prudenceb

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

Hey Jim, it's YOUR group, too! See you on the water! pru

I believe I'll be available - with radio pru

Yeah, Jim, you'll get it! And it was nice meeting you yesterday. pru