To the Logjam

It is a sunny Sunday - a perfect day for everyone who has not seen their kayak in the last year to put it in the water. The big water will be overrun with the Mai Tai navy.  S wants to go canoeing and I have to get slightly creative - shade would be nice, but better would be a river with no motorboats.

We put in on the Lieutenant River, at the usual spot with no issues other than Mr. Doofus who, most likely being a rookie, hasn't figured out that he shouldn't block the access with his car.  He asks me if I need help, as I carry the canoe from the far end of the parking area (I don't), and slip past his car, and set the canoe down in the water next to his rear bumper. "He will learn our ways," unless he drowns first.

We head up river, and the pleasant aspects of this route return from my memory. The boundaries are a little bit of cliffs and a lot of cattails. We pass a couple kayakers on the way up, but considering the weather, I would expect more people.  

The tide is up and Boulder Swamp is easy with all except the largest boulders submerged.  It takes me a few minutes, but I finally locate the Eagle nest.  It is quiet and hard to see when the trees are leafed out.  The parental units are definitely not up there, but I can't see well enough to determine if any young are at home.  We continue up the ever narrowing river.  
S asks, "How far are we going?" 
"To the blocking log jam."
This is only two or three hundred yards of narrow forested river.  A couple miles of this would be nice.

We return to the Boulder Swamp and take the other fork that enters.  Some maps call it the Lieutenant River, but I think they are in error.  The narrow section we were in is the actual river, running down from Rogers Lake.  Anyway, it is a meander through the cattails until it peters out.

We have a headwind on the return, but with the warm day the cooling breeze is well worth the extra effort. We have successfully dodged the barbarian horde, again.

Doing the Maze All Proper

The sky is overcast, the bottom of the clouds just high enough to not be fog.  It is calm and about 70F, there is a very light drizzle every so often.  The Mai Tai Navy will not leave port in such inclement weather and it is common knowledge that a jet ski engine will never fire up under such conditions.  The twice-a-summer plastic kayak drivers huddle in fear in their stately hovels at the thought of getting lost.  I have the marsh to myself.

 

The tide has been coming in for about 2 hours. It is still quite low and the current is not bad, yet.  I have limited choices in the marsh until the water rises some.  There are many Great and Snowy Egrets working the edge of the water near the top of the marsh.  I head up Beaver Brook, not having been in there at low tide for some time.  It is quiet and I am hemmed in by two or three feet of pre-peat banks topped by tall grasses and reeds.  I flush several Yellow Crowned Night Herons.  When I come back out, the water has risen enough to paddle the eastern channel to the lower end of the marsh.

I have no particular distance or place to reach today.  I wander the channels of the middle marsh as the water comes up.  Following a channel to a dead end, I back out and find the water a few inches higher, and the number of possible routes increased.  I eventually get over to Nell's Channel and paddle into the lower entrance of the maze.  After a couple hundred yards of known channels, I start exploring. Everything is going to dead ends - winding channels ending in small ponds with no exits.  I backtrack and try another unknown.  By the time I decide to head out, I have trouble getting back on track.  After dozens of forks and bends, the ones I need to recognize don't stand out.  Finally, I find the long deadfall that blocks one of the better channels. It is a rare and important landmark, but I am on the wrong side of it.  On the second attempt, I find a set of channels leading to the other side.  From that point it is fairly simple (for me) to get to the exit.  I have spent the long part of an hour in the maze and most of that time I was bewildered.  I keep thinking that the route finding will get easier, but it doesn't.  Maze is the correct word for this spot. 

I head back out after three hours of paddling.  I have not seen anyone else in the marsh the whole time.

Surrounded by Significance

When I find a good place to canoe, I most often return there repeatedly. In part, this is to experience the area under different conditions and in various times of the year.  But, it is also to give me a chance to explore the surroundings and research features that I can see from the water.  

I set out for Rocky Hill where there is a nice stretch of the Connecticut River that I paddle a few times each year. But, I change my mind while on the drive and divert to the Salmon River, just because I find it a comfortable place to be.  I found this spot after crossing the Connecticut River from Haddam and being confronted with an absurd number of U.S. Government No Trespassing signs - about one on every third tree along the river bank.  It turned out to be the former site of a nuclear power plant, which had been removed prior to my moving to the area. Coming back and entering from the better located launch at the bottom of Salmon Cove, I found a large area of undeveloped forest land in an area that is prime property for the various concoctions of the infamous Mr. and Mrs. Moneybags.  More research turned up the fact that the spent nuclear fuel rods are stored onsite, but well out of view.  The entirety of the power plant property and some former private property remains as a rare no trespassing National Wildlife Refuge. Reading one day about Connecticut archaeology, I discovered that Dibble Creek, which tumbles, or dribbles, into the cove, if you know where to look, was the site of a hunting camp dating to 3000-6000 years ago. This same reading uncovered Venture Smith.  Smith's farm is on top of the hill overlooking the Salmon River as it enters the cove.  It is about a 100 acres. The interesting part of the story is that Venture Smith was captured in Africa in the 1730's and brought to America as a slave, eventually ending up in Stonington, CT.  His master allowed him to work odd jobs in his spare time to earn money, which he used to buy his own freedom.  He then set about farming and fishing until he could buy the freedom of his wife and children, after which he bought and began farming and fishing the land I paddle under.  His grave is in a nearby churchyard cemetery.  

The Moodus Beaver Dam

I end up talking too long to the State safety person - the state has a team of summer job employees that drive around to different state launches to check and educate people about such things as PFD's.  They're always interesting and pleasant to talk to and we both have some stories to trade. A second safety person shows up - she is a budding bird watcher, so I tip her off on some good places that I know of.  Then, I am in the water,

The Dibble Creek Dam

I head up the cove and into the Moodus River.  The lowest beaver dam is out of the water about 3 inches - I can slip over it without getting out of the canoe.  The next beaver dam, which is not maintained anymore, is submerged.  I turn back at the tight bend below Johnsonville, the wade to get by the gravel bar not being worth the effort for the last 200 yards below the old Johnsoville Dam.  Johnsonville is the lowest of 13 yarn mills that were on the Moodus.  I'm glad to be coming back out as the greenhead flies are excited.  They are a biting fly, although not as voracious or numerous as the black flies that NE canoeists are familiar with (I've never seen black flies in Connecticut).

The wind has come up, so it is a bit of work getting back down the cove.  I stop briefly at the bay below Dibble Creek.  There is an old beaver dam here that can be crossed at high water - actually, you can cross it anytime, but the other side of it is much too shallow except at high water.  Anyway, it looks nothing like a dam today as it is fully vegetated and camouflaged with shrubs and saplings - that's how I know it to be an old dam. 

From there, I head out.  It was not just a canoe trip, but a day out surrounded by and connected to a landscape of significance. 

A Day Like Ice Cream

It's been a busy and hot week - art opening, panel discussion, a closing reception, and then three 90F+ days in row.  Today, I hang some art and still have time for a short afternoon paddle.  The temperature has dropped overnight to the low 70's, and stayed there - a drop of 20F overnight.  It feels positively humane. On top of that, it is overcast with a 10mph east wind.

I put in about an hour after a very high tide peak.  Having been in the marsh quite often on recent trips, I cut across the river and head to the quad islands.  The current is already zippy.   

I head up between Carting and Peacock Islands.  The channel is 50 feet wide with the tide up.  At low tide, it is not passable.  I spot some Great Egrets, Yellow Crowned Night Herons, Red Wing Blackbirds and I hear a good number of Marsh Wrens back a few feet in the weeds.  

Out of the many times I've been here, my trips probably never coincided with this timing of the tide.  I just don't remember having such a stiff current.  I ferry over to Long Island, then Ferry from there to Pope's Flat. The current might be about 3mph, which is my distance cruising speed with this canoe. From the tip of Pope's, I head the rest of the way across the river.  I didn't expect it, but the current is slower over this stretch, which is also the main boat channel. 

I head up, side track to explore a channel, which turns out to be a backwater.  Then, I continue up and across to the Peck's Mill site, and return through the islands by the west channel around Peacock Island. 

Heron Yoga

I put in about 7am, the heat of the coming day making an early start advantageous.  One of Dante's circles of Hell is a calm, sunny, humid 95F canoe trip with mosquitoes.  It's not an inner circle, but it is there, for sure.

The tide is halfway in and I paddle against a current down to marsh.  It is calm and humid but still not much more than 80F.  Even so, a bubble of warmth envelopes me if I stop moving.

I head down Nell's Channel.  Quite a few Great Egrets on either side of the channel at the top of the marsh.  As I continue, I find Yellow Crowned Night Herons.  The Willets are laying low, but I hear their calls from time to time.

The tide is bringing in a trash stream of mostly aluminum cans.  It's only ten or twelve items, which I collect.  All of the cans have plant material inside - they weren't tossed in over the weekend.

I try the Nell's Island maze from the lower end.  On my last trip I passed through in the downriver direction, taking a circuitous side channel that exited at the side of the main lower entrance.  I did not notice on that last trip that there were at least three other channels.  I try a couple of them, but they dead end.  It's too warm to be messing about with this.  It's probably best to repeat the route and pay more attention... on a later day.

I head back up Nell's.  As I exit the marsh, I find a Yellow Crowned Night Heron doing yoga, or maybe just drying the underside of its wings.    

 

Questions

The fog has lifted, but it is still overcast and humid.  I put in at Pond Brook and head downriver, crossing to the far side until I get to the dam where I cross back over and return.  It is very quiet and very still. 

Tomorrow, I will be on a panel talk about forests.  I think about things to say.  I might not say them, but I will be prepared.

I keep going out (canoeing and hiking) because I have questions. But what really keeps me going is that I don't know what many of the questions are. 

Fog

It is foggy and fairly calm with an occasional light drizzle. I start out late in the day with the tide still rising for two more hours.

 It's hard to pass up a chance to paddle in the fog.  The visibility is something between a 1/4 mile and a 1/2 mile.  Finding my way in the marsh is not a problem. The beauty of the fog is that all of the various man-made structures and buildings disappear from view. 

I stay in the east half of the marsh, weaving through narrower channels that I haven't been in recently.  i can't paddle more than a hundred yards without seeing a Yellow-Crowned Night Heron.  Also in the area are a good number of Great Egrets and I flush a couple dozen Mallards, 

Housatonic Two

I put in at Indian Well and head up river.  This section of the Housatonic is a reservoir, held back by a 150 year old dam that lies about a mile and half downstream.  The old reservoir is narrow and just over 5 miles long. There is a steady flow of water that is good enough to keep the water fairly clean and free of the algae blooms that haunt the next stretch up from here.

A mile out, I am surprised by a Black Crowned Night Heron that watches me from the water's edge.  It flushes when I fumble with my camera, but it circles around seemingly waiting for me to leave the area.  I think it will return to the same spot when I am one or two hundred yards away.

I find the current at the Shelf to be easy.  The Shelf can be impossible to get past when the water is higher or when there is more water coming through the upstream dam. The Shelf is a bedrock ledge that runs all the way across the river.  At this water level, I am pretty sure one could wade the river.

I make it up to the minor rapids below the dam, and pass through it with reasonable ease.  Getting upstream is a matter of hopping several eddies while not grounding out on submerged rocks.  This rapids was reconfigured by last year's flash floods.  There was a ravine on river left that I did not know about - well, I knew there was a valley there, but not that it ever ran with water. The rush of water coming down the ravine blew out the road and dumped a large amount rocks and gravels in the river.

I paddle up as far as a landslide on river-right, also from last year's storm.  I turn and head back.  The wind has come up and while it doesn't slow me down too much, if I pause my paddling, I quickly come to a halt. I find the Black Crowned Heron exactly where I first saw it.  Again, my camera is not ready.

Mapping Marshes and the Maze

I head out on a rising mid-tide with about 3 hours til peak.  It is under 70F, calm, and overcast - all in all, a pleasant day for canoeing.

I head into the Nell's Island maze, after looking around to make sure that no one is watching - there are rewards for exploring, and I think that the maze counts as one.  My first trips in here were at high tide.  I had been convinced, because the island is a named feature on the maps, that Nell's Island was something like an "island".  It is in fact, no more of an island than any other part of the marsh and the reason for potting it at all was probably because the navigable channel of the Housatonic is on the islands west side. 

At high tide, I found a path of open water channels that would lead me from one end of the so-called island to the other.  More recently, I started entering the maze during a rising mid tide.  I got lost.  The wider and straighter channels that I had used at high tide turned out to be shallow and not passable at mid tide.  Instead of backing out, I tried the remaining narrow and very twisty channels, which turned out to be deeper and to link together into another route through the "island".  It was a lot of fun.

The oldest maps of the area (in a usable scale for canoeing) date to ca 1850.  That map is one of a series of town maps for New England. That map does show Nell's Island, but not the rest of the marsh.  While trying to figure out what the marsh might have looked like, I had to consider what the purpose of that map was.  It is quite accurate as far as roads and basic shorelines, and it has the houses and names of homeowners.  It does not show property boundaries and topographic information is limited to hachures - a cartographic shading method to show hills.  It seems that the main purpose of the map is to be an 1850 "telephone" book if you want - in 1850, if you wanted to talk to John Smith, you had to go find him.

The first government topographic maps are from about 1890.  These detailed maps were produced by old fashioned on-the-ground surveying, a laborious process performed without the benefit of  aerial views of any sort. Nell's Island appears on this first topo just as it appears in the 1850 town map...suspiciously so.  If you study most any of the 1890's topos enough, you will find errors where surveyors just didn't go.

The next topo map of the marsh is 1951.  Overlaying this map on the most modern maps shows very minor differences. The detail of the marsh is impressive. The 1951 map benefits from aerial surveys that were performed starting in the 1930's.  

Having seen this jump in map accuracy and detail, I reviewed other river/marsh areas that I am familiar with (Chipuxet, Lieutenant, Mattebasset, Salmon, and East Rivers). In all cases, I found that the rivers on the 1890's topo maps were plotted incorrectly when passing through marshes, but lined up closely on the post-WWII maps, which all had aerial photo data to draw on.  While rivers do shift channels, these changes didn't line up with standard river dynamics. The big change was the quality of the available data.  Another thing to consider - all of the rivers couldn't all shift their channels between 1890 and 1950, and then not change significantly over the next 75 years.

There is a good reason for the errors.  On the ground surveys require a landmark or an assistant who holds a survey pole at the point of interest.  The surveyor can then sight and/or triangulate on that point and collect map data.  With a river running through a marsh, it was, most likely, just too much work to send an assistant out into a marsh to accurately plot an area that could not be farmed, logged, or built on.  

The reason the plotted river/marsh courses changed wasn't because of natural processes, it was because aerial photography allowed for an efficient method of plotting channels in a difficult to survey area.

I spotted two  immature Yellow Crowned Night Herons - last year's fledglings, most likely.  Also, I saw a pair of Mute Swans with 4 cygnets, 3 of which were white.  A white cygnet is somewhat rare. Three in a brood must be very rare indeed.  The Willets were more perturbed with my presence than they have been this year.  That is their m.o. when nesting is going on. They flew around when I was near and made lots of noise so that everything in the marsh knew I was there.

East River

The water is still quite low even though the tide has been coming in for a couple hours, but I've done this enough times that I know exactly where the canoe will squeak through the narrow gaps between submerged boulders. It is about 70F and fairly humid with a light wind that seems to come and go.

Just before the first bend, I flush a Green Heron.  It lands nearby,  but I lose sight of it while digging out my camera.  But, I find it perched on the bank just around the bend, and it poses for a few photographs before the canoe drifts into scare distance.

I cross the Gravel Flats without wading.  There are a couple of Osprey and they are about as interested in chasing each other as they are in fishing. I spot two more Osprey as I near the Clapboard Hill bridge.

It is very quiet today with no one else in sight.  Below the railroad bridge, there isn't quite enough water to make  it through the sneak, so I continue on the East River.  By the time I get to the confluence of the East and Neck Rivers, there is enough water to return by paddling up Bailey Creek and taking the Sneak back into the East River. I spot an Oyster Catcher on the bank of the Neck River.

Up in the forest section, near the Goss house, a mature Bald Eagle drops out of a tree and flies a big circle, all the while hassled by black birds until it leaves the area.  

 

Terrapin Station

It is a calm and sunny day. I set out with about 2 hours of rising tide to go. 

I'm in the maze thinking about my success rate at getting through without having to backtrack, "about 4 out of 5 I suppose." Then, I find myself in a pond with no exit other than the way I came.  I spend the next 20 minutes wandering about.  There are no landmarks other than a couple of stands of phragmites.  Phragmites grows on slightly higher ground than the spartina that dominates the marsh, so it marks un-canoeable turf.  I decide to head for the west entrance and I find that channel via a smaller twisty channel that was quite nice.  Then, in the west entrance exit channel, I notice the upriver channel that I had been looking for all along.  That exit is still blocked by a big log, but the alternate path out to Nell's channel is open.  It was all quite a bit of fun.

Yellow Crowned Night Herons are well distributed throughout the marsh.  Just when I think there aren't any around, I spot the head of that bird with its dull yellow mohawk poking up out of the spartina.  The lower marsh, which is well flooded, is occupied by the white birds - Swans, Great Egrets and Snowy Egrets.  I see a single Oyster Catcher. 

There are a good number of terrapins basking on the remaining high points.  They slide off into the water whenever I get within 60 or 70 feet.  Then they poke their heads up out of the water - it looks like dozens of thumbs.  Going through the maze, I turn a bend and watch 30 to 40 terrapins all slide off the bank in unison.  

 

Clear the Head

I head out for a quick trip, a trip with the intended purpose of clearing one's mind.  Between an ankle that I tweaked a couple days ago and the political horseshit that occupies this country, a couple hours in the solitude of the marsh does wonders for the soul.

The tide is on its way out and by the look and feel of things, I've timed my start to catch a near maximum ebb current.  It is 70F, mostly sunny, and the wind is out of the east.  There are a lot of motorboat drivers around.  It is something like a middle class beach blanket bingo, without brains.

Once I get to the top of the marsh, I turn into the inner channels.  I see no one else for he duration.  

Yellow Crowned Night Herons are owning the marsh today.  There seems to always be one in sight as I make my way. I head in to check the Central Phragmites Patch, and that is the only place where I do not see any Night Herons.  I have to think about that, but later in the summer after the young have fledged, the patch will be densely occupied with Yellow Crown and Black Crowned Night Herons.

I run down the length of Cat Island before heading back. 

Whirling Derbish

I planned to put in at Indian Well State Park, but the town of Derby had other ideas.  Derby is an old mill town parked in between the Naugatuck and Housatonic Rivers where the rivers converge. In the good old days, it was also a good spot to put a bridge over those rivers.  So, that is how the roads are laid out, with a variety of arterials all aimed at Derby.  If a road crew so much as stops to scrape chewing gum off of a sidewalk, everything comes to a grinding crawl.

The logical choice is to use the stuck-in-traffic- time to actually go someplace, and I end up at Pond Brook, where I can set out for a trip up to the cascades of the Shephaug. It is warm with a hazy sun and calm. I am surprised that no one else seems to be around on such a nice day.

On the way, I pass a fisherman in a kayak, a bassboat going the other way, and one runabout.  I see a few Great Blue Herons and a mother Common Merganser with a few ducklings.  Carp are the main show however.  There is always a couple carp splashing about in the shallows.  I see a few that are on the order of 2 feet long.  Last week, someone caught a State Record 45 pounder in this body of water.

There is less water coming down the Shephaug than on my last trip and I can paddle right up to the base of the cascades (I think this is called, Roxbury Falls, but it's really not a waterfall). At the 2nd bend below the cascades, I hear a Bald Eagle whistling somewhere above me in the forest. When I pause to look for it, the Eagle quits calling, and I never see it.

I turn and head back out... a very peaceful paddle.

 

Back to Dibble Creek

We're in the car heading east and S keeps asking, "where we going?"  
I keep replying by asking."Where do you want to go?" 
I  throw out several options, and she picks Salmon River. It is a good choice even if I was just there a couple days ago.  The Connecticut River is still running high and extra water in the Salmon is good for opening up smaller inlets and passages behind islands.

Dibble Creek

We put in at the bottom of the cove.  The day is predicted to be in the mid 80's and sunny, but the sky is completely overcast with high smoke from the Manitoba and Saskatchewan wild fires.  It is thick enough that there are no shadows being cast. We cross the channel and follow the river-right side into the corner of the cove.  Then I turn us into the Dibble Creek bay.  S has never been in here and I want to show it to her.  We pick up speed and aim for a narrow gap in the brush that grows out of the top of the old beaver dam.  The water is a few inches lower than when I was last here, so it I have to finish the crossing by putting a foot on the dam and pushing us through.  Then, we weave our way up as close as we can get to where Dibble Creek tumbles in. S is impressed by the solitude of this little hidden place.  

There once was a cabin up in this area

We cruise the full length of the dam before heading out, stopping up against the hillside for a moment. Old maps show that there was a cabin on the knoll above us.  It would have been an exceptional spot for a hideaway cabin. Nothing is visible and no doubt the structure was removed when the power plant was built about a 1/4 mile away. Of course, the power plant has also been removed.  

We push out through the dam and head upstream.  We pass a few people, mostly in the vicinity of the State Park. Four tubers* are portaging the dam by dragging their plastic kayaks across the ground.  
"Not a life jacket in the entire group. Let's put some distance between us and them," I sez.  We turn and head back down the river, down the cove, and out.

* Tuber is a subclass of humans that are capable of nothing more than floating in an inner tube, often with a six pack of cheap beer. They tend to be slightly less intelligent than a potato and frequently are seen wearing tube socks.

Short Trip

I set out from under the highway bridge and head down to the Wheeler Marsh.  The tide is all the way out, the temperature is in the 70's, the sky is sunny, and the wind is almost nothing.

The plan is a short trip. With the tide out, it is impossible to circle the marsh or cut through most any of the interior channels.  The main river, Nell's Channel, and the bottom of Beaver Brook are the only places with enough water to float a canoe.  

The cut banks of Nell's Channel are fully exposed at this tide. The height varies but the maximum is about 5 feet, and it dwindles to maybe 2 feet at the lower end of the channel.  This means, with my current estimate of 50 years/foot for soil build-up, that the bottom of the cut bank might be in the early 1800's, but my oldest datable bottles are from about 2 feet of depth.  Today, the only thing of real interest that I find on that theme is a cut tree, and it is right at the lowest level of a 5 foot cut bank.  Firmly in place, it does seem to be protruding from the bank as if it was buried there. The cut was at a 45 degree angle and may have been done with either an axe or a saw.  I wish I had access to a dendrochronology analysis.

At the end of the channel, I squeeze through an inner channel close to Milford Point, round that small island and return back via Nell's Channel. 

Dibble Creek

I left home not knowing where I would paddle, making last minute decisions and ending up at the bottom of Salmon Cove. I set out from there not knowing exactly where I will paddle to. Goals and ambition does not seem to be part of this day. 

The water is higher than expected (later I find out that the Hartford gauge is about 5 or 6 feet higher than normal).  I paddle up the river-right side of the cove and into the tiny bay in the outside corner where the cove bends away from the big river.  It is in the upper 60's with sun and a light cooling wind.

Towards Dibble Creek

I cross the old beaver dam that guards the bottom of Dibble Creek from the typical visitors. The dam is old and stable.  It has been here for awhile and will not be going anywhere in the next hundred years.  Beaver dams can last a very long time.  This one is stable enough that saplings have taken root.  The beaver cut the saplings down every so often.  I imagine that most people looking into the bay see the wall of plants on the dam and assume it to be the shoreline. Beyond the dam are a couple acres of very peaceful marsh of sedges, pickerelweed, and pond lilies.  It is bounded on the north and east by steep forested hillsides, and on the west by lowland trees.  

Upstream of the old beaver dam

The creek enters from the north, tumbling down 20 feet of bedrock from a small marshy valley where an old hunting camp once was.  And by old, I mean 3000 to 6000 years old.  But, I cannot go any farther up the creek than where I am.  The dry land here is a no trespassing National Wildlife Refuge.  There once was a nuclear power plant about a half mile away.  This is a good news/bad news kind of thing though.  The plant is completely removed except for a building containing spent fuel rods.  But the good news is that this side of the cove was saved from people coming in and building much bigger houses than they need in a place that is much better left to be wild.   

The high water lets me access the backsides of marsh islands that normally are mudflat.  I go as far as Pine Brook, where I spend some time in one of those back channels.  I hope the wild rice returns soon.  Mid-summer high water killed off a large patch of rice at the bottom of the brook - it was unable to produce seed because the plants were submerged. On the backside of another island, I look ahead an find a deer standing chest deep in the river.  It retreats back into the cattails, and I hear it splashing ahead of me.  We make eye contact again at the bottom of the cattail patch.  There are two deer.

I head back, taking a detour up the Moodus, as I almost always do. 

The Contrast

Today, I moved upriver to the section above Lake Zoar, where I paddled yesterday.  I put in at the four span truss bridge.  It is calm, cloudy, and close to 70F, a pretty fine combination for canoeing. 

This section of the river was reservoir-ed in the 1955 with the completion of the Shepaug Dam. It differs greatly from the downstream Lake Zoar and being a much better experience, I paddle here fairly often.

It is not particularly good for wildlife viewing. As a reservoir that was flooded up the steep sides of a valley, there is a lack of marshland or any extensive shallows that might support a variety of waterfowl.  But, I can expect to spot an Eagle occasionally as well as Hawks, Vultures,  Great Blue Herons, Mergansers and Wood Ducks.  

What does make this section interesting is that it has large sections of forest and much less and much better planned development.  A good amount of the valley sides are State Forest or private forest preserves.  As to the housing, minimum lot sizes are quite large and most houses are set well back from the water's edge. In fact, there are several docks with boats where the owners house is not at all visible - just a trail from the dock leading off into the woods.

Entering the Lover's Leap gorge

I head upstream, following one side until I get the urge to cross to the other... no real reason.  There are few boats, mostly bass boats.  They are the best of motorboats as they speed by, disappear quickly, and spend a good amount of time parked near shore while the owner fishes. 

I pass through the  Lovers Leap gorge and continue a short way until I remember why I usually turn at the gorge.  There is a busy road right nest to the river and the upstream side of the gorge, quite the contrast with the peacefulness that is found downstream. 

Historic 1895 iron bridge that spans the gorge

The wind comes up on the return, but it is not steady and comes from pretty much any possible direction at different times. I guess it, looking at the clouds, to be tiny weather systems that don't have enough energy or moisture to become rainstorms.

Time for the Grievances

I put in at what I call Housatonic 3 - the third reach of the river counting from the sound.  Otherwise, it is know as Lake Zoar. I paddle in her once a year, or maybe twice if I can find a good reason. It is calm and cloudy although it was lightly raining most of the morning.  

I head up to the Pomperaug River, which is about a half mile in the upriver direction, if one wants to think of Lake Zoar as a river.  Last August, this area was hit by an extreme rainstorm that dumped almost 15 inches of water in  a 24 hour period.  Bridges, roads, structures were damaged or destroyed and a two people died.  The Pomperaug would have been a rushing torrent and I wanted to see how it fared. It pretty much looks the same.  The boulder patch where I always turn back (because there is another boulder patch above the first) might have had some of the boulders moved about.  It doesn't make much difference because the river bottom is a sloping shelf of bedrock.  I don't think I was aware of that before.

Lake Zoar is often listed in tourism type magazines - the ones with lists of "bests", as one of the best places to go kayaking or paddle boarding or canoeing in Connecticut.  It is not.  It is not 2nd best or 22nd best. When beaver build a dam and create a pond, they create habitat for fifteen additional species.  They are a "keystone" animal and contribute to improving the local environment.  When humans build a dam, quite the opposite seems to happen, and Zoar is a prime example of that.  The Stevenson Dam, completed in 1919, creates Lake Zoar. Like many reservoirs, Zoar has inadequate water circulation, which turns the lake into an oxygen deprived algae bloom stinkpile in midsummer.  It's not much more enjoyable when the water is clear and cold due to a poor development plan.  Much of the shoreline is an odd collection of this and that housing.  Some are old cabins, and some are newer middle class houses. There is no rhyme or reason to it other than to build as close as possible to the water.  To top that off, an interstate highway runs through the area. While there are a few segments of forest preserve, they are too small and just as one gets used to finally being next to a forest, another patch of weird cabin-houses intrudes.  And please, someone explain to me why waterfront of half of all middle class waterfront houses have to look like junkyard - rotting docks, floats, half wrecked boats and a pile of trashed plastic kayaks that haven't been used in years.

On an upside, I spotted three Bald Eagles.  Two matures seem to be mated and I suspect a nest is nearby.  The third was an immature.

THE END

Essex to Selden

It is calm with a bright overcast sky when I set out from Essex. The tide is coming in, but it is still quite low, a fact that is not really noticeable except at the narrow gap where I go from the North Cove into the big river.  There, a minor current is flowing in to the cove.

I turn upstream.  A lone kayaker is out in mid channel. They know how to put some speed into the kayak, which is clearly a full length touring model and not one of the stubby barcalounger types. They are doing a couple miles per hour more than I am and I will soon lose sight of them.

The daily thing of note is the number of Canada Geese with goslings.  I spot five sets in the first mile with the goslings appearing to be anywhere from a week to three weeks old.  I will spot another five sets as I continue.  The Geese with older goslings are just starting to join up with other broods - the grade school period where two or three sets of parental Geese run herd on twelve to fifteen goslings - safety in numbers and flock indoctrination.

Near the old Brockway Ferry route, I cut across to the east shore, which is more interesting, being less developed and developed much earlier than the west side. And then up into the Selden channel.  It is very calm and quiet and I have not seen anyone on the water aside from the kayaker and a powerboat that passed just as I left the cove.

The birds are all perching except for the swallows.  I even pass a Black Vulture perching in a nearby snag.  Silhouetted against the overcast, I though it to be an Osprey until I got up close.

Plunk!  Something has jumped off the river left bank.  Too much "plunk" to be a turtle, I pull up and wait for the beaver to surface.  It swims an arc behind me as it tries to figure out what I am. Besides their sense of smell, beaver slap their tails to get intruders to jump, which helps them size up the threat.  It slaps its tail and dives.  I wait.  Then I hear it rustling off through the brush just out of sight behind where it had jumped into the river.

There is a couple camping at the upper campsite on the island. Their dog barks at me.

I round the island and return along the rocky shore.  There is always the chance of more disturbance from powerboats, but no one seems to be about.

The wide area below Brockway is getting a very light wind.  It's not enough to impede, but it always creates a clunky non-rhythmic chop.  I follow the east shore back to the old Ely Ferry where I cross back to the North Cove.

The Black Hall

I put in on the Lieutenant River, a tributary to the Connecticut, but just barely as it joins the river about 2 miles upstream of the sea. The tide is coming in and I have a minor current opposing me, but there is a plan.  

I head downstream and into the back channel of the Connecticut.  A series of fairly large marsh islands create a pleasant and quiet route away from the big boat traffic of the main river.  Most of the birds and animals that inhabit the area are well aware of that fact as well. The Egrets, Willets and Osprey are all in place and doing their thing, no surprises there.

The plan is to go up the Black Hall River. It too is a tributary to the Connecticut, but even more just barely than the Lieutenant as it joins the big river about a 100 yards from the sea.  With the tide coming in, I get a pushing current as I head up the Black Hall.  Here, I get the new bird arrivals of the day - Least Terns.  I spot 3 of them and watch one of them take 7 headlong dives into the water after fish in little more than a minutes time.

At the first bridge, I pass through a cloud of toxic male. 3 goofballs are heading out to crab from cheap kayaks and one of them can't resist yarking at a power boat owner.  Perhaps it was a poor attempt and masculine humor, but the guy comes off as a lout.  Enough of that.

The Black Hall is a rather pastoral river with some spartina marsh that almost passes for fields, some land that was likely farm at one time, some forest and some cattail marsh.  I spot a Bald Eagle on the bank. For a second I thought it was one of those cheesy cement yard ornaments, until it got up and perched in a nearby tree.  After the third bridge, I notice something - the boundary from salt marsh spartina to fresh water cattail is almost instantaneous.  There is a sharp bend and at that point the river left side is all spartina while the river right is solid cattail. 

I don't want to be your friend

 

 

I continue up to where the river enters a cattail marsh.  From past trips, I know that it will narrow to nothing in about a 150 yards.  Even though I had already decided to turn around here, something else has decided that I will do just that.  There is a pair of Mute Swans and the cob goes full aggression, holding up its wings to make it look larger and pumping the water, and ducking its head.  The cob comes right up to the canoe and insists in getting in the way as I spin the canoe. As I head away, the cob does one final feint, with my back turned, it does a short takeoff run at me, wings and feet slapping against the water. I have to admit, it sent a shiver up my back.

On the way out, I find that there were, and still are, 2 Bald Eagles. As I wonder if there is a nearby nest, I spot a chewed on carcass of a striped bass on the bank.  They are here to feed.