It is July 2001 and Brother Dick and I are on another kayak adventure. Our put-in was Belfast Maine, way at the top of Penobscot Bay. We planned to put in on Saturday, but the forecast was for thunderstorms from noon to night, and we had 10 or 12 miles of open water ahead of us. We watched the day go by with no bad weather and listened to the radio again. Same forecast. "Too bad, let's go!" After all, we can't sit out our whole lives waiting for overcautious weather forecasters.
So off we go, driving from our camp on Casco Bay to Belfast. We arrive midmorning, park in a nice little spot right next to the beach and begin to unload. Within ten minutes, a kayak rental man pulls in and points out a tiny little sign "Reserved". Oops, so we move but the kayaks are already offloaded. I asked him where we could park for the week. He pointed. "The town lot over there. No one will fool around with it." How convenient. Nice town, this Belfast. We watch as he fills a half dozen tandem kayaks with green paddlers, intent on learning a fun new skill. In circles they went, paddles clacking each other in uncoordinated strokes. They shout ineffective instructions at each other which seem too loud in this lazy harbor. At any one time, half the boats were sideways to their destination, but somehow they continued to grow smaller, their noise diminishes and they escape the harbor.
Kayaks loaded, wetsuits on, last whiz, and we're off, paddling out of the mouth of the Passagassawakeag River. We wend our way out through the moored yachts and lobster boats under a hazy blue summer sky. Soon we meet Mr. Rentalboat and his little yellow flock on their return. The tandems are now all stroking in unison, the boats travel in a straight line. Smiles all around. These folks are satisfied; they have achieved the rank of kayaker. Our objective, simply to be traveling by kayak, is also achieved. But we get to go on achieving ours for another whole week.
We exit the harbor and turn south into the vast expanse of Penobscot Bay. I meet an old friend: Mr. Headwind. We stick close to the mainland shore where we can occasionally escape the wind in some of the coves. There is a wedding reception above us, a vast green lawn spills from an intricate white porch. Black suits and gay dresses flutter in tune with the bright blue striped canopies. The next cove brings a small hamlet, a common open to the sea is ringed by gingerbread houses. We stop for a break and talk to the locals. Mostly summer folk, concerned with image, each trying to be more "Mainer" than the next.
Finally, we peel away from mainland and cross the two miles of open water to Islesboro Island and follow that shore to our destination of Warren Island. The forecast for thunderstorms is still fresh on my mind as we watch the cute, puffy cumulus clouds build overhead. As we approach the southern tip of Islesboro, we see the ferry approaching from Lincolnville. We pause in our paddling and wait for the ferry to cross our path to land at the wharf, across a narrow channel of water from our destination at Warren Island.
Like dragon pups, the cute puffy clouds have grown black bellies and towering white heads. The wind picks up. Time to get going. We start to paddle the remaining quarter mile when a bolt of lightning hits. The bang of thunder was immediate, it was very close. Like the crack of a whip it motivated us to bail the ocean into a pile behind us and we paddled furiously for the shore.
Warren Island is the state's only boat-access-only campground. We ignored the large dock and paddled straight for the nearest campsite. We pulled our boats ashore across a wide band of seaweed covered rocks. We strolled around the island before setting up camp. The spot we picked was one of the only spots left to camp. The campground was filled with families who had motorboated in. There were a couple of group sites inland that were unused. We enjoyed the clean privies and the picnic tables, but they wanted $16 a night.
Bro was behind me somewhere, the wind was over my left shoulder and the waves were coming at me over both shoulders. And they were getting big. As we approached Little Spruce Head, the 3-1/2 mile fetch was producing some seriously confused seas. Buffeted by the cross waves, my compass would veer as much as 40 degrees while I yawed, ruddered and braced. A clapotis is formed when two opposing waves meet. Once in a while I would rise far above the surrounding sea on such a wave. Occasionally I could steal a glance from a wave top to see Dick stepping and fetching the same as me. He later said that every time he started to get a little concerned, he'd look over at me and see my ear-to-ear grin.
Finally, we made the north end of the island and rounded into the lee. Instantly, the day was sunny, warm and calm again. We pulled into a nice cove and had lunch. Wildflowers grew up between the smooth flat pebbles of the beach. I lay in the sun and closed my eyes. I felt the warmth on my face and listened to the bees and bugs buzzing in the still air. The sun finally warmed my bones and cured me of the lethargy. I opened my eyes and squinted into the impossible gauzy yellow-blue surroundings that greet the afternoon napper.
It was time to go, we still had another 3 miles or so to Butter, but no more long crossings. The tailwind was good to us and some of the waves were worth surfing, but they were much more well behaved. We passed between several islands before alighting at Nubble Beach on Butter Island. There are two campsites on this private island and a path up to a grand lookout. The rest of the island is off-limits to the public. Bro had prearranged to camp here through Colin Barclay, the caretaker. We soon met Colin walking his sheepdog. The island is populated with a strange breed of 4-horned sheep. Two horns curl around rather ram-like while a second set point point up and sweep back. Colin invited us to check out the rest of the island while we were there.
We settle into our campsite and take a quick hike to the top of the hill. We meet Julie and Fred, who are camped at the other campsite. The bay is laid out at our feet, islands studding the curved expanse of water. We head back to camp for dinner and a cocktail. We have a crescent shaped pebble beach to ourselves. Gulls and terns feed along the edge. The view is expansive, the only sound is waves crashing and seabirds calling. I feel at home. My journal entry includes the phrase "nectar for the soul".
Colin has given us the run of the island so we go for an evening hike. We round the south end of the island, following the pebble shore. Lots of lobster buoys and other neat flotsam is piled on this shore, protected from scavenging by the "No Trespassing" signs. Around the next point the shore gives way to cliffs and we make our way inland. The Cabots (owners) had cleared great swaths of trees to make way for open grazing land. We hike carefully through the tall grass and thistle until we come to a cart path, no more than a couple of tire tracks winding through the grassy hills.
We hike on into the dusk, looking for an old english garden all overgrown and spooky, according to Colin. Instead we come to the massive pier at the end of the road. Next to the pier is a sign proclaiming "private property". The message of unwelcome is punctuated by the sinister skull of a four-horned sheep.
We continue on our hike with the hopes of circumnavigating the island. The road comes to an end at a stretch of beach. Once again, the beach ends at a cliff and we are forced inland. We find a footpath through the thicket but that soon becomes a sheep trail and peters out. In the twilight, the sun is now no more than a faint red glow, glimpsed through the trees. The moon is our friend on that clear cool evening and we have little trouble walking. We succeed in getting lost in the hilltop glades and meadows. Colin had asked us to keep an eye out for dead sheep, as he was supposed to keep track. We find one and mount the skull on a "pike" so he can find it easily.
We soon find the cart path again but cut overland across a wide grassy swath and follow a sheep trail. It is a magic moonlit hike. It reminded me of when I was a kid, being out after dark, no place to go, just cruising through fields and orchards on a warm summer night.
We spent the whole day at Butter as a fluff day. And why not, it is a wonderful place, likely just as good as the next campsite. I go beach combing. I mend my tarp, which had ripped in the wind at Warren Island. The wind is stiff but we go for a short day trip around the island. We pass the Orchard Beach campsite which also looks nice. Further, we pass the vertical cliffs that thwarted our hike last night, then on to islands "Escargot" and "Bartender". I strand Dick on a small rock knob to get his picture. Towing his boat back to him was more difficult than I would have imagined. The strong northwest wind convinces us to turn around and head back along the lee to our campsite.
Holy Cow! We enter our cove to see no less than eight boats moored and a beach populated with visitors. Not quite as remote as it first seemed. We did cocktails and played Parcheesi to while away the afternoon until they left. Dick pulls out a brand new GPS unit and we play with it. We lay out sleeping bags and other gear to dry it out. I write in my journal. Dick reads a book. We determine to make an early start for Hay Island in the morning and so make an early night of it.
It feels like we're on the edge of the world on Hay. We're almost surrounded by small, uninhabited islands in this pocket of a cove. The view is almost completely unspoiled by signs of humans. Between the gaps, nothing but open ocean. The horizon seems too low, as if we're perched on a watery plateau. The tent site is in the bush, protected from any wind that might find it's way here.
But for the lobster buoys and the mournful lowing of the foghorns, we could be paddling across an Adirondack lake. The shore is lined with unspoiled swaths of stunted trees; the muddy bottom is dotted with boulders, poking up through the surface. We sneak under a bridge against a fast current, west of Calderwood Neck and head for North Haven.
We approach the Fox Island Thorofare and suddenly there is a lot of boat traffic. Little motorboats zipping into town for a loaf of bread. Big lobster boats moving in random circles, lining up for the next trap to haul. Sloops and schooners heading into port. We make a dash across the channel and pull up onto the riprap slope next to the ferry terminal. North Haven does not seem a friendly town. You wave to people and they wave back, but turn their head away at the same time as if to say "Hello, now go away."
We drag our boats up onto a narrow patch of grass and ask the lady in the information booth if we can leave them there. A snippy old bag, she is offended that we might ask anything. We head across the street to a snack bar, where we order hamburgs and fries. Seafood didn't seem to be on the menu. We paddled in street clothes today, so as not to look like goofs when we get to town. Most of the outdoor tables are full, but we score the last one that has an umbrella to get us out of the hot summer sun. I sit at the table to hold it while Dick lingers near the pickup window. In the hubbub, he fails to notice a small window and the big meaty face that appears. Inches from his ear, she bellows "THIRTY EIGHT!", which just about blows his brains out the other ear. Poor Dick kept walking in circles after that, saying "what?" At least we knew where to pick up the order after that.
Well fed, we wandered over to the marina next door and inquired about water. They were happy to give us our fill for free. We skulked around some more and unloaded our trash into the can at the snackbar. We met up with our friends Julie and Fred from Butter, who were on the same mission. Trash, water, a little society.
We head east out of North Haven and skirted around Vinal Haven to the south. Fog is still thick on that side so we stick close to shore. We enter the narrow channel between Vinal Haven and Leadbetter Island. We fight a strong current, which surprises me since the tide was supposed to be going in. Some folks on the shore invite us in for a beer. I don't know why we didn't accept but we keep going. Once we enter the protection of land, the fog lifts.
Ram Island is in a little bay protected by Leadbetter island. Small, not as remote as Hay, but very nice. The log book is full of entries from Outward Bound soloists. Many of them seem to wonder what exactly they were doing there. All were hungry, left to fast and meditate.
By coincidence, Dick chooses this moment to pull out a mesh bag and the instructions for collecting and cooking mussels. At low tide we collect a couple dozen mussels into the bag and then let it hang in the salt water for a few hours to let them clean themselves. Dick adds garlic and pepper and lets them steam for ten minutes. They cook down small and there is only a little nugget of meat in each shell. I surprised both myself and Dick by proclaiming them as good. After all, I hate clams.
We had procured a six-pack at North Haven and each open one after dinner. I decide it would be a great idea to go for swim after dinner, with wetsuits on. We wade in and the water is headache-cold. We realize what folly it was to paddle this day without them on! Last time we do that!
We sit behind a rude windbreak on Warren Island and cook more mussels over the alcohol stove. I reflect. That was long day. The wind, the tide and the current were all against us. The sky cleared nicely though and fog was not an issue. Crossing Fox Island Thorofare was a bit anxiety-ridden, with all the boat traffic. We did get a nice view of the two schooners heading out. No doubt we envied the passengers while they envied us.
We pulled into Stand In Point on the north side of the thorofare. There we found wild peas, both in bloom and in fruit. We also found wild oats ready for harvest. We sampled the peas, which were ok, but not sweet like domestic. We thought about picking some to go with the mussels that Dick had ventilating in the mesh bag. Heck with it, and heck with the wild oats too. Maybe if we were playing cave-man or something we could grind some flour and make gruel or something. But really, I felt like this trip was blessed with so many opportunities to feed from the land that we could subsist forever here and never go home or to the ATM. Two of Dick's mussels got seasick and died on the journey to Warren Island. The burial-at-sea consisted of heaving them lustily in the general direction of shore.
So we follow the west shore of North Haven to the "house chimney" as shown on the chart. And boy, what a house! Four stories high, porches all over, all cedar shakes and white trim. It was there that we prepared for our crossing to the Islesboro Islands. Fortunately, the wind abates and we paddle over smooth shiny swells to the Ensign Islands. We follow the lee side of Lasell and Lime. Lasell is immense cliffs and big swells just breathing up and down against them. I get the notion that the water was unfathomably deep there.
We decide to head up the east side of Seven Hundred Acre Island too, because we are getting tired and paddling is easier in the lee. This is sort of a mistake, because when we get to the channel between it and Spruce Island, it is a sandbar with only a couple of inches of water, flowing strong against us. We get out and wade our boats through, sinking through the sharp, mussel-laden clam flats.
We rounded the west side of Warren, scouting for a camp and took the first one we saw. Once again we hauled up the seaweed and rocks and began to walk around to see if there was a better spot. No, it's the weekend and the place is pretty full. We go back to camp, set the tent in a bracing wind that whistles through the site. Every wet thing dries in about five minutes. The only shelter from the wind is behind a stack of firewood where we cook. And so, that was our day on the water.
And so, this ends the adventure, for tomorrow is an uneventful paddle back to Belfast, past the mainland houses and back to our waiting car. Or so I think. Instead, we arrive to a hero's welcome, the oompahs, the trills and the blatts of a brass band welcome us. "Aw, you shouldn't have." They hadn't. It was some sort of festival but we smiled and waved to the throngs all the same.
