'When we first started kayak camping, we felt like explorers; now we have come to terms with the reality of growing numbers of people wishing to camp as well.'

A caretaker will live on popular Jewell Island in Casco Bay this summer, and educate visitors there and at a few neighboring BPL islands about low-impact use and campsite selection. On-site caretakers may look after other public wild islands in the near future.
Because of the levels of use these islands are receiving, more signage, campsite hardening, and on-site caretakers are all justified and useful additions. "While they may detract from the sense of wilderness, these measures acknowledge that there are potential problems and that the managers of these natural resources are addressing them. They show that the managers care about the islands, and hopefully this sense of caring will be transferred to the users," notes Springuel. These measures will make it harder for users to play the "we're the first people to land on this island" game, however. When I first started kayak camping along the Maine coast fifteen years ago, there were very few other boaters stopping on the islands. My paddling partners and I did feel like explorers, the first to set foot on these intriguing wild places. There was little evidence to the contrary: no fire rings, no matted tent sites. If we had done some reading, though, we would have learned that many of these islands were farmed, logged, or quarried over one hundred years ago, so the "wilderness" is actually of recent vintage.

While exploring the islands, the only people we would see were members of our own group. We'd walk island perimeters ringed with fragrant pink rogusa roses or sift through colorful stones and periwinkle shells tumbled by the ten-foot tides. We'd find six-inch-wide starfish clinging to mussels at low tide, see seals hauled out on nearby ledges, or spot harbor porpoises arching through the water. We'd hear lobster boats roaring out of the harbors in the morning, and see an occasional sailboat or skiff pass by, but otherwise we were out there on our own.

The sense of having the islands to ourselves started to change over time. On one trip, a friend and I set our tents off to the side when we found two local families with motorboats using Hell's Half Acre's central campsite. No sooner had we staked down our tents than the crew of a windjammer dropped anchor and ferried their twenty-five clients ashore for a lobster bake on this tiny island. (At least they offered us leftovers!) On another trip, our destination island was already occupied by a kayak outfitter and her clients. While the guide had thoughtfully clustered their tents together, leaving room for late arrivals, we felt that there was barely room to turn around without running into someone. It was not the wilderness experience we had envisioned, and some of us decided to make it a day trip instead of an overnight.