One clear, bright spring day a canoeing buddy calls me up. “I’ve been watching the water level on the Sandy River, and it looks good for a whitewater run. Are you free for a paddle this evening from Strong to the Fairbanks Bridge?” My answer is a quick“Yes!” It is spring, and spring means whitewater season. Let’s go!

The Sandy is a river of many moods – or at least of many water levels. At spring run-off, or after a few days of steady rain, the Sandy rises to fill the river bed bank-to-bank, waters churning in a rush over submerged rock and ledge. But a few days after the last of the snow melt has run downstream, and after a few rainless days, the water level drops steadily.

As levels decline, the Sandy first becomes a navigable – but surely demanding – whitewater course. A few more days and the river becomes a get-out-and-drag-the canoe waterway. The reason? No headwater lake feeds the Sandy, and there are no dams to regulate the flow. Paddlers watch for “Goldilocks” water levels – just right, and those are the conditions on this spring day.

We spot a vehicle at the take-out point by Fairbanks Bridge, on the west shore of the river, by the baseball field. This point is 3 miles north of downtown Farmington on Maine Highway 4 (Delorme Maine Atlas Map #20, C-1). Next we drive 8 miles to the Maine Highway 145 bridge in Strong, off Maine Highway 4. The carry-in launch point is just before the bridge, by the Strong baseball field, on the west shore (Delorme Maine Atlas Map #18, B-5).

It is not a coincidence to find baseball fields at either end of the canoe route. The Sandy has created broad intervale land as it has changed course over the centuries. Once prime ground for farming, this rich bottomland offers rare flat terrain in the midst of our mountain and foothill country – just right for a ball field.

When we carry our canoe and gear down the steep launch path, we find the river to be running swiftly, with ample water. A steady wind blows out of the northwest. We will have that wind at our backs. A check of the watches shows us putting in at 4 p.m. This leaves plenty of daylight for an expected 2 hour run, and we have left ourselves an hour or more of extra daylight in case we have a mishap or delay.

The late-afternoon sun throws a glow across the water, and against the spruce, fir, and pine along the riverway. The maples, birch, ash, and popple have yet to leaf out fully, but that process is surely underway. The red maples are in the flowering stage that gives them their name, scarlet blossoms hanging like ornaments. The birch and popple are in the early stages of leafing – small, nearly lime-green, leaf tips just out. There are no signs of other craft on the water, and we very likely will have the river to ourselves.

We have packed with care. Besides our Type III Personal Flotation Devices (PFD), which we wear, snugly belted and zipped, we each have a PFD IV boat cushion that would as an added safety aide if we find ourselves in the water. Spring water is cold, and can quickly disable a swimmer. I bring boat cushions on every canoe outing. They take up no room – I sit on mine!

Other safety gear includes 10’ bow and stern lines – more points of contact with the canoe if one of us falls in. These ropes are handy if we encounter water levels so low that we need to get out to “line” the canoe. Lining is to walk a canoe or kayak through shallows, walking either in the water or on the nearby shore, while guiding the craft by these bow and stern lines.

A “throw bag” is another standard item. This is a coiled rope in a bag with a wrist loop. If one paddler is in the water, the other can hold one end of the rope with the wrist loop, then throw the bag to the person in the water. The rope uncoils as it is thrown. One person can then haul the other to shallow water, or to shore.

More precautions! We each carry a change of clothes, a “space blanket” for warmth, headlamps, whistles, a small boat horn, first aid supplies, food and water. All of this fits in a small waterproof bag, about the size of a couple of loaves of bread, which I clip to a canoe thwart. A good rule for packing a canoe (or kayak), is to tie down everything that I hope to see again. I use carabiners as clips, which makes access easy.

If this seems like a lot of preparation for a run down a local river, consider what would happen if the canoe should tip, or even become damaged. We want to have the right gear to get dry and warm, and to walk out after dark if we need to. Did I mention footwear? I wear hard-rubber- toed river sandals. Bare feet or open-toed sandals can lead to foot injuries on rocky river bottoms.

The Sandy demands respect. Paddlers have found themselves in real difficulty on the Sandy River by not having the gear to handle a mishap – or by not fastening gear down in event of an overturn.

Let’s paddle! I am in the stern; my paddling buddy has the bow. We arrange a communication system. The bow person is the spotter in white water – the first to see a rock just below the surface, smooth water that turns out to be a sharp ledge and not truly smooth after all, and other obstacles. We agree that he will call out the direction we want to canoe to go, as in “Hard left!” I will paddle from the stern to make that turn, or to use my paddle as a stern rudder for quick moves. Once in a set of rapids it is a bit late to decide how to communicate!

We slide into clear water running quickly over quickly over the stony bottom. The river is wide at the start, and smooth, but that quickly changes as the river makes a right turn, running through a set of rips. We watch for the “tongue” or inverted “V” that usually marks the deepest water, and the main flow of the current. Care is in order, however, in case at the end of the “V” rocks stand in the chop. It can be difficult to distinguish the backwash of the waves, or standing waves, from such a rock. Alertness required!

We keep our distance from downed trees, called “strainers” or “sweepers” that are common along the Sandy. The great fluctuations in water level, which in turn, reflect changes in surges of run-off, erode the riverbanks, tumbling trees into the water. Some are obvious, prominent as they stick half-in, half-out, of the water. But others lie just below the surface. Strainers can catch a canoe or kayak, causing it to flip, and even pin the craft and paddlers underwater – and we want none of that. We are watchful.

After our first great turn to the right (west), the river completes one of its common s-turns by swinging back to the east, away from Highway 4, and out of sight of it. We watch closely for where the most water is – paddling far enough on the outside of curves to have ample water, but not so close to the shore as to get thrown onto shoreline rocks on the outside of a curve. Our communication system passes the test. There is quite a bit of maneuvering called for – changes in river channels, submerged rocks just below the surface. We make quick turns when we need to, change course when we need to, and move quickly through fast water.

The whitewater alternates with flat water. Just enough time to look at the view – out at Stubbs Mountain, and then Day Mountain, looming in the west. More s-turns, small and great, and we approach a divide in the river above the so-called Devils Elbow. This point, where the river returns to the edge of Highway 4 before swinging well away from it again, offers a choice. One is to go with the main river, turning to the west where it broadens and tends to run shallow.

The other option is a narrow channel along the west bank. This water in this channel is often too low to paddle all the way through, but we scouted it on the drive up, and decide to give it a go. If we have to get out and line the canoe, we are equipped for that. So narrow is this channel that we can almost touch the nearby banks by extending our paddles – but we make it through without incident. In another day or two, we probably would have had to line this route.

Beyond the Devil’s Elbow the Sandy swings to the west once again, passing the inlet of Mcleary Brook. Hunter Mountain rises above the east shore, highest point along the ridge that runs from Strong to Fairbanks. With the hardwoods not yet leafed out, we enjoy long views in all directions.

We keep up a chatter about navigating the many rips, rocks, and waves; and about all that we see in the riverside woods. But from time to time, we agree to hold silence to let the roar of the river and rush of the wind, provide the sound-track. A pileated woodpecker drums in the woods. A raven croaks, wings its way overhead, flies off. Waves splash off river rocks with a “swish” or a “click”.

The river is high enough to produce “standing waves”, which offer some good bounce, and require careful maneuvering to avoiding swamping the canoe. Water rushing down a steep pitch creates the wave action – water falling back upon itself. This is similar to what happens at the ocean when water that has been driven up onto the shore recedes quickly back into the sea, creating a backwash. Not a rock, but the flow of water, creates this type of whitewater. These waves can be above gunnel-height on a canoe.

Standing waves are great fun to run, but hold much force. Paddlers must be alert to paddle through them, not just ride them out – and, of course, be alert lest a wave is not water alone, but water washing back over a rock. We take on some water while running one set of waves, but not much. After a few scoops with our bailers – fashioned form gallon milk jugs – we have a fairly dry canoe again.

At one point the river makes a sharp turn by a great sand bank. Here that downstream wind bounces off the bank, and circles back to hit us head on. In spite of the swift current, we have to paddle hard to maintain headway! This is the wind equivalent of a back eddy in a river, where the current turns upstream after swinging around a corner.

In another stretch of water, after we run some good rips, I turn around for a look back – and suddenly our canoe is turning broadside to the river, which is not a position to be in when whitewater looms. We had been hit by a true back-eddy, the water version. Just as I shipped my paddle to look back, the eddy started to push us off course. I work a hard rudder in the stern, my buddy paddles hard in the bow, and we straighten ourselves just in time for the next whitewater stretch. Did I already say “Be alert!”?

What a time of day to be on the water! Low, glowing light; white water sparkling in the sun; the continuous low roar of the river. Life is good. Our downriver run brings us past that bottomland prized by early settlers for its rich loam. Old farmsteads alternate with newer homes. Countless chairs and benches sit on the many bluffs along the river, where people come to sit on a summer evening for the river-riding breeze, and to watch the water flow.

The Fairbanks Bridge comes into view, and our paddle outing draws to an end. We have paddled 9-10 river miles in one hour and forty-five minutes, well-aided by a swift current. On other days, with slower, shallower water, I have taken 3 hours to cover the same distance. Such are the moods of the Sandy River.

For first-timers on whitewater, I recommend traveling with an experienced white-water paddler. Even at low water and slow current, there may be unseen rocks, deep holes into which a paddler dragging a canoe or kayak might step, and back currents. “Reading” a river – knowing what course to take, how to distinguish water spilling off a rock from a standing wave, and how to rescue oneself from a dunking are among the essential white-water skills to be learned. Pursue this great sport with a competent instructor, follow all due safety measures and a new world of outdoor enjoyment may open up!

Text and photos

Copyright 2015

Douglas Allan Dunlap