Up with the Peak

“Up with the Peak!” shouted the captain.

I looked up at the mast. I had opted for the peak line because it looked easier. Now it looked formidable. I planted my feet more firmly, changed my grip and started to pull. It took a while for me to get the rhythm-not too fast, not too slow. Hand over hand; it was easy until the sail started to rise.

“Up with the throat!”

The un-showered barely-caffeinated sailors on the other side of the boat started to heave.

“Way hey, up she rises. Way, hey up she rises…” the mate started to sing.

We heaved, pulled and struggled to raise the sail, two lines of strangers working for a common goal for the first of many times.

“Way, hey, up she rises, earl-eye in the morning.”

“Early, indeed,” someone behind me grumbled.

And it was true we had only had coffee. The rule was, first the sail, then breakfast. The smell of bacon cooking on a wood stove first thing on a chilly morning on the water was the incentive we needed. Such anticipation. My stomach growl in response. But first, the sails.

First one mumbled voice joined the song, then another. Soon we were all singing lustily.

“Way HEY, up she RISES, Way HEY, up she RISES.”

The rhythm of the song matched perfectly with the pull on the line.

With the sail high above us, we had such a sense of accomplishment. The crew quickly moved to tie it off. We moved down to the next mast.

“Up with the Peak!”

Now, we knew what to expect.

It was our first day on a weeklong windjammer trip in the Penobscot Bay. Two friends and I wanted an adventure, so in the depth of winter we decided to go sailing. We researched the options and chose the J&E Riggin out of Rockland, Maine.

The boat left the first week of June. The very first time the schooner was going out that summer. With only 8 passengers, we had no option to sit around, drinking coffee while others hauled away at the lines. We were the crew! We loved it. This is what we came for.

The trip was fantastic. I have fond memories of the smell of wood smoke from the stove in the galley; the taste of milky fish chowder eaten on the deck in the chilly air; the feel of the boat running in the wind, water rushing in the scuppers, with us hanging onto anything we could; going ashore to come out of the little store to be completely shrouded in fog, and eating lobsters and clams dumped from their seawater bath onto cold Maine island rocks.

I have gone windjamming many times since then on different boats in many different places. Any time there is a tall ship, I will be the first in line to buy tickets—all because of my experience raising sail the first week of June, 1983.

4-2+2

Do we need boots? I asked the guide. He nodded. Ok. I shrugged, so it was going to be a little soggy hike. It was only a mile. I was thinking positive thoughts; after having spent a whole exhausted day hiking in the soggy, muddy, Alaska wilderness last week; I knew what was coming, but, hoped for the best. (This should be a warning… all Alaskan have knee-high rubber boots called Xtra Tuf for a reason—even the little kids have them.)

I hopped out of the van and pulled on my Neos. I strode confidently after the guide. We were after Great Gray Owls, a target bird for me. There was a stand of aspen trees and an old nest site—maybe there were some owls around this year. We were no more than around the bend in the path before it got wet, squishy even.

Hmmmmmm. Not good. I slogged along. Maybe I should mention that I am short. Lifting my leg over each hummock of grass and hoping for solid footing and sinking mid-calf in water was disheartening. What am I talking about…it was hard work. Lift, step, squish, lift, step, sink, lift step, yank. There was moss, and reindeer lichen, and other sorts of water loving plants; beautiful, but when you step on the grass/moss/stuff you sink. As you pull your foot up, the vegetable matter tries to keep your boot.

Grumble. Grumble. Grumble. This had better be worth. We hiked for 20 miles—OK it was only 3 miles in all but it felt like 100. After several turns and the shedding of multiple layers, we arrived at the stand of trees. Whew. We crept into the stand. (Well, maybe not crept. There were 5 of us and we were cracking branches when we stepped and splashing in the water. Any respectable owl would have fled.) We stood in the grove of trees and listened and watched for about an hour. Nothing. There was a single white (maybe gray) feather attached to the tree where the nest was/had been. We heard lots of birds. We saw Wilson’s Warbler, Pine Grosbeaks, Boreal Chickadees. No owls. But that is what birding is sometimes.

We slogged back the way we had come. I fell behind. I was tired. I was disgusted. I am more of a distance hiker, not a sprinter. The others were younger, spryer, and I admit it, more fit. I was just putting one foot before the other, like a mule at Bryce canyon.

While there were neither Great Grays nor Hawk Owls on this Owls of the North trip; we did see Saw-whets, and Boreals. As a bonus, we also saw a Short-ear, and a Great Horned. So of the 4 targets for the trip, we missed 2 but gained 2 others.

Overall, the Owls of the North weekend with Wilderness Birding Adventures was terrific. Aaron, our guide is an incredible birder, knows where the birds are and is nice guy. I would totally bird with him again. I got 7 new lifers. If you are thinking of going on a birding trip to Alaska, hook up with them. But, I hear Nome is the place to go for birds of Alaska. You might have me on the trip. If so, hope there is less hiking in the muck.