South Jersey Paddling & More

My wife, Nancy, and I headed to southern New Jersey the last week in September for some R&R. She, having grown up in north Jersey, was a beach-brat as a kid. I can count the amount of times I have touched salt water using only single digits. I'm a lousy swimmer and the thought of sitting around on the sand day-after-day or prowling the boardwalk night-after-night really didn't do much for me as a kid nor does it do too much for me now. But now I have a kayak, so I have something to do while Nancy does her things.

We checked into our hotel in Wildwood on a Sunday afternoon. It was three weeks after Labor Day, so it was more like "Mild"wood. A few families were still here for a late season getaway, but mostly it was dead except for the dozen or so buses filled senior citizen tour groups. OK, maybe not dead, but close enough. We arrived just in time for one roller coaster ride before that too closed for the season and managed to get some fries at Curly's before they too closed up shop. Thankfully there were twenty to thirty stores on the Boardwalk still open this late on a Sunday to make my "Wildwood '09" T-shirt buying needs quite uncomplicated!


We were actually staying about 100 feet from Wildwood. Our hotel was in Wildwood Crest which is not the same thing. Judging by the signs on the beach I get the feeling that the town fathers are people who have never had a day of fun in their whole lives.

Thankfully the sign didn't say anything about kayaks. (Although if it did I would have definitely put-in just to get a ticket.)

Monday was a non-kayaking day as well. This was recon day and I also wanted to take in some of the local flavor, so we headed down to Cape May, climbed up the lighthouse, and I got some info about the local kayaking opportunities from the nice ranger-lady at the park. She told me about some places in the estuary where I could see a lot of birds and would have nice easy paddle. Perfect! Just what I wanted. Although the ocean was only a few hundred yards across the street and over the sand, there was a small storm off the coast and the waves were still pretty strong. A leisurely paddle through the estuary looking at herons and egrets what just what I wanted. I also stopped in a bookstore in Cape May hoping to find a local paddling guidebook, but to no avail. All I found was a useful book on Sea Kayaking. I wasn't going to drop $30 on the book, but I did refresh my memory on some techniques while I paged through it.

It's always good to find a winery when scoping out
kayaking locations!

We browsed shop after shop in Cape May, which was surprisingly busy this late in the season. Purchases were made, Lunch was eaten, Skee-Ball was played, and we stopped by the Cape May Winery. I'm not a wine connoisseur by any means. I find most wines a wine-snob would prefer to be too dry for my palate. I'm a cheap, fruity wine kinda guy, and Nancy isn't a big wine drinker either, but the winery had some Concord and Riesling styles we enjoyed and found refreshing. I met one of the owners who happens to be the niece of a man who owns a bakery close to my hometown which is known for its boxed pizza. (That would be Senape's Pitza of Hazleton, PA fame....another story for another day.) On the way back to Wildwood we stopped by a kayak rental place suggested by the ranger-lady and I spoke to the woman there about launching my boat there the next day. She told me they would be closed on Tuesday but I could pay $5 now and sign the required release now and just show up whenever I wanted the next day. Good enough for me.

Tuesday morning came quickly and Nancy dropped me off at the launch while she headed off to a day spa for a manicure and pedicure. She would be back in three hours or so pick me up and we would get some lunch. Fair enough. I quickly unloaded the boat and got my gear together blissfully ready to hit the water. The woman at the launch had given me a map the day before and had drawn out some routes she suggested. I used that as reference material, but was determined to get somewhat lost in the marshes anyway. I marked the launch spot on my GPS just in case I really did get lost, but primarily kept the GPS on only so I could track my route and see how far I paddled.

Clam beds are easy to find in the marsh

I had to paddle over an open expanse of water for a few hundred yards to get to the grassy marshes. This was rather easy because the wind was at my back and I closed the distance from the launch to the first channel in no time. The sun was out, the sky was clear, it was warm for the last week of September as well and once I was in the channels and blocked from the wind by the high grasses I didn't need the windbreaker I was wearing. I also stashed my spray skirt. It proved to be unnecessary and I wanted easier access to my camera (which was stowed in a dry bag.) The water in the channels was a lot shallower than I expected it to be. I checked the depth several times with my paddle and mostly found it to be only two or three feet deep. The mud on the bottom no doubt was probably several feet thick, so dumping my kayak was still something I wanted to avoid. While there was exposed soil in a lot of places where the grasses were, it was mostly soft mud and home to hundreds of clams.

Great Egret wading along the shore

Some of the channels were narrow and the saw grasses and reeds brushed up against me as I paddled by, others were wide and allowed for a lot of leeway as cruised up and down them. Some led to other channels and some were dead-ends that forced me to backtrack. Eventually I made it back to the main channel. While wading birds and waterfowl were frequent sightings in the narrower channels, they were abundant in the main channel. Most of the species were unknown to me and I had to consult a bird guidebook after the trip. Great Egrets seemed to dominate the marshes. Much like their cousins, the Great Blue Herons, they are hard to get close to for great observation. Watching them wade through the water and then take flight as I came too close was still a very neat thing. I would try to steer clear of them much of the time because I get annoyed when someone bothers me while I'm eating, so I figured the egrets rightfully would be annoyed as well. In addition to the egrets and sandpipers I had some ducks fly-by several times, of course never when I had my camera ready, and I could only assume they were Black Ducks. I eventually paddled under the Garden State Parkway and took a look at the GPS to see how far I was away from the launch. I had been out for about two hours and was only a mile from where I started, however after checking the route noticed I had paddled close to three miles. These channels meander quite a bit so I calculated it would take me about an hour to get back to the launch site. I stopped a few times on the way back noting the human-constructed platforms where eagles had built nests and I stopped to view some more egrets. As the channel opened up I became exposed to the breeze blowing in from the ocean, so my paddling was now more laborious than it was on the way out, but I returned to the launch without event and about five minutes later my chauffeur/wife arrived, I loaded the boat, and we headed off to lunch.

The next day we biked around Wildwood in the morning and headed over to Stone Harbor for some shopping in early afternoon. The surf had calmed down from what it had been when we arrived. It was now Wednesday and I was determined to at least get out into the ocean at least once. It was late in the afternoon by the time I got my stuff together. I hadn't planned to stay out very long, but years of survival training had me in a paranoid mindset. I packed two quarts of water, a GPS, a flashlight with a strobe, and a few Clif bars into one dry bag and my cell phone and my MP3 player/FM radio into an other dry bag. I don't know what I was planning to use the MP3 player for. Possibly to have something to listen to while I ate a Clif bar as the Search & Rescue helicopter comes to pick me up after the tide washes me out to sea and if the batteries in the GPS go dead?

I drug my boat and all the gear across the wide spance of beach. Two hundred yards to the surf and I would be there. I put my gear in the kayak, pulled my spray skirt over my waist and secured my paddle leash to the boat. I sat in the kayak and began to fasten the spray skirt as the inbound waves surrounded the hull. I set the paddle across the cockpit and placed my hands on the sand, lifting the boat just a few inches while the surf came in again. Little by little I inched my way into the ocean, lifting and pushing towards the sea and then quickly grabbing the paddle to push out even further. This sequence repeated itself several times until I actually drew enough water to just be able to paddle. Things however don't quite go as I plan.

Most people, even if they aren't good swimmers, would scoff at being intimidated by a three-foot wave. For most adults a wave this size would come up to the hips. That same wave takes on an entire different look when you are sitting on the beach as opposed to wading in the surf. CRASH!

No sooner had I made it into water deep enough to not be stuck in the sand, then was I hit by a wave and quickly swamped by the salty water. Rolling the kayak really wasn't an option since I was only in water a foot deep and before I knew what had happened I was already being pushed onto the beach by the waves. I staggered undaunted out of the water pulling my boat behind me. After a few minutes to take stock of the situation (and allow the water to drain out of the boat) I readied myself for take #2.

With my boat pointed to the sea I entered the cockpit while the hull of the kayak was still safely on the sand. The water lapped at the bow as I secured the spray skirt yet again. Once snug, I slowly pushed my way towards the surf another time. Little by little I inched into the water quickly switching from pushing the kayak with my hands to paddling and then quickly switching back to pushing. This went on for a minute or so until I could get deep enough into the ocean so I could just paddle. Eventually I cleared the first set of breakers, then the trough, and then the second set of breakers. Phew! Fighting the waves was a chore. I seriously doubt that the people I've encountered who go to the beach once a year and tell me, "Oh, we kayak in the ocean all the time" actually do this. Most of them I've met can barely manage a kayak on flat water. My arms were beat and I paddle almost daily. Once I cleared the breakers I was elated and I turned my boat parallel to the coast and headed south.

My respite lasted all but a few minutes. I was able to paddle a few minutes before I started noting the rolling waves were getting larger and I was drifting closer to the shore. First a wave rolled harmlessly under me, then a second one, and then a third. Each time I seemed to rise and fall just a bit further than the last. This was starting to feel like the roller coaster from Sunday! I continued on, dropping and rising just a bit more. Then I peered out to the sea and noticed a very large wave rolling my way. Somehow I knew this sucker was going to get me. I thought it would roll over me, so prepared to get swamped. I positioned myself to roll with the wave and use my momentum to pop back up, but the wave broke right under me and instead of rolling to my right, I was tossed to my left and was no where close to being in a position to roll the kayak. Before I could get myself twisted around under the water, another wave pushed me closer to the beach. Rolling was no longer an option since my face was now in the sand. Time to unceremoniously wet-exit.

By now I was spent. Once again I dragged my butt and boat back to the beach.

Atlantic Ocean:2, Bill:0

Oh well....live and learn. The North Atlantic is no place for a 12.5 foot kayak and the Jersey shore is no place for a mountain boy.

Paddling in the Bashakill Wildlife Refuge, New York

Sometime in early July I found myself cruising the backroads of southern Orange county New York when, thanks to a detour, I found the Walkill National Wildlife Refuge. I eagerly looked up info on this area as soon as I got home, and filed it for future reference. In my research I also discovered the Bashakill Wildlife Preserve, just slightly to the north of the Walkill. I thought that paddling both of these areas in the same day sounded like a good idea. Two somewhat lazy rivers ripe with birds and wetland plants each only a few miles long would make for a great day of discovery.

My friend Rachel had been asking me to take her on some sort of an adventure for a few weeks. Several attempts were made throughout the summer but between the cold, rainy summer weather and my crazy schedule, I still wasn't able to do anything with her. Thankfully she didn't have to start her fall semester until after Labor Day, and few days before I had some time in my schedule and we had a break in the weather.

Few of my trips ever seem to go off without a hitch. Thanks to some delays courtesy of my ill dog, my morning plans went haywire. I had planned to leave around 8am, it was now close to 11am as we got on the road. Thankfully, we encountered no traffic and made it to the Bashakill area sometime around noon. The put-in spots weren't very well marked. I had just been over this way a few weeks earlier when traveling to the Shawanagunks and didn't even realize that the wildlife area was here. It's kind of hidden in plain sight, thus I think it gets overlooked quite often. My plan was to put-in at the south end of the refuge and paddle upstream to the north. Instead, I nearly missed the road at the northern end as well.

There was fairly large parking area a few hundred feet away from the put-in spot, a gravel and mud embankment off the side of a bridge. Some colorful locals were there fishing and a few of them had parked at the launch spot, thus not leaving a lot of room. After unloading and moving the car to the lot, we shoved off. Rachel had only been kayaking a few times before and didn't want to do something dangerous, but at the same time she had grown bored with the Upper Delaware. So had I, so this worked out well.

Initially, we encountered some expected litter. A plastic bottle here and a bait container there, not to mention the expected lost bobbers and some tangled fishing line, but after we paddled around the first bend it became fairly pristine and after only a hundred yards we spotted a Painted Turtle taking in some late summer rays. It was a nice day. The summer had been exceptionally cool and rainy and a sunny day with highs in the low 70s was a very welcome change.

A trip here a few weeks earlier would have had us paddling the channel during the height of Pickerelweed season. Most of the blue/purple stalks had started to wilt by the time we got there, but nonetheless they were still fairly full and gave harbor to several Great Blue Herons. We saw several throughout the day.

We zig-zagged back and forth through the wetland for about two hours, stopping frequently to gaze upon more herons, turtles, lilies, and other plants that are found in abundance along the Bashakill. It was by no means a challenging river, but I don't think that's why people come to this place. We passed only two other boats the whole day, both on the way downstream. We could hear a few people making some noise at one of the launches near the southern end of this section, but we didn't paddle down that channel to explore who was there or what we might find. We pretty much had the place to ourselves, so we figured why should we spoil it? Granted it was a weekday and most of the schools had already started back, but I have the feeling that this place doesn't see much traffic to begin with.

NY-17 (The Quickway) skirts the north end of the preserve near Wurtsboro and US-209 runs parallel to the river to the west. My guess is most people on The Quickway are too busy wondering what in the hell they are doing on it in the first place and aren't thinking about the wetland in the valley below them. Sullivan County is a relatively forgotten place. It's Drive-By country nowadays. Much of the once majestic Catskill resorts are closed or have been turned into summer camps run by people who either don't have the fiscal means for the upkeep or simply lack the skills to properly use power tools. It doesn't surpise me that many people don't visit the preserve. I too myself am guilty of driving right by the place on more than one occasion, this morning included.


Due to the canine related morning mishaps and the amount of time we lollygagged on the Bashakill, there was no time left that day to head south to the Walkill. That will remain an exploration for another day and I'll undoubtedly return to the Bashakill as well.


For more information visit: http://www.thebashakill.org

Backpacking on the Wolfjaws: Adirondack State Park, NY

Sometime in the early spring of 2009, my buddy Dave, hit me up with the idea of doing some backpacking on the Appalachian Trail. He wanted to do the whole thing in sections, but he wanted to start in Georgia. He propositioned me with the notion of driving 16 hours, hiking for two days, and then driving (almost) another 16 hours back. I’ve done a lot of crazy things, including a marathon drive from Alabama to Pennsylvania once…once. This is precisely why I wasn’t going to go for his plan. Instead, I offered to take him to the Adirondacks. I hadn’t done any serious hiking there in years, and, in my opinion, bagging all 46 peaks over 4000ft is just as lofty as section-hiking the entire AT.

I began planning in earnest. I laid out a few routes and after some careful decision making, taking into account some of my previous Adirondack adventures, my hiatus from serious backpacking for 2-3 years, and the fact that I didn’t want to re-bag a lot of peaks I’ve already notched in my belt, I decided on an itinerary that would take us over 5-6 High Peaks, only one of which (Mt. Marcy) I had done before.

Things didn't go quite as planned. Dave, hadn't backpacked in a while and admitted this en route to New York. The hardest hike he had ever been on was climbing Mt. Tammany in the Delaware Water Gap, a mere 1200 or so feet, and no where near as steep or as rugged as what we were taking on here in the Adirondacks. OK...not a problem, I’ve dealt with novice backpackers before. This, however, would turn out to be only one of the foibles that we were to encounter on this trek into the High Peaks.

We actually did pretty well on Sunday and made it 4.5 miles to our shelter in about two hours in spite of the muddy and sloppy trails. Dave and I had made a stop at one of my favorite gear stores in the northeast, The Mountaineer, in Keene Valley, prior to getting to the trailhead just up the road. There we stocked up on some supplies we couldn’t buy at home and rented the mandatory bear-proof cans we needed for our hike. In spite of my years of experience, and the Leave-No-Trace Instructors’ certification I hold, the NY State Department of Environment and Conservation does not see it fit to allow me (or anyone camping in the Eastern High Peaks Region) to rig up lines and bags to properly secure provisions from critters, no matter how much of an expert one actually is. I’m sure the fat-cat at the State Assembly who conjured up the idea of mandatory use bear cans has never had to pack and haul one of these damned things several miles into the wilderness. To maximize space and pack for best weight distribution, we didn’t even pack our backpacks before leaving. I knew we would only have to re-pack everything once we acquired the cans. After an hour of going through everything and splitting up the gear and food and paying for parking, Dave and I were off.

Dave and I left the trailhead in Keene Valley and made our way along John’s Brook. The trail was fairly level and offered some good photo opportunities. This would have been great had I not decided to leave my good camera in the car. The weather report for the week said “Rain, Clouds, Thunderstorms…”, so I opted to leave my behemoth digital SLR behind. With probable cloud cover and potentially no sweeping vistas to shoot I didn’t see it worth toting the extra weight. (Maybe without the bear can I would have lugged the extra couple pounds.) I had my cell phone camera, and Dave had a point-and-shoot, we were photographically covered. Then for some reason my cell phone didn’t power down correctly and the battery died in a mere 2 hours while desperately searching for a signal in the New York backcountry. I wasn’t even going to take it, but I wanted to have a camera, now I was left with a useless piece of plastic and silicon. This is the same reason I don’t use a GPS, but at least with a GPS a few AA batteries can put you back in business. Not so with a cell phone that uses a micro-USB jack to recharge. (I also neglected to take my hand-crank/solar cell charging unit, a present that I rarely use because I never take my cell phone.) In spite of the superior photographic equipment we lacked, Dave’s point-and-shoot seemed to suffice and we got a few nice snapshots of the brook, the new footbridge, and our campsite.

We stayed at the Wolfjaws lean-to, a three sided shelter common in the ‘Dacks. There was no view or anything especially scenic at the campsite. An outhouse, called a privy here in the North Country, which had obviously been moved several times over the decades served as our human waste receptacle. A rushing stream, still frigid from the spring thaw served as our water source. If it had been a hot day, I might have been tempted to scour for swimming holes, but not today. A recently fallen fir blocked the access to the stream and we were forced to detour among and around the broken boughs in order to fill our water bottles. This would become a common occurrence while we were encamped there.

Monday’s weather was superb! It was our intent to knock off Upper and Lower Wolfjaw peaks, then make for The Great Range and get Armstrong and Gothics before the end of the day. We made it up to the junction of the Lower Wolfjaw/Upper Wolfjaw trail pretty quickly. It was only 0.5 miles to the top of Lower Wolfjaw. I would have preferred to leave our packs at the bottom of Lower Wolfjaw and retrieve them after we bagged the peak, but with my luck a NYSDEC ranger or some Adirondack Mountain Club (ADK) member bestowed with some type of backcountry police power would have spotted the two bags, checked to see that all the food and “smellable” items were secured in the bear cans (which they were not right at this point), and then we would have been issued a ticket or warning. That would have looked great. “Eagle Scout/Leave-No-Trace Instructor/Backcountry Advocate/Outdoor Recreation Department manager cited for wilderness illegalities.”

Getting to the top of Lower Wolfjaw took us an hour! The mud, slick rocks, and scrambling up six-foot rock faces, one after the other, just killed us. We were toting full-packs and my trekking poles were slowing me down. One was bent and I couldn't collapse them down and stash them on my pack in order to free up my hands. Dave wasn’t doing much better. His heavier cotton-based wardrobe and old-school sleeping bag made his pack a bit heavier than it could have been with better gear. Regardless, we got to the top and felt pretty good, but we sucked down a bunch of water. It took us 30 minutes to get back down to the junction and then we started up Upper Wolfjaw.


What came next was the roughest, nastiest trail I've ever hiked in my life. 1.0 miles took us over 1.5 hours. I was expecting some scrambles and handhold use, but I've never before had to take off my pack, throw it up to the next level of trail, and then chimney climb up between two boulders. This was sick! We made it up but were down to a pint of water each. I had planned on us running short before we made camp that night, but I had also planned that we would be running out of water only a mile or so from day’s end. From previous June escapades in the ‘Dacks (coupled with the very rainy spring we had) I fully expected a few perennial streams would have been flowing as well. Faced with at least three more peaks and three more miles we did some quick math and opted to head back down to the shelter we were at the night before.

Coming down wasn't that great either. It was a long, disheartening down-climb back to the shelter. My knee decided it was a perfect time to pop out after slipping on some rocks, and the descent wasn’t much faster than the hike up. Out of water, muddy, and slightly bloody we staggered back into the Wolfjaws lean-to somewhere after 5:00pm. Thankfully no one else moved in, although we would have welcomed some comely French-Canadian ladies, or, in actuality, anyone who was willing to cook our dinner. Instead our only visitor that night was a local Pine Martin. The furry weasel-like creature must have smelled the canned shrimp I added to the evening fare. That made me think if he smelled it, a bear could have as well. So now I’m all hyped up thinking we were going to have “Close Encounters of the Ursine Kind”. I would have taken a picture, but….well, anyway. Sleep came soon after sunset and sometime in the middle of the night it began to rain. We were supposed to be camping under a tent-fly tonight, six miles or so away. Dave pointed out that he was now glad we ran out of water. The weather wasn't great Tuesday. In fact, it downright sucked. It rained all Monday night and didn't let up until 10am on Tuesday. We had read that there were T-storms likely on Tuesday and with the rain and quagmire-esque trail conditions we opted to head out of the woods. In spite of our self-inflicted physical abuse we felt fine after returning to camp on Monday night, but now the legs and back sure felt a lot worse and it was noticeable on the hike out. We checked out John’s Brook Lodge, also known as JBL, and spent some time there talking to the caretaker.

The lodge is nestled three miles or so into the wilderness and is only accessed by foot or pack-animal. The annual resupply missions to JBL are done mostly by ADK volunteers and by helicopter. Consequentially, the nightly fees to stay in this 100+ year old vestige of the glory-days of early Adirondack expeditions are a pretty penny. Lean-tos and tent sites are also available nearby for a slightly lower fee. JBL is worth a stop and given the fact that we were in no rush to get out we took our time reviewing the collection of Adirondack memorabilia in the JBL historical collection, and had a damned tasty brownie as well.

Dave and I rambled back to the parking lot in Keene Valley, stopping only briefly to dodge around a young, nouveau-hippie woman meditating on one of the footbridges and for a quick reconnaissance of some other lean-tos closer to the trailhead. Then we headed up to the Adirondak Loj, (purposefully misspelled by the builder) rented a lean-to, cleaned ourselves up, and headed into Lake Placid for some beer tasting at the Lake Placid Pub and Brewery. We sampled a few of the offered beers and I took a half-gallon bottle (know to beer snobs like myself as a “growler”) of 46ers India Pale Ale back to camp to accompany dinner. Dave opted for a growler of Ubu Ale. I have had LP Brewery beers before and was hoping the High Peaks Hefe-Wiezen was available. It wasn’t...bummer. We headed back to very quiet campground and proceeded to cook up some beans, rice, and chicken. We polished off most of the beer and decided to call it an evening after we ran out of dirty jokes to tell.Now a day ahead of schedule, we headed over to the Adirondack Wild Center in Tupper Lake on Wednesday and checked out the cool stuff there. Two school groups had just beat us there, and we didn’t get to really enjoy the experience. Watching the otters swim around was neat but the school groups there made it a bit crowded, and I constantly felt like I was going to nail some poor pre-kindergartener with my knee. We stayed for about an hour-and-a-half, still not seeing everything there was to see, and we decided to start the trek home.

We stopped in Queensbury and chowed down on a Loft Burger with double bacon, cheese, onions and mushrooms. The Loft Burger restaurant is strategically located on the corner of Routes 9 and 149 just off the Northway and is a frequent stop of mine either on my way to or from Vermont. While my backcountry cookery is excellent, Dave had to admit that the Loft Burger was perhaps the greatest-worst-for-your-arteries thing he had ever eaten. I have to agree.
All in all, it was the first serious backpacking trip I took in 3 years. I was hoping we would have found better water sources or had taken more water bottles, but I didn't beat myself up and surprisingly I was only moving slow due to the terrain and conditions. We didn't bag all the peaks we planned to, but I got two more that I didn't have before. Dave has since forgotten about his original plans to section-hike the AT and now has his sights set on bagging more High Peaks. Two down and 44 more to go for him, I’m only slightly ahead of his count. Thankfully, the mountains aren’t going anywhere.
For Additional Information See:

The Adirondack Mountain Club, Johns Brook Lodge and the Adirondak Loj:
http://www.adk.org/

The Mountaineer: http://www.mountaineer.com/

The Adirondack Wild Center: http://www.wildcenter.org/

The Lake Placid Pub & Brewery: http://www.lakeplacidpubandbrewery.com/

The Loft Drive-In: (518) 793-2296