The Mighty Saco: A River at Risk

Two years ago some friends and I ventured to the Saco River in Fryeburg, Maine for a weekend of canoing and camping. We went in September, had beautiful weather, and cruised the lazy river in such high spirits that we organized a return to the Saco this past weekend. Quel horor.

The scene we encountered on the Saco was a pitiful, offensive, unsanitary mess of frat party proportions. Admittedly we were also there for a party, and I don't blame people for letting loose and having a good time, but it was worse than anyone could imagine.

Our fellow outdoorsmen were roudy packs of half naked "meat-heads", drunk, tatooed, and totally unbridled. We would frequently have to muster up intense paddle sessions in order to pass obnoxious campers that looked like they might heckle us---or worse.

In fact, the mayhem on the river was undeniably dangerous. A group of beefy dudes were launching water baloons from a stretchy rubber catapult just across from our launching point. They were sending their grapefruit-size ammunition flying out across the river, hoping to hit anyone, not just their friends. So right off the bat we had an obstacle. We joked about desperately not wanting to see that group again. But we were also totally serious. [And rightfully so, an article in the Boston Globe today reported the arrest of a man who blinded someone with a water-balloon to the eye on the Saco last weekend.]

As we continued down the river, we realized what a debaucle it was. Practically everyone we came across was wasted. They were funnelling beers, taking shots, wrestling in the shallows and setting up beer pong tables. We even saw some guys shaking up beer cans and spraying them in another's face. It was ridiculous. We did our best to ignore the worst of it, and were fortunately able to enjoy ourselves on our own floating raft of canoes.

At about 5pm, we were ready to come ashore and set up our camp at one of the many sandy beaches on the river bank. Tough luck. The place was overrun with people and the beaches were lined with tents and picnic tables and bands of young men and their scantily glad girlfriends. I kept thinking of how vulnerable those bikinied girls looked amid all the inebriated brawn. With the steroids and the testosterone, the beer and swimwear, I couldn't help but think about rape.

Actually, it was weird how many all-male or mostly-male groups there were. One paddler sidled up to our canoe and admired our girl-to-guy ratio (50/50). Thanks buddy. But true enough, girls were certainly outnumbered---a fact made obvious by a guy with a neckfull of mardi gras beads standing near his giant sign that said "Beads for Boobs". Clearly business was slow.

Across the river from that fool, a group of guys were plunging into the water off a rope swing. As a former lifeguard, traveling with another former lifeguard and a nursing grad student, I could feel our collective cringe. And later when we were getting nervous were weren't going to find a free beach and were stopping to ask about the nearest mile marker, a woman on the beach joked about finding the nearest hospital, as blood, having dripped from the back of her head, stained her wet yellow t-shirt. Apparently she got hit in the head with a beer can. She said she was feeling fine though. We paddled on uncomfortably.

Now, while all this sounds really disturbing, I have to point out that people were generally in good spirits. I didn't see or hear any altercations, and people were talkative and friendly, and only midly verbally offensive. It was after all a beautiful day. There were even some families on the river (to my shock, horror and sorrow). Plus most of the disturbing scenes were good fodder for jokes and sarcasm. So there was humor to be found. Like the guy in spiky blond wig and neon green Borat-style thong bathing suit, or the guy with the roaring chainsaw, who was slicing up some nice kindling for his fire. Such memories I could not have attained elsewhere.

But in the morning, after we had packed up our camp and were canoing the last few miles back to the landing point where a bus would take us back to our launching spot, we passed the abandoned tent cities from the night before. The place looked like a war zone. Trash and empty crushed beer cans littered the beaches. Black dusty fire pits and burned debris smoldered, and in some cases still flickered. A beer funnel and countless other items lay submerged on the riverbed. It was horrifying.

"What kind of person could just leave all this?" my friends asked repeatedly. Each time we rounded a bend in the river, there was a new trash heap to behold. We stopped and picked up some beer cans, but we didn't have much room in our own trash bags to spare. Plus, I was seriously concerned about the quality of the water. There were no bathroom facitilies. People were expected to bury their output. But there were so many people and so little respect, I didn't dare step foot in the water or on the beaches. (We ended up camping in a seemingly clean woodsy area well above the water level---though I was still grossed out by the possibly contaminated forest floor).

So basically, the poor, beautiful, mighty Saco, as they called it at the canoe rental joint, has a real problem---a drinking problem, to say the least. The solution involves limiting the number of canoe rentals from places like Saco Bound, who, by the way are making a killing at $105 for a two-day canoe rental (I hope that money goes towards clean up efforts of some kind. I must find out), and getting rangers to patrol the river. According to an employee at Saco Bound, most of the riverbank is privately owned land. I can't believe what owners wouldn't care about the state of their own land, as well as the liability they may be facing.

But even more so, I cannot believe how little Saco visitors care for the Saco. It's a beautiful spot that is being poisoned by alcohol abuse and ignorance. Please spread the word. The river needs an intervention.