Hi, it's your mom

It is a sunny day that had a night temperature that just touched freezing.  My local waters, the ones that I can portage to from the house, are all tidal and with short winter days, timing my trips with the tides is necessary if I am to get into some of my newly explored environs.

I linger a bit too long over my morning coffee so that when I do put my canoe in at the head of the harbor, I have to paddle without pause.  For most of the thousand yards or so that it takes to get to the edge of the ocean I paddle directly into the winter sun, a searing white reflecting streak in the water making a joke of my dark sunglasses.  I have three bridges to pass under and I have to beat the "high" high tide that is coming or else there won't be enough headroom to pass under them.  The rusty bridge goes easy, the flooding current carrying me through while I lay my chest flat on the middle thwart.  I clear the beams by several good inches.  I cross straight up lower Gulf Pond and pass under the second bridge, laying on the middle thwart again and clearing by a few inches.  The third bridge, at the head of Gulf Pond looks too low from a distance, but looks better as I near.  But, it is a tight fit and I clear it by just an inch.  I will be on this side of that bridge for the next 3 hours or so, unless I portage around.

the fifth bridge

Then, I ride a fast chute of waves under the high stone bridge (the fourth) into the Indian River.  I put down the paddle to write.  My cell phone rings from inside the drybag clipped to the front thwart.  It is my mom.  I don't make a habit of using phones when I am outside - I did not own a cell until just 6 months ago, but having never convinced my mom to get into a canoe with me, I find something very enjoyable and novel about talking with her from the canoe, from the river, with nothing but marsh surrounding me.

Indian River

I ride the tidal current upstream until I get to the sixth bridge, which I never think much about.  The current here is always light, otherwise I would think about it.  I have to lay down inside the canoe to slip under this one, the highest points of the canoe clearing by just two inches.  Then, I enjoy the depth of this narrow calm river all the way up to the Clark Fishway, where logjams and a dam bar my path unless I was to make the effort to portage.  I see two cardinals with their brilliant red popping out from the bare trees.

cardinal

As I return, the kids at the daycare center that I usually sneak by in silence come over to the fence and greet me.  I wave, they wave, as I paddle off I hear a tiny voice holler, "have a beautiful weekend".

nest

The sixth bridge comes up and I am about 4 inches too high to fit under.  So, I spend the next hour and a half or two, pacing the river, paddling up and back, weaving in and out of tree branches, basking in the sun, looking for nests and watching birds until the tide falls far enough so that I can once again lay in the bottom of the canoe and slip under the bridge.


I return the way I came.

red breasted merganser

When the sky and ocean are one

The day is flat, a level and even overhead of clouds that runs to all horizons and joins seamlessly where it meets the ocean, so seamlessly in calm air that one can not see where the sky ends and the water begins.

I find the red-throated loon at the head of the harbor not far from where the fresh water enters from the Wepawaug River.  But on this day, I walk past the bird on my portage to where I put in.  There is an eighth inch sheet of ice in the quiet places in the harbor where the water is recharged with fresh water from the river. 

I am heading for the feral cat park, which is a near half day trip from here.  It is a good trip to take when the air is so still.  The tide is low and dropping and when I turn the point at the mouth of the harbor, I head west aiming for the midpoint of the bar that joins the land with Charles Island.  I may have to portage ten feet or so when I get there...a fair exchange for the longer route out and around the island.  The low tide can create some lengthy detours as it exposes sand bars and groins along the shore, but when I get to the river I should have some of the flood current pushing me along.

The clammers are working their allotments in the near waters.

When I get to the bar, I coast over it at a low spot on just 4 inches of water, and then I continue paddling. 

greater scaups - a flock of 500+

A half mile from the bar, there is a very large flock of ducks.  I photograph them several times as I close distance on them as I would like to identify the species.  They are skittish.  These ducks are migrating.  Still 200 yards away, they scare splitting the flock in half as they take off.  It is 500 ducks or more.  As I watch them head south out over Long Island Sound, the two halves join.  Their flight away is not casual and it is not to get distance on me.  They are Greater Scaups and they are going somewhere.  I think about how large flocks of birds were once common and not something to be overly impressed with.  I am impressed.

I have paddled this route once before during a falling tide that was higher than today's water.  The sandbar at the mouth of the big river is many times larger than it was on my last trip although in the flat light and overcast, it is difficult to see the extent of it until one gets very close.  I find that I cannot shortcut the jetty like I did last time and I make a long detour out and around the wall of rock.  A portage would've been faster, but it would have left me with cold wet feet on a cold wet day.

I spot a common loon in the river.

It begins to rain, and it rains all of the way up the river.  It is a fine day to have to oneself.

Let things happen

It is a day too fine to not be out.  The air is clear of all of yesterday's fog and with the low winter sun, the light over the marsh casts arctic contrasts on everything it can touch.  I am aimless today and without a need to go in any particular direction.  I end up in the Indian River for awhile where I just sit and wait for things to happen.  I spend my time just looking at it.

 

And, the red-throated loon is where I usually see the red-throated loon.

The Red Throated Loon Waits

The red-throated loon is waiting at the mouth of the harbor as it often does when the tide is flooding into Gulf Pond. It does not approve of my arrival and flies off seaward out through the two stone jetties, its white underside showing me from some distance what bird it happens to be.

But, it is not yet high tide and I have an appointment to keep, so I turn straight away into Gulf Pond turning my back on calm seas and a thin fog that doesn't hide Charles Island, which is 2000 yards distant.  The current sends me under the rusty bridge with ease and my rate continues to be faster than I expect as I continue up the middle of the pond.  This could be tide, but I suspect it might be my schedule-to-keep in the back of my mind.

I arrive at the stone bridge having seen a few dozen buffleheads, a kingfisher, a great blue heron and several black ducks.  I have arrived before high tide and I ride a fast current with foot high riffles down a six inch drop into the Indian River.  The flow is upstream, but for how far I don't know.

At the highway bridge where I spotted the raccoon a couple days back, I stop to inspect the muddy shelves on either side of the underpass.  Not only are raccoon tracks present, but on both sides there are fresh deer prints.

I continue up to the log jam where I have always turned back.  I think I can go farther, but would rather wait for when I have my rubber boots.  I notice that I happen to be where the downstream flow is meeting the upstream tide.

Before I get back to the stone bridge, I turn into one of the little openings that branch off of the river.  It is ten to fifteen feet wide and goes much further than I expected.  It is a constant meander, a tight bending left and then right through low grasses and leafless hedges.  It takes me right up to a cooper's hawk, which takes flight as I approach.  I have hit the end of the road and turn back.

I go back over my route with little change from when I came except that the fog has come in.  I can still see the length of half the pond, but at the harbor entrance Charles Island is no longer there.

The Abnormal

The wind is out of the north and east today, which is something that I don't think of as normal, while being full aware that I haven't been here long enough to know what normal is.  I put in at the harbor noting first that most of the floating docks and nearly all of the pleasure boats have been pulled from the water - a winter warning, I suppose.  But, right now it is as calm here as I have ever seen it and my paddle out to the ocean is nothing but gentle.

The sky is cloudy, but the clouds move with haste and the sun shows through every once in awhile.  The work boats, oystermen who are actually harvesting clams, are working the waters between the mainland and Charles Island.  It is not normal for me to see them there.  The near ocean waters, being in the lee of the shoreline are calm and so, instead of heading straight into Gulf Pond, I continue east along land that I have not seen before.  People along here are rebuilding rock walls that were damaged during the hurricane, but I suspect that most of their damage was erosion and not structure.  I can see occasional whitecaps out beyond Welches Point and when I get there I find the wind to be not impossible, but not inviting.  There seems no good reason to leave the gentle waters.  I turn back noticing the large and exposed house that sits at the point, the former site of a guano and fishmeal factory.

I pass under the rusty bridge at slack tide, the peak of high tide when everything stands still for a few moments before reversing direction.  There is absolutely no current as I duck under the rusted beams.  A bit of north wind puts some effort into the paddle up Gulf Bay.  I spot black ducks, buffleheads, Canada geese and one great blue heron.

The real surprise, the real not normal event for me comes at the stone railroad bridge.  It is the gate into the Indian River.  I have seen it at low tide when it must be waded and the canoe lined through.  I have been here somewhere near high tide when a deep overpowering flow comes out.  Today, through no fault of my own, I slip effortlessly under the bridge, the high tide of Gulf Pond matching the high tide in Indian River.

I have never been in the river while it is high tide, so I continue past the time when I would've normally turned back.  The river is full width and unconstrained.  I spot some more black ducks and buffleheads and three hooded mergansers that takeoff around the next bend just as we see each other.  That's mostly normal for them.  Under the highway bridge I find a raccoon.  I knew they were here, but this is the first that I've seen.

I watch the water mark on the grasses and reeds that line the river.  When I turn back, the water has dropped about 2 inches and there is now a small current.  At the stone bridge the water has now dropped 3 inches and I coast through riding on the tide.

The Unexpected

I put in at the feral cat park and follow the left bank upstream - the left bank, in riverman's terminology being the one on your left if you are facing downstream.  I have both the wind and the current to work against and I am not feeling my best, a fresh dose of antibiotics in me to combat a possible case of Lymes disease from a deer tick bite 2 weeks ago.  I figure it best to be sick doing something I like rather than sit around the house and add to it.

I follow the reeded shoreline closely, just a few feet away, hoping for a little relief from the current and a bit of protection from the wind.  When the shoreline turns rocky, and later craggy, I do the same.

The tide is high and I spot the log that overhung the river, the one where four black crowned night herons stood for me one day a few weeks back.  I spot that log as I pass over it, submerged by almost two feet.  I turn into the little inlet a half hour up the river.  When I was here last, it was a fast chute of water dropping three feet in twenty - an impassable passage upstream.  Today, it is easy.  I find a calm pond almost a half mile in length.  It is man-made, for no reason that I know of, but it was not here on the 1934 aerial photograph that I looked at yesterday.

I continue up and soon, I find a Triumph motorcycle upside down and partly submerged on the bank.  I write the vehicle identification number down so that I can let the police know where it is.  It needs to be moved, even if it does not need to be found.  It smells of slowly leaking gasoline.

I pass under the tall bridge and begin my way along the craggy banks where turned up sedimentary rock stands on end.  I keep going, thinking about the next island upstream.  A very strong and steady gust of wind comes down on me - quite unexpected.  I let it decide.  It is time to turn back.

I follow that left bank except when I get near Fowler Island where I cross the channel and paddle in the lee of that low flat feature.  Then I go back to the bank and follow.  There is a stand of trees on a sandy beach that I stop to explore.  It looks like a fine "stealth" campsite for a future day.  I find a camera (more below).

The day has gone raw and I am glad to end the trip when I do. 


The Camera - I pulled out the memory card and found it to be in good order.  One expects images of people goofing off - posing on the speedboat and standing around the barbecue.  What I found were a dozen photos taken in mid-october 2011 of a bridge inspection.  I recognized the bridge as being one up near Derby - a place I just visited a week back.  From the photos, it looks like it needs some work.
 

Take a photo of me

Digital cameras leave more information than just the photo.  So, on October 19, 2011, sometime not long after the following photo was taken, one of the guys (probably the one in the above photo) said something like -

"Shit!  I dropped the camera."   

Okay, now you take a photo of us

   "Way to go, asshole.  We're not coming back to get you."

 

Cold Feet

I start early enough leading a tailwind out of the harbor in no such hurry so that I can take time to watch a little blue heron work on its morning meal.

The tide is not full out of Gulf Pond when I get to the rusty bridge and I have to fight the stiff current honestly, the water to low for me to reach up and grab the bridge beams and vault my way through.  Oddly enough, there is little forgiveness when I get into the pond, a headwind that feels stronger than I expected and the draining current make the length of the bay an  effort.  I watch for birds and memorize them without taking pause to set my paddle down until I reach the small pond just before the Indian River.

The water is low enough to make the portage through the chute, under the stone bridge, and into the river.  I remove my socks and put my shoes back on, roll my pants to the knee, and step out on the left taking the bow line and wading while pulling the canoe.  The water is very cold although not quite mountain stream cold.  I was raised in the north and it is well drummed into my head that cold is okay, numb is not.  I get on with it and hope that I can drift through the chute on the return with dryer feet.

The first half mile is in an exposed wetland.  The river is narrow, but the wind is present.  Once I pass under the next bridge, it is a forested stream.  I take my time moving quietly.  I flush several hooded mergansers at each bend, scaring them from some distance.  When the river begins to really narrow and the brush comes to the edges of the water, I spot 3 white-tail does well after they have seen me.  They head upstream, but crashing brush downstream signals a fourth.

I get to a log that I do not want to bother clambering over, because I know from my last trip that it will soon get too shallow for the canoe.  I return on the drift, being even quieter than on the way in.  Where I spotted the deer, I find that fourth.  It is a doe as well.  Two red-shouldered hawks come by, two kingfishers pass by as well.  The chute is too shallow to canoe through, so I wade it again and continue back to the harbor.  It takes the entire portage before my feet warm back up.