All Who Wander Are Not Lost: Searching For The Elusive South Bog Stream In Rangeley, Maine
“Head for that tree stump,” I instructed authoritatively one afternoon earlier this week, as if I knew for sure where we should be heading. I have learned to exude confidence when giving directions on any expedition, even though my navigationally challenged tendencies sometimes lead me and others astray.
My longtime adventuring pals, Mary Lou Lowrie and Nat Steele, dutifully steered their kayaks toward a partially submerged stump, preparing to enter what we hoped would be the mouth of South Bog Stream on Rangeley Lake in Maine’s Western Mountains.
“This looks like it,” Nat agreed. He and I had explored the narrow waterway years ago, hidden among a tangled network of sawgrass, dead-end bays and shallow channels, and were determined to introduce Mary Lou to its magical world of lush foliage, overhanging spruce boughs, nesting birds, rocky rivulets, occasional moose and otter, and elegant seclusion. The problem, of course, was that there are no channel markers, painted signs or other clear indications of the correct route.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mary Lou said gamely, when it soon became obvious we had paddled into a blind alley, “It’s all part of the adventure.”
Mary Lou, a former national champion in her age group in the half-triathlon who has won all sorts of bicycle, cross-country-ski and swimming races, and Nat, also a top skier/kayaker, live in Maine and we try to get together a few times a year for planned or spontaneous outings on land and water.
More often than not these turn into white-knuckle escapades, like the time we got caught out in the middle of a lake in a sudden squall, or combined a 10-mile run with a 4-mile kayak race and a climb up a 4,000-foot peak that ended in pitch darkness.
Anyway, our attempted exploration of South Bog Stream would not be that harrowing or exhausting, but sufficiently challenging to record in the annals of Lowrie-Steele-Fagin exploits.
It began when we paddled a couple miles across Rangeley Lake in a gusty crosswind that kicked up whitecaps and tricky beam waves.
To take advantage of a short stretch of lee we downwind of the tiny South Bog Islands, but had to skirt hidden shoals, sunken logs and other hazards.
As we approached the south shore a giant bird soared just above the tree line. At first I thought it might be an osprey or great blue heron, but then witnessed its broad, powerful wings flapping slowly but mightily.
“An eagle!” I cried, just as the bird disappeared beneath behind the canopy of green.
Soon we entered the shallow, muddy expanse known as South Bog and began our search for the stream that meandered a mile or more from its mouth to source not far from a state park.
We began at the extreme southern end of the bog and paddled a few hundred yards before what we thought would be the stream turned out to be a cove.
“Must be the next one,” I said, so we turned our boats around and paddled to another opening in the shoreline a quarter-mile north.
After we had paddled for about 15 minutes the opening pinched in to a narrow canal lined with tall grass, and finally petered out in mud.
Mary Lou wisely backed her boat out, but I decided to attempt to turn my 19-foot-long kayak around in a channel that probably measured 19 feet, 3 inches wide, much to my companions’ amusement.
Back and forth I went for about 20 minutes. Complicating matters was the fact I neglected to raise my rudder, which became mired in muck.
“I’m attempting to execute a perfect 111-point turn,” I explained. Finally, Nat pulled alongside, helped free my rudder and pushed me past a nettlesome branch.
A few minutes later, after we ventured again down a false opening, I tried a similar maneuver, and Nat steered toward me as if to repeat his rescue operation.
“Don’t worry, I got it this time,” I said, starting to pivot my kayak.
“I’m not trying to help,” Nat chuckled. “I just want to be amused.”
I responded appropriately, completed my turn unassisted and soon we were on our way.
Long story somewhat shortened, we never did find the entrance to South Bog Stream, but after closely examining what appeared to be the most promising lead determined why.
“Looks like beavers have dammed up the entrance,” Nat observed.
Neither Vasco da Gama, Lewis and Clark nor Magellan could have discovered it.
We might as well have been searching for the Northwest Passage of the source of the Amzon. That’s our story and we’re sticking by it.
At the end of our 8-mile paddle a pair of loons paddled past. They probably knew the way to South Bog Stream, I mused. Maybe next time we should just follow them.
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