Month: May 2018

Bob and Terry’s group was packed and on the water well before we were (understandable, since they’ve got 40 years of practice on us) but we did join them for breakfast of hot coffee and pancakes. Since they were a day shy of being back in the frontcountry they unloaded a good bit of excess food on us- specifically a Mainard marvel called “macaroni loaf” which sounded gross but turned out to be just about my favorite meal of the entire trip. Someone also left a bar of dark chocolate in my hat as they departed, sealing their reputation as some of the greatest people we’d interact with for the entire trip.

The river was quick and made up for our ponderous start, and the weather was clear, sunny, and warm. I have already begun the laborious process of the thrice-daily sunscreen application in the hopes of saving my flesh from the giant fireball in the sky.

The only rapids we had to worry about were the aptly-named three-mile-long Big Rapids just before Allagash. We figured we might not want to run it, and knew that if we missed the last pullout we were pretty much screwed. Three miles is a LONG swim if you dump.

We stopped around 1pm just above what we were pretty sure was the last turn before Big Rapids. Since it was super windy and the canoe kept trying to depart on its own, I stayed with the boat on a sandy shoal and Steve took a walk to see what he could see. An hour later (I threw a lot of rocks in the river while waiting) he returned with mediocre news: we’d missed the actual pullout, we WERE just above Big Rapids, and we could technically get out a quarter mile on but it would very much be on someone’s private (and posted) land. He could see the first tiny bit of Big Rapids and it didn’t look THAT bad, but it still left 2+ miles of gnar that we knew nothing about.

We ended up opting to backtrack the quarter mile upriver to the official launch to keep our karma balance intact. It was a miserable slog lining the boat along steep, slippery, thorny terrain and we were both a little cranky by the time we got there. It wasn’t helped by a shitty uphill portage of multiple miles that required wearing our 115L portage packs while dragging the canoe.

Via sheer dumb luck we ran into two guys with a truck who were dropping a rig off for their kids’ canoe trip, and the pair (Dean and Don from Fort Kent) offered us a lift into Allagash. HELL YES.

We loaded the boat (and Steve) into the bed of the truck and bounced down the road into Allagash. Even though the road was high above the level of the river, we still got a decent look at the rapids and felt pretty good about our decision not to run them. Since we’d already given up on the Bay of Fundy, we gave up on our “purist” tendencies and accepted a lift that skipped a couple miles of river and put us directly in the parking lot of the Kelly family camp in Allagash.

The aforementioned restaurant was closed for the afternoon, but we ended up renting a cabin for the night. Hot showers! TV! Wifi! A BED!!!

Sadly, a lot of the overwhelming joy at being back in civilization was sucked out when we discovered that an apparent mass panic among our friends and families had been directly responsible for the border patrol helicopter fly-by of the previous day, in addition to initiating the spread of a rumor among the locals that we were either a) fugitives from the law or b) complete moron tourists with no backcountry experience who “probably saw some movie with a canoe in it and thought this seemed like a cute idea”. To our credit, all the locals who ran into us had the same opinion of “wait, that’s YOU guys? But… you actually look like you know what you’re doing.”

It’s also worth noting that we stressed multiple times before we left that we were bringing several weeks’ worth of supplies, that there is ZERO CELL SERVICE in this entire area, and that the “you can start to worry” date was TOMORROW.

We recognize it was well-intentioned panic, but we’ve now eliminated a lot of folks from the list of who gets our float plans. It’s a lot harder to be sneaky about camping when literally everyone in a two hundred mile radius is trying to find your drowned corpse.

Few things are as satisfying as downing five people’s worth of hot breakfast after three weeks of dehydrated snacks. Hot coffee is an underrated godsend.

After explaining to LITERALLY EVERYONE IN TWO RIVERS LUNCH that NO, we weren’t on the run and YES, we were totally fine and NO, Steve was not holding me against my will in some weird brainwashing scandal, we launched from the Kelly Camp’s backyard. (Everyone was very pleasant about coming up to our table and grilling us mercilessly; we have yet to meet anyone in Maine that we don’t like.) We zipped down the still-flooded river through minor riffles and chilly temps despite the sun with an end goal of St Francis, where we’d heard there was a riverside campground via the Northern Forest Canoe Trail guide. (Their stewards were super helpful with a lot of camping questions we had on this stretch).

There was! Pelletier’s, run by a Norm L’Italien, who wasn’t immediately available. We took a stroll across town to find an ATM and then stuffed our faces with the world’s greatest homemade Boston Creme Pie at the Forget Me Not Diner while befriending the waitress.

Eventually we secured a campsite (and a bunch of cold beers, a first for the trip) and set up for the night planning on a relaxing evening playing cards at a picnic table while we waited out our dessert hangovers. However, the wind was so strong and so cold that we ended up piled into the tent playing drinking games in all our long underwear while the temperature dropped into the twenties. (Of all the gear we brought, the giant down quilt we affectionately call “The Big Squish” remains one of the best decisions.)

We absolutely CRUSHED the miles into Fort Kent. We had planned to paddle up the Fish River to the public boat launch by the blockhouse, but the Fish was VERY flooded and not having any of it so we pulled in behind a levee and walked into town.

Since the campsites at the end of the Northern Forest Canoe Trail were flooded out (the water had come down nearly 20 feet in the days prior to our arrival), we sent them an email asking about alternatives and checked in with local PD to see what our local camping options would be. While we were waiting for answers we horfed some sandwiches, made a solid resupply at the local Shop & Save, ate an absurd amount of Chinese food, and signed the NFCT registry at their “end of the line” kiosk. They had anticipated our arrival and left us a delightful care package of paddling trail magic, which absolutely made our day. Lacking other ideas, we even went to the movies for a viewing of “Supertroopers 2”, which was a very weird experience to have a) sober and b) after our recent interactions with border patrol.

The local cops put us in touch with Boy Scout Troop 189, who were absolute rock stars and allowed us to pitch our tent on the lawn of their Trading Post at the Fort Kent blockhouse and even use the Post’s bathroom. Given that their entire campground/picnic area/boat launch had been completely underwater mere days earlier, their troop had done an incredible job cleaning up in the aftermath of the flood. We had to drag the boat over the levee and through town since we couldn’t get up the Fish, but it was totally worth it.

The weather is gorgeous, but everyone still seems to think we’re nuts for camping before Memorial Day.

Another glorious sunny day, which is much more acceptable now that we’ve restocked on sunscreen.

The Fish punted us right out into the middle of the St John’s current and we cruised along comfortably. The paddling was uneventful save for the vast stretches where the water had been ten or twelve feet higher and left a thick layer of silt behind on everything it’d touched… in addition to full trees and the occasional roof.

We hit Madawaska about lunchtime and pulled over to eat at a small park. A quick jaunt up the railroad tracks and we picked up a couple of Lime-A-Ritas, which made for a VERY enjoyable float the rest of the afternoon.

The end goal had been a place called Thibodeaux Island, but the flooding had rendered it a swampy mudpit so we stopped nearby where a short and steep climb up a bank led to a lovely spot in a patch of reforested pines. We had chili mac, had a cold beer or two, watched the sun set through the trees, and got to spend a quiet night sleeping like the dead on a bed of pine needles.

Except, you know, for the adjacent highway. And train tracks. Aahhhh, nature.

The sun continues! And we continue on into Grand Falls. The river crossed the border and is now fully in Canada; we stopped briefly at the first available Canadian customs station to “officially” cross the border, and they were completely nonplussed by our escapade. Seriously, when we rolled up to the drive-through on foot with the canoe, the Canadian officers were like “cool, okay, have a nice day, eh?”

River speeds slowed as we approached the dam, but the paddling was otherwise delightful. We pulled into the marina above Grand Falls around 4pm, discovered a restaurant/bar at the launch, and decided to have a burger while using their wifi to figure out our next portage/camping situation. The waitress was reasonably sure we could camp at the boat launch with permission from the town offices, but when we called them we realized we’d crossed into a new time zone without realizing it and their office was closed. We ended up calling the local police department, who said that even though it was closed we were welcome to camp at the “Chutes et Gorges” campground… on the other side of town, five miles away.

We got a HUGE break when the bar owner gave us and our portage packs a lift there and back in her car, but we still got to experience the joy of dragging the canoe down the entire main drag of Grand Falls. It was hellish, but worth it; the Falls were RAGING.

Oh, and Steve got pulled over with the canoe.

The deserted campground was close enough to a Burger King that we ended up having second dinner and a couple of milkshakes before calling it a night. Bonus points for the nearby construction site that had port-o-potties.

No joke, we’re getting almost as much hiking in as paddling on this trip.

Steve made the first gear run from the campground to the put-in below the dam while I stayed with the canoe and eyeballed the bemused spring cleaning crew of the park. I joined him for the second load with the boat, and after everything was safely stashed by the river we made a quick Subway/wifi/Giant Tiger/library run and then repacked the boat. We pushed off in a light drizzle from a field of flood debris into a stiff current.

Everything that had gone over Great Falls had been stripped bare and/or mangled, so the chunks of things we were seeing on the banks and in the water were sobering. Entire trees had had their bark ripped clean and were polished smooth. The remnants of dozens of dam safety boom floats that had been ripped from their moorings littered the banks, and there was a wide swath on either side of the river that had been cleaned of all brush. The changing bottom depths below the dam created what looked like a rolling boil of eddies in the center of the river, so we hugged the banks to stay in the quickest part of the current.

By our calculations we were clocking about eight miles an hour and we hit Aroostook in no time. The rain began to pick up, so we battened down the spray deck and our rain gear and began looking for a campsite. We alternated getting out of the boat to scout locations, and unfortunately for Steve he was the one on foot when we got nailed by a solid wall of rainstorm. We opted for a patch of dry ground in a weird no-man’s-land by the railway just below the dam at Tobique Narrows.

The campsite wasn’t much and we spent the whole night on high alert in case the release alarm sounded at the dam, but the sun came out and we managed to dry off a bit while having some pretty awesome burritos for dinner.

We woke up to sun and six inches less water, so we optimistically applied sunscreen thinking we’d get to work on our tans. (Read: STEVE might work on his tan. I can never hope for more than a color change from “paste” to “ivory”.)

NOPE. Cold wind picked up less than two miles in and we layered up. We spied a stop sign on the edge of the river (most likely for snowmobilers in the frozen months) and took it as a literal sign to stop for coffee. I picked up Canadian snack foods (Ringolos, anyone?) while Steve lounged in the boat.

The sun stayed out, but it stayed cold and we fought a gnarly headwind pretty much the entire day. We made our budgeted 23-ish miles to Beechwood Dam, but by the river gods we had to fight tooth and nail for every inch of it.

We pulled out at a not-unreasonable public boat launch above Beechwood around 3pm and were pleasantly surprised to find a labeled canoe portage… that we didn’t take, because it was WAY easier to take the paved road/rec path through the mile long yard/park of the power company. (The portage trail was also swarming with local kids zooming around on dirtbikes, so it worked out better for everyone.) It was an eerily lovely stroll, despite Steve’s strong feelings about the lack of port-o-potties or trash cans.

Camp for the night was behind the dam at a site obviously used as a dumping ground for flood debris that had gone through the wood chipper. Despite the grim setting, we had a lovely dinner of Chili Mac Round 2 and jalapeno cheddar. We fell asleep to the intermittent release of water from the dam gates, which we realized would need to be carefully timed the next morning.

Putting in below Beechwood was sketchy at best. The bottom of the portage trail had been washed out in the flood, so we were left with a steep, glass-riddled beach of loose boulders. We timed our launch to avoid a dam release, but even so the water level changed six inches just during the time we were loading the boat.

Fortunately, the quick below-dam current made for stellar river speeds and we hit Florenceville doing eight or nine miles per hour and early enough that we stopped for coffee at Tim Horton’s.

The farther we got from the dam the more the current slowed, but at least we had a tailwind (although Steve occasionally argues that that’s worse than a headwind… probably because in a headwind, I’M the one who ends up doing most of the work instead of him). Just the same we hit Woodstock with very little trouble and went into town to hit the library for internet and a map to the nearest source of cold beers. (Adventuring is hard work, okay?)

The librarians were delighted by our expedition, and volunteered a local retiree named Doug to give us a lift downtown for a pack of Moosehead Ale. He was a truly lovely fellow and we were glad to have met him.

Steve had a small panic attack when he took the wrong trail back down to the river and didn’t immediately see the boat, but it hadn’t budged. We made our way to a narrow horseshoe-shaped island and pulled into the shelter of it’s cove to find a nice campsite with a picnic table and fire ring. The only downside was nearly stepping on a nesting goose and the immediate uproar that ensued. Eventually everyone’s ruffled feathers soothed and we had a lovely evening next to a birch grove overlooking the river.

Very little current, but another gorgeous day in terms of weather. (Not a single one of these is going by unappreciated after the rainy, snowy debacle of the Northwest Branch.)

We set ourselves the goal of ending in Nackawic, a 24-ish mile day that covered the bulk of Meguntic Lake. We stopped mid-morning in the tiny town of Meguntic to grab gas station coffee and inquire about camping options, and were surprised to find ourselves in the town that makes Sabian (formerly Zildjian) cymbals. The owner let us use the landline to call ahead to an RV park that is JUST ACROSS THE LAKE FROM THE WORLD’S LARGEST AXE, which I was very excited about because I LOVE weird roadside attractions and also IT’S A GIANT FUCKING AXE.

The paddling was a little bit of a slog, but the lake itself was gorgeous. We had a bit of a time trying to figure out how far we’d gone (no real landmarks, and the ones we looked for may still have been underwater) but there was a fun selection of architecture along the way and we spent a solid portion of the day debating the pros and cons of RV vs. tiny house vs. houseboat and the various styles of deck.

We hit the WORLD’S LARGEST AXE! Late afternoon, and while I was sad it was hollow it was basically everything I could have hoped for: nicely located, very weird, and you could touch it.

From there it was a quick scoot across the lake to Mariner’s Point RV park, where we pulled up on the beach and were immediately welcomed in with open arms. George, the owner, had us set up just above the beach by a birch grove with a picnic table. There were hot showers (OMG) and LAUNDRY (OH. MY GOD.) and then we watched the sun set over beans, brown bread, and scotch while marveling in how nice we smelled.

After that we made it one hand into gin rummy before Jen and Paul Devereaux, our campsite neighbors and resident hosts, invited us over to their campfire to sit in lounge chairs and shoot the shit while working our way through some cold beers (and Paul and Steve worked their way through a bottle of Jameson). NICEST. PEOPLE. EVER. I have a newfound respect for RV’ers; they’re just as into the “adventuring” as we are, they’re just a little smarter about how comfortable they want to be while doing it.

I woke up at 6:30, had a nice poop in a real bathroom… and foolishly went back to sleep. Around 9:30 hungover Steve managed to pull himself upright. We’d lost the chance to paddle the rest of the lake in calm, glassy conditions BUT we did get treated to bacon, eggs, and pancakes at the park’s opening weekend buffet breakfast. There was also a puppy present, which was icing on the cake for me. Seriously, NICEST. PEOPLE. EVER. They even waved us off from shore and made us feel super cool and hardcore.

Not that feeling hardcore made any difference, because the rest of the day was a bit of a slog. We set out aiming to end at Mactaquac Dam so we wouldn’t have to portage it midday.

We spent most of the day crawling down the lake in a headwind JUST stiff enough that if we stopped paddling, we immediately started moving backwards… at a rate about the same as our forward pace. It was also another fun-filled day of “where the hell are we, damn these flood conditions and damn this weird Canadian map”, although we did pass a quaint little place called King’s Landing that spawned a few hours’ worth of nerd jokes.

Once we saw the dam, we still had to find the pullout… and do a full lake crossing in gnarly tail winds and good-sized waves. And impending rain, because why not. We ended up pulling over so Steve could jog up and scout it out, and good thing- we would have missed it completely. We set up for the night at a dodgy pullout RIGHT at the dam in the company of some pissed-off beavers, and just barely got set up before it started dumping rain.