The October Paddle Club

Four buddies (and a puppy) find good times on an autumn paddle down the Saco River.

The assignment was clear: one river, two canoes, three nights, four guys, (and one dog). Matt wanted moving water, maybe some light rapids. Andy wanted a relaxed pace and plenty of time in camp. Jason didn’t much care, happy to be joining us. I wanted to deliver on what I’d promised – a paddle trip with Maine’s colors peaking and a good time with good people.

I served up a couple of options: An easy, breezy paddle on the Saco (maybe too easy?) or a more remote, tripping-style route on the West Branch of the Penobscot and Chesuncook Lake (doable, but more complicated). Easy breezy was unanimous.

I knew all the guys, but they didn’t know each other, making me the center of our little Venn Diagram.

Matt and I grew up together in Brunswick. I’ve known him since we were five. In high school, we camped in the woods behind his house; the night I got my driver’s license, we drove to L.L. Bean to ogle internal frame packs. After college, he joined the Navy as an officer, and our lives went in different directions. Now, twenty-five years, three kids, and a distinguished Naval career later, he lives outside of Washington, DC, and pines for outdoor adventures. I’m happy to facilitate; he’s still the same wonderful, inquisitive, nature geek that made him by best buddy through high school. The previous summer, I organized a paddle trip for him and his boys on the St. Croix River. It was the first time his boys dug cat holes or saw fireflies.

I met Andy in college. We bonded over boats and the outdoors; he worked at a marina on Chicago’s North Shore, and I worked at a marina in Casco Bay; we both liked camping in tents. Our senior year, we skipped our buddies’ trip to Jamaica and instead drove 20 hours from St. Louis to Canyonlands National Park to backpack through the Maze. Over the years, we’ve scraped together adventures, big and small, including some overlapping time in Alaska, where Andy worked as a guide, and I taught adult education through AmeriCorps.

Jason is a nurse in Redding, California. We met 20 years ago on a farm in Montana where my wife and I were living, and he came to volunteer. Our adventure list is long and varied: multi-day canoe and stand-up paddleboard adventures, winter camping and backcountry skiing, an epic five-day bike-packing trip through Grand Staircase Escalante National Monument and Capitol Reef National Park.

The paddle trip was part of a longer visit for Jason, who had flown across the country to spend ten days in Saco with my wife, Chrissy, and me. Andy and Matt flew in from Chicago and DC respectively, Andy crashing at our place and Matt staying with his folks in Brunswick. I helped with gear lists, food and menu planning, logistics, and pre-trip stoke. Three of my best buddies, four days of paddling, spectacular fall weather – for me, stoke was easy, and I was happy to share.

The Saco River is unique in Maine. From the New Hampshire border to Hiram, paddlers can camp on the river’s myriad sandbars provided they aren’t posted. Plenty of access points make it easy to paddle for a day or several. Despite its summer popularity, it’s clean and relatively pristine. Few houses sit along its banks, and while roads run close here and there, it feels remote and wild. This isn’t by accident. A dedicated community of river stewards and generous landowners has worked for generations to make the Saco one of Maine’s best paddling opportunities.

When I was three and four years old, my folks took us camping on the river with some other families. While I only recall snippets of those adventures, they’re some of my first, and favorite, memories and played a huge role in shaping my life. Forty-odd years later, I live on the banks of the river’s tidal portion, just four miles from where it empties into Saco Bay. Getting back to the upper river felt like a homecoming.

Our route started below Swans Falls Dam, just outside of Fryeburg, and ended in Hiram – roughly 40 miles. I hired a shuttle to pick me up in Hiram after I dropped the guys and gear at Swans Falls. The driver was late and the van falling apart, but we eventually got back to the guys (the first day of the Fryeburg Fair didn’t help us…). We finally shoved off at 1:00 in the afternoon, but I had planned for a late start.

With practically no bugs, few people, bright foliage, warm days, and cool nights, fall is my favorite time to adventure. But the days are shorter, the weather can turn, and water levels can be challenging for paddle trips. I figured we’d have two shorter days – our first and last – and two longer days in between. I also figured we’d be slow in the mornings, lingering over a campfire and a second cup of coffee while the rising sun warmed our faces and dried our tents. I knew the Saco could be a zoo in July and August, but I figured it would be pretty empty in early October. Fortunately, I was right.

We made just under eight miles the first day.

I rose before the rest of the guys the next morning, steam rising off the river in the cool morning air. Hattie, my year-old puppy, had been up for a while, brushing up against the guys’ tents and chasing squirrels through the woods.

By 11, we’d finally packed up and put back on the water. The prior weekend, a nor’easter swept up the coast, dumping a couple inches of rain that swelled local rivers. Although the river had mostly receded, we were grateful for any bump we could get and made good time. Matt and I paddled together with Hattie; Jason and Andy followed, unencumbered by a forty-two-pound puppy playing a never-ending game of ‘what’s on this side’.

Silver maples lined the banks, stretching over the river to compete for any available sunlight, their wispy leaves just starting to fade from green to yellow. The occasional sugar maple popped bright red and random oaks bright orange. A side trip to Pleasant Pond, easily accessible from the river, delivered sweeping views of the White Mountains, clad in orange, red, yellow, and green.

We stopped for lunch after running Walker’s Rips, the trip’s only “rapid” that looked bigger from the shore than it felt in the water. Mindful of private campgrounds, we pulled off the river a few miles downstream of the rips and pitched our tents in the trees just above a sand bar. The dropping sun set the forest ablaze in a golden light that kept us captivated until the first stars peeked through the dusky sky and the snapping fire lured us to the sandbar.

The night was windy and shortly after dozing off, a stick crashed down, tearing a hole in my rain fly and scaring me, and Hattie, awake. She tried to claw her way out of the tent, tearing the bug netting, so I just left the doors open, and she spent the night crashing in and out. It wasn’t a particularly restful night for either of us.

Gunshots from waterfowl hunters in nearby Brownfield Bog woke us up the next morning. Hattie, tired from her night’s adventures, finally curled up when the sun rose high enough to shine on the beach. We moved slightly faster and put on around 10:50 after burying the morning’s fire in sand and double-checking for unpacked gear.

Despite the smooth morning, a small crisis brewed among the crew. I’d been a bit stingy on beer rations, and we were running low. Andy and Matt conspired a remedy: We’d stop at the bridge in Brownfield, and they’d hump a mile or so to a general store to reprovision.

When we got there, Hattie and I wandered up the road to the nearby campground, which had a small store that sold beer. It wasn’t yet open, but the sign promised it would be soon. I intercepted the guys, who agreed it was likely faster to wait for the store to open rather than walk to “town.” So, we waited…and waited…and waited some more. Finally, half an hour after advertised, the store opened, and the boys returned with a case of Bud heavy. We grabbed a quick lunch, shoved the beers in the cooler, and got back on the water. Mission accomplished. Bellies sloshing. Mutiny avoided.

As we paddled, the silver maples gave way to pines, hemlocks, and oaks. The wind kept up but proved helpful as it was mostly coming from behind. We made good time and, despite our longer-than-planned beer run, we pulled off the water at 4:30 to a gorgeous campsite that boasted a large sandy beach, a big meadow with tall, golden grass shimmering in the afternoon light, and ample firewood in the nearby woods.

The night proved calm, and Hattie slept soundly. Which meant I did, too. Feeling refreshed if a bit sad the trip was waning, I was up early again, joining Jason at the morning fire as we sipped coffee and watched steam rise from the river. A skim of ice covered the water we’d left in the cook pot overnight, and our gear was covered in a hard frost. We stayed in our puffies until the sun rose well above the trees and wrapped us in its warm embrace.

We’d spent our evening campfire hours sharing conversation prompts: Best adventure to date. Worst night in a tent. Hottest camping trip. Bucket-list trips we wanted to take. We joked and poked fun, and we got serious and deep, too. After just a couple of days, the crew felt like old friends.

I switched up paddling partners for the final day, pairing Jason and Matt in the green Wenonah. Andy, Hattie and I took the red Old Town, and when we finally pushed off around 10:30 (our best departure time yet) I felt that bittersweet, trip-ending pang. 

Three nights is a sweet spot for a trip. Long enough to feel like you’ve broken away from real life in a meaningful way and short enough that you don’t have to burn your clothes when you get home. But no trip length is truly perfect, and I suggested, only half-jokingly, that Jason and I could continue all the way to the ocean, while the guys drove the truck home to catch their flights the next day. But Hattie was ready to be done; she’d gotten bored of the canoe and wanted to snuggle up to Chrissy on our warm, comfy couch. Her quiet whining became the soundtrack to the final hours we paddled.

We chatted some on the ride home, but we also turned up the radio and rode along with our thoughts. When we dropped Matt back at his folks in Brunswick, the bubble finally burst. No longer a foursome (or fivesome if you count Hattie), the crew felt diminished as we rolled south onto 295.

But Andy wasn’t done with his Maine vacation yet. With a quick stop at Harbor Fish Market in Scarborough, we loaded up with lobsters, fresh corn, and blueberry cake for a final backyard feast.

None of us would rank this among the most epic trips we’ve done. We didn’t battle weather or adversity. We didn’t push through exhaustion or fear. Our biggest challenge was a late shuttle and a sprinkle of rain that stopped as soon as we put on our rain gear. We ate good food, drank (mostly) good beer, and slept peacefully (again, mostly). But we had a blast. In our last hour on the river, paddling side by side on the wide, slow-moving water, we agreed the October Paddle Club wasn’t a one-time deal. Next year, maybe we’ll hit the West Branch of the Penobscot. Maybe in a couple of years, we’ll try the East Branch. Maybe we’ll do the Saco again.

It turns out, with the right crew, where you trip may not matter that much. It’s more important to take the trip, wherever it may be.