Carrabassett River 2020

Usually by this time of year, skis have replaced the Hypalon, PVC, polyethylene and other manners of liquid-water conveyance in my adventure arsenal. Fantasizing about perfect water levels by obsessively checking the USGS streamflow website is thwarted by three dreary words— “status: ice affected.” The bright colored circles which indicate flow levels are gradually replaced by empty circumferential outlines indicating no data. Gage by gage, the blankness on the map descends from the north like a show’s closing curtain, effectively ending Maine’s boating season…

…Unless The Grinch brings three inches of rain on Christmas Day. Which is exactly what happened.

I was on the fence about bringing the raft with us on our holiday “ski trip,” but Sugarloaf’s whopping post-storm total of three open trails clinched it. Emboldened by a recent early December run of the Sheepscot, the thought of letting the raft play again after its seasonal “bedtime” was enticing. So, it all got shoved into the Outback—raft, paddles, helmets, groceries, clothes and footwear for every occasion, whiskey, dry bags, beer, chess board, skis, ski boots, poles—and we leisurely made our way up to Sugarloaf the day after Christmas.

Although it was dark by the time we reached Kingfield, I could tell the river was really pumping. The Carrabassett can be a frustrating river to drive by, as it often leaves one thinking “that would be a really fun class II run if there were just enough water.” It’s a real mountain stream with a substantial—but steep—drainage, and in many spots it is often shallow enough to easily wade across. But this time, we pulled over at the bridge to Ira Mountain to look a little closer, and there was a ton of current. Further upstream at the Carriage Road Bridge, I peered across and the level seemed just around ‘2’ on the painted river-right gage (‘1’ being the purported minimum level for a decent run down to Kingfield according to the AMC River Guide—Maine). This is a possible takeout for the much burlier creek boat run starting up by Sugarloaf, which is apparently sometimes run at levels of ‘3’ or ‘4’.

Once ensconced in the condo comforts of fireplace, beer, and Wi-Fi, I pored over recent USGS data. The flow at the North Anson gage was already down to the high 8,000s after a Christmas peak of 22,600 cfs! This is a river that, after the spring freshet, usually bops along in the mid-hundreds for most of the year. But it was falling fast, and I decided it was now or never (at least not until next spring)!

I had left my travel mug at home, so the next morning’s scouting mission to make sure levels were still good-to-go meant negotiating the S-turns of Route 27 with my left hand on the wheel and balancing my open cup of hot coffee with my right—something my driver’s ed instructor Mr. Neale would have surely frowned upon. I ended up driving all the way back down to Kingfield to make sure the entire run was ‘in’ and it seemed to be. I’d take out on the relatively flat river-right bench where 27 runs alongside the river across from the Maine DOT depot. On the way back north—and at the advice of the AMC guidebook—I scouted the rapids underneath a small bridge (which leads to a private residence near 27’s southern intersection with Spring Farm Road). I clambered down the bank and got a good look at the right channel which looked passable. Next, I zoomed to the Carriage Road bridge (put-in) to make sure it still looked okay. Man, had the water come down since the night before! Looking across at the gage, the bridge abutment was still wet for a good eight inches above the current waterline—confirmation that the river was falling more rapidly than the 2008 housing market. But even though it was a bit bonier than the previous night, there seemed to be enough ways through to give it a go.

I returned to the condo to what might have been one of the top five breakfast sandwiches I’ve ever tasted courtesy of Sarah’s stellar cooking. I knew I’d need the calories to stay warm as the mercury was now at a December-appropriate 28 degrees. Was I insane? Or at least foolhardy? I pondered these questions, briefly, as I chomped. Many folks have strong opinions about solo boating, especially in such frigid conditions, but a few things weighed in favor of going: Although I was not wearing a dry suit, I had a medium-thick (3mm) wetsuit with several layers of polypropylene underneath and over it, as well as a splash top. Springtime water temps can be just as cold, if not colder, and this garb had sufficed in those situations. Also, I would never be more than twenty feet or so from shore, and I could almost wade across in many spots. Additionally, the odds of me ending up in the water were very low (class II water / glorified float trip in a raft where I’d be happily perched above the water most of the time). My final consideration was that, although wild-seeming, the run is not all that remote, with Route 27 nearby for almost the entire stretch. After weighing all this, my sandwich had been devoured and we were on our way.

Sarah really deserves a big shout-out for helping facilitate this adventure. I had left the bicycle at home, so the only shuttle option was having her pick me up at the end, or walking / running all the way back to Carrabassett Valley. Also, instead of staying cozy in the car at the put-in, she took it upon herself to assemble the rowing frame and lay my gear out for me. After a half-hour of inflation and set-up, I eased the raft over the rocks on river left and plunked ‘er in. I excitedly took a few strokes only to find myself immediately perched on a small rock. I feared that this might become the norm on this trip as the water level plummeted (fortunately, it would end up being the only real time I got stuck). After a few minutes of shuffling and bouncing I was released and headed downstream under the Carriage Road bridge.

Just below the bridge the river divides around a long shoal. I had scouted from the bridge, and could see that the right channel ended in a jumble of boulders that looked unnavigable at this level, but the left looked like I might squeak through. Sure enough, I made it through without bouncing off of too many rocks, thankful for drawing so little water since it was just myself in the boat. The first half mile continued as a pleasant and shallow boulder-dodge—really good practice reading water and maneuvering! Once again, the shallow draft allowed me to slide over barely-submerged rocks instead of getting too hung up.

After this rocky section, an abrupt left turn away from the road creates a nice river-right eddy. I paused for a moment, giddy that things seemed to be working out and that the day, though brisk, was clear and sunny. I took a moment to document my progress on my old Cannon point-and-shoot before continuing. A straightforward bit of class II water continued for about a quarter of a mile until the river swung back to the right. The AMC guide had warned that the channel is quite narrow here during lower water levels so I eddied out to scout. It looked plenty open, and my 12’ craft slid right on through. The more I take my raft on smaller rivers, the more I realize I can almost take it anywhere I’d take a canoe (though, admittedly, portaging is much more of a pain in the butt).

The next half mile was a pleasant and straightforward boulder-dodge until the first major rapid under the ‘driveway’ bridge. Although I had scouted it about three hours earlier, I was unsure how much it had changed due to the rapidly receding river. Since the right-hand line looked good when I scouted and since the current was not too pushy, I decided to boat-scout instead of getting out again. Sure enough, the right channel was open; although the current piled up a bit against the ledgy right bank, enough was moving laterally to push my bow clear. Then, in quick succession, were two river-wide ledges. After getting under the bridge, I had originally intended to pull across to river left where there was a more pronounced jet of current through the ledges that culminated in a nice wave train. But I found myself going right and, at this level, it consisted of two easy-but-clunky drops over shallow pour-overs, each of which was followed by a very weak hydraulic. At higher levels, however, I would be certain to inspect just how much recirculation these ledges cause. Below the ledges is a scenic pool from which one can peer back upstream at the rapids. From this vantage, I could see that the left ‘chute’ that ran below the bridge also appeared to be clean, and a bit more straightforward than my route.

The next two miles were fairly mellow allowing me time to eat a coconut Perfect Bar (gotta keep those fats a comin’ to stay warm) and take in the surroundings. One of the most intriguing features of the dropping water level was the formation of thousands of delicate, diamondesque icicles that dangled like earrings from the shrubs overhanging the banks. Reflections of the low afternoon sun off of these tinsel-y stalactites made the pleasant straightaways appear as if they were lined by glistening Christmas lights, left out for a few days after the holiday.

Most of the water throughout this section consists of mellow class I where the river is straight and parallels the road, and occasionally somewhat heavier water when the river goes around a sharp bend. At this level, though, none of the waves were greater than two feet, with most being less than a foot. Roughly 2.75 miles into the trip, I encountered a large American flag fluttering in the breeze high above the river, midstream, suspended by a taut steel cable running across the river and into the woods. Quite an accomplishment! (Yes, this flag is visible from Google Earth if you’re doing any virtual scouting.) Immediately after, the river shoals up and I had to make some moves to squeak through the very narrow, deeper right-hand channel. This was emblematic of the river’s character at this level—lots of fun maneuvering, but mostly very low consequence.

Just under 4.0 miles downstream of the put-in, the river (as it had several times already) peels to the left, away from the road. This one is worth noting, because it marks the beginning of a mile-long stretch where some attention is required. Here, a class II rapid leads to a pool with a cabin tucked in the woods high on the steep, hemlock-lined right bank; the river then divides around an island with a large cobble beach on the upstream side. The right channel looked narrow, but deeper, so I took it, pulling over halfway down for a quick rest stop on the island to let some of the morning’s coffee escape. It was at this point that I realized I was actually beginning to get a big chilly. I was wearing neoprene gloves, but even so, heat was swiftly conducted from my hands and into the oar handles. Also, I have a very small hole in my floor which I have not patched, meaning icy water was constantly bathing my feet which dwelled within non-insulated XtraTuffs. Time to start rowing! Near the confluence of the river-right channel with the main channel, I noticed some tree branches obstructing the way. I was able to hop out, partially drag my stern onto the cobbles, drift my bow around, and re-launch just below. After less than a quarter of a mile, the road once again became visible high on the right bank. (The next day I parked here on the side of Route 27 north and scrambled down the bank to take another look at the river.) This marks the approach of what I’ll call ‘Town Line Rapids’ as they are located exactly along the Kingfield / Carrabassett Valley town line.

These were, by far, the most exciting rapids of the trip. As the river gradually swung away from the road, a jumble of large boulders came into view. But instead of the casual boulder-dodge of the several miles above, these boulders defined a serpentine channel that had to be followed to get safely through. The water was more powerful, but straightforward, piling up on the outside of the turns and forming eddies on the insides. As the channel swung to the right, then back left, I cut the inside of the turns, then straightened out as the rapid culminated in a succession of 2-foot wave trains. It felt like a bona fide ‘rapid’ and I thought about how it might be a fun challenge for an open canoe in the spring.

As the rapids gradually diminished to easy class I/II, houses on the north side of the Ira Mountain development started to dot the ridge high on river left. Another gradual bend to the right and I was alongside 27 once again with the Ira Mountain bridge in full view (which may be called ‘Claybrook Road’ on online maps). My frigid fingers fumbled for my phone to call Sarah and I informed her of my whereabouts, proposing that she meet me further downstream and hop on for the last few miles. I then snapped a quick video of the bridge to send to my buddy who has a camp back in the Ira Mountain woods, hoping to inspire some incredulity when he opened it: ‘What the hell are Brady and his raft doing on the ‘bassett in December!?’ He has been a co-conspirator on many other nutty adventures, however, so probably wasn’t all that surprised. I did get a supportive honk from a passing car, though, as I eddied out behind a boulder upstream of the bridge. (I can’t lie—hoping to get a few jaws to drop as they spotted me floating along in my blue Hypalon bathtub gave me a bit of impish satisfaction.)

Just below the bridge—roughly 5 miles into the run—the river makes a slight turn to the left and constricts along the river right bank. While this rapid is a straightforward tongue, it did provide the biggest waves of the trip, with one nearing three feet. All good fun! Most of the next two miles were a mixture of fun-but-easy class I/II, frequently paralleling Route 27 on river-right. Cruising along in the current, I heard my VHF walkie talkie crackle: “Sarah to bucket boat—do you copy?” I had company! These radios were a great gift from my parents a few years ago, meant to facilitate my various adventures in the Maine woods where cell coverage is often spotty. Also, they are waterproof—super handy on this day when my phone was often stowed where I might not have heard it. We established that we would meet at a scenic turnout just a bit further downstream and she’d join me for the final stretch to Kingfield. Just upstream of our rendezvous point was another cool feature that only exists when the conditions are right: a smooth rock outcropping on river right with several distinct jets of water flowing down it and plunging into the eddy below. It wasn’t Yosemite Falls, but nonetheless a very pleasant feature.

No more than five minutes later, I spied Sarah high on the right bank. I eddied out below and she scrambled down to meet me. By now the light was starting to wane, but we had plenty to get down to Kingfield. Having another human onboard meant a deeper draft; after a bit of bouncing and shuffling, we freed ourselves from the shallows and got out into the current. Just over a mile downstream, the river divides around a sandbar (really a cobble-bar), and we went right, hugging the road. The channel is very difficult at this level, and required lots of pivoting to get through. One last obstacle course before the take-out! In less than a half mile we were looking for a convenient spot to take out on river-right where a steep, open bank leads from the road down to the river. With less or more water, the take-out might have been a bit easier, but as it stood, there were no easy shallows upon which to beach the raft as the bank plunged deeply at river’s edge. This resulted in us floating a bit farther downstream than we had hoped, then me scrambling over the raft’s ice-caked tubes with my flip-line clipped to a D-ring, and finally pulling the raft back upstream. We hauled the raft up onto the weedy bank just as dusk was settling in.

I threw on my headlamp and hurdled over the guardrail to run back up Route 27 to the car—not a great place/time to be a pedestrian. I frequently took refuge in the gully below the shoulder as southbound traffic whizzed by in the dark. After about ten minutes I made it to the Subaru parked at the turnout and bee-lined back to the take-out. There’s no real shoulder in the northbound lane along the river, so I temporarily parked in the gravel pullout where Tufts Pond Road intersects with 27. I jumped back over the guardrail, and slid down the bank to Sarah and the raft. Time to deflate and go! Just one small issue: the entire raft was caked in ice like some mutant blue glazed cruller from Dunkin Donuts. Not only were the tubes iced over, but the valves were frozen shut as well. I tried to unscrew the (old-school military) valves and they wouldn’t budge. Crap. We were getting cold and the raft wasn’t getting any smaller, so I tethered it to a nearby tree with my flip-line. I’d come back in the morning with a few Nalgenes’ worth of hot water and deflate it then. We shouldered the oars, frame and drybags up the steep bank and I scampered across the road to retrieve the car. After I pulled back around onto the north side of 27, we threw the gear in with the urgency of a NASCAR pit crew since we were stopped in a somewhat-sketchy position. We then flicked our seat warmers on, headed back up the valley, and turned our thoughts to the fried culinary delights we’d order from The Bag.

Mercifully, the next morning brought temps right around freezing at Sugarloaf, and a few degrees warmer down in the valley. When I arrived in Kingfield, the raft looked none the worse for wear, and the Carrabassett had continued to ebb, exposing much more riverbank. Despite the warmer temps, the valves were still frozen, requiring two of the three Nalgenes of water I had brought along for de-thawing. (Side note—this whole freeze-thaw thing probably isn’t ideal for the upkeep of either the valves or the raft they’re attached to. I do know, however, that Hypalon is a lot less likely to crack in cold conditions compared to PVC.) I heaved the hunk of cold rubber into the back of the Outback and headed back to The ‘Loaf. (Given her trooper-ism of the day before, I thought it was appropriate to spare Sarah the raft retrieval mission.)

As I wound my way upstream, I kept gazing out the passenger side window at the water levels. “No way I would have made it down today,” I thought to myself. The satisfaction of hitting the river when it was just right, mere hours before the navigable channels disappeared, made me quite happy. In a year that has stolen so much from so many, I’d stolen one last rafting adventure from 2020.