As a rising sun began burning away fog that blanketed Aziscohos Lake in western Maine the other morning, contours of an evergreen shoreline took shape, while distant mountains emerged through lingering mist.

“Sky’s clearing,” I said, gazing from our campsite perched on a knoll overlooking the lake. “Time to get back on the water.”

Andy Lynn put down his coffee cup and reached for a kayak paddle. He and I then clambered down a makeshift ladder of tree roots, climbed into boats that had been stashed on a narrow, rocky beach, and began paddling into the mouth of the Magalloway River.

A pair of loons – likely among an avian chorus that serenaded us all night with echoing, tremolo calls – dove beneath the still surface, while a chittering kingfisher shot across our bows.

Calm conditions were a welcome respite from gusty wind and choppy water that buffeted us the day before, when Andy and I launched a five-day, nearly 60-mile excursion on two Maine lakes.

“This is perfect!” Andy exclaimed, as he gazed at a wooded landscape devoid of houses or roads that extended from a waterway with no other boats in sight.

The serene setting was exactly what he and I sought when we set out from a public ramp in Black Rock Cove at the south end of 20-mile-long Aziscohos, located in the tiny village of Wilsons Mills, only four miles from New Hampshire and 15 miles from the Canadian border.

Arriving in early afternoon the previous day, after a six-hour, 320-mile drive from southeastern Connecticut, we first checked in with a campground office, where we had campsite reservations for two nights. We then spent the next hour unstrapping 18-foot vessels from the car roof rack, and stuffing waterproof bags with more than 50 pounds of gear – tents, sleeping bags, inflatable sleeping mattresses, a heavy-duty tarp, butane/propane stoves, pots, pans, powdered milk, dry cereal, pita bread, blocks of cheddar cheese and container of powdered parmesan, energy bars, fig bars, soup mixes, textured vegetable protein, dried pineapple, fresh grapefruits, carrots and scallions, water bottles, water filters and purification tablets, 50 feet of nylon line, duct tape, first-aid kit, liquid hand soap, a portable battery to recharge cellphones, a couple of paperback books, solar-powered lanterns, a folding hand saw, maps, extra clothes and rain jackets.

Next, we crammed the bags into kayak hatches, snapped tight rubber hatch covers, and lashed spare paddles to the decks with bungee cords.

Finally, just before 2:30 p.m., we donned lifejackets, tugged place spray skirts in place to keep waves from washing into cockpits, and shoved off.

“Here we go! Next stop: Twin Brook campsite!” I announced.

I figured it would take about three hours to paddle some 12 miles to Twin Brook at the lake’s north end, but that calculation was based on an expected forecast of light wind and calm water.

Wrong. As soon as Andy and I exited Black Rock Cove, we faced a 15-mph headwind and whitecaps.

“Worst possible direction,” I grumbled.

The sun was just setting five hours later, when we wearily paddled up to the campground, found a site for our tents next to a picnic table and fire ring, and began unloading our boats. By the time we assembled our tents, inflated air mattresses and began dinner preparations, it was pitch dark.

An array of loon cries soon filled the air, blending warbles, coos and wails. If there is a lovelier, more hauntingly hypnotic sound, I haven’t heard it.

The next morning, a bald eagle flapped noiselessly overhead while we meandered among small islands and paddled north up the Magalloway River, finally reaching a stretch of gentle rapids that tumbled over glistening rocks. Too shallow to go farther.

“End of the line,” I said. “Let’s head back.”

Back at our campsite, we chatted briefly with Benoit and Mélanie, a delightful couple from Quebec who planned to spend another day kayaking on Aziscohos, then head to New Hampshire’s White Mountains for a few days of hiking in the White Mountains, followed by a couple days bicycling in Vermont’s Green Mountains, before returning to Canada.

“This is absolutely perfect,” Benoit said, sitting on a bench overlooking the lake.

People after my own heart.

Andy and I bid them adieu, and began preparing to paddle to our next campsite, on Beaver Island.

As we packed gear into hatches, a bullfrog sprang from the sand and plopped into the water only inches from my kayak. Partially submerged, it stared at me with bulging eyes the whole time we loaded, only moving when we started paddling. Just curious, I guess.

A gentle tailwind propelled about 10 miles south to Beaver Island, located only a couple miles from the boat ramp at Black Rock Cove. Once ashore, we set up tents, gathered kindling and cut dead logs. A night in the woods would not be complete without a post-dinner campfire.

After awakening at dawn the next morning, I gazed skyward and frowned. A dark cloud had materialized.

“Better get a move on. We might get a little wet,” I said.

Seconds later: KA-BOOM! A thunderclap’s explosion quickened our departure preparations. Luckily, we got everything stowed and were paddling back when rain began falling. In less than an hour, we were ashore at the boat ramp, preparing for the second leg on our itinerary: Flagstaff Lake.

Like many lakes in the region, Aziscohos and Flagstaff were formed by damming rivers. The Aziscohos Dam, built in 1911 across the Magalloway River with support from nearby paper mills to provide hydroelectric power, and to form a reservoir for drinking water, also created a recreational mecca for kayakers, canoeists and anglers.

The resultant Androscoggin Lake also submerged an archeological site where researchers have discovered evidence of several Native American encampments dating back some 13,000 years.

Damming the Dead River to create Flagstaff Lake, nearly 30 miles west of Aziscohos Lake, wound up flooding an entire village. I’ll write about our explorations there in next week’s column.