Early Saturday morning, hundreds of paddlers will haul their canoes and kayaks off roof racks, launch those boats in Kenduskeag Stream and point their bows toward downtown Bangor, some 16 miles distant.
Thousands more will line the riverbanks in places that include Six Mile Falls and Valley Avenue, where they’ll perch on rocks, lounge in lawn chairs and wait for the paddlers to arrive.
What does it all mean? Well, for many of us, it’s a sure sign that our six months of rough sledding is over. Spring is finally — officially — here.
It’s been like that for 49 years now: When the Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race is held, many of us head outdoors, shake off a winter’s worth of dust and begin making the best of our Maine spring.
This year’s later-than-average arrival of navigable water in the stream won’t have dimmed our enthusiasm for the race, whether we’re paddlers, fans, curious observers or river vultures.
Many of us start out as fans or observers. Eventually, after watching a few boats successfully make it through one of the race’s many sets of rapids, some of us sprout our vulture wings and become eager for some real excitement.
NASCAR without crashes, after all, is just a bunch of guys driving around in counterclockwise circles.
Kenduskeag without a few swampings, dumpings and collisions can be described similarly: It’s just a slow way to get from Kenduskeag Village to Bangor.
It’s not that us river vultures want anyone to get injured, mind you. And it’s not that we don’t appreciate good paddling.
We don’t. And we do.
When Jeff Owen and his longtime paddling partner Steve Woodard go churning past, we cheer. When the intrepid crew of the Gumby boat makes it through Six Mile Falls upright, we roar. When perennial winner Trevor McLean rockets downstream in his sleek racing kayak, we appreciate his skill and stamina.
Then many of us will look upstream again, looking for a team of paddlers who look as though they might turn into river carrion, and we start licking our chops.
Over the years, several readers have told me I’m cold-hearted for cheering for river carnage. Some have called me names, and others have asked a question that ought to have an obvious answer.
“Have you ever paddled the race yourself?” they’ll ask. “If you haven’t, why don’t you keep your mouth shut?”
The answers? No, I haven’t. And no, I won’t.
For the last 20 years or so, I’ve covered the Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race several times. Over that time, while watching the region’s best whitewater paddlers and interviewing them after the race, I’ve learned an important fact.
I’m not them.
Those paddlers — the best of the bunch — look at rivers and streams in different ways than you and I might. They read water. They avoid potential trouble.
Fortunately for the river vultures, not everyone has put in enough time paddling in whitewater to even realize what “trouble” might look like.
I know, should I ever succumb to a dare or decide that the idea of a mid-April swim in 35-degree water sounds like a great way to spend a Saturday, I’d end up in that second group.
Or, to borrow from Maine comedian Tim Sample, I’d be that guy who “didn’t even suspect nothing.”
So when Saturday rolls around, you might find me there, again, on the banks of the stream. What you won’t find is a paddle in my hands, nor a life jacket on my back.
Not that I’m necessarily opposed to the idea … in theory … some day … eventually.
Editor’s note: John, I will remember that. Someday could very well be 2016. What a great idea! I am making a note in my calendar to sign you up. It will make a great story. — SWC
But this has been a long winter, and my preparation time has been severely limited — had I planned on actually preparing. Also, I’m just getting back to Maine after a vacation in a place where winter and whitewater are mere myths.
No, this year, my mind just isn’t in the right place for me to actually participate in the race in the traditional, grab-a-paddle-and-hope-for-the-best kind of way.
So again, if you see me on the stream, I’ll be doing the next best thing. I’ll be participating in that other, equally traditional way: I’ll be sitting on my vulture perch, hoping for a few fresh carcasses to float past.
And I’m sure some of you will be doing exactly the same thing.
Good luck to the paddlers — good feeding to the vultures. Have fun, everyone. And be safe.
John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.com or 990-8214. Follow him on Twitter: @JohnHolyoke.
