Joseph Berkovitz

The Easternmost Coast

If you drive southwest from New England on Interstate 95 and keep going down the East Coast, the weather gets warmer along the way, as does the ocean. The trees get bigger. After about 1,200 statute miles of driving, you reach the state of Florida, land of spring breakers and sunny subtropical recreation. Having arrived in Florida, you might order a cool refreshment from the beach bar.

This is a story about what can happen when 5 people and their kayaks travel about 1,200 miles in the opposite direction, namely, northeast. If you do this, instead of arriving in Florida, you will find yourself on the wild Northern Peninsula of Newfoundland, just south of Labrador. There, on one of the easternmost and least inhabited coastlines in North America, cool refreshments are already provided by nature in the form of icebergs. In this part of the world, a good time for spring break would be around the date of our trip: late June and early July.

Lorrie Allen, Phil Allen, Jason Kates, Janet Lorang and myself set off from Westport, Maine on Sunday, June 25, 2023. Our goal was to arrive in North Sydney, Nova Scotia in time for the overnight ferry to Channel Port-aux-Basques, Newfoundland.  As we began ticking off the seemingly endless miles, and even more endless kilometers, I reflected on the odd path that brought us here.

Birth Of The Trip

The idea for the trip was born in late 2021. David Mercer has an actual family connection to Newfoundland. I have an imaginary connection, but have wanted to visit since I was little. David and I both very much wanted to see icebergs and wildlife and kayak camp in a truly remote area ruled by nature. We decided to begin figuring it out.

We bought some books and guides—in fact, it turned out that few were available. The only kayaking guide to NL was long out of print and a bit thin on information for our preferred areas. Our thinking became more independent, with advice from people who lived there or who had paddled there. We would have to look at maps, pore over satellite images and take our best crack at a plan. John Carmody pointed us at a valuable book on Atlantic Canada weather, “Where The Wind Blows”.

There are many distinct places in NL to paddle which are very different from each other. However, the icebergs suggested that we visit the northeastern region of NL, as the ice travels south from Greenland on the cold Labrador Current before turning left and beginning to melt and shrink. This choice still left many options open. Eventually we settled on a shuttle trip of some 70 nm, in a hilly and rocky area of the Northeast Coast between Englee and Main Brook, NL. This bulge of land has an interior road network allowing vehicles to travel only some 40 miles to support the much longer shuttle route. Further north at the tip of NL would have been an option, but the topography seemed flatter and less varied. We wound up with an 8 day shuttle:

There were 3 tiny outports along the route reachable from the interior,  but there was no coastal road: it would be remote enough. Most camping spots were either deserted ports or coastal wilderness. (Many small towns in Newfoundland have been shut down by the government in recent decades, with residents moving to larger population centers.) Being so far north, this area would have more plentiful icebergs. There were also two large offshore islands, the Grey Islands, which would buffer incoming swell and shorten the offshore wind fetch.

In the summer, a large high pressure system hovers to the east of Newfoundland and the wind direction is generally southwest. So our paddling direction would be from south to north, with the land mostly to our west. The high landforms cause wind over the land to back to the left, so a southwest wind would give rise to “coastal divergence”: a band of calmer winds next to the coast. Conversely—we were warned about this by locals—northerly winds would converge and amplify next to the coast and yield “run and hide” conditions.

A 19th Century Guide To Kayak Camping

David and I were still a bit unsure about the best places to land and camp. Clearly there were miles of unprotected rocky shore with no safe landing zones, plus all-too-rare coves and harbors. At this point, David made the key discovery of a set of photographs of the coast, made by archaeologists studying the French Shore of Newfoundland. 

Despite Newfoundland’s status as a British Crown possession, the French had been fishing cod in this area since the early 1500s. In 1713 England enshrined French fishing rights in the Treaty of Utrecht, a sort of Great Powers grand bargain that ended a troublesome European war. The French kept on fishing there until the early 1900s (both supporting and angering the locals), when a different spate of bargaining led the French to trade away the fish for their African colonies.

The French used a system of “fishing rooms” for processing and drying their catch, built on safe landing zones next to reliable sources of water. What David had found was, in effect, a kayak camping guide to the area, courtesy of 19th century French fishermen!

I found a set of GPS coordinates in the appendix of an academic paper for the fishing rooms and water sources, and turned these into a layer of colored dots on our charts. (We used topographic rather than marine charts. Most of the water was deep, there were no navigation marks, and our wayfinding would be based largely on land contours.) We cross checked these sites with the coastal photos from the archaeologists, satellite imagery, and information from local people. It was clear that even if not every dot was reliable, nearly all of them corresponded to usable beaches, streams, and so on. Those French fishermen gave us a lot more confidence in our options.

Crossing to “The Rock”

With great sadness, we all missed David’s presence as we boarded the ferry. In the end, after all the planning and anticipation, he had been unable to join us. A couple of weeks before our departure, David came down with an entirely unexpected medical condition. Although he recovered the better part of his health very quickly, he and his medical team and his family realized that a long, arduous kayak camping trip in a remote area was not in the cards this time.

The Marine Atlantic ferry to Newfoundland is a very well-run and comfortable affair indeed if you book an overnight cabin, and if the sailing is not canceled by bad weather. The beds are small but comfortable and the showers quite heavenly. Drive on the boat in the evening, sleep, get coffee, drive off the boat in the morning. And then, in our case, drive another full day to get from southwest NL to northeast NL. (Newfoundland has about the same land area as Tennessee and is similarly elongated.)

We had some minor concern about one of us having just caught a cold, but there was little to be done about that. As our next bout of driving began, though, I got an unsettling text from my wife: she had just tested positive for Covid-19, and was feeling very sick. We had a new question to resolve: would I become too ill to continue the trip, and would I communicate Covid to the others? Janet had a couple of tests but we probably needed a few more, which we picked up along with fresh groceries in Corner Brook. (Spoiler: I never did test positive. I merely caught the same annoying cold that almost everyone else on the trip came down with. Perhaps one coronavirus canceled out the other one?)

In the meantime, we continued driving to our Monday night destination, the Mayflower Inn, in Roddickton NL, a half-hour’s drive from our put-in in Englee. We passed through many different areas: high forested mountains, bays and fjords, windswept coastal plains, mountains again. The weather brightened and warmed; in one of the few notable insect incidents, blackflies attacked Janet at a random gas station in the middle of nowhere. The highway became a two-lane road, then became a two-lane road with potholes. Far from any house, locals’ fenced-off vegetable gardens appeared on the cleared roadside margins.

Arriving in Roddickton in the late afternoon, we walked around the town before getting a meal at an excellent local diner called the Lumberjack. Roddickton is the self-declared “Moose Capital of the World”—and in fairness, we did see a big moose on the drive into town. Our home for the evening was the Mayflower Inn, a very clean and comfortable motel-style operation with some detached cabins. It was calm, warm and sunny; our hostess told us this was the first nice day they had seen since the beginning of June. A fox trotted in front of us as we walked.

Day 1: Englee to Upper Chimney Cove

Your Iceberg Is Waiting

Our plan the next morning was to meet our shuttle drivers at 9:30 at the Barr’d Island Trailhead in Englee. The trailhead is (as the name suggests) a gravel bar connecting an island with the main land, so we could launch off either side based on conditions. Conditions seemed benign though. The forecast was for southwest winds, 10-20 knots. This forecast became something of a running joke on the trip because it was the predicted—and actual—wind on every single day of the trip, except the last.

We all wondered how long it would be before we spotted our first ice chunk. But as we descended the steep hill into Englee, we caught a glimpse of the ocean with a large iceberg floating close to shore. And right at the put-in beach we could see two more icebergs floating in the entrance to Canada Bay just south of town. So, there would be no suspense: plenty of icebergs to go around for everyone!

Our very friendly shuttle drivers turned up and we chatted with them as we packed 8+ days of supplies into our boats. This was perhaps one of the longest conversations so far with local people, and throughout the journey the warmth and generosity of Newfoundlanders was incredible. They all spent plenty of time on the water and gave us a number of observations and tips for the route ahead that were to prove very useful.

We launched around 10 am into Englee Harbor and promptly rounded the point into our first northeasterly run down the coast. There was a light breeze, some small wind waves and blue skies. Uninterrupted rocks and cliffs were to our left, deep water under us, distant bergs to our right. No boats or houses were visible. 

The air temperature was about 60 F. The ocean, on the other hand, was somewhere in the neighborhood of 42-45 F. An SUV-sized “bergy bit” floated next to us. We were in the domain of the Labrador Current, which brings a stream of frigid water southwards from Greenland. Now that we were paddling in it, we could see that not only is this water very cold (it hurt to trail my hand in it), but it is very, very transparent and has an intense greenish blue jewel-like hue very different from our home waters. It is also less salty, and smells different. These nutrient-rich waters originally nourished the cod that is now gone from these shores.

 

Offshore from us, we saw a lobster boat against the backdrop of the Grey Islands. At least, we were sure it was a lobster boat… until proximity revealed it to be an ice sculpture, faithfully imitating a lobster boat. The “ice boat” was to follow us for several days, visible from different perspectives as we paddled and it drifted.

The End Of All This

Around 1 pm, some 5 nm into our day, we arrived at our first reasonable stopping point: Boutitou. This name is a phonetic rendering of the French phrase “bout de tout”, roughly meaning “the end of all this”. (It is marked on the map as “Hilliers Harbour” but, in a naming dysfunction we saw repeated over and over again, local people use an entirely different set of place names. Search and rescue operations involving non-local personnel are plagued with miscommunications.)

The obvious place to land was in front of two homes beside a running stream in a protected corner of the cove. One house featured a man working on the roof, alone. He didn’t return our greeting which at first we thought was a bad sign, but then he came down and conversed with us in a friendly way. He was trying to get the roof repair done for his brother on the first day of good weather for a very long time.

This had been a potential Day 1 camping spot for us, but the human presence made us feel that we would be in the way, and the houses lent the place a slightly gloomy air. We ate our lunch on the rocks in front of the stream outlet, and moved on. On the way out, we actually found a much nicer and more private beach landing on the opposite side of the cove, to the right of a substantial waterfall pouring into the cove.

South Upper Chimney Cove

Going onwards, we began to see whales playing offshore from us. It was hard to see details but the occasional dorsal fin or tail was plainly visible. Our next planned camping spot would be opposite the tiny town of Conche, some 9 nm distant. We headed up there, hoping we might find something workable that was closer and more secluded. The uninterrupted cliffs and rock slopes continued to our left. After an hour, in search of a pee break, Phil led us on a 3/4 left turn into a small cove that looked as though it might just barely offer a sketchy landing. In truth, it was not sketchy at all: we saw a tiny protected pocket beach ahead, located past a rocky slot just wide enough for 2 kayaks. Above it, a little grassy meadow. Next to it, a somewhat flat area of boulders and small ponds interspersed with more grass. We had found our camping spot in Upper Chimney Cove, a place that did not look at all promising during the planning process, but which turned out to be perfect, and was there when we needed it.

The sky shifted back and forth between blue and gray. It was breezy and cool. Bugs were not as bad as some of us had feared at this site. We ate our dinner together by the boats, hiked on the rocks and game trails, hung up our gear on boulders, and I stayed up to watch the offshore whale-and-iceberg show in the golden light. It was a lonely and atmospheric spot. True darkness was around 11:30 NDT (1.5 hours later than EDT). Way before it got dark, we hit our tents to sleep through our first night in the wild.

Day 2: Upper Chimney Cove to Point Dos De Cheval

The Tide Always Runs South

In the morning, it was gray and cool and rainy. Our miracle slot looked less miraculous in the falling tide, with low due at 8:30 am. The slot was blocked by a wide chunk of ledge. But there was just enough leeway to work boats around it one at a time, staying careful of the drain and flood from swells, and get in from a shallow spot on the other side.

The tidal range in this area is tiny by comparison with home: somewhere between 3 and 5 feet. But big enough to make a difference in landing or launching mechanics. Tidal currents were usually not much of an issue here, but the oceanic Labrador Current does have a pronounced effect as it runs continuously in a southward direction, somewhere between 0.5 and 1 knots. Although the sun and the moon have nothing to do with it, the local fishermen refer to this ocean current as "tide", saying, “The tide always runs south here”.

More Whales, Bigger Ice Cubes

We moved on to Chimney Cove, the next cove north, where the largest iceberg we had seen so far nestled in the southwest corner. We circled it, some warily, others seeming unconcerned. (Later our concern was to increase, after a berg decided to grace us with an interactive safety lecture.) The colors, shape and texture were stunning, the blue shades much more brilliant than we expected.

The weather steadily improved as we went. This was a common theme on the trip: mornings were often socked in, with clearer weather coming in the afternoon, if it came at all.

We were approaching Conche Harbor. Originally our plan had been to visit the town by kayak and change into regular clothing to visit its local museum, but the group amended it in favor of visiting by car later on in the trip. Instead, we would visit the enormous tabular berg on the other side of the harbor, a rectangular monster the size of multiple city blocks with vertical faces of 50 feet or more. (Scale was hard to grasp without approaching closely, something we declined to do.)

Whales were also playing near this berg, with some humpbacks displaying their tails against the backdrop of the ice face. As the group watched the show, I scoped out a lunch beach with its own private sea stack. We landed on the beach for a scenic lunch, looking out at spouting whales and the huge berg. The town of Conche lay concealed by a headland, just to our north.

Off to one side of the berg was a field of smaller ice chunks, no doubt ones which had fallen off from the main berg. Jason pointed out that they were audibly fizzing as they released tiny air bubbles, frozen into the glacial ice tens of thousands of years ago under immense pressure.

Carboniferous Conche

Proceeding from the berg, we rounded Cape Fox to enter a completely different world altogether: the world of the Conche Peninsula. Together with the Cape Rouge Peninsula just to its north, it consists of younger, reddish sedimentary rocks from the Carboniferous era, their layers canted at a strange angle and eroded into many fantastic high headlands, caves and dramatic pocket beaches. This landscape is totally unlike the much older gray Precambrian rocks on the main shore of Newfoundland, which seem to be much more resistant to erosion. These sedimentary rocks are apparently related to those of Appalachia; indeed, there are coal seams and oil seeps in them, and the nearby Long Range Mountains are essentially an extension of the Appalachian Range.

This area was a visual and paddling feast. Some of us went into one of the most spectacular sea caves to check it out. It was calm and protected inside, with aquamarine jewel-water around us and a clear view of the bottom. Psychedelic buttresses and towers loomed nearby. This one had a skylight-type feature at the rear of the cave which on the headland appears as an opening in the ground, locally referred to as a “glass hole” because one can see the ocean through it from above. To us, it was a window into the sky above.

We passed an enormous roosting cliff of what Phil said were kittiwakes.

I hoped the cape would go on forever, but after an hour of paddling and gawking and a pee stop, we rounded the north side of it. The rock fantasia was replaced by hills sloping down to a pebbly beach: an old French fishing room, Point Dos de Cheval. The air suddenly became warm and moist as a strong southwest land breeze hit us. After fighting our way upwind briefly, we attained our next campsite.

The archaeological record showed water nearby, and we found it after a short hike along the shore. We had been advised that we would not lack for water, and indeed we found usable streams near almost every site we camped at (with water treatment still highly advisable). Many of the streams were brown with tannins.

We lounged and rested on the beach. Most of us camped just above the strand line; the upland meadows were overgrown with stinging nettles in places. There was a continuing interplay at this site between freaky hot and cold winds that kept changing moment by moment. Odd refraction effects played over the waters of Crouse Harbor, named as a corruption of “Cap Rouge”. Houses in nearby Northwest Crouse, a deserted outport, were visible across the harbor. That area is inhabited now by local people using the homes as vacation camps, but we opted to maintain our solitude and remain on the point. Late in the day the wind died to nothing on the point, but we could see wind waves further out.

Day 3: Point Dos De Cheval to Kearney Cove

The Drinking Elephant

Thursday morning was like many of our mornings in NL: patchy fog, patchy clouds, even more patchy sunlight. These always made for a fascinating interplay while drinking morning coffee. This morning, the swift motion of the fog made it clear that our southwest breeze would be somewhat stronger today. The exit from our harbor was alternating between clear visibility and total obscurity.

Once packed up, we headed out around the southern tip of the next peninsula, Cape Rouge. The fog blanketed many of the cliffs and features and we could see only a short distance ahead much of the time. As we rounded this point, the water roughened considerably into something like a tide race; I thought this might be wind wave energy encountering the opposing Labrador Current.

Once around the point, the wind dropped. We had a brief glimpse of a couple of large icebergs near the dramatic northern tip of the peninsula, Pyramid Point a couple of miles ahead. Then fog moved in and our view ended. We moved along the cliffs in a white shroud.

Finally, a substantial mid-sized iceberg emerged in front of us, preceded by a glow of bluish fog as if lit from within. It merited a circuit or two.

Passing Pyramid Point, we saw another berg just outside Pilier Bay. This time, biological imperatives spoke louder than the icebergs, and we turned in towards a French fishing site marked on our charts which looked like the best bathroom break available for some miles: a protected beach with a stream to replenish our dwindling water supplies. On the way, we briefly explored another amazing sea cave, this one notable for its showers of dripping fresh water and an enormous trunk-like pillar dropping into the sea from a narrow arch of land. Later, we heard that local people refer to this feature as “The Drinking Elephant”.

The bathroom break turned out to be one of the most scenic places we had stopped yet, a narrow meadow topped by a waterfall and bracketed by dramatic cliffs, overlooking Pilier Bay and completely protected from the wind.  It was declared an immediate lunch-spot success and we broke out the food. If we had needed to camp, it would have been perfect for that, too. Like many of the nicest sites, it was almost invisible from a distance, partly concealed behind a zigzags in the coastline.

Windy Point

Proceeding north, we decided to cross Pilier Bay rather than stick by the coast, since we saw that without our protected location the southwest wind was whipping across our path, stirring up some nice rollers. We preferred to have those mostly behind us, instead of hitting our bows and beams. Our next stop was planned to be in Croque Harbor, another 6 miles up the coast. To get to that campsite, we would likely have to cut across some more wind-blown water at a place named, appropriately enough, Windy Point. So we kept going up the coast. The conditions continued to increase as we crossed the last cove before Croque, with rollers coming in from the southwest on our stern quarter. They were not immediately dangerous but they suggested the entrance to the harbor on the other side of Windy Point might be a really wild place.

After a brief group conference we decided to continue to the point and see what the deal actually was. To our surprise, conditions at the harbor entrance were not at all bad. We could see the area of our destination, Kearney Cove, across water that had some whitecaps but did not look overly fierce. At any rate it made sense to us to keep going up the harbor towards our campsite and deal tactically with whatever we might encounter.

What we encountered was only slightly worse than what we’d already seen, and when the campsite suddenly revealed itself around a corner, it was a beauty: a lush, green, flat meadow clear of trees or brush, bracketed by rocky hills. It became actually hot and sunny: blackflies, for the first time on our trip, came out to greet and bite. We pulled out our bug nets for the first time. Janet made some margaritas using ice harvested from a berg. Sweet!

Hiking around the heathery hills later, Janet and I sighted an enormous iceberg offshore. Whales were visible out there, spouting and flipping their tails. I found a set of caribou antlers. But no caribou. Yet.

Day 4: Kearney Cove to Great St. Julien Harbor

Carvings From Long Ago

In the morning it was cloudy as usual and cooler, although blackflies still tried to bite us in spots. Another exercise in walking the boats out through low tide rocks awaited us. And my caribou antlers were gone, nowhere to be seen: an abiding unsolved mystery of the trip.

Our plan for the day was to paddle to a substantial harbor further up the coast, St. Julien, where we might consolidate our excellent progress by taking a day off and camping for two successive nights in the same spot. But first we wanted to head further into Croque Harbor, to view a set of French rock graffiti left by fishermen in the late 1800s.

Along the way we spotted an iceberg of medium size. This time, the group stopped for an brief impromptu discussion of safe paddling around icebergs. Opinions differed on the danger level of unstable icebergs. Some felt it was possible to tell by looking whether the iceberg was top-heavy and liable to roll. I had my doubts about this. But before I could voice those doubts, the iceberg itself spoke directly on the subject. With a roar, a house-size volume of ice cracked off of one end of the berg and plunged into the water, immediately disintegrating into living-room and grand-piano sized chunks plus many smaller pieces. It seems that nature had wanted to get in on the discussion.

The carvings were faded and obscure, but atmospheric. We could make out the names of ships: Pomone, Roland:

Names of boats and dates, and little else that we could see. In the backdrop, the now-deserted town of Croque was visible. We wanted to cover miles and did not investigate the town; we would be headed to a different abandoned outport later in the trip.

North to St. Julien Harbor

Between Croque and St. Julien the Newfoundland coastline changes character. The Grey Islands which had hovered offshore throughout our trip were now south of us, and our departure from their swell shadow gave us much more of a rhythmic up-and-down as we progressed. Paddling along the cliffs yielded enjoyable moments of harvesting the wave energy and gaining an extra speed spurt. The cliffs themselves became beautifully colored in hues of purple, green and red, contrasting with the intense blue-green of the water. Some interesting rock slots presented themselves; they would have been more enjoyable in unloaded boats. An impact here could torch the remainder of the trip.

Finally, after navigating some interesting shoals in the incoming swell, we arrived on the shore of St. Julien Island. We ate lunch in the first heavy, solid rain of the trip. It was not entirely pleasant and our surroundings felt a bit forbidding. We surveyed our situation just outside a trio of finger-like harbors. Progressing from south to north these comprised Great St. Julien, Little St. Julien and Grandois Harbors. The last of these had a mostly deserted outport, while the former two had been among the most active French fishing sites on this stretch of coast. We had a key tip from our shuttle drivers: in Great St. Julien Harbor, there was a disused hut that we could roost in if we needed shelter. We didn’t know where it was, but we figured it couldn’t be that hard to find. We set off for the “harbor”, which is actually a calm, narrow tidal estuary that looks like a river.

After a couple of false starts on beaches featuring either imaginary buildings (it was, admittedly, foggy) or overturned buildings (it must have been stormy at some point), we found a real, actual building: a small red one-story hut on stilts in reasonably sound condition. Landing at a nearby beach, Lorrie took a quick look. With the minor caveat of the door not being actually attached to its hinges and falling off when removed, the interior was fairly clean and dry with benches around the perimeter of the hut. An ordinary picnic table was the sole piece of furniture. The game was on.

As the rain intensified, so did our gratitude to this hut. We did not camp in it, but in the heavy weather it came at exactly the right moment. We looked forward to a day of rest and shelter, especially since four out of our group of five were suffering in common from our common cold.

Click to continue to Part 2 of this trip report...

Now that the waitlist opened up I’m joining Jim’s trip after all so please disregard above. 

(Post removed)

It’s very exposed even if you get permission, might be unpleasant to stay there

I just went to a West marine and bought the closest gauge to what I already had (bringing a sample with me). It worked fine. But I don’t have a Nordkapp. 

6mm is not really much smaller than 1/4”.  If that thickness doesn’t work out, Maybe measure the thickness of the existing cord as best you can and look for something online. 

People: Joe Berkovitz (organizer), Devon Winkler, Sue Hriciga, Fred Goodman, Britta Magnsuon, Ben Rechel, Ricardo Caivano

Distance: 7.5 nautical miles

View Floating Trails chart

We launched just after high water from Lanes Cove a little after 10 am. The fog from earlier in the morning was starting to lift and it looked like in spite of the predicted gloomy skies we would have a brighter day.

Our beach discussion evolved a plan to head around Halibut Point to the east side and see how the wind change was setting up, then proceed as far as we liked, probably doubling back to lunch at Annisquam Light. On the west side of Cape Ann in Ipswich Bay, it was very calm with almost no swell or wind. Rounding Halibut Point, though, the easterly breeze picked up and we could feel the beginning of what was likely to be a choppy afternoon. So after a brief snack on the water we headed back around into the lee, reaching Annisquam Light around 12:30.

The tide level was perfect for landing on the fine sand beach there, and we chatted and lounged on the rocks next to the lighthouse, enjoying the view of Ipswich Bay.

Eventually we returned to Lanes Cove where we landed and packed up. (Reminder for future groups: please use the ramp to reach the parking lot rather than cutting through the private beach behind the house 32 Andrews St. There is no marked boundary and there are no signs telling you not to, it's just a considerate thing to do and the owners appreciate it.)

In the lot we were treated to an interview with Ben's parrot Parry (or Perry):

The interview was a bit one-sided as the parrot did not have much to say, but his face was very expressive as you can see.

Thanks everyone who came on this trip! It was a lovely lunch paddle on a perfect day.

This week's WLP is on Wednesday June 14. We're going to launch from Lanes Cove in Gloucester. (Google maps link: https://goo.gl/maps/MzJfE2KFieVsYJ2w7).  Park in the small lot at the end of Andrews Street. There is no fee. The trip will be limited to 6 cars or fewer to avoid parking problems.

Let's meet up at 9:30 am with an aim to depart around 10:00 am. The NOAA weather forecast is: SW wind 5 to 8 kt becoming SSE 8 to 11 kt in the afternoon. A chance of showers, mainly after 2pm. Seas around 2 ft. Air temp 55-60 F.

Register with this form: https://forms.gle/tD156HCVd21GnbN98

You can get tide information, charts and weather forecasts for the area from Floating Trails:  The tide will be falling all day from a high around 9 am.

As always, WLP trips are flexible and tailored to meet the interests and abilities of the group on any given day. Given the wind change we could ride the wind and ebb around Halibut Point to Rockport for a post-lunch tailwind back to Halibut. Or stay on the west side of Cape Ann, check out the lighthouse, and see if the ebb is doing anything at the mouth of the Annisquam.

To join the trip you must be a paid-up NSPN member, and have signed the club participant waiver for this season. Your signup information will only be shared with other members on the trip.

Trip level: WLPs do not have a specific level. All properly equipped members are welcome: please bring boats with rigged deck lines, bulkheads, spray skirts, and dress for immersion. 

NOTE: The Wednesday Lunch Paddles are cooperative adventures, not guided trips. We encourage paddlers to make their own independent decision about their comfort level with conditions and plans at the time of the paddle. Each participant is responsible for her/his own safety. Don’t assume the trip initiators are smarter, stronger, better at rough water, more attractive, or more skilled paddlers than you are. For more information, see this description of our trip philosophy from the NSPN web site. 

Please PM me if you have questions or if you haven’t paddled on one of these events before.

Hope to see you there!

Joe Berkovitz

It's not a big deal, it just requires the organizer to get there first and be a traffic cop. Send people up to the lot to wait if the loading area is busy, otherwise let them use it.  People who just unloaded can tell others to come down when they go up to park. Usually arrivals are spaced out and it's not a problem, you don't need to send everyone up (and I think the access road to the lot isn't wide enough let people wait there).

Even sizable groups can work well  because of the plentiful parking, as long as kayaks are staged and loaded on the areas above and to either side of the ramp (not ON the ramp), and launched in smaller groups to avoid tying up the ramp. There is some extra time of course to do all this management but when you compare to other spots, not so bad.

However in some conditions (e.g. easterly wind) there is no protected water in the whole area so I think a plan B location is a good idea.

load/unload right near the ramp, the lot is a difficult carry from the ramp.

This needs to be carefully managed so paddlers do not linger in the ramp area, or park in the area used for trailers to position their vehicles. Just get the boats off and on quickly with no packing or unpacking while parked at the ramp.

The parking fee was $12 as per my experience earlier this year.

 

 

This week's WLP (the first calendared one of the 2023 season!) is on Wednesday June 7 and will launch from Fishermans Beach in Swampscott (Google maps link: https://goo.gl/maps/R4H1vQGarFPnGGBh7).  Parking is free. The trip will be limited to 8 or so in order to avoid parking impact.

Let's meet up at 9:00 am with an aim to depart around 9:30 am. We will be off the water by 2 pm latest. The weather forecast is for partly sunny/overcast, showers possible, highs in 60s, calm seas, winds W at 10 knots.

Here's the registration link: https://forms.gle/ZkA5htEzERhas5pc9

You can get tide information, charts and weather forecasts for the area from this Floating Trails map. I have marked a couple of possible routes and lunch stops on this chart.

Tides for Lynn Harbor on Wednesday are as follows:

To join the trip you must be a paid-up NSPN member, and have signed the club participant waiver for this season. Your signup information will only be shared with other members on the trip.

Trip level: WLPs do not have a specific level. All properly equipped members are welcome: please bring boats with rigged deck lines, bulkheads, spray skirts, and dress for immersion. For this trip a helmet is recommended also.

NOTE: The Wednesday Lunch Paddles are cooperative adventures, not guided trips. We encourage paddlers to make their own independent decision about their comfort level with conditions and plans at the time of the paddle. Each participant is responsible for her/his own safety. Don’t assume the trip initiators are smarter, stronger, better at rough water, more attractive, or more skilled paddlers than you are. For more information, see this description of our trip philosophy from the NSPN web site. 

Please PM me if you have questions or if you haven’t paddled on one of these events before.

Hope to see you there!

Joe Berkovitz

Note that our neighboring clubs Southern Maine Sea Kayaking Network and Rhode Island Canoe Kayak Association have plenty of events scheduled for their summers. I think we can manage that too, if the collective desire is there.

I have two concrete suggestions:

1. BoD, instead of discussing the lack of trips in board meetings, please schedule a monthly online trip-planning meeting for the entire club. This should be open to all, and dedicated to proposing and calendaring specific trips for the upcoming month. This works  very well for BASK (Bay Area Sea Kayakers) as a stimulus to get trips planned. Not every trip needs to be figured out months in advance like Grand Manan or Lobster Buoy. It doesn't matter if only 5 or 6 people attend tis meeting, as long as the sole purpose is to plan trips. Try it!

2. For visibility to people who are not following the forums, I think it's important that we all use the Calendar and not just the Trips forum.

For my part I will be posting Wednesday Lunch Paddles as in previous years but I will not be able to do it every week. This week I had planned to, but a dental procedure got in the way. I expect to do so next week and the week after, even if the weather is not great.

Even better - let’s magnify the challenge and start our own landfill! There seem to be lots of unused islands out there. This could be fun: towing trash around Salem Sound and helping the environment by building a new garbage mountain. No one will mind except some dumb seagulls!

Actually, come to think of it there is some space on Baker Island that isn’t yet occupied by cottages. So never mind the bit about finding an unused island: I think we’re all set. 
 

note to Coastwatch and irate Bakers landowners: JK

This sounds like some good inefficient fun. 

I suggest blowing up some kind of inflatable object inside the drum as opposed to trying to seal it, I.e. a giant float bag. 

@kate In 2022 we did approach Marshall from the north - launching from Brooklin at Naskeag Beach via Mahoney, Opechee, John and Swans. The crossings are shorter and less exposed though the overall journey length to Marshall is about the same! I would recommend this northern route as the safest in most circumstances. 

Introduction

In May 2022, Ricardo Caivano and I did a duo camping trip that took us around Swans Island, with stops on Marshall, West Sister and Pond Islands. We loved the weather and the Maine early-spring feel in this season, and the relative lack of human and boat traffic. So we resolved to do another trip of the same kind in 2023.

We wanted this next trip to feature more time on Marshall Island, which is a substantial destination in itself. One of the largest undeveloped islands on the East Coast, it has no improvements beyond a never-completed airstrip, a few tent platforms, a drilled well and a decaying dock. The story is that Marshall was set to be developed for a small number of luxury vacation houses, but this did not go as planned. According to Wikipedia:

Quote

Development of the island was explored in the 1980s, with wells drilled for 14 potential properties, but these plans fell through due to a weak real estate market. The island was purchased in three parcels by the Maine Coast Heritage Trust in 2003 and 2004 for a total cost of $6.3 million.

This year, we rounded out the trip with one more person: our good friend and paddling companion Dana Sigall. With a trio and a date and a rough trip idea, it was time for us to make a bit more of a plan. Our thought was to launch from the town of Stonington at the tip of the Deer Isle peninsula, make our way to Marshall, spend 2-3 nights, and then return. Both the trip out and back would take us through the Merchant Row group of islands off Stonington, with their many sheltered and gorgeous camping spots. The island route would let us easily break up the trip with one or more protected stops as needed. We thought Saddleback would be at least one good camp-over spot.

Tides the week of the trip featured high water at around 1:30 pm on Monday, shifting to 5:30 by Friday. The substantial current in Jericho Bay (which feeds Blue Hill Bay further inland) would strongly affect our trip, with a flood-to-ebb transition on Monday becoming an ebb-to-flood transition by Friday. Finally, a last-minute check in on the weather showed a diffuse high pressure system carrying through the week — if this held, there would be no storms and no rain, possibly even some mild air temps (though with water temps around 48F). In fact, the forecast did hold and the weather was rain-free all week.

Monday, May 8: Departure

We arrived at midday in Stonington, to the tune of bright, sunny skies and a stiff northwest wind. Our first stop was at Sea Kayak Stonington to say hello to Michael and Rebecca Daugherty. Michael was not there, but we chatted with Rebecca and got directions to the nearby town boat ramp which would be our launch today. (In summer, this ramp is sometimes too busy for paddlers to use, but one can shuttle over to a nearby beach.)

The next stop was at R L Greenlaw to pay for and secure our parking spots — there is really no viable overnight parking on the street in this town. Greenlaw’s is a business in the center of town with an extensive parking area that they rent out to visitors. We ponied up our parking cash and gave it to the proprietor who was very friendly. She told us that this week was looking like “a real corker!”

Down to the ramp with us, where we packed up our boats. (My recently enlarged Cetus now had plenty of room for a deluxe assortment of camping gear, thanks to a shifted bulkhead.) This ramp is, unusually, a natural granite slope with a few added bits of grooved concrete at the bottom.

We had some shelter from the breeze but looking out from the ramp at the water and the islands (i.e. south), it was apparent that the forecast had fallen a little shy of the real conditions. We decided we would head SSE through the nearest gap in the island group, then head ENE along in the lee of Green, Sprout, Potato and Camp. Along the way we could evaluate conditions and decide whether we would go all the way to Marshall (some 10 nm from the launch) or stop at Saddleback (4 nm) or even Hell's Half Acre (2.5 nm).

Day 1: Stonington to Hell’s Half Acre / Devil Island.

Launching around 1 pm, we crossed to the nearest islands of Scott and Green in a strong tailwind. Although the following choppy waves were not very tall, turning the fully loaded boats downwind and keeping them there was an effort — I estimated the breeze at around 15 knots. I put my skeg down which immediately calmed the boat handling. The air was chilly despite the bright sun.

Following the lee of the islands, we began to enjoy the distinctive knobby-granite-and-fir-tree scenery which makes this area feel like the beginning of down east. The islands are all surrounded by a variety of pinkish-to-blond granite shelves and cliffs, with interiors of spruce and the occasional splash of birch. The rock coastlines here have a distinctive smooth, curvaceous quality that they lack in regions further west, and the trees are smaller in the harsher climate. Distinctive cream-colored beaches made of crushed shells punctuate the rocks.

It was calm in the lee of each island to our north as we paddled along, but this was deceiving. Every lane of open water that we crossed exposed us to the same steep chop and stiff winds that we’d experienced on our way over from Stonington.

Eventually we arrived at the tiny island of Hell’s Half Acre, a kind of way station in our original plan. (In one of many cases of false advertising on the Maine coast, the island actually comprises 2 acres—but who would ruin such a euphonious name by forcing it to conform with reality?) We had a quick planning discussion. Proceeding all the way to Marshall was not a great idea, with the NW wind blowing down a long fetch onto a 3 nm crossing. We already had experienced the short-fetch version of these conditions. Saddleback would be totally reachable, but once there, I knew we would have the wind coming straight off the water onto our campsite, with few trees to screen it. We reluctantly accepted that Plan C was probably the best option: pitch our camp right on Hell’s where we had wind shelter, and then head out for a little local recreation in unloaded boats. Its moniker notwithstanding (probably due only to its proximity to Devil Island), this was really a charming spot and we found a reasonable place to pitch our tents out of the wind. There was an ample sheltered beach with rocks for cooking and hanging out.

Later we toured the island looking at some of the amazing root systems lifted up by what must have been recent blowdowns. Ricardo added his visage to a convenient hole created by a rock that remained stuck in the ground.

Our post-tent-pitching paddle was short but fun, consisting of a circumnavigation of Devil Island (and, for Ricardo, a brief exploration of a campsite on a tiny speck nearby). The wind played some tricks whenever it had access to us, and rounding the west end of Devil to return to our half- (two-) acre home turned out to be quite a challenge facing a downright satanic headwind, which almost halted our forward progress. Warm dry clothing and dinner was very welcome after that outing.

Despite the short mileage of the day, we had traveled far and slept well that night. As we retired, the wind dropped to a near calm. Inside my tent, hearing the relative silence, I wondered if the next day would bring different conditions. 

Day 2: Hells Half Acre to Marshall Island

I woke up briefly during the early hours around 2 am and heard the wind start up again. The forecast had not called for a lull, but it did call for the brisk NW wind to continue again during the day to come. I thought a bit about what this might mean for our plan to take off for Marshall, then went back to sleep.

Waking again at 5 am I made coffee and walked over to our beach with my mug. The trees were lit by a brilliant orange sunrise.

In the semi-darkness I failed to notice that I was standing on a slippery algae-covered area of a rock, and I went down hard on my rear and the fleshy part of my left hand. I also banged my head in the process but thanks to a hat and two hoods that was an uneventful impact. The hand turned out to be the worst and bloodiest part as it had landed right on some kind of small sharp shell fragment. Damn—land is dangerous! I improvised a combo of bandaid and electrical tape, hoping for the best.

We had a conclave after breakfast to consider our plan to get to Marshall. The most obvious and direct route to get there was to proceed to nearby Saddleback Island, then undertake a 3+ nm crossing in a SE direction, straight to the northwestern corner of Marshall. However, there was at least one big drawback to the plan (crossing distance aside): the building NW wind pushing its waves against a strong flood current in Jericho Bay, with plenty of fetch to draw on. We had already seen what the local small-fetch version of these waves looked like even without an opposing tide, and I didn’t like the mental picture of what might be out in the channel. We might not encounter the biggest conditions until well into the crossing. Not to mention we’d be fighting the flood on top of everything else.

The revised idea went like this… Slack before ebb would occur a little after 2 pm. What if we were to use the morning heading south in protected waters, sheltered from wind and current, then make an early PM easterly crossing right around slack tide? We would still have wind waves, but they wouldn’t be steepened so much by current effects, and we wouldn’t be fighting the current. It seemed like a good concept: we could take our time to explore the southeast corner of Merchant Row (Spruce and McGlathery Islands), make a 2 nm crossing to Fog Island for lunch, and then take on the final 2.4 nm Jericho Bay crossing to Marshall heading more or less due east. A less direct route, but one that deferred taking on a long crossing and the elements until the tide cycle had tilted in our favor.

On McGlathery we found many cool erratic boulders stocking the rock shelves rimming the island.

There was a partly concealed beach where we landed (it’s fine to visit the island for day use) and we roamed around to look at the local features.

We had been told by Rebecca that a hiking trail is under construction on this island, but we didn’t find it here. We also took an interesting side jaunt to the channel between McGlathery and Round.

Next we moved on to Fog Island, a small-to-medium sized chunk of a place a bit over a mile off to the NE of Isle au Haut. On the way there, Mount Desert Island loomed in the distance to our northeast, as it did everywhere on this trip. The northern half of Marshall Island is also visible in this picture, to the right of MDI:

The east-facing beach on Fog provided a welcome shelter from the continuing NW wind, as we looked out at the long coastline of Marshall facing us with its rim of bold granite 2.5 miles away. A perfect lunch spot, convenient to a grassy graveyard of lobster buoys.

At last it was time for the final leg of the day: 2.5 nm of open water leading us to the SW corner of Marshall. The NW wind was thankfully not as fierce as on Monday, but it was still strong. We got a bearing, identified a visual target on the island, and set off. As soon as we were out in Jericho Bay, we encountered some very robust wind waves quartering from our rear on the left side, mostly in the 2 foot range but some exceeding 3 feet. Some of us deployed their skegs (at least, I did!)  The 3+ footers seemed to arrive in occasional pulses of stronger energy, each pulse lasting around 30 seconds (maybe five or six successive waves). They were not hard to handle provided you were focused on what was happening, but they did make me glad that we had waited for the current to drop before crossing. Perhaps these pulses were areas of water where the current was still moving in an opposing direction? Another mystery. It was a really fun part of the trip, and one of those times that a sea kayak feels perfectly suited to doing exactly what it’s doing, in a sea state that really puts it to the test.

Arriving at Marshall, we encountered some significant swell breaking over nearby Boxam Ledge. This was one of the bounciest points in the passage:

Rounding the point at Lower Head, we began our final mile-long run into Sand Cove, dreamily passing by cliffs and rock formations in the now-sheltered water. Huge black basalt dikes punctuated the golden granite:

We landed at high water right next to the trail access to the campgrounds; this area conveniently boasts 3 tent platforms each in its own area. No one else was there, unsurprisingly. (Dana and I used two platforms which were each situated in their own private little glade, while Ricardo found his own nook to settle into.) A peaceful afternoon and evening followed, hanging out on the now-extensive sand beach at low tide, well sheltered from the wind.

The sound of surf permeated the entire campground from every direction. As night fell, a hermit thrush sang somewhere nearby. Darker darkness brought the peeping of a saw-whet owl. I thought it a magnificent spot.

Insect note: despite the increasingly warm weather during the week, no bugs were in evidence here, as none had been anywhere on the trip. Not a tick, not a mosquito, not a black fly. Perhaps the extreme dryness of the late winter and spring was to blame? But I had seen plenty of bugs 2 weeks earlier in Casco Bay. Ask an entomologist if you find one!

Day 3: Sojourn on Marshall Island

The preceding night was bad for me. It was surprisingly cold and each time I woke up, I failed to put on enough layers. When morning arrived, I found myself suffering from some digestive discomforts and not interested in eating. My hand injury was painful and seemed to be getting infected. Whine, whine, whine! I was getting into a negative frame of mind, and it seemed hard to snap out of it. I did not really feel like doing anything.

However, today was the day we had reserved for exploring Marshall, and my traveling companions seemed to be in fine shape. The weather was still breezy and a bit chilly but otherwise excellent. I managed to convince myself that walking around the island and exploring with Ricardo and Dana would be the perfect distraction. Which, of course, it turned out to be.

We set out a bit after 9 am, our goal being to walk around the entire west side of the island covering the shoreline and a scenic lookout point. Arriving at the northwest corner, we would hike inland to the air strip and locate the island water pump. (Yes, Marshall Island has its own drilled well with a hand pump! We had heard the water quality was good although treatment was recommended.) After that, we would follow a trail directly south through the interior back to our Sand Cove home, for a total of about 5-6 miles of hiking. As it turned out, this was quite enough to have on our plate.

The initial couple of miles followed the shore with occasional turns inward. White throated sparrows provided a sonic backdrop as we walked.  We got a great view of Sand Cove from above. It was when we reached the southwest corner that we encountered the first of several substantial blowdowns, big enough to completely force us off the trail and requiring us to bushwhack around and recover the trail on the other side. Eventually we hit an area of destroyed trees so stupendously large that we decided to completely abandon a section of trail perhaps half a mile long and pick our way along game tracks, in a direction that we believed (hoped?) would intersect the trail again. Nature provided a little mood booster in the form of a deer carcass that we encountered during our travails. That’s right: even the deer give up on finding their way around.

But eventually we did punch through the wilds to recover the official trail, making our way to the “scenic overlook”. It was scenic, although with such an embarrassment of great scenery everywhere, it was maybe not that much more scenic than everything else. We gave it a couple of stars in an imaginary Yelp review that complained about understaffing and the long wait for our drinks to arrive—imaginary, highly unreasonable Yelp reviews being an ongoing theme of the trip. Lunch was delicious. We had spent 3 hours on the trail already, and covered perhaps only 2 miles, a testament to the difficulty of working around the downed trees.

The trail continued north from here, winding in and out of clearings and shoreline areas in a pretty way. Here, most of the blowdowns were old and the trail was already cleared. Eventually we made it to Long Cove with its dramatic view of barren Three Bush Island (which contained only a single tree, cause for another one-star review). From here it was a traipse up a steep incline to the airstrip-that-was-never-to-be and, we hoped, our water replenishment source. We did have enough water to eke out the trip, but we all hoped we would find an alternative.

We reached the dusty non-airstrip, which lies on a sort of brushy plateau at the top of Marshall. Pilots have seen it from the air and wondered if it is possible to land there. It is not. The “runways” are merely uneven cleared stretches of bare, rocky ground that would destroy a plane.

And where was our water? We were about to pen another scorching Yelp review. But after some searching around, it turned out that on our climb to the airstrip we had walked right past a clearing on the right with an enormous water pump in it that we never noticed (but which honestly is almost impossible to miss):

If you are as impaired as we were and you want to find it via GPS, its coordinates are: 44.122305 N, 68.508929 W. On this occasion the water was a bit cloudy and brownish but after boiling it tasted just fine. MCHT tells us they plan on testing it later this season.

From the airstrip, the interior trail back to the campsite turned out to be more like an old roadbed. Very smooth and easy walking. The last two thirds of the distance took about one third of the time. One note of mystery to the side of the path: a square stone pillar, recently constructed, with the name "ROBBINS" inscribed on two sides. Who knows what this memoralizes?

The rest of the day was passed napping and then relaxing around a picnic table in the woods. I cleaned up my hand thoroughly. I think we all passed out around 8 pm, just after sunset.

Day 4: Marshall to Saddleback

The night had been noticeably warmer and damper, and the sunrise was hazy. The bright blue skies were replaced with grayish-blue murk and the wind had lessened and shifted to the southwest. Air temperatures near 70 were forecast for the afternoon. The surf sounds at camp seemed quieter. Change was coming!

With the flood in the morning and the lower wind, we decided to launch at low water and ferry across the building flood up to Saddleback Island, crossing first to rocky, treeless Southern Mark Island. On the 3 nm crossing from Marshall, we would pass by the confusingly named Saddleback Ledge, some miles away from the island of the same name. (Our conversation was disrupted by constant confusion over which Saddleback we were talking about.) From Southern Mark we could continue to ride the flood in a more direct manner to Saddleback.

The crossing back was as different from the outgoing one as could be imagined. Low, smooth swells glided through otherwise quiet water. In the distance, a constantly morphing optical illusion caused Great and Little Spoon Ledges (some 5 miles to the southeast) to assume weird blocky shapes that changed from minute to minute. At Saddleback Ledge and at Southern Mark, seals besieged us with a pinniped police escort. Dana paddled around the ledge to see the abundant bird life. From here it was a relaxed paddle up to Enchanted Island and, just behind it, Saddleback Island with its ample, flat ledges. We fairly flew along with the flood current straight behind us.

At Saddleback we met up by chance with a group on a boat from Maine Coast Heritage Trust including the MDI regional land steward, Tatia. They were on the island to see how things were doing there, and we chatted about our stay on Marshall and the big blowdowns there, plus the state of the water source. These were the first humans we had talked to since leaving Stonington.

After our conversation with MCHT we zipped around the corner to the designated camping spot in a cove on the northwest side. This was one of the very first places in Maine that I ever camped out of a kayak (thanks to Gary York, who took me there) and it remains one of the most beautiful places to me. This was my third stay there, and my companions’ first. I think we all liked it a lot. After setting up our tents and having lunch, it was time to roam the island. This hike, although not epic, was exceptionally beautiful. The trail on Saddleback between the campsite and the MCHT cabin is a true gem. However, it does not continue around the whole island and to make our loop connect from the cabin to Eastern Cove, we had to leap around on the granite ledges that rim the island and make our way through some tight spots. It was a joyous afternoon adventure, followed by a warm and calm evening. The southwest wind had built substantially during the day, but our campsite was perfectly situated to block the wind (just as it would have been perfectly situated to catch the wind on that first day). There was some relaxing and reading time. A classic last night on the water.

Day 5: Saddleback to Stonington

The weather was supposed to be at its calmest this day of the trip, and it was. Our concept was to wander to the southwest corner of Merchants Row and take in some of the remaining islands, including Spruce Island, Wreck Island, Steve Island and Crotch Island.

But first, we would have to visit the particular Ram Island that is in this area. Why? Because Ricardo is on a mission to visit every Ram Island in Maine, and there are lots of them. His soul cannot rest until he reaches them all. If he fails, then, according to myth, his soul will be doomed to wander for eternity searching for the other Ram Islands and never finding them. This is not a fate I would wish on anyone, and certainly not on Ricardo. So we did visit the local Ram Island. It was a nice island, but very small. That’s all I have to say about it. It did not look like a place that would be easy to camp on, and it’s not allowed in any case.

At Spruce Island, we noted a feature that we could only describe as the “mother of all seal launches”, a long sloping granite runway perhaps 50 feet high that terminates right over the water in a vertical drop. I wish we had a picture of it.

Dana and Ricardo were following an enormous moon jelly for a while:

At Steve Island we hung out and took some time to take in the features that make this tiny island so popular: a walkable and open interior, varied shell beaches interspersed with big smooth rocks, an enormous tide pool… very attractive. Just before leaving, a MITA boat showed up with a man and a woman on it, and we said hello. I didn’t recognize the people at the time, but we saw them again when we landed in Stonington. This time I realized I had met one of the MITA people several times before in different locations: Maria Jenness. "Nice to see you again!"

Our last stop before returning to the sort-of mainland of Deer Isle was Crotch Island. This is the site of a huge granite quarry, which I believed incorrectly to be abandoned. (Back in the day, granite was the big industry here—not lobstering.) The whole island is littered with tailings of fractured granite blocks. There is a deep intertidal notch in the island which can be visited by boat, but it was dead low so we couldn’t really get in there. As we paddled away from Crotch, the bleak dystopian air of abandonment was shattered by the sudden roar of a diesel engine above us: there was a bulldozer moving around up there, hauling giant newly quarried granite blocks. I was wrong: Crotch Island was alive after all, as a business! People still use their granite.

Postlude: Arrival

The water was dead low when we landed in Stonington at the town ramp under gray skies. We hauled our stuff up and out of the way. As we unpacked, someone pulled up to the ramp in a bright red car, got out and came over to greet us: it was paddler, coach, guide and proprietor Michael Daugherty of Sea Kayak Stonington, who we had missed on our arrival. We chatted with Michael for some time about his new-ish business and about the Stonington area. For those of you who don’t know Michael, he is a legendary local kayaker and author. His book, AMC’s Best Sea Kayaking in New England includes an exceptional set of 50 trips that are more than just steps to follow: they are frameworks for exploration, including many options and things to watch for (and watch out for).

At the end of our trip, there was time for a hearty local lunch together at the Harbor Cafe. It had been a really great 5 days of paddling for me, and I was so grateful that Ricardo and Dana had wanted to come. Thank you, guys, for a perfect week of companionship and adventure!

 

Thank goodness. That seems like a classic lee shore situation what with the strong SW winds today.

Can you post a picture so we know what the deal is? And does the boat leak?

I would counsel having both cell and VHF (DSC optional). As Fred said, redundancy is good and you don’t always have both kinds of signal. Also in many cases (like Salem Sound) a cell call to the local Harbormaster can get you help much faster  

You do not need any app on your cell phone for the USCG to get your location. What they do is send you a text message with a link to a special web page. When you open the link and go to that page, your web browser (Safari, Chrome, whatever) can transmit your current location to them. 

(AAA does the same thing these days for emergency service calls from a cell phone. It’s become pretty standard. )

I would go on Jim’s lovely paddle tomorrow which sounds perfect, but I am already committed to a southern Maine drive on Friday and can’t quite wrap my head around doing it twice in two days. 

If anyone would like to join me on a local Cape Ann paddle tomorrow out of West Beach in Beverly, launching at 10:30, please indicate interest here and we’ll try to round up a MA alternative. As befits the cold water conditions you must be prepared to swim in the 45 F ocean without ill effect. In every other way it looks like a beautiful sunny early spring day with a morning west wind dropping to calm, followed by an afternoon sea breeze. Perfect for heading East, having lunch, and then back. 

 

I’m a probable!

Rob, can you confirm what time this event is starting tomorrow? You asked what people would like better than 9:30, and it seems quite a few folks would prefer 10 but we haven’t heard back. 

for what little it’s worth I also prefer a 10am BiB time. But since I live here I shouldn’t get to weigh in on that…

 

There are no parking fees in Marblehead until Memorial Day. Karen, Lane's Cove is scenic but there isn't much parking and that stretch of coast is pretty exposed to W and NW winds.

Rob, if you decide to head outside we can land on Tinkers Island about 0.4 nm off of the SE tip of Marblehead Neck. There is an area there that is quite well sheltered.

 

Thanks Gary!

I plan to attend! I think my ears are moldy though