Exploring a Muddy Creek

Just an uneventful trip report.

June 8th

After a friday filled with torential downpours and with the a Saterday prediction of light winds and drizzel until noon, I thought a short solo trip to the Rhode River was in order. There were some paddling grounds I wanted to explore and ther area is generally so crowded on summer weekends as to be unpalatable.

By noon I reach my destination, anchored near Big Island, and set off to explore the Smithonian Research Center marsh. I was alone, with not a boat or person in sight.

While certainly ecologically diverse, this day it seemed lacking in asthetic charm. But a nice paddle. Perhpas the most interesting feature is the 500-foot long fish fence at the mouth of the creek with a sole and rickety 6-foot entrance gate, 12 feet when both wings are open. Fish thrashed all along the fence, confused by this manmade obbstruction. Useful for survey work, but perhaps harmful in the process, as wittnessed by the carcasses trapped in the fence.

I paddled back to the boat, ready for a rest and a beer, rounded Big Island... and found over 20 anchored boats were now scattered about. By evening this would swell to over 40. So much for solitude.

The guide books tell of the three islands of Rhode River Bay:  High Island, Low Island, and Big Island. High Istland, so named because it had a sharp little summit 30 years ago, slipped below the water about 10 years ago, leaving a large sandy bar only a few inches below the water at low tide. Relaxing to wade about and get splashed by the leaping wakes breaking over this sudden upthrust bottom, I'm surprised it is not a kid-magnant. But I never saw any other person vist. Perhaps they expect the standard Chesapeake mud bottom instead of hard beach sand. Their loss.

Low Island has a nice beach, which the geese and dogs visit to the point of abuse. Partyers with 18-foot run-abouts and bow-riders flock. I don't see the charm.

Big island is only briefly mentioned as "inhospitable." I don't think they ever tried. There are a few moder ate beaches on the southern tip, backed by inpenatrable wetland. There are tangles on the west. But there are many small beaches, both at the edge of clifs and along the east side that quickly lead to a broad sumit of open forrest and mountain laurel that is simply spectacular in early summer. A delightful retreat to the forrestes of the blue ridge, hiden in a crowded Chesapeake river cove. 

I went back to my private mountain retreat a second time later in the afternoon. The sounds are so different from those on a boat, as though I had traveled hundreds of miles in 30 yards. I had to marvel at the fact that in the midst of all this relvery and clammer, that I saw not one foot print or brokken stick, not one empty can or any sign whatsoever of man. Only a few game trails. I've hiked off-trail for miles in the Shenandoah seaking trackless country, and here I found a wonderful patch, hidden by limitied guidebook authors. Now you know.

Western shore of Big Island, Rhode River, with Contes Warf in the distance.

June 9th

A lazy sail home in light winds. I could have hoisted the chute, but I had only a short distance to go and a desire to make it last.

There was one other place I wished to explore, but the lack of convinient harbor had prevented any visit to this nearby creek, just 1/3 mile north of (not so) Deep Creek. In fact, The water shoaled so quickly to 3.5 feet that I was forced to anchor nearly 2/3 mile offshore, in the open. With a hard sand bottom, this presented little risk. The more serious risk is that the dingy outboard would get stuborn, and to row against wind and tide for that distance is impossible. In retrospect I should have towed my kayak, which would have had several advantages:

• Better exploration abilities.
• A way back to the mother ship. The tide and wind would pose only minor irritation.
• A way to tow the dingy back. While this seems funny, the paddling ergonomics are so much better that towing is quite practical.

But I didn't.

As I entered the mouth of this un-named creek a bald eagle lifted from a dead and broken snag, always a good omen. I went the first 24 years of my life never having seen one of these birds, yet this spring alone I've seen 6, the result of time spent in the right habitat and a reflection of their remarkable recovery. Just inside the inlet the water quickly became too shallow even for my dingy and I returned to the mother ship rather than risk a broken sheer pin. But I will return, either by Shoal Survivor or by car-top if I can identify a convinient put-in. The creek and the shoreline thereabouts deserve further exploration.

No pictures. In addition to forgetting my kayak, I forgot the camera. Dunce.