Kayak Nova Scotia

A Kayakers' Kampground.

2009-10-24T16:35:00.012-03:00

I first discovered Cranberry Campground totally by accident while exploring Merigomish Harbour by sea kayak one windy autumn afternoon. After finding the rare (on this shore) sea stack near the outlet of French River for which I had been searching, I continued along the shoreline out of simple desire to see what else might be at this remote end of a favourite paddling venue.

Almost at the point where Merigomish Harbour narrows to a tiny cove bordered by the beautiful Big Island Beach and the mainland shore, I noticed a group of trailers and tents clustered around a few small buildings and paddled over for a look. There I found a small reedy beach with a soft sandy boat ramp leading into a beautiful meadow in the heart of this jewel of a campground. I went ashore and hardly believing what I was seeing walked the grounds, taking note of the beautiful, large treed campsites, most of which were empty.

The facility was immaculate with water faucets readily available, a shower/laundry hut, bathrooms and even a nice A-frame cottage with communal shelter and cooking facilities for tenters who might want to escape a rainy day. The seasonal campers I approached were friendly to a fault, and the owners were glad to chat with someone who approached from the sea rather than by car.

From my perspective as a sea kayaker though, all this was secondary to the strategic location of this Shangri-la. I’m very familiar with Merigomish Harbour, and have long been an advocate of paddling there. It is one of the very few locations in Atlantic Canada which offers something to all types of paddlers, in a very compact area.

For folks who enjoy paddling quiet estuaries teeming with wildlife, there are several small rivers emptying into the harbour that offer unparalleled opportunity for relaxation.
History buffs will enjoy visiting Smashem Head on Big Island, where a beach stroll could reward you with an arrowhead or other artifact from the huge battle that is believed to have taken place here between the local Mi’ kmaw and the invading Iriquois centuries ago.

The beautiful islands in the harbour offer sandy beaches populated with wheeling eagles and the occasional seal for company as you enjoy a solitary lunch break. Adrenaline junkies will have a great time in the riotous reefy waters of the harbor’s mouth, where incoming tide and outgoing river flow battle it out with contrary winds that slide down off the headland of King’s Head.

For endurance paddlers, a trip leaving Cranberry Campground and circumnavigating the Big Island will fill your day quite nicely with all of the above, with the added reward of finishing up at your campsite for beverages and barbecue. For those wishing to relax, a short paddle from your campsite across the narrows will land you on the gorgeous unsupervised Big Island Beach, one of the best-kept secret beaches in the Maritimes. If the surf is running, drag your boat across the road and rip it up! The water is warm, and you can enjoy the view of Pictou Island, Cape George, and Prince Edward Island shimmering on the horizon.

A short day-trip paddle along the coast will take you to the beautiful shelter of Lismore government wharf, and a bit further on is the dramatic geology of the Arisaig fossil cliff area complete with wispy waterfalls and tiny pocket beaches. This area is also steeped in history, and if the surf is not pounding you can land at the Culloden Cairn and pay your respects to the displaced warriors who named this province “New Scotland” in Jacobite Latin.

If you’re into multi-day trips, consider an expedition from Cranberry around Cape George. You will experience amazing geology, desolate sandy beaches,

crashing surf, friendly locals and teeming sea life. The beauty of the twin fishing villages of Ballantyne’s Cove and Livingstone Cove is incomparable, and they provide welcome shelter on opposite sides of an imposingly rugged Cape George. If you have exceptionally good legs, you can land on the rocky shelf at the tip of the cape and ascend the tortuous trail to the lighthouse several hundred feet above. And, if you’re really lucky, the seasonal ice-cream stand there will be open.

The ultimate reward for all or any of this activity though, is the comfort and beauty of Cranberry Campground at the end of the day. I’ve seen a few nice sunsets in my time, but Cranberry seems to have some sort of arrangement whereby only the best are served up there each evening. Bring your camera, and lots of memory!

Two goals, one day.

2008-08-13T14:04:00.013-03:00

Since I started kayaking the Northumberland Strait at the age of 10 or so, I dreamed of paddling to Pictou Island, a gorgeous lump always hanging tantalizingly on the horizon. In my early teens, a trip to this Shangri-La in a small but doughty Cape Islander made me realize the enormity of this proposition. We slammed from wavetop to wavetop, braced with knees, elbows and foreheads into awkward positions within the tiny cabin, trying to keep from getting tossed overboard. I have never before or since been so glad to tie up to a government wharf. A night spent in a sleeping bag under the stars watching the meteor showers almost made me forget about the hazards of this crossing, and only strengthened my resolve to one day return under my own power.
Last weekend I did just that, several decades after forming that resolution. Added to that was the opportunity to attain another goal, that of paddling from one Canadian province to another.
Four of the best paddling friends a kayaker could have invited me to accompany them in a crossing from Caribou NS to Pictou Island, where we would camp before venturing even further across the horizon to the province of Prince Edward Island, some 15 kilometers beyond. They even agreed to wait for me, as I had previously agreed to take part in a breast cancer fundraiser that day, paddling in a Dragon Boat race on the East River in New Glasgow. My team made it into the Grand Final round, which tickled me no end but unfortunately made me far too late to join my pals. I reluctantly phoned them from the river and begged them to get under way before darkness impinged. They agreed with much protestations, and set out without me.
As soon as our team was finished our race, (we got third, wow), I bolted for the Caribou boat launch, jammed my gear in the Chilco's hatches, suited up and phoned Lynda-Marie on the water. Even though there was thunder in the distance and raindrops beginning to fall, I hoped to make a mad dash across the roiling water to join my friends. The tension in her voice was immediately apparent when we finally connected, and she warned me not to put in. She and the others were encountering crazy 2 meter seas from all directions, and were white-knuckling it the last 3 km to landfall on Pictou Island. Talk about mixed emotions, on the one hand she had possibly saved me from blundering into conditions beyond my ken, but at the same time deprived me of a lifetime goal. Of course she was right, but I was in a royal blue funk as I unloaded the kayak and slammed my gear back into the van. It takes a true friend to do what she did, and I'm grateful.

The next morning I woke at the crack of dawn and drove the few kilometers from my home to Caribou. The sky was leaden grey, and rain was threatening but there was not a breath of wind, and the water was (to use local fisherfolk terminology) "flat as piss on a plate". I reloaded the Chilco in record time, said my goodbyes to the locals onsite (geez, I'm getting tired of being called "crazy") and set out into the haze. Several times I glanced at my GPS and forced myself to slow down, knowing I had a long day's paddle ahead. Just as I began to cross the ferry lane, I heard the Holiday Island radio her position to the local Coast Guard. Scanning the horizon, I could just make her out as she began her long sweeping turn towards the shallow confines of Caribou Harbour. There was nothing for it but to begin a sprint, as nothing would mortify me more than to cause a ferry captain to rain curses on yet another "crayon" in his way. Thankfully, a 9 kph run got me well away from the ship, and I was able to relax into a somewhat more sensible pace. The West End light soon appeared and grew larger, and I rounded the tip of the island to encounter slight overfalls at every point. The current sweeping around the island is quite strong.
A few kilometers along the back side of Pictou Island towards John Dan's Cove I finally spotted 4 dots on the horizon and soon was able to pick out Patrick, Jacqui, Lynda-Marie and Wayne by their distinctive Greenland strokes. They were a little surprised to see me that far along, but I think perhaps they underestimated my enthusiasm to get this trip done! After a short leg-stretcher on shore, we struck out for Wood Islands PEI, invisible somewhere on the hazy horizon. Parts of PEI were closer, and therefore within sight but we decided that Wood Islands would provide the safest and most comfortable landing spot.
>
I must say that viewing the figures on my GPS was a bit daunting, as I'm not used to seeing such large numbers on the screen in terms of distance and time remaining. We plowed along happily though, reveling in the calm sea conditions and brightening sky. Soon we were paddling in blazing sunshine, and began shedding layers of neoprene in an effort to avoid heat stroke. Lynda-Marie pulled out her hand-cranked radio/MP3 docking station and played us some great Cape Breton fiddle tunes as we paddled. Great way to relieve the monotony!
During one of our rafted-up snack breaks, we were joined by a small pod of porpoises, some of whom stopped to lie on the surface and eyeball us curiously. These breaks were crucial I think, in that they broke up the trip into manageable bits, and provided great morale boost. The pee breaks were somewhat less pleasant, especially for the ladies who had yet to master their new "Devices". Apparently, heckling from the owners of more permanently installed equipment does not help the learning curve....

Landfall at Wood Islands was very pleasant, on an isolated sand beach with a red sandstone outcrop providing a good view of the area. After a round of back-slapping and congratulations, we scouted for possible campsites, and finding none got back in our boats and wandered East along the coast to a very promising looking meadow on a prominent headland. We had our tents set up in jig time, and set about preparing a hearty supper to try and restore some lost calories. My GPS indicated 38 kilometers from launch to landing that day.
We enjoyed a sunset stroll along a beautiful sand beach, then returned to build a small campfire and twist open a few cold ones. Bedtime was not long in finding us, and we slept the day's exertions away soundly. Next morning we breakfasted heartily, and the group decided not to break camp as we were not likely to find another such great spot. How right we were, as a 20km jaunt further East revealed nothing but steep sandstone cliffs and tiny cobbled coves.
Returning to camp in the late afternoon, the gang graciously waited while I packed up and loaded my boat, then accompanied me on the "paddle of shame" the three kilometers to the ferry terminal. Due to prior commitments, I had to bail out a day early, and was not happy about it. During the paddle to the terminal, Patrick intoned: "Glenn, you are the first member voted off the Island." LOL
We just barely beat the incoming ferry to the dock, and while I in neoprene river shoes ran the long stretch on hot asphalt to the ticket office, my pals attached my Freyamobile cart to my boat and dragged it to the waiting ferry just in time for me to grab it and run on board as a "walk-on with kayak". I can't tell you how glad I am to have friends like these. The deck hand in charge of the lower deck was more than helpful in getting my kayak positioned safely, and mentioned that he had seen us on our crossing earlier. Thankfully, he did not use the word "crazy", even once.
A 90-minute crossing and two slices of ferry cafeteria pizza later, I was back in the mighty minivan and on my way home to hot showers and cold beer. What a weekend.

Puffins, Glooscap and a boring rescue.

2008-07-01T20:13:00.013-03:00

While viewing puffins on the wing may not seem a scintillating lifetime wish, you'll have to admit it's something not everyone would add to their "bucket list".
Saturday I got to cross that entry off, along with ten other good chums from our paddling club.
We all (11 of us!)arrived willy-nilly on Friday evening at the beautiful Puffin Tours Campground near Big Bras D'Or on Cape Breton Island, and immediately fell into a comfortable routine of setting up tents and readying for the morning. The foggy dew and occasional mist were put to flight by Lynda-Marie's trusty kitchen shelter tent, with its clever system of camp tarps and shower curtain rings. We lolled inside in our camp chairs, cheered by the rosy glow of Wayne's home built wood stove just outside.
Saturday morning came early, after a blissful night under the stars with the sound of distant foghorns as lullabies.
Breakfast was a veritable smörgåsbord, as everyone seemed to have entirely too much of everything. Amazingly, we were all on the water before our anticipated launch time, a first for Pictou County Paddlers, I believe.
Well-armed with local lore by the campground's tour boat skipper, we avoided potential trouble spots and wended our way out to Cape Dauphin with the Bird Islands tantalizingly close on the horizon. After a quick snack on a secluded sandy beach we set out on the 3 km crossing to Hertford, the first of the Bird Islands. While launching, a passing local lobsterman offered us some weather advice, alluding to a storm approaching rapidly from the North. We took that under advisement and continued on. Actually, I had noticed the increasing swells which manifested in a nasty dumping surf on our erstwhile pleasant lunch beach. As the last one to launch, I got knocked sideways twice by intemperate wave sets.
After a comfortable crossing on gentle swells, we came into the lee of the Bird Islands and under the spell of their singularity. Sea birds of all types imaginable roosted in countless crannies, and darted busily past us on errands too complex for us to grasp. While in this state of mesmer, one of our paddles made a slight goof and found himself upside down in his kayak, a granola bar lodged firmly in his mouth. Taken aback by this, he forsook his normally dependable roll and punched out. The ensuing group rescue went like clockwork, and within minutes he was back in his cockpit and paddling onward. I was intensely but quietly proud of our club members, none of whom broke a sweat. The only directive I gave was a timeline for a possible tow hookup, as the flotilla drifted slowly toward some edgy looking rocks. Thankfully, this did not come even close to being necessary. Well done, folks.
A slow circumnav of Hertford, the innermost of the Bird Isles was very rewarding, and we saw murres, gulls and puffins aplenty. The puffins seemed fearless, settling onto the water within meters of our boats and eying us curiously. On the wing, these stout seabirds seemed quite ungraceful, but on the water they were clearly in their element. One wonders if they might be distant cousins to the doughty penguins of southern climes.
Forsaking a trip around Ciboux, the outer island, we made instead for the Fairy Hole and Glooscap's Cave on the mainland. Given the local lobsterman's admonishment about the oncoming storm, we felt this was a wise course of action.
A landing at the Fairy Hole was not practical, due to the steepness and lack of welcoming sand. Instead, we followed Bill to a nearby cove where all 11 of us could land and lunch in comfort. The local geology was amazingly complex, and we spent a good while exploring the shoreline.
Fortified with nutritious lunches and sugary snacks, we tried again for the Fairy Hole and with the expertise of Wayne and others we managed to bring all boats safely if not unscratched ashore. A tinkling waterfall greeted us, and we posed there for group photos.
A few of the more intrepid paddlers made the nail-biting rope traverse to the very mouth of Glooscap's Cave, but unfortunately he was not inclined to let us enter despite the offering of tobacco we made on the boulders guarding the cave. A 30-foot circular pool, eight feet deep with a six foot vertical rock face stymied us at the entrance. A single strand of very aged-looking nylon rope stretched tantalizingly into the cave's maw, but thankfully no one felt the urge to risk life and limb on it.
A leisurely paddle back to our camp site was made interesting by the rushing tide in the Great Bras D'Or Passage. Some paddlers struggled against back eddies and whirlpools, while others found the express flowage and fairly flew along at 9 kph.
We all arrived tired and safe at our home beach, and a few hours later were once again cozied into the bug tent, yawning and telling outrageous lies.
I think it's fair to say everyone slept well that night, despite the occasional gunshot (?) in the distance.
The remaining adventures of the weekend are best left to someone else...

Great Oddyssey of Nova Scotia.

2008-05-19T17:35:00.008-03:00

Yes, I know there’s only one “d” in odyssey. The odd thing about ours is its’ disjointedness. Argonauts we’re not, as our dedication to extreme trekking will be limited to weekends and holidays as we try to circumnavigate Nova Scotia’s entire 2400 km coastline in fits and starts. And yes, I know Jason and his Argos were not part of “The Odyssey” either. He did have a part in “Friday the 13th” though, didn’t he? But that’s another horror story…
Our story began on Victoria Day weekend 2008 as 4 friends and members of Pictou County Paddlers launched their epic voyage far inland at my home, stuffing gear into and lashing boats onto my dilapidated Dodge minivan. We didn’t really know for sure if 4 sea kayaks would fit on the poor old thing until Bill’s Sea Knife was uploaded, the last strap was tightened and we stood back to look at the fruits of our efforts. Not bad, kind of cool, really, “Let’s GO!”

An hour and a half’s drive along the Sunrise Trail took us to Heather Beach, our hoped-for takeout point later in the day. By a stroke of luck, Wayne’s friend Dave was innocently raking grass in front of his neat little cottage on the water, so we promptly shanghaied him as our shuttle driver. Now grossly overloaded with 4 boats, a ton of gear and 5 bodies, the valiant old Dodge struggled further up the coast to the very border with New Brunswick at the mighty Tidnish River. Dave waited and watched patiently as we offloaded boats and gear, shaking his head in amusement all the while at our apparent foolishness. “You don’t even have any beer.” he noted, a realization that struck me pretty hard as well.

After a toast to our own good fortune with wine made from locally grown grapes, or possibly gooseberries, we launched into the swirling Tidnish and tagged up on the New Brunswick side by patting the reedy shoreline with our hands.

The marine forecast was for westerly winds diminishing, and for the first portion of our trip we enjoyed stout tailwinds. Later on the breeze would swing south and intensify, but we were blissfully unaware of this as we gleefully surfed along, noting 7 and 8 kph GPS speeds. Our first break was for lunch at a beautiful little park dedicated to the builders of the Chignecto Marine Railway. This grand boondoggle proposed to transport ships 17 miles overland from the Northumberland Strait to the Bay of Fundy, saving hundreds of sailing miles. A Herculean effort, it very nearly succeeded before succumbing to the vagaries of finance and politics. Sadly, an all too typical Nova Scotian tale. Other fine examples of foolish spending in that era include the Shubenacadie Canal and Pictou County’s own tidal lock project in Trenton. Thank goodness our leaders learned from these valuable lessons and no longer dump good money into bad projects…

While dining at this serene and well-maintained enclave, we noticed Lynda-Marie’s major wardrobe function à la Janet Jackson, and of course politely suggested that she get herself back into more presentable attire in the name of propriety. Tsk tsk.

Continuing on, we decided to try for the Provincial Park at Amherst Shore, some 14 km to the east. We enjoyed the beautiful sunshine and cool breeze, but I was somewhat saddened by the intense shoreline development along this stretch. There were summer homes on almost every square cm of shoreline, each with ugly and desolate piles of armour rock guarding them from natural coastline erosion. Some cottage owners had driven palisades of hemlock logs into the sand along their properties, which at least eased the eyesore effect somewhat.
Coastal travelers should be aware that although safe landing spots are plentiful along this shore, you’ll almost invariably be standing in someone’s back yard when you pull your kayak ashore.

Amherst Shore Park turned out to be a mere sliver of steep muddy cliff with no access from the water, so we pulled ashore briefly for a leg-stretch and snack before continuing on towards Heather Beach. At Northport the south wind made itself known in a forceful way and the extreme fetch of Northport Harbour added to our misery, blowing us a considerable distance offshore. A spray skirt failure resulted in my getting absolutely soaked by beam waves dumping onto my lap, and Bill, Wayne & Lynda-Marie waited graciously as I put ashore to change into dry clothing. I ask you once again, is there any better feeling than warm dry fleece?

The 8 km jaunt to our takeout point at Heather Beach was uneventful as the wind settled into a pattern of occasional offshore bursts, which we countered easily with corrective strokes. We did have a moment or two of anxiety as we realized that we did not know what our host’s cottage looked like from the water, and one piece of crowded beach looked much like any other. Lynda-Marie with her newly purchased laser-enhanced vision was actually able to pick out the distinct roofline of our transport vehicle with its forest of J-cradles, and we made landfall with much relief.

Dave and Margo had told us where to find the key to their cottage, so we were quite happy to have privacy and real bathroom fixtures at the end of our day. Finding sustenance on a Victoria Day Sunday evening was a bit of a challenge, but we eventually struck a convenience store in River John that sold pizza by the slice, and we ate voraciously on their tiny outdoor patio. A neighbourhood feral cat joined us, and made out like a bandit by appealing to our consciences. The drive back to Pictou County was unusually silent as each of us evaluated aches and pains, and reflected on the enormity of what we had only just begun.
We look forward to much more of the same over the next year or three, but with perhaps less civilization.

Beautiful Day

2008-01-01T22:25:00.000-04:00

Rolling through the village of Abercrombie, my new (to me) Seaward Chilco strapped securely into the J-cradles, I remarked to myself “It’s a beautiful day!” And it was. Blue skies, sunshine, temperature around –5c, perfect for a New Year’s paddle on Pictou Harbour just a few minutes away. I reached for the radio button, clicking it on to catch the opening strains of “Beautiful Day” by U-2. Even more perfect!

Five of us set out through the shore slush from the tiny beach beside one of our favourite pubs, which was unfortunately closed for the holiday. The harbour proper was ice-free with only a few slush pans, which were easy enough to power through. The forecast winds were totally absent, and the usually volatile harbour mouth was dead calm as we eased out past the beautiful sand beaches on both sides. A slight swell picked up as we passed the old tumbledown sanatorium perched on the knife-edge of an eroding cliff. That place always gives me the shivers, considering all the human suffering that must have been concentrated in this one desolate location.

From the san, we hopped from point to point, stopping at each one to make sure everyone was willing to continue on. We in fact ventured further than planned, all the way to Pictou Lodge some 8.5 kilometers from our put in. There the lazy swells were pitching into beautifully surfable rollers, and Matt & Jamie were each able to catch a nice ride. Wayne, Lynda-Marie and I had paddled to where we thought the waves might break, with no such luck.

We sat in the sun, drifting as a group, each one silent and lost in reverie as we took in the cobalt sky, glassy swells and stunning view. Pictou Island, 10 kilometers distant, hovered tantalizingly on the horizon, beckoning. Not today, sorry.

The return trip was just as beautiful, with grey seals shadowing us and eagles watching closely from their treetop shore perches. The lowering sun glinted madly off the calm water, bathing us in an otherworldly light. The Pictou waterfront stood out brightly against a snowy backdrop, and we paddled past the ship Hector at her icy berth, her rigging badly snarled from the recent lightning strike that had rudely truncated her mainmast.

Quickly loading our kayaks and rapidly freezing gear, we sought out a small café offering warmth, food and beer. A leisurely supper spent laughing and discussing all things kayak provided the perfect ending for this beautiful day. Or so I thought. On the way back home through Abercrombie, I reached again for the radio, only to hear U-2’s “Beautiful Day” one more time. Even more perfect.

Many thanks to Lynda-Marie for the pics!

Happy New Year everyone,
Glenn

Think like a cork, think like a cork…

2007-09-08T13:41:00.001-03:00

I kept repeating that in my head, attempting to drive off the creeping tension in my hips and spine last weekend. Nine of us were riding the ocean swells on Nova Scotia’s Northumberland shore, and I knew that knuckling under to the enormity of the situation would result in instant capsize.

With the Pictou Island crossing jinxed by inclement weather for the third year running, our long-faced group of fleece clad paddlers adjourned from the wharf at Caribou Harbour to the local Tim Horton’s for coffee and commiseration. Little did we know that Al & Rich had a “Plan B” already conceived and hatched, with undertones of ulterior motive attached. They’ve been gradually kayaking large swathes of Nova Scotia’s shoreline each summer, with an eye to eventually completing a circumnav of the entire Province. Since the club’s Pictou Island trip was now scuttled by acres of whitecaps, Al craftily suggested we convoy to Bayfield wharf, the kickoff point for their journey’s next leg and hope for better conditions there. Fueled by a powerful mix of disappointment and 80-octane coffee we readily agreed to this impromptu expedition, and after much shuffling of boats and gear headed East on the Trans-Canada Highway towards Pomquet Island and God knows what.

Our only club member from down that way met us at the wharf and pronounced us “crazy” for attempting the disturbed waters that day, then went back to harvesting his carrots leaving us to our folly. To be fair, we had a close look at conditions and were aware that the winds were forecast to abate and eventually back to the Southwest overnight. Still, the prevailing Northwesterlies were blowing a steady 15 knots and gusting well above that. St George’s Bay was roiling, but whitecaps were few and far between. Having wasted half a day driving and dithering, we anxiously but cautiously nosed out around the breakwater and into the lee of Pomquet Island. After a quick head count and confab, we struck out along the coast hoping to make Havre Boucher or Linwood Harbour in time to make camp for the night. The waves built on our aft quarter as we entered more exposed waters, but we were comforted by the fact that the howling wind was onshore, and reasonable landing spots were plentiful if not ideal.

After our initial trepidation wore off and we found our sea legs or perhaps sea hips, the group relaxed and began to really enjoy the roller-coastering swells. Wave intervals were quite short, so a wary eye to seaward was required to remain upright. Fortunately impending whitecaps were easy to spot, and for the most part we were able to sprint or back paddle to avoid getting tumbled. Still, the occasional rogue wave would lift boats high in the air, allowing other paddlers to inspect our rudders, skegs and hulls for blemishes and imperfections. Wayne estimated these knuckle-biters to be about 5 feet from peak to trough, and I think he was being conservative. At any rate, I couldn’t tell you what the shoreline looks like along that coast, as the rare glance towards shore offered only a frightening view of enormous dark blue wavebacks marching towards landfall and obscuring the horizon. There were grins all around though, and the occasional “Wahoo!” from paddlers arcing over the wave crests.

Al somehow spotted a tiny seaweed-dampened beach just right for getting us ashore safely, and we enjoyed a short lunch break while our gear dried in the sun.
Our approach to Linwood Harbour a few hours later was somewhat hairy, with the outgoing tide rushing out through a narrow passage and colliding with the incoming swells. Quartering wind waves only added to the confusion. Wayne stopped and had a hard look at conditions, then judiciously sent Bill and I in to scout the passage. Bill made for the standing waves in the passage centre to see how bad they were, while I followed Wayne’s advice and rode the shoreline eddy at the near edge of the harbour. Finding this to be a relatively smooth route, I stood station in the harbour mouth and tried to guide the group in with frantic paddle signals. All arrived safely, and we were much relieved to find smooth water and welcoming beaches. After scouting an acceptable campsite on a beautiful sand and gravel bar at the harbour mouth, the group split up and searched for a more ideal spot to set up for the night. With radios in hand, three sub-groups engaged in a lively electronic debate over the merits of their preferred discoveries. After much wrangling and haggling (“We’ll trade you half the pot of chowder for the right to camp at this RV park with showers!”) we agreed to put ashore as a whole at the improbably named “HyClass Camping Park” in order to preserve peace (and daylight). This turned out to be a wise decision, and we enjoyed real bathrooms and hot showers while eschewing the wonders and privations of our planned wilderness camping experience. The campfire shenanigans that night are best left to the imagination, but I will say that Deb’s chowder was a big hit after a hard day’s paddling.

The next morning dawned bright and warm, with the sun drying our gear nicely while we breakfasted and broke camp. Our exit from Linwood Harbour was uneventful, and the winds were Southerly as promised, giving us lots of impetus. The chop was short and steep, and its irregularity forced most of us to remain more alert than the previous night’s revelry may have allowed. Al and Rich guided us superbly through the rebounding seas around several headlands, choosing lines through the mess that were entirely invisible to me. There were lots of opportunities to surf some of the larger rollers, and we took advantage of them.

The trip around Cape Jack into Canso Strait was mostly uneventful, save for Cathy’s hilarious encounter with a determined seagull bent on shooting an approach to the foredeck of her WS Inukshuk. Rather inhospitably, Cathy yelled discouraging words at the luckless bird while jabbing her paddle lance-like at his beak. A startled Mr. Gull wisely veered off for a water landing, feathers ruffled.

Before entering the Strait, we stopped at a beautiful sandy beach for a spot of lunch, and pulled driftwood logs together to make a convivial corral for seating. The last of the cold beers were produced and distributed, with no guilt given the sheltered waters and short distance remaining. We dawdled perhaps longer than necessary, looking for driftwood and other treasured flotsam along the shore. Al found several skate egg cases tangled in the seaweed, and there was no shortage of odd and interesting rocks littering the strand.
The tiny villages of Troy and Creignish were visible cuddled under the tree line of Cape Breton’s distant mountains, providing a breathtaking backdrop. These communities are home to wunderkind fiddlers Natalie McMaster and Ashley MacIsaac respectively.

Our approach to Auld’s Cove and our lone shuttle vehicle was anti-climactic. Indeed, several members suggested we continue to the Canso Causeway itself and perhaps lock through to the other side, but time was beginning to pinch hard and we went ashore instead. The shuttle drive crew departed, and four of us were left to unpack and make ready for pickup. Bored, we approached a group of Motel cabin tenants and asked if we could use their picnic table to finish off the dregs of our camp food while we waited. The folks turned out to be BMW bikers from Oklahoma, and were delightfully charming and generous. They insisted on giving us a bottle of fine French wine to wash down our trail mix and leftover sausages, and even stayed to chat for a time. Nice people indeed!

The denouement to our adventure was truly bizarre, as we experienced good old-fashioned Acadian hospitality at a run-down roadside lobster bar near our takeout.

The owner/host was eccentric beyond words, and kept us constantly amused as we ate wonderful seafood and Acadian fare. When we innocently inquired as to the distance from Canso to the locks at St. Peter’s in Cape Breton, nothing would do but he call the Coast Guard and find out exactly! Added to the fireworks the man set off in our honour at our arrival and the constant barrage of sales pitches and staff introductions, his honest eagerness to please wore a bit thin with us before we hit the highway for home, showers and real beds.

As others in the club have mentioned, for a plan B, this sure turned out to be an A+.
Well done Al and Rich.

Great gear

2007-08-08T21:32:00.000-03:00

My good friend and occasional paddle partner Wendy Killoran has posted a thank-you to Kokatak on her blog for supplying her with some of their great paddling gear. I’d like to second everything Wendy has to say about Kokatak, I have one of their Gore-Tex storm cags and value it as one of my most versatile pieces of essential kayak equipment.
The Pac-Lite material packs down small enough to fit in my deck bag, and provides almost instant protection from the elements when things go sour on the water. I can don it quickly, right over my pfd. Once it’s snapped in place around my cockpit coaming and the drawstring pulled tight around my face, the weather can do whatever it likes, I’m warm and dry.
It also functions well around the campfire, the breathable fabric and generous sizing make it a great rainsuit. In a pinch, I’m sure you could hunker down for the night in it and be comfortable. I’ve wanted one ever since I saw Freya Hoffmeister’s jet-black version she used while paddling the South coast of Newfoundland with Wendy last summer.
On the downside, the one-size-fits all feature means that small to average size paddlers may find the cag to be a bit voluminous, especially in a stiff wind. Also, the brilliant orange hue of the fabric has made me the butt of more than a few pumpkin jokes on the water. Small stuff, to be sure, but if you’re going out in known windy conditions, I’d suggest relegating the cag to your day hatch and wearing something a bit sleeker to avoid the sail effect. Keep the Kokatat handy for days when the weather is questionable.
In winter, this garment really seems to come into its own, functioning perfectly as a windbreaker and auxiliary spray deck, while breathing just enough to avoid a potentially deadly perspiration buildup. On minus 20 days, I could actually feel a difference in cockpit temperature thanks to the snug coaming fit. While I’m not sure if it’s a design feature or not, I noticed much less ice buildup on the cag than I normally get on my bare drysuit and neo spraydeck.
The Kokatak storm cag is one of those items I can’t bear to leave behind, even on a seemingly benign sunny day trip. It invariably gets tossed into my deck bag or behind my seat along with a bailout bag, extra snacks and water.

Kayak Kameraderie

2007-07-10T22:40:00.000-03:00

I sometimes forget that there’s more to kayaking than piling on the miles and seeing the sights.

With 16 paddlers out on the windy waters of Antigonish Harbour last Sunday, the emphasis was definitely on getting along rather than getting somewhere. Our cadre of dedicated kayakers has grown together to such an extent that even members who have not paddled with us in quite some time simply blended in to the social fabric when they arrived at our put-in on Town Point.

While the logistics of getting that many paddlers rounded up and convoyed to such a remote location may seem daunting, in actual fact the event went off as smooth as butter.

Many of us met at our usual form-up spot off Exit 25, and we seemed to accumulate more and more kayak-laden vehicles as we traveled North on the Trans-Canada Highway.
Our kind host, Ernie Porter, had hinted in his emails about the “uniqueness” of the new structure we might find on entering his private road to our put-in site, but I was completely unprepared to see a replica of the Cape George lighthouse, built from original plans sitting alongside his driveway. Visible from the water, this structure looks like it has always been there. Well done Ernie!

The aforementioned wind was a bit of a wet blanket on our harbour paddle, so 3 kayakers wisely decided to rest at our lunch site beach near the pretty little hidden cove to which Susan had led us. The rest of us made the crossing to Pomquet Cove, and paddled in relative shelter all the way to South Side Harbour Road.
At lunch, I was bowled over and reduced to stunned silence when the club presented me with a card, a bottle of wine and a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday”. Thanks, folks.

After a nice downwind run to the gypsum caves and then back to our cars, Marc and Susan graciously invited the group back to their place for drinks and snacks on the porch. What a beautiful spot they have, overlooking Antigonish Harbour with Crystal Cliffs, Captain’s Island and Mahoney’s Beach all laid out before us.

On impulse, and at Marc’s suggestion, we decided to drive up the coast in convoy to a fish-and-chip shop in the little fishing cove of Cribbons. A booming business is done at this plain-looking steel arch building easily mistaken for a fishing shack. And no wonder, accommodations were superb and the food fantastic. We commandeered the restaurant’s outdoor gazebo, and very quickly drove off the resident diners with our smelly kayak gear and raucous behavior. The braver members of the group sampled Bill’s Calamari, which he informed us was: “Squid, b’y!” Many lies were told and photos taken.

Thanks to everyone for a great and memorable paddle!

Rocks, trees and Mongolian throat singers

2007-07-02T20:52:00.000-03:00

4 of us had a great weekend paddling the Outer Canso Islands, where
the Stan Rogers Folk Festival was taking place. The scenery was
fantastic, the water ice cold and the weather...complicated.

We had a tiny squall follow us around most of Saturday, forcing us to
camp on the mainland instead of our destination, Charity Island. We
had a great site on a sandy beach nonetheless, and in fact got a visit
from the members of Chirgilchin, a Mongolian throat-singing group who
hiked out to the end of Glasgow head between sets at the festival.
Although shy, they were amazed at our kayaks and our gear, and asked
many questions about the boats. Their English was decent, and they had
a Russian interpretor with them as an obvious minder. One of the guys
had on a pair of hand-tooled leather boots with up-turned toes that I
would have given my eye teeth for.

Wayne, Tracy, Pamela and my ownself had a wonderful time. We ate like
royalty, drank... um... responsibly (beer, home-made peach wine,
rum...) and paddled our hearts out all weekend. At night, we were
lulled to sleep by the crystal-clear tunes from the Stanfest several kilometers away,
with distant foghorns filling in the gaps. On Sunday, we were
serenaded by seals at our lunch stop on Sherewink Cove. Their "music"
was not so pleasant, being mostly hoots, howls, growls and grunts. I
was reminded of the later stages of our typical Kayak Pub Nights at
The Dock...

Wildlife was plentiful, and included such rare sightings as the
black-stockinged Tart and several mature chubby-legged strippers.
You'll have to ask Wayne for genus and species info on these rare birds...

Cheers to Wayne for sharing his camping knowledge, Pamela for her
amazing culinary skills, and Tracy for her moxie and delicious peach
Chardonnay.

Pics are at: http://community.webshots.com/user/magoo_ns under "Canso '07"

Glenn

Paddling Mushaboom / The Bawleen

2007-06-11T22:50:00.000-03:00

So that’s kayak camping eh? I’ll take it. And as much more as I can fit in.

Wayne and I made the short portage from the Provincial Park on Taylor Head to the shore of Spry Bay, where we launched in unusually calm conditions. On the trail to the water, we saw several patches of fiddleheads unfurling under the firs. I fervently hoped we’d find some near our eventual campsite, as there’s nothing better than fresh fiddleheads pan-fried in butter.
We headed for The Bawleen, a beautiful sheltered enclave within a C-shaped island complex, where we hoped to find a good campsite before nightfall. Crossing Spry Bay we encountered a dirty, pushy swell that played havoc with my kayak, stuffing the bow under and slewing the stern at alarming angles. At my muttered expressions of distaste, Wayne allowed as how conditions did indeed “….require your full attention.” Abandoning plans to explore a small drumlin island due to the swell, we skirted the landward side of the Bawleen to a point near the centre of its axis where a narrow portage trail gave us access to the inner sanctum, sparing us an hour’s paddling time.
As we re-entered our boats to continue on, 4 osprey circled above us, screeching and whistling. At a leisurely pace we followed the Bawleen’s inner shoreline, watching for potential campsites. Of three possibilities, we chose an elevated cobblestone point with lots of room for boats and a kitchen, and adequate space in the trees for two tents. There were no mosquitoes. That’s right, none. Woohoo! Wayne found a bare seal skull on shore with four vertebrae attached, which I promptly bungeed to my foredeck.

The fog that had been hanging offshore like a purple wall all day moved in, and it became pointless to try and get wet gear dried out.
Instead we heated up supper, scarfed it down and jumped in the now unladen kayaks for an evening paddle. The wind was low, the water calm, so we spent an hour just enjoying the sights. Two large otters popped out of the water right in front of us, but one look at our fearsome visages was all they needed to bolt for shore and scramble to safety. We returned to our home beach at dusk, and got set up for an evening around the fire. The wind then picked up of course, tattering the fog but not removing it. Wayne hauled out his ingenious home-built woodstove, made from an old cooking pot and some scrap metal from a junkyard. We fed it twigs, which it consumed voraciously. The payoff was a nice soft glow and even a little warmth in the gloom and fog.

During the night the fog condensing on tree branches dropped on our tents like rain, and the distant sonorous moaning of foghorns had a soporific effect. Just before dawn the yowling of coyotes heralded the start of a new day, and we struggled out to the kitchen beach for hot coffee and grub. While there, a lobster boat hove around the point, its crew cheerfully cursing and whistling. “Get up! Get up!” they hollered at our empty tents, not realizing we were already well under way.

In mist and fog we paddled a beeline across the Bawleen, exiting on the ocean side after exploring a great little island with future camping potential. Seals grunted and barked at us from low rocks as we passed. A big grey seal kept a wary eye on us from the water, spy-hopping to keep us in view. Ignoring him, we dashed across Spry Bay, late for our Rendez-vous with other club members who were to meet us on the beach for a day paddle.
Repeated radio calls to the daytrip leader went unanswered, and a lobsterman hauling traps in front of us at an unmotivated pace, further hampered us. Even though we were pushed for time, we realized that this was a crew earning a living, and we were simply recreating. We gave the boat a wide berth and crunched ashore at the narrowest point of Taylor Head.
The boats were hauled ungraciously back up the portage on one of Freya Hoffmeister’s indestructible carts, and we threw mountains of wet gear in my van on the way past it to the sandy beach on the opposite shore.
Conditions were not great on this side of the Head, and we set off into a steady wind and a good chop. After an hour or more of slogging, we caught up to the rest of the gang on Mushaboom Harbour near Salisbury Island. Wayne pointed out the soggy seal skull lashed to my bow, and I mentioned the GREAT barbecue we had the night before… Lunch was eaten in a cold rain on a bouldery shore, and all expressed a certain amount of misery. Many of us changed into dry clothes before venturing back into the increased swells.
In the lee of the islands, we ventured further inland before re-crossing the harbour in an effort to escape the pushy swells and wind waves. Two of us elected to run before the wind to a small beach, where the others agreed to pick us up later on their way by in their vehicles. This turned out to not be such a great idea, as the beach’s cove was a cauldron of lumpy water and dumping surf. We landed safely, although I had a close call with a one-in-a-million occurrence. A swell from behind pearled the bow of my boat underwater to the deck bag, snagging the guy rope of a lobster pot string. What luck. Good thing no one could hear me. I got the rope unhooked from my bow toggle after repeated attempts with my Greenland paddle, but not before getting swung beam to the waves. All ended well, though, and we huffed the kayaks up to the road just in time to meet our drive.
After giant sundaes at an ice-cream stand, I felt human enough to make the drive back through the Game Sanctuary to civilization on Nova Scotia’s (warmer) North shore.
Coffee, hot shower and warm dry bedding awaited!

Pictures may be seen at: http://outdoors.webshots.com/album/559411911cdJvfx

Feb 2007, the streak lives!

2007-02-25T21:49:00.000-04:00

The streak lives.

Thankfully, today was a remarkably fair paddling day our part of Nova Scotia. Temperature was right around freezing, and winds were moderate WNW according to the real-time observations online. I say thankfully because this is the last weekend in February and I have not paddled since early January, jeopardizing a six-year monthly paddling streak begun in 2000. Proper safety gear, a dry suit and good communications equipment have allowed me to paddle year ‘round even in the harsh Canadian winter, as has repeated self-rescue practice.

At the launch site, a decidedly unfriendly locale rife with the detritus of heavy industry, the winds were actually NNE and whipping the waters of Big Gut into wads of brownish foam that skittered across the shore ice. With drysuit and mukluks, I waded out into the water to get a feel for the conditions, and was not impressed. The wind off the Harbour was bitingly icy, prompting me to go ashore and don a Kokatat Goretex Pac-Lite storm cag and a neoprene helmet with snowboard goggles.
After careful consideration I unloaded my gear and got set to go, perched on a handy ice shelf overhanging the waves. As I knuckled forward, the shelf collapsed under me depositing my kayak neatly in the current. I fought my way out through the piled wind waves jostling under a large lift bridge, and emerged into the no-less nasty chop on Big Gut. The chop was not big, but fast and brutally slab-sided. Turning was simply not an option until I gained the lee of Green’s Point, where I rested and took time to watch the resident over-wintering geese and ducks struggling to get airborne without being torn apart by the gusts.

Reluctant to disturb the wildlife any further, I headed back into the fetch and surfed wildly back across the gut, squirting under the lift bridge into the shelter of a small cove. With one wary eye on the harbour pack ice being driven along behind me, I paddled as far as the point in the estuary where the relative calm and lack of salinity allowed the water to freeze into a solid jumble of piled ice cakes. Turning, I struggled back against the blow to my put-in spot, grateful for the wind-breaking capabilities of the Kokatat storm cag. A very tricky landing put me back onto the shore ice, where I dragged my boat to solid ground and turned to look wistfully back at the churning water.
The streak continues.

All the Best for the new year.

2007-01-02T21:17:00.000-04:00

Happy New Year, it's been an amazing 2006.
Our local paddling club continued on its merry way, exploring new kayak venues and re-visiting old favourites during the year. Membership continues to grow, and with the club in such good health it may be time for a sea-change, leader wise. That is, with my recent change in careers something's gotta give. Either my club pres duties will suffer, or my paddling time will take a serious hit. Hmmm. What to do...

In 2006 I had the great good luck to paddle with Wendy Killoran again, and to help her out in a small way with her amazing 'Round The Rock expedition. As an added bonus, I also met Freya Hoffmeister and hosted both her and Wendy briefly before they set out together for Newfoundland's wild seas. Freya is a dynamo, crackling with energy, and a joy to behold. She and Wendy make an unstoppable team.

I'm not a believer in New Year's resolutions, but this I promise: Now that I've beaten one of Freya's Kayak Carts to a pulp, I'll write up a review of this excellent product and post it soon, honest.
Also, having just received one of Kokatat's great-looking new Gore-Tex PacLite Storm Cags via courier today, I resolve to abuse it horribly over the next few weeks and review it as well. We'll see how it holds up to a Nova Scotia winter...

Speaking of winter, Monday's New Year's Day paddle on Pictou Harbour with my buddy Wayne constituted 5 years and 10 months of continuous all-season kayaking, just gotta get out in Farch to make the six-year mark. While global warming is a very serious and even disturbing issue, I am glad to no longer have to put my kayak "away" for winter. In fact, unlike my childhood canvasback kayaks, the Prijon has never even been indoors....

Happy New Year everyone!

Glenn

Kayaking the Fury

2006-10-09T12:31:00.000-03:00

Wayne and I had a great excursion out to the wreck of the Fury where she lies shattered atop Steering Reef on Nova Scotia’s Eastern Shore. Our put-in was the wharf at Little Liscomb, and conditions were ideal; sunny skies, no wind to speak of, and a falling tide.
We skirted Redmans Head and crossed Gegogan Harbour to Tobacco Island where we paused briefly to formulate a plan. Since conditions were benign, we decided to head straight across to the Fury, looming large on the horizon. Wayne had twitted me earlier by saying: “That’s a big rock, eh?” When I agreed, he pointed out that the “rock” was actually the hulk of the shipwreck, a breathtaking realization.

The wind came up fairly briskly as we approached the wreck and the following waves got a little unnerving, especially where they collided with the bounceback from the reef. The tide was low enough that we were able to land on the reef and have a quick lunch before exploring the wreck in detail. The Fury ran hard aground here in 1964 during a nighttime winter storm after losing her steering. No lives were lost, and next morning the crew was able to walk ashore along the spit leading out to the reef without wetting their shoes. I spoke to a local fisherman a few weeks ago who remembers the wreck, and he marveled at the number of much deadlier reefs and shoals the Fury had to thread past before settling on the only one with shore access. He also recalled the distress flares fired by the crew that awful night, and how they were ripped from the sky by the shrieking wind and flung horizontally into his grandfather’s farm fields several kilometers away.

The pounding waves have reduced the 300’ bulk of the Fury by half, and the reef is strewn with chunks of plate, fittings and steam gear. We collected a few small souvenirs and took lots of photos, then headed out on the now active whitecaps towards the lee of Tobacco Island. From there we ventured into the teeth of the blow, crossing the 4 kilometers to Crook Point on the eastern tip of Liscomb Island. It was a bit of a slog, but the wind waves and swells made for a really fun hull-slapping trip. Even Wayne’s Ellesmere was getting some air off the wave crests. Waves were breaking on my deck bag and hitting me in the face, and occasionally my paddling arm would be submerged to the elbow as a roller passed me by. I remembered later why this is not so great, when I raised my arms and got sleevesful of cold water down my back.

The north side of Liscomb Island is a jumble of cobbles, boulders and fallen trees with few potential camping sites and fewer landing spots. There is a beautiful pond on the island behind a high cobble barrier, with an island in the middle. We wondered if there was a pond on that island….

Continuing along Liscomb Island to Gravel Point on the eastern tip, we crossed from the abandoned crib work there to Burying Island and Hog Island just off the east end of Hemloe Island. From there we had a short crossing back to our put-in wharf at Little Liscomb, and we dawdled terribly trying to squeeze the juice out of what daylight remained. After bowls of hearty chowder at the historic restaurant in Sherbrooke, we left town in the light of a full moon that allowed us to barely miss a deer crossing the two-lane blacktop. A porcupine was not so lucky a little later, as I dead-centered him with the mighty minivan at warp speed.

For photos of the fun, see http://outdoors.webshots.com/album/554685487ugCuEi

Glenn

Five Islands NS

2006-09-01T22:03:00.000-03:00

Five Islands 2006

Stupid is as stupid does. And we did it. While all turned out well, our excursion on the insane tide rips of Five Islands was almost our undoing. 9 of us had a jaw-dropping day on the 40-foot Fundy tides Saturday, we saw unbelievably gnarled landscape and experienced impossible water conditions. The tiderips that cropped up shortly after the turn of the high tide were like something from another planet. Pamela had warned us about them but conditions were so benign we continued anyway, intent on cramming as much into one paddling day as we could. After a lazy lunch at a spectacular little pocket beach on the furthest of the Five Islands chain, I remarked on how the whitecaps seemed to have multiplied while we dined. Al noticed that the wind had freshened and swung to the east a bit. We set out with some trepidation, but soon forgot our worries as we paddled through the craggy slots that make up the end of Pinnacle Island.
The now rising tide was trying to jam billions of gallons of seawater into the space between the islands, and the countering wind piled the wave trains higher and higher as we plugged along. At the tip of Long Island, we stopped and stared in dismay at the intense rips stretching as far as we could see. Bob noticed that there seemed to be a gap in the rips created by the rocky outcrop at the tip of the island, and volunteered to scout it out. Next thing we knew he was through, and Patrick followed behind. I went next, so that Patrick and I could stand station in case anyone went over. The ride on that rip is one I’ll never forget, as I was forced to execute a “Flintstone brace” for the first time ever. A Flintsone Brace? Oh, that’s when you are pushed so badly out of shape that you stick your free hand in the water to try and gain traction. Not pretty, but it worked, and in burning shame I re-entered the rips for a moment of play while I calmed down. Meanwhile each paddler proceeded when ready, and all made it through ok although Bill spent a fair amount of time underwater in the crazy wash.
The rips pursued us from island to island but we bounced along happily, intent on our return landing at the provincial park where our tents and suppers awaited. The sea caves on the southern shore of Long Island were spectacular, and we were able to paddle inside a few of them. One was so large that Bill was able to paddle right in and turn around, but not without leaving some good Newfoundland gelcoat behind.
The enormous stone arch on the western end of Long Island defies description, but I did manage to get a few photos of it.
On our return to the campground beach Bill, Patrick and Al McNeill remained on the water for another hour, playing in the muddy outlet of the East River until forced ashore by the dramatically falling tide.
We had a slow and relaxing supper at our campsite, then settled in around the fire for some lies and beers. The remaining stories are probably best left untold, but I do recall someone kicking the fire grate uphill. Nearly red hot, it rolled back downhill and into the fire circle, scattering campers. The caliber of the jokes being told deteriorated steadily as the night wore on, and those told near midnight were truly horrendous. Our lone courageous female overnighter told some of the worst stinkers.
For entertainment, we parked a car beside the fire, opened the doors and blared Neil Diamond and Cher recordings until all hours. The next morning at the water tap as I tried to rinse the cobwebs from my head, a slight young gentleman wearing pink Crocs allowed as how: “we really liked your choice of music last night!” Uh-huh, bet he did.
Breakfast the next day was interesting, a veritable food production line. Al M. and Bob functioned like a well-oiled marine, cranking out bacon, eggs, fried potatoes and God knows what else. Some elected not to eat at all, claiming “flu-like symptoms.” Cheerios and blueberries for me, chased with endless cups of real coffee.
A phone call from home ended my pleasant morning reverie as I sat in the sun awaiting the afternoon tide, and I had to finish packing up and head back to domestic duties.
I hope the remaining folks got out to Red Head in search of the waterfall; I’m looking forward to their report.
For pictures of an unforgettable outing, see http://community.webshots.com/user/magoo_ns

Glenn

Murphy's Cove 2006

2006-07-23T17:14:00.000-03:00

Murphy’s Cove, on Nova Scotia’s Eastern Shore Route 7 is just one of those places to which you find yourself drawn, year after year. You could spend a lifetime paddling there, and not see all there is to offer a sea kayaker. The private campground on the cove’s most prominent point is a gem for sure, with trailer rentals or tent sites, whichever you prefer. Personally, I loved the trailer. There’s just something about returning from a remote paddle trip to a hot shower, cold beer and CFL game on the tube.
Ship Rock, Little Ship Island and Wolfe’s Island were my targets this year, despite the pea-soup fog and 20 knot winds forecast. I set out from the campground into a dense blanket of moisture that obscured everything but the bow of my boat, but felt comfortable with waypoints and compass headings collected from last year’s trip to the same locale. The fog lifted somewhat at Ship Rock, and I got another look at this breath-taking face, a boulderer’s dream. While I rode the swell and waited, the fog lifted further and exposed Wolfe’s Point 2 km away. After hemming and hawing, and making absolutely sure I could do this crossing safely, I set out for Wolfe’s into the swells. There was no chop to speak of, just a mild clapotis from the omnipresent reefs, islets and shoals in this feature-packed bay. As usual, the sea gods assailed my hubris and played a cruel joke, slowly tightening a foggy garrote around me as I went. Wolfe’s Point became less and less clear the closer I got to it, at times disappearing altogether forcing me to compare GPS and compass readings continuously. The shoreline behind me vanished into the fog also. The lighthouse on Wolfe’s Point is automated now, but was not operating nor was the foghorn. I found it anyway, and looked along the rocky shoreline for a place to exit my boat and explore. Apparently there are ruins of two previous manned lights there, and I wanted to have a look. No luck though, everywhere I looked were gouts of spray bashing into boulders. I stayed in my cockpit and continued along the exposed eastern shore, battling the wind and riding roller-coaster waves that sank me into troughs deeper than I cared for.
Luckily, there are some rocky shoals and the occasional pocket beach to shelter in, and I explored every one. At Long Creek, I snuck behind a granite headland and entered a rocky enclave straight out of a pirate movie. Indeed, the sailing vessel Benneke was hove to, its crew all out on deck in oilskins having a confab. I did not approach, as that is unwise in this part of the world for reasons I’d rather not go into. I was close enough however, to see the surprise registered on the sailors’ faces at the sight of my tiny little craft “way out there”. Long Creek is actually just a deep cleft in Wolfe’s Island, almost bisecting it. The inner reaches are so calm and warm that they harbour sea anemones, which I was lucky enough to see in the crystal-clear depths below me. The silence was like a balm, but I could just make out the angry surf smashing into the island’s opposite shore not far overland.
I turned and headed back out to sea, once again passing the Benneke, with no sign of crew this time. My goal was a sandy crescent beach called Sandy Cove, a rarity in this part of Nova Scotia. Frankly, I admit to being spoiled by my own home paddling turf, where sand beaches are the norm and rocks are rare. The lack of suitable landing spots on the Eastern Shore is always foremost on my list of concerns while paddling this area.
At the Southernmost tip of Wolfe’s, the swells were getting really huge, partly because of the geographical exposure and partly due to the increasing wind. I put ashore on a pristine white sand pocket beach and had lunch, then walked the rocky outcrops scouting the conditions. Without even catching site of my further beach objective, I saw spray spumes and rampant rollers that made my knees a little weak. Far enough, says I, don’t want to leave a widow and two orphans just for the sake of gawping at some god-forsaken sand.
We’ve got loads of that in Pictou County!
The return trip was uneventful save for some slap-braces in the now increased clapotis near Ship Rock. The currents of the incoming tide and the outflow of Ship Harbour were clearly at war, and I was skipping across their battlefield. It was with relief that I put ashore on Little Ship Island for another snack and –well I’ll be darned, there’s a beer behind my seat- a refreshment. I gingerly walked the spine of this razor backed granite outcrop, trying not to step on the orange lichens and stunted crowberry bush that struggled so hard to gain a toehold there. The sheer cliffs dropped dizzyingly on either side, to roaring rocks alive with spray. At the farthest and highest tip, I climbed atop a glacial erratic balanced precariously on the cliff top. From there I had an unobstructed view of Ship Rock face which I had passed earlier, and was startled to see a young girl fishing from one of its spiny ledges. She spied me and whooped faintly, waving her arms over her head. I replied by raising my beer and drinking a toast to her adventurous spirit.
Wanderlust expended, I retreated along the crab shell littered ridge. The shells were left no doubt, by crafty gulls dropping the unlucky crustaceans from great heights onto the unyielding granite. A short paddle back through The Tickle took me to my campsite, where beer, shower and football game awaited.
The heavy rains and thunderstorms arrived on cue, and I briefly (very briefly) spared a thought for my fellow campers in their sodden canvas domiciles. Then I went to the ‘fridge and got another beer….

Day trip

2006-05-14T13:29:00.000-03:00

From yesterday:

Day trip.

Tired of planning trips for the club, I loaded my kayak this morning and set out on the river from my back yard with no real destination in mind. I let the family know when to commence panicking if they did not hear from me, and headed down to the harbour mouth some ten miles away. The "plan" was to look at the prevailing conditions and then decide whether to paddle east along the coast towards Caribou Island, or west to Melmerby Beach.
Heading downriver, I was surprised at the warmth of the water and the amount of algae blooming, both very unusual for this time of year in Nova Scotia. At this rate, with these mild temps, there won't be much oxygen left in the water for fish come late summer.
3 miles downriver the channel narrows and passes under a lift bridge, where the current was running hard and plowing into the lazy waters of Big Gut. The shallow water, sandy bottom and confluence of tide, harbour, stream and river normally make for a fun playspot here, but today conditions were mild, other than a small wave train at the lift bridge. 2 miles further on lies tiny Ballast Island, a favourite rest stop of mine. Ballast Island, as its name implies, is made entirely of the contents of ships' holds, dumped there after making the crossing to Pictou NS from Europe and the South Seas. Scattered among the boiler slag and clinkers you can find white marble slabs, old china dish fragments and whitened coral branches. There I could feel the beginnings of a sea breeze, so donned my paddle jacket and hat for the crossing to Pictou.
Another 2 miles across the estuarine portion of the harbour took me to the historic town of Pictou, where I arrived just in time to watch the Ship Hector replica being towed to her summer berth by a doughty little Cape Island lobster boat. The Hector brought my forebears from Scotland in 1773, desperate for a new beginning. I paddled up to her, broke out my water bottle and offered a toast. Local wharves were alive with lobstermen repairing gear and checking their boats, as the season is on. Many more were cruising in and out of the harbour with friends and family aboard, enjoying the early summer weather.
At Pictou I was surprised to find the marina's floating docks still stacked on the public wharf, and the concession stands tightly closed. Dozens of locals and tourists were wandering the waterfront anyway, nodding to each other as if sharing a secret and smugly pitying those who remained couchbound on such a great day. Noticing a handful of folks sitting at picnic tables nursing Tim Hortons' coffee cups, I left my kayak and gear on the tiny sandy beach beside the (closed) Saltwater Cafe and wandered up to Water Street where I got a nice hot Timmie's and a toasted bagel.
Had a great chat with a local woman who was walking her Labrador, she told me stories of the older, rougher days in Pictou when you simply didn’t go near the waterfront, and only went "down street" to go to a store or the movies, and then only in a group. Times have changed, thankfully, although she did ask: "Did ya hear? Pictou’s got a hooker!" In a small town, I guess that's news.
Well satisfied and re-energized, I paddled out to the harbour mouth and had a look at the beautiful stretches of sand beach lining the entrance to Pictou Harbour. While debating what to do next, I played and played in the swells as they collided with the outgoing river rush. The East, Middle and West Rivers all empty into the harbour proper, and must tussle to get out into the Northumberland Strait here at Pictou Roads.
Checking the time and doing some calculations, I realized that the nearest roadway for a possible pickup was at least an hour away, and would require a long drive for my family to come get me. Since the time was now approaching 4:00 pm, I opted to turn and surf the wind swells back to town, where I could relax while awaiting a drive. The tide had fallen to the point where re-entering my home river would be a struggle, and the slog home would be even worse. Much better to drive, and maybe stop at the ice cream stand on the way home.
At harbour centre, Pier C juts out into the waterway and impedes the tidal outflow, making for some beautiful wave trains, steep and quick. Looking at the water, I got the impression that the surface water was actually streaming towards me at a terrific clip, while the waves shoved me along from behind. Dizzying but fun!
The lowering sun was warm on my arms, and the water calmed as I approached the inner harbour. Deliberately I slowed my cadence, trying to draw out the remains of the trip as much as possible. Paul Theroux’s words from Sunrise with Seamonsters came to mind; "I have come to dislike the disruption of going ashore".
Once landed, a tiny boy approached me, wide-eyed, and said; "Is that a kayak?" I showed him the boat and let him heft my Greenland paddle, laughing inside at the sight of all that lumber in those tiny little hands. After an appreciative nod from his father, I sent him on his way, yammering about how great it would be to "go kayakin’!" Ah, another convert. Content, I flopped down in the grass beside my boat; head pillowed on my drybag and dozed off. Awakened by the rude honking and ruder shouting from my son in the mighty minivan, I loaded wet gear and boat and made the trek home.
Via the ice cream stand, of course.

Inspiration

2006-05-05T21:59:00.000-03:00

Inspiration. Literal and figurative, it came to me last evening. I had been asked; "Why are you doing this?" in reference to the time and effort spent in aiding Wendy Killoran's "Round the Rock" Newfoundland circumnav.
Up until last night, I had no real answer to that, other than; "Because it's fun." But watching Wendy and her travel companion Freya Hoffmeister excitedly packing and re-packing their exped gear in my home hallway, I began to experience, by osmosis I guess, a heightened sense of the import of this great undertaking, this grand derangement. Whether it was Wendy's cheerful optimism, Freya's stolid capability, or the near perfect szyzygy of their newly forged friendship I don't know, but their combined energy and enthusiasm could power a small city I'm sure.
Inspiration.

Suddenly all the glaring deficiencies in my own gear and paddling methodology tumbled to the fore in my mind, but was quickly overcome by the prevailing joie de vivre and can-do air surrounding Wendy and Freya.
You might say it was infectious.

Better get to it!

2006-04-02T22:26:00.000-03:00

The Nova Scotia paddle season is about to start with a vengeance, as our local club ramps up for the season. Actually for me, there is no specific kayak season, unless "hot" and "cold" qualify... any excuse to kayak on any given day is a good one. In fact, as of last month I completed 5 full years of paddling each and every month, summer and winter. Not a single trip, no matter how frigid or bouncy, was completed for the singular attainment of this goal, they just happened. And I'm damn glad they did.
I'm excited beyond words to be hosting my old friend Wendy Killoran, and Greenland style paddler par excellence Freya Hoffmeister next month, as they gear up for Wendy's 'Round the Rock expedition. Freya will accompany Wendy on the first leg of her incredible journey around the entire province of Newfoundland, from Port Aux Basques to St. John's. Wendy is a kayaker's kayaker, a true good soul. She'll arrive at my Nova Scotia home by car on or about the 2nd of May, and we'll make the 100km drive to Halifax International the following evening to scoop up Freya. I'm very much looking forward to meeting her, and consider myself honoured to be allowed the opportunity to help these paddlers out in a (very) small way.

Glenn

A beginning.

2006-01-04T21:26:00.000-04:00

Thanks, Kelpie, for suggesting I create a spot to let folks know about kayaking in Nova Scotia.