On Oct. 23, 2020, I set out to do a long-deferred exploration of Newport Bay and its tributaries. Newport is really the northern end of Maryland’s Chincoteague Bay. This was an out and back trip, originating at a launching ramp on a tidal tributary called Marshall Creek. In this fairly uniform landscape of salt marsh, it was crucial that I be able to identify the mouth of Marshall on the return—a challenge that just might come after dark.
Fortunately, I found some distinctive landmarks. No problem. As is not uncommon at this time of year, indeed darkness caught me on the way back. Yet, I managed to identify my landmarks, and ascended the mouth of the creek, which to my surprise shortly dead-ended. What the heck?
Thinking maybe I miscalculated, I doubled back to another creek mouth, which was not it, and again returned for a second look. Dead end again. Then I went farther down the coast in the chance that I had not gone far enough. No luck.
So for yet a third time I ascended my creek. No luck. Dead end. By then it was 11:00 pm, and I had been continuously paddling (i.e. kneeling in my C-1) since 9:00 am. So remembering an attractive little beach on a hummock about a mile back, I doubled back for a bivouac. Ironically, when I first passed this beach, I thought how much I would love to return and spend the night there. Be careful what you wish for!
Anyway, fortunately, I carry an emergency bivvy bag in my dry bag. It is essentially a high-tech plastic bag with reflective material. Fortunately it was a fairly warm night, so I was actually warm (wearing my shorty wetsuit to bed and a little fleece). Comfortable I was not. Sand is deceptively hard to sleep on—like concrete. My lifejacket was my pillow. There was no food but a granola bar, and since I had consumed most of my water, I passed on that.
But let’s look on the positive side: the clouds parted to a starry night, and it was so silent—just the sound of little waves lapping on the shore (and my stomach growling). So maybe my misfortune was really luck.
Anyway, the question remained—what happened to my creek? In the luxury of daylight, it was exactly where it was supposed to me. Just up from the mouth, it takes a sharp bend to the right. In the darkness, I thought I had paddled within a stroke or two of the left shore. The reality was that I was more than a hundred feet from the shore, and if I had just kept paddling I would have seen the creek bend. I just cannot emphasize enough how much a toll darkness plays on depth perception and detail, even on a moonlit night.
How humbling.