Chase Outdoors

An errant kayaker surfs Big Mama

We had exceptional weather and an excellent turnout for a paddle on the Kennebec Gorge recently.  A western Maine whitewater treasure located in Moxie Gore, “the gorge” is four miles of continuous big volume whitewater that flows from Harris Dam to Carry Brook.  After Carry Brook, the rapids gradually mellow until joining the Dead River in The Forks, nine miles further south.

 It was the second day of the Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society (PPCS) Summer Extravaganza and I was Trip Coordinator.    In the spirit of club balladeer Kyle Duckworth’s great tune about the search for peace and harmony between canoeists and kayakers, both were well represented with only minimal conflict.  Ryan and Jason paddled a tandem open boat while John and Evan were in solo canoes.  Allen, Brent, Dylan and I navigated kayaks.  Dylan was supposed to be in an open boat, but showed up wearing a kayak to bewilder the easily confused Trip Coordinator.  

Since we had several paddlers who were relative newcomers to this big water run, describing the rapids was the dominant topic of conversation throughout.  Big Mama Rapid was the recipient of most of the discussion.  While the other rapids have fairly distinct recommended routes, Big Mama is a very difficult lady to predict.  Near the end of a couple hundred yards of large, breaking rollers, Big Mama Wave is the biggest and baddest of all.  Mercurial is the best way to describe her.  Sometimes a huge wall of foam rises up and crashes down on much smaller kayaks and canoes.  Most of the time, she unpredictably surges and breaks leaving approaching paddlers wondering about their fate.  She may elevate them several feet into the air and violently toss them into the churning waves below or miraculously mellow to a smooth tongue allowing paddlers to slide serenely through.  If you swim in the gorge, Mama is usually the culprit. 

 Tandem canoeing is relatively rare on the gorge, so Ryan and Jason were our primary focus.  However, they were on their game from the outset and everyone had clean runs at Taster and Rock Garden Rapids.  The entire group cautiously entered Big Mama Rapid and caught an eddy part way down to discuss our planned strategies for Big Mama.  I suggested they watch my line from the eddy as I intended to run through the middle angled left and then catch an eddy below on river left.  Big Mama was uncooperative, pitching me unceremoniously into the air and perfunctorily propelling my boat towards the cliffs on the right shore.  After tentatively bracing through the turbulent diagonal waves below, I found myself on the wrong side of the river, but present and accounted for.   “A thoroughly uninspiring performance,” I thought to myself.

Following close behind, my companions attempted to duplicate my misguided route.   The volatile billow responded by elevating some, surfing others and pampering a few. When the tandem team blasted over the top of the infamous boat thrasher, their eyes were the size of tennis balls.  Despite Big Mama’s best efforts, everyone remained upright.  Inexplicably, some ended by joining me on river right while others finished left. 

With renewed confidence, we paddled left of Good-bye Hole, rode the waves of Upper Alley Way past Whitewasher Hole and most attained quality air time on Big Kahuna Wave.  After catching our breath in an eddy on the left, we ran Lower Alley Way to Cathedral Eddy without incident.  Cathedral Eddy is a placid, majestic place with calm water and sheer cliffs on both sides.  As has been my habit many times over the past twenty years, I announced to no one in particular, “We’re not swimming the Alley Way today.”  It’s much easier to be cocky once you’re safely in Cathedral Eddy.

After some excellent surfing in Z-Turn Rapid, Magic Falls Rapid was next on our dance card where there is a big hole on the left which can swallow even large rafts.  Hence the name, Magic Falls.  It was decision-making time for our group.  Would we take the sporting route and punch Magic Hole or run the more benevolent Highway?  The hole regularly flips rafts so the probability of getting some rolling practice in a kayak or canoe is high.  A few hundred yards of big waves and holes wait menacingly below.   A hiking trail leads to Magic from Carry Brook, so there is generally a sizeable group of onlookers, known as Vultures, to watch the carnage.  Most of our group chose a less intimidating drive down the Highway.   A great surfing wave just above the hole seductively lures careless kayakers.  Brent and I couldn’t avoid the temptation.    Alas, we disappointed our expectant audience and remained in our boats.

Easier rapids brought us to Carry Brook and more club members who planned to join us for the “float” out.  This was a laid back group if there ever was one and guilty of felonious lallygagging, which is worse than criminal milling.   I exchanged my kayak for a canoe and a beautiful girl, my wife Nancy.  Actually, the first couple of miles of the lower section contain several fun rapids and big waves.    It was a glorious day on a marvelous river.  But, Big Mama has a change of plans in store for our next visit.

Ron Chase is an avid four-season outdoorsman and freelance writer, who co-authored the mountain guidebook Mountains for Mortals – New England.  Visit his website at www.ronchaseoutdoors.com.     

Whenever I think of wealthy capitalist, personal care products magnate and land baroness Roxanne Quimby, lyrics to the Police hit tune Roxanne play over and over in my mind.  The words, “Roxanne…you don’t have to put on the red light…” remind me that by gating and posting her recent land acquisitions east of Baxter State Park, Ms. Quimby has effectively denied access to a northern Maine whitewater gem, Wassataquoik Stream.   For decades, kayakers and canoeists traveled the old logging roads west of Stacyville to reach this pristine wilderness waterway.  No more!  During a canoe trip on the East Branch of the Penobscot River last fall, friends and I found that Ms. Quimby has banned private vehicular traffic on roads leading to the remote mountain stream.  Ironically, Ms. Quimby’s first visit to Wassataquoik was apparently by motor vehicle.  In an article written by Phyllis Austin for Maine Environmental News on October 28, 2005, Ms. Quimby is quoted as saying, “One beautiful warm, sunny day this summer, Don (Hudson) and Dick (Anderson) drove me up there…We sat on the rocks in the stream, had lunch, took pictures and got acquainted with this beautiful region, which I had never seen until then…”   Too bad that few others will have the opportunity to experience her gratifying personal epiphany. 

Initially, I naively assumed that responsible access for low impact whitewater kayaking and canoeing would be allowed.  As erstwhile President and frequent trip leader of a prominent Maine outdoor organization, I sent a club wide email requesting any information members might have on how we could obtain permission for road access.  The response was startling.  I received defensive, confidential emails from both members and non-members, government officials and numerous others – some insisting on anonymity.  Instantly, I acquired an importance rivaling that of a snail darter or lousewort.   Perhaps this was my opportunity to run for political office, I speculated.  Some of her defenders said access problems were not the fault of Ms. Quimby.  Others suggested Wassataquoik wasn’t really a quality whitewater run and wondered why I was interested.  Several thought I should find something better to do with my time.    A few warned against tangling with Ms. Quimby.

Finally, after being passed from one former Quimby employee to another, I was referred to the current Business Manager of Ms. Quimby’s multi-million dollar not for profit foundation, Elliotsville Plantation, Inc. (EPI).  EPI manages several large Quimby land acquisitions, including Wassataquoik Sanctuary.  According to a non-profit watchdog organization, Implu Corporation, in 2008 EPI had assets worth over 125 million dollars and earned income that year in excess of 23 million.  I’m wagering many for profit businesses would be happy with an annual income of 23 million smackers.  Regardless, Ms. Quimby’s not for profit world certainly seems quite lucrative.  Reaching EPI Business Manager, Mark Weathers, he was emphatic that Ms. Quimby would not permit vehicular access to Wassataquoik Stream for canoeing and kayaking – “at this time.”  He also made it clear that Ms. Quimby has a “long memory” for those who publicly criticize her.

Ms. Quimby’s EPI website states that Wassataquoik Stream is recognized as one of Maine’s outstanding wild rivers, ranked as having “greater than statewide or national significance” in the 1982 Maine Rivers Study.  Her site also reports that Wassataquoik has a 9 mile stretch of rapids including Orin Falls.  Apparently the Quimby apologists who claim the Wassataquoik is not a quality whitewater run haven’t visited her website.  It goes on to state that her land management policies are “similar to those in effect in the adjacent Baxter State Park.”   News Alert for Ms. Quimby!  Baxter State Park has an extensive system of well-maintained roads open to the public that allow boat and fishing access to Nesowadnahunk Stream, Trout Brook, South Branch Pond and many other bodies of water in the park. 

Ms. Quimby and her supporters, they are numerous and often vociferous, are quick to allege disrespect for her landowner rights.  In fact, that accusation was leveled at me based on my inquiries about obtaining road access to Wassataquoik.  Let me make it clear that I have tremendous respect for her accomplishments and her statutory rights as a landowner.  Her rags to riches story is a testament to our free enterprise system.  Within the law, she has the right to do what she chooses with her property.  To my knowledge, she acquired the land legally and posted it properly.  I requested access on behalf of my outdoor club and she denied it.  Everyone was entirely within their rights.  However, it appears that some think that freedom from criticism is one of her landowner rights.  I beg to differ.  That is not a right but a societal privilege earned. 

According to links on her website, Ms. Quimby is a strong advocate for converting the northern Maine Woods into a National Park.  Unfortunately, paddlers know that regarding boater access issues, the federal government cannot be trusted.  Mindless, unjustified boating bans in the Chattooga National Forest and Yellowstone National Park are prime examples.  In my opinion, no one makes a more cogent, compelling case against creation of a National Park in northern Maine than Ms. Quimby.  I can’t help but wonder what access we’ll lose next.  Will Ms. Quimby or her proposed National Park buy up additional tracts of land and deny boaters and fishermen access to the Dead River, Canada Falls, Roll Dams, Allagash Waterway, St. John River, and the West Branch.  They all require travel over logging roads. 

“Roxanne…you don’t have to turn on the red light…”   Please don’t deny access to some of our most cherished public assets – our rivers and streams!

Ron Chase is an avid four-season outdoorsman and freelance writer, who co-authored the mountain guidebook, Mountains for Mortals – New England.  He is a member of the Maine Department of Conservation Boater Access Committee, former Appalachian Mountain Club Canoe Chair and Director, former Recreational Registered Maine Guide, former President of the Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society (PPCS), and current PPCS Executive Committee Member and Trip Coordinator.  His website is www.ronchaseoutdoors.com and he regularly blogs at www.trekalong.com. 

Near Crisis on the Allagash

My three trips on the Allagash have occurred during very different stages of my life:  Young, middle-aged and old.   My wife, Nancy, and I were young parents when we loaded our 18 foot Old Town Canoe with five year old son Adam, lots of toys and some camping gear for our first trip.  Seven years later, Adam was in a whitewater kayak while I, a middle-aged Dad, navigated the river in a solo canoe.  This year, I was back representing the elderly – it’s all about the senior citizens.  Much has changed in the almost thirty years since my first trip.  Adam is nearly as old as I was on our initial voyage and he now knows skinny dipping is not the normal way to bathe on a canoe trip.  Instead of amusing him with stories and games, he now entertains us playing his guitar and singing ballads.  Me, I’m old, talent free, but still telling stories – sometimes to myself. 

Adam was trip instigator.   He and his former fraternity brother, Brad, thought it was time to “reconnect with the old guys.”  The “old guys” were Ken, Allen and I.  I could fill a tome about the outdoor adventures the three of us have shared.  Originally something akin to a mascot on our escapades, Adam has become an invaluable asset and mainstay.  Somewhere along the journey, we adopted Brad, who now carries his weight, plenty of beer and more. 

The Allagash has acquired the much deserved reputation as one of the classic wilderness canoe trips in the northeastern United States.  It consists of several large and medium sized lakes, many miles of meandering river, a spectacular waterfall, historic logging sites and some whitewater, including the infamous Chase Rapids.  Named after my great, great grandmother, Grandma Mosess Chase, she once ran the entire river non-stop in a birch bark canoe requiring just over 36 hours to complete the expedition.  Well, she did make a couple of comfort stops.  After resting for a day, she poled back upriver to her rustic lean-to at Churchill Dam.  What can I say, it’s in the blood.  Wildlife is abundant on the Allagash.  Canada Geese, otter, deer, moose and scores of other species reside in this remote, pristine environment.  If you don’t see a moose on an Allagash canoe trip, you’re either not paying attention or visually challenged.   It also provides the perfect habitat for trillions of black flies.

We skipped the largest lakes and began our recent trip at Churchill Dam.  A diverse paddling entourage if there ever was one:  Ken paddled a wooden sea kayak, Allen a collapsible pack canoe, Adam and Brad a tandem whitewater canoe and I was in a much maligned and battered Mohawk, XL 13 solo canoe.  I borrowed the XL 13 from my wife in 1991 after destroying two of my own solo Mohawks and never returned it.  After years of mistreatment, the black painted words “Nancy’s Boat” are still partially visible on the floor of the heavily scarred, formerly yellow vessel.  Offended river gods would eventually lash out at Ken for bringing a sea kayak on a canoe trip.

Churchill Dam is the beginning of Chase Rapids.  Regular dam releases ensure adequate water levels throughout most summers. The rapids are easy Class I and II, but canoe trippers lacking whitewater experience often have difficulty negotiating them.  We did Grandma Mosess proud with problem free descents.  A large moose and a family of mallard ducks stood guard as we approached our planned campsite at the head of Umsaskis Lake.  A noisy flock of Canada Geese entertained us throughout the evening.

We enjoyed an undemanding day traversing Umsaskis Lake and the Thoroughfare into Long Lake on the second day of our trip.  Never one to scrimp on food or gear, Allen served up sumptuous grilled sirloin steaks for dinner.  After some failed attempts at fishing, a smoky camp fire kept the black flies at bay and gave me good reason to retire early.  I always carry an assortment of plausible excuses to turn in prematurely on a canoe trip. 

We awoke to the bane of wilderness paddlers, a headwind.  Not just any headwind, but a grievous, in your face, 25 MPH unrelenting northwest blow that persisted unabated for the entire day.   Ken and Allen paddled low profile decked boats which minimized resistance to the wind.  Not so for the boys and I with our open whitewater canoes with rocker.  Rocker is a technical whitewater term for banana shaped boats that turn on a dime in steep, technical rapids.  They do the same thing when the wind blows on a lake.  Even the slightest error in boat angle or a delayed stroke and you’re headed in the wrong direction – fast.  We earned our pay, paddling for about 16 grueling miles to welcome relief at a beautiful campsite on Round Pond.   No one suggested the five mile hike to Round Pond Tower.  A huge bull moose dined in shallow water about 200 feet from our campsite during the evening meal. 

Midday had brought the only crisis of the trip when Ken and his sea kayak pinned on the remnants of a washed out dam at Long Lake Dam Falls.  Fortunately, he was able struggle safely to shore without injury and we rescued his boat in the pool below.  Lesson Number One for would be sea kayakers on the Allagash:  Long, narrow boats that go straight wicked fast do not maneuver well. 

The following day brought 20 miles of much gentler paddling to Allagash Falls.  An impressive, forty-foot drop that tumbles precipitously over huge boulders, we spent the evening plotting potential kayak routes.  Adam found a line I wouldn’t run in a heavily padded bathysphere, but there is a multi-stage, creek-like route on the far left that appears doable after setting up safety. Lacking creek boats and bravado, we decided to save that adventure for another year.  The falls provided a soothing backdrop for a restful night’s sleep while dreaming about kayaking rapids never run. 

The final day was an easy 13 mile paddle to Mrs. McBriarty’s landing in Allagash Village.  It was 27 years ago when an aging Mrs. McBriarty met Adam, Nancy and I at this same spot to collect her $2 landing fee.  Nothing has changed except she now expects customers to walk a couple of hundred yards to her house to pay the fee. Inflation isn’t part of Mrs. McBriarty’s vocabulary.   I told her I’d see her on my next trip in 20 years as long as she didn’t raise the price of the landing fee.  I probably won’t live to see that trip, but I’m wagering she’ll be there if I do.  I wonder if she knew Grandma Mosess? 

Ron Chase is an avid four-season outdoorsman and freelance writer, who co-authored the mountain guidebook, Mountains for Mortals - New England.  Visit his website at www.ronchaseoutdoors.com for information on more outdoor adventures and great mountain hiking opportunities.

Bill Kaiser biking on Prince Edward Island

I first met Bill Kaiser whitewater kayaking on Maine’s Dead River back in the late 80s.  We quickly became friends.  Or, at least, I thought we became friends.  He later told me he had a hard time liking anyone who worked for the IRS.  That was the beginning of over 20 years of banter that continued until the night before he died.  I called him Grampy, Grumpy and Mr. Clatter.  He had names for me like Heidi, Wimp, Mr. Clutter and others I won’t mention.  We disagreed on politics and declared a truce.  We usually broke it. 

Bill was one of the most remarkable and exceptional people that I’ve ever met.  No one could ever call him boring.  He was tenacious, provocative, opinionated, irreverent, combative, incredibly persistent and he loved Cocoa Puffs for breakfast.  In other words, he was near perfect in my eyes – except for the Cocoa Puffs.  He was also unfailingly generous, courageous, devoted to his friends and family and he adored his wife, Alice.  He could fix anything:  Computers, trucks, engines, cameras, anything.  He was a technical climber, whitewater paddler, pilot, computer whiz, and untrained legal beagle extraordinaire.  A couple of years ago, I mentioned I needed a website and he came by the house and created one – then maintained it.   He sued the State of New Hampshire, represented himself and won.

My wife, Nancy, and I never knew Bill when he wasn’t part of that inseparable team, Bill & Alice. They and our large circle of outdoor friends have shared hundreds of adventures.  Probably a score of whitewater trips to West Virginia, the southeastern United States and Quebec,  whitewater expeditions down the Grand Canyon, Salmon River in Idaho and two weeks paddling rivers and hiking volcanoes in Costa Rica.  There were several multi-day winter trips into Baxter State Park and the White Mountains hiking, climbing and skiing.  We experienced probably a couple of hundred days navigating whitewater streams and rivers throughout New England.  And, with Bill, there was always a misadventure within the adventure.  He loved to tell people that I’d saved his life several times.  That he nearly killed me several times would be closer to the truth. 

On his 60^th birthday, Bill pulled a 100 pound sled 16 miles into Chimney Pond in northern Maine’s Baxter State Park in February.  I carried a hidden bottle of Heineken Beer wrapped in toilet paper with a big red bow as a present.  The next day, he climbed Mt. Katahdin for his first time in the winter.  On the descent, he fell on the ice covered shoulder of Cathedral Ridge and began to tumble and slide.  As companions Gary Cole, my son, Adam, and others watched in shock from above, he swept me off my feet from behind and made a last second, desperate ice-axe arrest at the edge of a sheer cliff.  He saved his own life, not me.  Thank God for that blessing, he still had a lot of life left to live. 

Bill videoed many of our whitewater adventures and he created several excellent Appalachian Mountain Club (AMC) films including the infamous Bloopers, Bleepers, and Screwups videos.  They were successfully marketed as a club fund raiser.  Occasionally, I would do the filming, particularly when Bill was running a rapid.  Once, I caught him in the midst of a blooper and substantially embellished the narrative.  After, Bill was like a hawk waiting in prey with his video camera.  There’s a great scene in one of the Bloopers’ tapes with Bill filming me pinned in my canoe in the middle of a difficult rapid.  While others were expressing concern, you can clearly hear him saying with obvious glee, “I gotcha, Ronnie, this one’s for the Bloopers.”

One of our most memorable whitewater trips to West Virginia was with our three Quebec buddies, Pierre, Ritchie and Jean Guy – also known as Moe, Curly and….…aah, well…. never mind.  It’s difficult to say what was most outrageous on the trip, the Class IV/V whitewater or our off river antics.  I don’t believe I’ve ever laughed as much and most of the time we couldn’t understand each other. We couldn’t speak French and they little English.  Bill insisted on driving the entire trip.  My responsibilities were to sign with the Canadians during our ongoing vehicle wars and mediate Bill’s road rage.  You’ll have to use your imaginations on the signing.  We weren’t missed by the West Virginians when we left.  The van broke down a couple of times on the return trip and Bill repaired engine problems with coat hanger wire and duct tape.   After an emergency stop at his son’s house in Worcester, Massachusetts, we limped home but just barely, the engine was smoking when he dropped me off.  

There are so many stories.  Frustrated with delays during a whitewater a trip on the Jacques Cartier River in Quebec, Bill left the group and attempted to carry his kayak out of the canyon.  Instead, he fell into a swamp and was badly chewed up by thousands of hungry mosquitoes.  Forced to return to the river, he refused to speak to us when he reached the takeout.  There was much more to this fiasco - A lost American paddler unable to communicate with French speaking farmers, naked men running in the woods, Mounties conducting a search and rescue, and more…….  It was an epic of legendary proportions.  When Bill retired as AMC Canoe Chair, we had a fleece shirt designed for him with Renard de la Marais, that’s Swamp Fox, inscribed on the back. 

At age 72, Bill announced that he was going to backpack through the Presidential Range of the White Mountains.  His son, Dick, and I were victims of the draft.  Not satisfied with a simple hike in the mountains, he decided to plant edelweiss in the alpine zone.  Born in Germany, he thought the Whites needed a touch of his native homeland.  His back gave out before he was able to complete the trip, but he still put in three strenuous days in the high peaks. 

Back problems forced Bill to give up whitewater and mountaineering a few years ago, but he wasn’t ready to surrender his love of the outdoors and need for new adventures.  Biking became his passion.  Of course, he approached this new sport with the same enthusiasm and dogged determination as he did life.  After a few bike rides, he was ready to take on the nearly 200-mile Confederation Trail on Prince Edward Island.  Last September, during his second visit to the island, he finished the entire trail with Alice, friends Frank & Carolyn, and Nancy and I cheering him on.  If I remember correctly, he insisted on beer and ice cream as his reward. 

He really loved the bike trails in Florida.  Nancy and I joined Bill and Alice for a month of biking there each of the past two winters.  He and I had a running competition on who could do the most stupid stunts on a bicycle.  While Alice and Nancy would ride properly along the trails, we would burst by lying on our seats, feet on the handle bars, standing on one pedal, you name it.  Each trip, we kept a record of our mileage.  The first winter, Bill’s goal was 250 miles.  After finishing our last ride, we calculated our final totals.  Bill only had 249 miles and said he was going to round it off to 250.  I told him he could round it off if he wanted, but as far as I was concerned he was cheating.  He pretended to sulk, but loved it.  Last winter, he complained incessantly about my screwy mileage calculations, but exceeded his goal of 300 with several miles to spare.  We finished our trip sharing a cabin at Grayton Beach on the Emerald Coast, which connects with the 20 mile Timpoochee Bike Trail.  On our last ride, Bill fell while crossing a road on the way out.  When we returned, I rode ahead and stopped traffic so he could safely cross.  We had a great laugh, but I knew he was scheming for the future.

Bill called the night before he died.  After several minutes of joking about our stuffed koala bears, Wally and Aussie, new plans were made.  We decided to ride the Mountain Division Bike Trail near Sebago Lake the following Thursday and the Franconia Notch Trail again sometime in June.  When he and Alice returned from their train trip in the Canadian Rockies, we’d go back to Prince Edward Island.  I find it gratifying to know that Bill was still planning new adventures when he left us.  I wish we could have shared many, many more, but consider myself blessed to have known him and enjoyed his friendship for so many years.  I know Grampy’s out there somewhere waiting for me and plotting a payback for my road crossing gag.  He was truly one of a kind and I miss him a lot.

Ron Chase is an avid four-season outdoorsman and freelance writer, who co-authored the mountain guidebook Mountains for Mortals – New England.  Visit his website www.ronchaseoutdoors.com, created by the inimitable Bill Kaiser.

My New Hampshire Atlas calls it the Pemigewasset River.  Everyone I know simply says Pemi.  Exciting whitewater can be found on the East and West Pemi, but I don’t know anything about the Pemigewasset.  My best guess is the map is wrong.  The river probably doesn’t become the Pemigewasset until after the confluence of the East and West Pemi in Lincoln.  Good whitewater levels on the Pemi are elusive.  I’ve been fortunate enough to have enjoyed several excellent adventures on the East Pemi, but never the West.  If the scary stories my son tells me about the West Pemi are true, maybe that’s just as well.  Draining several streams from the heart of the White Mountains, melting snow makes spring the best time to paddle the East Pemi.  If you want to know when to paddle rivers in northern New England, it helps to be on good terms with my friend, Morrill the Waterman.  The Waterman knows everything worth knowing about water flows.   He can extemporaneously relate the square mileage of watersheds for obscure rivers and streams that only avid whitewater enthusiasts even care about.  When I call for information, he’ll say something like “cube the cfs on the Old Stream gauge, add the Denny’s River flow, subtract 174.5 cfs from the Pleasant River gauge and that will tell you the current level on the Machias.”  All that and he’s never even paddled those rivers.  My eyes glaze over and I ask something clever like, “Can we run the Machias tomorrow?”    Recently, The Waterman called about paddling the East Pemi.  I made the mistake of asking what the level was.  Thirty minutes and several watersheds later, I interjected, “Can we run Pemi tomorrow?”  “Yes,” he said.  The Waterman and I are AARPy boaters.  Translation:  We’re elderly, semi-retired paddlers, who can go outdoors and play on sunny, Wednesday afternoons while the rest of the free world labors.  The downside is finding other AARPys who are not patients in hospice care or having their dentures sharpened.  Unable to locate any willing victims, we decided to violate a fundamental swift water safety principle.  (WARNING:  IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 40, PLEASE STOP READING!)  We would paddle a Class IV river with just one boat – a two person inflatable called a shredder.  A shredder was not my first choice, actually it was not my third choice, but since The Waterman needed a partner, it was my only choice if I wanted to paddle the Pemi.  The good news was that he’s a lefty and I’m an extreme righty.  He was nervous about paddling alone on a serious whitewater river, but not me.  A man of faith, The Waterman is in good with the Lord.  After waving goodbye to a gaggle of curious, skeptical onlookers watching from a footbridge at Lincoln Woods in the White Mountain National Forest, we tumbled precariously down the boulder strewn torrent.  Fortunately, we were out of sight before colliding with a huge, exposed boulder - I went right and the Waterman left.  Problem:  I’m an aggressive boater whereas The Waterman likes to finesse the rapids.  “You’re paddling too hard, too often,” he exasperatedly exclaimed.  This is a criticism I’ve heard before from She Who Must Be Obeyed.  Shredders are not like real boats, they work best when you just steer.  The Pemi is a very busy, mountain stream.  Down, down, down we went.  Dodging rocks, punching holes, riding waves while good naturedly arguing about the choice of routes and whether or not I was paddling properly.  As we approached the hardest, steepest rapid on the river, Loon Mountain Falls, we tried to remember our planned route.  Go just right of the bridge abutment, slide down the second tongue from the right shore and skirt the boulder pile far right.  No problem – or, so we thought.   The narrow precipitous tongue of choice violently spit us out directly into a huge jagged rock.  Bouncing up stream, we inadvertently did a complete 360 and pin balled through the entire boulder pile spinning in circles, crashing against rocks and  slamming into one another with paddles flailing.  Reaching bottom miraculously upright and out of breath, we both surveyed the area relieved to find no apparent onlookers.  “Glad there’s no video,” remarked the Waterman.  Downstream we careened for another two miles of tight, steep rock-strewn Class IV paddling before the intensity abated.  After two more miles of somewhat easier shredding, we reached the take-out and safety in the tiny village of Woodstock.  Only then did the Waterman completely forgive my transgressions.  It was a great warm up run.  Three days later, I returned on a Saturday with four kayak and canoe buddies with real jobs and completed a second run, this time in my kayak.  I knew where all the boulders were and no one complained about my paddling style.  The Waterman hasn’t invited me back in his shredder, yet.  Hope he’ll continue to share his vast knowledge. 

Ron Chase is an avid four-season outdoorsman and freelance writer.  He co-authored Mountains for Mortals – New England and his website is www.ronchaseoutdoors.com. 

The South Branch of the Dead River was anything but dead on our recent Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society (PPCS) river trip.  Located in western Maine just north of the Saddleback Mountain Range, runoff from the surrounding peaks usually provides an excellent moderately difficult spring whitewater adventure.  This time the normally lifeless inhabitants of the Dead were rocking in their graves!  Arriving at the take-out in Coplin Plantation, waves instead of gentle ripples greeted our band of eleven kayakers and canoeists.  A gauge under the bridge was missing – in retrospect, a spooky omen we might have heeded.  Traveling six miles further upriver to the usual starting point, we encountered an unnerving explanation for the waves below:  The campground and parking area were completely under water.  This would be a wee bit more of an escapade than I had anticipated, I thought in my role as Trip Coordinator.   Since only two of us had previously paddled the river, I decided a short sermon was in order.  “I’ve never paddled the river this high and I think Fansanger Gorge will be big,” I opined.  “Since Brent and I are the only ones who’ve run it, maybe you should follow us.”  A confession, I did verify that everyone had signed the liability waiver prior to my lecture.  After navigating between trees in a short stretch of flat water, we encountered large, breaking waves in the normally easy entrance rapids.  Almost immediately, my canoe was half full.  I had forgotten to mention that canoes often have to stop and bail.  Too bad, kayakers who don’t canoe are woefully unaware of the challenges of whitewater open boating.    While Brent disappeared into the gorge in his kayak, I caught a “last chance” eddy at the top and jumped out to empty my boat.  Thinking they were deserted, some of my focused companions tumbled blindly into the billowing surf of the deep, shadowy canyon.  Chaos ensued.  Attempting to empty my boat, I watched helplessly as Patti swam after missing her roll.  She quickly disappeared in huge waves with Tom and Scott in reckless pursuit.  Ignoring the whitewater rescue axiom “never add to the carnage,” I jumped into my heavy canoe, peeled out of the eddy and gave pursuit.  Bad choice.   A three hundred pound, water-laden canoe becomes an immoveable slug in five or six foot waves tumbling precipitously downhill.  I missed my intended ferry and desperately grabbed the first eddy I could reach on river right.  Bad choice number two.  It was really a whirlpool not an eddy.  Being old school (and cheap), I don’t have one of those fancy battery operated gizmos that pumps water out of your boat.  Hand bailing is a virtual impossibility while violently spinning in circles while trying to maintain boat balance and hold a paddle with the other hand.    The shoreline was a vertical cliff, so Box Number One, the river, was my only choice.  Re-entering the waves, I crashed downwards, plowed through a massive hole, then another; completely filling my boat.  Experienced canoeists know what happened next: high brace, low brace, high brace, low brace……   Downstream, the river turned hard right with waves piling up against the canyon wall on the left.  Cutting the turn sharply right was a near necessity, but I knew I couldn’t make that move with the now seven hundred pound monster I was piloting.  When in doubt, straight ahead with power, forget finesse.  That’s directly out of Ron’s School of Whitewater Canoeing, Advanced Scary Big Water 101.  Angling my boat right, I rode high on the foam pile, fell off downstream and plunged into a hole big enough to stop a bus, but not a runaway train: high brace, low brace, high brace, low brace……   Glancing to my right, I spotted Patti clinging to a rock and Brent in a nearby eddy.   Tom and Scott were chasing her kayak and gear.   My boat was so full, water was flowing out and I was nearly submerged: high brace, low brace, high brace, low brace…..   “Have to catch an eddy,” I insisted to myself.  Breaking free of the wave train, another hole slowed me, I slammed into a couple of boulders and landed upright on a pile of rocks, high but not dry.  As I jumped onto terra firma, an empty kayak flushed unceremoniously by with several kayakers close behind.  The two other open boaters in our group, Foster Nephew and Eggman, joined me on the rocks.  Hiking up the boulder strewn shore, I found Patti mildly shaken but fine, while Max, also separated from his kayak, was tortuously hiking the cliffs on river left.  “Next time the parking lot is flooded, we’ll do something else,” I announced.  Generously, Patti declined to express her thoughts. 

Ron Chase is an avid four season outdoorsman and freelance writer.  He co-authored Mountains for Mortals – New England and his website is www.ronchaseoutdoors.com. 

                “…Man, you should have seen them kicking Edgar Allen Poe, I am the Eggman…”

-       Beatles

The Cathance River is my river.  Well, not really, but I like to think so, at least metaphorically speaking.  Unlike some places, in Maine you can’t own a river or stream.  If it’s navigable, the public has right of passage and landowner boundaries are limited to the low water mark.  Where is the low water mark, you ask?  Good question.  Safe to say if you’re on a Maine river or stream in a kayak or canoe, you’re legal - probably.  Located in my hometown of Topsham, Maine, the Cathance travels through a picturesque wilderness area, much of which cannot be accessed without a hike or paddle.  Judging from the placid waters at the put-in and take-out, one would never guess that a whitewater gem blesses the unseen portion of this tumultuous four mile stretch of water.  Consisting of one long, technical rapid and five waterfalls, most paddlers consider it an easy Class IV creek run.  Because it has a relatively large watershed for a small river, the “Cat” can often be paddled when others are too low.  However, spring is primetime.  I regularly check the river level and my paddling buddies, particularly the younger ones, generally start calling about the flow and anticipated ice-out in late February or early March.   A couple of years ago, my son and another young paddling friend cajoled me into a late winter run, insisting ice was out – not exactly.  Seal launching kayaks and canoes on snow banks, we broke up several stretches of ice with out paddles.  Menacing, overhanging ice shelves on the rapids added an extra level of intimidation.  Still, a good, albeit chilly, time was had by all.   A painted gauge decorates the Interstate 295 bridge abutment at the put-in.  My boating cronies and I have paddled the river between 1.5 and 4.5 on the gauge.  The low end is too bony and the run gets pushy and more dangerous over four feet.   Finding the Cat running a little over 2 feet earlier this spring, I called my paddling buddy, the Eggman.  Why the Eggman?  Sorry, you have to have a “need to know.”  The Eggman had been itching to run the Cat for a couple of years, but wanted a good level for his first descent.  “This is your day,” I announced to a skeptical Eggman, “Perfect first-time level and warm, sunny weather to scout the drops.”  Since the Eggman is exclusively an open-boater, I sweetened the proposal by promising to paddle my much maligned, battered and bruised, Mohawk Viper canoe.  In order to keep it afloat, I add another layer of Plumber’s Goop to the many cracks and gouges each spring.  It’s old and ugly, but operable – sort of like me.  The Eggman nailed a complex, circuitous line on the first rapid, catching a small eddy next to a nasty hole at the bottom of the drop.  Styling, he caught the slot, avoided the undercut and navigated past the boulder pile on the following three falls.  No paddling on eggshells for the Eggman this day, he was in a groove.  The biggest, meanest falls on the run was next.  Called Little Gorilla, or more euphemistically, Magic Carpet Ride, I rate it Class V.  Careening through a narrow gorge, it begins with some precise hole dodging followed by a 90-degree turn down a steep, shallow slide into a churning foam pile with boulders waiting just below the surface.   Midway down the slide, a large rock formation extends out from the left side of the gorge at just about head level, encouraging paddlers to stay right.  While not technically difficult, the drop deserves respect.  I watched my son flip upstream on the slide in his kayak, separating his shoulder.  And, I’ve seen several near misses.  The portage is dangerous, too.  A friend cracked a rib slipping on rocks while carrying his kayak around the falls.  I’ve never seen a canoe attempt it.  The Eggman and I carefully studied potential routes and decided we wouldn’t tempt offending the river gods.  Instead, we’d gamble on the portage.  It’s not hard to find, I’ve worn a fairly distinct path on river right.  The final falls is a somewhat easier version of Little Gorilla, but a more straight-forward, two-stage ledge drop that tumbles into a sticky hydraulic at the bottom.  At most water levels, the line is right to left, blasting through some breaking waves, powering down the final slide and punching the hole as far right as possible.  Speed and angle are paramount.  I’ve seen several very good boaters get turned sideways in the hydraulic, they’ve all swam.  No problem for the Eggman, who delivered a perfect route and exited the hydraulic sunny-side up.  The debutante was now a certified Cathead.  “…Goo goo g’joob…”

Ron Chase is an avid four season outdoorsman and freelance writer.  He co-authored Mountains for Mortals – New England and his website is www.ronchaseoutdoors.com

For more than 30 years, paddling Souadabscook Stream in Hampden, Maine, has been a virtual rite of spring for me and many of my friends.  A small Class III whitewater stream, it has something for all downriver paddling enthusiasts; challenging rapids, steep drops, sticky holes, excellent surfing waves and one Class IV+ waterfall, Great Falls.  My initial adventure on “The Sou” was with my first paddling buddy, Bob Smith, in April 1978.   We rented an aluminum canoe, two life jackets and two paddles for ten dollars from a less than attentive local boat retailer.  Wearing jeans, sneakers and cotton shirts, we near froze to death in our often ice-water laden canoe before reaching the take out at Route 1A in Hampden.  Since then, I’ve probably paddled The Sou 50 times, often at very high water and a few times when you could barely scrape down shallow rapids.  I’ve participated in the annual downriver race several times, including once with my youngest son, Adam, when he was barely big enough to see over the canoe gunwales.  Many of my Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society (PPCS) friends and I have provided safety for the race when not active participants.  In the early years, I canoed The Sou.  Now, I usually kayak as I find the enclosed cockpit warmer than an open canoe when the water temperatures approximate 35 degrees and ice shelves line the banks.  Frequently, paddlers have to compete with small ice floes for river space on early spring runs.  A roll means an “ice cream headache” and you don’t even want to think about a swim.  This year, I joined PPCS friends Doug Field and Helen Hess for a late winter paddle on The Sou as unusually warm winter weather had opened the stream prematurely.  The air was almost frigid, winds gusting, water temperatures cold and river banks frozen, almost perfect conditions.  Dressed in drysuits over-stuffed with pile, fleece and poly, we looked like a trio of Pillsbury Doughboys navigating the river.  Departing from Manning Mill Bridge, we paddled easy rapids around the bend to a river wide hole that is a popular surfing spot.  Taking turns attempting spins in the hole, I almost immediately pulled a muscle in my shoulder.  Old age strikes back.  Continuing down stream, we negotiated Boy Scout Rapids, surfed more waves and then plowed over the steep drop at Emerson Mill Falls.  Just below the bridge on Emerson Mill Road, we encountered the best surfing of the day.  It was there that my body temperature started to drop, actually plummet would be a better word.  We all agreed that moving right along was a good plan.  A couple of easy rapids brought us to Crawford Falls, a technical Class III rapid that includes a blind left turn immediately followed by a tumble over a sloped ledge.  After clean runs at Crawford, we persisted through Papermill Bridge Falls to the top of Great Falls.  Normally, we run the precipitous drop tight left and then play the 200 yard Class IV run out.  Not this day, too cold.  Portaging river right, we re-entered the stream below the falls and tip-toed down the right side of the final rapid to warm vehicles and dry clothes.  We vowed we’d return to play The Sou hard when the weather warmed.  For more information on interesting outdoor adventures, visit our website at www.ronchaseoutdoors.com.  When not paddling, we often hike.  See our book, Mountains for Mortals – New England, for comprehensive information on 30 great New England mountain hikes.

      SUNDAY RIVER WHITECAP – THE HIKE            

Say Sunday River and most people think ski.  About six miles due north of well known Sunday River Ski Area in western Maine, Sunday River White Cap provides an excellent hike to a barren summit with outstanding views of this mountainous region.  No lines, crowds, or expensive tickets.  However, no ski lift will propel you to the summit, physical exertion is required.  Friends Gary and Suzanne joined us for a late winter climb to the top of this 3,400 foot majestic peak in the Mahoosuc Mountain Range.  Forgoing recently constructed Grafton Loop Trail, we chose to bushwack beginning on Route 26 in Grafton Notch State Park.  Since several feet of snow had recently fallen, we anticipated a demanding snowshoe while orienteering to higher elevations above tree-line.  Fortuitously, an earlier group of hikers had cleared a hard-packed path which we unabashedly followed.  It doesn’t always pay to be the “early bird” when winter mountaineering as breaking trail on snowshoes is a strenuous, laborious task under the best of circumstances.  Bushwacking through a dense forest in deep, drifted snow can test the hardiest hikers.   Arriving above tree-line, glorious views and blustery winds greeted us.  The claws and crampons on our snowshoes were adequate for ascending a hard-packed snow and icy surface to the summit where harsh gales from the north forced us to seek shelter below a ledge facing south where we found our trail breaking benefactors huddled.  Expressing profuse thanks for their efforts, we donned our parkas and joined our new friends for a leisurely lunch.   Shielded from winds howling above us, we savored unparalleled views of rugged Mahoosuc peaks and the imposing Presidential Range of New Hampshire looming beyond.  Panoramic views of Baldpate and Puzzle Mountains were our exhilarating visual fare while descending the exposed summit cone into fierce headwinds.  Severe conditions subsided after reaching the protection of stunted mountain scrub and we ended our trek cruising gently downhill on a winter super highway we had helped construct.  Refer to our book, Mountains for Mortals – New England, for comprehensive information, photos, maps and elevation profiles of 30 more great New England hikes.  Visit our website, www.ronchaseoutdoors.com to learn more about our book and other outdoor adventures. 

For a special few, extreme skiing on Mount Washington has been a rite of spring for nearly 80 years.  Every year, some of the best skiers in northeastern United States and eastern Canada join the pilgrimage to this springtime skiing mecca, which many consider the birthplace of extreme skiing.  On the first day of spring, we met friends at overflowing Pinkham Notch for a trek to Tuckerman Ravine.  Neither Nancy nor I are expert skiers, but I probably qualify as tentative almost wannabe.  This was the third time I’d hauled skis up to Tuck.  The first time, about 15 years ago, two friends and I carried cross-country skis beyond Tuck to the summit on the first day of spring and skied down the auto road.  Holding a desperate snow plow for the entire terrifying 8 mile descent, my legs were sore for a week.  I immediately decided that would qualify as one of my “first time and last time” skiing experiences.  After learning to Telemark ski about 5 years ago, friend Brent and I carried Tele skis and boots to Tuck, climbed to the summit, returned to Tuck and descended the Sherburne Trail on skis.  About five falls later, I arrived at Pinkham Notch battered and bruised, but alive.  In short, I am not an extreme skier, but I hang out with extremely cool company, friends Brent and Greg.  Carrying heavy packs that included our Tele Skis, boots and warm clothing, we ascended a well-packed trail 3 miles to Hermit Shelter and then continued on for about a half mile to a huge bowl at the base of Tuckerman Headwall in a spectacular glacial cirque.  We arrived in time to watch parades of climbers carrying skis up the headwall, various gullies and “highways.”   Shortly after our arrival, a downhill skier jumped off the icy rocks at the top of the headwall, landed imperfectly and proceeded to tumble end-over-end, with arms, legs, skis and poles flailing, until he reached the bottom of the bowl.  Carefully assessing the situation, I decided that I’d ski Tuck next year when I was older.  In fairness, most of the skiers had successful runs and Brent hit near perfect Tele turns while careening down Hillman’s Highway.  Returning to Hermit Shelter, I finally donned my skis for a more timid ride down the Sherburne Trail.  The trail was steeper, narrower and more difficult than I remembered.  Tele turns quickly morphed to snowplows as I cautiously negotiated moguls while avoiding preschoolers who sped by on skis and snowboards, spraying wet snow in my face as they passed.   Utilizing the whitewater technique of catching eddies, I slowly navigated down the precipitous trail, reaching Pinkham Notch nearly 45 minutes behind my relieved friends.  Next year, maybe I’ll just hike up to Tuck and take pictures.  For detailed information on hiking trails to Tuck and the summit of Mount Washington, refer to our book, Mountains for Mortals – New England, or visit our website at www.ronchaseoutdoors.com for details on how to obtain a copy.