A Below Freezing Day

It was somewhere just below freezing when I got to the put in.  The tide was mid-high and rising and a thin shelf of night some 20 feet wide lay on the sloping bank.  In ice weather one always has to think ahead about getting out of the river.  Before unloading any gear, I walked out onto the shelf.  It turned out to be the foamy ice that salt water forms and it crushed easily so that my feet could grip the rocks underneath...nothing to worry about.

I set out up the Neck River planning to go as far up that small river as the depth of water would permit, then return to where Bailey Creek meets and paddle up that stretch.  A couple of Common Mergansers were fishing the river near the put in and two Bald Eagles were perched a couple hundred yards toward the sea.

Bald Eagle

I found the old corduroy road sections that stick out of the bank just at the water level.  At each bend I flushed several ducks eventually counting about 60 Black Ducks and perhaps a dozen Mallards.

As I got into the tighter meanders of the Neck I began to find ice formed in the bends.  At first it was the soft salt ice, the canoe cut through with little effort.  But, well short of where the river goes shallow I began to meet up with fresh water ice that was a quarter inch thick and much tougher.  I turned when I could see that it was going to be a continuous sheet.

Corduroy Road in the Neck River

The wind had increased during the outbound trip and it was strong and cold as I muscled my return against it.  I opted out of heading up Bailey Creek as it would be a brutal headwind grind to return from there.  So I headed back downriver hugging the wind shadow of the lee shores when possible.

Full Spectrum of Ducks

Weather has kept me out of the canoe for a full month.  When it was warm enough, it was far too windy.  When it was calm, it was cold enough to freeze even the brackish tidal rivers.

I put in on the last hour of the flooding tide and rode a mile per hour current inland.  There were remnants of ice drifting in the current, but nothing that would be of any bother.  The cold weather has kept everyone off the river and I start paddling through a spectrum of ducks, each species in its own area.  Near Cedar Island I spook 15 Buffleheads, the males easily recognizable from distance with their white sides.  The Big Bends is a complete surprise.  I flush three dozen Black Ducks from the main channel, then another couple dozen, and then about twice of what I'd counted.  Black Ducks are shy in my book and I've never seen a hundred one day.  Up in the forest section of the river by Duck Hole Farms, I spot a pair of Hooded Mergansers.  I find the Common Mergansers, about eight of them, at the Gravel Flats just another 300 yards upriver.  Finally, up above Foote Bridge, there are a half dozen Mallards.

This winter has been rough on my spirit.  The state of the world seems to bear heavy on my, the leaders of the world feeling that it is their responsibility to make everyone else angry and anxious.  So, I started hiking miles and miles of trail that is new to me, and I started a large artwork that will keep me focused for the next few months.  My spirit is improved...it's science.

The day is absolutely beautiful.  The first three hundred yards of paddling were in a thin fog of delicate hazy light.  Then, the sun burned through and the marsh and forest were illuminated with the strong low light that creates sharp contrasts.  The wind was light if there was any.  And, it was warm enough to sit in the swamp above Foote Bridge and write without so much as a chill.

Foote Bridge

When it was time to go, I could see by the water mark on the bank that the tide had already dropped a 1/2 inch.  I knew that when I reached the Big Bends I would have a mile per hour current pushing me back to my start.  It was an easy day.

First Day

I follow J down the last bit of road to the launch.  He is a fishing instructor and guide who lives nearby and comes here quite often to practice or work with new gear.  By now, I recognize his truck.  Since he hasn't been wading in 40 degree water for a 1/2 hour or so, we have an unusually long chat about a some river related stuff and a couple of documentary movies. He asks and I tell him that I am heading up through the Sneak.  I've told him about that before and he tells me his wife hasn't been able to find it, so I draw a quick sketch map for him.

I head up the Neck, then up Bailey Creek, and then into the Sneak.  The tide is falling and I have just enough water to clear the Sneak.  Then I grind my way up against the ebb flow, the cost of a leisurely start.  Somewhere around freezing when I set out, my fingers were cold until I reached the Big Bends.  By then blood was moving warmth through all of my extremities.

The pace was slow and I figured I was giving up a mile per hour because I timed my start for the midpoint and strongest currents of the falling tide.  Sightings were few.  I flushed some Buffleheads and Black Ducks.  The Buffleheads would circle around and be back in the river when I returned.  The more nervous Blacks would most likely go often to a more secluded area in the marsh and I would not see them again.

Although it was below freezing last night, there is no ice except in the places that have all day winter shadow from the low sun.  The light is spectacular, the shadows deep and long.

I turn back at the Gravel Flats.  It is another 10 minutes up to Foote Bridge where I usually do my turn, but the water is getting thin already and I've done enough.  My return speed confirms my suspicions about the current, it is an easy paddle out.

Burying Ground

I've always hoped that this journal would get at what I was feeling, how being in my canoe in some river or swamp, or some wild place changes the soul.  It doesn't always work that way.  Sometimes my entries are just lists; went here, saw this, saw that.  It's not the best of nature writing.  One of the most important reasons to preserve wild places is how it makes us feel, and how it puts us in our place.  But, sometimes the thoughts aren't there, and sometimes the pencil doesn't come out when it is needed.

I passed a burying ground on my way to the put-in.  Burying ground is a term that I had not heard until moving to New England.  I like the honesty of it.  Now, when I say passed, I really mean "passed".  This little plot of 5 or 6 tombstones lies directly next to the state road.  There is no wall or fence and barely a foot of earth between the graves and the pavement.  I'm glad that the rule of the day when this road was put in was to not move the graves.  There is something quite honest in the burying ground being left as it is.

The current in the big river is faster than expected, which is probably due to the low tide a dozen miles downstream giving a little extra space for the water to go.  There is also an unexpected wind coining down the river.  I change my downstream plans and go up instead, preferring the luxury of coasting for the end of the trip.  Grind now, coast later.

The current doesn't slacken one bit until I am passed the remains of Gillette's miniature railroad, which looks to my eye as if he intended not only to replicate a railroad, but also some of the rail disasters of the 19th century - he built several precariously located trestles along the cliffs overhanging the river.  Gillette was an actor who created the most familiar version of Sherlock Holmes.  His batshit crazy mansion is preserved high above on the bluff as a state park.

The current finally lets up when I get to the lowland that contains Chapman Pond.  I turn off the big river and take the half mile meandering route into the pond.  It is calm and the sun makes it feel warmer than the day actually is.  I flush about 50 Mallards and no less than three Great Blue Herons.  I stop here to write and an Eastern Bluebird lands in a tree above as if to approve of my arrival, or at least confirm that I am no threat.  I had to look this bird up when I got home and was surprised to find that we are in the northern end of its wintering territory.

I exited Chapman Pond through the upper channel, a straight man made cut that was dug by some 19th century shad fishermen who were being denied access through the lower channel by a landowner.  Then, I continued up to the Goodspeed Opera House before turning around and speeding back.

Naming Rights

I put in from the well hidden launch on the east side of Wheeler Marsh just after the peak of a high high tide.  The temperature was in the 30's, the sun out and there was just a bit of breeze making it cold enough on bare skin that I wore a pair of thin gloves. 

I headed upriver and then back into the first inlet, which is formed by a 1/4 mile long and twenty foot high forested ridge that appears to have glacial origins in that the exposed bank is mostly large rounded cobbles.  It was used by Native Americans as a temporary fishing/hunting camp site.  The town has some artifacts on display at Town Hall. It's no way near large enough to live on for any length of time.  Anyway, the ridge peters out near the mainland and with the high tide there is enough water to push through the spartina into the channel on the upriver side.  I flush one Great Blue Heron and ten Black Ducks in the process.

Then, I head back out to the "main" marsh and continue upriver with an opposing current that is steadily increasing.  The water marks show that the tide has dropped no more than 2 inches, usually this does not come with much current, but I suppose due to the very high tide there is already a strong flow.  Out in the main river the current is 3 to 1. That is, three times as long to go up against the current as to return.  A large Common Loon surfaces 50 yards away, but as I am already paddling away from it, it just goes back to fishing.

Pepe's Rock

I crawl up to the first bridge, cross the river and begin speeding down the east bank.  I cross over to Nell's Island at Pepe's Rock.  I have no idea who Pepe was, but there is a Pepe's Farm Road in town as well.  If both are named for the same person, then the question is what does a farmer have to do with a rock in the river.  I also have no idea who Nell was or why this barely sea level island deserved to be named at all other than to alert steamboats not to run into it.  In Nell's channel I spot another large Common Loon and another Great Blue Heron.

Nell's channel

When I get down to Milford Point, I turn left and follow the shoreline more or less back to where I began.

Up to the Boulder Swamp

It started as a sunny day, but the clouds are filtering the sun, an effect that reminds me of a November day, although this is well into the final month of the year.  But, it is in the 30's and calm and too fine to waste by not canoeing.

I put in on the small unimproved launch site on the Lieutenant River which is showing a moderate current as it is the midpoint of the ebb.  I paddle upstream edging up along the cattails,  There are few birds about although I spot what I think are a couple of Hooded Mergansers.  But like Hoodies, they take off fast and low before I can get close enough to be sure.

There is a bit of skim ice along the shoreline sections that see little current.  The canoe slices through without any effort.

Two miles up is the broadening that I call the Boulder Swamp.  It is a sizable pond where two arms of watercourse meet.  It is dotted with sizeable boulders that I assume are left behind by the last ice age.  I head up the west arm until, with the lowering tide, I start to run out of water.  Then I return and after weaving my way slowly through the boulders I head a bit up the east arm.  I flush a lone Swan that takes off in my direction.  The sound of the large wings and slapping of the feet as it builds up speed is machine like. 

Boulder Swamp

The creek runs out of water pretty soon, right by the first beaver lodge, a bank burrow that seems to still be in use.  There is a good amount of cut saplings and gnawings near it. 

Bank burrow - note tide line

There is more beaver activity, including a dam, not far upriver from here.  That will have to wait for a higher tide.

There are many more birds in the river as I head out.  I suppose the low tide is good for feeding.  I pass a flock of fifty some Canada Geese, spot two Great Blue Herons, and flush a couple dozen unidentified ducks.

Big River

December 15, 2018
I set out once again from the Feral Cat Park.  This time I headed upriver.  There was a light headwind coming down the valley, but the temperature was near 50 degrees.

A wide scatter of small white feathers on the water hinted that there might be a kill sight up ahead.  The scatter tapered and pointed to the power line towers, a likely place for a hawk to perch.  I suspect the feathers are from a gull.

There is a large number of gulls on the sand bar downstream of Fowler Island.  I continue up the shallow east channel, pass under the high bridge, and pass by the Dragonfly Factory.  Several boatloads of fishermen are upstream of the Factory fishing for striped bass.  They seem to be landing them fairly often although a legal keeper is usually 26-30 inches, so I suspect many of them have to be released.

I continue up to Wooster Island where I turn back.   About halfway back I notice a change in the air.  I can see my breath and it feels cooler but I suspect that the temperature is the same but the humidity has changed, something that matches the weather forecast for tonight and tomorrow.