Winter Float Trip Down the Taunton

                  Having recently lost my job, I immediately did what any of you would do in my place: I began planning a boating trip.  Granted it was winter, there was snow on the ground, and I've never been out on the water earlier than late April: this would not wait until spring.  Winds in these parts are usually too strong for comfort at this time of year, and the water too cold to feel safe far from shore; so this would be a river trip.  I looked into my favorite river, the nearby Taunton, that winds through much of south eastern Massachusetts and has an amazingly remote and wild feel over much of its length.  A little checking disclosed that it was navigable for many miles farther upstream than I had ever gone.  I would begin close to the river's source, taking advantage of a documented "kayak put-in", and drift 21 miles lazily downstream over two days to a convenient ramp I knew.  The Upper Taunton Float Trip it would be.

                My first thought was to take Surprise, my Michalak-designed Jewelbox Jr, which would keep me comfortable in her fully-enclosed cabin, but when I discovered that all the kayak put-ins were simply places a road crossed the river, I realized my 15ft 300lb boat would not work.  It also occurred to me that a one-way trip in a tall boat would become a disaster if just one of the many bridges in my path did not have adequate clearance.  Serendipity, my 16ft Graham Byrnes-designed Birder 2 kayak was the obvious choice, but since I would have to carry much cold-weather gear and presumably sleep in the boat, that might not do, either.  No, I would drift downriver in Bebe, my 11ft Michalak-designed Piccup Pram, a stable boat that was light enough to get over the guard rail by the bridge, but would neatly carry all the gear I could need.  Although open, I had added a little hard top dodger that would keep light rain off my stowed sleeping bag and maybe a little wind off me.

                Logistics for the launch would be tricky: the reputed "kayak put-in" I found on the web turned out to be a bridge in a suburban neighborhood.  It had no parking, almost no shoulder, and the guard rail would be an obstacle if not for the car-top unloader I'd be using.  A rather steep bank, a brambly non-path, and then jagged rocks completed the route to the water.  In an effort to avoid unfavorable attention from neighbors and the police, we would get the boat down and empty the car of its volumes of gear--chucking it over the guard rail into the snow as fast as possible.  Beatrice would then head home and leave me to get the boat to the water and put the gear in order.

                It was an arduous task, and I looked like I'd been on the water all day before I even stepped into the boat.  but I finally pushed off and recovered the painter.

                I was immediately entranced by the myriad forms that ice could be sculpted into by cold, running water, and changing river levels.  Every bank had its tiers of ice shelves, each recording a freezing episode at a different water level, and every pendant tree limb had its icicles: many  in rows of evenly-spaced pendants like a chandelier, some inexplicably bell-shaped.  At one point I finally traced a rhythmic noise to a twig, moved by the water, swinging an ice pendulum against another branch.  It looked like some kind of machine built by wood elves.

                Belt-and-suspenders fashion, I carried both oars and a canoe paddle.  After an hour or so of unskillful oar work, I finally abandoned them in favor of my paddle.  I eventually found I could guide myself very comfortably seated on the edge of the aft deck; I find it difficult to stay comfortable sitting on the floor (even with two boat cushions) and even more difficult to shift around easily.

                The current was near the lower end of my expectations.  I had made a late start, and as the afternoon wore on I became worried by the prospect of not finishing the trip in time for a daylight pick-up at following day's rendezvous.  From then on, I began to paddle gently but steadily to add another knot to the boat speed.

                This upper part of the Taunton was entirely new to me--even after years of boating on it, I hadn't even known it was navigable this far up until I reconnoitered it in recent days.   Even so, I know the lower Taunton's wild look is partly illusion: river bank trees screen the eye from nearby suburbs and strip malls.  I expected the leafless trees would make this trip a bit grimier, showing the truth behind the illusion.  But in fact miles sometimes passed with not a house to be seen.  When I wasn't drifting through red maple, black oak and white pine woods or brambly scrubland the landscape was  more likely to be farmland than suburbs, and only a single short stretch of the upper river passed through a downtown area.  This was mainly because of protected areas and wetlands along much of the river.

                 I'd tried to  pack for all eventualities: extra blankets and hot water bottles to aid an inadequate sleeping bag, extra stove fuel, complete change of clothes in plastic bags in case of capsize in the 37 degree water, etc.  But I didn't anticipate what occurred.  Obstructions in the form of overhanging tree branches and fallen trees were common.  At one point the way was largely blocked nearly all the way across.  I headed for the biggest opening, close to the left bank, but soon realized I wouldn't make it, so turned for a much narrower opening in midstream.  The boat struck, went broadside, and stuck fast pinned by the current.  I pushed with oar and paddle, but was unable to budge the boat.  I had time to consider the width and probable depth of icy water that separated me from the nearer bank, and the unknown likelihood that help would be within easy walking distance.  After a moment's reflection, I worked to raise leeboard and rudder to reduce the pressure of the current.  This was difficult because of that same sideways pressure.  Then I was able to work the boat forward and aft repeatedly until I came to a place in the snag wide enough to get one end of the boat free, and suddenly whirled away like a leaf in the eddies.  I may only have been stranded for 5 minutes or so, but it seemed longer.               The ice and forest were wonders, but so were the birds.  Often at the sound of my paddle, or even a slight movement, waterfowl would spring noisily into the air hundreds of feet ahead.  Most of these were of a kind I had never seen before, although I'm trying to find out.   (These seemed entirely black and white with a sort of bold pattern of a few stripes on the sides of head and neck, and a repeated call that ascended from low to high pitch).  Others included Canada geese and mallards.  Nearly always these birds had been floating in some slight shelter by the bank that I had not noticed.  On one stretch of river, I scared up flight after flight of mallards over several minutes, surely amounting to hundreds of birds in all.  The electronic camera I carried was not equal to catching these until I learned the trick of keeping it in a warm pocket so it its lens cover would open faster.  Only once did I actually see these birds before they took flight.  I had been drifting without paddling when I saw the mallard pair swimming in open water.  I froze and was able to drift to within a few dozen yards before they spooked.

                  Darkness began to fall well before I had reached the halfway point of my trip.  I opted to drop anchor well-short of a major highway because I didn't want to get caught close to road noise and civilization.  Sweeping around a tight bend, I worked to the inside bank and tossed the little danforth in an eddy, and, as it dragged gently, then tossed a little grappling ashore on the end of the painter.

                 In a half hour the tent was up with the sides left open, the white gas stove was hissing on the aft deck, and soup was warming.  Arranging a sleeping bag wasn't easy in such a confined space, but I had snuggled in with a hot water bottle at my feet my lantern lit and a book in my hand by 7:30.  Lights were out by 8 and I slept better than I usually do in boats.

                A little rain began to patter at first light just when I thought virtuous people should be up.  I pulled the sides of the tent down and remembered that I wasn't virtuous.

                The rain had stopped and I had stowed tent and stepped ashore by 7am.  I hauled the stern up and used the aft deck to make breakfast while I stretched my legs.  I didn't feel much like exploring--not wanting to come across any unhappy landowner--and pushed off again not much after 8am.

                The afternoon found me more and more often in patches of farm, ranch and suburb, and the wilder bits were often more scrub than forest.  Even so there were things worth seeing: an oxbow lake I'd spotted on Google Earth looked quite navigable as I swept by, and I am already planning a return trip to kayak that stretch with the boys.

                After passing under rt 24 I was on familiar waters: my boys and I had kayaked this far.  The seamier side of Taunton also would accompany me for part of it.  But the biggest annoyance was the wind that had sprung up: every time the river turned south I was faced with a respectable headwind that would try to spin the boat end for end, forcing me to work simple to keep her pointed bow-first so I could see where I was going and help in paddling.  Sometimes the wind was enough to halt my downstream progress almost entirely.

                By the time I reached the ramp below downtown Taunton, I was tired, and glad to be off the river.  It would be an hour's work to get the boat unloaded, roll it up the ramp, and prepare for Bea's arrival with the car.  Even so, this was a wonderful trip and I have new interest and confidence in off-season adventuring!