The Ruins of Red Bank

It was a windy three days. I mean it. And photos or weather graphs don't do it justice. Take that photo at the top. I guess you can tell there is a breeze on the water. But you can't tell that for five hours I had been hunkered down on a tiny scrap of an island, cowering behind the ragged remnant of a shrub with the dory pulled high on the rocks of the lee shore. You can't tell that at one point the gusts shrieked so hysterically that I staggered to the boat and deeply set the anchor into the battered beach, just in case my little ship started to sprout wings. Maybe a close-up can better convey the conditions.

I don't think that is adequate either so I'll have to stick to words, and I may as well start at the beginning.

I had made plans to set off on a 3-day adventure in the Susan Lee, my homemade CLC Northeaster Dory. I knew the forecast called for substantial wind and I relished the chance to sail, but soon after Sue dropped me off at Hand Cove Landing on October 16th, I began having doubts. I rowed the boat from the cove into the open lake and felt the caress of a gentle breeze. Up went the sail; it flapped idly. This was about 9 AM, and the weather charts begin to tell my tale.

Zoom in on that chart and you can see there is very little wind in downtown Mountain Home early that morning. And what wind there was ghosted from due south. Since my course was taking me eastward, the hilltops effectively blocked the breeze. It took me over an hour to get down to the dam where I could find unobstructed wind.

And wind there was! By 9:30 the gusts in Mountain Home were exceeding 15 mph. And if there is one thing this trip taught me, it's that lake wind is not the same as town wind. The lake is dominated by the river channels. The high bluffs block the wind in some places; channel and amplify it in others. As a road cyclist, I am used to feeling the wind on my face and think I can gauge its speed. The southern breeze, gusting to over 20 mph, gave me joyous, rollicking reaches all the way up the lake to the bridges (except for the drifting I did during the east-west passage at Tracy Bluff).

As the lake twists back on itself, there is a 3-mile wind slot from Tracy to Robinson Point and then another from Flint Knob to Bidwell Point. Never in my fifty-plus years of sailing have I enjoyed such long reaches before a screeching wind. The weather chart shows gusts in the 25 mph range, but I'd put them over 30 mph in the channels. As I swooped down on the first of the bridges, I began to feel jittery -- nervous about safely navigating between its concrete legs. Yes, they are spaced widely. But sailing on a broad reach meant that I would angle through them, and the following seas were steepening as I scooted along. I've read about broaching, but never experienced it. These conditions made me start to understand. As each big wave raised the stern of the dory, it pushed me into the wind. I'd then have a few precious seconds to wrestle the tiller and get the boat back on course before the next wave. Steering between those pilings made me feel like a drunk exiting a bar through a narrow doorway.

Once I had safely threaded the pilings of the highway 412 bridge, I was confident I could manage those of the 101 bridge. Then it was smooth sailing with a bit of shelter for the 3-mile stretch past Teal Point. A bend to the west left me sailing in parts of lake that were completely new to me.

At some rare places on Norfork there are a few homes close to the water on land that the Corps of Engineers couldn't (or didn't) condemn through its acquisitive power of Eminent Domain, but only Mallard Point has a large luxury community where each homeowner owns a private boat dock in front of his house and a private launch ramp into the lake. What an untold tale of crony capitalism in the FDR's day!

Partial panorama of Mallard Point homes

Does that home have an indoor tennis court or an airplane hanger?

The wind picked up again as I steered northeast past Cranfield and died away to a drifter in the hard bends around Indian Head. At this point I had been sailing all day without any break at all, gobbling gorp and sipping water when the wind allowed. I'd gone about 30 miles in 7 hours. Once again I was in a north-south channel passing Red Bank when the fading light of the sinking sun illuminated a set of ruins off to starboard.

The ruins of Red Bank

I wish I knew more about the history of this old house. It's obvious that it was built from local rocks and it must have stood there before construction of the dam began in 1941. But I have so far been able to find no additional information about it. It stands in romantic and mysterious isolation on the edge of the water.

The strong wind in the channel made camping at Red Bank impossible, but the lake soon made another hard bend and I was able to find a protected anchorage not far from Calamity Beach. I pulled ashore on a sandy beach and cooked my dinner while a majestic bald eagle looked on from atop a tree not a hundred yards away. After doing my dishes and replenishing my supply of filtered water, I anchored well offshore and began reconfiguring the dory for the night. The series of pictures below shows my PCV cot and foam pad -- first as stored for sailing and then as assembled. With an air mattress and a sleeping bag the dory becomes a remarkably comfortable little yacht.

Cot frame and foam pad secured for sailing

PVC cot pieces

Frame assembled

Accordion-fold foam mattress pad

It's rather reassuring to be anchored well offshore when the coyotes begin howling in the middle of the night. The light breeze and the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull are a kind of lullaby. I watched the stars come out and the moon arise. Then I awakened well before dawn, fully rested.

There was no point in lying longer abed, especially since I knew that the forecast was for even stronger southerly winds. I was giving myself two days to beat back upwind -- a slow grind -- but rowing during the predawn hours should be faster than sailing.

It was delightful being alone on the lake. The moon -- only two days past full -- gave me plenty of light. The only problem was the wind, which was still blowing at a substantial 10 mph in the channel past Red Bank. But I wasn't dim enough to attempt raising sail in the dark so I slogged on until it grew light. Almost as soon as I was finally able to raise my sail, I round a corner and the wind evaporated. I drifted from puff to puff, too lazy and content to want to row. Somewhere near Seward Point, I was back in the wind again -- wind in my face that was rapidly growing in strength. Here is the weather chart for October 17th, a day in which Aeolus went wild.

Note that there are steady gusts in the 15 mph range all night long (good thing I was anchored in a little bay at night), and note that by 10 AM the gusts are ranging from 25 - 30. It was slow work beating into that wind, but a fun challenge for both the skipper and the boat. By 11 AM I had rounded Chapin Point and was headed toward Cranfield. There the southerly wind loosed its full force in the channel. It was no longer the town wind recorded on the weather chart, but a raging beast let off leash. If I had to guess, I'd say the strongest gusts were in the 30 - 40 range, and I decided to seek shelter. I dropped sail in the lee of a little island just across from Cranfield and found the spot I described in the first paragraph of this post. Here it is on Google Maps. The whole island is only 500 feet long and rises only a couple of feet above the water. The three largest dark spots are Willow trees. The small dark spots are individual shrubs, and my shelter shrub was one of the larger ones on the northeast point of the island.

A sunny, warm afternoon on a secluded beach reading a Kindle book, cooking lunch (and dinner), and taking a chilly swim -- surely that's no one's idea of suffering, especially since I still had three beers in the cooler to enjoy with dinner. But lounging on the beach was not going to get me home. The wind had started to drop a little by about 5 PM. A half-hour after that I was under sail, trying to make my way as far upwind as I could before sundown.

Just after sunset I was able to drop sail and make my way under oars into the protected harborage behind Teal Point. The routine of dropping anchor and setting up my cot was now quickly accomplished, and I had another restful night under the stars (though somewhat annoyed by the traffic noise from highway 412 up the hill).

Again, I was up before dawn and under oars. I snapped this photo as I left the Teal Point homes in my wake.

My final day of sailing wasn't quite as windy, but the conditions were still challenging.

Note the wind gusting to 20 mph most of the night, then dropping in the morning (causing me to man the oars as I left harbor), and gradually building back to the 20 - 25 range from mid-morning to early afternoon. Here is a little video I shot while sailing the dory in conditions safe enough for me to hold my phone with one hand and sail with the other. The great fun for me during this day of sailing is that, as the wind rose, I learned I could sit on the windward rail and hike out, almost the way I had done when crewing on my father's Thistle as a kid. My next modification on the dory will be to add a hiking strap!

Sometime just after the noon whistle, I was able to make a final tack and head up the arm of the lake toward home. I glided back into Hand Cove before 2 PM with the wind almost dead astern. I was tired, a bit sun-burned, and a little weather-beaten. But genuinely happy.