For viewing shore birds, marine mammals and a veritable Noah’s ark of critters that live near the water, nothing beats a kayak. Over the years I’ve paddled among seals, loons, beavers, sharks, sea turtles, otters, muskrats, snakes, herons, egrets and even a finback whale, to name a few. Often these sightings are by chance, as was a close encounter with the whale off Maine’s Monhegan Island, and sometimes by design, as was the case the other day on the ice-choked, lower Connecticut River.

This section between Essex and Lyme is a haven for native and migratory birds. Osprey, egrets, terns, sandpipers and great blue heron linger from spring through fall; swirling clouds of up to 500,000 swallows descend nightly on Goose Island in late summer; sharp-shinned, red-tailed and other hawks swoop through in autumn, and now in mid-winter is prime time for bald eagles that come here from points north to fish in open water.

Last Sunday I loaded my tandem kayak onto my car and drove with my buddy Steve Kurczy to Lyme, where we met Phil Warner, who had a single strapped to his roof. We planned to put in at Pilgrim’s Landing, but even though the temperature was in the low 50s ice clogged the entire eastern shore, making it difficult if not impossible to launch.

“Let’s try Essex,” I suggested, so we drove across the Baldwin Bridge and headed to a public launch site just north of the Connecticut River Museum.

Sure enough, the shore was clear of ice, though only a few yards out we could see sheets and chunks, some as big as a refrigerator, drifting by with an ebbing tide.

“Uh-oh,” Phil groaned.

Phil is undaunted by 30-mph gusts, sub-freezing temperatures, 6-foot seas, rip currents or Class IV rapids, but ice gives him pause when he is paddling his super-light, super-fast and super-tippy racing boat. Only a thin Kevlar hull, potentially punctured by sharp, hard objects, separates him from frigid water.

Steve and I had no such fears aboard the heavyweight tandem, built more like a Coast Guard icebreaker.

“Just follow us,” I suggested.

We steered due east to Nott Island, barely half a mile off Essex, where I saw a pair of eagles nesting last year, but nobody was home, so we continued across the river and then headed north toward Hamburg Cove.

“I guarantee we’ll see some there,” I promised.

Thunk! Crunch!

With our eyes scanning the sky for eagles we didn’t keep too close a watch on the river, and every 50 yards or so slammed into an icy slab.

“Damn!” Phil exclaimed.

“Don’t worry,” I joked. “If you sink I have some dry clothes.”

A moment later he shouted, “Two o’clock! There’s one … wait … two … and now a third!”

Sure enough, a trio of eagles soared above the trees.

At the mouth of Hamburg Cove another giant bird perched on a dead oak and silently watched us approach, then sprang from a limb, squawked once and flapped to the other side of the river.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to drive you away,” I said. “Let’s keep going north.”

Soon, eagles were everywhere – in trees, soaring among the clouds, diving for fish.

“This is epic!” I exclaimed. Every so often we veered away from jumbles of pack ice, fighting a light headwind and the tide.

Half an hour later we reached Selden Creek at the southern tip of Selden Island, a 607-acre state park that had been the site of granite quarries more than a century ago.

“Let’s go around it,” Phil suggested, so we paddled north through the narrow creek past half a dozen eagles nests. A kingfisher flitted by, and a merganser skimmed the surface like a skipping stone.

Just past a sign advising powerboats to go slowly and not leave a wake, the silence was shattered by the roar of approaching engines.

We turned around in time to see a man and woman aboard Jet Skis fly past at about 30 mph.

They slowed down briefly and the woman shouted, “Nice day for a paddle!” before speeding off.

“It was,” Phil and I replied in unison, though our words were drowned out by the whining engines.

“No more eagles now,” Phil added.

As the creek narrowed ice closed in from both shores, and eventually blocked our route. We could see where the Jet Skis had plowed through, but broken slabs jammed back together.

“I feel like Shackleton,” Phil said, referring to the 20th century Antarctic explorer whose vessel, the Endurance, was trapped and crushed by sea ice before all hands eventually were rescued in one of history’s greatest survival tales.

It wouldn’t have been much of a hardship for us to turn around, but we weren’t about to admit defeat.

“Come on,” I called to Steve Kurczy, paddling in the bow. “Ramming speed!”

Crunch! Our paddles flailing we managed to plow through 2-inch-thick ice for about 10 feet before grinding to a halt.

“Again!”

Steve and I backed the kayak up, then sprinted forward and made it another 10 feet.

“One more time!”

The third time was the charm, and we broke through the ice jam to open water.

Phil was right behind us, and barely managed to squeeze through before the channel closed in again.

“Just in time,” I said. “Homeward bound!”

Propelled by the breeze and tide it took us less than an hour to cover the 6 miles back to Essex.

You don’t have to paddle a kayak to see eagles on the Connecticut River. The Connecticut River Museum (www.ctrivermuseum.org) and Connecticut River Expeditions in Haddam (http://www.ctriverexpeditions.org) both offer cruises through Mid-march.

Of course, you can also try eagle-watching from a Jet Ski, but I wouldn’t advise it.