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January, 2007
THE KENNEBEC FIFTY A RACE-A-LOGUE - 1985
By John Alsop
At 8 a.m. on Saturday, August 3, eight boats moved off the startling line at Caratunk on Nyman Lake and struck out southward for Norridgewock, 46 miles downriver, on the longest, and most challenging and intriguing canoe race in Maine. There follows a brief account of this year's race which may or may not prove that the only people more crazy than the contestants were Benedict Arnold and his men who first raced the course backwards on their way to Quebec in 1775.
The number of dedicated canoe racers in this state is small, miniscule in comparison to the throngs of competitive runners. The "Fifty" appears to discourage all but an even smaller number of diehards. At this year's sixth running, only six two-man canoes, one kayak, and one solo canoe appear at the start of the race. A few hellos and grim jokes are exchanged between the parties. The lightweight kevlar race canoes are loaded and line up off the gravel shore. Race director Adrian Humphreys signals the start and they're off.
Nobody, not even pre-race favorites Peter Heed and Bob MacDowell, wants to sprint for forty-six miles, and thus a lead pack of four boats forms up for the trip down the lake, each team's riding another's wake, (or drafting in cycling parlance), testing each other with short sprints, and chatting it up on various topics of the day. It is twelve miles to Wyman Dam, over an hour and a half away. It is a beautiful day and there is a mild tailwind.
The long strangely ominous horizon of Wyman comes into view after nine miles, stretched out against the sky, and specked with the dots of pit crews, race officials and other well-wishers. Twelve miles can be a canoe race in itself, but no finish line awaits at the dam. Instead, the paddlers leap from their boats and run them up a steep embankment of loose rip rap, and then pitch down the entire precipitous face of the dam at break neck (or ankle) pace, and then into the pool below the spillway. The always effervescent Heed with partner MacDowell show their national class stuff here by effortlessly grabbing a minute lead in the process of the carry. Their elapsed time - 1:37:54. Leg One is over; now it is on to Solon, ten miles downriver. No more lake.
The river is fairly small here and breaks up into rippling shoal water as it widens below Bingham, then gradually deepens into deadwater backed up behind the Williams Dam at Solon. The racers seek the deeper channels through the shoals and gravel banks, hoping to avoid the despised shallow water that will drag down the stern and compress the bow of a canoe onto its own wave. This is hard work; some boats are favored by local knowledge of the river bottom; and this year's pack of three breaks up and re-forms several times before arriving at the Dam. Heed and MacDowell, toying with the competition, arrive at 2:41:30. Boats two and three are four seconds behind. The" slowest boat will arrive an hour later.
The Solon carry is a quarter mile down a woods road that gradually disappears into the pucker brush and drykye at the large eddy pool below the dam. The idea here is to make the carry at a dead run, dumping water out of the boat as you go, and having a "pit crew" ready at the eddy with new water jugs, tubes, and maybe a few munchies, if not aspirin. Boat two stops at the dam for a sandwich, quickly mashed into the mouth. Boat three moves into second. Twenty-three miles have been covered, and now comes the hard part, leg Number Three.
The big eddy pool spills out onto a mile long man-dug cut leading straight down to the 201-A Solon bridge. Appearing invitingly calm at a distance, there is very surprising turbulence here. Two bow munching eddies whirl to the right and left of a narrow flume of standing waves which must be ridden just right. Heed's boat cruises through, but boat two capsizes and will lose five minutes before resuming. Boat three is once again boat two, several hundred yards behind Heed. For a flat-water race, this is a little different. Thirteen miles to Madison.
Beyond the bridge, the "petroglyph" rock is passed on the right. Here some prehistoric man chipped out erotic fantasies in stone, most of which were dynamited by log drivers, seeking to smooth out a curve in the river. The river then broadens into a beautiful but baffling maze of islands, shoals, and oxbow turns which has given rise to many a cautionary tale. It seems that no amount of map studying can prevent at least one predictably exhausted rookie canoe team from unwittingly turning around and paddling upstream toward Solon or, perchance, up the Carrabassett to North Anson. For those that know the key channels and turns, it is merely a long hard pull through shallow water to Madison.
This section of the Kennebec is uncommonly scenic. The water is crystal clear. Willowy islands appear and disappear. An occasional house or farm is seen at a distance as well as deer, ducks, heron, and dairy cattle. As elsewhere on the river, a hundred years of log drives have served to mummify and preserve the river banks throughout years of unfettered commercial and recreational shoreline development elsewhere.
Heed and MacDowell hit the Madison carry at 4:29:39. Boat two is ten seconds behind, having closed the gap when boat one stopped for a nature call. Things now get pretty gritty. Heed and MacDowell stop fooling around and pick up the pace, scampering up over the rip rap, vaulting an exceedingly vexing fence, and vanishing down Route 43 in Anson at a mild sprint. A mile and a half later, down past the town dump, they will reappear at water's edge, having gained several minutes over boat two. This carry is a killer and perhaps its reputation discourages more potential contestants than the over all length of the race itself. The idea is to run but many barely manage a walk. But consider: It took Arnold and his bateaumen three days going the other way. Onto Leg Four.
Once again the Kennebec refuses to lay down and behave. Following the carry the weary paddlers now encounter a frothy stretch of Class Two whitewater, complete with rocks, ledges, and standing waves, indeed, the whole whitewater bit! Teams two and three, now separated by several minutes, unwisely go left instead of right and then have to stop to empty their half swamped boats.
Only seven miles to go in slowly moving deep water. First around the bend at Old Point where Father Rasle was slain by the Abnakis or some such thing way back when, and then down to the Bomazeen rocks, after which a two mile straight away to the big bend at Norridgewock, and the finish line at Oosoola Park, where Race Director Humphreys waits with soda, aspirin, and beer.
Some years the race is close, but this year Heed and MacDowell cruise in at 5:46:35, five and a half minutes ahead of the rest, a couple minutes off the record. They load up and head back to New Hampshire to compete very successfully the next day in the Claremont Triathlon. The first three boats broke six hours. Not bad. For the rest it is time to relax and wait for the last undaunted finisher - coming in this year at 8:59:59 - and to contemplate how best to shave off a few hours, minutes, or seconds at next year's race on this mischievous and magnificent river, the Kennebec.
Kennebec 50 1985 Results
OC-2
1. Peter Heed, Keene, N.H.
Bob MacDowell, Chicopee, MA
2. John Alsop, Skowhegan
Bill Anderson, Belfast
3. Stan Kissell, Wolfeboro, N.H.
Pete McAllister, Belgrade Lakes
4. Dirk Bradt, Mt. Desert
Norm Hawes, Seal Harbor
5. Mark Jones, Caribou
Tim Cushman, Caribou
6. Woody Carville, Orono
Joe Pechinsky, Bangor
OC-1
1. Jim Gariepy, Charlemont, MA
K-l
1. Craig Killingbeck, Oakland
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