adventure. And then up the New Meadows River. It was all very pleasant: a calm day, easy paddle, quiet chatting, friends. We looked at the expensive real estate lining the river; people were sitting on their docks; dogs rode in motor boats. Labor Day weekend indeed. We stopped at a privately owned MITA site to stretch our legs and investigate the camp area. It was quite lovely – until I realized that mosquitoes vastly outnumbered camping sites – and I happily got back into my boat and paddled over to watch three labs – one chocolate, two golden – chasing Frisbees thrown by their family from a dock into the water. Labrador retriever was definitely the Sebascodegan dog! We saw a ton of ‘em over the weekend – and no other breed at all! Scratching at various bloody bites, I juggled my paddle as we continued north, arriving at Merritt Island sometime around noon. Warren had warned us of a rock – Rob’s Rock he called it – that we should be mindful of: on an earlier trip Rob had apparently run into it. However, although the chart showed a clear all-tide gap between Merritt and the peninsula north of it, we were confronted by a rocky barrier. Rob’s Rock stood up in the middle of it – and it would have been quite a feat to run a kayak into it, standing as it was completely above water in the midst of a jumble of other rocks that at mid-tide were all exposed. We set up camp, happily noting a) the complete absence of other campers; and the complete absence of mosquitoes. And come to think of it, mosquitoes haven’t been an issue at all for any of the trips I’ve taken this season – strange considering all the eastern equine encephalitis/west nile virus warnings we’ve been getting at least in Massachusetts. Since the next day would cover most of the circumnav, we had the rest of the afternoon to just explore. We set out once again on a rising tide, under increasingly overcast skies, at first planning to head up Middle Ground, to a boat launch that Warren wanted to check out. I was thinking about the trip report, as I often do when we’re coasting along. What would there be to say? The trip thus far had had a rather ho-hum feeling – enough so that I suggested to Dave and Warren that we should have an interesting and dramatic incident of some kind so that I would have something to write about. I volunteered that I would not be the victim… But the wind from the south was picking up a bit, and we thought about how much current and wind we might have to fight on our return, and made the kind of nimble and welcome change in plans that one can make when the group is small and there is nowhere that one has to be – except back to our little island for cocktails, supper and sleep. Warren was intrigued when he looked at Back Cove on the chart - a large and shallow tide-dependent area. We looked up between Williams Island and Foster Point, wondering if the tide was high enough yet to have covered the green area marked on our chart that would provide an entrance to the cove. It wasn’t. So we backtracked, heading up the east side of Williams and approached Back Cove, a large area of green on the chart, which by the time we arrived was under several inches of milky water. The minute that we turned west into the cove, the wind and its attendant sound disappeared. There were virtually no houses along the shoreline – or if there were, they were tucked away and not immediately visible. There was a meadow heading down to the water at the western edge, an unusual sight. Warren said he was praying that there was no huge house out of our view at one end of the meadow. Blessedly, there wasn’t. It was just a meadow without purpose along a cove in Maine. We saw a heron standing on a rock in the middle of the passage that we had not been able to get through. We moved a bit closer, our paddles hitting the muddy bottom with every stroke. I reached down and felt the mud – thick and grey/black and gluey. There were two widely separated clammers raking in the mud at the shore. It looked like very very hard work. Other than the clammers, herons, cormorants, seagulls and ducks, we were alone in this still and quiet spot. The first perception of our little trip as something special dawned on all of us. Paddling the edge of a rather large cove that was no more than a foot deep, with everything silent, felt magical. The seaweed at the shore was a chalky gray from the fine silty mud that clouded the water. There were strange fungi on the rocks. Thinking how fortunate we were to have stumbled on this area when the tide allowed us to explore it felt like one of the little gifts that one gets now and again on the water. But for sure, do not venture into Back Cove when the tide is ebbing. It is not a place that you would want to get stuck! A loooooooooong walk in sucking mud to reach open water… By the time we got back to Merritt, the rock causeway was still above water. By the time we were having cocktails there was a passage that you could paddle board through, if you happened to have a paddleboard. By the time we were cleaning up after supper, even Rob’s Rock was underwater. It was getting dark, so we turned on our headlamps and set out to explore the (still mosquito-free!) island, walking down the path on the east side until blowdowns stopped our progress. We weren’t able to make it to the Bowdoin camp area and returned in full darkness. The weather forecast called for rain overnight with rain throughout the day on Sunday. At 9:20 pm I heard a few patters on my tent. Which then stopped. A few more sometime in the middle of the night (which could have been 11 pm or 3 am for all I know). So much for rain overnight. We got up to fog. And launched at 8:30 in fog. And paddled in fog on glassy water. We practiced navigation – which actually wasn’t just practice, because…where the heck were we heading?? The fog began to lift. And we were in a glorious, warm, clear, calm sunny day. NOAA gets it wrong again! (In their defense, Warren said the forecast that morning had changed from the one the evening before, but still…) At a little after 9 am there was a riffle of wind on the water. But it didn’t last. Passing Bombazine Island (Bombazine??? What kind of name is that; it sounds as though it should be in Miami, not Maine…) and on around the top of the island. The area right before Gurnet Strait was very cozy – boats in the water, a row of mid-sized houses sharing a huge rolling lawn (who cuts that thing??) toward the water. The tide was still around slack, and there was no current to speak of through the strait. Then down Long Reach, still flat and windless. The rocks along the west side of the reach were amazing, creating a paddler’s Rorschach test in their mirror reflections. (Go on and tell me what they look like to you; I’m a mental health professional and can analyze these things!) Up close, they were silver, and so fragilely layered that a tap with a tip of the paddle would knock a slice off. We took a few short breaks, with lunch at Strawberry Creek Island. There were interesting holes in the rocks. Then the water opened up as we paddled across Harpswell Sound. We waited for a boat to pass before we entered into the deep green water under the bridge connecting Orrs to Sebascodegan Island. And down the east side of Gun Point Cove, where there was another black lab, Luna, who liked to paddleboard. And finally, we were at Gun Point, where there was nothing to do but pose the boys and declare: “I’ve got you at gunpoint!” And then into the exposed ocean, where there were still only gentle swells and a perhaps a 5-10 kt breeze from the south, which pushed us up Quahog Bay, with a brief stop at a privately owned MITA island, where we were greeted by yet another black lab, Murphy, and then back into our boats for the final push to Little Snow Island. Little Snow Island – a little piece of heaven in a peaceful cove filled with yachts at their moorings. Unfortunately, someone had arrived before us and set up camp in the prime spot. Tent and chair but no people. It was a little after 3 pm. We got our tents set up. Dave sat on his nifty new folding camp chair gazing to the north. I sat on my Crazy Creek chair reading a novel. Warren listened to a book on his iPhone. And then we saw people. And a few more people, on the other arm of the island. I went to investigate: a fire burning, many people, chairs, coolers, party streamers. Over the next two hours, more people arrived – clearly all the yachties were coming to Little Snow in their little tender boats. I had a nice chat with one arriving couple. She with a beer in her hand, he at the tiller. Turned out we had chosen to camp on the island where for the second year in a row, the Labor Day weekend lobster bake and party for what seemed to be every yacht from Portland was happening. Oh joy! While they didn’t invite us for lobster (worse luck!), they did give me three beers (“Do you prefer Shipyard or Geary?”) and invited us to join them for live music after supper. Banjo and guitar. Aargh! We sat on our part of the island heating up our rather pathetic meals (compared to lobster!) and chatted about deep subjects: the meaning of life, finding joy and passion, optimal paddle lengths and so on. Still no one had arrived to occupy the other tent. I went to check. It was completely empty. Several minutes later, in the dark, a man and boy arrived in a little motor boat. It was their tent. They had planned to camp with a small group of young boys, but the weather forecast (rain and thunderstorms) and the goings on next door (raucous party) made them change their mind. In tidy fashion, they took down their tent, folded up their chair, and motored off. Dark. Time for bed. But no… the festivities were just beginning! We enjoyed the show: Then tried to sleep. The party went on til after midnight. Bad banjo plunking. Bye bye Miss American Pie sung with a weedy voice and soft guitar. And then constant flashes of lightning, rumbles of thunder. No rain. The party rocked on. I calmed myself by counting the time between the flashes and the booms. And reassured myself that a slow ten meant that we were likely safe. But I wondered (and anyone can feel free to answer): where is the best place to camp on an island in a thunder storm? I was in an open area. They say you shouldn’t be in an open area. But they also say you shouldn’t be under a tree. So where on earth should one be to be most safe, when – as my non-paddling friends all suggested – the Holiday Inn is not an option? (This question is a serious one, and more so when I returned home to find that several campers in NH had been struck by lightning that same night.) I don’t know if the party broke up before the rains came, or whether the rains broke up the party. In any event, the rest of the night was one of those intense water, light and sound shows that only Mother Nature can produce. Snug and dry in my tent, counting off the seconds between lightning and thunder, I passed the night. We had planned to be on the water no earlier than 8 am, but a little before 7 as I lay in my tent listening to the light rain and a bit of rumbling thunder, Warren came by to say that one of his iPhone apps had showed Doppler radar cells of intense weather with lightning heading our way from Massachusetts, and we’d best be on our way to beat them. He had already started packing: And in what felt like a record 25 minutes flat, I too was all packed up and sitting in my boat ready to go. The final short stretch, with a north wind at our backs down the bay and to Bethel Point, was very pleasant. There was a bit of fog. There was a bit of misty rain. The wind died. There had been a bit of rumbling in the distance before I got up, but nothing scary now. We were off the water by 9. On the drive home, the floodgates over the Maine Turnpike opened. I could barely see out my windshield, even with the wipers on as fast as they would go. People were driving at 25 mph with their flashers on, avoiding the many people who just pulled to the side to wait it out. Lightning flashed. Thank you Warren and Dave for your smart phones and your smart apps that got us moving and kept us safe! A magical bay only a foot deep, fog obscuring the line between water and sky, silver cliffs making a Rorschach test on the water, snowy egrets as well as cormorants, a bald eagle at the very end consuming his breakfast on a rock some distance from us, fireworks both man and heaven-made, bad music and good beer, good company and conversation, paddle-boarding black labs… The ho-hum trip morphed into one of fine times and magical moments. And scary ones as well. (What to do to be safe on land in a thunderstorm?) And the moments that were annoying (Bye bye Miss American Pie at 11 pm on a MITA island…puh-lease!) were by the time we were driving home merely amusing. And I almost forgot to mention the inspiration that Dave and Warren had while we lunched the second day: Starting a business with an ice cream boat that would go from MITA island to MITA island with a jingling bell and a freezer full of treats. It would be sure to be a winner. Ice cream sandwich, please! pru

Thanks everyone for your suggestions about how to make the skeg control less unforgiving. Of course what would be optimal would be having such a perfect stroke forward and back that one never hits anything that one shoudn't. But perfection is just a goal. The price for failing to reach it shouldn't be shedding blood! pru

Beautiful! pru ps - and I think you have learned your lesson well about the importance of having fun/enjoying the ride in addition to everything else...

Here's a picture - it's taken from the back, facing toward the bow of the boat, so it shows the back of the skeg controller. On the Cetus, the skeg is controlled by two pieces that you pinch together and then move back. The offending piece is the rear of the two. It has the rounded top on this perhaps hard to see photo. It is the back side of this rounded-top piece that I've cut myself on. I'm wondering whether just to file/sand - as Beth suggests - or to try and put something on the top back side of the skeg controller so that if I hit it by mistake, I won't end up bleeding! pru

It doesn't happen on the forward stroke. It happens if I am paddling backwards - often rather rapidly to get out of a spot I don't want to be in. On the forward stroke it is impossible to hit your hand on the back of the skeg controller that you grip to move the skeg. [pru ps - it doesn't happen every day -just often enough that same place on my thumb gets cut now and again. Even once is rtoo many times considering how sharply the piece cuts!

Love my new Cetus MV! However, I have been repeatedly cutting - sometimes rather bloodily (ask Bob Levine!), the knuckle of my left thumb when I'm paddling backward. When I'm pushing forward on the left side, my thumb sometimes scrapes against the back edge of the skeg control, which is very sharp plastic, as I have discovered. Any suggestions on how to smooth that edge out? Does filing plastic work? Should I put a bead of some kind of epoxy along the edge to smooth it out? Cover it with duct tape? Or should I just encase my thumb in duct tape so that it doesn't get injured when I do inevitably brush up against the slider. Anyone else ever have this problem? Is this the silliest question ever posted here? pru

Welcome home, Warren. I've been thinking of you on your long-fantasized trip, and am thrilled that it turned out to be everything - and more - you thought/hoped it would be. Assuming I have two operational knees by next summer, count me in! pru

I plan to be there! But Gary, recommend putting the dates etc on the post because it's easier to deal with than the calendar and a "bump". pru

Great photos - MDI is my favorite place in the world. And looks as though conditions were just about as benign as they can be - similar to what I had two weeks earlier. What campground did you stay at? pru

This is the first Wed this summer I've been able to make it. Anyone going to be there? If not, I might not! pru

Fort Gorges and Peaks Island, Saturday August 17, 2013 Seven intrepid paddlers. So many adventures that even before noon I saw the potential for the first ever 10 page trip report for a one day paddle; but fear not! I will make every effort to condense. The short version: every dog in Portland, dangerous battlements, spooky dark places, ancient hieroglyphics, brave compatriots, giant boats, helicopter takeoffs, excellent shopping, amazing fashion choices, root beer floats, ice cream cones, and a color-coordinated place for ladies to lunch. Oh, and we even managed to squeeze in a quite wonderful paddle in perfect conditions on yet another day when the Weather Gods just couldn’t stop smiling. Not only that, but a paddle in which CAM principles were actively addressed and attended to throughout the day. Our fearless (really!) trip initiator, Cathy, had proposed a trip out to Fort Gorges and on to Peaks for ice cream. But she said when she arrived at the launch spot, “I haven’t thought about anything past that.” OK! Dave and I arrived at pretty much the same time, the first ones at the very convenient (bathrooms! changing rooms! showers!) launch site at East End Beach in Portland. It was before nine, and Every Dog in Portland was cavorting on the beach with his/her human companions. But, rather magically, when the clock struck nine, they all vanished, subject to daunting fines if caught on the beach after that hour. The dogs left; paddlers arrived. It immediately became obvious to me that I had not been informed of the kayak color palate for the day: yellow/gold/mango over white. After a quick Beef Breaching – as it repeatedly seemed to come out, so why fight it? – during which many of us exposed our advancing age by detailing numerous creaking, failing or replaced body parts that might affect our paddling, we launched pretty much on time at 9:40, headed for Fort Gorges. Conditions couldn’t have been more benign: virtually no wind; virtually flat water. It was a quick crossing – accomplished after a CAM discussion about staying together in this busy Portland portion of Casco Bay. In a line, just as we had discussed, we crossed. It was a few hours after high tide, and the Fort was still mostly surrounded by water, so after a (CAM) discussion, we decided to paddle all the way around the impressive granite structure before landing. After landing and gathering some land belongings and courage, we prepared – at no small risk to our safety - to enter the Fort! Once inside, we were awed by the edifice. We paused again to read a warning sign, and flashlightless and fairly quaking with fear, soldiered on. Cathy, demonstrating the fearlessness that would characterize her throughout the day, disappeared up a dark stairwell; we heard her whoops of alarm as she proceeded upward and then we all followed, to emerge on the third level. Cathy ran back down, relieved to be back on solid ground. (Oh, and she wanted to take our picture up there peering down at her. But I got her first!) After nearly scaring ourselves silly peering into various dark and ominous areas, and fortunately held back from harm by Rob we continued our exploration on the ground level, where we found ancient hieroglyphics and wondered at their deep meaning. And followed mysterious paths… After a quick break to use the facilities - which the sign at the entrance said they didn't have, but we found otherwise... we pushed off to brave tangling with the near constant ferry traffic chugging importantly to and fro in this upper part of the Bay. We went from Fort Gorges over to Little Diamond Island, where we dodged a ferry coming in to dock and then crossed – in a nice tight side-by-side line – over to Peaks. As we approached our landing spot on the MIKCo beach we looked up a saw a bald eagle not far overhead, being harassed by two seagulls who were squawking loudly as they chased the eagle in circles. He finally flew off toward the interior of the island, and the following gulls peeled off. We landed at MIKCo where a fleet was preparing to launch. A black helicopter with a steeple painted on it sat on a small landing pad on the dock above. As we were pulling our gear up on the beach, two people – no doubt very important people – boarded the copter. The top and rear props started turning, going faster and faster until they were a loud blur, and the copter roared more loudly, and then with a final increase in sound and fury that surely signified something, lifted off: We all strolled up the hill and into town. The ladies, Liz, Cathy and me, were immediately drawn into a small shop, where we spent some time trying on clothes and admiring little art works. We met up with Dave, Jeff, Doug (“The Other Doug”) and Rob outside the ice cream shop. Cathy disappeared inside, and emerged wearing a smashing new pair of paddling glasses. We selected appropriate chairs and sat in the sun eating lunch and enjoying the passing scene and having a discussion about…what came next. After addressing various options over root beer floats and ice cream cones, we decided on a counterclockwise circumnavigation of Peaks, although we were tempted by the prospect of cuddling up under the high cliffs at the northeast edge of Cushings. Once back on the water after our long stay on this small island civilization, I discovered that not only Cathy improved her paddling get-up. Liz, princess for the day, was not to be outdone: Conditions got a bit bumpier as we headed east along the southern edge of Peaks and then swung north. But it continued to be a perfect day. Liz Cathy and Doug disappeared into the rocks and emerged. Doug and I were mesmerized by a large extended family of ducks – adults and children – that sat on the waviest entrance to a rock garden that we could see, washing back and forth, back and forth, until the perfect wave went through, and atop a wall of spray of water and foam, all the ducks powered on through. They were real 5*’s! Cathy had by now donned her helmet, always a telling sign, and I think perhaps inspired and bolstered by her close-to-rocks journey at Odiorne with Ed a few weeks ago, could not be stopped from rock play. While Dave, Jeff, Rob and I watched helmetless from outside, and Liz and Doug glided through various openings, Cathy ventured into a tighter area and got hung up in the middle. We could hear cries of dismay that mostly centered on Cathy’s having no idea what to do next. Dave, who was nearby, glided over, and in a calm and reassuring way, instructed Cathy either to paddle paddle paddle as a wave came through or to back up. She ended up backing up, then paddle paddle paddle powered on through and rested for a moment, a look of exhausted relief on her totally courageous face! A round of applause followed, and we continued. Cathy, fearless even after her close brush with a rock and a hard place, continued to poke her boat among the rocks. Finally around Peaks, and facing Great Diamond Island, we assessed all the traffic, chose our spot, and paddled with purpose – side by side! – across the boat channel, dodging once again ferries, boats under sail and powerboats. The tide was still too low to cut between Great and Little Diamond Islands, so we kept heading south until we rounded the tip of Little Diamond, and crossed back – now without having to say anything about our formation – side by side to Gorges, where, exhausted from the journey and all the day’s excitement, we took a brief break on the now exposed shoreline around the fort. Liz was brave enough to pluck fearsome creatures from the sea: From there, we had only to make our longest crossing – this time through a sailboat race with about a million boats stretching for what seemed to be millions of miles from north to south in the channel. After debating (CAM style!) whether we should head all the way south to cross beyond the race’s southernmost turn marker, I said, “To heck with those stupid sailboats. They don’t own the ocean!” We watched for an opening. “There, after those two boats round and then pass us, we can make a run for it,” Liz said. And the two boats rounded and passed us, and we – plus other kayakers and motor boats in the distance – plunged into the now confused seas in the vortex of this mighty circular race. We could see our destination, and avoiding any mishaps with vessels of any type, landed where we started at about 3:30 pm. Thank you, Cathy, for initiating; and everyone else for coming along. How scary it would have been without all of you! And how much less amusing; I didn’t even mention Dave’s test drive of Liz’s boat, and our collective response to his efforts… pru

Ditto for the congrats and patch envy! pru

Nice report, Al, and good commentary on staying focused and thinking! pru

I'll be there! pru

Glad you got back there and experienced the best of what Crow has to offer! (And I hope you saved room for others if they happened to show up!) pru

My problem was not with the Ikelos... pru

I had water shloshing in a Werner paddle a few years ago. Very annoying. Yes, they covered it, but as Doug said a several week turn around time. They were nice enough to send along a free hat when I made noise about the amount of time it was taking! pru

Wish I could join you, but alas, I'll be in Maine... pru

Mary, You really have been an inspiration - and model - for the possibilities that lie ahead for us in life and out on the water even as we age - gracefully I hope! I've enjoyed the several trips I've been on with you, and wish that there could be more! But enjoy the peaceful lakes and coves... It's all good! pru