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.

High Water Wheeler

I almost dread canoeing on a sunny holiday.  They are the days when I most expect to see that person from your high school who was voted, "Most Likely to Drown", and the person voted "Second Most Likely to Drown".  As it is, I arrive at the put-in and no one else is around. It is nothing short of a complete freak of nature that I have been out three days in a row over a vacation weekend and not seen anyone else in the water.

The tide is high and still coming in for most of the next hour.  One catches some weird currents in a salt marsh as it fills with water coming from any direction so long as it is the path of least resistance. I head in the upriver direction, and then sneak through narrow openings toward the Central Phragmites Patch. There is one visual which I find noteworthy.  With almost no snow this winter, last year's entire growth of spartina is still standing, and the marsh has an appearance of a flooded wheat field.  Typically, a good snowfall will flatten the spartina, leaving it looking more like a harvested soybean field.

As often as I paddle in this marsh, it is still easy to miss a turn.  Landmarks are usually the shape of some turn or intersection of channels.   But, those landmarks are only relevant at specific tides.  Everything looks different if the water is high versus when it is low.

A pair of northern terrapins

There are no birds at the phragmites patch, so I continue across towards Nell's Island.  On the way, I spot a dozen Swans, a few Ducks, a distant flock of 30 or 40 Plover, and a few Great Egrets. I collect a plastic milk crate, which I start to fill with plastic bottles, and a cheap-shit plastic fake Adirondack chair.  I find these crap-ass chairs in the water quite often as dumb people leave them on their dock seemingly unaware that wind exists. I manage to park the chair on the aft of the canoe where I don't have to look at it.

I head into the Nell's Island maze. I've been in here a half dozen times or so and I figure that I am about 50-50 on finding my way through. I use the high tide to explore some of the other possibilities and then make my way to the top of the island with only one short misstep.  But, the exit channel is blocked by a heavy timber that has lodged itself quite firmly across the channel.  So, I turn and take a channel that had kicked me out of the island on an earlier trip.

 I head over and all the way up Beaver Brook. There are quite a few Yellow Crowned Night Herons in the upper marsh and in the brook. I spot one pretty good sized snapping turtle, well up in the brook.

I head back out, not having seen another paddler the entire time.

Day 2

We head back to the Mattabasset.  With some wind predicted and the fact that yesterday I saw no one else on the river, it seemed reasonable to repeat, but with S in the bow seat.

The water is several inches higher than yesterday.  At the put-in this doesn't seem apparent, but as we head down river where the forest floor is lower, it becomes obvious.  I tell S that a couple weeks back, the water was 8 feet higher.  This sinks in when I point to some cattails on the far side of a strip of trees and tell her that the tops of the cattails were at least 3 feet below the water level.  

Just below the goat ranch, I steer us into the forest and we weave a route through the trees for the next  couple hundred yards before coming out in one of the side marshes.  A Hawk is overhead being dive bombed by a Blackbird. The Blackbird hits the Hawk on the back several times before the Hawk decides to move away.

From there, we head down to the big marsh and cross over to the trees on the east side.  We paddle back as far as the old dirt road, maybe 75 yards before the water runs out. We flush a Great Blue Heron from the forest.  It always amazes me to see such a large bird fly through such a dense forest.

We head back up short cutting a couple of the meanders. We greet a fisherman that I met a couple trips earlier and he tells us that he caught a 4 lb large mouth bass later on the day that we first met.

We head up to the new deadfall so that S can look at the Hawk nest, which is sideways and at eye level.

That makes for a good day and we head back out.

Harmony

No one else is at the put in, and the first-one rule comes into play -  First one down the river sees the most wildlife.

It is mostly overcast with an occasional peek at blue sky. There is a little wind, but nothing that matters much as the forest and hillsides act as a buffer.  The Hartford gauge is at 10-1/2 feet - the river is in its banks, just barely. It is impressive to look around and know that there was another 8 feet of water when I was last here.

I head downstream. The overhanging canopy and overcast sky puts the day into twilight.  This amplifies the green tones and it reminds me of the Pacific Northwest forests, where it is always twilight, even on the sunniest of days. I flush a couple Great Blue Herons, see a couple more, flush 2 mother Wood Ducks, who perform their fake broken wing decoy maneuver, ditching the ducklings and flopping off for a totally unreasonable distance.  I always try to steer wide of the ducklings and get out of the area as quick as possible so that the hen can feel safe about returning.

Harmony.  I've been wrestling with finding the appropriate word, and then I bumped into it while reading a Sigurd Olson book.  Harmony is what happens when I paddle frequently.  I recognize it when I realize that I have stopped counting and making lists of my observations. It is a semi-dreamlike state - I am in the moment and while I am keenly aware and noting what I see, I am agreeable to let the birds and animals be of no more importance than myself. I am no longer a visitor, but just a piece of the landscape.

I paddle down to the confluence with the Connecticut, which is moving past at a fairly stiff pace - definitely not a fun place to be paddling against the current.  I head back, passing my put-in and continuing up. I want to see the tree that fell behind me during my last trip. It was a tall oak that now spans the river.  However, it isn't blocking as there is room to get by near the right bank. I continue up to the next bend and then turn back.

I spot a whitetail doe feeding on the right bank.  I snap a quick photo, finding my camera set at a zoom.  Wildlife surprises - snap off a shot and then fiddle with the camera, The deer did not flee, but it did move behind the brush before I could set the camera.

I've been out 3 hours and I am pleasantly surprised that I have not seen one other person the entire time.