Chase Outdoors

Liberty Navigators Ed & Author Photo: Nancy Chase

Ed and I grew up in the same small town in Maine when Eisenhower was president, pot was something you cooked in and birth control hadn’t been invented – a good thing for us, I suspect. We played ball together, doubled dated as teens and excelled in misbehaving. My date became my wife, his didn’t. I stood up with him when he finally did marry, 15 years later. Most of the time, we got along fine, but not always. I once broke my hand punching him; he has a wicked hard head.

We’ve grown old but are still looking for new adventures. But now our exploits are all legal. So when Ed invited me to join him in the 2012 National Toboggan Championships at the Snow Bowl Ski Area in Camden, Maine, this winter, I didn’t hesitate. No one has ever accused me of being the brightest candle on the cake.

The last time I was on a toboggan was about a half century ago. It was on School Hill behind the Randolph Grammar School and I probably got hurt, since I usually did no matter what I was doing. Ed was most likely there and he probably got hurt, too. However, this time we had an edge, Ed was a veteran of the 2011 race and he hadn’t gotten hurt, although two members of his team did.

Since Ed was a toboggan racing veteran, I knew he’d get me safely down the hill and we’d undoubtedly walk away with the gold snowball or whatever they award National Toboggan Champions. Plus, unlike in his childhood, Ed was now well connected. He had a sponsor who paid the fees, provided the toboggan and had bought us colorful red, white and blue team shirts. We even had a VIP parking spot. We would be the Liberty Navigators. Our generous sponsor and enthusiastic race supporter, Robert Liberty, is owner of several prestigious lodging houses in the Camden/Rockland area, including the Trade Winds and Navigator Motels. I don’t think he knew much about our histories or we would have been spectators, not members of his distinguished race team.

The day before the races officially started, Ed and I arrived with our toboggan for registration and weighing. I felt conspicuously ridiculous in my gaudy, patriotic team shirt. As I told Ed, “I don’t want to be the only clown in the circus.” They weigh and measure the toboggan, not the participants. Wouldn’t have mattered if they had weighed us, we’re both little guys, albeit colorful, and have never been disqualified from anything because we were too big. Our sled passed with flying colors. The National Toboggan Championships is a weighty event in the mid-coast Maine area and there were scores of food concessions, retail booths, tents, RVs and campers that extended far out onto Hosmer Pond at the foot of Ragged Mountain. Eight thousand cheering, excited spectators were expected.

After a meticulous study of the race chute, we decided to try a couple of practice runs. This was not a slide down School Hill. The sled is carried up to a partially covered wooden structure at the top of the chute. The narrow chute is 70 feet high, 400 feet long and has sidewalls a few inches in depth. It looked a little intimidating to this senior citizen. Racers lie down on the sleds, wrap their legs around their teammates and the attendant flips a wooden switch which drops a trap door. The sled plunges abruptly onto the chute where it quickly approaches a speed of 40 MPH. It’s a noisy ride, as the wooden frame pummels down the icy gradient while sometimes glancing off the sidewalls. The proper racing technique is to keep your head and torso as low and flat as possible with all appendages tight to the body to prevent scraping them against the sidewalls. The only views you experience are a blur of tree branches exploding past and the sky above. In less than 10 seconds, the sled jumps off the end of the chute, uncontrollably spinning in circles while spraying a hail of ice and rockets out across Hosmer Pond for as much as a quarter of a mile. The pond was the site of the two injuries during Ed’s race the previous year. Unlike our youth, I followed Ed’s instructions: “remain flat on the sled until it stops.” “What a rush,” I yelled after I was safely standing unscathed.

Since most of the afternoon remained, I decided to do a fast climb up Ragged Mountain to the chagrin of friends and family. There was much talk and criticism of my obsessive compulsive behavior. What they didn’t understand was the hike gave me an excuse to mention that Ragged Mountain is one of the hikes featured in my mountain guidebook, Mountains for Mortals – New England, available at Amazon.com and other online outlets and retailers. That was my only motivation….honest.

A light, steady snow greeted us on the first day of the races. We were a four-person team, with Dwayne and Russ joining us. It was our first race together and it showed, as we were off-balance entering the chute causing us to lose time dragging along the sidewalls. Our time was an unimpressive 9.66 seconds and we were in the middle of the pack. We needed a herculean effort the next day to qualify for the finals and win the gold snowball.

The four-person teams were scheduled first the following morning. Although it was 20 degrees colder than the previous day, we were too preoccupied devising cryptic strategies to improve our time to notice the frigid temperatures. Since Russ was the largest member of the team, we decided he should be in front while I, being the lightest, would be in the back. I prefer to think I was the anchor similar to the last man on a mountaineering rope team. A bobbing rear end might be a more accurate description. At the last moment, I decided to wear my ski helmet.

This time, our alignment was perfect. The second sled to race, we catapulted down the steep chute without touching the sidewalls. I could see a gold snowball in my future as we crashed onto Hosmer Pond. The violent landing dislodged our entire team and my helmeted head began whiplashing on the ice. Bang, bang, bang, my head bounced for what seemed minutes before we mercifully stopped. My teammates were ecstatic; I was dazed. Our time was a breathtakingly incredible 9.06 seconds! Faster than any time recorded on the previous day. I might have a massive headache but we were toboggan racing gods!

Basking in glory, surrounded by adoring fans, I was mentally preparing my gold snowball acceptance speech. Alas, a sickening realization soon dampened our soaring spirits. All the times were exceptional. The colder temperatures resulted in harder, faster ice. The announcer called times like, “9.01,” “8.79,” ad infinitum ad nauseam. Within a few minutes we were back in the middle of the pack and out of the running. “We’ll get em next year,” said Ed. I was looking for some Tylenol Plus.

(Ron Chase is an avid four season outdoorsman and freelance writer, who co-authored the mountain guidebook, Mountains for Mortals – New England. He’s a mere toboggan racing wannabe. Visit his website at www.ronchaseoutdoors.com for more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.)

Bill Styling with his Sherpa Snowshoes on Pleasant Mountain

Trees were glistening with sun reflected ice from overnight freezing rain when nine of us met at the Southwest Ridge Trailhead for a scheduled Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society (www.paddleandchower.org) hike. Suzanne, our Trip Coordinator, had meticulously planned a moderate to easy climb of scenic Pleasant Mountain in western Maine as both an introductory hike for winter mountaineering newcomers and as the club’s weekly winter outdoor adventure. One of my favorite hikes, this would be my third climb of Pleasant Mountain since winter began; the day after Christmas being particularly memorable for its snowy beauty.

Winter mountaineering entails several complexities not part of most hikes in other seasons; choosing clothing and gear for cold conditions being the most obvious. Carefully evaluating the weather and selecting a mountain hike and conditions within the limitations of the participants are also important factors. Obviously, not everyone is fortunate enough to be a member of the Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society or have Suzanne for a friend. For the rest of the world’s population, I recommend that you rush out and buy a copy of my mountain guidebook, Mountains for Mortals – New England, which provides precise directions to the Pleasant Mountain trailhead, a detailed trail description and important safety information. Shopping for it on www.Amazon.com is even easier and conserves gasoline for a drive to the mountain.

The choice of footwear is often a difficult one in the winter. Snowshoes, crampons, micro cleats, stableicers, skis or bare boot are all options, depending on the conditions and skills of the climbers. Pleasant Mountain had received about 6 to 8 inches of fresh snow the previous day followed by a steady freezing rain which left a thick, icy crust. We collectively decided that snowshoes were the best choice.

I have a rating system for snowshoers: superior, adequate, inferior and mountain scofflaws; also known more infamously as “post-holers.” Climbers who wear snowshoes that are larger than mine receive a superior grade because they create a bigger track, making it easier for me. Those with the same size snowshoes are adequate and anyone wearing a smaller snowshoe definitely receives a substandard evaluation. Scofflaws receive an F for felonious mountain etiquette. If you are getting the impression that this rating system is all about me, you’re catching on quick. There’s a history here. I was traumatized many years ago when all of my winter mountaineering friends converted to smaller MSR snowshoes leaving me the only climber with an oversized shoe, and a disproportionate share of arduous trail breaking. I felt hurt and betrayed; and have never fully recovered.

On our trip, newcomers, Bill & Sally, were on opposite ends of the racket-shaped shoe spectra. Bill sported a considerable, handsome pair of Sherpa snowshoes that were much larger than my MSR’s and seemed a natural part of the winter mountain environment. I immediately liked him. Sally, on the other hand, wore a tiny pair of ultra-narrow, incongruently dirty-blue snowshoes barely bigger than the sole of a toddlers boot. She was suspect. Even worse, we had two of the lowest forms of wintry, alpine life: part-time “post-holers.” These mountain miscreants tore gaping cavities in our otherwise impeccably packed tracks, Sally notwithstanding.

Setting a moderately slow pace which allowed the entire group to stay fairly close together, Suzanne led us through a frozen wonderland of ice covered trees and bushes. Temperatures bordering near freezing; several sun drenched trees had small rivers flowing down their trunks while overhanging branches sometimes caused chilly, localized rain showers. The Southwest Ridge Trail is partially exposed for most of the ascent and we enjoyed phenomenal views of the snow and ice covered White Mountain Presidential Range in New Hampshire and the Mahoosuc Mountains of western Maine. Given the relatively warm weather, we lingered for an extended lunch and rest on the open summit.

Footwear wars excluded, it was a near idyllic day on the mountain.

(Ron Chase is an avid four season outdoorsman and freelance writer, who co-authored the mountain guidebook, Mountains for Mortals – New England. He wears a standard size Denali Ascent MSR Snowshoe and still has his old Sherpa’s from a previous life. Visit his website at www.ronchaseoutdoors.com for more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.)

Gary Cole and Ken Gordon approach summit of Camel's Hump

RINGING IN THE NEW YEAR ON CAMEL’S HUMP
Gary has decided to climb the 100 Highest Peaks in New England in the Winter for a second time. As a good friend, I’ve agreed to help him accomplish his goal but for purely altruistic reasons. He needs my assistance, particularly with breaking trail in deep snow when snowshoes are required. More importantly, I want to help cure him of the dreaded disease – DDOCD (Dangerously deranged obsessive compulsive disorder). DDOCD is a common affliction among peak baggers and Gary has a serious, perhaps terminal version. Four thousand foot Camel’s Hump in western Vermont was on his agenda for New Year’s Eve. It would be his 83rd 100 highest peak in the winter for the second time.

When I completed the 100 highest peaks in the winter in 1997, I recognized that I suffered from an acute case of DDOCD. Climbing mountains had become a compelling addiction that was dominating my life. I completed a 12 step program and declared myself cured. No longer would I allow myself to be controlled by the obsessive need to climb a mountain. For me, mountaineering would be an entirely positive sport in a more purist context. The climb of Camel’s Hump would be my 4th time in the winter, 5th overall and 228th climb of any of the 100 highest peaks in the winter. I’ve climbed 81 of the 100 highest in the winter for a second time, but who’s counting?

The thirteen Vermont 100 highest peaks are my favorites. They’re easier, shorter trails to more scenic summits. Admittedly, this is probably more perception than reality, but for whatever reason, they always seem more enjoyable. Perhaps it’s because Vermont is far enough away so that we always make peak bagging a multi-day adventure. On this trip, we would do Pico, Killington and Camel’s Hump Mountains but only because Gary needed them.

We had freezing rain and icy roads on our drive to the Burrough’s Trailhead on the western side of Camel’s Hump. The dirt road approach from the Huntington Road in Huntington Center is always confusing and this was no exception. Since we weren’t traveling in my car, I didn’t have a copy of my guidebook Mountains for Mortals – New England, which provides precise directions to the trailhead. Instead, four strong willed people debated at every turn until we finally found a local who guided us to the correct parking area.

We had light, freezing rain to begin our hike. The Burrough’s Trail offers a steady climb for a little over two miles to a junction with the Long Trail, which traverses south over the summit. As we gained elevation, the freezing rain changed to a persistent, wind-driven snow. Emerging above tree-line on the exposed summit cone in a sub-arctic alpine zone, we encountered near whiteout conditions instead of the usual panoramic views of the Green Mountains, Lake Champlain and the lofty peaks of the Adirondacks in upstate New York. I confess to loving this type of mountain weather. There is something exhilarating about navigating in such a hostile environment. One’s senses are all on high alert.

At the summit, we encountered a group of about 10 hikers and a dog that seemed lost. We were unable to help the dog who wouldn’t allow us to get close. On our descent, we met another score of ascending New Year’s revelers. Based on our abbreviated conversations, I suspect that most are suffering from some level of DDOCD. Although I made several attempts to counsel Gary regarding his illness, he seemed unreceptive. I think this is going to be an all winter project. If he doesn’t finish his quest this winter, my counseling may have to carry over to another New Year’s Eve.

(Ron Chase is an avid four season outdoorsman and freelance writer, who co-authored the mountain guidebook, Mountains for Mortals – New England, which does not provide behavioral counseling advice. Cured of DDOCD, he is a frequent winter mountaineer. Visit his website at www.ronchaseoutdoors.com for more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.)

Kayaking Along the Bold Coast - in the Fog

Chapter Three

Our sea kayak journey along the Down East coast of Maine culminated with a more than twenty mile paddle along the Bold Coast; perhaps the most rugged, exposed and spectacular stretch of shoreline in Maine. Five of us in four kayaks had labored predominantly in the fog for several days. Poor visibility would continue for the remainder of our trip.

It was late in the day when we finished traversing Cutler Harbor and our immediate goal was to locate a suitable campsite for the night, no easy task with almost continuous vertical cliffs and hazardous ledges extending out into the water. Searching for a site in the fog with surf breaking against the treacherous, unpredictable shore was particularly problematic. After a couple of frustrating failed attempts, we fortuitously found a small, sheltered gravel beach just east of Long Point that allowed for easy egress the following morning.

Our final day began with a Spartan breakfast of leftover snack food as the planned meal had been accidentally jettisoned in Jonesport several days before. There’s a lesson to be learned from this experience; always assume that Murphy’s Law is in effect, trust no one with the food. Dense fog, a favorable tide and modest winds were on our paddling menu. We would kayak twenty miles along the often imperceptible but otherwise breathtaking coastline, past West Quoddy Head, eastern most point in the United States, to the quaint fishing village of Lubec.

Much of the day was spent navigating from one craggy point to another, trying to keep the cliffs along the shore in sight, yet staying far enough away to avoid being unceremoniously tossed onto rocks and ledges by the often violent surf. As the day progressed, the winds increased and rebounding waves became larger and more intense, forcing us to move farther away from sometimes dangerous clapotis near the shore; and the reassuring comfort of seeing land.

Surrounded by dense fog in moderate seas, the Grand Manan Channel was an almost silent, somber place. Except for the gentle slap of small waves against our boats, the only noise we heard was the eerie sound of a cargo ship periodically blowing its foghorn in the distance; an incentive to hold a course as close to land as safely possible. We reminded one another that cargo ships aren’t looking for sea kayaks in the fog and wouldn’t see us if they were.

It seemed much longer than just a few miles before we finally spotted the welcome profile of the cliffs of Quoddy Head. Strong tides and currents in the narrow channel between Quoddy Head and Campobello Island offered challenging conditions that tested our paddling skills as we passed barely visible, yet still picturesque West Quoddy Head Lighthouse.

The remaining three mile paddle across Lubec Channel was uneventful. Ironically, the sun broke through as we arrived at the Lubec boat landing. After days of navigating in the fog, we had sunny, clear conditions for our drive home.

(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 more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.)

Finally Arriving at Cross Island in the Fog Photo: Ken Gordon

Chapter Two

The second segment of our sea kayak trip along the coast of Down East Maine began the way the first had ended, foggy. Leaving diminutive Bar Island southeast of Rogue Island in Englishman Bay, five of us in four sea kayaks navigated about two miles in pea soup fog to Halifax Island on the extreme eastern end of the Rogue Island archipelago.

Our original plan was to camp on Halifax. However, arriving midafternoon and finding it less than hospitable, we decided to persist to Ram Island on the outer southwestern edge of Machias Bay. This would involve a three mile plus exposed crossing in the fog, our longest yet.

Sea kayaking in the fog is exciting and challenging, yet intimidating. Our navigation technique was to locate our destination on the GPS and follow the indicated bearing on deck compasses. Each kayak had a nautical chart and compass. Periodically during a crossing, if the seas were sufficiently calm, we would update our bearing to compensate for winds, currents and tides. If the seas are calm, which often occurs in the fog, the primary concerns are not missing the intended destination and avoiding being accidentally struck by a much larger vessel. Many lobstermen jokingly refer to sea kayaks as “speed bumps.” Rough seas really ramp up the intimidation factor because it’s often impossible to identify hazardous conditions until you’re literally in them and maintaining the correct bearing becomes very problematic. Call me a sissy, but I prefer to identify and avoid dangerous situations in advance and I really like knowing for certain that I’m headed in the right direction. So when I hear crashing surf that can’t see, my already artificially controlled blood pressure rises.

Fortunately, our crossing from Halifax to Ram was in relatively tranquil seas. Still, paddling for well over an hour with only a few yards of visibility and seeing nothing except each other was disconcerting. Our goals were fundamental: stay together at all costs, hold our compass bearing and listen carefully for fog horns, boat motors and crashing waves. We were very aware that losing someone in the fog during this long traverse would be potentially disastrous. On a couple of occasions we did hear what sounded like lobster boats laboring nearby, and noisy surf colliding with the shores of the Scabby Islands interrupted the silence after about an hour of paddling. We never saw the Scabby Islands although we must have passed within a quarter mile of them, but our bearing for Ram Island was dead on. This was a relief for me as I lack certitude in the GPS. An island profile in the mist is the stimulus therapy that relieves my doubts. Mindless meandering in the Gulf of Maine is very unappealing.

It was obvious when Ram Island appeared out of the fog that it was a unique place. A high narrow sliver of land, we found excellent tent sites at the top of an open knoll on the north end of the island. Had there been any visibility, I would have almost certainly enjoyed outstanding views from the marginal comfort of my now perpetually damp Hardwear tent. A rambunctious mink entertained us throughout our stay.

More dense fog and the need for additional long crossings greeted us the following morning. After what seemed to be an interminable wait for sufficient tide to launch, we experienced a relatively calm two mile paddle to Libby Islands. However, we weren’t so fortunate with our three mile traverse of outer Machias Bay to Cross Island. Strong incoming tidal currents brought the biggest waves and breaking swells, we had yet experienced. For about an hour, we paddled perpetually peering over our right shoulders trying to anticipate any dangerous exploding waves; simultaneously trying to keep our group together in the dense fog while maintaining our compass bearing. This was no easy task as our kayaks were constantly disappearing in the large swells and fighting the surging waves was a continual distraction. Just as we neared Northwest Head on Cross Island and expected relief, we encountered powerful waves and large breakers rolling up along the shore. Weaving between crashing surf for several hundred yards, we finally achieved respite in a lee north of the head. We were all ready for rest and sustenance.

The afternoon actually brought the tease of a few brief glimpses of sunshine as we navigated through Cross Island Narrows to the old Coast Guard Station on the northeastern tip of the island, where we topped off our water supply in the station well. Visibility was short-lived as we re-entered soupy fog as we passed Cape Wash Island, traversed outer Little Machias Bay and ran up the rocky coast past Great Head to Western Head on the south shore of Cutler Harbor.

Cutler Harbor had been the site of our most challenging seas on a previous trip, but at least we had visibility. We completed a short crossing in the fog to the southern end of Little River Island, where some in our group began to search for the island’s historic light house, while I watched waves rolling in just ahead. We were running late, tiring, had a potentially dangerous crossing ahead of us, didn’t know where we were camping and wouldn’t be able to see the light house in the fog if we found it. Severely lacking in shy genes, I think I said something to that effect.

After paddling a short distance through some moderately bumpy waves, the remainder of our traverse of Cutler Harbor was uneventful. Peering intently as we carefully navigated between rugged ledges extending out from shore, we caught our first glimpse of the cliffs of the Bold Coast.

More to come in Chapter Three; fog, finding a campsite, fog, cliffs and ledges, fog, West Quoddy Head, and more fog.

(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 more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.)

Plotting a Course to Shabbit Island - in the Fog

Chapter One
A strong argument can be made that I’ve spent most of my life in the fog, figuratively speaking. A recent sea kayak trip along the Down East coast of Maine was spent almost entirely in the fog, literally. Despite perpetually gloomy conditions, it was an interesting, challenging adventure and an enlightening experience for me. Resistant to techie toys all of my life, I acquired a new found respect for the GPS.

After leaving shuttle vehicles at the landing in the revitalized coastal community of Lubec in far eastern Maine, five of us began our journey at a camp on the western side of Tom Leighton Point in Milbridge, which extends out into Narraguagus Bay. Ken, the trip organizer, Bruce and Mike were in solo kayaks, while Brent and I were tandem in 22.5 foot Nootka; a lot of boat but there is never enough space to accommodate all the playthings, food and drink the two of us want to bring. Our plan was to traverse outer Pleasant and Western Bays, navigate around Great Wass Island and into the Town of Jonesport in Moosabec Reach, where we would resupply. From there, we would cross Chandler Bay, enter the Rogue Island archiplego in Englishman Bay, skirt the extreme periphery of Machias Bay and finish with a twenty mile jaunt up the rugged, scenic Bold Coast to Lubec, arguably the most challenging stretch of water on the coast of Maine.

The Bold Coast is an almost continuous expanse of cliffs and ragged rock formations jutting out from shore with only a handful of safe havens to land a kayak for rest or in an emergency. Adding to the undertaking are some of the most significant tidal changes and powerful currents to be found on the east coast of the United States. Sometimes there is fog, too.

After impatiently waiting for a sufficient tidal level to launch on our first day, we departed Tom Leighton point in rain, patchy fog and brisk offshore winds; conditions that would continue unabated throughout the day. Initially, we ran south for a quick visit to Bois Bubert Island then east to the northern tip of Pond Island. Here we began our first long, foggy exposed crossing, about two miles to Shipstern Island with wind and wave action from the northwest. Not surprisingly, the outside of Shipstern looks like a giant, granite ship’s stern. It was during this time that staying warm became a problem for me. The cold ocean water, rain and breezy conditions reduced my body temperature, plus I’m a cold weather weenie. By noon, I was thoroughly chilled and, despite experimenting with various protective clothing, I never completely warmed until I crawled into my much loved Hardwear tent many hours later.

After passing through Flint Island Narrows, we plotted and ran another foggy course two miles across Pleasant Bay to almost barren Norton Island. Passing south of Cape Split and through a group of small islands below Moose Neck, we sat in the rain and fog, contemplating our options for the night. Ken thought he remembered an abandoned camp on a small island a mile and half northeast, which might provide us some protection from the rain without putting up tarps. Shelter seemed like a good idea, so we set a compass bearing with the GPS and embarked in search of warmth on Shabbit Island.

It was at that moment that the rudder on our tandem kayak broke. While use of a rudder is generally discretionary with solo kayaks, it’s almost essential to safely operate a two person kayak. As we struggled to Shabbit with me tentatively using my kayak paddle as a rudder, I realized we had to repair it if we were to navigate the big waves and squirrely currents we would almost certainly encounter in the coming days.

The primitive shelter we found on Shabbit Island, affectionately called Shabbit Lodge (and some other less endearing names), left much to be desired. A ramshackle, collapsing structure with all windows broken and a rotting wooden frame, the interior was attractively decorated with torn mattresses, rubbish from bygone years and strewn with animal scat. But, it had one redeeming feature, almost dry. Holding our noses, we embraced refuge from the elements, set up a makeshift kitchen area and changed into dry clothes. Later, when the rain subsided to a steady drizzle, we erected our tents and true warmth was finally achieved. It’s difficult to describe the pleasure one can derive when comfortably ensconced in a toasty tent.

We awoke to a glorious day of sun and gentle winds from the west, a tailwind no less, the best of all worlds for sea kayaking. Also, perfect conditions for drying our paddling clothes and gear, and most importantly rudder repair.

Getting a late, leisurely start, we had unlimited visibility; withdrawal time for those suffering from GPS addiction. As we approached the western shore of Great Wass Island, I glanced back at prominent Cadillac Mountain on Mount Desert Island, visualizing the crowds of hikers and tourists who were undoubtedly exploring the summit. After lunch on a beach in a tiny cove, plans for our exploration of outer Great Wass were made. We decided to investigate The Pond, a tidal inlet near the southeast tip of the island, paddle around the remainder of the exposed south end of the island while enjoying the spectacular cliffs and then up the east shore to Jonesport, possibly visiting Mistake Island on the way.

Plans can change quickly when sea kayaking. A relaxed exploration turned into a survival paddle as we encountered large swells and breaking surf at the southeast extreme of the island, Pond Point. Carefully negotiating between exploding waves, we turned the point and catapulted out into a turbulent world of large, unpredictable swells. Already, the solo boats were falling behind us as the tumultuous conditions required steady, aggressive paddling to maintain stability. Glancing into The Pond, the entrance was engulfed with erupting waves; entering would be risky and exiting near impossible. I yelled an announcement to Ken and Brent, “I won’t be visiting The Pond today.” Receiving no disagreement, we propelled our craft further out into the choppy seas, to distance ourselves from the rocky shore.

In just a few minutes, the solo boats had dropped far behind and out of sight in the large swells. Brent and I would be going it alone until the conditions moderated. I couldn’t help thinking, “I sure hope the rudder repair holds.” As we approached the eastern head of the island, breaking surf could be seen all along the eastern shore and extending out towards Mistake Island. Brent and I quickly agreed that Mistake Island would be a big mistake for us. We would try to navigate up into Mudhole Channel picking our way around and through the most challenging obstacles. Forgoing what appeared to be a window of opportunity close to the east shore of Great Wass, we paddled for almost another mile and then turned north a little before reaching Freeman Rock at the head of the channel. It was a good choice for us as the swells diminished after about another half mile of choppy seas and we fortuitously spotted our companions for the first time in about 30 minutes; just as we arrived at a narrow passage near Little Cape Point.

After breathing a collective sigh of relief, we kayaked north through Eastern Bay to the picturesque fishing village of Jonesport. Here, additional food and water supplies were waiting at the home of friends Don and Sandra. Don, a lobster fisherman, announced that the rough seas we had encountered on outer Great Wass were the result of a tropical storm that was churning up waters far out in the Atlantic. Good news, the storm would pass that night and conditions would moderate.

We paddled another mile to Kelley Point Campground, where Brent’s sister-in-law, Karen, had reserved a beautiful site on a point near the breakwater. She would paddle with us for a few miles the following day.

Morning brought calm conditions, but a thick, soupy fog with just about zero visibility. After waiting for a burn off that never occurred, we concluded the GPS addicts would get their fix this day. Unbeknownst to us, this would be our karma for the remainder of the trip. After paddling around Kelley Point, we used GPS and compass to island hop across Chandler Bay to Ballast Island and then into the Thorofare between Rogue Island and Little and Great Spruce Islands. The long beach on Rogue Island at the top of Rogue Harbor provided an idyllic, but foggy, location for lunch. We left Karen at the eastern end of Rogue Island to follow her GPS waypoints back, while we headed east to Halifax Island and beyond to Lubec; in the fog, of course!

More to come in Chapter Two; fog, Ram Island, fog, Cross Island, fog, Bold Coast, and even more fog.

(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 more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.))

River Carnage on Canada Falls

Canada Falls is perhaps the best whitewater run in Maine. A short four mile stretch on the South Branch of the Penobscot River located in the northwestern part of the state near the Province of Quebec border. It’s replete with steep rapids, a waterfall and precipitous, technical drops. Rated Class V by the American Whitewater Association, in reality it’s basically a Class IV creek-like run with a couple of sections that are a little more difficult at some water levels.

Recently, five boaters from the Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society assembled at the takeout near historic Pittston Farm to challenge the river on a scheduled dam release. We were a diverse group of whitewater boaters and personalities; consisting of The Eggman in a solo canoe, The Waterman and his Grandson in a shredder (a two person inflatable boat propelled with canoe paddles), and me and the Trip Leader, Greg, both in kayaks. Our ages ranged from 17 to 67 with the four “adults” in the group having shared scores of whitewater escapades. Young enough to be my son and, in fact, good friends with my son, Greg has been a capable paddling companion on some of the most substantial steep creeks I’ve paddled in recent years.

A trip on Canada Falls begins with a steady diet of Class III/IV rapids; most containing horizon lines that make boat scouting problematic. A stretch called The Gorge being the steepest, longest and most difficult. After a couple of easier rapids, we arrived at The Slide, a long, steep, shallow sloping ledge with a total vertical drop of about 20 feet into a mammoth, exploding foam pile with a frothy, turbulent washout. Ledges lurk just below the water surface in rough, choppy water making it a less than pleasant place to be upside down or out of your boat. It was while scouting The Slide that we realized the water level was much higher than the 600 cfs predicted. I always get out and scout The Slide, then ask myself, “Why, I know I’m going to run it anyways?” It’s scary to look at and my game plan is always the same; paddle like hell down the slide, reach up over the foam pile, hold a high brace and pray that I don’t get slammed onto the ledges upside down. In fact, I’ve just described my run, except I held my brace, stayed upright and rocketed through the entire rapid in about three seconds. Piece of Cake, yeah sure, only when it works!

None of my companions were that fortunate. Greg was stopped dead by the foam pile, unceremoniously flipped and rode the remainder of the rapid upside down before rolling in the pool below. The Eggman styled the first half, but the violent water below the foam pile tossed him on his side; he couldn’t hold a low brace or roll – Swimmer Number One. Grandson and The Waterman were even less favored as the exploding wave stood their rubber vessel straight up in the air, ejecting both of them backwards into the churning, violent surf – Swimmers Number Two and Three. After reuniting boats and bodies, we continued downstream much more humbled.

The next significant river obstacle is Cabin Falls, a steep, technical drop with a wide, keeper hydraulic hole at the bottom. Only a few weeks ago, a friend accidentally had an extended visit in the hole and I was truly worried we might lose her. She and her boat had a long, scary ordeal mostly underwater; whenever she surfaced and struggled to swim out, the backwash sucked her back under. Finally, she was able to grasp the bow of a kayak next to the hole and barely escaped. Greg and I ran our preferred route down the right side of Cabin Falls into an eddy on river right just above the hole, ferried on a surfing wave to river left and skirted the nasty keeper extreme left. The shredder had an errant itinerary trying to run the entire rapid tight left. Instead they flushed into the wave train, propelling them directly into the waiting hydraulic. Literally locked in for what seemed to be several minutes, they held exhausting downstream braces almost submerged in the surf while we desperately made futile attempts to pull them out with throw bags. Finally, they flipped and Grandson disappeared into the hole for another 30 seconds before washing out, clutching a rock and gasping for air. “Welcome to the fickle world of whitewater, Grandson,” I thought to myself. The Eggman decided he’s seen enough scrambled entertainment for one day and took the “chicken route” on river left, dragging his boat over the ledges. This time, reuniting boats, bodies and gear was more complicated as two shredder paddles had disappeared downriver. Using their remaining spare paddle, Team Shredder tip toed along until I found one paddle just above the next set of difficult rapids, Upper and Lower Split Decision. Shortly after, Eggman found the third in an eddy on river left.

Fortunately, we’d seen the end of the river carnage as we all had good runs through the remaining rapids. We would live to paddle Canada Falls another day.

(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 more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.)

My good friend Pierre, a Merchant Mariner in a previous life, is overly fond of saying that wind is the most difficult aspect of weather to forecast. The prediction for our Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society trip to the Muscle Ridge Islands was offshore winds of 5 to 8 knots in the morning changing to westerly in the afternoon. I was trip leader for a group of nine kayaking Chowder Heads and it portended to be an almost perfect day for sea kayak exploration off the coast of Maine.

An early variation of Mussel, the Muscle Ridge Islands are located from 2 to 5 miles off the shore of mid-coast Maine in southern Penobscot Bay and one of Maine’s premiere sea kayaking destinations. From Lucia Beach (I’m too old school to call it by its present name, Birch Point State Park), Otter Island is closest, about 2 miles out. Departing with a brisk tailwind, we passed Otter in less than a half hour and then explored an old granite quarry on nearby High Island. Many of Maine’s coastal islands were heavily quarried when that industry flourished about a century ago. The islands were a convenient source of gigantic granite blocks, which were transported by ship to build structures in cities like Boston, New York and Washington, D.C. Once a bustling community with scores of workers, now just a few remnants of that busy time remain on High Island; water filled quarry, rusted equipment and a granite loading dock. Still, it is an intriguing place to investigate.

The offshore breezes increased in intensity from the north as we navigated between several small islets and then enjoyed gentle swells protected from the wind on the outside of Andrews Island, the largest and one of the most distant of this spectacular island paradise. Stopping at a small beach on the western end of Andrews for lunch, we studied ocean charts and discussed options for our return. Since the offshore winds were still worsening, we decided to abort our original plan to paddle to the western end of the archipelago and ride the anticipated westerly back to Lucia Beach. Instead, we would island hop back to Otter Island, minimizing our exposure to direct headwinds until we made the final two mile push in open water.

Departing Andrews, we paddled through a narrow, scenic gut on Hewlett Island and labored northeast past Dix Island to Otter in heavy winds. While resting in the lee of Otter, one member of our group obtained a new, improved forecast calling for headwinds gusting in excess of 30 miles per hour for our two mile exposed channel crossing. Shortly after leaving the calm of Otter, we encountered such powerful and unrelenting winds that one member was unable to continue. Already spread out by the gusting, blustery winds, I was unable to communicate with the entire group. Since two strong paddlers were willing to provide safety and return to Otter, I decided to follow the remaining five paddlers across Muscle Ridge Channel to shore. Making tough decisions like this is why volunteer trip leaders get paid the big bucks. It’s also why we require trip participants to sign a liability waiver.

Staying with the remaining paddlers proved an impossible task. One kayaker fell behind immediately while two others, both strong experienced boaters were forced off course to the east. I quickly realized that turning my boat sideways to check on other paddlers risked being blown over; and recognized that my companions were faced with a similar dilemma. My only alternative was to follow two remaining paddlers who were relatively close and try not to get too far ahead of the straggler. In short, this was a potentially dangerous situation where it would be extremely difficult to assist or rescue a capsized paddler. Worse, there were periods lasting upwards of a minute or more when gusts were so severe it literally brought us to a standstill. Somehow, we all persevered for over one and a half hours before reaching the safety and shelter of the beach. A very considerate caretaker on Otter Island transported our stranded participant to shore and the other two were able to paddle back about an hour later. One member of the group cheerfully summed up the trip stating, “This was the worst day of my life.”

A most excellent cookout was hosted at the home of two survivors in nearby Owls Head. Many war stories were told and the Trip Coordinator quietly slipped out early.

In retrospect, this trip was instructive in many ways. Since we had the ability to obtain frequent weather forecasts, we should have gotten earlier updates. A better plan for staying together should have been formulated before we left Otter Island. Although it would have been more authoritative than I prefer and potentially embarrassing to some trip participants, I should have insisted that the strongest members remain as close as possible and preferably behind the weakest paddlers in the group. The quickness with which we had become impossibly separated just minutes after leaving Otter was an eye opening experience for me. Indicative of the seriousness of our situation, a kayaking fatality occurred due to the heavy winds in nearby Frenchman Bay that same day. We were fortunate that we had lessons learned without paying a tragic price.

(Ron Chase is an avid four season outdoorsman, sometimes Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society Trip Coordinator and freelance writer, who co-authored the mountain guidebook, Mountains for Mortals – New England. Visit his website at www.ronchaseoutdoors.com for more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.

Ten Chowderheads on Bonaventure River Photo: Steve Titcomb

Located on the Gaspe Peninsula in eastern Quebec, the Bonaventure River flows south from Lac Bonaventure in the Chic Choc Mountains to Chaleur Bay in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.  The 80 mile river flows through a remote uninhabited region. In typical years, it is only passable for a short time during and just after snow melt.  A local outfitter estimates that about 100 people a year complete the entire trip.  

Recently, a group of ten Chowderheads from the Penobscot Paddle and Chowder Society assembled at the CIME Campground in the town of Bonaventure intent on challenging the elusive river.  Since it was a first descent for everyone in the group, questions about potential obstacles and hazards on the trip were abundant.  CIME employees, who would be shuttling our group and boats to Lac Bonaventure, did little to minimize our sense of trepidation; vividly detailing a recent river disaster and the resulting helicopter rescue.  Warning of difficult rapids and dangerous, life-threatening logjams, CIME required us to sign comprehensive liability waivers before they would agree to run the shuttle. “No one allowed to sue anyone” sounded almost un-American, but we were in Canada and had no choice but acquiesce or return home riverless.  Leave no river behind is my motto.

The shuttle to Lac Bonaventure with our tort resistant host was anything but boring.  After paralleling the scenic Cascapedia River tumbling for many miles through the rugged peaks of the Chic Choc Mountains that surrounded us, we turned east onto a good gravel road and almost immediately startled a cow moose then a large black bear.  The final few miles was a continuous series of stream crossings and badly rutted washouts with overhanging trees that made passage for our bus and boat trailer near impossible.  Dragging branches and various other forms of vegetation, we finally arrived at the put-in absent the radio antenna but all boats present and accounted for.

Ours was a diverse paddling group; two tandem canoes, four solo canoes, an expedition kayak and I paddled an old school, high volume whitewater kayak called a T Canyon.  Contrary to a popular theme on the trip, I did not choose the T Canyon to avoid paddling a heavy boat loaded with gear.  Recent knee surgery made it impossible for me to kneel in a canoe and friend Bruce generously offered to paddle my sixteen foot Dagger Dimension canoe, affectionately called Dimentia, with most our combined gear while I stuffed a few remaining bags in the T Canyon.  I owe Bruce big time!

Day one was logjam day.  After paddling scenic Lac Bonaventure, a short narrow section of easy rapids and then Petit Lac Bonaventure, we navigated through a continuous stretch of moderately difficult whitewater.  At the end, the first menacing logjam was confronted.  Actually, we did not find them life threatening, merely a nuisance.  However, if one was to accidentally run up against a logjam and flip upside down, taking a deep breath first would be advisable, because it would probably be an eternity before there was another opportunity.  After dragging boats, gear and people over logs, under alders and through the woods while wading in water sometimes chest deep for a couple of hours, the last of the major logjams was behind us.  The sissified old guy in the little kayak drew a pass on wading due to his tender knee.  The star of our group was the Eggman, who was usually first out of his boat and in the water, ensuring that others were “over easy.” A beautiful open campsite with picturesque views of the pristine valley was the reward for our labors.  

Whitewater was on the menu for the following two days.  Most of the more complex, demanding rapids on the Bonaventure are condensed into a ten mile stretch of river called The Gorge.  While none are more than Class III in difficulty, several present a challenge for gear laden boats.  Our group did not experience any problems; however, some lined their boats down the shore of two of the more onerous drops.  In the middle of The Gorge is arguably the best campsite on the river.  Facing a waterfall at the end of a stream that enters on the opposite shore, the river gods have benevolently placed a convenient surfing wave directly in front.   The longest, most technical rapid is just below, affording our group the opportunity to thoroughly scout it the day before, guaranteeing a sleepless night for some.   We had heavy rains that night, the only bad weather we experienced on the entire trip. 

The final three days of our expedition was a continuum of easy rapids in an ever widening, bigger volume river.  In the middle of the trip we encountered the only other paddlers we were to meet during our five day trip.  Two in the party were old paddling friends from nearly twenty years ago.  The whitewater paddling community is truly a small one. 

The Bonaventure had all of the elements of a great whitewater adventure.  High water, near perfect weather, outstanding views, great friends and no black flies!

Our return to the United States was a less gratifying experience.  Crossing the border at Van Buren, Maine, U.S. Customs determined that a retired IRS Agent and a retired school teacher were likely threats to homeland security.   A more that two hour search of our boats and wet river gear failed to turn up weapons of mass destruction.  Desperate to justify this waste of the taxpayer’s time and money, they confiscated an outdated antibiotics prescription from my first aid kit and another outdated prescription from my traveling companion, a former heart attack victim.  As a general rule, I avoid the use of crude street language in print.  However, what transpired that day was unmitigated bureaucratic chicken shit.  Shame on Homeland Insecurity!  Shame on U.S. Customs!   And, shame on the unprofessional, out of control employees of the Van Buren, Maine, Customs Office!

(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 more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.)

Texas visited, we journeyed east in search of trails and rivers past. Our first stretch of bad weather in weeks prevented a much anticipated cycle on Tammany Trace Bike Trail in Louisiana. A great ride through rural bayou country, missing it was a serious disappointment as friends reported the trail had finally recovered from Hurricane Katrina. Continuing on to Hattiesburg, Mississippi, we rode a section of forty mile Long Leaf Trace Trail which travels through a picturesque, pastoral region in the southern central part of the state. Our last visit to Long Leaf had been during an epic wrestling match waged between me and an inflammatory tooth. I was unceremoniously pinned by the malignant premolar and an emergency root canal was required. Appropriately, a fellow traveler on Long Leaf volunteered a dental referral that salvaged the trip and a most important bicuspid.

Next stop on our journey was the home of paddling mentors John and Tee near the Chattooga River in northeastern Georgia. Great friends and paddling companions for nearly twenty-five years, we first met John and Tee on Maine’s Dead River in the late eighties. Back then, our ten year old son Adam and I paddled a tandem canoe while Nancy was often solo. John and Tee were an exceptional canoeing team with a wealth of experience. In the ensuing years, we shared whitewater adventures in Quebec, Costa Rica, on the Salmon River in Idaho and many more. Our most remarkable and exciting river exploit was when John, friend Doug and I paddled solo canoes down the Colorado River on a fourteen day trip through the entire Grand Canyon. John and Tee are kindred spirits.

A visit to John and Tee’s mountain top home is a quasi-military experience. Tee rules her domain like a battle hardened boot camp drill instructor. Men are tolerated only if they know their place; out of her way. Her kitchen is a sacred shrine limited to a very select few women who meet cryptic standards known only to them. John and I have spent many evenings timidly peering into her culinary command post from the adjoining dining area. A gourmet cook extraordinaire, every dish Tee prepares is exceptional. Health conscious and sometimes parsimonious, her ice cream dessert portions are notoriously miniscule, once leading me to ask the provocative, ill-advised question, “What’s the point?” An icy stare can inflict pain.

On the first day of our visit, we joined a small group that hiked a section of the Appalachian Trail beginning in northern Georgia and crossing the border into North Carolina near a scenic location called “Sitting Tree.” Reaching the trailhead on an arguably washed out mountain road was not an experience for the faint of heart. I would rate it wicked scary backcountry driving. Conversely, the scenic trek was about a six mile out-and-back gentle, ridge hike.

One of America’s pre-eminent whitewater rivers, where much of the classic adventure movie Deliverance was filmed, the Chattooga is always challenging and exciting at any water level; thoroughly intimidating at high water. The most difficult part of the river is the final few miles, called Section IV. My first two descents of Section IV were near disastrous for me. The Appalachian Whitewater guidebook rates Section IV as Class III-V (VI). Anything over 2.0 feet on the gauge is considered high and more difficult. Almost twenty years ago, I was part of a misguided group of Mainiacs that decided 2.5 was an eminently appropriate level for a first descent. Paddling the only canoe in the group, I was swept through Crack in the Rock, site of several fatalities, while attempting to rescue my late, great friend, Bill Kaiser. A few years later, this time paddling a kayak but again at 2.5 on the gauge, a descent of precipitous Sock-Em-Dog Falls, the last Class V rapid in the renowned Five Falls sector, ended with a very untimely plunge completely under a poorly situated commercial raft. An unpleasant experience as air and visibility were lacking under the raft. Bruised but otherwise unscathed on both occasions, Section IV commands my respect.

Lacking other boating companions, John and I decided to paddle a slightly more benign Section Three and a Half of the Chattooga the following day. Several years ago when a Maine whitewater contingent was paddling in the area, son Adam and friend Kyle declined an invitation from John and me to paddle Three and a Half because it was “too boring.” This boring five mile stretch of water has Class V Bull Sluice Falls, a couple of solid Class IV rapids and ends with Woodall Shoals, a Class V drop that has claimed lives. Youth is wasted on the young.

The following day, a large group assembled to challenge Section IV at a near perfect medium water level; 1.5 on the gauge. Our group consisted of the nearby Clemson College paddling crowd, John, his son Ian, friend Evi and I. A recent cancer survivor, Evi, age 71, is a serious piece of work. The astonishment and respect this stately, grandmotherly lady evokes from young, extreme hair boaters and amazed onlookers when paddling Class V rapids is worth the price of admission. She backs down from almost nothing and kayaks just about everything with aplomb. Early on, Ian led us through an attenuated passage under two low hanging rocks in a rapid called Screaming Left Turn. Momentarily pinning in the narrow, enclosed channel, Evi flipped and swam, tumbling through a frothy boulder garden. Unperturbed, she was quickly back in her kayak and focused on the river. I should be so tough.

The entire group had successful runs at Woodall Shoals, where several dared challenge the “sporting route” next to a nasty hydraulic that has a boat eater reputation. We navigated over vertical, tricky Seven Foot Falls, past Deliverance Rock (site of many scenes from the movie Deliverance) and through Ravens Chute Falls, a short, steep technical drop.

Few consider Five Falls boring. It begins with Entrance Rapid, a steep, boulder-strewn cataract that culminates with a difficult drop between two large, jagged rocks. Corkscrew is next and looks like its name, an abrupt, tight, gnarly descent that twists circuitously amongst a staircase of rocks and strategically placed holes. Some in our group portaged Corkscrew and one member had a rather unpleasant swim that required a quick rescue just above Crack in the Rock Falls, next on our dance card. Crack in the Rock actually consists of three distinct, narrow slots averaging about three feet in width where the water plunges down between four huge boulders. At one time or another, each crack has been the final resting place for an unfortunate boater. They’re generally not permanent resting places as the bodies usually turn up during periods of low water. Depending on what debris has recently accumulated in the holes at the bottom of the cracks, one, some or none are safe to run. Ian announced that center crack was safe on this day and disappeared into the murky fissure. Throwing common sense to the wind,  I tucked my paddle tight to the kayak, penetrated the dark chasm and nosedived deep into a hydraulic hole at the bottom. Relieved, I found myself upright and safe in a small pool below. Jawbone Falls begins immediately. A complex multi-stage drop requiring precise ferries and must catch eddies. Avoiding a swim at Jawbone is essential as water funnels through a large hole in an inconvenient rock, called Hydro-electric, and the rapid continues directly into the final Class V falls, Sock-Em-Dog. Large boulders block a view of the vertical fall at the end of Sock-Em-Dog, so the approach is something of a wish and a prayer for unfamiliar paddlers. John cautioned that I should be prepared for the current to push me hard left just before the final drop and he was dead on right. Ill prepared for the strength of the flow, I was shoved violently left, tumbling directly onto a boulder at the bottom. The river gods were compassionate on this day as I bounced off and landed upright. However, this bad canine claimed a couple of swimmers in our group, including the indefatigable Evi.

The Chattooga was the last adventure on our trip from Maine to the Pacific and back. During our winter travels, we climbed about a dozen mountains, hiked and biked a multitude of trails and finished with whitewater on the famed Chattooga. But the adventures were secondary; it was the kindred spirits along the way that made the trip truly memorable.

(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 more information on his guidebook and other outdoor adventures.)