Current location:	The Isles of Shoals, NH
Current mood:	exhausted
Entry tags:	kayak

Dry Side Up

From: youraverageninj
To: wolftone
Re: Portsmouth

I checked this morning, and nothing on the isle is named "death" "chop" or "stay away from here you idiot"

Of course, she's parsing carefully with the "on", neglecting to mention that the alternate name for the day's destination is the "Isles of Death". When the coast guard fishes our bodies out of the Atlantic, we can't say we weren't warned.

	There's an island out there somewhere	Photo by gingerninja

This is my first over-the-horizon paddle, a 7+ mile open water crossing to New Hampshire's Isles of Shoals. If you know where to look, you can almost resolve an old WWII observation tower from shore, but most navigation at the outset is by compass and GPS. Wind is mild and angling in from the starboard bow, current is favorable, temperatures moderate, and the sky is more-or-less clear. Reveling in the sea conditions, we cross to the islands with no drama.




The Isles themselves are a mishmash of bombing range, private island, guano repository, lighthouse, and church retreat. Our research was ambiguous on whether or not the Unitarian camp was active, so we are happy to discover activities in full swing upon arrival. This allows us access to bathrooms and fresh water, but not the (closed) snack bar and its precious, precious ice cream. Cheerful staff and limber yoga-folk mix with earnest elderhostel guests in a pleasant and relaxing atmosphere. After a morning out on the water, there is nothing more wonderful than a rocking chair on a shady porch in the sea breeze. (OK, I suppose a hot tub would have made it better.)



Back in the boats, we make good time back to shore with a tailwind assist. Then, a mile from Odiorne Point things begin to suck. A lot. The wind shifts from the southeast to the west, blowing furnace-hot air directly into our faces. Suddenly, we are confronted with the day's 90+ degree inland temperature and (worse) it is slowing our progress. Also, about this time ominous clouds replace the happier, fluffier variety. Past the breakwater, low tide forces us to scrape through sharp mussel beds. Lightning appears in the distance, and rain dots the water. This is not a good time for me to lose all of my energy and some feeling in my right shoulder.



Slowly reaching the put-in, we discover that the low tide has created 50 feet of sulfur-smelling mud flats between the water and the launch. There's no way to avoid it, so we squish into calf-high muck and transfer the boats to dry land. It doesn't take long for the riverbed to suck both 14-point riverguide tevas from my feet. I recover only one and complete the boat-loading ritual by alternately wincing on sharp gravel and hopping on one foot. Fortunately, CVS is still selling flip flops so we can drag ourselves into the (apropos!) Muddy River Smokehouse for the most satisfying rack of st. louis ribs I have ever eaten.