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Nesowadnehunk Stream
by Jeffey Russell
It was mid-summer on the Penobscot. The rains had brought the local streams up to bank-full and Jim Pepin and I were on an after-work adventure down Nesowadnehunk Stream. Solid rock'n roll rapids, with several portages had brought us to Windy Pitch.
Windy pitch, (Or winding as in twisting, not breezy.) starts with a river-wide ledge-drop into a flowing pool that slips down immediately to the left, then winds blindly back to the right into a class V turbulence that would have presented its own challenges given a decent entry.
Tired of carrying, and aware of the setting sun, we were eager to move downriver with more expediency, which meant on water rather than through brush. The plan, after way too much discussion of whether to boat or boot, was to run the drop, then eddy out river right to regroup. Marker waves were noted as we returned to our boats waiting upstream. I had chosen a left run, while Jim more conservatively, and more wisely, chose to run right where the drop was smaller. I focused intently on each spraying landmark as I rapidly approached the lip of the falls. Right on target I thought, as my kayak pitched sweetly just as it had off the seal-entry-bridge not long ago.
THUD. All momentum was suddenly overtaken with inertia as my bowels and bones were abruptly deprived of downstream motion. CLUNK as the boat shifted sideways and settled into the boat-deep crack in the granite ledge that had given the illusion of deep water. Bow-pinned! The immediacy of the weight of water pressing insistently on my back was relieved somewhat by the realization that I could still breathe without taking in water. My head was creating a pocket of air, allowing me time to think, and for Jim, now aware of my situation, to pull over and plan a rescue. I could see his actions through the distorting sheet of water that was my imprisoner. After several futile attempts at shaking the boat free from the crevice, I watched as Jim tried to get a rope-toss close enough for my grasp. The rope agonizingly snagged in another crack in the ledge, well out of reach to my right. Realizing that Jim was not going to be able to dislodge it, I recognized it was time to join the swim club. I popped my skirt and the water rushed in so forcefully it ejected my float bags like watermelon seeds. Time to leave. I began to hoist myself up and out of the cockpit, getting my knees just clear of the rim, but the pressure increased so greatly as I pushed up, I feared my shins would snap if I inched any further. Three tries at that, and I needed another option. With all my might, I pushed and scrambled in one move of power and determination. Tumbling into the pool below, I immediately began stroking for the far shore, before the currents dragged me into the angry chaos below. Jim ran down the shore with his free end of throw-rope, trying to pendulum it to within my grasp. I managed to pull ashore just before the bank turned from shoreline into granite wall that would have ensured my downstream passage by water. With much gratefulness at still being alive, we weighed the options, gathered our collective spirit, and loaded up Jim's boat with our paddles for the carry out. We were on the right side of the stream at this point with thick underbrush obscuring our path. The dwindling light increased the sense of urgency. We finally got to a place in the stream that had a small, flat island. The braided channels offered an opportunity to cross without necessarily resulting in a swim. With our paddles and the boat to steady us, we waded carefully across, the currents all the while tugging at our legs. With great relief we were on the left shore, where the Appalachian Trail offered respite from the tangled bushes. By now though, the light was fading fast, and we were soon beset with the frank darkness of a new moon. You literally could not see your hand in front of your face. I know, because I tried.
With the raging torrents beside us we felt our way with cautious footsteps along the beaten path. Occasionally we would have to retrace our steps to get back on the trail. At one spot, the trail came alongside a steep embankment. Jim stepped too close to the edge and we tumbled sickeningly through the darkness toward the sound of the raging waters below. Fortunately we came to rest short of the magnetic currents, and found our way back up to safety.
For what seemed an eternity we sought our way along the trail until a distant light winked intermittently at us through the dark woods. Civilization! As we approached, we could hear voices calling our names. Amen!! With great relief we realized we were at the confluence of the stream and the Penobscot River. Paul, who had left us at the put-in several hours ago, had gotten worried and left Pray's annual guides' party to see what was taking us so long. He ferried us across the river to the Nesowadnehunk Falls take-out where we took the van ride back, me boatless and my tail between my legs. It was a hard way to learn to always check your entry.
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Pin in the butt - Hmm... looks like a pin on the infamous Guardian Rock. But on this day, cool heads prevailed and the raft was tugged off the rock without a single person going for a swim. Nice job. | |
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