By Marty Basch

If a plastic kayak could cut through glass, it was on a morning such as this. The water was still and like a mirror reflecting all along the water's edge: jeweled spider webs, tall evergreens, wet paddlers.

Much was hidden on the horizon behind Mother Nature's misty curtain, but all was not lost. Fish jumped, birds perched on top of trees like sentries, and tiny water bugs parted like the biblical Red Sea under the command of Charlton Heston as the craft continued the journey. Sensing company was near, a squadron of wood ducks used the water airstrip to take off into the sky, only to repeat the scene twice more.

Cue the wildlife

Cue the moose, was all I could think. Cue the deer. Cue the bald eagle to fly overhead and complete the eerie and fascinating landscape that looked more like a paddle in Alaska than in the southern White Mountains.

Campton is a far cry from the 49th state, closer to Plymouth and Waterville Valley than Anchorage and Fairbanks. Yet just a couple of miles from Interstate 93 is long Robartwood Pond (also called Bog Pond)  and Campton Bog where feelings of splendid isolation are just a few paddle strokes away.

Located off Bog Road (also called Campton Bog Road,), the small launch with limited parking allowed us to slip in on a rainy morning for the half-day paddle in the initially vegetation-flooded pond by a concrete dam. The mountains to the northwest were cloaked in cloud curtains as the tandem kayak followed a slalom-like water trail devoid of weeds. A handful of homes were left behind to be replaced by bird boxes along the water.

Like a maze

Navigating the pond and bog was at times like venturing through a corn maze. There were dead-ends and false hopes, the 16-foot  kayak becoming a billiard ball in an aquatic game of bumper pool along the tufts of weeds.

When the way was straight and clear, the fly rod was used for trolling from the stern while up ahead in the bow, eyes peered through the binoculars. Let's just say the looking glass produced better results than the two wooly buggers lost to that which lurks below.

Snaking through the water, a bird box was reached at what appeared to be a t-intersection. To the left we traveled, only to be stymied by a beaver dam. Back to the junction we traveled only to go to the right and see that there were two beaver ponds, one on either side of a mud-caked knoll. This was the proverbial end of the watery road, perhaps a good mile or so from the dam.

Hello, beavers

The beavers that built the blockades didn't show themselves. Too bad. I would have been tempted to negotiate passage in exchange for whatever beavers might want. Despite the rain, the paddle was a fine outing and the thought of exploring what lay beyond the dams was intriguing.

But there was no beating down the stiff arms. No matter. The ducks, unlike their beaver brothers, did appear to takeoff with their frequent flapping into the rainy sky.

Many inlets were tight and narrow, paddles raised overhead and away from the nasty reaches of shrubs and limbs trying to steal them.

The rain started to fall heavily making it an easy decision to seek the indoors again. This Campton paddle will certainly yields a fine landscape no matter the weather.

One Tank Away

Campton is:

1. *95 miles from Portsmouth, N.H.
   

2. *215 miles from Groton, Ct.
   

3. *168 miles from Roger Williams Park Zoo, Providence. R.I.