Paddling Home: A Journey Along the Northern Forest Canoe Trail
by Donnie Mullen
The following is an excerpt from Donnie Mullen's book-in-progress, Paddling Home:
Crossing the Northeast by Canoe, based on his 740 mile canoe adventure on the
historic waterways tracing the Northern Forest Canoe Trail which begins in Old Forge,
NY, and ends in Fort Kent, Maine. Donnie paddled the route in the spring of 2000 in a
wood and canvas canoe that he built for the trip. He finessed his canoe, "Tintin," up river
and down, all the while holding to his goal of completing the trail with muscle power
alone, even across the 65 miles of portages. The undertaking took 50 days, nearly half of
which was done solo. The following chapter is about the last leg of his trip, when he
reaches his home state of Maine.
June 2 – My eyes opened at five with the earliest glimmer of the day. Worried
about getting caught in a windy crossing, I dressed hurriedly.
“Whoopiee!” I hollered as I dug out one of my last pieces of unsoiled clothing, a
blue and white surfer shirt - Maine meets Hawaii. My clean clothes stuff sack
held a pair of socks, underwear and the collared shirt I had carried for the
touted day of return to Maine. I buried my nose in the bright cloth and sucked
in a long breath, half expecting a wafting fragrance from the floral pattern.
Marveling at the delicate smell, I buttoned up the fresh garment, overcoming
the hesitation to keep it separated from my unbathed body. Shower or not, I was
determined to don the shirt uninterrupted for my remaining adventure.
I needed my windbreaker to ward
off the morning chill. Peering over
the brush, I glimpsed the crimson sunrise.
Hoping to reach Maine by the time
the sun popped above the hills, I dashed
to pack my belongings. I postponed
my breakfast, deciding the day could
not begin until I crossed the liquid border.
The dimness lifted as Tintin cut through the glint of new light. The only visible
riffles grew from my passage. For the first time in weeks, I left the maps
stowed. I would treat myself to ponder a place I knew so well. Repeated visits
left many bored, but for me the Rangeley Lakes could never disappoint. The
lakes’ persona felt infinite like the rocky and circuitous coastal landscape of my
childhood. Each return left me wondrous anew.
Exuberant, I passed above Pine Point, the first piece of Maine soil to meet my
approach. Ahead, the northern reaches of the lake stretched to the east en route
to the cove that sheltered the mouth of the Rapid River. I contentedly hugged
the shore, at peace with my long trek. My preoccupation with the weeks to
come was temporarily lifted and I felt rejuvenated to simply paddle in Maine.
Crossing into my home state, the last such boundary, was a genuine hallmark of
my paddle campaign. I was beyond the halfway mark and suddenly became
aware of my ability to finish, which had remained a dubious notion since my
departure. Of all the uncertainties I had faced, the mental hurdle held front
stage. How many times had I mumbled, “If I can just get to Maine…all will be
well”? To realize that my refrain had been achieved left me bemused. The
worst had past, I promised myself. A weight was lifted and my nagging alter-
ego squelched. My accomplishment cheered me on.
My senses became enhanced. Light filtered through the clear water illuminating
a silty amber bottom. Spring growth funneled to the needle tips before my eyes.
The sky was lapis blue and a nearby mountain felt touchable. The few cabins
were sanctuaries where nothing more pleasant than a stopover could be
imagined. Ducks rocketed by with arrow-like precision, momentarily filling my
ears with their nasal squaack! I could smell the seasonal change as though the
final vestige of moistness from the winter had risen from the soil to tingle my
nose hairs. My memory jogged back to the moment in childhood when I first
became aware of the distinctive fleeting odor and declared merrily to my father,
“Have you ever smelled such a spring. It’s life in the air!” The Maine that I had
been waiting for was on display.
I passed into the narrow opening of the cove. As the trees hovered above, I
lingered for a celebratory granola breakfast. A small cabin on stilts was tucked
behind large pines and built into the forested hill. The porch was high enough
to be out of reach even during the highest water. Mature deer antlers were
nailed to the apex of the roof and a sign above the door read ‘Credence’. I
envisioned the space inside to be as cozy as the wee inlet. Like Tintin, little
could be afforded but the essentials. The regal surroundings took precedence.
The sun pressed against my cheeks. I shed my outer layer and my eyes closed.
I felt as though I’d come upon a comforting portal.
About the author:
Donnie Mullen was raised and lives in mid-coast Maine. He enjoys paddling in
Maine and places farther north. Donnie is currently writing a book about his
experiences along the Northern Forest Canoe Trail.
For more information this historic canoe trail, contact:
Northern Forest Canoe Trail
PO Box 565
Waitsfield, VT 05673
802.496.2285
www.northernforestcanoetrail.org
by Donnie Mullen
The following is an excerpt from Donnie Mullen's book-in-progress, Paddling Home:
Crossing the Northeast by Canoe, based on his 740 mile canoe adventure on the
historic waterways tracing the Northern Forest Canoe Trail which begins in Old Forge,
NY, and ends in Fort Kent, Maine. Donnie paddled the route in the spring of 2000 in a
wood and canvas canoe that he built for the trip. He finessed his canoe, "Tintin," up river
and down, all the while holding to his goal of completing the trail with muscle power
alone, even across the 65 miles of portages. The undertaking took 50 days, nearly half of
which was done solo. The following chapter is about the last leg of his trip, when he
reaches his home state of Maine.
June 2 – My eyes opened at five with the earliest glimmer of the day. Worried
about getting caught in a windy crossing, I dressed hurriedly.
“Whoopiee!” I hollered as I dug out one of my last pieces of unsoiled clothing, a
blue and white surfer shirt - Maine meets Hawaii. My clean clothes stuff sack
held a pair of socks, underwear and the collared shirt I had carried for the
touted day of return to Maine. I buried my nose in the bright cloth and sucked
in a long breath, half expecting a wafting fragrance from the floral pattern.
Marveling at the delicate smell, I buttoned up the fresh garment, overcoming
the hesitation to keep it separated from my unbathed body. Shower or not, I was
determined to don the shirt uninterrupted for my remaining adventure.
I needed my windbreaker to ward
off the morning chill. Peering over
the brush, I glimpsed the crimson sunrise.
Hoping to reach Maine by the time
the sun popped above the hills, I dashed
to pack my belongings. I postponed
my breakfast, deciding the day could
not begin until I crossed the liquid border.
The dimness lifted as Tintin cut through the glint of new light. The only visible
riffles grew from my passage. For the first time in weeks, I left the maps
stowed. I would treat myself to ponder a place I knew so well. Repeated visits
left many bored, but for me the Rangeley Lakes could never disappoint. The
lakes’ persona felt infinite like the rocky and circuitous coastal landscape of my
childhood. Each return left me wondrous anew.
Exuberant, I passed above Pine Point, the first piece of Maine soil to meet my
approach. Ahead, the northern reaches of the lake stretched to the east en route
to the cove that sheltered the mouth of the Rapid River. I contentedly hugged
the shore, at peace with my long trek. My preoccupation with the weeks to
come was temporarily lifted and I felt rejuvenated to simply paddle in Maine.
Crossing into my home state, the last such boundary, was a genuine hallmark of
my paddle campaign. I was beyond the halfway mark and suddenly became
aware of my ability to finish, which had remained a dubious notion since my
departure. Of all the uncertainties I had faced, the mental hurdle held front
stage. How many times had I mumbled, “If I can just get to Maine…all will be
well”? To realize that my refrain had been achieved left me bemused. The
worst had past, I promised myself. A weight was lifted and my nagging alter-
ego squelched. My accomplishment cheered me on.
My senses became enhanced. Light filtered through the clear water illuminating
a silty amber bottom. Spring growth funneled to the needle tips before my eyes.
The sky was lapis blue and a nearby mountain felt touchable. The few cabins
were sanctuaries where nothing more pleasant than a stopover could be
imagined. Ducks rocketed by with arrow-like precision, momentarily filling my
ears with their nasal squaack! I could smell the seasonal change as though the
final vestige of moistness from the winter had risen from the soil to tingle my
nose hairs. My memory jogged back to the moment in childhood when I first
became aware of the distinctive fleeting odor and declared merrily to my father,
“Have you ever smelled such a spring. It’s life in the air!” The Maine that I had
been waiting for was on display.
I passed into the narrow opening of the cove. As the trees hovered above, I
lingered for a celebratory granola breakfast. A small cabin on stilts was tucked
behind large pines and built into the forested hill. The porch was high enough
to be out of reach even during the highest water. Mature deer antlers were
nailed to the apex of the roof and a sign above the door read ‘Credence’. I
envisioned the space inside to be as cozy as the wee inlet. Like Tintin, little
could be afforded but the essentials. The regal surroundings took precedence.
The sun pressed against my cheeks. I shed my outer layer and my eyes closed.
I felt as though I’d come upon a comforting portal.
About the author:
Donnie Mullen was raised and lives in mid-coast Maine. He enjoys paddling in
Maine and places farther north. Donnie is currently writing a book about his
experiences along the Northern Forest Canoe Trail.
For more information this historic canoe trail, contact:
Northern Forest Canoe Trail
PO Box 565
Waitsfield, VT 05673
802.496.2285
www.northernforestcanoetrail.org
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