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09.01.09
Water Country
Teeming with wildlife and featuring whitewater,
flatwater and ever-changing currents, the scenic North River has many
faces.
text and photos by
Dan Mathers
.JPG)
A cormorant flies above the water in
the upper reaches of the North River.
(A version of this
article previously appeared in South Shore Living magazine.)
“Sometimes I just
make bad decisions.” That thought kept running through my head as I sat
in my kayak, propped sideways on rocks, being pushed over by rushing
water. If I went over, my wallet, cell phone, digital camera and car
keys would all go plummeting into the rushing water and down to the
river bottom. And to blame would be my own series of stupid decisions.
I had been paddling
upstream on the Indian Head River in Hanover
— a
narrow river that later joins with Herring Brook in Pembroke to form the
scenic North River. I’d paddled over flatwater, then swiftwater, when I
spied a rocky lip in the river about a foot high, and, beyond it,
rippling, rocky whitewater. The idea of riding the rushing, wavy current
drew me in, and I convinced myself that if I paddled hard enough I could
make it up a small opening in that rocky lip and enjoy the ride back
down —
stupid decision Number One. My next stupid decision was to try it with
all my valuables in the boat; and not locked in my backpack, either, but
scattered about on top of it.
I paddled hard toward
the opening in the lip, but the current spun my boat sideways to the
right, lifting me onto some rocks where the rushing waters pounded and
pushed the left side of my boat to where I was tipping hard to my right.
Luckily, the wide lines that make my kayak frustratingly slow also make
it hard to tip over. And I was soon able to push myself off the rocks
after some tense moments and foul words.
Of course, I don’t
always make bad decisions . . . no matter what my wife says. I sometimes
make good ones, like deciding to paddle the North River in the first
place. The North River packs an amazing variety of water, scenery and
wildlife into its roughly 15-mile journey from Hanover to Scituate and
the ocean. Its upper reaches provide an adrenalin rush with sections of
swift Class I and II whitewater. After Indian Head joins Herring Brook
to form the North River, the waterway snakes through miles of marshlands
teeming with wildlife. And, at its end, the river’s mouth meets the open
ocean where you can smell the salt air as sea birds fly overhead. As the
ocean tides rise and fall, they are constantly altering the North’s
currents well upriver, and altering the seascape near its mouth. As a
result, the North doesn’t just change day to day, but hour to hour. It’s
a river you can paddle a dozen times, and not have the same experience
twice.
My plan was to
explore the North River on two separate trips. On my first trip I’d
explore the river’s upper reaches. And, on another trip, I’d explore its
mouth. I started off by launching my boat in Hanover from a spot on
Riverside Drive —
a dead-end street with great access to the river and plenty of parking.
I began by paddling up Indian Head River. I glided over smooth, black,
flatwater, surrounded by dark green woodlands. Trees wrapped in leafy
vines leaned over the water to create green archways above me. The water
then became swift, and I soon saw the whitewater where I’d end up almost
tipping.
After my rocky
debacle, I turned around and headed downriver. Where Indian Head joins
with Herring Brook, creating the North River, the river opens up into a
large marshland called The Crotch. The river widens, and vast fields of
reeds stretch out on both sides, with the tree-lined shores far in the
distance.
I froze when I saw a
tall, thin, white bird with a pointy bill standing beside the river. It
was a Great Egret, and it too froze for a moment before taking a few
steps away from the water and into the reeds, hoping I wouldn’t see him.
As I watched him, a Great Blue Heron flew over the both of us, its
graceful, monstrous long wings carrying it silently by. As I paddled on,
I tried to give the Egret a wide berth, so as not to disturb it. But the
skittish bird flew off, flapping like a pterodactyl with its sticklike
legs stretched out behind it.
As I paddled out of
The Crotch, the reeds faded away, and the river narrowed again. Along
the shores were large houses with beautiful gardens and perfectly
manicured lawns. While I prefer to get away from civilization when
kayaking, this part of the river was like paddling through an issue of
Home and Garden Magazine, and although it wasn’t wild, it was certainly
scenic.
I passed under the
Route 53 bridge, then under the Washington Street bridge immediately
after it, where I got my first taste of the North River’s strong and
ever-changing currents. To my left, the river appeared to be flowing
upstream, to the right it flowed downstream, and in front of me a
current flowed sideways to my left. When I returned this way a few hours
later, the water appeared as calm as glass.
Smart boaters should
do what I didn’t do before paddling this river
— check
the tides. (Tidal info is available on the
North
and South Rivers Watershed Association website at
www.nsrwa.org.) After leaving the
bridges, the river opened up again into a wide marsh. Turtles poked
their heads out of the water, only to dive back down as I approached.
Small birds buzzed my kayak as they searched for food, and cormorants
swam by, their long necks sticking out of the water like the Loch Ness
monster. The sounds of the wind in the reeds, the songbirds, and the
quiet ripple of my paddle through the water lulled me into relaxation.
Perhaps too much, because when a fish jumped out of the water next to my
paddle, it scared me and I lurched violently to my right, almost tipping
the kayak over, once again. A little farther down the river, an otter,
swimming low on the water’s surface like a partially submerged
submarine, passed in front of my kayak. Before I could grab my camera,
he dove back into the water. And although I waited a while for him to
reappear, he never did. I'd see two more otters that day . . . and not
get a photo of a single one.
Among some trees, a
sign on shore memorialized the Fox Hill Shipyard
— a
colonial shipyard that operated on the site from 1690 to 1869 and made
vessels of up to 390 tons. A little farther downriver, another sign
noted the spot of the Brick Kiln Shipyard, which operated from 1730 to
1848. Given the quiet, natural beauty of this section of river, it was
hard to imagine in that same spot was the loud banging and sawing of a
shipyard, or picture huge 390-ton vessels sailing down this river toward
the sea.
The river snaked back
and forth through the wide marsh before passing under the Route 3
bridge, where the highway’s decaying uprights looked like huge Roman
columns standing out of the water. Continuing on, I came to Blueberry
Island —
a spit of trees and hard soil in the middle of the wide marsh, where a
wooden deck and picnic table on the side of the river invite paddlers to
take a break. It was just what I needed, and I took the chance to eat
lunch and stretch my legs. After paddling on, I noticed thick clouds
moving in from the west, and I wondered if the rain forecasted for that
evening was making better time than I was. I decided it was best to turn
back and take up exploring the river’s mouth at another time.
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