Put-in on the Baker River at Smith Road Bridge

The plan was to paddle three connecting rivers starting in Plymouth, NH to our hometown of Penacook, NH. The three rivers would be the Baker, Pemigewasset, to the Merrimack. Traversing these rivers would mean portaging three dams, Ayers Island Dam, Bristol, Franklin Falls Dam, Franklin, and Eastman Falls Dam, Franklin. As the saying goes, the best laid plans of mice and men…our plan called to do all three portages in one day.

At the last minute one of the crew bailed leaving only Graham White and myself. Graham in a fifteen foot tin can for a canoe, I paddled my trusty ol’ hogged backed OT 158. Now, here is something that I just don’t understand. When going on an extended trip, let’s say two weeks I can pack to the minimal, two Duluth Packs and a dry bag. But on these weekend, three day excursions I feel an impulse to fill every nook and cranny in my canoe with gear!

By noon on Friday we were on the Baker River. The rain of the previous day helped immensely and the river was now knee deep instead of a mere seven inches. Poling our way down the sandy bottom we came to the Pemi within two hours or so. The Pemi had some very good current and we were blessed with a tailwind. Had this been my buddy Hal the Gullboy along we would have been faced with a headwind the entire weekend!

First Campsite.

Leaving Plymouth behind us we made it to Squam River cutting in from river right. An island with a large beach at the lower end called for us to make camp there for the night. Although a tad early, and a few miles to short it was a good call as there proved to be nothing else downstream the next day for campsites, unless, however, we wished to camp at Jellystone Campground with the hordes of out of state folks roughing it. After filling our canoes with downed trees from the shoreline we settled in for an evening around the fire of good food and beverages till well into the night.

Bleary eyed we got a late start, perhaps nine or so. Thinking we had only about three miles to go till the first portage we set out. This “thinking’ would be the downfall of our day. Paddling past Jellystone not one soul waved to us despite a few hoots and hollers and waves from our passing boats. Guess we were just another one of the views for all these folks. Soon we hit the deadwater behind the first dam and the wind decided to test us. Wave after wave of wind blasted us to the point where I put my PFD on, hadn’t needed it in the lower waters. One blast actually tipped my canoe on edge. Grunting through this we came to Ayer’s Island Dam. Up the hill, across a flat, and then down a forty-five degree hill to the put in. Graham had brought a makeshift portage cart which we quickly figured out wasn’t going to work. Using mine we made the back and forth walks and quickly got our boats back on the water.

The cart, bearing one well-used canoe.

This next section is a good whitewater run that is regulated by the dam and the Merrimack Valley Paddlers have a get together here. On this day it was bony and we had to pick our way through the best we could. That ol’ hogged backed OT of mine did the same its been doing for years now, slid right over every rock I managed to hit, never once getting stuck. Poor Graham in his aluminum can caught on every single rock and hung like a fly on glue. I had to laugh as I watched him do a 360 trying to get unstuck. He finally broke out his pole and maneuvered his way down with that. This was pretty much the last of the fast water until the last dam, only two more portages to go.

We now glided down into what is called Old Hill Village. Back in 1936-7 a hurricane ripped through New England and basically flooded the Merrimack and all of its tributaries. Hill was not spared. When the carnage was over the buildings that were left were carted up to higher ground where New Hill Village now presides. The Army Corp of Engineers came in and built the dams that we would portage around and took a certain amount of land on the banks of the river as their own, federal land now. We had the idea of bootleg camping in this are but we were shutdown in this endeavor. Looking downstream I noticed a johnboat with a motor on it, a mere dot on the edge of shore. If I could see them they could see us!

We pulled over and took a short break and I decided to wander up this trail to the ancient road that borders the river. There in front of my eyes was a white Ford F150 with the logo on the door, Army Corp of Engineers and leaning against it with his arms folded across his chest, in uniform, was a member of the Corp. I’d call it a polite interrogation but he made it clear that we were not camping along this stretch of the river and that there may be someone waiting at Franklin Falls Dam to check on us. A shaking of hands and I’m back to the river to inform Graham that we now have about nine miles more ahead of us and the sun was already sinking behind the tree-line. As soon as we hit the middle of the river that white johnboat zoomed off, in my opinion a bad omen for any continued thoughts about trying to make a bootleg camp. I’m sure there’s a fine for camping down there but I didn’t want to find out what it is.

We grunted downstream at a good clip and finally made the next dam and portage as the sun sank. What lay ahead was another couple mile stretch between two dams, another portage, a run down class I to II depending on release and then ten miles more to a campsite on the Merrimack. The half -mile uphill portage took more time than we thought as it went from dim light to pitch black. All of those nooks and crannies I had filled with extra tidbits quickly came into mind while portaging. We quickly made some phone calls and arranged a shuttle. By the time we had portaged the second canoe up, loaded up and hit the next put in, well below the last dam it was almost eleven p.m. Under a waning moon we drifted down to Crete’s Beach as it’s called on the Merrimack and setup tents. Dinner by midnight, a few cocktails, bed by one in the morning.

Sleeping late at 2nd Camp on Crete's Beach

Sunday morning found us in tent city. There must have been at least ten tents on the sandbar. We only had a few miles to go so we lounged like lizards in the sun, drinking coffee, chewing on what was left for food and waiting for the others to leave. Around noon we finally pushed off and did a leisurely float down the Merrimack to take out.

Graham declared himself a tripper now, not a tripping virgin. I’ve decided that you can’t camp in as many places on NH river’s as you once could and because of that going from point A to point B by way of river may be a thing of the past. Regardless, it was a great long weekend, we only had to abandon about ten miles due to that snafu on the flood plains and was a great way to see the state by water.

Willing Paddle Partner Graham.

View from the River