Selected articles from the Autumn 2003 issue

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AUTUMN KAYAKING ON SQUAM LAKE

Richard E. Winslow III

      Squam Lake at last! For decades, I had known little about New Hampshire’s second largest lake, except that it was a private preserve of the wealthy and the film setting of On Golden Pond. I had always had the false impression that public access was virtually closed. This myth was finally dispelled when I arrived there on Sunday, October 3,1999, for a day’s kayaking with guide Bill Zeller and three other guests. Bill had made advance arrangements for our outing at the office of the Squam Lakes Association (SLA) lodge overlooking Pipers Cove. What I found was arguably the best lake kayaking in New Hampshire; a magnificent expanse of water, islands, coves, and shoreline ringed with mountains.

      We all had our own reasons for coming here. Bill himself had retired four months earlier from an elementary school principalship; he had celebrated his freedom with a summer canoeing trip to the Barrens, Northwest Territories. He and his wife were now devoting all their time to their canoe/kayak store, Country Canoeist, and leading trips – "almost more than we can handle," Bill confided.

      Ken and Diane, a married couple, had moved from Texas to New Hampshire the year before. After purchasing two kits, they had painstakingly constructed – from plans to finished products – identical kayaks. They had only recently applied the final varnishing on the hulls, giving the wood grain a handsome tan-brown hue, and now they were ready to christen the kayaks in the lake. Looking out from the dock, they exclaimed, "Texas has nothing like this."

      Giorgio, a middle-aged, very fit fellow, craved exercise away from the tensions and demands of the business world. As a freelance writer and librarian from Portsmouth, I was anxious to liberate myself from my desk and its mounds of paper. Since the season was coming to a close, we all savoured the chance of embarking on one last paddle before stashing away our kayaks for the winter.

      As we assembled, we avoided all the typical small talk of new acquaintances – our occupations, New Hampshire property taxes, or any standing-an-the-street-corner exchanges of conversation. All that had little relevance here, the only worthwhile topics being kayaks, canoes, past trips, the weather above and the waves before us.

      At 9:15 a.m. we launched our expedition, pushing off from the beach at the SLA dock. Despite a slight chill in the fall air, we warmed up quickly with each forward stroke. Under a sky streaked with blue and grey, clearing as the day progressed, we paddled beyond the shelter of Pipers Cove. Across open water in the distance was Point Finisterre (Land’s End), a promontory affording the nearest land access. The far shoreline – indeed, the lake’s entire circumference was forested to the water’s edge with pine, broken occasionally by a flaming red maple. To minimize risk, we bunched together.

      Then came the full blast of the wind, slamming us broadside from the west. As my kayak sliced into the waves, I felt the water spank the hull, with spray splashing on the bow deck and a few drops even striking my face. Beads of water landed on the deck and rolled over the sides a few becoming stationary as the kayak momentarily stabilized. Whitecaps only added to the excitement of the bucking ride – rough enough to present a challenge but not enough to pose any real danger.

      As I dug in hard with my paddle, my mind frequently flashed back to people I had met on earlier canoeing and kayaking expeditions in far-flung parts of North America. How I wished they could be here today on Squam Lake, yet I sensed their spirits paddling alongside in phantom kayaks on this glorious lake.

      My nature-writing friends ought to have been present today, too. Many of them gathered annually on retreat to read their work, discuss their projects, and sketch the beauties of nature – all as a cerebral and spiritual exercise. How much more elation they would feel experiencing nature on an actual outing with open pores and adrenaline racing through their veins. Writing and reading seemed so tame compared to the raw reality before me at this moment.

       As we rounded Point Finisterre, another party headed toward us from Livermore Cove. We met up in calmer more protected waters. Bill hailed the party’s leader, Brad Washburn, grandson of the legendary mountaineer/photographer/cartographer. When young Brad bought his canoe at Bill’s shop, the two became friends, and they have often met by chance on the waters of this lake. For years, I had seen the wiry grandfather as one of the regulars on the mountaineering lecture circuit, and I vaguely recalled that the Washburns owned a camp on Squam Lake. Along with his well-received, accurate-to-the-last-contour-line maps of Mounts McKinley and Everest – indispensable items on any expeditions to those areas – Washburn in 1989 had produced "A Chart of Squarn Lake," jointly sponsored by the Squam Lakes Association and Boston’s Museum of Science, where the veteran mountaineer had served as director for years. Under bungee cords on his bow deck, just in front of the cockpit, Bill had strapped Washburn’s laminated map for instant referral.

      We then turned due east to aim for a slot between two islands a few miles away. Both Moon Island (where we planned to have lunch) and Bowman Island are owned by the Squam Lakes Association and are available for camping, hiking, swimming, and other recreational uses. The wind, after being an adversary, now became our friend, pushing us in perfect alignment toward our destination. The crest of each wave lifted our kayaks, giving us a free ride on the way down as it dipped down and flattened out in a trough, almost as if the lake were rhythmically breathing in and out.

      In half an hour we entered the channel between the two islands and paddled into a protected cove of Moon island. A dock – awaiting removal for the winter – marked our landing site. A sand beach looked as though it would be inviting for a summer swim, but certainly not now. We landed, stretched, walked, and reached for our lunches and canteens.

      As we downed our sandwiches, Bill related a few details of his summer to the Barrens: "We didn’t meet another person during the month-long expedition. We landed in MacKay Lake, paddled the Lockhart River to Alymer Lake, portaged over to the Back. We went down the Back to an unnamed river and went up it for 60 miles to get to Nose Lake. We paddled down the Mara to the Arctic Circle where it meets the Burnside, which we followed to Bathurst Inlet. While waiting a day or so for our bush flight back to Yellowknife, we talked to the seventy-three-year-old Inuit matriarch of the village. Most of the twenty-seven natives who live there are her descendants. During the winter she goes out alone on her snowmobile on hunting trips." Bill described her vividly as a larger-than-life character still exerting considerable influence over her extended family.

      Presently a Squam Lake safety patrol boat motored over. "It’s quite windy out there," warned a young officer in uniform. "I just met up with another group and they are heading for the mainland to get out of the wind and waves." Bill explained that our strategy was to hug the shorelines of various islands, and, if need be, we would turn back early.

      As we waited for the wind to let up, Bill offered to evaluate one of Ken and Diane’s homebuilt kayaks. Paddling off on a mini-shakedown cruise, Bill put the kayak through its paces, including extreme leans on each side, shifting his weight to tip the cockpit gunwales within an inch or two of the water’s surface. "You have an excellent boat," he announced. "It’s very stable and handles well."

      When I inquired, Ken explained that the kit company offered a variety of measured materials, dimensions, and kayak plans to accommodate different-size people. A longer, larger kayak designed for a six-foot, four-inch person weighing 220 pounds obviously offered more of a tailor-made fit than one constructed for a person five feet six inches and a hundred pounds lighter.

      Our pause while watching Bill’s demonstration was just what we needed. The winds had slacked off so we could resume our journey. "How would you like to see the camp where On Golden Pond was filmed?" asked Bill. "It’s down at the narrows at the far end of Great Island." We had all seen the movie, so off we went.

      Taking the channel between Moon and Bowman Islands, Bill led out to pick up the favourable tailwind. The many islands and points of land in this middle section of the lake diminished the turbulence and power of the wind and the waves, so paddling was easy. As I rounded Bowman Island and glanced to the northeast, I noticed what looked like a familiar landmark. I called to Bill, who confirmed it was the distinctive horn of Mount Chocoma, with shafts of light filtering down on its summit cone. Over the years, I had climbed that mountain many times – indeed, from every trailhead around its base. Today it was thrilling to view it from my cockpit seat, an entirely new vantage-point.

      As we followed the Great Island shoreline (mercifully devoid of camp development) to its southern end, the island and the mainland pinched at the far end to create Great Island Narrows. Black-and-red-topped buoys marked the channel in this shallow slot littered with boulders and submerged ledges.

      Bill signalled to us to gather round him. Wanting to avoid disturbing any occupants of the camp, he told us in a whisper what we should look for upon approaching the site. First we saw a gazebo in a pine grove. Then, continuing around the point, we spotted Thayer Cottage and a boathouse set back in Purgatory Cove: Shangri-la on a New Hampshire lake. Once unknown and secluded, this camp has become world-famous since the filming of On Golden Pond here in 1981; film buffs make pilgrimages to this shrine. It is indeed ironic that the owners – once tucked away in their privacy and solitude – are now besieged by sightseeing tourist boats whose captains hover offshore and gush into loudspeakers about the joys of living on "Golden Pond." I suppose I am no different from the rest, since I succumbed to snapping a few pictures. The site has become a public place, even to the point of appearing on postcards.

      Our gawking finished, we resumed our partial circumnavigation of Great Island. To make a game of honing our skills, Bill suggested we take turns playing follow-the-leader along the shore – ducking under limbs, skirting blowdowns, and zigzagging around boulders. The closer we brushed by an obstacle, the better the others appreciated it. Any attempt to cut across a little cove or to avoid an unmanageable obstacle would have produced an instant frown and a call to conform to the rules. Needless to say, none of us flaunted the rules. Despite close quarters at times, we never got hung up and we managed to avoid the menacing rocks that appeared at the last second, an inch or two above the water.

      Halfway along the southern shore of the island, Bill alerted us to another challenge – a labyrinth of broken remnants of a giant pine tree, victim of the great New England ice storm of January 1998. We paddled into this tunnel, under a canopy of the snapped trunk and sprawled-over branches. It was semi-dark inside as we hastened toward the safety and sunlight of an exit beyond. We felt rather tike kids exploring a watery version of Tom Sawyer’s Cave. Within a few years – perhaps as soon as the next winter – the accumulation of ice and snow, coupled with the spring breakup, would collapse this hulk and the wind would blow away the debris as driftwood.

      Bill next told us we were approaching the narrowest crossing to reach the mainland. Gliding out into more open water, we suddenly felt the wind return. The late-morning tailwind had become the afternoon headwind – once our friend, now our foe.

      Always planning ahead in the event of an emergency, Bill aimed our flotilla for a house on the mainland shore. "A friend lives there," he said, "and has given me permission to use it if necessary." Thus, if anyone in our party needed help, we could land at the dock and enter the camp for shelter, blankets, food or a phone call to the outside world.

      As we began our dash, we spotted an excursion boat. The chugging vessel carried a full complement of passengers, shaded by a flat roof, with its propellers churning up a creamy wake in the blue water. The captain evidently was en route to Thayer Cottage, a standard destination of these tours. Along with speedboats we had seen earlier, the excursion boat had a perfect right to be there, as Squam Lake is not the exclusive preserve of the kayaker and the canoeist. Nevertheless, we paddlers felt a slight twinge of resentment as we encountered this noisy commercial vessel on the lake. On a positive note, though, we saw no jet-skis on the lake, and I hope there is an ordinance banning them.

      The mainland shoreline was developed with camps; most of them built in an earlier era, perhaps now under second- or third-generation ownership. Many of these luxurious camps – actually, million-dollar-plus year-round homes and lodges would be a more accurate description – looked empty at this time of year. Each featured an elaborate dock, a boathouse with two or three berths, a terrace with deck chairs, a glassed-in porch and living room facing the water, and a flagpole, with one or two flying the American flag, indicating someone was still in residence.

      By 4 p.m., as the lowering sun bathed our faces with golden light, we had completed our circuit back to Pipers Cove. Bill, inspired to demonstrate the Eskimo roll, twisted his paddle in coordination with his hips, righted his kayak, and shook his head vigorously to shed the cold water from his face. Then he asked for a brave volunteer. Ken came forth, dumped his kayak, and with Bill’s coaching performed a two-person rescue procedure.

      Before the late-day chill began to set in, we headed hack to the Squam Lakes Association dock. Our expedition had been an exhilarating finale to the paddling season, kayaking at its finest. As Bill had mentioned on several occasions during the day, the lake has many pristine preserves and forests, especially in its eastern section, where we had not ventured. Squam Lake is not a "been there, done that" type of place, and we mentally reserved those areas for another trip.

      No great trip ever ends easily. Reluctant to leave, Giorgio and I lingered, strolling around the SLA clubhouse, picking up pamphlets and flyers, and viewing the splendid artwork and photographs of the region on the meeting-room walls. A friendly woman in the gift shop answered our questions. Brad Washburn’s map of the lake was in stock – on plain or laminated paper. The map was colour-coded – forest green for SLA land holdings, lighter green for private property, red for buoy markers, and light blue for water. Giorgio and I both opted to purchase the laminated version. These were no mere trip souvenirs: We knew they would be useful for future explorations of Squam Lake.

      On the same day, outdoors people the world over were climbing Mount Blanc, hunting caribou in the Arctic, riding horseback on the Argentine pampas, diving off Australia’s Great Barrier Reef biking over Colorado mountain passes, and even trekking in Nepal in search of the Abominable Snowman. I have no doubt these other seekers had found – regardless of the risk, time, and expense involved – their own sense of satisfaction. None in our party, however, felt the slightest desire to be anywhere else, to join up with anyone else, or to do anything else. Our day could not have been duplicated. Kayaking on Squam Lake easily surpassed whatever the others might have been experiencing; each of us was completely content to be on Golden Pond.

Richard has gone swimming in all the Great Lakes, but has yet to kayak here. His article has also appeared in Messing About in Boats and Atlantic Coastal Kayaker.

GOOD TIMING

John Winters

      Recently I had occasion to reflect on my good fortune at learning to paddle at a tender age – fortunate not because I got to paddle more, but fortunate because of its simplicity and low cost. In 1958 (my first canoe experience) we needed only a canoe, a cheap paddle and a buoyant cushion for the knees or butt. We had no need for a life jacket or any other rescue gear because we could swim and followed the admonition of Kidd Hogge, a legendary waterman on our river, who said, "Don’t fall in the river." The whole package probably cost less than $50. We didn’t need more to kayak either. Boat, paddle and cushion served just fine. The first kayak I ever paddled (an adaptation of Norman Skene’s "Walrus" design) had a nice high spray rail around the cockpit that kept out spray. I don’t recall begrudging a few drips in the lap from the paddle. There were no paddling lessons in those days so you went paddling and learned by doing. Most of us learned without mishap.

      Later, when I came to Canada and began more serious paddling, I wore wool on cold days, a cast-off sailing life jacket (that I wore when negotiating challenging rapids), and a slightly improved homemade paddle. They were simple days. We took no courses. So long as one got down the river or across the lake with everyone else no one commented much on technique even if you looked like you were killing snakes. Less fortunate paddlers coming along later needed more. They had to have wet or dry suits, helmets for whitewater, specially designed life jackets, exotic new paddles, "Tilley" hats, synthetic clothing, shoes specially designed for river paddling, boats packed with air bags, thigh straps with foot braces, custom fitted knee pads, rescue throw ropes, block and tackle and some stuff I don’t even recognize today. Courses on paddling (outside of summer camps for kids) became commonplace.

      One experience serves to illustrate the point. A group of us old paddlers once encountered another group bedecked with exotic gear and trying to figure out how to run a rapid. We looked at it shrugged and lined down. They watched with mild bewilderment. Apparently modern paddlers can’t, or don’t, line canoes. Is learning to line impossible now or does the presence of exotic gear mandate running everything?

      Has the paddling experience improved with technology or just changed?

      Kayaking seems to have changed even more for the new paddler. My first kayak had no hatches, no rescue lines, no rudder or skeg, rope loops for carrying, a simple nylon (controlled leakage design) spray skirt and a basic seat from a design by the Vikings. I still carried my old sailing life jacket, wore wool on cold days, and did my navigation with a map and compass. Those learning to paddle today don’t have it so simple. Paddling has grow more complex and demanding and the new paddler needs hatches, rescue lines, fancy handles at the bow and stern, rudders or skegs, bilge pumps (sometimes electric powered), yards of nylon straps and bungies on deck, back-up compass, knife for cutting free from the bungies and straps should you capsize, paddle float rescue straps, inflatable rescue devices, special wet or dry suits for paddling, designer life jackets, strobe lights, inflatable seats, knives designed by armchair commandos, radar reflectors, sound devices you can hear for miles, paddles made from the wings of fairies, special paddling jackets made from exotic polymers, special kayaking shoes, spray skirts leak-proof to 30 metres (for deep water rolls), GPS, radios, cell phones, and, of course, hours of lessons to learn how to use the stuff. No doubt I have missed a few things.

      Don’t get me wrong. Progress has its upside. A lightweight Kevlar/carbon fiber canoe brings tears of joy at the end of a long portage just as my ultra comfortable inflatable life jacket has made hot weather paddling more pleasant. When, however, does "new" become "necessary"?

      Sometimes change creeps up on us so slowly that we don’t notice it. When did navigation become so difficult that we need an automated system? When did paddling become so dangerous that we need kayaks bedecked with so much rescue gear that we look like paddling gypsies? Has the activity changed or have we changed? Do we really need this stuff, or have we fallen prey to slick marketing that manipulates us with paranoia? Whatever the case, fortune has smiled on me and paddling remains a simple, uncomplicated activity – a boat, a paddle, the water, and me. I didn’t plan it that way – just good timing.

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