prudenceb

Rick - you can definitely have my Saturday February 16 slot in Haverhill. Please confirm that you want it - otherwise I'll have Doug put out the word that it's available. pru

Rick, there's a chance I may not be able to make the February 16 Haverhill session - but won't know until a week before. If I don't go, I'd be happy to sell you my slot. Best thing would be for your to PM me the week before to find out if I'm going - otherwise, I might not be able to keep track! pru

... which we didn't all do, so there's a plan for next time: all in! pru

And for those who missed it, a splendid time today in the (rather cool) pool. Rolls, rescues, laughs, minor amounts of blood (on Doug's chin), artificial waves, and lots of weird little boats mostly piloted by Jason, Adam and Bob. pru

oh, and one more for me, which Pintail reminded me of: 10) sell my tiderace xplore s - any takers out there? 11) sell my carbon kevlar valley avocet - ditto?

2013 1) Retire so there's more time for paddling. And in no particular order thereafter: 2) Learn to more reliably roll my new boat, which is, I have found is a lot harder to roll than my old one. (Pool sessions here I come!) 3) Learn a cowboy scramble rescue now that I have the new more stable boat. (Pool sessions here I come!) 3) Longer trips to new places. This must include Jonesport and may well include Canada. 4) Return trips to favorite places. 5) Help to ensure that those who expressed interest at the Xmas party in doing kayak camping this year (you know who you are!) actually follow through (see #'s 3 and 4 above). 6) Make sure that Warren keeps Having Fun on his priority list for trips (less of an issue now that he has learned more about this essential skill and is more comfortable in using it!). 7) Increase navigation skills. 8) Increase comfort in moving water. 9) Continue to enjoy my 3***'s and solidify the skills that went into getting it. pru

Thanks to everyone who helped to make the party such a fun event! The hard work and creativity showed! pru

But first, attach seatbelt to seat. Then strap yourself in, then follow Rob's instructions... pru (and don't forget to unbuckle the seatbelt when you find yourself upside down and wondering why on earth you're there)

Dessert! pru

Why did I know which photo you were referring to without even looking......... pru (The ladies regretted that we did not have a camera for our seminar. It would have been pretty as a picture!)

Many thanks to Suz, Scott and Rick for a bracingly fun day out in the sun and wind off of Pavilion Beach. A huge turnout (30 people or so) made for three good-sized pods. We swam, got cold, got warm, ate, paddled, walked to an overlook over a pond on Plum Island, enjoyed Suz's special ladies seminar, and learned a lot - as always - about staying warm in the cold. No one's fears about death were realized, and a full 100% of us returned to the beach at the end of the day - some not without a bit of end-of-the-day drama as a wave close to shore knocked one of us over, and an interesting rescue ensued. pru

Count me in! pru

A Few Days in November in Muscongus Bay (11/2-4/12) "Well, god bless you," were the parting words of the grizzled and friendly son of the grizzled and friendly owner of Muscongus Harbor Marina, where Warren, Rob and I launched for a weekend of enjoying midcoast Maine islands. His words followed a discussion of the upcoming weekend weather, possible weather challenges for December camping (little things like sea ice, which could make landing on islands a…challenge - although no problem launching because the year round lobster-boats with their big engines break up the ice in the harbor), and some shakes of the head that conveyed a certain questioning of the sanity of individuals who choose to set out on the sea in little boats at this time of year. We launched in early afternoon under lowering skies, the bumpy water steel grey and the wind blowing in our faces. This was the maiden voyage of my new boat, which had spent two days following orders at the 4**** assessment weekend in October, but had yet to spend the night out on an island. I was thrilled to be aboard! We headed southeast to the tip of Hog Island, then rounded the island, and rode the wind waves blowing from that direction up the eastern side of the island. This was Warren's and my third trip to Muscongus Bay, and we noticed that it was showing us a third season, which felt more early winter than fall. The deciduous trees were all completely bare. The color seemed to be drained from the firs, which looked more black than green. The world was devoid of color with the sky almost completely overcast. It was exhilarating to think, "We're paddling and camping in Maine in November!" We saw Crow Island, our camping destination, off in the distance, and it was a quick ride down the length of Hog, with one stop along the way for Rob and Warren to investigate the platformed campsite for future reference. I stayed in my boat - so thrilled I continued to be to finally have it! - working to stay in position against the insistent wind. We continued on. Because there were still several hours of light on this second to last day of daylight savings time, we passed by Crow (concerned for a moment that it might be already occupied as we saw a bright orange life vest hanging from a tree) to show Rob Strawberry Island. Strawberry, with its small and cozy central grassy camping area, would be a delight at this time of year - for two people who either like each other very much, or who don't mind listening to the snores of others during the night! As the day was getting on, we didn't linger long, and returned to Crow, where we found that the life jacket was not a sign of existing life on the island, but just an old-fashioned life jacket tied to a tree. We each staked out our campsite. I made a beeline for where I had stayed when Warren and I were there in the spring. Toward the south end of the island, I thought it would be protected from predicted northerly winds. Warren and Rob set up a tarp in the central camping area, Warren pitched his tent, and Rob rolled out his luxurious bivvy sack. I assume you've all seen the picture he posted of the interior. Amazing what can be fit into such a small package! We ate dinner on the rocks at the north end of the island. The wind hadn't yet turned to the predicted north/northwest. There was no sunset to see because there was no sun to see setting. There was, however, a curious glow reflected on the bottom of the low clouds over Bremen Long Island to the east. We debated whether this was city lights (what city?!?), moonlight from behind the clouds, or some natural or unnatural disaster of which we were ignorant because we felt so far from civilization as we sat out in the dark. Because Warren and Rob's previous camping expeditions had been characterized by lousy…er…challenging weather, and Warren's and mine had been blessed with moderation in that department, I could only conclude that it was my excellent personal relationship with the Weather Gods that had made for the latter, and that my absence from Warren and Rob's previous trips accounted for the former. This observation led to a debate about the relative power of the Weather Gods (my friends) versus Mother Nature's (Rob and Warren's taunting mistress of ceremonies). Because the forecast before we left had been for only slight winds, under 10 knots, but had changed to a prediction of gusts to 25 knots the next day, we decided that Mother Nature appeared to have the upper hand over the Weather Gods. But it was also clear from our pre-launch discussion of wintry conditions to come that Old Man Winter would trump all…and that there would be no messing with Old Man Winter when he had firmly settled in. Pitch black at 7 pm, and it wasn't warm sitting out there. Bedtime for me, while Rob and Warren vowed to stay up until 8. Thank heavens that ever-prepared Warren had brought a full array of sleeping bags to the launch site, and that Rob in his giant boat was able to carry all of them. I borrowed one, but didn't plan on using it, assuming that my own sleeping bag would be sufficient if I were wearing toasty clothing. However, shivering in my tent in my sleeping bag in various layers of clothing, I thought darkly, "We're camping on an island in Maine…in November...," and thought how nice it would be to be in my bed at home. But Warren's back-up sleeping bag saved the day…night! I just pulled the bag over my mine, and presto!: a toasty night ensued, and I slept deeply. The first lobster boat chugged into action at 3:53 am. The next wake-up call was the 6 am argument of a pair of cranky crows. There had been the promise of sun on Saturday, but consistent with the upper hand of Mother Nature that we had already observed, any hope of a sunny paddle was soon obliterated. After breakfast (where Warren and I marveled as Rob cooked up on his pink skillet and consumed five pancakes with butter and syrup), we pointed for the south tip of Palmer Island, then rounded to the east of Bremen Long Island, with a goal of paddling through the Flying Passage, riding the incoming tide up to Hungry Island, where Warren wanted to find the northwest campsite. While we saw tantalizing patches of blue sky off in the distance, and once or twice the sun seemed to be trying hard to break through the uniform cloud cover over us, it never did. Looking around - grey water, grey sky, black trees - and feeling the cold in my fingers from leaky neoprene gloves, and the cold in my toes from insufficiently thick socks under my cold neoprene boots - everything in the environment just repeated, "November November November." We crossed over to Hungry Island, and stopped at what looked like the camping site - a fairly big and open beach. But it backed up against a high bank of dirt and rocks and twisted bushes. Rob clambered up, looking for the site, but returned pronouncing the area above a "war zone" of blow-down trees. No MITA site here… We continued northward and almost immediately saw another, smaller beach, and as we aimed for it, we saw a sign on a tree and knew that this was the spot. I again remained in my boat, tapping my feet against the bulkhead for circulation and whirling my arms to get warm blood into my cold hands, while Warren and Rob explored. It was approaching noon, and we decided that we would cross once again to the north end of Bremen Long Island and look for the first appealing spot to stop for lunch. As we reached the middle of Flying Passage, we could see the current running, and crossed into it, the boats being pulled first north with the current and then south just to keep it interesting. A few corrective strokes kept us pointed where we wanted to go, and shortly after noon, we pulled onto a small beach on a dark little cove that was protected from the wind. Hot lemonade, hot tea, hot cocoa and various solid lunch items as well as a nice fleece hat were very warming. We were snug and comfortable. "We're paddling and camping in Maine in November!" We talked about plans for upcoming trips this winter and short expeditions for next season. Thoroughly warmed, we launched once again after an hour. My hands and feet were finally warm (that's what hot lemonade and a hat will do for you!), and as we crossed to the western side of the Hockomock Channel, the wind disappeared, and we had a paddle on almost flat calm water for most of the rest of the day. The Weather Gods were in the ascendancy! Mother Nature had been bested, despite her desire to throw another test at the boys. We poked into silent and still inlets. Dead leaves swirled overhead and floated on the water. We stopped to look at the wrecked ship in the harbor, and returned greetings with a friendly lobsterman with a boisterous and goofy-looking big brown dog. We circumnavigated Oar Island. The now-still day, overcast and all, was glorious and welcoming. But daylight hours remaining were few, and we pointed for Crow, as the wind began to pick up and we were more exposed to it. Warren identified a nice spot out of the wind (the theme for the weekend). Not far from where we sat, we could see the water moving past in rushing little wind-driven waves out from the small protective outcropping of rocks immediately to our north, and we could hear the wind in the trees at our backs, and feel it when we walked to our campsites. Absorbed in talking about something or other, we looked up and were amazed by the single most beautiful sight of the weekend: the low afternoon sun, which we couldn't see directly all, had suddenly - and magically - lit up a strip of trees on the island across the water to the east. The water was the same steel it had been all day, the sky a pearly grey - but bisecting them, a glowing yellow band of lit-up trees. I felt awed. With no specific belief in any deity, it is moments like this that give me pause to wonder… Warren gave me my first lesson in operating a Jet Boil, and we all fired up water for a hot supper. The sky was finally clearing, and the stars came out overhead. The same localized light glowed in the low clouds as it had the night before. I saw a first star and wished on it. More stars came out, and we could look up and see the Milky Way, which has completely disappeared from the sky over our overly lit cities and towns. We sat in the pitch dark, speaking and then silent. A satellite passed overhead. Then another, moving faster than the first. The hushed thought: "We're camping on an island in Maine….in November!" Had any of us ever sat outside, on a rock, in the dark, on a cold evening anywhere, let alone Maine, for the hours that we sat out that night? It was cold feet (literally) that drove me "indoors," while once again Rob and Warren lingered outside. I soon discovered that my "protected" campsite actually featured a nice clear path through the trees aiming directly northwest, a perfect alley down which the prevailing wind could whistle. My tent shook, but I crawled into my two sleeping bags, and listening to the wind (and hoping that it was insufficient to knock down any trees!), soon fell asleep. Another very comfortable night. Sunday dawned cold, bright and sunny, and very windy. Rob reported that closing up his bivvy sak all the way kept it 10 degrees warmer inside than it had been the night before, even though last night was substantially cooler. But even in the cold of the morning, it was warm on the dinner rock, particularly with Heidi as my model, as I was wearing every layer of clothing that I had brought, and was covered as well with a storm cag. It was wonderful to soak up the sun and to watch the lobster boats in the distance (when do these guys ever not work?). Even though daylight savings time had ended, we decided to stay in the same time in which we had begun, and to claim the extra hour when we landed back at Muscongus Harbor. We launched into stiff breeze (piece o' cake for Rob and Warren, who were sufficiently cocky to be challenging Mother Nature to throw more at them), and while I was glad we weren't going to have a day of slogging into it, Warren let me know that it was really just a puff! On rounding the northern tip of Hog, we found shelter from the wind from the west, and crossing over to Hockomock Point, we received further shelter, and it was an easy paddle south and east with the only wind effect a helpful one, pushing us to our destination. We passed the now-empty cormorant nest where last spring we had run into indignant parents making very clear that they wanted us out of their neighborhood. Warren observed how slowly all of us, without discussing it, were paddling. We paused frequently and did nothing at all while the wind did the work. I closed my eyes and listened and felt the boat moving. We were clearly in no rush to end the trip. The launch site came into view. Too soon. "We've paddled and camped in Maine in November!" Back up in the parking lot, out in the wind again, it was a cold day, but magically an hour earlier, giving us plenty of time to load up, drive the hours to home, clean gear and pack things away. We saw one seal. We saw and heard many loons. A fair number of lobstermen and boats. But except for a man on a dock at one of the manses overlooking the water, not another person on water or land for the three days. Paddling and camping in Maine in November with the Weather Gods ascendant. Heaven! Lessons learned: 1) Summer sleeping bag is insufficient even when one is wearing long underwear, fleece pants, two shirts, socks and hat. 2) Cold winds blow through the holes in Crocs; Crocs are not good land shoes in November. 3) Hot liquids and hats warm feet and hands. 4) Paddling and camping in Maine in November is a joy. 5) Maybe the islands are best left to Warren and Rob in December...or maybe not... Pru

Does anyone know if the Walden Pond boat ramp is still open, and if so, how long that will be the case? pru

Another really nice report. I thought of you guys during my two days up in Boothbay, and was very aware of the conditions you were facing. I hope to join you for an early November trip, and I think you can rest assured that the Weather Gods will be more benign as I have a special connection with them! (But Mother Nature, not so much... I'm not sure which has more power in these situations!) pru

I had the good fortune to participate once again as a volunteer student in the latest BCU 4**** assessment with John Carmody and three other coaches: Jenn Kleck, Steve Maynard and Todd Wright. I am thrilled to inform you that Lorrie Allen passed the assessment! Let me tell you: this was no mean feat! Conditions were at the very upper end (if not surpassing at times) 4**** assessment conditions. The first day was fogged in all day. The second day, at Popham, featured some of the biggest conditions I've ever been in. I was a "tea bag" in Lorrie's group both days, and so can, with first hand knowledge, tell you that Lorrie performed with skill and confidence throughout. She handled both the scenarios and real-life rescues. (I have first hand knowledge of this as well, as - true to form for me - I was dumped by what looked from down in the trough like a VERY large wave as we waited to enter the zipper at Popham, and Lorrie executed a quick and confident rescue, directing her co-leader/assesse in what to do. With big waves crashing all around, it never occurred to me to be scared or anxious, as Lorrie had clear control of the situation - getting me back in the boat and getting us towed out of the danger zone.) After seeing what the candidates went through in this two day assessment, I have a new respect for what 4**** means, and Lorrie should be - and is (if also embarrassed by my words) - very proud! pru

Amen to that!

I may well want to join - and circumnav - depending on weather etc. pru

Yes - that worked - thanks! Looks like a very beautiful day - if perhaps a bit windy?

Sounds wonderful - tried the link, Gary, but it didn't work - my old computer or a bad link? pru

Just found out I won't be able to join you. I console myself by saying how could any Squam Lake trip be any better than the one last year in all the mysterious rain and fog! pru

I may be up for the Saturday paddle - but likely won't know for sure for a couple more days whether I can get away or not. pru

I wish it were possible to be in more than one place at the same time! Maybe next year trash-pickin' will fit in my schedule, too. And on the island that Warren and I camped on, the bushes were also "alive with small birds." Is it something to do with this time of year? pru

Warren and I had a bare-knuckle fight to decide who would be able to write the trip report...and he won! Nice report from a different perspective than my usual. It was interesting to see Warren thinking about trip planning and to talk with him about that, and I am glad he's been able to put down some of his thoughts, and how we put them into action on this one specific trip. For various reasons, only some of which had to do with the Weather Gods and their specific animosity toward Warren, this was a trip that demanded flexibility. We were planning to be out until Sunday. We were off the water Saturday afternoon. We planned to camp on one island (a rather cold and discouraging venue bare of trees and covered with almost impenetrable brush, with a fire ring and half-burned corn cobs and other garbage nearby), but ended up camping on another - which featured the easiest take out at high tide I've ever experienced (needing to walk the boats perhaps five feet to a grassy area out of reach of the tide) and a cozy woodsy area, a soft and grassy tent site for me, and picnic tables to add that extra civilized touch that is occasionally nice in the Great Outdoors. When the fog came in on Friday afternoon, and the view around us constricted to our island, and what turned out to be a brief and inconsequential rain started, I was very happy not to be on the exposed nasty campsite that we almost settled for. And the Weather Gods did shine down one more time. Despite numerous forecasts for deep fog on Saturday morning, and rain, we got up to a day of milky sun and calm conditions - which, as Warren noted, did not last for long. As we slogged through it to get to Knubble Bay, I was acutely aware: This is not fun! Slog slog slog. But we turned the corner to the bay and were mostly protected from the wind all the way to Beal Island and on the return until we crossed over the knubble (the connecting little beach on which we had planned to stretch our legs now underwater) for the final slog back to our launch spot. Left out of Warren's report: the truth about the mud-launch, which might have been graceful on his part but was not on mine, and I have the now-dried muddy dry bags to show for it! Also: the gun shots we heard, and the smoke rising from a fire on shore (two trips in a row seeing fires - what's up with that?!), and the first not-juvenile-but-not-adult loon I've ever seen. So clearly moving toward adult coloration, but not yet there. A lovely trip - as always - with a wonderful trip planner! pru

First Annual NSPN Muscle Ridge Fall Camping Weekend September 28-30, 2012 Ten NSPNers and one guest thumbed our collective noses at numerous highly discouraging weather forecasts to brave rain, wind and toxic smoke to make the First Annual NSPN Fall Muscle Ridge camping weekend a rousing success. But let it not be said that we are are Destination Addicts, as it turned out that we never actually made it as a group out to the eponymous archipelago. The long initially rainy drive up to South Thomaston on Friday morning became more pleasant when we hit Maine and saw a demarcation line in the sky - rain to the south, blue sky and clouds to the north and east. We accelerated into the better weather, mindful that what we were leaving would be chasing us as the day and weekend progressed. We arrived at the Lobster Buoy Campground as planned a little before 10:00 am, to find that Gary, our maestro of a trip organizer, had already made an excellent executive decision in deference to the weather, switching us from our reserved group campsite on the water's edge to another a few hundred yards inland, where we would be marginally more protected from the predicted nastiness coming off the water. We awaited the arrival of others wanting a Friday paddle, and we eventually had the noon launch quorum that we needed. Before we launched, everyone set up his/her tent, and there was a group effort to move picnic tables near a stand of scrubby trees in the center of the camp area, from which an elaborate roof of intersecting tarps was constructed to shelter the camp kitchen and dining areas. Gary handed out party favors to all: bait bags holding a tube of glow sticks suitable to be made into bracelets and necklaces if fashion choices dictated. In so doing, Gary set a new standard for trip initiators that others would do well to emulate in the future! We discussed paddling options for the day. The (basically inaccurate, as we were to find out) NOAA forecast promised us rain starting in the afternoon and continuing overnight, with some clearing on Saturday. Muscle Ridge beckoned two miles offshore. We elected to save an exploration of the area for the next day, when the weather would be better, and additional paddlers would be joining us. We decided a trip along the coast up to Owl's Head and the lighthouse there would be a good afternoon paddle. Most of us (Gary, Barry, Paul, Mary, Roger and his paddling buddy Alison, and I) embarked in this Owl's Head pod. Two others (Bill and Dave) decided they preferred a shorter paddle, and elected to head out to Muscle Ridge. We launched a little after noon - right on time. By now, the brief blue sky had given way to cloudy grey. But the wind was negligible as we pushed north and east. Despite lively debates as we proceeded regarding exactly where our planned lunch spot - Crescent Beach - was located, we managed to bypass it and ended up lunching on a little island (unnamed on my chart) looking over at a populated sand beach. (Different charts were ambiguous on the matter - some appeared to indicate that Crescent Beach was a cobble beach south of where we ended up; others seemed to tell us to continue on a bit.) We had a nice lunch in the gloom of the day, and Barry was good enough to sprint over slippery rocks to retrieve my kayak, which spontaneously decided to back down off of where I'd left it and float away. It would not have gone far in any event, and the water was only knee high. Still…it is a bit alarming to watch one's boat leave without one… We continued onward, passing between the coast and Sheep and Monroe Islands to the east, until we saw in the distance the picture postcard view of Owl's Head with its lighthouse high up on the edge of the promontory, the light shining a welcome in the grey day. The sky was a matte milky grey background with an overlay of puffy clouds near the horizon. We rounded the head - it was raining by now - and looked up and saw people climbing up the steps to the lighthouse. We took pictures, admired the view, then turned around to pull up on a beach we'd passed on the near side of Owl's Head. Most of us climbed up to look at the lighthouse (passing the granite grave marker, flanked by two small American flags, of "Spot, the Lighthouse Dog"). The view up there was spectacular. Grey water and sky and islands stretching out. A small boat chugging below, trailing a wake. We next headed over to Monroe Island, where Alison had promised a cobble beach of impressive stones. It didn't disappoint - although we had insufficient time to find the single best souvenir rock on that beach. In fact, half of our group never even disembarked! But Alison and I found a few keepers, and thus loaded up, continued on around the more exposed northern and eastern sides of Monroe, heading back to camp. We had to get out of our boats and walk them through two inches of low-tide water off of Sheep Island, and as we continued, the afternoon wore on, the sky darkened, the wind picked up and it rained. The final mile or so back to Waterman Beach, the launch site, was a slog through those conditions. Thirteen miles after we started, we pulled ashore shortly before the late-September nightfall. Bill and Dave reported that they had made it out to Muscle Ridge and had found some nice between-island currents; they had gotten back in sufficient time to shower, change, and lay out appetizers and drinks for the rest of us. Do not believe the one Trip Advisor low rating for the campground, which complained about dribbles of cool water rather than a nice hot shower for your 50 cents. Several people who elected to shower before supper reported that the water was heavenly hot, and plenty of it. Most of us, now joined by Cathy, who had arrived mid afternoon and still had her boat on her car, gathered around the cooking table, where Gary heated up butternut squash soup (kindly made by his wife), and Dave heated up beef stew (kindly made by his wife). We huddled under the tarps as the rain came down, and warmed up with hot food. There were several propane lanterns glowing, and people cupped hands around them for warmth. Mary - who had all of our envy with her little RV with an actual bed with mattress, sheets and pillows and room to change (and, we were convinced, a hot tub and sauna tucked in there somewhere) - produced a splendid dessert: individual little pastries in the shape of puffins - with éclair bodies and candy heads. We ate, drank, talked, huddled, cupped hands, and listened to the rain - by now a steady soak - come down. One by one, we peeled off and sprinted to our tents for the night. Is there anything that feels cozier than being inside a small well-sealed tent on a very rainy night? I do not think there is a better way to sleep. I heard a rumor that there was an almost full Harvest moon that night, but it surely was never more than that rumor. So much for needing glow sticks for a full-moon paddle… Morning "light" brought more rain and blowing trees. Our "better" Saturday was clearly worse. "Oops", NOAA said, "We got it wrong yesterday, today is going to be lousy - rainy and windy." We ate breakfast under the tarps, all of which had survived the rainy night. Reconnaissance of the water and sky conditions told us that Muscle Ridge was out there somewhere, but you wouldn't know it without a chart. Another decision made by group consensus: to abandon Muscle Ridge as our destination and hug the coastline southward toward Tenant's Harbor for protection from the elements. Continuing our freedom from Destination Addiction, we decided on a turn-around time rather than place, and headed off as one group, joined by Rene, who pulled up in time for a 9:30 launch. Off we went, in the wind and rain. But both were entirely manageable, and as the morning progressed, the rain tapered off - to return in brief sprinkly periods intermittently throughout the day. Not as the steady-state-until-mid-afternoon that had been predicted. We coasted on sporty waves and current under the bridge to Sprucehead, emerging on the other side to find almost flat water and no wind. We stopped along the way to assist a group of men - deployed on a power boat, a floating dock, and the shore - attach extra lines from boat to dock, which I gather they were attempting to haul out of the water. A golden retriever, with windblown dog drool wrapped around his muzzle, and wearing a bright orange vest, surveyed the process from the bow of the boat. Rather solemnly, I thought. We stopped to stretch our legs at an island whose name I never got (the problem of paddling past where the chart is folded). We set out again, the wind at our backs, and Roger advised that we all turn around and paddle a bit into the wind to test out what would be headwinds on the way back. Definitely some pushback in that direction, but manageable. On we went. We did a lovely crossing with nice swells and beam waves - but stopped for a time as Gary and Paul had a navigational pow-wow, eventually triangulating to determine which island lay ahead. Paul reported that he lost the debate. It appeared as we headed toward a gap between islands that there would be waves across a good deal it, but that was an illusion and the waves didn't extend far out. We were almost at Tenant's Harbor. It was lunch and turn-around time. We disembarked at a perfect flat grassy landing area. We lunched on the rocks around the corner from a real fixer-up cottage almost absent of paint, weathered grey boards with blasted out windows, and a ladder inside going up to a loft or attic. Behind it was a cleared out area with tree stumps to sit on, and an old privy in a similar state of (dis)repair, but civilized enough with a toilet seat and lid rather than just a hole in a rotting board. By now, the wind had dropped, and the entire paddle back was free of struggle. We elected to split the difference between efficiency and scenery; rather than making a straight shot back across open water to Sprucehead, we stayed closer to shore to look at rocks and real estate. Then we split into two pods, with Bill, Dave and Mary deciding to take the short route back under the bridge from whence we'd come, while the rest of us continued around the outer edge of Sprucehead. This turned out to be a wonderful decision. We passed under high green pylons between Sprucehead and a little (?unnamed) island, emerging into a completely calm lagoon with low granite rocks forming enticing little distinct areas to explore. Onward. Gary pointed out the notation "TARGET" on the chart, and said that its meaning would become clear when we got there. Preparing to put on a helmet and duck down to protect ourselves from incoming whatevers, we rounded the southeastern edge of Sprucehead, and saw ahead of us a large white boulder, painted white with one black stripe and big black circle, with "1884" written in black letters. The enigmatic target… We scraped our bottoms going through another small rock garden, and looking now directly toward home, we saw a plume of smoke rising from pretty much where we'd launched. As we paddled on, the plume got larger and spread more. It smelled. It blocked the sky. It even dropped some ashes on us. The South Thomaston Toxic Waste Dump going up in smoke? What ill health effects would we suffer from our weekend kayaking off the pristine Maine coast? Roger, Alison and Barry paddled east to Tommy Island, both because the air was clearer out there, and because there was an enticing little house to check out. The rest of us paddled on into the smoke, which as we proceeded, born by the northeast wind, was overspreading the sky. By the time we landed, at four in the afternoon, the sky was the color of a bruise, even out over Tommy's Island, and the smell was most unpleasant. We were met by an unfortunate woman on an orange bicycle, who had been trapped in her popup camper all day, breathing the smoky air. The good new was that it wasn't the South Thomaston Toxic Waste Dump going up in flames; it was the Thomaston (Volunteer?) Fire Department having a training day burning down an abandoned house - vinyl siding, asphalt shingled roof and all. Yeck! Apparently the concerns of the woman on the orange bike, communicated directly and in person to the person in charge on site, were not met with great sympathy. She was hoping to enlist support for an email of complaint to…The EPA?...the town selectmen?... Someone… Gary said he'd sign for the group. Rain was again forecast for overnight and Sunday, and a number of us, including all who had driven the longest to get there, decided to head on home. Which we did, after loading up boats and taking some showers (still hot, still plentiful). Those who remained will have to report on the final night and whether and where there was a Sunday paddle. But wind, rain, and smoke didn't in the end detract from a memorable weekend trip. We saw one bald eagle, numerous adult and juvenile loons, and a flock of scoters. Bill and Dave saw one seal. And those of you who wanted to come but couldn't make it, just think: you will be able to be on the Second Annual Muscle Ridge Fall Camping Weekend that will the be the First Such Weekend to Actually See the Group Get to Muscle Ridge. I hope! (And can only in addition hope that the Second Annual etc etc will be as hummus-free as the First!) Thank you, Gary, for arranging the trip and starting a new tradition!