Fish River 2018

The Fish River had been on our radar for several years: an excuse to explore a semi-wild river and visit Fort Kent for the first time, the symbolic (though not actual) northernmost point in the Pine Tree State. It also offered an opportunity to prove that not all rivers flow north to south! As winter started to wind down we penciled in a trip for Memorial Day Weekend. Although a huge northern snowpack and early spring rains caused major flooding along the Saint John and Fish Rivers in late April and early May, the last few weeks had been brutally dry across the state causing water levels to recede. In fact, we were lucky that we had made plans for the Fish River since it was likely one of the only non-dam release rivers in the state canoeable over the holiday weekend: One glance at the USGS streamflow map for Maine revealed a flurry of red and orange dots indicating below-normal water levels with the Fish River gage one of the only green (average flow) spots to be found. Even in years without such extreme flooding, the Fish reportedly holds sufficient water for good boating well into the spring (and perhaps summer?) since it is fed by an extensive lowland lake system including Eagle, St. Froid, and Portage lakes.

We packed up Spud’s Tacoma Friday night in Topsham, threw the Discovery 158 on top and ran through our gear checklist one last time. Check and check. We made a bee-line for Millinocket to watch Game 6 of the Eastern Conference Championship between the Celtics and Cavaliers and my parents met us there having driven down from our camp in Sherman. Although we were all ostensibly rooting for the Celtics I was by far the most emotionally invested; hence, my parents’ exclamations about Lebron James’ incredible talent and my need to respect it almost had me chucking my Thai chili chicken wings at the big screen TV above the bar at the Scootic Inn restaurant. The folks there were kind enough to keep the game on for us even as all the other patrons had left, and vacuuming and table wiping had commenced. With a minute left in the fourth quarter Lebron had officially snuffed out all chances of a C’s comeback and we hit the road to Sherman.

The next morning we headed out of camp around 8:30 to start the long drive up Route 11, grabbing those delicious breakfast sandwiches (on homemade bread of course!) at Debbie’s in Patten on the way. My folks followed behind us, as they had very graciously offered to run shuttle for us and explore the greater Fort Kent metropolitan area while we were on the river. We worked our way north past Oxbow, Masardis, Ashland, Portage, and finally up to Eagle Lake. Although my 1997 Maine Geographic canoeing guidebook showed lake access near Wallagrass Station on the north end of Eagle Lake, we weren’t sure whether this was still a useable put-in. Just after entering Wallagrass driving north on 11 we turned onto Station Road which heads to the right down to the lake. After crossing the railroad tracks there appeared to be suitable though informal hand-carry access just in front of us. Unsure about whether this access point was “legit,” we drove a bit further down the road to the left and found several generations of a family outside enjoying the beautiful Memorial Day Weekend weather at their camp. I got out and asked if they “knew of anywhere nearby where we might be able to launch a canoe.” (I always seem to inquire about water access in a very deferential way when poking around in other people’s back yards, instead of just asking “Can we put in here?” Who knows which way works better.) The apparent patriarch, sporting a grey moustache and ballcap appropriate to the northern Maine woods, warmly greeted me and said that most people do indeed use the put-in a few hundred yards back, below the railroad tracks. He suggested that we park our shuttle vehicle in the gravel turnout just uphill of the tracks. He also reassured us that it would be a swift ride down the river given the water levels and seemed to indicate that he had (perhaps unintentionally?) run the class V Fish River Falls which we would have to portage about two thirds of the way through our trip. We thanked the kind folks at the camp, turned around, and unloaded our gear at the put-in. After gooping up with bug spray and sunscreen and taking turns almost passing out from inflating the NRS center float bag, we posed for some obligatory photos at the behest of my mother. By noon we were ready to go: beautiful blue skies and surrounded by sweet-smelling tree pollen that reminded me of springtime in Alaska.

From the put-in it was about a third of a mile paddle to the outlet at the northern tip of Eagle Lake. Despite the nice weather, the river water was cold enough that I didn’t care to leave my hand submerged for very long, and I became a bit more ambivalent about my decision not to wear my wetsuit. The current was true quickwater, with decent flow but not really any rapids to speak of. Just fast enough for Spud and I to practice a few early-season eddy turns to brush off the cobwebs. The left bank was forested and steep with the railroad paralleling the river, and the right bank was dotted by occasional camps with grassy backyards extending down to the river.

For the four-ish miles between Eagle Lake and Soldier Pond, the river is quite broad—about 100 yards wide on average. This meant little protection from a strong headwind which necessitated really putting some muscle into our paddle strokes. On the plus side the stiff breeze kept the pesky spring black flies at bay. On approaching Soldier Pond—really just a spot where the river deepens and pools up before it starts to narrow a bit downstream—some mini whitecaps were lapping at the sides of the canoe. We geared up for a big push across the “pond” toward the bridge that crosses the river there. Some very pleasant camps and houses line the right shore just before the bridge and I convinced myself that these looked like ones I had seen in some local news footage about the flooding a few weeks earlier. Sure enough when I went back and checked, several of the properties in the tiny village of Soldier Pond had indeed been their own private islands earlier in the month. The man at the put-in camp had told me that Inland Fisheries and Wildlife had used those stranded by the rising water as an excuse to try out their new jet boat, and that just about every warden in the state had been up to take a spin. As we cruised under the bridge my folks were above us snapping away with their cameras. Immediately below the bridge on river right is an official public access boat launch and we pulled over to chat with our shuttle crew.

At the boat launch a rather foreboding hand-painted sign warned canoeists and kayakers of Fish River Falls downstream. Fulfilling her motherly duties to warn me of any and all possible dangers in this world, my mom loudly and deliberately shouted the text of the sign to us through the wind: “Danger: falls several miles ahead…Extremely dangerous!...Hug right shore…Watch for warning signs…Use long port[age]…Life vest on…single file.” The sign seemed a bit repetitive and melodramatic, but several years ago a kayaker was almost swept over the falls in high water after overturning in the heavy current just above the lip; she was eventually rescued after being pinned against some rocks. Better safe than sorry, we supposed. When we finally did reach the falls, we were thankful that the sign’s admonitions were so urgently and clearly stated.

The pilings of the Soldier Pond bridge create some weird currents and eddies just downstream, and Spud and I almost bit it when not paying attention in our way over to the boat launch. From shore it looks like plain old flatwater, so it would have been a particularly pathetic place to have a flip (likely documented for posterity by parental video). Leaving the launch this time, we were much more careful as we worked our way downstream. A dense row of camps lines river right (along Church Road), each with a canoe stowed several feet from the water, some with small outboards attached. About a half mile below the bridge the camps peter out and the river narrows considerably, maintaining a width of roughly 30 to 50 yards most of the way north to Fort Kent. And although a quick glance at Google Maps reveals that the river is never much more than a stone’s throw away from a camp road or potato field, it takes on a much wilder character here. Predominately spruce-fir forest with the occasional birch or poplar overhangs the river’s banks and obvious signs of civilization are few.

Another half mile of low-effort paddling in the moderate current (one mile below the Soldier Pond bridge) brought us to the aptly-named Ledge Falls (Class II/III), a river-wide ledge drop which reveals itself as a very distinct horizon line after the river swings to the right around a bend. At 2,700cfs there was a straightforward class II channel perhaps 15 yards from the right bank. Even though it was a simple shot, Spud and I were both reminded how even modest waves look a lot bigger when you’re down in the trough. There was also a runnable channel on the right closer to shore. We paddled back upstream after charging through to inspect the rest of the rapid: at this level the ledge river left of our channel appeared to be a sharp 1-2 foot drop with small hydraulics the whole way across. Nothing that couldn’t be run, but nothing we were interested in fooling around with given the water temperature.

Shortly after Ledge Falls, Wallagrass Stream enters from the left—a torrent so “immense” that neither Spud nor I even noticed it at the time. We enjoyed good current for the next mile-plus after which we reached the remains of what my old Maine Geographic canoeing guide book (published by DeLorme in 1997) describes as George L’Abbee’s “sorting operation” and mill built over a hundred years ago. A few concrete piers are all that is left. We paddled alertly after this point since we weren’t crystal clear about when exactly we would encounter Fish River Falls.

As it turned out the falls were about two miles downstream, but we made good time in the decent current with the narrower river offering more protection from the headwind. While paddling around a very slight right bend we started to hear the constant roar of the falls; eventually, the chaotic, frothing whitewater came into view several hundred yards downstream and a sign warned us to stay right to catch the portage trail. We overcautiously assumed an upstream ferry angle and worked our way to the right bank catching a small shore eddy. Although there were theoretically two different portage take-outs (the “short port” and “long port” according to the signs), we didn’t want to take any chances. Tying up the canoe, Spud and I bushwhacked our way through the dense forest along the steep bank. Eventually, we gained a more established track which led to the landing for the long portage and provided a good view of the top of the falls. We also found the shuttle team (parents) scoping out the portage, having come down to the falls from the trail from Airport Road on the east side of the river. We walked further down the portage trail to the landing for the “short portage” aka the “miss it and you’re in for the worst swim of your life portage.” As several sources had warned, this second landing is uncomfortably close to the lip of the falls. Even with springtime flow there is a very makeable eddy on river right, but any mishap upstream that threw off your approach would certainly result in a very dangerous situation. One guidebook had recommended taking out at the long portage landing and lining the boat down to the short portage. Good luck with that. With dense forest coming all the way down to the bank this approach is impractical if not impossible. We would clearly have to take out at the long portage and lug the sucker down the entire length of the portage trail to the calm water below the falls—about .25 miles.

Back at the canoe we swung back out into the main current and caught the eddy at the long portage without incident. What makes the approach potentially troublesome is that most of the river prior to this point is easygoing quickwater, then, in the several hundred yards before the falls the current really accelerates and class I/II waves develop. I could see how if you were way over to the left and snoozing a bit it would be hard to get over right at the last minute. The portage trail between the “long” and “short” landings was a bit of a pain with some rugged rolling terrain and tighter trees, but it mellows out at the lip of the falls and is very straightforward down to the pool below the falls. We dropped the canoe and made our way back to the scoured rocks overlooking the falls for a snack of apples and cheddar. There are several very classic examples of potholes here, evidence of the relentless erosive force of water at work. One was perfectly Spud-sized so I made him jump in since I couldn’t pass up the photo opportunity. It’s a beautiful spot with hemlocks shading the riverbank; several other small groups of people were out on the rocks enjoying the sunshine, and a few were even fishing from the opposite bank. Some maps indicate a campsite on the river right bank overlooking the lower part of the falls, and there is indeed a picnic table and tent-sized clearing. But there are no obvious indications that overnight camping is permitted and I remember reading somewhere that camping was discouraged. I would do some more research before personally feeling comfortable bedding down there for the night.

At this level the falls looked pretty intimidating: A bunch of nasty rocks guard the river-left entrance up top, and there seemed to be several very deep, unavoidable, and sticky-looking holes out in the main current. The runout was a fun 3-4 foot wave train with most of the current running into a rock outcrop on river left. Overall, the falls drops 14 feet throughout its hundred yard course. I’m sure experienced whitewater kayakers could tackle it with minimal difficulty given appropriate scouting, but it is out of the question for an open canoe.

After resting for a half hour, it was time to start making northward progress once again toward Fort Kent. Another two and half miles of quickwater interspersed with the occasional riffle brought us to the railroad bridge just south of Fort Kent Mills. Part of this easygoing section involved a very pleasant paddle through a micro-gorge with a very steep wooded river-left bank. Just below this first railroad bridge we encountered what the Maine Geographic guide calls “Martins Rapids” and the AMC Guide calls “Pelletier Rapids.” Here the river divides around a large island and the water flows over a ledge. We pulled over to scout on the right bank which turned out to be quite treacherous. Spud stayed in the canoe and I worked my way along the very steep right bank, weaving through the trees and falling every few steps as the loose soil gave way beneath me. There looked to be a decent channel toward the right, so I turned back to the canoe. Trying to duck under a tree on the way back I almost impaled my right eye on a dead branch, giving myself a nice bleeding cut and a blackish eye for a few days. After dabbing up the blood with some gauze we peeled out and had had nice clean run down the nice ‘V’ on the right side. Looking back upstream, the rest of the rapid toward the center of the river looked very ledgy and irregular making us glad we had chosen the course we did; we didn’t get a good view channel that went left of the island.

Another half mile of riffle-y water brought us to another, smaller island where the river once again divides. Again, we chose the right side which is a nice and easy class I/II wave train. Once we reached the base of the island we eddy-hopped back upstream in the river-left channel to check out the drop which the Maine Geographic guide describes as a “quick class III plunge.” We thought it looked more like II+ (AMC River Guide agreed with us), especially since there is a nice recovery pool at base of the drop. It would have been great fun running and re-running on a warmer day, using the small “cove” on the island side to paddle back upstream and then carry over the ledge.

The rapid is just upstream of Bridge Street, and just before passing under the bridge we noticed a man sitting in his riverfront back yard getting a haircut out in the fresh spring air courtesy of his wife. We were going to shout hello, but didn’t want to be responsible for a startled, errant scissor stroke that might result in the man losing a chunk of ear or scalp flesh. From here on, the river takes on a much more developed character, passing by another railroad bridge (and bike trail, it appeared) in a half mile and winding past the University of Maine—Fort Kent on the left. A hairpin turn to the left revealed the towering St. Louis Catholic Church in “downtown” Fort Kent. On river right, a family was having a cookout in the brushy, uninviting river flood plain, but they seemed to be having a good time. As the smells of their campfire receded we reached the East Main Street bridge and were the subject of more photos by the parent-razzi who had staked out positions above the river. As the mighty St. John came into view, we prepared to make our landing on river left at the Fort Kent Blockhouse, a military outpost erected during the bloodless “Aroostook War,” essentially a glorified boundary dispute with our lovely northern neighbors in the late 1830s. We grabbed the river-left eddy and found that our shuttle crew had already backed down to meet us. A few high fives concluded a fun spring day on the river.

It was getting a bit cooler, so I found myself gravitating toward a spot on the riverside where there was an abnormally warm breeze. It was behind me so I kept backing up…until it got really hot. I looked down and found myself practically standing in a still-smoldering fire just abandoned by some picnickers. I quickly jumped back since getting melted neoprene picked out of my skin at Northern Maine Medical Center wasn’t my idea of a fun Saturday night. We put on dry clothes, heaved the canoe onto my folks’ car and went about searching for some dinner.

We passed up the Swamp Buck Restaurant—despite the amazing name—and proceeded down West Main to Rock’s Family Diner. In the adjacent parking lot were dozens of local teenagers gearing up for senior prom. Spud was mesmerized by the scores of heavy duty pickup trucks, their engines revving in displays of 18-year-old machismo. The solitary car in the armada was some sweet souped-up 1960s-looking thing that conferred at least as much manliness to its operator as did the Dodge Rams and Ford F-150s. We eventually determined we weren’t up for diner food so we retraced our steps through town and down to Fort Kent Mills to Mill Bridge Restaurant, pleasantly perched on the Fish River’s right bank just downstream of the island rapid. The atmosphere was very inviting and many Fort Kent-ians/ers/ites were enjoying a dinner out on this Saturday night. Spud (whose last name Ouellette betrays his solidly Franco-American heritage) was brought back to his youth: Many conversations around us were being conducted in a fast-paced French / English hybrid, with English giving way to French as the speakers became more animated. Such was the way of his great aunts, uncles, and grandparents, many of whom would come cheer on our baseball teams when we were younger, making it seem like we were playing for Team Quebec.

After dinner, we finished our adventure with one more nod to Spud’s ancestral roots—a drive to the “village” of Ouellette. I think it was sometime during middle school when Spud first discovered DeLorme’s Maine Atlas and Gazetteer, and soon after discovered a tiny dot on the map in far northern Maine with his name beside it. While there is no known direct family connection, Spud had made a visit to Ouellette an item on his bucket list. A fourteen-minute drive down ME 161, passing through New Canada on the way, brought us to an intersection with Ouellette Road which headed north through some potato fields. Like so many other Maine villages which have earned ceremonial dots on the Gazetteer’s maps, there was no welcome sign, stop light, general store, or any other indication of village-dom. Just an abandoned farmhouse, an intersection, and a few grain silos in the distance. With the sun setting behind me I snapped a picture of Spud next to the “Ouellette Rd” sign so he could show off his pilgrimage to his Instagram followers.

We pushed on for a few miles to check out Cross Lake, then headed back to Route 11 via some back roads which spit us out near the Soldier Pond Bridge. From there it was just a few miles south back to the put-in where we picked up the Tacoma and caravanned back down to Sherman. My parents took the lead, assuring us they would be traveling well below the 55mph speed limit for moose avoidance purposes. Despite listening to a podcast about sleep (maybe not the wisest decision given our tired state), we managed to stay awake for the two-hour drive back to Sherman in the dark. Once back at camp we crashed hard, pleasantly tuckered out after a perfect spring day of exploring and playing in the Crown of Maine.