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August
2009
South Shore Living
Water Country
Ever-changing tidal currents and riverbanks teeming
with wildlife make the scenic North River a kayaker's
dream destination.
By Dan Mathers
.jpg) “Sometimes
I just make bad decisions.” That thought kept running
through my head as I sat in my kayak, propped sideways
on rocks, being pushed over by rushing water. If I went
over, my wallet, cell phone, digital camera and car keys
would all go plummeting into the rushing water and down
to the river bottom. And to blame would be my own series
of stupid decisions.
I had been paddling upstream on the
Indian Head River in Hanover – a narrow river that later
joins with Herring Brook in Pembroke to form the scenic
North River. I’d paddled over flatwater, then swiftwater,
when I spied a rocky lip in the river about a foot high,
and, beyond it, rippling, rocky whitewater. The idea of
riding the rushing, wavy current drew me in, and I
convinced myself that if I paddled hard enough I could
make it up a small opening in that rocky lip and enjoy
the ride back down – stupid decision Number One. My next
stupid decision was to try it with all my valuables in
the boat; and not locked in my backpack, either, but
scattered about on top of it.
I paddled hard toward the opening
in the lip, but the current spun my boat sideways to the
right, lifting me onto some rocks where the rushing
waters pounded and pushed the left side of my boat to
where I was tipping hard to my right. Luckily, the wide
lines that make my kayak frustratingly slow also make it
hard to tip over. And I was soon able to push myself off
the rocks after some tense moments and foul words.
Of course, I don’t always make bad
decisions . . . no matter what my wife says. I sometimes
make good ones, like deciding to paddle the North River
in the first place. The North River packs an amazing
variety of water, scenery and wildlife into its roughly
15-mile journey from Hanover to Scituate and the ocean.
Its upper reaches provide an adrenalin rush with
sections of swift Class I and II whitewater. After
Indian Head joins Herring Brook to form the North River,
the waterway snakes through miles of marshlands teeming
with wildlife. And, at its end, the river’s mouth meets
the open ocean where you can smell the salt air as sea
birds fly overhead. As the ocean tides rise and fall,
they are constantly altering the North’s currents well
upriver, and altering the seascape near its mouth. As a
result, the North doesn’t just change day to day, but
hour to hour. It’s a river you can paddle a dozen times,
and not have the same experience twice.
My plan was to explore the North
River on two separate trips. On my first trip I’d
explore the river’s upper reaches. And, on another trip,
I’d explore its mouth. I started off by launching my
boat in Hanover from a spot on Riverside Drive – a
dead-end street with great access to the river and
plenty of parking. I began by paddling up Indian Head
River. I glided over smooth, black, flatwater,
surrounded by dark green woodlands. Trees wrapped in
leafy vines leaned over the water to create green
archways above me. The water then became swift, and I
soon saw the whitewater where I’d end up almost tipping.
After my rocky debacle, I turned
around and headed downriver. Where Indian Head joins
with Herring Brook, creating the North River, the river
opens up into a large marshland called The Crotch. The
river widens, and vast fields of reeds stretch out on
both sides, with the tree-lined shores far in the
distance.
I froze when I saw a tall, thin,
white bird with a pointy bill standing beside the river.
It was a Great Egret, and it too froze for a moment
before taking a few steps away from the water and into
the reeds, hoping I wouldn’t see him. As I watched him,
a Great Blue Heron flew over the both of us, its
graceful, monstrous long wings carrying it silently by.
As I paddled on, I tried to give the Egret a wide berth,
so as not to disturb it. But the skittish bird flew off,
flapping like a pterodactyl with its sticklike legs
stretched out behind it.
As I paddled out of The Crotch, the
reeds faded away, and the river narrowed again. Along
the shores were large houses with beautiful gardens and
perfectly manicured lawns. While I prefer to get away
from civilization when kayaking, this part of the river
was like paddling through an issue of Home and Garden
Magazine, and although it wasn’t wild, it was certainly
scenic.
I passed under the Route 53 bridge,
then under the Washington Street bridge immediately
after it, where I got my first taste of the North
River’s strong and ever-changing currents. To my left,
the river appeared to be flowing upstream, to the right
it flowed downstream, and in front of me a current
flowed sideways to my left. When I returned this way a
few hours later, the water appeared as calm as glass.
Smart boaters should do what I didn’t do before paddling
this river – check the tides. (Tidal info is available
on the North and South Rivers Watershed Association
website at
www.nsrwa.org.) After leaving the bridges, the river
opened up again into a wide marsh. Turtles poked their
heads out of the water, only to dive back down as I
approached. Small birds buzzed my kayak as they searched
for food, and cormorants swam by, their long necks
sticking out of the water like the Loch Ness monster.
The sounds of the wind in the reeds, the songbirds, and
the quiet ripple of my paddle through the water lulled
me into relaxation. Perhaps too much, because when a
fish jumped out of the water next to my paddle, it
scared me and I lurched violently to my right, almost
tipping the kayak over, once again. A little farther
down the river, an otter, swimming low on the water’s
surface like a partially submerged submarine, passed in
front of my kayak. Before I could grab my camera, he
dove back into the water. And although I waited a while
for him to reappear, he never did. I'd see two more
otters that day . . . and not get a photo of a single
one.
Among some trees, a sign on shore
memorialized the Fox Hill Shipyard – a colonial shipyard
that operated on the site from 1690 to 1869 and made
vessels of up to 390 tons. A little farther downriver,
another sign noted the spot of the Brick Kiln Shipyard,
which operated from 1730 to 1848. Given the quiet,
natural beauty of this section of river, it was hard to
imagine in that same spot was the loud banging and
sawing of a shipyard, or picture huge 390-ton vessels
sailing down this river toward the sea.
The river snaked back and forth
through the wide marsh before passing under the Route 3
bridge, where the highway’s decaying uprights looked
like huge Roman columns standing out of the water.
Continuing on, I came to Blueberry Island – a spit of
trees and hard soil in the middle of the wide marsh,
where a wooden deck and picnic table on the side of the
river invite paddlers to take a break. It was just what
I needed, and I took the chance to eat lunch and stretch
my legs. After paddling on, I noticed thick clouds
moving in from the west, and I wondered if the rain
forecasted for that evening was making better time than
I was. I decided it was best to turn back and take up
exploring the river’s mouth at another time.
A few days later I returned to the
North River, this time by the ocean from the Driftway
boat launch in Scituate. It was roughly 5:30 in the
morning, just after sunrise, but you never would have
known it. The thick clouds overhead blocked out the
rising sun. Being just after high tide, sea water
flooded the normally grassy marsh near the boat launch,
and a wide expanse of silver, mercurial water blended
seamlessly with the ghostly mist and gray sky above it.
I paddled out, but I had a problem:
I had no idea where to go. Near the mouth of the river,
Herring Brook splits off to the north and runs right up
to the Driftway boat launch. My map showed Herring Brook
as an easily navigable narrow stream that ran down to
the river. But high tide had covered all that dry land
on my map in water, making it hard to see where to go or
distinguish brook from river from ocean. To make matters
worse, the fog hid distant shorelines and markers,
making it difficult for me to get my bearings. Being
great with decisions, I just set out into the gray
distance, hoping I’d find my way (and not have to call
the Coast Guard).
As I paddled out not knowing where
the deep water of the brook was, I passed over the
grasslands where there was barely enough water to float
my boat. Often, my paddle could only make it halfway
into the water, and would come up dripping with wet
grass. I rounded a beach with small cottages to my right
and then paddled over to a breakwater, where a small red
building was covered with buoys. When I checked my map,
I found I was at the North’s mouth. I passed through a
small opening in the breakwater and paddled into the
river, where the mouth is marked by boats moored at the
North River Marina and the Route 3A Bridge.
After passing under the bridge, the
atmosphere seemed to dramatically change from sea to
river. The air became thick and heavy. Mosquitoes
appeared. And the wide expanse of the water narrowed
into the river I’d been familiar with the other day. The
river again snaked through marshlands, although this
area had short grass like an unmowed lawn, whereas
upriver the marshes were dominated by tall reeds.
It seemed everyone was fishing. A
handful of fishermen slowly motored along the river,
dropping lines occasionally. Seagulls patrolled above,
searching for breakfast in the water below. Even the
fish were fishing. Several times the tranquil water was
interrupted by violent splashing as one fish attacked
another, and you could hear the whip-whip-whipping as a
predator mauled its prey.
The grasslands near the river’s
mouth had so much wildlife, it almost felt like I was
watching a Wild Kingdom episode about the Serengeti.
Dozens of Great Egrets, Great Blue Herons, and other
large and unusual birds lined the river’s shores and
swooped across the marsh. I regretted not knowing my
birds as I watched so many fascinating feathered
creatures all around me.
As I made my way upriver, the sea
was moving toward low-tide. Paddling on, as the river
got lower, the grasslands that had extended from the
side of the river seemed to rise up, exposing eroded,
muddy walls. First it was a foot high, then two, then
more. And what had been a grassland I’d been paddling
through soon took on the look of a muddy canyon. The
current heading toward the sea seemed to grow stronger,
fighting me as I paddled upriver. It created waves as it
split around buoys and moorings, and when I’d stop
paddling to take a photo, it would spin and push my
kayak backwards. After a while, I came to a small bridge
where construction crews were working. Two construction
barges under the bridge pushed the river into a narrow
passage between them. A strong current with white waves
and powerful swirls pushed through the passage. I
thought I might be able to paddle through it without
running into the barges and get upriver. But the current
was strong, pushing me back despite my paddling, and, in
a rare moment of clarity, I decided I’d best turn
around. It was the right decision. The tidal currents
are strong on the river, and another hour or two later
the currents running through that passage would have
only been more powerful and dangerous.
As I made my way back toward the
sea, the banks now stood a good four feet above the
water, and the distinct stench of low-tide was setting
in. Passing under the Route 3A bridge again, the
currents were much stronger, pushing me fast downriver
as small whirlpools and ripples whirled all around me. I
stayed toward the calm water to the left as I paddled to
the breakwater. There I found the passage I’d taken
through earlier was now shallow, rushing water over
jagged rocks. Instead, I had to go through the main
channel, where the currents whipped me through. Paddling
back toward Herring Brook, the landscape had changed.
Muddy beaches now extended far from the land I had
passed by earlier in the morning. And instead of
watching out for shallow grassy spots, I now had to
watch out for sandbars. At times, I had to push my way
around sandbars like I was in a gondola. My paddle again
only submerged halfway, this time coming up dripping
with wet sand.
When I reached Herring Brook, the
muddy shore stood a good five feet out of the water, and
I couldn’t see any of the grassland above it. The
outward current that had made my trek out of the North
River so easy now fought me fiercely as I made my way up
Herring Brook. I thought that if I’d brought a lunch and
some beer, I would have sat on a muddy beach and waited
for high tide to help me up. But since I didn’t, I
pushed on.
After I finally reached the boat
launch I looked out to see a field of green grass and
brown mud had replaced the gray, watery expanse from
earlier that morning. I put my kayak on my car, happy
that I’d finally paddled the North River . . . or, at
least, that day’s version of it. But, I thought to
myself, I’ll be back to paddle it again. After all, this
river will be different an hour from now.
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