Champlain coast delights kayakers
Palisades high point of trip
By Judy Wolf, Explorer Correspondent
It is a balmy weekend, and my husband
and I have a free Saturday. Not ones for
letting a vivid autumn day go to waste,
we’ve decided to spend it paddling a pair of
16-foot plastic sea kayaks along one of the
more spectacular waterborne day trips in
the Adirondack region: the stretch of Lake
Champlain between Westport and Essex.
After strapping our dog, a border collie named Indie,
into a bright-yellow life vest and coaxing him into the rear
compartment of Andrew’s boat, we slide our kayaks down
the public launch in Westport and into the tranquil waters
of Northwest Bay. Fog obscures the horizon. Somewhere
beyond us is Vermont. “We may actually need this compass,”
says Andrew, happy with his deck-mounted toy.
“Or we could follow the coast,” I point out. Not to be
deterred, he fiddles with the chart and takes a bearing
before paddling off.
Pointing our kayaks north, we head toward the Palisades,
considered by many to be the most stunning section
on the lake. Overhead, shrouded by mist, Canada
geese honk their migration harmonies. Before us, a small
gathering of mergansers speeds to a safe distance, leaving
wedge-shaped ripples in their wake.
As we leave the bay, I notice zebra mussels coating the
shallow rock beneath our boats. Despite the threat they
pose to the ecosystem, municipal water supplies and historical
underwater shipwrecks, the colony strikes me as
remarkably beautiful: delicate-looking striped shells are
arrayed in graceful and random patterns beneath the flickering
surface of the lake.
Our paddle blades cut through billows of algae bloom, a
solemn reminder that our everyday actions—even those as
seemingly trivial as our choice of dish detergent—have
far-reaching consequences. Andrew informs me that
stormwater runoff from neighboring towns and farmland
carries high levels of phosphorus into the lake, profoundly
altering the ecosystem and resulting in this sinuous
cloud of blue-green cells. Toxic at high levels, the algae
growth is one of the reasons Essex Beach, where we plan
to stop for lunch, has been closed.
The tang of fallen leaves infuses the air, drawing us forward.
Our progress is punctuated by the splash of rising
trout. We explore the wrinkled shoreline along Hunter
Bay, Partridge and Rock harbors, then look up in amazement
as the sun begins to burn through the fog, revealing
a sheer rock cliff on our left. Three goldeneyes dive for
fish at its base.
Andrew and the dog paddle closer, suddenly dwarfed by
the immensity of the precipice, anorthosite (a granitelike
igneous rock) more than a billion years old. Ahead of us,
near Split Rock Mountain, the lake was carved by glaciers
to its maximum depth—more than 400 feet—and then
covered in seawater for 2,500 years. Beluga whales once
swam here. An 11,000-year-old whale skeleton was
unearthed in 1849 near Charlotte, Vermont—directly
across the lake from where we will finish our outing.
Sun reflections dapple the rock face lining the lake.
Trees adorned in autumn hues crown pewter-colored cliffs
like blazing jewels: ruby, topaz, fire opal. An osprey soars
along the shoreline and, landing in a dead tree high overhead,
folds its wings to survey the scene.
On the southern tip of Snake Den Harbor
we stop for a snack at a spot maintained by
the Lake Champlain Committee, which is
working to create a Paddlers’ Trail with
sites—indicated by small blue markers—
every eight miles along the lake. From a
small rocky beach, a short trail leads abruptly
uphill, then jogs left at a fork and makes a
hairpin turn onto the ledge above the beach.
A clearing affords a dramatic view east and
south along the lake and a lovely excuse for
stretching one’s legs.
By the time we set off again, motorboats
have begun to make an appearance. This
time Indie sits in the back hatch of my
boat, nose moving constantly as he tests
the breeze. In the near distance, clusters of
sailboats stand out against an azure sky
decorated with streaks of cirrus.
The next three miles provide ample opportunity
to explore coves and harbors, as we
move in and out of pockets filled with warm
sun. At Split Rock—a huge, fractured boulder
attached to shore by a tenuous spit of
land—we pass what once marked the boundary
between New France and New England.
Just south of Split Rock stands a skeletal steel
tower and a lighthouse made of blue limestone,
built in 1867 to guide ships through the
Narrows. The steel tower held the light from
1928 until 2003, when the original lighthouse
was recalled to active duty.
Around the point, two sets of beaches
beckon alluringly. This stretch of land, however,
is owned by people who enjoy their
privacy, so we continue along the shoreline
for another mile. At the Essex Town Beach,
we chat with locals whose boats lie sheltered
on the shore. Having driven a single
car, we had left a bicycle locked to a tree for
use as our shuttle vehicle.
After a leisurely lunch, Andrew changes
clothes and pedals south for 7.7 miles over
hilly terrain while I load up the dog and paddle
another 2.5 miles north to the hamlet of
Essex. Passing quaint beach cottages and
rolling countryside, I paddle steadily over
rippling water. The lake is more than 120
miles long and up to 12 miles wide in places,
ample fetch on windy days to build significant
swells, enough (especially with a headwind)
to make for a challenging—and possibly
even dangerous—day. On this calm afternoon,
however, the sun glistens dreamily.
Behind me, the dog has fallen asleep, his
chin resting on the edge of the hatch, pillowed
by his life vest. The rhythm of my
paddling is even and meditative. The public
landing at the tip of Beggs Park provides a
quiet place to beach the boat. I await my
ride at the Old Dock House Restaurant,
where patrons can watch the ferries shuttle
back and forth across the lake to Vermont.
Essex itself begs to be explored. This
old-world hamlet predates the Civil War
and comprises about 150 buildings, all on
the National Register of Historic Places.
Founded in 1765, this prosperous shipbuilding,
quarrying and mining town faded
into obscurity when the switch from canalto
rail-based transportation left this enchanting
place in a time capsule.
Map by Nancy Bernstein
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