Before the COVID-19 quarantines started some weeks back, Souzz and I snuck in an overnight paddling trip to Hopeville Canyon in West Virginia. We’d run that stretch on day trips several times before, so a packrafting camping trip was a new twist in a familiar place (and a socially distant twist at that).
On the drive up, Souzz asked if I knew anyone that had camped in the canyon before. I answered that I didn’t know anybody, that the run was a “known first.” This little fun fact added to the anticipation for me, but it made Souzz a bit anxious. She remembered plenty of those kinds of trips in the past, like the time when an escaped cow wandered through our camp, or the time when daylight revealed a giant pile of trash next to our late night bivouac.
Her reaction was an amusing contrast in our partnership: one of us balances adventure with sensibility, and the other unwittingly camps next to garbage dumps.
Lots of gear
Inflating
Gear stores inside
Gear stores inside
Alpacka, loaded & ready
The drysuit gasket dance
Even with all of the sunshine, it was a pretty raw day, and my hands were freezing as I biked the shuttle back from the takeout (after dropping off the car).
Our shuttle vehicle
And we’re off
An hour after launching, we were sitting streamside next to a roaring fire—staying plenty warm despite a brisk wind and temps in the high 30s.
As for our camp, the shoreline was a bit rocky, the tent wasn’t quite level, and the wind was pulsing…but this place was all ours, away from the city and the lights and the people and the tension. We shared a pasta dinner as we enjoyed the sounds from the rush of the river and some passing mergansers.
We were in an area that doesn’t get much use (we didn’t see a single footprint, a rarity in the East), so wood was plentiful. We fiddled with the fire well into the night–moving a stick here and a log there—and we found ourselves wondering if this might be the last time that we camped for a while.
The backcountry has a tendency to re-order one’s priorities, and this trip was no exception. With so much happening in the world, it was great to focus on staying warm, finding our way downriver, and pulling together a few meals. Thankfully, we also managed to avoid errant cows and heaps of garbage.
As we drove home, we enjoyed reminiscing about past trips and I let my mind wander a bit…until Souzz pointed out that we were almost out of gas. But this time our reactions were in sync, perhaps because our running out of gas is not a “known first.”
I’ve wanted to visit the Chesapeake Bay’s Tangier Island ever since I read a travel article about it back in the 1990s. The island was first charted in 1608, and its history is completely outsized for a place that is less than 1/2 of a square mile in land mass. The human history stretches from Native Americans through the Revolutionary War and on through to the watermen of the 1800s and 1900s—and many of those same families continue to ply the bay for crabs and oysters to this day.
First view of Tangier
Approaching the main harbor
Lots of crab pots
There has been an explosion of interest in Tangier in the past few years, primarily because it is eroding into the bay at an alarming pace. About two thirds of the island has disappeared since the 1850s, and the rate of loss is now accelerating. Whether the cause is climate change or a natural cycle is a subject of some debate among the islanders–but one thing that most residents can agree about is their desire to preserve the island.
Crab pots in the main harbor
Ookire’s shanty
Our weekend overnight visit wasn’t motivated at all by erosion; quite to the contrary, we were drawn by the sameness of the place. Tangier is disconnected and isolated from the mainland by ten miles of open water, so “conventional” change has been slow to come. And that is definitely a strong part of its draw.
We headed to Tangier on the ferry out of Crisfield, Maryland, on a scorching hot Saturday with our good friends Lou and Kay. We shared our boat with a big gathering of day-trippers from nearby Dorchester County (maybe 100+ people in their group, very friendly, from two local churches).
The Steven Thomas, out of Crisfield
Leaving the mainland behind
Souzz contemplating
A busy ride
Sharing a ride with a lot of new friends
Everything here is ours, except the trash can
Lou as we approach Tangier
Once at the dock in Tangier, we watched as folks streamed into the few restaurants and the nearby ice cream shop, overwhelming the town and swelling its population by 20% (from 400 to 500+) for a few very busy hours.
Main street during a peak in visitors
While our fellow travelers enjoyed lunch and bought a souvenir or two, we headed to the south end of the island to spend some time on the beach. And when we got back to town, most had already left for Crisfield on the 4pm boat.
The lovely beach at the south end
Looking to the south
Black skimmers
Water temp was perfect
Quite fashionable
The islanders are friendly and patient, and they clearly benefit from tourism. But I caught myself thinking that it could get old to be looked on as a curiosity, especially when big groups of tourists overrun the place. So we tried to be mindful of that as we made our way through town. After all, we were tourists, too.
We enjoyed the softshell crabs at Lorraines
Softshell crabs, Tangier style
Anyway, once the big group was gone, it felt like we got a truer glimpse of Tangier. The restaurants weren’t packed, the streets were quiet, and the locals were still friendly and patient—but with a bit more time to share, and at a pace that one resident described as “island time.”
Just wide enough for a golf cart
Looking down the main street
City center, absent the tour boat crowds
A nice quick way to get around
Lou and Kay enjoy the sunset
Watermen’s communities are amazingly quiet at night
As for the town itself, there are a few places to eat, a handful of shops, bike and golf cart rentals, and a few B&Bs–including theBay View Innand its wonderful hosts, Maureen, Jim and David. The Bay View Inn’s owners treated us like family from the start, even though tourists on Tangier are often called “come-heres” in local parlance. Lou and I took their cue about family and began teasing each other like teenage brothers, which culminated in a breakfast haiku contest that probably isn’t fit for a family blog. But what’s a weekend without a little combat haiku?
Bay View Inn
Some of the rooms, along with the main deck
Our accommodations, with a lovely porch
Enjoying a lovely breakfast, just before combat haiku broke out
Looking out towards town from the Bay View Inn
Rooms are nice and clean
Kay, Maureen, son David, and Souzz
A good sense of Lou’s (and my) maturity level
As one would expect, things are simple on the island, and there aren’t a lot of amenities. There’s almost no cell reception, and you need to be willing to get a little wet and a little hot and maybe fight a few bugs to really explore the place. Tangier is a beautiful island in the middle of a bay–but it’s not Nantucket, and by all indications it doesn’t aspire to be.
A walking (or cart-riding) map of the town
A nice map of the water trails
Souzz ready to kayak
Taking a break from kayaking
You can see the water tower from most anywhere
Headed back to town
Black skimmers
A look back at the town from the south
In addition to the excellent sea kayaking (kayaks are available at no charge from the Bay View Inn), a highlight of our visit was a tour of a crab shanty in the main harbor. Ookire Eskridge, a life-long waterman and the town’s mayor, was our tour guide. He was very friendly and very patient (and funny) as he explained what has been his livelihood for decades. The amount of time and effort that it takes to harvest a soft-shell crab is astounding, and I’ll never eat another one again without thinking of Ookire and his shanty.
Ookire’s shanty
Ookire at the helm of his Chesapeake Bay deadrise (crab boat)
Ookire shows Kay a molting softshell
A “peeler” in the middle of molting. The resulting crab is far larger than its shell, amazing
Souzz and I enjoy our ride out to the shanty
Kay and Lou
Inside the shanty, Ookire’s home away from home
Crabs are moved from pen to pen depending on their stage of molting
Ookire shows us a male hardshell
Live softshells, or “peelers,” ready to head to market in New York City
Looking down the holding pens
A large male “adopts” a female peeler and protects her while she molts
It’s impossible to understand any place, especially one as complex as Tangier, in a simple overnight trip–but we really enjoyed the opportunity to try. We found the islanders to be kind, independent, resourceful, and proud, and there is a very strong sense of community. A few quick examples: there is a list on the church bulletin board of residents that are “shut-ins” (to encourage regular visits), there was amazing teamwork moving supplies at the dock, and looking for Ookire to arrange our tour involved (unsolicited) help from at least five people.
Tangier School, home to about 60 students K through 12
A mix of locals and tourists like us
Swain Memorial Methodist Church, the focal point of the island (1899, on a site dating to 1842)
Beautiful stained glass
Tangier has a long history of military service
Swain Methodist Cemetery. Many graves here date to the mid-1800s
Another view of the cemetery
This is also a community that cares a lot about their island. Many (most? all?) are eager for a sea wall that can help to keep the bay at bay (one resident jokingly asked me to bring two buckets of dirt the next time that I visited). A sea wall is a complicated question these days, but there’s no doubt that Tangier is a treasure.
Many bridges connect the three ridges that make up Tangier
The water tower, Tangier’s most visible landmark
Nice interpretive signs dot the main street
The history museum is well worth the stop
Quite a rich history here
Seems pretty recent to ge betting power
Artifacts from an era gone by (or has it?)
Every trap is hand made
A look at the museum
Sunday afternoon–and our ride home–came too quickly, despite the heat and a little bit of sunburn. These trivial things were just a hint of the challenges and the hard work that it takes to make a living on Tangier–and that doesn’t even take into account the many moods of the open water on the bay.
The water tower, Tangier’s most visible landmark
Many bridges connect the three ridges that make up Tangier
Tangier School, home to about 60 students K through 12
When people can somehow stay the same in an ever-changing world, it sets them apart, and not always in a good way (I think of my cousin’s old-style fanny pack, or Aunt Angela’s tube top). But in Tangier’s case, it’s a good thing, and Tangier is an extremely unique place.
My brother is a great writer and he tells me that there are not “degrees of uniqueness,” that something is either unique or it isn’t. But he’s never been to Tangier.
We just visited the Upper Peninsula of Michigan—commonly called “the U.P.” by all but the most uninformed tourists—and absolutely loved everything about it. Our U.P. trip was a short one, but we crammed in quite a few adventures. We kayaked atPictured Rocks National Lakeshoreon Lake Superior, mountain biked onGrand Island, and stopped by Mackinac Island for an overnight on the way home.
Beautiful scene at Painted Rocks
The colors are amazing
Fat tire bikes on Grand Island
Lost (again)
Looking down on the George Spencer, which sank in 1905
Mackinac (pronounced “Makinaw”) is a tiny little island (two miles long) out in Lake Huron, and visiting is like time travel—no cars, lots of horse-drawn carriages, and buildings and hotels dating to the 1800s.
The Grand Hotel, built in 1886
The Star Line ferry in St. Ignace
You don’t see this many places
Main Street
Beautiful hotels near the ferry
After biking around the entire island…in 45 minutes
We weren’t sure if this sign was real or not…but we think it was
Another stunning property in Mackinac
Mackinac Bridge, built in 1957, connects the U.P. to the rest of Michigan
The U.P. seems largely about the fantastic (ok, Great) lakes and the beautiful northern forests, but it’s also about the food—and you tend to see and hear a lot about pasties, perhaps the most well-known regional treat.
A pastie (pronounced pass-tee), which is basically a pot pie without the pot
But there’s so much more to food in the U.P., in particular the seafood. Coming from the East Coast, I didn’t really associate seafood with Michigan, and yet there is amazing fresh Great Lakes seafood all over the U.P..
On our trip, we fell in love with the local market in the town of Munising,VanLandschoot and Sons. It’s been around for more than 100 years, and it has an amazing selection of whitefish, salmon, trout, fish dip, and smoked fish.
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Like a lot of U.P. businesses, VanLandschoot and Sons is a family affair. It was founded in 1914 by a Belgian immigrant named Philip VanLandschoot who initially set up shop on the shores of Lake Michigan. In 1942, he and his family shifted operations to Munising, a town of about 2,500 on Lake Superior. He fished all summer by boat, and then ice-fished all winter—moving his gear around by horse and sleigh. Those were no doubt different times.
Philip VanLandschoot. Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Paul VanLandschoot, Skippy Ghroel, Philip and Joe VanLandschoot in the 1950s. Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Jerome VanLandschoot, 1987. Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
A fish market in Duluth, across the lake. Commercial fishing on Lake Superior dates to 1834. Photo courtesy of Duluth Public Library
In addition to running a high quality market, VanLandschoot and Sons has also been at the forefront of sustainable fishing practices. In the 1960s, they pioneered the use of trapnets, which are a more responsible way to fish than gillnets. With a trapnet, fish are caught live and any fish that are not being targeted (“bycatch”) can be released. In contrast, gillnets typically kill anything that they catch. The use of trapnets are one of many innovations over the years that have help maintain Lake Superior as a very health commercial fishery.
A diagram of a trapnet
The fleet
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Trapnets in action. Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
Whitefish are one of 88 species of fish in Lake Superior. They are near the lake bottom in terms of habitat, but are clearly near the top in terms of popularity—comprising almost 90% of the commercial harvest. Whitefish owes its popularity in part to its mild flavor, which means that even people who don’t like fish seem to like whitefish (illogical much?).
Photo courtesy of Tim Trombley, GreatLakesPhotography.net
VanLandschoot and Sons is located in a building next to their docks on the edge of town, and there’s nothing fancy about it. But you can see the boats when you are standing in front of their cold case, so I’m thinking you are getting pretty fresh stuff. They also process, filet and smoke everything right on site, with a friendly staff and prices that would make Whole Foods blush.
Photo courtesy of VanLandschoot and Sons
Back at our spacious and lovely AirBnB rental in Munising (we splurged a bit), we pan-fried our whitefish with a little paprika, olive oil, pepper, and lemon juice, and we also made a smoked whitefish dip with green onions and cream cheese. That’s a lot of whitefish, but it was definitely a Superior meal.
It’s funny to think that time spent together in the kitchen was one of the highlights of our vacation. But there’s something special about supporting a local (and responsible) business, eating what’s in season, preparing your meals from the freshest of ingredients, and doing it right near the source. A lot of people go on vacation to get away, but sometimes it’s fun to get closer.
My last post was about the Adirondacks, a place that I’ve visited over and over through the last several decades. There are only a few destinations like that for me, with Alaska leading the pack—but Alaska is such a huge geography that it doesn’t really count (are you really going to the same place when your trips are hundreds of miles apart?).
Another regular stop for me is theNantahala Outdoor Center(NOC), a whitewater paddling school in Western North Carolina. NOC was founded in 1972, which happened to be the same year that the movie Deliverance hit the theaters–with its dueling banjos, twisted locals, and scenic paddling on the nearby Chatooga River. NOC’s timing was perfect, as the movie sparked a huge increase in whitewater recreation. And it did so in spite of its dark plot, like a bump in cruise traffic after seeing Titanic.
Deliverance Rock then
Deliverance Rock now
My first visit to NOC was way back in 1988 for a kayaking class, and I returned the next year for a four-day clinic in whitewater open canoe. I’ve been back maybe ten times since, mostly to brush up on various hardboating skills (learning to roll, river rescue, tandem paddling, playboating, etc.), and have introduced a few friends to the place along the way.
Souzz’s first trip to NOC, in the 1990s
A rare shot of me with a kayak, from about 1988
On the Ocoee, tandem with Souzz
American Gothic style
Whitewater outfitting
KB during a clinic at NOC
Running the Chatooga at NOC some years back
My first taste of canoe instruction
Endering (almost) at the base of Nantahala Falls
Tandem with Souzz on the Chatooga
I was at NOC this past weekend for some more paddling instruction, this time in an ultralight Alpacka packraft. Alpackas weigh in at six pounds and stow easily, which makes them perfect for fly-in or carry-in trips. We were roadside for this trip, but there are trips further afield down the road.
Alpacka packraft, ready to paddle
The full view
My instructor for my clinic wasWill Norris, and I shared with Will that I wanted to get more comfortable in this boat so that I can do more remote trips. On a more general level, I shared that my goals were to have fun and push myself. I didn’t mention to him that those two pursuits are often the same thing for me (although I think he figured it out).
NOC has changed a lot in 30 years, maybe even more than I have. This used to be a sleepy little place, and now there’s a big gear store, a full service restaurant, a tourist train stop, and permanent slalom racing gates across a lower section of the river. And the facilities are much improved, with the old hostel lodging mostly replaced with fancy cabins.
The view upstream
The gear shop has quite the selection
Looking out the window of the gear shop
The bunks used to look like this
Souzz’s sister relaxing in some more modern accommodations
NOC pie!
Celebrating something?!
A past trip with Souzz, her sister, and her niece
Gone are the days of pilot bread and banana chips, and apparently pedicures are mandatory
Most noticeable is that there are a lot more people around, and especially more rafters. The raft crowd doesn’t always get a lot of respect from hardboaters, but rafters create the market that makes for good gear and dam-release whitewater. I’m glad they’re here.
Over the course of the weekend, we paddled three different rivers, the Nantahala (an easy warm-up), the Chatooga (a nice class III), and the French Broad (some bigger water). I refined some strokes, tried some new moves in harder water, and had a chance to revisit some of my motivations for paddling.
Will asked me how I got into paddling, and I shared that I’ve always been drawn to things that I was told I couldn’t (or shouldn’t) do. I’m also drawn to places that are “off limits” because of skills barriers (harder whitewater, glacier travel, requiring avalanche knowledge, etc.). I’ve been fortunate to do some of those things (and fall short at others), and to see at least a few off-limits places. I hope there are more to come.
Koontz Flume, Gauley
Baby Falls, Tellico
New Gorge
Chatooga
As I look back on another trip to NOC, I find myself wondering why someone with an explorer’s mentality has “go-to” destinations in the first place. Psychologists talk about “place attachment,” but adventure travel seems like just the opposite. My favorite place is often the new destination that I’m planning to visit, and once it’s discovered I usually don’t have much interest in going back.
And yet there are a few places–like NOC–that keep me coming back. Maybe I come back because I get to experience myself more than experiencing a place. Maybe it’s harder to reflect if my mind is busy taking in a new view. Maybe the unknown of a familiar place is me?
