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09.01.09
Water Country (cont.)
A few days later I
returned to the North River, this time by the ocean from the Driftway
boat launch in Scituate. It was roughly 5:30 in the morning, just after
sunrise, but you never would have known it. The thick clouds overhead
blocked out the rising sun. Being just after high tide, sea water
flooded the normally grassy marsh near the boat launch, and a wide
expanse of silver, mercurial water blended seamlessly with the ghostly
mist and gray sky above it.
.JPG) I
paddled out, but I had a problem: I had no idea where to go. Near the
mouth of the river, Herring Brook splits off to the north and runs right
up to the Driftway boat launch. My map showed Herring Brook as an easily
navigable narrow stream that ran down to the river. But high tide had
covered all that dry land on my map in water, making it hard to see
where to go or distinguish brook from river from ocean. To make matters
worse, the fog hid distant shorelines and markers, making it difficult
for me to get my bearings. Being great with decisions, I just set out
into the gray distance, hoping I’d find my way (and not have to call the
Coast Guard).
As I paddled
out not knowing where the deep water of the brook was, I passed over the
grasslands where there was barely enough water to float my boat. Often,
my paddle could only make it halfway into the water, and would come up
dripping with wet grass. I rounded a beach with small cottages to my
right and then paddled over to a breakwater, where a small red building
was covered with buoys. When I checked my map, I found I was at the
North’s mouth. I passed through a small opening in the breakwater and
paddled into the river, where the mouth is marked by boats moored at the
North River Marina and the Route 3A Bridge.
After passing
under the bridge, the atmosphere seemed to dramatically change from sea
to river. The air became thick and heavy. Mosquitoes appeared. And the
wide expanse of the water narrowed into the river I’d been familiar with
the other day. The river again snaked through marshlands, although this
area had short grass like an unmowed lawn, whereas upriver the marshes
were dominated by tall reeds.
.JPG)
ABOVE: Boats dock near the mouth of the
North River.; TOP: A gray mist causes the sky and water to blend
together.
It seemed
everyone was fishing. A handful of fishermen slowly motored along the
river, dropping lines occasionally. Seagulls patrolled above, searching
for breakfast in the water below. Even the fish were fishing. Several
times the tranquil water was interrupted by violent splashing as one
fish attacked another, and you could hear the whip-whip-whipping as a
predator mauled its prey.
The grasslands
near the river’s mouth had so much wildlife, it almost felt like I was
watching a Wild Kingdom episode about the Serengeti. Dozens of Great
Egrets, Great Blue Herons, and other large and unusual birds lined the
river’s shores and swooped across the marsh. I regretted not knowing my
birds as I watched so many fascinating feathered creatures all around
me.
As I made my way upriver, the sea was moving toward low-tide.
Paddling on, as
the river got lower, the grasslands that had extended from the side of
the river seemed to rise up, exposing eroded, muddy walls. First it was
a foot high, then two, then more. And what had been a grassland I’d been
paddling through soon took on the look of a muddy canyon. The current
heading toward the sea seemed to grow stronger, fighting me as I paddled
upriver. It created waves as it split around buoys and moorings, and
when I’d stop paddling to take a photo, it would spin and push my kayak
backwards. After a while, I came to a small bridge where construction
crews were working. Two construction barges under the bridge pushed the
river into a narrow passage between them. A strong current with white
waves and powerful swirls pushed through the passage. I thought I might
be able to paddle through it without running into the barges and get
upriver. But the current was strong, pushing me back despite my
paddling, and, in a rare moment of clarity, I decided I’d best turn
around. It was the right decision. The tidal currents are strong on the
river, and another hour or two later the currents running through that
passage would have only been more powerful and dangerous.
As I made my
way back toward the sea, the banks now stood a good four feet above the
water, and the distinct stench of low-tide was setting in. Passing under
the Route 3A bridge again, the currents were much stronger, pushing me
fast downriver as small whirlpools and ripples whirled all around me. I
stayed toward the calm water to the left as I paddled to the breakwater.
There I found the passage I’d taken through earlier was now shallow,
rushing water over jagged rocks. Instead, I had to go through the main
channel, where the currents whipped me through.
Paddling back
toward Herring Brook, the landscape had changed. Muddy beaches now
extended far from the land I had passed by earlier in the morning. And
instead of watching out for shallow grassy spots, I now had to watch out
for sandbars. At times, I had to push my way around sandbars like I was
in a gondola. My paddle again only submerged halfway, this time coming
up dripping with wet sand.
When I reached
Herring Brook, the muddy shore stood a good five feet out of the water,
and I couldn’t see any of the grassland above it. The outward current
that had made my trek out of the North River so easy now fought me
fiercely as I made my way up Herring Brook. I thought that if I’d
brought a lunch and some beer, I would have sat on a muddy beach and
waited for high tide to help me up. But since I didn’t, I pushed on.
After I finally
reached the boat launch I looked out to see a field of green grass and
brown mud had replaced the gray, watery expanse from earlier that
morning. I put my kayak on my car, happy that I’d finally paddled the
North River . . . or, at least, that day’s version of it. But, I thought
to myself, I’ll be back to paddle it again. After all, this river will
be different an hour from now.
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