The Wampanoag Canoe Passage

Day 4: Dan Shafto

2011-09-28T15:35:00.000-07:00

Day four - Sunday, June 12th - saw Dan Shafto and I paddling down towards Dighton Rock on the Taunton River. Below is his account of our trip.

Up until the end of May, I knew nothing about the North and South Rivers Watershed Association’s Wampanoag Canoe Passage. Then, sitting in traffic one Sunday afternoon, I turned on WATD to hear Captain Lou interviewing Nik about the upcoming event. Having grown up in Marshfield, I was familiar with the NSRWA and the great work they do for the health of our rivers. As I listened to Nik describing this fundraiser, now coming into its third year, I was struck by the ingenuity of the idea. What could inspire people to care about these rivers more than recognizing how critical they were to all aspects of Wampanoag life for hundreds of years?

Just a couple weeks later, I was on the river with Nik and his horde of supporters for Day 1 of the paddle up the North River. It was a beautiful, sunny day—perfect for a paddle on the river. Two days later, Nik graciously invited me along for Day 4.

We shoved off from the Summer Street bridge (under construction) with the threat of thundershowers, and immediately I was struck by the quiet of the undeveloped banks of the upper Taunton River.

Since it was only Nik and I in the canoe, there was little time for picture-taking, but as we made our way steadily downstream, we observed much wildlife: hawks, otters, herons, cormorants, even a lone fisher startled by our presence. Though the banks were mostly overgrown, we encountered a few landings with evidence of human activity. The first was populated by a series of structures formed by sticks tied together with twine. Some looked like chairs, others like tables, and still others resembled no practical shapes, but instead hung eerily from the branches of trees. We continued on downstream.

Along the way, Nik told me more about the passage and its importance to the Wampanoag as a throughway, as a food source, as a hospitable area for settlement. Many of the bodies of water along the passage today are plugged by dams, polluted by modern industry, or simply forgotten. But each year Nik paddles its length, more people become reacquainted with this living historical landmark and its importance as a vital ecosystem, a source of food and water, a mode of transportation, and a recreational area. It is a part of our collective heritage and it’s to our benefit to keep it healthy.

After passing under some bridges with faster-moving water, we pulled out at a clearing to take a short break and have a look around. There was a large fire pit and a few chairs under a handmade awning. We took a mental note of this excellent camping spot for possible use on future paddles.

Under the next bridge, we ran the fastest stretch of water yet, then passed around a few bends and came to our pullout, only to find a welcome committee at the finish line!

We carried the canoe up the bank, a bit disoriented by the commotion of the modern world after a few hours paddling through the serenity of the upper Taunton River. As it turned out, the Route 44 bridge was being dedicated to a local soldier who had received the Medal of Honor.

After tying the canoe on top of Nik’s van, we were off to find our starting point. But that was not as easy as we thought it would be! Due to the construction, the Summer Street bridge was closed, and all roads around it were blanketed with detour signs directing us away from our destination. After a half hour of contemplation and driving around in circles, we finally came upon the Summer Street bridge—on the opposite bank from my car. Luckily, the bridge was not blocked to pedestrian traffic, so I walked across uninhibited and rescued my abandoned vehicle.

I have to admit I thought no river could compare in beauty to the North River, but I was impressed by the Taunton and its environs. Equally impressive, though, is the contribution the Wampanoag Paddlers have made to the NSRWA and toward raising awareness for our local waterways, which must be seen not as resources to exploit, but as invaluable natural systems to appreciate and preserve.

Day 3: Warren Winders

2011-09-28T15:10:00.000-07:00

Day 3 saw my youngest sister Eliza, Warren Winders and I paddling the Satucket River to the Matfield to where they meet up with the Town River to form the Taunton - finally! Many thanks to both of them. Below are some thoughts on the trip by Warren, the head of the local Trout Unlimited Branch and one of the principal agents of the restoration of Red Brook, an outdoorsman and environmentalist. Thanks also to Randy Julius for his hospitality.

The Wampanoag Canoe Passage has symbolic and actual importance on several planes.

First, it reminds us of the people who lived here for thousands of years in a sustainable way, and in so doing, makes us consider the consequences of a "way of life" that we have largely, unthinkingly inherited. Second, doing the Passage brings attention to the watersheds and raises money for a worthy cause, the NSRWA. Third, being able to do the Passage, or parts of it, with friends and the support of friends, helps to build a community that recognizes the vital, life sustaining roles that these rivers play in our lives.

Lastly, and most importantly, there is the personal experience. Paddling the North River with Randy Julius involved considerable time travel as we talked about people paddling their mishoons up and down the river; stopped to read the signs where the old shipyards had been; and landed on Blueberry Island to briefly explore for Indian artifacts and imagine Wampanoag hunters and fisherman taking a break from their paddle, as we were doing. The brilliant green of the new saltgrass, osprey, gulls, heron; the effort of paddling against a steady wind; the changing light as storm clouds darkened the sky all lent a timelessness to the journey, as though we could have been paddling at any point in a chain of a thousand or so years.

A day later, traveling the Satucket with Nik and Eliza , in the hypothermic haze of the 50 degree late spring drizzle, team work and maintaining a good attitude were the drills as we waded more than floated the river, hauling the canoe and then scrambling over and under an endless succession of fallen trees. This is when the character of the people you are with becomes very important. That I actually found this trip, and the challenges that it posed, to be enjoyable can be attributed to Nik and his sister. Very obviously, log slogging the Satucket is not for everyone, but it seems that we were actually having a good time, at times laughing a little insanely as we ploughed forward through thick clouds of vampire mosquitoes. Early on we bounced over the ancient Wampanoag fish weir that helped us recall the Satucket's past abundance of herring that made their way up to Robbins Pond to spawn. And, not far past the weir, we we got out of the canoe and floated it through the sluice of the Cotton Gin dam that blocks the herring from reaching Robbins Pond today.

The broad and, mostly, log free Matfield and Taunton Rivers came as a relief after the blow downs and confinement of the Satucket's steep clay banks. On the Matfield we encountered a Momma wood duck and her brood. We followed her down stream as she played her injured duck role to distract us from her young. From time to time snapping turtle heads emerged from the current for a quick look at the passing canoe. Occasionally, a gangling blue heron would rise from the stream bank, its spear fishing temporarily interrupted by our appearance. Nik pointed out the massive swamp oaks that dotted the grassy flood plain. At times a house would be visible in the distance; but, for the most part, we were paddling through a riparian wilderness seemingly divorced from the bustle of humanity that we knew was taking place nearby. At one bend a surprised deer, in its sleek, red summer coat, scrambled from its streamside bed and bolted up the high bank for the woods.

Even so, one human impact became apparent as soon as the Satucket joined the Matfield. The pungent, almost too sweet smell of treated water coming from Brockton's treatment plant took over for the rest of the trip. It was a not so subtle reminder that the river is still being degraded by all that human bustling. As we paddled, we tried to imagine a time when people drank directly from the river to quench their thirst. The idea seemed very foreign to me as we floated along on a river of nutrients flowing out of Brockton.

Not too long after hauling around the treacherous maw of a collapsed dam (old pilings protrude from the river like the teeth of a hungry jaw), located just below Route 104, we arrived at the steep rip rap of the Cherry Street Bridge. By now darkness was closing in. Wet, cold, and covered with mud, Nik and I hauled the canoe up the rip rap and across the road while his sister went on ahead to start the van parked in the grass just off the tar. As the van's heater slowly warmed us, Nik drove me back to Randy's place where I had joined them hours before. We parted ways in the damp glow of the porch light of Randy's log cabin. Driving home through a steady rain, I thought about all that I had learned from Nik, and from other friends like Tim and Randy. Wisdom doesn't necessarily come with age. In my case, it may never arrive, but it helps to have friends who drag you along on the exploration of rivers, and an idea, with all that it entails - like the Wampanoag Canoe Passage.

Day 2: Tim Watts

2011-09-28T14:55:00.000-07:00

Along with friends Andrew Cha and Alex Polizzotti, river activist and author of the wonderful blog Glooskap and the Frog accompanied me on the second day of the paddle on Friday, June 10th. Below are some of his thoughts about the journey.

www.glooskapandthefrog.org

Traveling the Wampanoag Commemorative Canoe Passage was an interesting experience for me. I had never paddled the North River and streams above Monponsett Ponds. On the second day of our journey we paddled across Monponsett into a peaceful cove bordered by white cedar trees and swamp maples. The undeveloped shoreline hinted of times past, a snapshot of what once was. It was very beautiful. As our canoe slipped into the boggy entrance of Stump Brook the concept of time began turning in my mind.

My thoughts began wandering into what may have been an altogether different concept, relationship with this ???? we call time. The native relationship, in this case the Wampanoag relationship to time. Today we tend to take for granted our relationship to time. Relationships with distinct divisions between work, leisure and sleep and then further divisions by our clocks into smaller increments of hours and seconds.

How might our continuity of living differ without such small and sharp divisions and the resulting demands put upon our individual and collective minds by them?

Where did our template for time division come from? Have we become servants to a system we designed to serve us? Who were the architects of it and why?

It's funny, thinking such is like paddling a river with an inviting tributary around every bend. If you try to explore each the end of the river may never be reached.

This question of time comes clearest to me when framed this way. If today I am at work, working late at 7:00 in the evening then I consider myself as such, at work, working, doing something other. If I am a Wampanoag tending to a field, fish or game at 7:00 in the evening do I think of myself as working, doing other, or simply engaging in the practice of living, being?

Words and their meaning become valuable to define for thought the difference between "work" incorporated into the continuity of living and being as opposed to incorporating life into and around a tightly wound work schedule. Days diced up....... time to wake up, drive, arrive, break, lunch, break again, drive again and finally home to shoehorn in a bit of living before the cycle begins anew. It's disconcerting enough to write and read such a schedule, never mind live it. Yet many of us do, day in and day out. It is that deep seed of underlying anxiety that we sometimes sense but can't quite root out and pin down.

It is in such places while engaging in such simple activities as paddling that we can step within the tune of a different time scale and realize awareness. Instinctively most are drawn to rivers, oceans, mountains, forests all which have a subtle way of sewing seeds of thought larger than self, reconnecting us with the solar and lunar cycles all which live within us as we live within them. Hmmmmm?

Further downstream our party arrived at the dam owned and abused by the City of Brockton to retain artificially high water levels in Monponsett for transfer to Silver Lake. Silver Lake is headwaters to the Jones River which often runs almost dry from withdrawals by Brockton for the city water supply. No water was passing the dam upon our arrival.

The stream below had drained to little more than a mucky slurry, a thin veil of water covering. As we dragged, pushed, poled and paddled down Stump Brook I said to Nik.... " Well, it is interesting to catch a glimpse of the stream bed here. I have always wondered how deep the water was, it's tea like color hides its true depth during normal flows."

Sitting at the keyboard now, a week gone past the thought stirs in my mind how nature sometimes speaks in peculiar ways when we take the time to listen. Previous to seeing the stream channel drained I had imagined it much deeper, the impression from above suggested water six or ten feet deep, when in fact it was hardly two. The water by way of its tea colored nature created an illusion of depth and distance. It strikes me now that the illusion created by the dark water of the stream is similar to the illusion we create of distance from cycles natural by way of our relationship to time and modern fast paced lives. Though we cannot turn back the clocks and calenders to the time of the Wampanoags, we can by engaging with nature become aware and find ways to better balance and incorporate work into living. It is trips such as this one and simply spending bits and pieces of our busy time in these places that put the breath back in breathing and thought back into thinking.

Wampanoag Canoe Passage 2011

2011-09-28T14:31:00.001-07:00

The 2011 Wampanoag Canoe Passage started out with a record-breaking 26 people, 6 canoes and 7 kayaks on Thursday, June 9th. Thanks to everyone who took part. Here are some pictures from Day 1. Above are some musings on the Passage from others who took part.

Day 4: Summer Street Bridge to Shay's Boat Yard (Justine Selsing)

2010-06-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

I was a little nervous heading out for the fourth day of our paddle. My arms (and psyche) were already sore from all the lifting, shoving, and “threading the needle” of the day before, and the little hints Nik had been dropping all morning about “hoping the tide would be with us” weren’t helping my already-anxiety-prone mind. I had serious doubts about my ability to paddle for 27 miles – or to paddle any amount of miles going upstream. However, I showed no signs of inner panic as I calmly spread Grey Poupon on the sandwich I would eat for lunch (if in fact I made it to lunch) and bravely boarded the minivan that would take us to the day’s launch site.

Nik’s dad and adorable Corgis helped us stock our boat with all the appropriate gear (this time with the added bonus of Ziploc bags for our lunches; no swampwiches today, as delicious as they were) and we pushed out into the river.

“I hope the tide will be with us,” Nik announced for the final time.

“Me too,” I said.

“It probably won’t,” he added casually.

This day, as Nik knew from his prior experience, was to be the Day of Many Bridges. We were told to expect to pass under 20 to 30 overpasses, and were also expected to obtain photo documentation of each and every one. The first, less-than-thrilling instance came within a few seconds of launch.

Breathtaking. Luckily, the visual interest of the scenery promptly increased dramatically as we passed by an improbably-placed memorial wreath. There it was propped, fully upright, against an exposed branch. Was it positioned there purposefully? Were we at the unlikely scene of a fatal canoe collision? Or was this just the serendipitous final snagging place of a wreath swept from its rightful position by the flooding a few months back? Nobody knows.

Still contemplating that mystery, we wandered under some important-looking power lines that were actually buzzing with…electricity, I guess. On the very top, a hawk had made its nest – we saw at least one flying to and fro, and birdwatcher extraordinaire Greg Keches swore he saw a second one nestled inside. We pondered the dangerousness of the habitat choice – was this a risk-seeking hawk? – but then electrical engineering extraordinaire Greg Keches reminded us that the hawk would have to be grounded in order to be electrocuted by the lines…or something.

Then we discovered the telephoto lens in Nik’s dad’s camera bag! All photo-taking hell broke loose. The zoom turned out to be extremely helpful when we sighted a couple great blue herons (photo courtesy of nature photographer extraordinaire Greg Keches), an oriole hanging out in a shrub, and a swimming cormorant (photos courtesy of moi).

We passed by many more bridges, including one being revamped by friendly construction workers. Then it got really hot. I jumped in the water by myself because everyone else was too lazy. I admit I was slightly afraid of the possibility of a spontaneous snapping turtle attack for the first few minutes…okay, for the whole time…but I composed myself and even performed a cormorant takeoff routine at the behest of Nik.

That’s what they look like. When they take off. Anyways, we paddled a little more and chowed down on our nice and dry sandwiches, but the grueling seafaring life was taking its toll and we found ourselves hungering for more. Solution? What else?

Nik showed us what is apparently a common riverside attraction (there was a path leading up from the river's bank) and we, like so many before us, headed to McDonald’s for our trans fat fix. I was informed only afterwards by nutritionist extraordinaire Greg Keches that the “milkshake” I consumed had no actual dairy products in it. Apparently they’re made of potatoes. I will say no more about the emotions I experienced and likely repressed after learning this information but the concept did feature prominently in my thoughts over the next few days.

We then passed some other stuff, like the indoor skate part extreme sports athlete extraordinaire Greg Keches and I both recognized from our past. We also passed the Bacon Felt Factory Nik recognized from last year – oldest felt company in America – and he insisted we were “close.” I was not excited because at this point in the trip I knew not to trust a single word out of Nik’s mouth about time frames.

It soon became clear, however, that we were getting close when the river started to run against us. We had hit the tidal section of the river, and that tide had turned. I was lucky enough not to have to paddle through most of this, and happily telephoto’d from the middle seat.

However, I did switch into the front seat for the last mile or so of upstream struggle. And although I would like the following picture to appear as few times as possible on the internet, I am allowing it to be included here as evidence of how NOT EASY this part of the paddle was. The last few moments before reaching the marina dock seemed like an eternity.

And the results (for both me and sternsman extraordinaire Greg Keches):

After recuperating, we took a few more celebratory pictures before heading back to Hanover.

Throughout our four days on the river, we continued to see signs that the river was a place largely ignored by the general population. Only on the first day, close to the ocean, did we see any other paddlers on the water. For most of the trip, it felt like we were the only ones who ever saw any of these stretches of river. At each bridge we passed under, I thought about how the pedestrians and drivers who pass over see that river every day – but only that tiny piece of it. For them, the river only exists as a few hundred meters of water that they catch a glimpse of before it bends out of sight.

We were riding along the old superhighway as we passed under the new ones. The Wampanoag people, as Nik told us, used to use this entire passage as a major route of transportation. Now, just getting through the whole thing is a struggle, hellish at times because of the fallen trees and shallow areas. There’s been no reason to clear the passage because it’s obsolete in our day and age. We don’t need it to get to and from work every morning. We don’t need the passage for travel or for any part of our daily lives, and because of that, most of us have forgotten about how important our water resources are. If we continue to ignore where our water – and all our resources, for that matter – comes from, we might find some of those natural resources slipping or being taken away from us.

Day 3: Osceola Island to Summer Street Bridge (Greg Keches)

2010-06-02T06:16:00.000-07:00

So day three started off by waking up with the sun and cleaning up camp on Osceola Island. Some dirty rotten scoundrels had littered the campsite on the island so we grabbed a trash bag and cleaned up a bit. After clearing camp, we hopped into our canoes and paddled across Robbins Pond to the beginning of the Satucket River. Before departing though, Paula Tyack delivered to us some provisions and water, and Justine. Into the foray we charged with great passion and furious will power. Unfortunately for us, we encountered exactly what Nik had described, the dreaded swamp weed and a shallow river to start. We stepped out of our boats into about a foot and a half of mud.

After about 20 minutes the river deepened and we hopped back in our canoes. The flood plain disappeared and we were transported into a mystical river. Slowly, the river became more secluded and the dark forest engulfed us most dramatically.

Many downed logs found their way between our flotilla and the intended destination.After what seemed like 40,000 portages, we eventually made it to Carver Cotton Gin Mill.

We explored the factory grounds and decided to munch on of some delicious snacks provided by the one and only Paula Tyack. Once refilled with nutrition and heart, we sent the canoes down through a spillway in the Cotton Gin dam and began to head further downstream.

Once again we were greeted with downed trees around every oxbow. Fortunately for the flotilla, we attacked them with the poise and grace of a Gazelle… oh wait… I fell in about every time… at least everyone else did all right. The Satucket did provide more than just downed trees though. We saw some beautiful Flag Irises, Painted Turtles, Great Blue Herons, Mallards, Geese, Fish, and some amazingly large spiders which became regular stow-aways on our canoes due to some pretty bad steering on my part.

After a grueling afternoon, we eventually emerged from the forest and the river widened. We joined with the Matfield and eventually made it to the Taunton. As the river widened though we ran into a slight problem… our one phone decided to stop working on us, and we needed to be picked up soon. Nik jumped out of the river and ran into a random Garden Center/ Nursery where he asked a lady to use her cell phone. Back in the river again, we encountered a beaver and some Class 2 rapids. Awesome. Taunton widened further and after many oxbows and nightfall, we finally arrived at Summer Street Bridge.

So this being my first canoe trip and all, I honestly can say that being on a river is nothing like I have ever experienced. I expected some Huckleberry Finn escapades, but I got a whole lot more. The river gives you a front row seat to just about every creature the Northeast has to offer. All I can say is that the Wampanoags might not be too happy with the way their territory turned out. Suburbia has infiltrated the beauty of the river at points and this was all too clear by the occasional trash found on our passage. I was happy to be able to raise awareness of the Passage and also to raise money for the NSRWA, who are working to preserve the integrity of this beautiful watershed. The journey was majestic; we should keep it that way.

Featured Writer Alex Garver on Lost, the IMF, and the lost art of Wamping

2010-06-01T06:22:00.000-07:00

T-minus 12 hours. Nik and Sam drove to pick me up after a long bus ride from New York City where I spent a few days with my sister, cousin and friends. We arrived at Nik’s house just in time for the last 40 minutes of the Lost finale, the capstone of 6 seasons, all of which I had devoted the equivalent of several consecutive days watching. Interspersing the viewing with comments and questions made it fun, but the ridiculous drama that was so unbelievable- like the forest being magically bulldozed to create a runway for their plane, and more importantly the inability of the episode to answer many important questions- so why was the Dharma Initiative or Hugo’s numbers important- made it disappointing. Though I must say when I watched the whole finale, it and the show in general grew on me. Important topics were explored- a possible afterlife was depicted, faith and reason intertwined and conflicted in Locke, Jack and Jack’s eventual conversion to faith, and the characters were really important to each other and had a lot of love for each other. Plus the characters were quite international and diverse (which the actors commented on and thought was groundbreaking), though the white males dominated as usual- Whitmore, Linus, Jacob, Locke, the Black Smoke and Jack. The Last Airbender and the Prince of Persia were criticized for whitewashing its cast, taking roles that in the original show and game should be played by people of color and filling them with white males. Why does the industry continue to do this?

T-minus 4 hours. Wake up at Nik’s house. Delicious coffee cake and cereal. I made loads of sandwiches- about 15- for Greg, Nik, Sam and myself for lunch. We ate at least three lunches, one directly before ‘dinner.’ I threw some stuff together and decided to take my backpack in the canoe so that I could wear it as we portaged in case we found it easier to carry the canoe with it thrown over our heads. I packed my watertight bag with the clothes, a flashlight and toiletries that I would need that night to be dropped off at the campsite. In hindsight this was quite silly since the canoes inevitable were covered with mud if not sloshing with swamp water. Even worse, I left two extra water bags I had carefully brought from home at Nik’s house. On the second day, after having to go through some trouble to save my backpack from drowning in water I switched the arrangement so that the drybag stayed in the canoe. It was vital in keeping Nik’s Dad’s fancy camera safe from the raging waters. They weren’t actually raging, but they would have ravaged a nice camera.

0:00. Launch time. After paddling across our first pond, I portaged for the first time this trip. Interestingly, I learned to pronounce the word “portage” with a French accent (por-taj), while my fellow Bostonians took a more American approach (por-tij). I learned the word from my Mom who grew up in upstate New York, which I suppose is influenced by the French in Quebec. My pronunciation seemed more natural to me, and plus had a bit more panache so I tried to continue to use it even through an onslaught of ‘correct’, American “portages”.

This portage was quickly followed by another, this time over train tracks. I happen to love train tracks- my dad and I would regularly walk them for miles at a time and the thrill that a train might come barreling down always kept the walk a notch more thrilling than other hikes. We took several great pictures with the canoe strewn across the tracks, but I do feel they would be a bit more epic with a train approaching in the background. When we had just that opportunity, Nik and Greg intelligently got as far away as possible. Sam and I decided to enjoy the feeling unique to passing trains- just a few feet from where we stood a mass of metal locomotive whizzed past, pushing in front of its path a wall of air and sound. The conductor blasted his horn so obnoxiously and the train was passing so close at such great speed, that my amygdala got the best of me- a wave of fear and self-preservation washed over me and I began running down the hill away from the train, screaming. Twas fun, I must say.

1:25 hours after launch. The next section was a narrow stream that became increasingly impassable, with strainers blocking the way. Apparently all part of the plan. We took out the canoe, put back in again. Repeat. Sam and I got stuck on the wrong side of the stream and had to force the canoe over bushes, grass and around trees. I called this activity “mowing.”

Back on solid ground, we began executing the next segment of our trip- a mile long portage. I have no clue how far we walked in reality, but it was damn far for carrying a heavy canoe! After 15 minutes of portaging I asked Nik how much further. He said matter-of-factly, “We’re one third there,” and gave me a large grin. I didn’t smile back. It was about this time that I decided that if I returned home and told people I had gone canoeing they would get the completely wrong picture. They might imagine what I had imagined- pristine rivers with strong flows winding their way through idyllic Massachusetts. No, the activity we were then engaged required a new verb to begin to encapsulate its essence. Wamping, derived from the Wampanoag Nation, was born. Wamping connotes the type of adventures found on the Wampanoag Commemorative Canoe Passage- long portages, mosquitoes, shallow water, numerous strainers, and cold refreshments at the end of the day. Those of us who love gnarly canoe trips use it.

As we paddled a narrow, windy water passage, Sam and I discussed economics. He, a star of Pomona’s econ classes, had much to offer in the chat about its uses and role in the world. I, the son of an econ professor, had recently begun exploring the field through books and late night chats with my mom and even though I knew little about the subject, found it interesting. Specifically on trial was the IMF. Based on my reading of Joseph Stiglitz’s Globalization and its Discontents, I contended that it had often pressured other countries to adopt economic policies that were not helpful for the country at large, let alone the poor of those countries. The culture of the organization did not allow for much criticism or discussion, and the process of making decisions only involved a single 3-week trip to the country under review. The end result was usually the IMF’s one-size-fits all solution, which has most often been to reduce spending and raise taxes. This was needed and effective in Latin America in the 1980’s, but the issues in Thailand in 1997, for example, were substantially different, but the IMF did not take a nuanced approach, but merely implemented its standard approach. Sam responded by explaining some of the reasons why the IMF does the things it does- its loans have conditionality to ensure that they are repaid and that sound economic policy is implemented even though it is difficult for governments to implement policy that is painful. Sam also believed that economic growth required some painful changes, and that this was okay. I agreed, but argued that the IMF uses that logic to rationalize policy that need not be so painful- such as demanding countries liberalize as soon as possible rather than taking a more gradual approach like the one China has chosen. The IMF pushed the liberalization of capital markets before countries had the ability to regulate them, such as in Thailand when capital markets were liberalized without the domestic ability to regulate them. According to Stiglitz, the deregulation of the capital markets was the major cause of the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis. Finally, the IMF’s response to raise taxes and cut expenditures has been widely criticized even from within the IMF, which does not happen often enough. I think Sam and I agreed in the IMF’s role in general- that it could be greatly beneficial to the world at large by developing economies and bailing out economies, but questioned its past performance while Sam defended it.

Day 2. I woke up refreshed and ready to go. The sun was just coming over the horizon, but the sky was already bright. I chose to begin the day with a nice period of meditation looking across the pond. Silence. Beauty. The present moment brought alive with breathing and energy coursing through my body. Then I get ready for the day and put in my contacts, but there wasn’t anything else to do. My three friends were still fast asleep. So I got back in my bag and slept another couple of hours. When we all woke up for real this time, Nik wanted to know why in the world I was up at 4:45 am. I wanted to know why he wasn’t. “Well, there isn’t that much to do if you get up at 4:45 but are supposed to meet people at 9.” Yeah, Nik, that makes a lot of sense…

The morning was blessed with a delivery from Paula and Justine- food and coffee, some fuel for our next day. With 5 people and two canoes, one of us were allowed to, or forced to depending on one’s perspective, ride in the middle of a canoe. I began the day in the middle when it was so shallow that everyone had to get out and push the canoe- except me. I had the important job of documenting the trip, so I sat with Nik’s Dad’s super nice camera taking classic shots- of him pulling me. Justine wanted to get a picture of me to capture the full ridiculousness of the situation.

The challenge of wamping today was not so much portaging as strainers. Log after log would block our passage. I imagine that back in the golden days of the Wampanoags they would make sure these rivers were free of these trees and we talked about doing the same- if only we had had a chainsaw! Well, I don’t think the day would have been easier with one, but at least successive passages would be easier. I think Greg’s face in this picture successfully captures our shared experience.

During the whole trip I would sometimes look around and wonder how I came to be here, in this beautiful place, with these fun people, canoeing. Just a few days prior I had been sitting at home with no big plans for a long time. But on the spur of the moment, I decided to fly standby on Airtran, which everybody should consider! If you are under 23, it costs anywhere from $50 to $100 to fly between two cities. It cost me $80 one way, which was more than 50% cheaper than comparable flights. On both legs I got the flight I was aiming for. So when I decided to visit NYC, I called Sam to see if we could hang out. We could, he said, if I came canoeing. Hell yeah, I said, that would be so awesome. And there I was, wamping around with friends!

Day 2: Hanover to Osceola Island (Sam Trachtman)

2010-05-31T19:52:00.000-07:00

The second day of the canoe trip began at the Tyack’s home. We were well-rested and well-fed—ready for the second leg of the canoe trip, which Nik had warned us would be one of the hardest days.

The group had shrunken since Sunday, with only Nik, Greg, and I remaining from the group that set out Sunday (Justine would come back Tuesday). We had a new arrival though—Alex Garver—a Pomona friend who had come up from Atlanta, Georgia to join us.

Nik set out before the rest of us to do a leg of the journey that was too narrow to be navigated by canoe, so he went solo in a kayak. From what I was told, much of his 3 hour journey consisted of dragging the kayak through shallow water deep in the woods. While Nik was fighting off bugs and mud on the river, the rest of us brought the canoes out to the launching point, and brought some things to the island where we’d be staying the night. We picked Nik up, drove to the launching point, and began the day’s journey.

At the outset, the river was beautiful, wide, and easy to navigate. This would quickly change. After around half an hour, we reached an obstruction—railroad tracks running over the river. We disembarked and hoisted the canoes up a steep embankment and over the tracks, but not before taking some pictures.

The short portage over the tracks turned out to merely be a harbinger of things to come. After getting back on the water, we soon found ourselves in less navigable waters. The underbrush became thicker, the water dirtier, and the river more narrow. We finally reached a point where continuing in the water was unimaginable, and we were forced to drag the canoes through some almost impassibly thick brush to finally reach… a construction site.

At this point, we had our longest portage of the day—a quarter mile one which brought us out of the woods, down a road, and back into the water. I think it is safe to say that canoes are meant to be paddled and not carried.

Back in the water, we had a nice stretch of navigable river, before reaching a dam, where we ate 2^nd lunch (we had the first one right when we were setting out). The dams were built in order to help irrigate cranberry bogs, but now, they are mostly just damaging the ecosystem, and making our lives much more difficult. Beyond the dam, the water level was far lower, and we had trouble navigating the canoes through the tall grass. The area, though, was beautiful.

At the next dam that we had to portage over, the reentry into the water was a little bit precarious. Alex and I ended up getting taking some water into our boat. Unfortunately, I was the one stuck in the unstable boat.

After that little mishap, we were back on our way. Reentry into the water at the next dam again proved to be problematic. Trying to get the canoe over the dam and into the water, Nik stepped on a shark rock, and opened up the bottom of his foot. He didn’t lose too much blood…

After moving from the narrow river to a pond, we could finally see our final destination.

We arrived at an island in the middle of a beautiful pond, where we planned to spend the night.

Although our tent turned out to be dysfunctional, we had a relaxing night sleeping under the stars. A special thanks to Nik’s sister, Sophie, who brought us much needed provisions so that we could go to sleep with full bellies.

It was a brilliant day—difficult, but hugely rewarding. Having the company of Nik, Greg, and Alex was great fun. More importantly, spending 3 days on the rivers of New England made me believe more than I ever did in the cause of the trip—raising money for organizations like the North and South Rivers Watershed Association that protect our rivers --- the lifeblood of the ecosystem. Preserving them is of the utmost importance.

Thanks to Nik and his family, thanks to those who donated, and thanks to our beautiful rivers!

- Sam Trachtman

Day 1: Scituate to Hanover (Sam Jones and Lucien K)

2010-05-31T19:34:00.000-07:00

When Nik asked Sam and I to join him on the first leg of his North River paddle journey I admit I was hesitant at first. I had not grown up on the river as my friends Nik and Sam had so I had no relationship with the river except to imagine the mosquitoes, leeches or other foul critters that could inhabit those murky waters. Furthermore, I had kayaked only once in my life and was afraid I would be a burden on the group (not to mention embarrassing myself). In the end I managed to hold my own on the water–floating breaks helped–and the critters we saw were egrets and ducks not leeches. In fact, I got more mosquitoes bites at the post paddle barbecue than during the whole paddle.

Looking back on the trip, I cannot imagine a better way to have spent that day. We took the thirteen miles at a relaxed pace which gave us time to take in our surroundings and explore the river instead of rushing through it. There is something special about being so close to the water, floating just above the surface, so you can feel the water beneath you. It is an intimate feeling that you can’t get from a bridge or on a motorboat, and most of the time we move to fast to notice what we are missing out on. Seeing Nik and Sam’s connection to this river that they have known all their lives rubbed off on me, and experiencing it for myself made clear why they love it so much. The four hours we spent on the river that day changed my relationship to the river and was an experience I will not soon forget and hope to soon repeat.

- Lucien Kahn

I have lived next to the North River my entire life, swimming and kayaking in it since I can remember. My family loves the river, the most enthusiastic member being my dog Jack, who escapes down to the river whenever he gets a chance. The major reason my parents moved to our home in Hanover was because of the North River. When I was young my dad was the NSRWA director, and is still involved as the North River Commission Representative for Hanover. Starting at age three I was attending river cleanups and clambakes.

The annual NSRWA Great River Race is a tradition with my family, and I’ve raced in it since I was in middle school. The growing enthusiasm surrounding the race and the increase in participation is really remarkable. When Nick asked if I wanted to be a part of the Wampanoag Canoe Passage I was thrilled, but a little nervous because I hadn’t paddled in the river since last summer. In comparison to the next few days of the journey, Day 1 was a relatively tame 13 mile stretch. Seven of us started at the mouth of the North River (the Spit in Scituate), taking one double kayak and two canoes, and ended a couple hundred yards before reaching the Washington Street Bridge in Hanover. The North River is truly beautiful. We saw a variety of birds and even a muskrat in the reeds. The Wampanoag Canoe Passage is fun, but also a great opportunity for fundraising. In its 40^th year, the NSRWA is an incredible non-profit organization that has continued to grow in numbers, educating people in the towns surrounding the rivers, working to restore and preserve our incredible natural resources.

- Samantha Jones

Wampanoag Canoe Passage 2010

2010-05-31T19:30:00.000-07:00

This year's team was made up of Sam Trachtman, Justine Selsing, Alex Garver, Greg Keches, Samantha Jones, Lucien Kahn, Sam Lind, and myself.

Here we are before launching our boats on the first day:

Day 4: From the Summer Street Bridge to Shay's Boat Yard and Dighton Rock State Park.

2009-06-16T14:34:00.000-07:00

Day four began with cloudy skies over the Taunton River at around 8:30 a.m. DJ and I were excited that the current was at our back, and that there would be no portaging, but less excited about the prospect of rain. The first landmark we reached after going under the Summer Street Bridge was a railroad bridge, while next came the spot where the Nemasket River flows into the Taunton --- if one has time, the Nemasket will lead the paddler to the eastern seaboard's largest alewife run, the Royal Wampanoag Burial Ground, and the site of Tispaquin's village (Tispaquin was one of King Philip's allies during King Philip's War). Soon after came the Titicut Street Bridge, featuring some rapids which we ran successfully (but only after running the camera over to the other side). Throughout this stretch birds sang and flitted back and forth between the forest on either side of the river as we passed underneath; an osprey flew overhead; and Great Blue Herons stood motionless along the banks, hoping to catch a minnow or two unawares in the water below.

From Titicut Street we continued to follow the current downstream, passing the Rt. 28/18, Plymouth Street and Vernon Street Bridges (we thought it would be appropriate to name this fourth day of the paddle the "Day of Bridges," with a grand total of 18). The rain held and we thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful, forested upper reaches of the Taunton. After several more bends in the river we reached the Rt. 495 bridge (we could hear it before we could see it), and shortly after we spotted an otter, the third and last of the passage. From here it suffices to say that the river continues to be both beautiful and forested, for the most part, until Rt. 24; meandering past the Rt. 44 Bridge, the Church Street Bridge, and the South Street East Bridge. We saw many more Great Blue Herons and other birds, including an osprey or two more, and came to the conclusion that one Great Blue Heron that stayed just ahead of us for something like two hours was a Wampanoag spirit that was strying to lead us astray (though it in fact continued to lead us the RIGHT way). We started to feel like we were settling into a groove or rhythm in our paddling; the action of paddling and switching every so often began to feel automatic. This was probably good because we still had many miles left to paddle (the day's total was around 25).

We saw a cool factory-turned-condominiums development right by the South Street East Bridge, and also discovered that the tide was with us (as the river becomes tidal at this point). We stopped for lunch somewhere between here and the Rt. 24 bridge, hopping up on a bank of the river for a pleasant break. After Rt. 24, the passage became more urban --- for example, we were able to stop and use the restroom of a McDonalds along Rt. 44 --- the Wampanoag highway running parallel and just hidden by riparian growth from a modern suburban highway.

From there we passed from the outskirts to near the center of Taunton, passing under several more bridges. We had to paddle under two separate railroad bridges, both including what looked like liquid natural gas pipelines, and continued past the Oakland Mills Ponds. Past the Plain Street Bridge and the Weir Village Riverfront Park, the river began to open up and take on a more salty, oceanic feel, and on our right side, we were surprised to notice that several factories of the Bacon Felt Company ("America's First Felt Maker - Since 1825") were being demolished.

From here the Taunton broadened out even further and began to be bordered by beautiful tidal marsh. It had definitely started to rain, softly but relentlessly. We paddled past the Taunton Municipal Lighting Company's Flood-Cleary Drive Station on our right; continued past the Three Mile River, and finally reached where Center Street crosses the river on a green one-lane bridge, the last real landmark before our final destination. At this point, however, the tide began to turn against us.

The tide continued to turn as we passed under the bridge and settled into the last stretch of the Wampanoag Canoe Passage. The Taunton River had achieved its widest point so far, contrasting greatly with the claustrophobia of Stetson Brook during the second day --- the increased amount of water, however, was now working against us. We craned our necks desperately for any sign of sails that might mark where the yacht club would be, but in vain. We hugged the side of the river to avoid the strongest part of the incoming tide, only cutting across when we had to. After passing the mouth of the Segreganset River on our right and turning a final corner, we finally spotted the yacht club and congratulated ourselves. The last paddle to reach Shaw's Boat Yard seemed to drag on forever, but finally we made it and dragged the canoe up to the parking lot, victorious.

From the Carver Cotton Gin Mill to the Summer Street Bridge on the Taunton River

2009-06-14T12:12:00.000-07:00

When we hit Rt. 106, we went under the bridge (mistakenly) and ended up in a complex of the Carver Cotton Gin Mill. The mill was owned by the Carver Cotton Gin Company between its establishment in 1842 and was used to manufacture cotton gins and later oilseed processing equipment until the early 1990's. The Carver Cotton Gin Company is still around as Cotton, Inc, with its new headquarters in Savannah, Georgia.

The dam and factory must have been of great use over the years for making cotton gins; however, it posed a problem for us as the only way to follow the river was to paddle down a narrow spillway through the dam. Instead, after investigation, we decided that the best way to move forward was to carry the canoe up the steep bank and portage around the spillway, putting in just afterward to carefully make our way past and underneath the factory.

After making it past the factory, we entered the last stretches of the Satucket River --- an incredibly tiring portion of the trail --- where it winds behind residences in a forested area. Pretty as the river continued to be, we were tired and dehydrated enough to not appreciate the many oxbows and even more numerous downed trees. It seemed as if there were always a downed tree right around the corner, so that right after we had gotten back in the canoe, we'd spot another obstruction ahead and have to get out yet again to portage. Needless to say, about halfway through this part of the trip we realized it was probably best to eat lunch, and jumped up on the bank for a much needed break.

We were never happier when the river finally came out into the open and broadened, the frequency of logs blocking our way decreasing to a tenth of what it was before. We saw our first otter of the trip; along with maybe 8 Snapping Turtles, and started to pick up speed, making up the distance we had done earlier in a quarter of the time. Trying to make some headway down towards the Taunton, we paddled through the gorgeous last portion of the Satucket River before Bridge Street, the beginning of the Matfield up til High Street, and finally saw the transmission lines that marked right before where the Matfield meets the Town River, and took the left into the Taunton.

The much broader Taunton River proved to be much more navigable than some of the other parts of the passage, and we were able to get around any downed trees in the river --- that is, until we reached one huge tree that spanned the entire passage. Spotting an area where the trunk dipped down, however, we tried to go over it and were rewarded, prompting Seth (and all of us) to celebrate not having to portage. Even more exciting was our completion of the last official portage of the passage: a dam and spillway right after Rt. 104. After 104 the Taunton leaves development behind temporarily to enter a beautiful wooded area, especially right above the Cherry Street Bridge, and this was reflected in the abundance of songbirds, warblers and Great Blue Herons we saw. I was particularly excited to see a few Wilson's Warblers flying back and forth, along with a couple Ospreys we frightened off. We soon passed the Cherry Street Bridge as well, continuing on to where the Taunton flows past beautiful farmland before returning to the forest. Here we saw our second otter of the trip carrying some green vegetation to its burrow, but it ducked underwater before we could take a picture of it. We coordinated at this point with my father, Peter, and friend, D.J. (my dad was coming to pick up Seth and Olaf to drive them home, their portion done, while I would go with D.J. to get ready for the last day) to pick us up at Summer Street, as the Auburn Street Bridge turned out to be non-existent, other than a few burnt pilings.

Along our way to the end-point of our day's journey, we became more and more impressed with the beauty and tranquillity of the forest-bound, swift-flowing Taunton and its wildlife. Trees on either side seemed about to fall in, their roots often exposed by the bank, while other old-growth beauties reached their coronas upward towards the sun. One particular dead tree lying partly in our way looked almost like a post-modern sculpture. By the time we had reached our destination for the day, we were all happy to have experienced the beauty and relative facility of the Matfield and Taunton Rivers --- and to have actually been able to paddle without stopping for more than ten minutes!

Day 3: Osceola Island to the Carver Cotton Gin Mill at Rt. 106

2009-06-12T13:46:00.000-07:00

We woke up to rain on day three of our journey, but made the most of it, enjoying a wonderful breakfast of eggs, bacon and tea thanks to Seth's exquisite backcountry cooking skills, and even invented a new food: Fitness bread cooked in bacon grease! We disliked the rain at first until we realized how shallow the beginning of the Satucket River was at the north end of Robbins Pond, and saw that the rain was actually helping us by raising the water level. The first item of note once we had set out was, somewhat ominously, an abandoned boat --- and soon enough we felt like abandoning our canoe when the river broadened out into a shallow, muddy meadow. Even with the addition of a night of rainwater, we had to get out and drag the canoe, contending with deep mud that seemed like quick sand at times.

Just before a small, wooden footbridge, however, we were able to get back in our vessel and forge ahead, ducking carefully to avoid the poison ivy that seemed to reach out towards us from the left-hand side of the underpass. After the bridge, the Satucket finally becomes deeper and opens up into a verdant, secret river world, hidden by pristine green forestland. The river meanders through a floodplain covered with Sensitive Fern and other wetland plants along with beautiful White Swamp Oaks.

We followed the winding path of the river, having to portage a good deal around the many downed logs, and even found moose tracks. We passed the Washington Street and Bridge Street bridges, after which the river becomes shallower and straighter, without the floodplain corridor of before, and followed the Satucket to the Carver Cotton Gin Mill at Rt. 106.

Day 2: East Monponsett to Osceola Island (in Robbins Pond)

2009-06-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

After saying goodbye to my mother we made our way to where Stetson Brook meets East Monponsett Pond. From the mouth of the brook we paddled west to a public landing marked by a white buoy to the north of Monponsett Inn. We portaged across nearby to West Monponsett Lake, stopped briefly for lunch and to apply Tecnu, and then canoed north and then west to the opening of the Stump (?) River.

The cedar swamp through which the narrow but easily navigable river meanders is one of the most remote and beautiful parts of the trip, designated on the north side as the Peterson Swamp Wildlife Preserve. We saw several ospreys, a swan and her children (the fluffy signets sprinted across the surface of the water to escape us) and majestic Swamp Cedars, a tree notably absent from the North River since they were killed by the higher salinities brought by the opening of the New Mouth by the Portland Gale in 1898. Birds sang, flying back and forth between the sides of the marshy corridor, and we even spotted a Green Heron, though this sole specimen of its species was out-numbered by the maybe six Great Blue Herons we saw as well.

At the end of the cedar swamp, the river runs into a line of trees separating it from cranberry bogs and cuts to the south to a dam after which the waterway turns into the shallower Stump Brook. We hopped over the dam and began the journey south, noticing thousands of frogs hopping around and croaking at us. The brook is pretty straight, bordered on the east side by marsh and the west by woods. This should have made our passage relatively easy; however, we soon realized how the Brook must have gotten its name, as it is blessed with what seemed a never-ending series of stumps coupled with their fallen trunks blocking our way. It was here that I realized how lucky I was to have my uncle Seth, a physics professor at MIT, and his postdoc friend Olaf, with me, as they showed me ingeniously how to rock the bow of the canoe under logs and step over instead of portaging (an already too-common phenomenon on our trip).

After portaging a minor culvert, we put into the last section before the Stump Ponds, another swampy area that looked fine at first but turned into a nightmare when we discovered that it was for the most part completely covered with a terrible weed necessitating us to follow an incredibly thin waterway by pushing off the not completely solid plant with our paddles. Large frogs sitting on hummocks along the side waited til the last moment to jump away, seeming to croak incredulously at us. "Do we know where we are?" Olaf asked about a third of the way through the clogged brook. We saw many Great Blue Herons in this section and along the upper Stump Brook, probably due to the high density of frogs --- Seth told the story of how Heron became King of the frogs (from Aesop's Fables) in way of explanation. We eventually tired of the weedy plant and portaged to were the waterway became clear again, only advancing a bit further into Shrimp Pond and into the first of the Stump Ponds.

We were thankful for the relative facility of the two Stump Ponds, winding between trees and houses. To get from the first Stump Pond into Robbins Reservoir, we portaged over Elm and then Furnace Street. The second Stump Pond broadens into a larger pond graced with duckweed and lilypads. We discovered a pair of swans as it began to rain, but found even more (about 15 or 16) in Robbins Reservoir after following a brook into the large, swampy body of water just north of Rt. 106 in Halifax.

From the reservoir, we headed west to where what seemed like a relatively recent earthen dam separated Robbins Reservoir and Pond and portaged down, our destination finally in sight. We made good time canoeing out to the island, where Seth and Olaf had left our food, tent and sleeping bags while I was paddling the Herring Brook. Upon arrival to Osceola Island, an amenable camping site, we brought our baggage up to the campsite, Tecnu'ed up for a second time and then washed it off in the shallow pond before heading back up to start Seth's Norwegian gas burner and cook spaghetti and meatballs and eat some bread and cheese left over from the day. By the time we had finished, set up the tent and headed to bed, a comforting chorus of Gray Tree Frogs had begun to lull us to sleep, providing an unfamiliar lullaby that nonetheless must have been heard by countless Wampanoag and their ancestors during the thousands of years in which the passage saw use.

Day 2: Stetson Pond to East Monponsett

2009-06-11T12:28:00.000-07:00

After rendez-vousing at the Herring Run Park in Pembroke with my mother, Seth, and Olaf, we drove to Stetson Pond where the Eisenbergs' very nicely let us launch from their property (thanks!). I had originally intended to paddle the entire length of the Herring Brook up til near Rt. 36, but just getting to Rt. 14 took me almost four hours, so we decided that it would probably be a good idea to jump ahead to Stetson Pond if we wanted to make it to our campsite for the night. After restocking water, thanking the Eisenbergs and taking a few pictures, we set out across the pond to the south where we were then able to portage into the Chaffin Reservoir.

After hopping over a small bank, we continued to the southwest on Chandler Mill Pond to the railroad tracks. Debating whether or not portaging over the railroad tracks would be dangerous, we finally decided to quickly hop over with our gear and canoe and relaunch into the beginnings of Stetson Brook. About ten minutes after we had gotten back into the boat, the sound of a passing train confirmed that our speedy portage (thanks to Seth's light canoe and great portaging abilities) was a good strategy. The water looked a little dirty, almost orange at first, but the multitude of fish flitting under us reassured us that
the pollution (if present) was not too dangerous.

Stetson Brook begins without being that bad, as one bank borders a field and it is not too overgrown. Looking down, we continued to see many fish swimming around in the shaded depths. However, it is a pretty deep stream so when it becomes more overgrown as you get farther to the south, with branches hanging over the brook, it gets to be more difficult as we had to get out at times and stand on logs, etc. in order to not get soaked. The brook quickly degenerated into a first-rate swamp reminiscent of Apocalypse Now or some kind of Malaysian jungle and Olaf rued his decision not to buy a machete on his pre-trip REI visit (they were on sale and would have been very useful). The overgrowth made it hard even to drag the canoe forward, so we rapidly exited the canoe, discovering the depth of the mud (up to our knees at best; up to around mid-abdomen at worst) and began our slog towards East Monponsett Pond.

Our one piece of good luck was that locals Ray and Mark Grimasson had been there before us with cutters, and had cut most of the larger branches that blocked our passage. We tried to find a better way to either side; but it just gets harder and more overgrown if you try to go either east or west, so the best (and pretty much only) way forward is to just follow the direction of the current to the south. We definitely wondered how the Wampanoags dealt with the almost impassible swamp that is Stetson Brook; perhaps they kept up the Canoe Passage much better than it is today. Nearing the end of the brook, the disembodied voice of my mother floated towards us --- she had come bearing Tecnu, a lotion to help prevent the rash caused by poison ivy, a plant present in great numbers in the portion we had just completed. Finally, we had achieved victory: the open water of the Monponsetts!

Day 2: The Herring Brook

2009-06-10T19:20:00.000-07:00

I left the Third Herring Brook early the next morning in my kayak and paddled past the Washington Street and Rt. 53 Bridge to where the North River opens up into a beautiful freshwater tidal marsh. An osprey flew overhead as I approached the confluence of the Herring Brook and the Indian Head River. I took a left to follow the Herring Brook upstream. The brook is easily navigable at first, and adorned by Yellow Flag Iris and Purple Iris, along with many islands of Arrowhead. I saw several Great Blue Herons and a Snowy Egret, along with several Painted Turtles along the bank.

By the time I got a bit further up the brook, however, the passage got a lot narrower and became more overgrown, making it necessary to leave the boat at times. The downstream current also made things somewhat more difficult. At one point, I was definitely lost, and left my boat in a particularly overgrown and constrained area to go explore. I turned back after growing thirsty but could not find my boat for at least 20 minutes, and then finally found a portage route to what thankfully turned out to be the real Herring Brook. Not completely fazed, I was able to appreciate the beauty of the Brook as it meandered upstream, and even took some pictures of the landscape and of a brilliant blue Damselfly (the Ebony Jewelwing). Looking ahead where the marsh began to open up, I could see the Pembroke Herring Run Park and made it through the underbrush to meet up with my mother, uncle Seth and Olaf.

Day 1: The North River from the Driftway Conservation Park in Scituate to the Third Herring Brook in Hanover

2009-06-10T18:15:00.000-07:00

We set out around 2 p.m. from the Driftway Conservation Park after a wonderful send-off by NSRWA and others for the approximately 13 mile journey inland to the Third Herring Brook. On board for the day's paddle was my father, Peter Tyack, and family friend Jim Spelman (see picture to the left). Though midges and clouds were both numerous before our launch, both thankfully disappeared once we shoved off as the sun came out and we rode the last bit of the tide out past the Spit and into the river's mouth. Fourth Cliff was visible to the east as we paddled to the right towards the "Dauphtucket" building along the old railroad tracks and the Rt. 3A Bridge. The tide was low enough to see the massive mussel middens right after the bridge, but deep enough to keep us happily afloat.

The rest of the trip went perfectly as the sun kept the clouds at bay. We paddled with the tide for the rest of the idyllic, golden afternoon, experiencing the slow variation from the broad salt marsh of the mouth to the brackish and even fresh water vegetation farther upstream. We also noted the many metal plaques commemorating the sites of the many historical North River shipyards, paddling past Cove Brook, King's Landing, the Union St. Bridge (under construction), the Norris Boathouse and down towards Blueberry Island and the Rt. 3 Bridge. Near the end of our trip we spotted a snapping turtle before making the turn into the 3rd Herring Brook to the Tyack home at around 6:40 p.m., ready for food, family and friends.