Lessons from Cold, Wet Camping

Some lessons learned from a little Columbus Day weekend overnight adventure that turned a lot rainier than expected.

I decided to take my sailing kayak a few miles down the Assonet River to the Taunton and camp overnight by a creek I know--my first time out all year.  I thought I'd rough it just a bit, in the interest of being more "outdoors" (and save the fuss of set up), by leaving the tent at home.  When I heard it might shower in the night, I added a small tarp to the load. 

My sailing rig was useless in the light headwind, and was in the way on the port coaming, forcing me to paddle only on the starboard side.

The rest is predictable: the rain began falling in early evening and didn't stop for the next eighteen hours.  The tarp kept my sleeping bag dry--as long as I didn't move, since the tarp barely covered my sleeping area.  One reason I had been comfortable leaving the (screened) tent behind was that I expected few mosquitoes since it had been such a dry year.  (I had a piece of net that would serve should I be wrong.)  What I hadn't counted on was the quantity of insect life attracted to my light as I tried to read in the night.  In the end, I went to sleep much earlier as a result.  The drumming rain and need to keep the sleeping bag from pooching out from under cover made the night Very Long.  The lack of any discernible sunrise made it even longer. 

I finally sprang into my clothes in the drizzle and set about getting hot breakfast and coffee--but found both my butane lighters refused to light.  When I managed to get fitful flames out of them hours later, the pressurized white gas stove wouldn't light.  (The stove, at least, had been under my overturned saucepan, but it had fallen off in the night.)  Only in late morning did I get the thing going.

After hot coffee and oatmeal, I packed up and loaded the boat, only changing into dry clothes just before leaving. 

I paddled against an increasing headwind, but finally got to unfurl the sail for perhaps a mile's welcome run right at the end. 

Despite my change of clothes, I was wet and shivering when I landed, and the shivering was bad enough to slow the loading. 

What did I learn, or relearn?

First, having all my clothing and bedding, etc in dry bags was smart.  My main worry had been spray or capsizing, but it was smart either way.  Everything was dry as dry could be. 

Second, tents make life more comfortable on long fall nights--even in the absence of rain.  I could have left off the fly to see the stars (had there been any), and still read by my headlamp without large insects buzzing in my face.  To be sure, the area where I put up my tarp was too small to have accommodated a tent, and I arrived too late to be willing to bushwack through the briars to find a better.  But I probably could have gotten away with pitching it on the high salt marsh, since tides were at neap.  And I had to dress in the rain--my little tarp was not high enough to sit or stand under until I moved it too a new location in the morning. 

Third, although fiberfill sleeping bags are heavier and bulkier than down, they remain warm (if clammy) even when wet--as it was in places--while down becomes a thin, lumpy mess.  (I would have brought a light fleece bag if it had been warmer; that would have been a disaster.)  When I buy a new one, it will have a nylon lining rather than flannel: the cold initial feel of nylon is more than compensated by the ease in getting in and out, and by nylon's not absorbing water.  The big bag took up a lot of space in the big dry bag, but it was well worth it.

Fourth, lighters and stove must be well-covered overnight.  Bring kitchen matches for backup just in case.  A solid fuel stove (I keep one on the big boat for emergencies) is compact and wouldn't be a bad backup. 

Fifth, a headlamp is the most useful light I have ever owned.  Put that thing on your head in low light and you can forget about it: anywhere you look, you can see--it's that simple.  (Keep that thing dry, dry, dry!)  It was so dim in the morning that I continued using it.  By contrast, a lantern is perhaps the least useful form of light for anything but stationary area lighting or to mark your location (say, an anchorage) for others: having light shining in your eyes is simply stupid: it partly cancels itself out by ruining your night vision.

Sixth, my old Tilley hat, inherited from my uncle, was a very smart impulse-grab on the way out the door.  This canvas hat stiffens when wet and keeps rain off my glasses, out of my open jacket, and off my vulnerable headlamp. Always, always have a hat good against sun and rain. 

Seventh: I always carry my cell phone on trips--even miles off the coast I have good cell reception, probably partly because there is nothing blocking signals.  I always buy a gasketted water-tight box for carrying it--and then test to make sure it is truly water-proof.  (It's important to realize that salt water destroys electronics in very short order.)  However Teacher Appreciation Day recently brought teachers at my school little zip-lock + velcro soft phone cases.  Lo and behold it really is waterproof--and I can operate the phone (with some difficulty) without opening the case.  This would be especially welcome if I had to call for help when actually in the water!  This is a Very Good Thing.  (Amazing to think of the sailing and camping I did in my youth--with no possibility of communication.  My, the difference forty years makes!)

Eighth: I was well-equipped with warm clothes, but chose poorly when I changed into them in the morning.  I had a old, nylon jacket that is now barely water-resistant.  I put this on over a fleece jacket.  I love fleece, but it soaks up water like a sponge, and it was wet through by wind-driven rain before I got back to the boat ramp.  Meanwhile, my favorite wool sweater was sitting at the bottom of the dry bag.  Wool doesn't absorb much water, and is the far better insulator when wet.  I was also in shorts, mainly because I needed to be able to wade almost knee-deep to get in and out of the kayak.  (Due to an unfortunate deep-mud landing in the marsh, I was a good deal deeper than knee-deep at one point.)  But trousers loose enough to be pulled up would often be useful, and lots warmer.  I have an inexpensive rain shell on order, as well as water-resistant, lined trousers. 

Paddling hard against a headwind both going and returning left my hand blistered.  Next time, bandaids will protect my fingers in warm weather, or my neoprene gloves in cool. 

The short and sweet--
1.  Keep clothing and anything vulnerable in dry bags.  Rain, spray or capsize can ruin a trip and even endanger life. 
2. Bring a decent tent, no matter the weather expected.  Especially when nights are long.
3. A fiberfill sleeping bag is heavy and bulky, but can keep you pretty warm even if it gets wet. 
4. Keep your stove, lighters and matches dry, and consider a backup plan.
5. A headlamp is a must, especially for late arrivals and long nights.  Protect it!
6. Always have a hat.  In warm weather I carry a well-ventilated hat against sun, but a rain hat is also important.
7. Carry your phone in a waterproof case.  If there is any danger (of capsize, say), make sure it is attached to you.  My hard phone case clips on to my life jacket if things get dicey.  My soft case has a neck lanyard.
8. Have several changes of clothes, keep them dry, and make sure some will function well even wet.  Hands need to be kept warm to function! 

Right now Serendipity is getting fresh coats of paint, and the tent a little maintenance.  Next up? maybe a late fall kayaking trip, or maybe a winter float down the Taunton in my handy little pram, Bebe. 

Kayak Overnight

 The white line shows my rough track.

I've never traveled overnight by kayak.  Last winter I planned an overnight using my two-man kayak, Serendipity--even going as far as loading gear into the drybag--but circumstances prevented.  I still wanted to go kayak camping, and it occurred to me that, with the lighter gear requirements of summer camping, I might be able to cram enough stuff into my single-seater, Musketaquid.  Over a few days, I fiddled with gear, making it fit and still get the balance right.

Yesterday the opportunity came for a little test run: the rest of the family was out of town, I had no appointments, and tide and weather looked manageable. 

I put the kayak in the Assonet River in early evening at the top of the flood.  An evening departure risked not finding a campsite in daylight, but parts of Assonet Bay turn almost into mudflats at low tide, and I didn't want to fight current, so I needed to wait until high slack tide.  I paddled under the highway, across the Bay and down the short river (the gentlest breeze against my face) to its confluence with the mighty Taunton, then up a little salt marsh creek as the sun set; total distance three miles.

There are few places one can camp ashore, which is one reason I almost always sleep aboard when sailing.  But Google Earth showed this particular bit of river bank to be uninhabited, with no buildings close by. 

Entering the creek, I annoy a pair of majestic ospreys.  In the past, I've seen ospreys only around nest platforms,  but this pair seemed to have found their own nest site. 

I worried that there might be no accessible shore to land on, but a short distance up the creek a bank appeared right up against the high mash, allowing me to go ashore as if on a dock.  Climbing through the bullbriar in the twilight, a nice grassy spot appeared.  But I moved on when I realized the standing dead tree beside it was poised to fall.  I at last found a camp site that was open, level, and easy to clean up.  By the time I had all the gear at the campsite it was quite dark, and I put up the tent by the light of my little headlamp.  By 9pm I had my stuff organized, mattress inflated, and had poured myself a glass of cabernet.  (Whether sleeping in a boat or camping ashore, the evening isn't complete without red wine.)

Checking my bird book, I confirmed the identity of the ospreys, and also learned that they are unique among raptors by diving headfirst into the water and catching fish with their feet.  Shortly after, a great splashing sound from the creek was perhaps a fishing osprey.

My light fleece bag turned out to be unequal to the nighttime temperatures, and I was rather cold. 

I was up next morning at 5:10, bolt upright and filled with foreboding: I had left the kayak on the high marsh beside the creek, and tides were getting more extreme as the moon neared full.  Would my kayak float off?  The boat was indeed almost afloat when I got to it, but still firmly stuck in the grass.  I broke camp, about as quickly as I was able, only stopping to make coffee: this time I didn't want to fight the current going back upriver in the middle of the ebb. 

Nevertheless, I made time to explore a bit in daylight, and to paddle the rest of the way up the creek.  Coming back down the creek, I watched the Phragmites freshwater marsh give way to a narrow band of cattails, then Spartina saltmarsh.

I was out of the creek and on my way a little after 7am, hoping the current wouldn't be too strong.  In the narrow part of the Assonet River the current was running at about one knot against me--a little annoying, but not insurmountable.  (I broke from working against it to try to capture a half-dozen swallow-like birds playing around a dock, but was too slow with my camera.  They reminded me of chimney swifts, but with more deeply-forked tails; bank swallows and tree swallows are possibilities.)  Another worry was the current under the highway, but I slipped through in the shallows without an issue, landing back at my car before 9am.

I was quite satisfied with the trip.  I may try to do our regular Boston Harbor Islands camp out by kayak.  It was pleasant to have little enough stuff that it wasn't a major production to pack and carry gear, and make and break camp.

 

Ready to push off. 

 

Barely a ripple on Assonet River.

 

 Beautiful and complex sky over the river.

 

Tall saltmarsh cordgrass, Spartina alterniflora, is in full bloom.

 

Taunton River, then zoomed in on the distant Braga Bridge.

 

Approaching salt marsh and creek as sun sets.

 

All this stuff came out of a twelve-foot kayak.

 

This dead tree was so rotten I couldn't figure out why it was still standing.

I camped elsewhere: a dead tree fell very close to me during a blizzard not long ago.  

The tapping and call of downy woodpeckers showed that dead trees were common.

The marsh at dawn.  I was glad I decided not to camp on the marsh itself 

when I saw how far the tide rose in the morning.  A marsh bird made a whirring call.

 

 

 My campsite turned out to be at the foot of 

two red oaks and a red maple.

 

 

The mouth of the stream from the hilltop above camp.

 

A broad path shows that others have been here, but trees

fallen across the trail argue that it has seen no vehicles recently.

 

For me, black birch is one tree that says "wild New England."

 

Bullbriar, with its wicked thorns, was everywhere, complicating walking

in the dark and the search for a campsite.  I lost a bit of blood this trip.

 

The area had not one but two kinds of blueberries:

a highbush form, and a lowbush.

 

This delicate little plant is a relative of Solomon's seal.

The short cordgrass of the high marsh, Spartina patens, is just flowering

--a little behind its sister species.

 

Looking upstream and down as boat is loaded.

 

Farewell to the marsh.

 

Head of navigation; stream so narrow it's hard to turn around.

 

Headed back downstream.

 

Headed back into the Taunton, then for home.